Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  “No. Have you?”

  “Yes.” Anne nodded in his direction. “He’s over there, in the corner … with your husband, King Henry.”

  Katherine’s eyebrows lifted. She looked, she pursed her lips. “How appropriate. One despot playing another. He treats his slaves like Henry treated his wives.”

  “Yes. Reggie would enjoy the irony, wouldn’t he?”

  Katherine’s brows knitted. “Yes, he would. I wonder how he’s doing. How long do we have to stay at this stupid ball before we can go home and check on that stubborn old fool? I’d feel much better if only he’d let us call for the doctor.”

  “You left word with Theresa and James to send a message if Reggie got any worse, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Uncle Reggie would be angry if we left too early. We haven’t even seen our host and hostess yet.” Anne’s voice lowered and grew slightly petulant. “And, though I know it’s selfish of me, I’d really like to dance with Lucien just once before we leave. However, with so many women vying for his attention, perhaps I won’t get the opportunity.”

  Katherine squeezed her hand. “I’m sure Lucien will dance with you if he gets the chance, but you can’t expect him to spend much time with you. A single dance might not be wondered at, but people know you two have opposite political philosophies.”

  Anne saw Lucien lead a woman dressed seductively as a Persian slave girl onto the dance floor. When he took her in his arms for a waltz, he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Anne’s heart ached with longing. She wished he were whispering in her ear.

  Just then she and Katherine were approached by several more acquaintances and were obliged to socialize. Smiling determinedly, they did their duty. Reggie would have been proud.

  Lucien could barely concentrate on what Mademoiselle Petit was saying. She smiled at him through her transparent veil and murmured something about wanting to be part of his “harem,” but nothing she said or did was stimulating enough to keep his mind off Anne. Anne … dressed as an angel. She’d always looked like something celestial to him, but were angels supposed to look so damned seductive?

  He counted the minutes till he could take her in his arms and dance with her. Since that was all he could do in front of three hundred people, dancing would have to suffice. At least then he’d get a whiff of her light scent, be able to look down into those bright blue eyes, hear her voice, tell her how beautiful she was.

  He decided to wait till just before late supper was served. He’d be leaving right after that, when people would be reorganizing and sauntering back into the ballroom, the card room, outside on the lawn. He and Bodine could slip away then without it being remarked upon. He’d take him to Bocage and start the beginning of the end. The end of Renard, and, he hoped, the end of Bodine.

  He mingled. He pretended interest in all sorts of insipid conversations. He was insipid himself. He danced with scores of women, with whom he flirted shamelessly. He made each of them laugh, simper, and blush, then went on to his next partner. He played the part of charming rogue so well, heads turned in his direction all evening—some people smiling, some frowning.

  Then the moment he’d been waiting for arrived. He’d been watching Anne surreptitiously all night. She’d certainly had no lack of dancing partners, either, and he knew he’d have to be aggressive in getting past all the would-be swains that clustered around her the minute she left the dance floor.

  One dance had just ended, and in three minutes another would begin. In that short interim he’d have to make his way across the room and gain possession of Anne’s hand before someone else claimed it. And even if someone did claim it, he’d state a prior commitment. What the hell. He moved across the room.

  He was there, she was there, all the swains were there. She looked up at him, unsmiling, rosy from dancing—or was she upset? He hoped the former. He bowed low, sweeping his beavertailed hat off his head and gallantly crushing it to his chest.

  “Mademoiselle Weston,” he intoned in his best drawl, “I believe this dance is ours.”

  “You’re just a tad late, Delacroix,” said young Richard Waverly, squinting belligerently through the eyeholes of a black mask under a huge sombrero. “She’s already promised this dance to me.”

  “Sorry, Monsieur Waverly,” said Lucien, “but hours ago I secured Mademoiselle Weston’s promise for the last dance before supper.” He turned to Anne. “You do remember, mademoiselle? You had just arrived …?” Lucien raised his brows.

  After a slight hesitation that confused Lucien, Anne took her cue. “Oh, yes. I do remember now, Mr. Delacroix.” She turned a regretful face to Richard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Waverly. Perhaps the first dance after supper?”

  Richard appeared placated with the promise of future bliss and bowed himself away. Lucien, however, did not miss the scathing look cast his way from under the retreating sombrero. Lucien couldn’t have cared less. The prize was his.

  He took Anne’s hand and led her onto the dance floor. The strains of a waltz floated from the orchestra balcony. He drew her into his arms, but found her rather stiff. She averted her face.

  “What’s the matter, Anne?” he asked, concern making his tone harsh. “Has someone been annoying you?”

  “Oh, yes,” she remarked coolly. “A man has been annoying me all evening.”

  His jaw set. Grimly he asked, “Who? I’ll land the fellow a facer. Did he dare touch you? Did he speak disrespectfully to you?”

  Anne’s blue eyes flashed up at him through her thick tawny lashes. “Indeed, I’ve been wanting him to touch me all night—”

  “What?”

  “—or at least notice my existence. But he’s been far too occupied entertaining half the female population of New Orleans to notice little ol’ me.” Her accusing gaze slid away, and she turned her face again.

  Lucien’s tight muscles relaxed. He recognized jealousy when he saw it. Didn’t the little baggage know it was important to maintain his roguish reputation? Especially tonight.

  Actually he rather enjoyed her desire to keep him to herself. He felt the same way about her. But he couldn’t resist teasing her a little.

  “I danced with half the female population of New Orleans, Mademoiselle Weston,” he said gravely, “because…”

  She turned to face him, arched a dubious brow. “Because why, Mr. Delacroix?”

  “Because the other half are too old to dance.”

  Anne’s mouth pursed, but her eyes gleamed. Lucien hoped she was finding humor in the situation and not just getting angrier. “Madame Dupois is at least seventy. You danced with her. And, I might add, you danced with her before you danced with me.”

  “Madame Dupois is an exception to the rule. Although she has a touch of rheumatism and is definitely part of the female population expected to sit instead of dance, I was able to persuade her to do otherwise.”

  “You enjoy that, don’t you?”

  “What, dancing?”

  “No, persuading women to do your bidding.”

  He grinned at her. “I plead guilty.”

  She shook her head, trying not to smile. “That’s just what you said to the man in the alley when you knocked him on the head with your cane. Are you always so ready to own up to your crimes?”

  “Always.”

  “Then someone should tell you that it’s criminal for you to wear those buckskin breeches in public.” She slid him a coy glance. “They make you look far too masculine.”

  “But if I hadn’t been wearing them, I’d never have convinced Madame Dupois to dance with me. She may be seventy, but she’s got a keen eye for a good leg.”

  Anne grinned. Lucien was thrilled to be finally winning her over again. “Conceited popinjay! But I must admit that the old gal has good taste. With you in that costume, even I might be tempted to do your bidding.”

  The distance between them was just enough that Anne could flick an interested eye over
the entire length of his person. In the aftermath of her quick but thorough scrutiny, Lucien felt the blood pulse through his veins. It was as though she’d caressed him. Their gazes met, and he saw playful arousal reflected in the depths of her blue eyes. “Yes, the breeches are quite effective,” she said demurely, “but I must confess I like everything I see.”

  Lucien had thought himself well past the age of blushing, but apparently not. He felt the heat in his neck, ears, and cheeks. He probably looked like a red-faced, half-strangled Johnny Raw in his first stiff, store-bought cravat. And though dancing had always been an easy, effortless activity for him, now he suddenly felt clumsy and nervous, mindful of watching his feet.

  “Sweet Anne,” he groaned, all the while trying to keep up his usual bored facade, “you’ve turned the tables on me. Now instead of me teasing you, you’re teasing me. Do you know what you do to me?”

  “I know what I’d like to do to you.”

  He missed a beat, tripped slightly, and quickly swept her into a smooth turn.

  “You covered that nicely, Mr. Delacroix,” she said, stroking his shoulder with the tiniest movement of her thumb. “No one would have suspected that we were about to tumble onto the floor, now would they?”

  “If you persist in tantalizing me, Mademoiselle Weston, we may yet find ourselves prone on the ballroom floor, and in a position that might embarrass you in front of all these pillars of society.” He smiled politely.

  “Your hints of impending debauchery, Mr. Delacroix,” said Anne with wide-eyed innocence, “trouble me not at all.”

  Lucien’s hand on her waist involuntarily tightened. “You look like an angel, and, God knows, you feel heavenly in my arms, but you torture me with the wicked glee of a temptress from hell.”

  Her eyes danced with mischief. “You deserve it. Besides, would you have me any other way?”

  He gave her a leering grin. “Right now, Anne, I’d have you anyway and anywhere I could!”

  They both laughed but grew quickly serious, knowing that they spoke the truth in jest. They stared at each other for a long, lingering moment, till a couple brushed close by and recalled them to reality and prudence. Lucien returned to his droopy-eyed dandy’s persona, and Anne smiled vacuously at passing dancers. When the music ended, he bent briefly to her ear and whispered, “Meet me in the garden behind the statue of the unknown woman,” then bowed and walked away.

  Anne was supposed to meet her aunt in the supper room, but she escaped through a side entrance and went around to the back of the house. She saw three other couples who would rather tryst than eat supper, cuddling and kissing in the moonlit Rosedown garden. She had no idea where the statue was, or even what it looked like, and she wandered deep into the lush greenery of trees and bushes searching for it.

  At last, far away from the other romantic couples, Anne saw an ancient statue that looked as if it had been transported from some ruined villa in Italy. It was a woman in a long toga with outstretched arms. The look on her stone face was one of longing. Anne stood, staring at the statue’s poignant expression, till a human arm reached out and tugged her into the shadows behind it. Enclosed on all sides by shrubs or stone, Anne was once again alone with Lucien.

  “You didn’t scream,” he said, pulling her against his chest.

  “I knew it was you. You’re the only man I know who grabs at me out of the shadows.” She locked her arms around his neck. The pattern of moonlight through gently stirring leaves played over his face. She could just make out his smile, then she saw it disappear.

  “I had to see you, hold you, one more time before—”

  Anne’s heart filled with dread. “Before what?”

  He sighed. “Before the night is over.”

  “Because something important is happening tonight?”

  “I only have two minutes, Anne. Two minutes that I don’t intend to spend talking.”

  Before she could say another word, Lucien had covered her mouth with his. His lips were warm and firm, his kisses deeper and more demanding than ever before. She felt his passion and urgency and returned it completely. She pressed against him, her body touching his at every intimate point.

  He broke their kiss, gasping, then caught her at the waist and lifted her, nuzzling her neck and chest with his lips. She slid down, and his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over the hard nubs of her nipples.

  Blood rushed through her body, pooling in all the sensitive spots. Moisture gathered at her woman’s core. Just in that minute of kissing, he’d made her want him desperately. And, judging by the hard jut of his manhood against her, he wanted her equally as much.

  He kissed her again on the mouth, his tongue mating urgently with hers, driving her near madness with desire. She turned her head, saying breathlessly against his cheek, “Two minutes? Perhaps that’s long enough to—”

  He chuckled, but his voice was shaky. “No, it’s not nearly enough time to do justice to the passion I have for you, sweet Anne. Another time, another place.”

  She pulled away, holding his face between her hands. “Oh, yes, Lucien! Another time, another place. Promise me!” She felt tears stinging her eyelids.

  She could feel his sudden reserve, his drawing back, even as she held him close. “It’s time to go back inside. Katherine will be looking for you.”

  “I don’t want to go yet.”

  “You have to. I’ll watch you till you get inside.” He gently pushed her away.

  “I love you, Lucien.”

  “Good night, Anne.” He turned slightly, his face suddenly completely obscured by shadows.

  She crossed her arms in a viselike hug, as if she could hold in all the worry, all the fear. She looked longingly one more time at his shadowy figure, then turned and walked dejectedly toward the house.

  “Be careful,” she whispered under her breath. “Come back to me.”

  Lucien watched Anne go inside to sit at supper with her aunt. God! Making her leave him was like losing part of his own soul. He wished he could give her the assurances she craved; he hated seeing her so anxious. But in another minute he would meet Bodine at the spot they’d agreed on to escort the blackguard over a harvested sugarcane field to Bocage, and Lucien was achingly aware that the outcome of events in the next few hours would determine his future … and Anne’s…

  As supper was being served, Katherine looked in vain for Anne. She’d watched her dancing with Lucien. She’d seen how they’d pretended indifference. She acknowledged that to the unsuspicious eye they had probably succeeded in making Anne appear as just another target for Delacroix’s flirtatious assaults. But Katherine noticed toward the end of the dance that they were struggling, that they were doing everything in their power to maintain a very tenuous hold on their emotions.

  Now she couldn’t see either of them in the throng of people politely pushing their way into the supper room. She concluded with dismay that they’d sneaked off somewhere to relieve those feelings of frustration. She, too, knew what it was to be frustrated, but couldn’t the hot-blooded little fools have waited one more day? Though Lucien had given her no details, she knew he was posing as Renard one last time tonight. She knew Bodine was involved, and she knew the operation was risky. Perhaps that was why Lucien had taken Anne somewhere private. Maybe he was afraid it would be their last time together.

  “Mrs. Grimms?” Katherine turned at the obsequious voice at her elbow. It was one of the Bouviers’ liveried slaves, a young man decked out in a white wig and knee-breeches. He held out a silver salver with a small folded paper upon it. There was no envelope, as if the note had been sent in haste. She took the note with trembling fingers. It had to be news of Reggie. She unfolded the paper and read the brief contents, feeling the blood drain from her head at the same moment.

  The slave caught her elbow, steadying her as she swayed. Grateful for his support, Katherine forced herself to breathe deeply. Now was not the time to fall apart. Reggie needed her. He
had yellow fever.

  Jeffrey stood in a dark corner with his arms folded. He’d been watching Anne all night. Dressed as a specter, his face covered with a chalky paste, his eyes smudged and hollowed with black greasepaint, his lips bloodred, and his form covered from head to toe by a hooded cape, he’d had no trouble keeping to himself. He looked like a corpse—like death itself.

  He’d seen the way Anne and Delacroix had looked at each other while they were dancing. He’d noticed how she’d glanced Delacroix’s way all night. And Jeffrey had seen her leave the house to meet him in the garden. He’d even followed her, and while he couldn’t see them, he could hear Anne and Delacroix murmuring to each other, kissing and caressing in the shadows. It was obvious they were lovers. The damned girl had barely allowed him a little kiss, but judging by the sounds that came from behind the statue, she had allowed Delacroix access to all her charms!

  The hateful feelings coursing through Jeffrey’s body showed plainly on his face, making him appear more frightening than ever. No one came near him. A superstitious lot, the Creoles especially kept their distance. He smiled grimly. Maybe they thought he really was a specter of the grave, a bad omen sent by dark forces to warn some unfortunate sinner of impending death.

  The image suited his mood tonight. If he had his way, tonight would be the last night on earth for Renard. And Delacroix. Jeffrey bit the inside of his mouth till he drew blood. How could he have missed the obvious for so long? Now he knew. Now he knew that Anne didn’t have it in her to love more than one man at a time. He knew Renard and Delacroix were one and the same.

  He smiled again, less grimly. But such a smile on such a face gave an evil effect. He headed for the door, surprised to see Katherine Grimms hurry out before him, her expression full of worry. Outside, an elderly gentleman assisted her into a carriage, and they drove off helter-skelter. Jeffrey’s curiosity was piqued, but he had an appointment to keep with the New Orleans Guardians of the Peace. He ordered his horse to be brought around, mounted the handsome steed he’d rented just for the night, then turned the animal west, toward Bocage.