Gabrielle
Page 36
He frowned. “So I’ve noticed, and, when you get lonesome, you must have someone to while away the hours with—no matter who it might be,” he said sarcastically.
She jerked her head up and glared at him. “That’s not true! Why won’t you believe that I—”
He walked over to her and pulled down the sheet. His fingers played with her breasts for a moment, then swooped lower down over her belly. Her breathing quickened, and her arms were beginning to reach for him when he stopped and his mouth shaped itself into a cruel grin. She looked up at him, not understanding.
“You see how it is with you, kitten. You’re a very sensuous young woman—a man’s touch on you, and you’re instantly in heat, ready for satisfaction.”
Her cheeks blazed in her embarrassment, and, with a cry of anger, she pushed him away and drew the sheet over herself again. “Oh, you’re the most—the most—” she searched for a word to describe aptly her feelings for him. Her violet eyes narrowed, and she glanced a sideways look at him. “Did it ever occur to you, that yours is the only touch that has that particular effect on me?” she asked him.
He smiled wickedly. “You flatter me, kitten, but I’m sure you have more sense than that. You already know my feelings when it comes to our relationship.”
“I do?” she countered quickly. “Please inform me afresh, for I think I must have forgotten.”
His smile disappeared as he gazed into those eyes that had suddenly become seductive and teasing. Her small hands reached out to caress him, moved over his flesh so that in a very few moments, the proof of his readiness was apparent to both.
“It seems that a woman’s touch has much the same effect on you,” she said softly. “Am I to assume that every woman you go to bed with has such powers?” She let the sheet slide away from her as she brought her body up, fastening her arms about his neck.
“Are you trying to seduce me, you wanton bitch?” he asked her, but he didn’t move away.
She nodded. “My education has improved vastly since you first took me all those years ago in Paris,” she informed him softly, interspersing her words with kisses on his mouth and neck.
She felt his hands bringing her closer and then pushing her back into the mattress, his body following hers. She kissed him deeply, moving her mouth deliberately, lingering as her hands flew over his body.
“You’re terribly excited, my darling,” she whispered, her eyes meeting his and noting the wary expression on his face.
She could hardly believe what she was actually doing, behaving like a whore, seducing a man, trying to relax him enough for the pleasure to come. She hated herself for the deception, knowing what she would do, but she continued caressing him, licking his shoulder, biting hard into the iron-muscled flesh, waiting for the right moment. He groaned and caught her head between his hands, kissing her face passionately now, responding to her abandon. She waited, positioning her body, gently pressing him away from her so that he would roll over onto his back on the bed. Her hands pleasured him, bringing him surely to the peak of excitement, and then—she sprang up from the bed and stood, trembling a little, looking down at him.
Her smile was anything but contrite. “So!” she said triumphantly, flushed and breathing hard, “it seems we both have some power!”
He looked at her, not believing for a moment what she had done. Then she saw those green eyes go dark, and the fury in them made her step back.
“You scheming little whore!” he said savagely, furious at himself for believing that she—for allowing his iron control to slip for a moment, furious at her for so blatantly destroying any trust he would have had in her.
His movements were supple as a panther’s as he slid from the bed, his eyes dangerously hooded as he watched her step back.
“I was only trying to make you see how unfair you were being when you—”
“I don’t give a damn what you were trying to do, you teasing bitch!” he said between his teeth. “But this is not the time to stop what you’ve started. I expect you to finish this delightful little seduction scene.”
“You—you don’t seem to understand. I was trying—”
“Shut up and get back in that bed!”
He reached for her and, as she turned to escape him, caught at her long hair, wrenching her head back painfully as he pulled at a fistful of the thick, soft silk. She cried out and dug her nails into his hands, struggling to get away. He pulled her back towards the bed and threw her on it, springing on top of her and wasting no time in gratifying himself. When he was finished, she lay still, her cheeks wet from her tears, her face turned away from his probing eyes.
He looked down at her, disgusted by his own actions that would have been better suited to some conquered town. He slid from her body and stood up, noting with surprising regret the marks he had made on her breasts with his ungentle fingers. Regretfully, he lifted a lock of her hair and brought it to his mouth.
“I’m sorry, kitten,” he murmured softly.
She refused to say anything. He donned his clothes and was moving towards the door when he realized she was sitting up now, watching him. He blew her a kiss and grinned with that devilish expression.
“I’ll see you again tonight, kitten,” he said briskly. “You will keep the sheets warmed for me, won’t you?”
“Oh-h-h!” she exploded, reaching for something to throw at him. Her fingers closed over a small crystal vase, and, with contained fury, she threw the fragile glass at the point where he had been standing, but he was gone and the vase hit the door with a loud tinkling crash. From the hallway, she could hear his insufferable laughter, and she pounded her fists into the pillow.
When the sound of his boots had vanished down the hall, she got out of bed and paced restlessly back and forth across the floor, devising all manner of schemes and plans to get even with him for this last affront. But she stopped suddenly, realizing that anything she might devise would only be ably repaid in kind.
She sighed. Why not admit the truth, she thought wearily—that she loved him. In spite of everything—or perhaps because of it—she loved him. She sat down abruptly and closed her eyes, but his face came too easily to mind.
She stood up and called to Jane that she would be taking a walk within the hour, and soon the two young women made their way down Toulouse Street and headed for the Place d’Armes. They moved through throngs of people, many of them blacks, the women with calico dresses and the ever-present tignons wrapped around their shorn heads, and the men naked to the waist and accompanied by watchful overseers taking them for duty on the docks.
It was as yet too early for many of the Creoles to be taking the air, and Gabrielle was thankful that she could think without the usual accompanying crowd noises. She looked up at the tall spires of the Church of Saint-Louis and touched Jane on the shoulder.
“I—I haven’t been in church for so long—would you like to come with me?”
The two moved into the cool, shadowy vestibule where convent girls waited in pairs to walk down the aisles, the ever-watchful nuns forming them into neat rows with waves of their white-clad arms. Gabrielle and Jane walked around them and into the high-ceilinged church, past the rows of pews, polished and waiting.
Gabrielle genuflected at the first pew and knelt on the velvet kneeler, folding her hands. The half-forgotten words she had learned as a child came tumbling back. She prayed for so long that her knees began to ache at the unaccustomed position, and her head sagged in her hands.
She rose with Jane and made to leave. Outside the church, the light was brilliant, the air filled now with sounds of the milling crowds of people, all taking their promenade around the square.
“Gabrielle!”
The masculine voice came to her through the crowd, and she smiled to see Bernard de Marigny coming towards her, his blue eyes alight with pleasure.
“Gabrielle, to find you here after all these weeks of not seeing you! Sacre bleu! You are more beautiful than ever, my dove.” He kissed her hand
.
“Bernard, you look the same—handsome as always,” she smiled, glad that this occasion of their first meeting was void of strain.
“I never change, Gabrielle. But I’ve missed you, my dear. I didn’t realize that a woman could have such an effect on me, but it seems you have made a lasting mark on my heart.” He took her hand and led her around the square as they talked. “Now, I want you to tell me how you have been. Has—has St. Claire been treating you decently?” He looked at her sharply.
“Yes, Bernard. Of course, Rafe has many things to keep him busy, and his business interests are quite varied—but he is very good to me,” she ended lamely.
Bernard clucked his tongue. “And I suppose that he considers you just another of his business interests, allotting so much time for you in his schedule.”
“Bernard, please do not pry.”
“Gabrielle, I cannot stand by and see you hurt by a man who knows of no other way to treat a woman. Let me, at least, come and visit you.”
Gabrielle shuddered, remembering the coldness in Rafe’s eyes when he had learned of Leigh Owens’ visit to her. “No, no, Bernard. You must not. It would be difficult.” She felt the urge to leave him suddenly, to escape those knowing eyes.
“Ah, Gabrielle, if only it could have been different between you and me,” he said regretfully. “I would have worshiped you, my angel.” His voice became deeper. “I would have made love to you every night with tender passion—does your Rafe behave so admirably?”
“Bernard, please!”
He shrugged. “All right—you must forgive the troubling stabs of jealousy, my dearest.”
A tall, dignified black servant bowed in front of them and proffered a silver basket to de Marigny, who accepted it gravely and riffled through the small cards stacked inside.
“What is it?” Gabrielle asked in some curiosity.
Bernard grinned at her and pointed to the card bearing his name. “An invitation to a party. Miss Melissa Lawrence requests the honor of my presence at eight-thirty in the evening on July 20 to help celebrate her birthday.” Gabrielle paled visibly as Bernard casually fingered the edges of the other cards, flipping them forward until he stopped at the card addressed to Rafe St. Claire. She shrugged as Bernard dismissed the servant.
“I would expect Rafe to be asked to such an affair. After all, he is influential in the city and—”
“And just happens to be on Miss Lawrence’s list of most eligible bachelors—probably ‘the most eligible,’ ” Bernard interrupted smoothly. “Oh, Gabrielle, it does wound me to see you hurt by a man who deserves you even less than I. You don’t think he will not attend just for the sake of your smile?”
“Of course he will attend, Bernard. Do you imagine that I am some simpering fool, thinking there is nothing' that can tear him away from my company?” Her voice was wary. “If, as you say, he is going to ask for a betrothal, there is very little—in fact, nothing—that I can say or do to stop it.” She pressed her skirt with her hands nervously. “And now, I really must go, Bernard.”
“Of course, my dear,” Bernard answered, taking her hand and holding it tightly for a moment. “But please remember what I said before, Gabrielle. It was no idle offer, and I make it again with my whole heart. If you ever need me—I’ll be there.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Melissa Lawrence stretched delightedly, like a contented cat, and let her fingers slide softly across her lover’s chest, stopping to twine the dark, curling hairs around her little fingers. She laughed huskily and bent to kiss the sensuous mouth that could arouse her like that of no other man she had ever met. Rafe St. Claire reached up lazily to imprison her face and press her lips firmly against his.
“Oh, darling,” Melissa sighed, “I’m so happy today. We do go well together, don’t we?”
She heard his small mocking laugh and felt some of her happiness drain away. “My dear ’Lissa, you go well with any man,” he returned dryly, letting his hands slide from her neck to her breast, lingering there.
Melissa pouted and moved away from him, moving his head from her lap. “Why must you always spoil a perfectly lovely afternoon?” she asked him regretfully, standing up to let her toes dig into the softness of the earth. Her eyes casually roamed the secluded little copse of trees where they were lying and out to where the shimmer of the Mississippi River was brightened by the July sun.
“I didn’t think I was spoiling it,” he commented lethargically.
“Oh, you know very well what I meant,” she returned, picking idly at the leaves of a mulberry bush. “You always find a way to destroy the mood after we’ve made love together. When it comes time for you to be gentle and loving and whisper sweet things to me, you come out with something hateful.”
“Hateful? ’Lissa, you know very well I don’t mean to be,” he laughed lazily, sitting up now and brushing twigs and leaves from his hair.
“Well,” she hesitated, then went on, “you could at least—tell me you love me.” She waited for some reaction, and when there was none, she plunged on more boldly. “After all, if we are to announce our engagement at my birthday party tomorrow night. . . .”
He turned now and eyed her with his familiar arrogance, so that her voice lost its strength and died away uncertainly. “Our engagement?” he questioned her disdainfully. “I wasn’t aware of such an important event.” He glanced sharply at her. “Is this some new little scheme you’ve cooked up between your parents and yourself? If so, I’m afraid I'm the least likely candidate for the position.”
Melissa opened her mouth, then stamped her bare foot on the ground in a growing temper. “Rafe St. Claire! You’re not going to embarrass me after—after. . . .”
. . after you’ve told half the city that I’ve asked you to marry me, and you knew perfectly well that no such thing ever occurred, nor is it likely to. Melissa, I’ve told you before, I just don’t want to be married—I don’t want to be tied down to one woman just yet.” He saw her eyes brighten with tears and stood up. “ ’Lissa, ’Lissa, why must you be so like other females? I thought you and I were having a marvelous time together—surely you can’t deny that?”
“A marvelous time,” she repeated bitterly. “You don’t even give me the distinction of being your mistress, or at least you don’t bother to honor me with the official title! I suppose you save that for that young woman whom you keep in town!” Her voice rose in a crescendo and her eyes blazed furiously through the tears. “Do you think, Rafe St. Claire, that I am blithely going to continue offering myself for your service any time you please? Do you think I care so little for my reputation that I would continue indefinitely as your plaything while the rest of society shake their heads and pity me?”
Rafe threw a piece of grass on the ground and reached for his trousers. “I wasn’t aware that your ‘reputation’ has ever been a major concern with you, Melissa,” he said sternly. “As for ‘that young woman’ as you call her. I’ve never tried to conceal that I was keeping a mistress. Christ, after the episode at the ‘Golden Palace,’ I would have been surprised if you hadn’t known about her! But she has nothing to do with the reason why I don’t want to marry you.”
With shaking hands, Melissa was struggling to get into her chemise, succeeding only in ripping it dreadfully in her anger. With a wail of despair, she sat on the ground, her fury turning into a torrent of tears. “If—if you think that—that I can’t get anyone else to m-marry me. I’m afraid you’re wrong, terribly wrong,” she got out breathlessly between sobs. “Why—why Charles Landon or—or Nicholas Beauville—either one would jump at the chance to make me his wife!”
Rafe, buttoning his shirt and avoiding the reddened eyes of his paramour, smiled to himself. “In that case, I suggest you quickly go to one of them and try your wiles on him—but you will have to hurry since you plan to announce your betrothal tomorrow night.”
“O-oh, I’ll kill you!” she cried, flying at him with nails bared and her hands curved into claws.
“Oh, Rafe, I—I didn’t mean that. I couldn’t hate you, no matter how hard I tried!” she said, her voice coming slowly through her tears. “Please, please forgive for my terrible temper. Of course, you will still come tomorrow, won’t you?”
He felt suddenly sorry for this tear-stained young woman and angry at himself for what he must do to convince her that he would not marry her. “Of course, ’Lissa,” he said gently, releasing her wrists. “You know I would like nothing better than to toast your health, and to see some man who is worthy of you—”
“Oh, God!” she laughed wildly. “Don’t—don’t mouth those same platitudes that have been handed down to women for centuries!” she said. “You will suggest that I concentrate my efforts on Charles or Nicholas now—anything but continue to harass you with wild pleas for marriage, I suppose?” She shook herself and stared at him sadly. “Rafe St. Claire, you’re a bastard,” she said slowly. “A handsome, exciting bastard—but a bastard nonetheless.”
Her eyes were harder now and as impersonal as though he and she were strangers. She began putting her clothes on, and they both completed dressing in silence.
“I suppose,” she began casually, as they walked to their horses, “that your mistress must be a most understanding woman—that, or blinded by love to all of your faults.”
He laughed drily and cupped his hands so that she could mount her horse. “Understanding hardly describes her, ’Lissa. No, I would say that she is much like yourself, my dear. Unfortunately, I seem to be attracted to the wrong type.”
“Well, in any case, I should like to meet her,” she said with bravado. “Perhaps you should bring her to the party. At least that would keep tongues from wagging over me, I daresay.”
He glanced sharply at her, then grinned in disarming aplomb. “What an original idea, ’Lissa,” he laughed. “A man bringing his mistress to a social function graced by the elite of the city—your idea certainly appeals to me.”