by Jane Feather
“I see. And what led you to assume that you would do as well, mademoiselle?” he asked coldly. “It is a matter of currency, as you so correctly deduced the other day. I do not believe that you have the correct coin.”
A flush of anger stained her cheekbones. “After what has just occurred between us, I do not see how you can say that. You may tell Papa in all truth that I am a spoiled virgin—a fact you could broadcast to all and sundry simply by returning me to Royal Street, with a degree of ceremony, in broad daylight. The story will be on every tongue within the hour.”
“I see.” Dominic came to the foot of the bed. He braced his arms on the wooden bar that was used to smooth the surface of the feather mattress when the bed was made and surveyed her. “Very well worked out. I congratulate you.” There was open mockery in his voice. “And do you believe the sacrifice of your unblemished reputation will be sufficient inducement for your father?”
“I am as much his daughter as Elise,” Genevieve retorted.
“Indubitably,” he agreed smoothly. “But you have no highly desirable suitor panting at your heels. You would certainly suffer from the loss of your reputation, since no eligible alliance could ever then be made for you, but, tell me; why should that concern your father beyond a fleeting moment of lost pride—a loss that he might well count as more easily borne than that involved in agreeing to partnership with a privateer.”
It was undeniably true. Genevieve dropped her eyes to the coverlet, tracing the embroidered pattern with a fingernail. “No, you are right. He would not be overly concerned. I daresay he would send me to the Ursulines to become a nun, and consider me well disposed of.”
A rich laugh suddenly, startlingly, rang through the room, and she looked up, amazed. The turquoise eyes now shone with enjoyment. “That would be a most disastrous fate, for you and the Ursulines,” he chuckled. “Definitely to be avoided at all costs. A nun!” For a moment, his laughter got the better of him, and his shoulders shook as he looked at her, propped up against the pillows, that ash-blond river pouring over her shoulders, the tawny gold eyes sparkling with indignation. “No … no.” He shook his head. “We must definitely avoid that!”
“Oh, would you stop laughing!” Genevieve demanded crossly. “I do not like to be laughed at.”
“You should not present me with such a magnificently absurd image,” he offered in meager apology, turning back to the supper tray and the brandy bottle. “We must find a way to return you home with no one being any the wiser.”
“But what will you do about the anchorage?” Genevieve persisted. “You cannot still intend to use Elise.”
“And why not?” he asked gently. “I can assure you that now I know the true nature of the opposition, and I shall be able to circumvent it without difficulty on a future occasion.”
Genevieve had no doubt of that. She would not be allowed the opportunity to prevent Elise from falling into the trap another time. “I have only to tell her the truth,” she said stoutly. “Nicolas may be a coward, but I think, in this instance, he would corroborate my story.”
The turquoise eyes darkened ominously. “Why should she believe you? It is a somewhat fantastic story, is it not? And I do not think your sister is well endowed with sense, common or otherwise.” The open contempt in his voice made her wince, yet she could not deny it. The silence lengthened, then Dominic shrugged. “As it happens, I have decided to abandon that plan, so you may put your mind at rest as regards your precious sister.”
“Why do you not simply take what you want?” Genevieve asked thoughtfully. “The lake frontage of the plantation is considerable and exposed, but there is a deep bayou, hidden from the lake and never visited, to my knowledge, because of the swampland surrounding it. There is no reason why anyone should ever know that you were there. There would only be danger of discovery during the summer months, anyway, when the family is in residence and Papa takes an active interest in the land. But I could warn you of any possible danger …” Her voice trailed off as she felt the glittering blue gaze boring into her.
“This bayou—how would I find it?” He walked over to a secretaire in the corner, sat down and pulled pen and paper toward him.
“I could show you,” Genevieve said tentatively to his back, wondering what he was doing. “It is only accessible by water, but if you were to take your ship, and I were to accompany you—”
“And how would you explain an absence of several days?” Dominic interrupted, writing busily.
“Do not laugh again, but I am in the habit of spending time in the convent, studying Latin and higher mathematics with the mother superior.” She paused as the figure at the writing table swung round, subjecting her to a close scrutiny, eyebrows lifted. Then he nodded and returned to his penmanship. “It would not be questioned if I said I would be spending a day or so in retreat,” Genevieve finished.
Dominic did not immediately respond, but instead read through what he had just written and dusted the ink briskly with the sandcaster before rising and going to the door. Opening it, he called again for Silas. When the man appeared, almost before the echo of his name had died down, he stood in the doorway, waiting as his master folded the sheet before handing it to him. “Take this to the Latour house. Deliver it yourself into the hands of Nicolas St Denis. No one else will do, you understand?”
“Yes, monsieur.” Silas bobbed his head. “Will there be anything else tonight, monsieur?”
“No.” Dominic shook his head. “You will wake me at dawn.” The sailor-servant left the room, and Dominic came over to the bed. There was intent in his blue eyes, a clear intent that set Genevieve’s nerve endings tingling. “If you have supped sufficiently, I think it is time to advance your education beyond the pages of the primer.” A long-fingered hand took the sheet at her neck and drew it down slowly, revealing her body inch by inch. Genevieve felt her heartbeat quicken. Her eyes seemed riveted on the intricately worked gold signet ring he wore, gleaming against her pale skin as his fingers stroked with feather lightness across her belly.
“What did you write to Nicolas? Do … do you agree to my plan?” The words fluttered between her lips in a futile attempt to regain her hold on reality as she obeyed the pressure of a hand on her shoulder, pushing her to lie flat.
“You must learn never to mix business with pleasure, my Genevieve,” her mentor said softly, bending to flick her navel with his tongue. “Just as you must learn a little patience. I will tell you what I wish you to know, and only when I am ready to do so.”
Genevieve would have protested this arrogance had she been able, had she considered it important enough to do so. Maybe another Genevieve, in another world would have done so, but the second lesson of the day was requiring an active response, a powerful demand that she not simply lie and receive, but that she give, that she learn how to give back the pleasure that was given to her. It was an all-absorbing exercise, she found, one involving the discovery of shapes and contours, the most wonderful hardnesses and softnesses beneath her exploring fingers, the discovery of what delighted the body that was her playground, and ultimately the discovery of the power of the pleasure-giver.
The Genevieve Latour who eventually fell asleep, locked in the arms of the privateer, in the bedchamber of a quadroon placée on Rampart Street, had progressed a long way down the paths of loving, and bore only superficial resemblance to the jeune fille who had set out full of crusading zeal a few short hours before.
Chapter Seven
The rich aroma of coffee assailed Genevieve’s nostrils, bringing her out of sleep and into startled awareness of unfamiliar surroundings. The room was in darkness, relieved only by the soft light of a veilleuse on the mantel.
“Good morning, Genevieve.” The greeting came from beside her and was delivered in the most matter-of-fact tone, a tone that belied the overpowering sensation of strangeness as her skin registered the direct contact of the sheets and the warmth of another body as naked as her own.
“Is it morning?”
she asked, curiously reluctant to look at her companion. “It is so dark.”
“It is very early morning,” she was informed. “Might I draw your attention to the tray at your elbow? If you would pour the coffee, then we might both be able to face the new day with a degree of awareness.”
Genevieve sat up slowly, drawing the sheet over her breasts with a nervous twitch, and peered blearily at the table beside the bed. A linen-covered tray stood there, steam rising from the twin spouts of a silver coffeepot and milk jug. A basket of hot, flaky rolls gave off the most enticing scent of fresh baking, and she sniffed hungrily.
Dominic hitched himself up against the headboard, regarding her with a smile in his eyes as she carefully poured hot milk into a wide, shallow cup, then topped it up with dark, strong coffee. Her tongue peeped between her lips as she concentrated on the very ordinary activity, except that pouring a man’s café au lait, when ensconced in bed beside him, could hardly have been an ordinary activity for her. “Thank you.” He took the cup with a polite smile.
Genevieve poured her own coffee, offering him the basket of rolls with punctilious courtesy and, when he refused with equal formality, helped herself. The business of eating and drinking made conversation unnecessary which, Genevieve reflected, was very fortunate since she had not the faintest idea what to say. What topics were suitable for such a moment? Did one ask if one’s companion had slept well? Did one make polite inquiries about his planned day? Offer information about one’s own?
Dominic’s lips twitched—her thoughts were transparently easy to divine. She was a most appealing figure to wake up beside, he reflected. The morning after was always a harsh test, but Genevieve’s skin was dewy and fresh. Her tousled, shining hair enchantingly tumbled over her bare shoulders, falling over the creamy swell of her breasts, revealed by the disarranged sheet. The tawny eyes were bright and clear, and when he reached a long finger to brush a crumb from her lips, she looked at him and laughed with a most seductive absence of affectation, although with more than a hint of shyness.
“There is no need to be shy,” he said gently, tracing the curve of her mouth. “You are not regretful, are you?”
She shook her head vigorously, the ash-blond hair swirling in silver emphasis. “How could I regret that … that …” She sighed, finding herself quite inarticulate. “I do not know how to describe how I feel, but I am like a well that has been filled with pleasure.”
“And will continue to be so filled,” he promised. “Once you have learned to give and receive in that manner, no one can take it from you.” He kissed her lightly, then handed her his empty cup. “Pour me some more. I must get dressed. Nicolas will be here to take you home shortly.”
Genevieve felt a sudden stab of desolation. He had spoken as if the continued supply of pleasure had nothing to do with him; as if his role of instructor, now completed, made her ready to be launched upon the world. But pride forbade questioning on that score. “Why is Nicolas to come?” she asked instead, busying herself with the coffee and milk.
“He will escort you home as if you have both been taking a pre-breakfast walk,” Dominic told her. “Even if your absence last night has been discovered, the consequences will be confined simply to your own household.”
“No one will have discovered it,” she said. “Tabitha does not come to my chamber until I ring, and no one else will be up before nine o’clock at the earliest, not after last night’s bal de royauté.”
He nodded, buttoning his shirt. “That is what I had hoped. There is hot water in the jug if you wish to wash.”
Genevieve, accepting the cue, pushed aside the covers and swung her legs to the floor. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, however, she stared at the floor for a minute, frowning deeply.
“What is it?” Dominic fastened the waistband of his pantaloons and came over to her, lifting her chin with a long forefinger. “Something is troubling you, sprite.”
Emboldened by his tone and the use of the nickname he had used during their lovemaking, Genevieve said hesitantly, “I would like to ask a question.”
“Then ask it,” he said. “You are not, in general, backward in coming forward.” His tone was teasing and she smiled hesitantly.
“Last night, when …” She was being ridiculous; it was a simple enough question. It was just embarrassing that her knowledge was so limited that she was obliged to ask it. Genevieve took a deep breath. “When, at the very last, you withdrew in that way, that was to ensure that I did not conceive?”
“Yes,” he replied briskly. “I have no interest in raising up a tribe of bastards.”
“Neither do I, as it happens,” Genevieve retorted, nettled by his tone.
“I did not imagine that you did. Get dressed now. Nicolas will be here soon.”
“There is no need to be so dismissive,” Genevieve snapped. “It is not my fault that I am not as well informed about such matters as I am sure your quadroon mistress is.”
Dominic, to her increased irritation, burst out laughing. “Since you have not, hitherto, had the need to be so informed, that is hardly surprising.” Still chuckling, he went to the door. “Stay in this room until I come for you.”
Genevieve yielded to the childish yet vaguely satisfying urge to put her tongue out at the closed door, then turned her back on it and went over to the basin and jug on the washstand. She felt the eyes on her back as she drew the washcloth slowly down her body, one breast cradled in her palm. Her movements stilled as her scalp seemed to contract with unease. Of course no one was watching her. She had not heard the door open. Breaking free of the hypnotic shackles of fear, she spun round.
A woman stood in the doorway, the doorknob in her hand. Large brown eyes subjected Genevieve to a clear and objective appraisal, as if she were being inspected on the auction block, Genevieve thought with a sick thud. She had seen such things often enough, but never before had she truly been able to imagine what it felt like to be examined with such brutal candor. The woman was very beautiful with a fair creamy skin, as fair as Genevieve’s own, and lustrous dark hair that hung in loose ringlets to her shoulders. She wore a wrapper of midnight blue, adorned with lace ruffles, a wide sash outlining a slender waist and accentuating the curves of bosom and hip.
“What do you want?” Genevieve whispered, wishing she had something with which to cover herself, but her clothes were on a chair at the other side of the room, and only a small towel hanging beside the washstand offered itself. Somehow, she felt that an ineffectual attempt to shield her nakedness would be more undignified that simply standing still, so she stood still.
The woman did not answer her, but then she didn’t need to, Genevieve thought with a flash of illumination. She could only be Angelique, and it was quite clear what she wanted: She wanted to weigh up the opposition. The banging of a door knocker sounded from downstairs and the woman jumped, a look of fear standing out in the brown eyes, then she had gone, as soundlessly as she had come, the door closing inaudibly behind her.
Shaken, Genevieve dressed rapidly. There had been nothing friendly about that examination; quite the reverse. Naked hostility had shone in the huge liquid eyes, and a degree of contempt as she judged Genevieve’s physical charms. Of course, the usurper was a mite lacking in stature and curve, Genevieve was obliged to own, as she brushed her hair with borrowed brush. And it was hardly surprising that Angelique would resent her presence, in her bedchamber, her bed, with her protector. In fact, what had possessed Dominic to do such a thing? But then, of course, he had not intended sharing that bed with his proposed victim. Presumably Angelique’s cooperation had been gained for a different scenario from the one that had been played out.
Genevieve went over to the window, drawing back the curtains to look out on the street she had seen the previous night. It was now full daylight, although only seven o’clock, and there was still nothing to identify the street, but Genevieve was in little doubt that it was Rampart Street—where else did a Creole gentleman keep his quadroon
mistress?
“Nicolas is here.” Dominic spoke from the doorway.
“What did you tell him?” Genevieve found that it mattered what he had said to her cousin.
“Nothing.” Smiling, he came over to her. “It is for you to say what you wish. I merely gave him instructions to ensure that you were returned home without a blemish on your honor.” Picking up her cloak, he draped it over her shoulders, drawing the hood up, carefully tucking her hair away. Then his hands cupped her face. “I think you should make your preparations for a retreat with the Ursulines.”
“When?” She could not deny the swift beating of her heart at the thought that last night was not to be the beginning and the end. And in this moment of turmoil, she forgot to mention Angelique’s unsettling visitation.
“As soon as you can arrange it.” Dominic brushed her lips lightly with his own. “Come here tomorrow afternoon. I will be waiting for you.”
“But I do not know where ‘here’ is,” she reminded him. “And I do not know how I could contrive to leave the house in the middle of the day without being noticed.”
Dominic’s eyebrows lifted. “Mademoiselle Genevieve, do not play coquettish games. I do not find them amusing. If you wish to come here tomorrow afternoon, you will contrive. You forget, perhaps, that I have been made annoyingly aware of your resourcefulness and your willfulness. If you set your mind to something, you will achieve it.” He laughed, but there was no mockery in the sound. “It is a quality I share, sprite. We are two of a kind, so do not attempt to deceive one who knows you as well as you know yourself.”
