“I thought it might,” she replied woodenly. They rode on unto they came to the crossroads. “Bring your painted whore, then,” she said brusquely. “One more woman to humiliate would most likely serve to bolster your male ego! I can only pity the little fool!” And she whipped her horse and galloped madly away, her silver hair flying out behind her.
“The witch!” he thought, but not without some admiration for the way she had attempted to recover herself. He had no doubt but that she would still entertain thoughts of marriage with him, and the idea rankled in his brain, for he realized now that he had grown tired of the woman’s constant tirades and selfish claims on him.
“Bring your painted whore then!” she’d said.
He laughed out loud. Now, that really did appeal to him. Why not take Gabrielle to the party? He spurred his horse to an even trot. Those stuffed shirts of old men and their shrivelled-up wives would certainly have to sit up and take notice of a woman like Gabrielle. Christ! After all, hadn’t she been born into that very kind of society? And what more effective way to rid Melissa of any lingering idea of marriage?
As he spied Fairview coming closer, he smiled to himself and slapped his booted thigh. Damn! He’d do it after all!
Gabrielle faced Rafe across the length of the room, her face determined, her mouth tight with disapproval. “I’ll not go with you tonight, Rafe, I don’t care what you say. I’ll not be made a laughingstock in front of all those people—and her least of all.” She folded her arms across her breast.
He merely watched her, amused, knowing that he would get her to accompany him even if it had to be by force. “Put your clothes on and fix your hair, Gabrielle. I would hate for you to arrive looking like what they will have all already labelled you.” He smiled in mocking disdain and threw her dressing gown at her. “I’ll call your servant to fix your hair.”
She picked up the dressing gown and threw it back at him in a fury. “I’ll not go, Rafe, and I’m not going to change my mind!” she said firmly.
Slowly, he closed the half-opened door, then turned to face her, noticing her slight trembling as she stood and watched him. He offered a thin smile.
“I’ve had all I can take from sassy women,” he said lightly. “You’re my property, Gabrielle, and you will do as I tell you, or punishment will be meted out.”
She laughed, but with little conviction. “Punishment! What am I? Some dog or animal you must apply the switch to, to make me obey?”
His green eyes flashed dangerously. “An excellent idea, ma’m’selle,” he said silkily, crossing the room with his arrogant saunter and grasping her by the arm. “Rest assured, I shall be careful where I place the marks so that they’ll not be discernible beneath your gown.” Like lightning, his hands ripped off her robe and caught her against him. “Christ! You’re beautiful naked,” he whispered, his hand chafing her breast as he lowered his mouth to hers. This kiss was long and artful.
Bravely, Gabrielle tried to resist his power, but her hidden longing and love for him made her weak in his arms, and she pressed herself against him ardently.
“Now then,” he said, releasing her slightly, “could it be that you have changed your mind, kitten?”
She opened her eyes to stare at him, then backed away. “Why must I accompany you?” she asked. “There should be no invitation to a man’s mistress—and—and besides, is this night not to be the announcing of your—your betrothal?”
“I’m not going to marry Melissa Lawrence, kitten,” he said firmly, “and I have said as much to the lady. But this is hardly a concern of yours.”
“You’re not going to—” she repeated, puzzled. “But Bernard told me—”
“Bernard? When have you seen him?” he asked quickly, his aggressive features becoming overbearingly arrogant.
She blushed. “I see him occasionally when I attend Mass and during my walks to market,” she murmured defensively.
“Oh, Christ! My mistress consorting with yet another former lover! Soon I suppose I shall have to keep count!” he said in an explosion of anger. “I suppose Bernard is laughing up his sleeve.”
She seemed genuinely surprised at his attitude. “Consorting with—?” Her eyes flashed at him in anger. “Bernard and I have conversation, and that is all!” Gabrielle could not understand his fury but supposed it had something to do with a man’s ever-expanding pride. “If you are so angry with me, surely you have no intention now of taking me with you tonight,” she said, reaching for her robe with a gesture of finality.
Immediately, she regretted her words, for her arm was drawn back painfully, and she was thrown onto the bed. She could not see his hand dart out for the riding crop that he had flung carelessly in a chair when he had entered her room, but in the next instant, a sharp pain seared her buttocks. She screamed as he repeated the action and then did it again.
Rafe brought the quirt down once more on the firmly rounded flesh. Four diagonal stripes crisscrossed the rapidly swelling area and finally he threw the crop down, breathing hard, hating himself and her at the same time.
“Now will you go with me, goddamn you?” he breathed. His answer was a muffled sob and a quick nodding. “Good! I’m going to call your servant now and I’ll expect you to be ready to leave by eight o’clock. That gives you at least two hours!”
He stalked out of the room, ignoring the young woman who still lay on the bed, one arm flung outward over her head. After he had gone, Jane rushed into the room, her eyes dilated and her mouth forming soundless words of outrage.
“It’s—it’s not very bad—really,” Gabrielle assured her, struggling to her feet. She winced slightly and found that she was trembling.
“Oh, ma’am! My God, I can’t believe a gentleman would do such a thing!” June exclaimed, studying the cuts cautiously. “He’s a brute, a brute!”
“All this for a silly party!” Jane went on heatedly. “And you with a baby on the way! Oh, ma’am, why didn’t you tell him?”
Gabrielle flushed and looked away. “I doubt it would make any difference with him,” she said quietly.
She laid a hand lightly on her belly, remembering that day some weeks ago when she had felt nausea rise in her throat and had been terribly sick all morning and for several mornings afterward. The dizziness, the tiredness, the absence of her monthly flow—all these had told her what she had dreaded to believe—that she was pregnant! For a few days, she had been sunk in gloom, remembering that other time when she had found herself with child. How excited Lafitte had been! She recalled the plans he had made with her, the promise that one day she and the child would leave with him and start a new life. And then—she had lost both of them. . . . How would it be with this innocent young life, newly started within the secret confines of her body—what would St. Claire say when he found out?
As well as Jane and she had been able to figure out, she had conceived that first night when Rafe had taken her to Fairview—would that please him, she wondered, to know that this child was begun in the beautiful house he had built for himself? She was nearly three months along now, and the baby would be due some time in January, but she had refused to tell Rafe, despite Jane’s alternating pleas and scoldings. He would know soon enough, she thought miserably, recalling how she had ballooned in the middle stages of her first pregnancy.
“Lie on your stomach and let me apply some ointment,” Jane suggested, returning from her room with a soothing poultice.
Gabrielle fought down the temporary nausea that threatened to engulf her and allowed Jane to smooth the ointment, then stood up and walked to the window to breathe deeply of the warm, honeysuckle-scented air.
After washing, Gabrielle donned a clean chemise and sat down on the pillow while Jane arranged her hair in a becoming coiffure of loose curls and picked some fresh blossoms from the rosebed to settle among the glistening coils. Jane buttoned up a gown of soft green watered silk with a rounded neckline that set off Gabrielle’s breasts superbly, and she was ready.
P
icking up her gloves and fan, she hurried downstairs as well as she was able. Rafe had already returned and was waiting for her in the sitting room, dressed handsomely and staring out the window absently.
Gabrielle felt a small thrill as her eyes went over the broad shoulders encased in the finest black broadcloth, the tall, highly polished black boots, and the silver-and-blue embroidered waistcoat that fit snugly over the creamy silk shirt. Surely, she thought, his child would be beautiful.
He turned, sensing her presence, and bowed. “I see you mean to be biddable this evening? Mind that you behave properly, kitten. I wouldn’t want to repeat tonight’s earlier performance.”
“Miss Gabrielle de Beauvoir and Mr. Rafe St. Claire!” the majordomo announced.
Gabrielle smiled mechanically at the crowd, some of whom looked up at her in curiosity, others completely ignoring her, their eyes fastening on her companion. One of the latter detached herself from a small group of people and came forward quickly, her silver hair telling Gabrielle immediately that this must be her hostess.
“Rafe,” she crooned, her ice-blue eyes sweeping over the young woman at his side with calculated indifference. She took his arm possessively and began to escort him to the group she had just left.
“Wait, Melissa, I want you to meet Gabrielle.” Rafe introduced the two women, and Gabrielle could see his amusement at the distinct coldness between the two of them.
The other woman’s eyes seemed to freeze into icy chips, then she smiled and indicated the crowd. “Please feel free to mingle among the guests, Miss de Beauvoir. I’m sure you will enjoy yourself this evening,” she added in a tone heavy with disdain. She turned back to Rafe who was watching Gabrielle with a speculative look in his eyes. “And now, my dearest, will you come with me? Papa has been wanting to discuss a few things with you, and my cousin, Cynthia, is over from Savannah and simply dying to meet you!”
She hung on his arm, and together they left Gabrielle standing rather distressed on the edge of the step. Bravely, she scanned the group, some of whom were staring at her rudely, and hoped that she might find someone who might at least look friendly enough to speak to.
With some hesitation, she made her way towards one of the side alcoves, trying not to notice the curious stares of the women and bolder glances the men gave her. Oh, no, she thought in sudden panic, they all know! She sat down on one of the settees, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling, and determined to keep her eyes on the floor until Rafe came and took her home.
Such was not to be the case, for a familiar voice sounded close by and Bernard de Marigny leaned over and whispered. “You look beautiful. Stand up so everyone can see you!”
Gabrielle looked up quickly. “Oh, Bernard, I feel so freakish. Everyone keeps looking at me as though they expect to see two heads growing on my shoulders.”
He smiled. “Sweetheart, don’t bother yourself with them. Come with me. I want you to meet someone.”
He took her hand, and, reluctantly, she followed him into the crowd. She saw a woman perhaps ten years older than she, seated in a chair and laughing with two or three other people standing around her, obviously entranced by her dark-haired, vivacious beauty. As Bernard drew her forward into the small circle that surrounded the woman, Gabrielle immediately sensed the hostility directed at her, but at least it did not come from the hub of the circle, and so she smiled with all the charm that made up part of her French heritage.
“Madame, I would like you to meet a friend of mine, Gabrielle de Beauvoir. Gabrielle, may I present Madame Suzette Claiborne.”
The governor’s lady! Gabrielle immediately executed a flawless curtsey. “I’m honored, madame,” she murmured softly, her eyes meeting the dark ones that studied her thoughtfully for a moment.
A small hush seemed to settle over the group as though everyone were waiting for the woman’s reaction to this invader to their circle. Then, with a dazzling smile, Suzette Claiborne stood up and took the younger woman’s hand, pressing it lightly.
“Miss de Beauvoir, you are, like all Frenchwomen, impeccably well mannered. Please sit here next to me and tell me all about yourself, yes?”
Gabrielle breathed an inward sigh of relief and listened with half an ear to the murmurs and comments that flew about the group. She held tight to the small white hand that brought her up to the center of he circle. Briefly Bernard’s hand squeezed Gabrielle’s for reassurance, before he disappeared into the crowd again.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you please, I should like to have conversation with Miss de Beauvoir—if you will excuse us?” Madame Claiborne said lightly, her dark eyes flashing around the group.
Politely, the people who had been pressing closest withdrew to a respectful distance, and Suzette turned to this young woman whom she had heard was nothing more than a lowly prostitute—but she had been surprised by the girl’s obvious presence and bearing. Surely that rascal, St. Claire, had stepped well past the bounds of etiquette and common decency by bringing such a woman to a gathering like this, a party where it had been rumored he would announce his betrothal to Melissa Lawrence. Of course Suzette, true to her Creole background, had always felt a certain disdain for these upstart Americans who besieged New Orleans with their uncultivated ways and uncivilized manners, but as the governor’s wife, she was obliged to mingle with all levels of society, just as her husband, a native Virginian, had to do.
She had known instinctively that this young woman who sat so anxiously next to her was not a stranger to such gatherings—and surely the name was French and possibly of ancient lineage. Yes, the girl aroused her lively interest, and, being Creole, she was determined to delve into her background.
“May I call you Gabrielle?” she inquired politely, her eyes studying the fine bone structure, the candid, violet eyes, and the slightly trembling mouth.
“Of course, madame,” Gabrielle murmured.
“I must admit, you don’t fit my picture of you—I mean, what I had been led to believe,” Suzette began, noticing the rush of color to the girl’s face.
“Pardon me, madame, but if you asked me to sit beside you only to delve into personal matters, then I must ask you to excuse me,” Gabrielle returned stiffly.
Suzette smiled even wider this time, her eyes dancing. “Just as I thought, Gabrielle. It seems you have the breeding of an aristocrat, for I hardly think a woman of the streets would be so touchy about my words.” She laid a hand gently on the other’s arm. “I’m sorry, I would not want to pry.” She hesitated. “But you are from France?”
Gabrielle nodded. “My father was André de Beauvoir, Marquis de Molisse. I was born in Paris. Both my parents are dead, madame.”
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle, but it is hard for me to understand how such a girl as you would find herself living as mistress to a rascal like St. Claire. Oh, yes, he is certainly handsome and virile enough to arouse any woman’s interest, but you—”
“Please, madame.”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll not question you any further. But I daresay I should scold M’sieur St. Claire severely for bringing you here tonight, knowing how embarrassing it would be for you. I shall have to speak to my husband about it.”
“Oh, no, madame, I—”
“Child, you’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“No, madame, but I’m afraid that Mr. St. Claire would not find it very agreeable to be scolded on my account.” But Madame Claiborne was not to be deterred, and Gabrielle watched in distress as she signalled to a plump, fair-haired man of medium height and middle age, who was standing with a group of men off to one side. Gabrielle watched Governor Claiborne as he approached, noting the pleasant face devoid of any dramatic vigor and the candid, bright eyes that returned her look without rancor.
“My dear, you wished to speak with me?” he said, bowing over his wife’s hand. It was easy to see that he adored her.
“Oh, William, I must insist that you reprimand that scoundrel, St. Claire, and do it immed
iately, for bringing his charming mistress into such an embarrassing situation.”
“What—what did you say? St. Claire—brought—whom?”
“Forgive me, dearest. May I present Miss Gabrielle de Beauvoir, the Comtesse de Molisse. Gabrielle, my husband, Governor Claiborne. Now, William, perhaps you will understand better when I relate the details which I have just learned. . .
Gabrielle listened, distraught, as Madame Claiborne launched into a conversation with her husband who listened with a look of astonishment on his face. She then concluded, “St. Claire has an obligation to—to marry this young woman after he has used her so ungallantly for his own purposes! Surely you might suggest to him—”
“My dear, please do not press me on this affair. It is assuredly a private matter between St. Claire and Miss de Beauvoir.”
He looked completely uncomfortable now, and Gabrielle felt a trifle sorry for him and was at a loss as to explain Madame Claiborne’s sudden and intense interest in her problems.
They were all three distracted by the sound of a gong proclaiming the entrance of the birthday cake, aflame with candles. There was a generous round of applause as Melissa Lawrence, resplendent in blue satin, her hair alive with tiny brilliants, stepped over to cut the first slice. With the aid of a servant, she knifed out a portion and, turning, boldly crossed to St. Claire and offered him the price of cake. Everyone smiled knowingly, and titters passed among the ladies. The cake was wheeled to the far wall, while the orchestra tuned up for the first dance and the servants began cutting the cake and wrapping the pieces in cloth napkins.
Madame Claiborne was still looking a trifle thunderous, and Gabrielle was only too happy to accept Bernard’s proffered arm as he led her to the ballroom floor.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid Madame Claiborne is quite a remarkable woman,” Gabrielle whispered to him as they joined the other dancers.
Gabrielle Page 37
