by Danice Allen
“And the natural cynicism, I see.” Anne gave him a sagacious once-over. In his black evening trousers and jacket, complete with the usual white gardenia at the lapel, she thought he looked a little too formally rigged out to suit her overall impression of him. With his straight sandy-brown hair, his attractive, square-jawed, wholly American face, he looked as if he’d be much more at home in a suit of buckskin and fringed boots. “But you are dressed as finely as the others, Mr. Wycliff … What part are you playing?”
His tone was low and playfully conspiring. “I’m a chameleon, Miss Weston, very adaptable to my surroundings. Wherever I go, I manage to fit in. But I don’t play a part. I’m always intrinsically myself.”
“And who are you?”
“No one special. Just an orphan from Baltimore with the lucky knack of putting pen to paper.”
“Why did you leave Baltimore?”
Jeffrey shrugged his wide shoulders. “There was nothing for me there. No family. No inheritance, certainly. I came where I thought there would be opportunity for advancement. And there is.”
“You’re ambitious.”
“Very. I haven’t any choice.”
“Do you wish you did?”
Jeffrey’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Actually I find it rather challenging to have to grasp and claw my way to the top.”
Anne raised a brow. “You’re teasing me. But somehow I think you’re still telling the truth.”
He shrugged again, his expression coyly noncommittal. “New Orleans is fascinating, a place on the cusp of profound change. Writing about change, and maybe even inciting a bit of it with my seditious journalism, is very exciting.”
“I’ve read all your articles since coming here. So far I’ve agreed with everything you’ve written, particularly on the subject of slavery and your abolitionist views. I’ve especially enjoyed your accounts of the derring-do of the Fox.” Anne felt the warmth creep up her neck and flood her cheeks. Even after two weeks, just the thought of Renard made her blush like a schoolgirl.
Mercifully Jeffrey didn’t seem to notice Anne’s blush. Instead he grew sober and sincere, all remnants of teasing gone. “Yes. I’ve the highest regard and admiration for the Fox. If I weren’t such a cynic, I’d call Renard a hero for the times.”
“Don’t let your cynicism keep you from so natural a conclusion, Mr. Wycliff,” Anne replied, delighted to find someone who thought exactly as she did. She leaned confidingly close and impulsively laid her hand on his arm. “Renard is a hero.”
“Who is a hero, Mademoiselle Weston? Could you possibly be talking about me?”
Anne looked up into the mocking face of Dandy Delacroix. She hadn’t seen him since their encounters on the Belvedere. In the interim she’d tried to erase him from her thoughts, but had failed utterly to do so. She felt an unwilling attraction to him, and felt desperately guilty about it. She reasoned that she was only responding to the external male charms he obviously possessed, not the real man inside. But she still deplored her weakness, especially after she’d actually been kissed by someone truly heroic—Renard.
Lucien Delacroix was even more handsome than she remembered. And more smug. His dark, sardonic gaze held her transfixed for a moment, till he broke eye contact to glance down—then stare most pointedly—at her gloved hand still resting on Jeffrey Wycliff’s arm.
A rebellious part of Anne bristled at the notion that Delacroix disapproved of her physical contact with Jeffrey. Who was he to pass judgment on her? If she wanted to behave in such a friendly fashion to a man she’d just met, it was no concern of his. Following this willful line of reasoning, Anne left her hand on Jeffrey’s arm another lingering moment.
Finally she offered that same hand to Delacroix with a defiant smile. “Mr. Delacroix. Charmed to see you again.”
He kissed her hand, the light pressure of his lips sending an odd, shivery feeling through her.
“Charmed to see you, mademoiselle. You are a vision, as always. I trust you are comfortably settled in your new home?”
“Quite comfortable, thank you. Do you know Mr. Wycliff?”
Delacroix’s gaze shifted to Jeffrey, his expression cool and impatient, as if he’d rather not take the trouble to acknowledge him. Jeffrey stood up, and they shook hands. “Monsieur Wycliff and I have met before.”
“Yes, we have. I did a piece on gaming hells in the city, and Mr. Delacroix was one of the gentlemen who figured prominently in it.”
Delacroix smiled blandly, apparently unconcerned by the derogatory suggestion of Jeffrey’s words. “I was winning splendidly that night. Perhaps you should have stayed longer and taken notes on my celebratory party afterward and included it in your article? Readers nowadays have such a taste for anything that smacks of debauchery. Whatever sells the news, eh?”
Jeffrey pursed his lips and said nothing. Anne had to admit that Delacroix had turned the tables on him. He was a cad, but he was clever. His gaze shifted back to her. His eyes gleamed wickedly and, in the dim light, appeared as black as his jacket. “What do you think of debauchery, Mademoiselle Weston?”
“I’ve had little experience with it,” she replied with a prim smile, though she knew her eyes must be alight with amusement.
“Ah, if one can’t live a debauched life, one can at least read about people who do. Let me rephrase my question. Do you like reading about debauchery?”
“I like a good novel now and then,” she admitted, holding back her smile and wanting to kick herself for finding him so entertaining. “But in novels the people who behave badly—as debauched people generally do—usually die at the end.”
Delacroix nodded sagely, his dark hair full and lush in the candlelight. “Very appropriate, I’m sure, and instructive to the youth. But Mr. Wycliff writes about real people doing real things. As is frequently chronicled in the newspaper, bad people sometimes never get caught and never pay for their crimes.”
Anne nodded. “That’s why we need heroes, Mr. Delacroix. And I believe I’ve found one in this fellow Renard. Mr. Wycliff writes about him all the time. Do you know who I mean?”
Delacroix shrugged his wide shoulders. “Everyone knows Renard. Seems a foolish fellow to me, risking his neck for nothing.”
Anne immediately bristled and was about to take up her usual argument for abolition when Delacroix smoothly diverted the conversation. “How do you like New Orleans? It appears that New Orleans likes you.” He motioned toward the people filling the box, the men seeming anxious to make their way to Anne’s corner for introductions. There were three females, too, eyeing Delacroix as if he were a giant bonbon. Katherine had them all detained at the door while Reggie handed out champagne. Anne wondered how Delacroix had politely managed to get past her talkative aunt so quickly.
“I like everything I’ve seen so far, but I’ve seen very little, really. Aunt Katherine has been busy receiving calls from old friends and generally settling in. I’d love to tour the city, but Uncle Reggie won’t allow me to go out alone—even with my abigail and a footman or two in attendance—and he won’t accompany me, either. He claims it’s too hot to go gadding about during the day.”
Anne recognized the slightly complaining tone of her voice and tried to correct it. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. More bracingly, she added, “He’s not grown accustomed to the climate yet, the poor dear. Sometimes I wish I were a man and could go and do precisely as I pleased. Then I wouldn’t be a trouble to anyone!”
“I don’t blame your uncle,” said Delacroix, flicking an infinitesimal speck of lint off his jacket sleeve, then returning his penetrating gaze to her face. His black eyes had a provocative glint; his smile was lazy and sly. “Such a charming bit of English fluff as you wouldn’t last ten minutes on the streets of the rough-and-tumble Vieux Carré.”
“I say, Delacroix—” Jeffrey began to object. Indeed, Delacroix’s use of language was a bit out of line, but Anne almost liked the bluntness of it. She laid a gen
tly restraining hand on Jeffrey’s arm.
“What do you suggest I do, then?” she asked Delacroix.
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. The firm line of his masculine jaw was limned by candlelight. “I would offer myself as escort, but I’m sure you know that in my debauched company you would be in more danger than ever.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, a strange thrill running down her spine.
Their eyes held for a lengthy moment, then he seemed to recollect himself, assumed a bored pose, and drawled, “My advice to you, Mademoiselle Weston, is to mind your elders.”
Again she bristled. “If I were a twenty-three-year-old man, I’d certainly be allowed outside my house without an army of escorts. It’s not fair!”
“But you obviously are not a man—a fact for which I, for one, am most thankful.” Delacroix splayed his right hand over his ivory brocade waistcoat and bowed, his eyes closed as if in homage to her fair sex, the long lashes black and beautiful against his skin.
Another instinctive, unwelcome response to the arresting beauty of the man made Anne’s heart race. Furious with herself, she turned to look at Jeffrey, hoping to be diverted by comparing the two men—one so honorable, the other such a scoundrel. Standing slightly back, as if removing himself from the “scoundrel’s” polluted presence, Jeffrey eyed Delacroix with a mixture of anger and … envy? No, he was no help at all.
“Miss Weston is a suffragist, Delacroix,” said Jeffrey. “In our discussion during the first act, she revealed that she believes women should have all the freedoms and rights of men.” He turned and smiled at Anne. “But I do think your uncle has a point. Voting in the elections is one thing—and I fully support your views on that matter—but allowing you to go about town without the protection of an escort is another thing.”
Anne conceded this point with a tiny sideways inclination of her head and a chagrined smile. She found it much easier to accept advice when it came from someone other than Delacroix. He had a way of raising her hackles without even trying.
“Why am I not surprised that Mademoiselle Weston believes that women should be allowed to vote?” said Delacroix, gazing down at her with a sort of idle curiosity that was insufferably patronizing. “She is very different from the Creole man’s ideal of womanhood.”
“You wound me, sir,” said Anne with sweet, biting sarcasm. “For, as you must know, it is my fondest wish to be the Creole ideal of womanhood.”
Anne was surprised by the deeply masculine rumble of amusement that came from Dandy Delacroix. Wide-eyed, wondering how such an energetic sound could come from such a lazy fellow, she studied the strong column of Delacroix’s throat while his head was thrown back in laughter. She marveled at the show of straight white teeth, the expanse of broad chest, the black hair falling forward onto his forehead. The vital image was fascinating and pleasing. And—as it finally occurred to her—very insulting.
What she’d said wasn’t that amusing. But he wouldn’t stop laughing. She realized that he must be laughing at her modern views on women’s rights, which ranked with her deepest convictions about rights for all human beings. How easy it is for him to laugh at my convictions, she thought indignantly, since he has none of his own.
He thought her an oddity, a British buffoon. She thought him very rude.
Suddenly the three women at the back of the box made their way to the front and gathered around Delacroix. Feeling suddenly suffocated by full skirts of taffeta and silk, Anne stood up and drew closer to Jeffrey, unconsciously grabbing hold of his hand.
“Delacroix,” cooed one dashing young blond, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, “do tell us what makes you laugh so deliciously!”
“Oui, Lucien,” said another clinging female, this one a brunette. “What is so impossibly funny? I love your humor, you wicked man!”
The third woman hovered close, looking ready to dive in and claim another arm if Delacroix should happen to sprout one. It was obvious none of the women had come to Katherine’s box to be introduced to Anne. They were there to see Delacroix.
Seeming momentarily to stifle his laughter with some difficulty, he patted the gloved hand of the blond woman and said, “We’re disturbing the elegant tranquillity of Madame Grimms’s opera box, ladies. I suggest we repair to the hall where we can be as merry as we choose.” He leaned close to the brunette and whispered quite audibly, “Or as we dare.”
“Darling Lucien,” she replied, caressing his arm, “with you I would go anywhere!”
Delacroix smiled wickedly, then nodded and winked at Anne as a sort of farewell as he breezed by with the two females clinging to his arms and the other less fortunate one trailing adoringly behind. They had barely gone through the door when he let loose with another hearty laugh.
“Good God!” said Reggie in an appalled undertone as he sidled up next to Anne. “What deplorable manners!”
“Nothing more than one might expect from Delacroix,” said Jeffrey, his voice dripping with scorn. “I don’t understand what all those females see in the fellow—except his money, of course.”
Anne was sure she still detected envy in Jeffrey’s voice, despite his disapproval of Delacroix. She wasn’t certain how she felt. Insulted, yes. Summarily dismissed, yes. A little hurt, yes. But how could such a man have the power to hurt her?
“Anne, dear, I’ve a host of people to introduce you to.” Katherine’s voice broke through Anne’s troubled thoughts, and she realized that a veritable army of dapper-dressed, smiling gentlemen was descending upon her. She also realized that she was still clinging to Jeffrey Wycliff’s hand.
She was embarrassed. She darted a look at Jeffrey, found him grinning down at her, and hastily untwined their fingers. “You must excuse me, Mr. Wycliff,” she mumbled, so low only he could hear. “I forgot myself in the confusion of the moment.”
“I like you best of all, Miss Weston, when you forget yourself,” he whispered back.
Anne couldn’t help smiling, which was just as well, since politeness required that she look agreeable while being introduced to society’s best.
“What’s wrong, cher?” Micaela’s golden-brown eyes were full of sober inquiry and compassion. She reached up and pushed a lock of hair away from Lucien’s forehead. They sat together on a sofa in her small, elegantly decorated parlor. Micaela’s voluptuous figure was draped in an alluring diaphanous dressing gown Lucien had carefully picked out for her, but she might as well have been wearing a gunnysack.
Lucien leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. “Nothing’s wrong, Micaela. I’m just tired.”
There was a long pause. Finally, gently, she suggested, “You are tired very much lately, Lucien.”
“Yes.” What else could he say? It was a good excuse. At first he’d tried to forget Anne by spending more time in bed with Micaela, but that had proved fruitless. And in the past week—even before he had seen Anne and talked to her tonight—he’d entirely lost any desire to be with Micaela sexually. How did one tell his mistress he only wanted to … talk?
After that scene at the opera, leaving Anne so rudely, he felt like an absolute villain. He’d hurt her. He had seen it in her eyes. But he’d felt himself slipping, slipping … slipping into the grasp of something he didn’t want to face at this point in his complicated life. He liked Anne Weston too damned well, and a few more minutes in that opera box with her and he might have wrestled her to the floor for wicked purposes. He’d acted in self-defense. He got out of there as fast as he could, leaving a trail of insult and hurt in his wake.
Micaela’s hand slid down his arm. “You are full of anger tonight, Lucien. At me, cher?”
Lucien stirred himself, caught Micaela’s caressing hand, and absently held it “No, not at you. At me.”
“Why? Did you do something bad?”
Lucien lifted his head and smiled wryly at her. “Yes. Are you surprised?”
She sm
iled back, encouraged. She snuggled closer to him. “I can make you forget…” She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him. Lucien felt nothing.
She drew back, a look of puzzlement on her face. She was exotic, incredibly beautiful, and wonderfully primitive in her lovemaking. But she wasn’t Anne. He closed his eyes for an instant and imagined she was. He went further and imagined Anne’s golden hair scattered on a pillow, her blue eyes hazed with passion, her sweet, sly tongue silenced by his kisses…
“Lucien?”
He opened his eyes. Micaela drew back and settled into the crook of the sofa, studying him.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, feeling the inadequacy of the word but not knowing what else to say.
“It’s all right, cher,” she answered. “Tell me about her.”
He made a sound of surprise, laughing softly. “Is it so obvious?”
“Oui. So … tell me about her. I will listen.”
Lucien shook his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about her.” Anne was the last thing he should be talking or thinking about. He made an effort to smile at Micaela and said, “Thank you, Micaela, for being so understanding. Right now, though, the thing I need the most is a good strong cup of coffee.”
Micaela smiled back. “Whatever you want, cher.” Then she rose and went to the kitchen.
Anne sighed and stared out of the carriage window as they drove slowly home through the Vieux Carré. It was raining, and the roads were thick with mud, the gutters swirling with dark brown water. The city was well-lighted by the oil lamps that hung by chains at each streetcorner.
Reggie had made it clear to Anne that he disapproved of the way she’d behaved with Wycliff, allowing him to monopolize her throughout the evening. Anne had no ready excuse to offer her uncle because she knew she had behaved irresponsibly. She’d paid far too much attention to Jeffrey Wycliff.
She’d probably encouraged him to think romantically of her by impulsively grabbing his hand during Delacroix’s rude exit. And earlier she’d touched his arm with her hand, keeping it there far too long for propriety. But she’d left her hand on Jeffrey’s arm for so long only to irritate Delacroix. Now Anne couldn’t imagine why he incited her to behave against her own good judgment just to spite him. She couldn’t explain it to herself, much less to Reggie.
