by Calia Read
Whoever it may be will either stop or find their way inside.
The entire first floor of my home is filled with bodies. Many faces I’m just seeing for the first time, but I’ve never met a person I didn’t like. Especially with liquor coursing through my veins. The more, the merrier!
I ignore the knocking, mainly because I’m being a lazy bastard, and eventually, it subsides. I become convinced whoever is there has given up and take another drink from the bottle in my hands.
And then, the infuriating pounding renews once again. Muttering every curse word I know in my mind, I give my apologies to my guests. They’re so foxed they don’t notice my absence.
My body feels warm, my muscles relaxed as I saunter toward the front door. Now this, this is why I drink. I could face my demons right now without armor and a battle plan, and win the fight.
I could. If my demons would come out and face me.
“Open this door, Livingston Lacroix. I know you’re inside!”
I recognize that voice. I’m beginning to regret letting go of my butler, Charles. If he was here, I’d have him politely rebuff Rainey Pleasonton.
With a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, I open the door while Rainey’s fist is midair, ready to land against the hard grain of the oak door. When she sees me, I have the pleasure of watching her momentarily lurch forward. She gains her balance and straightens her spine. Crossing my arms, I dip my head in acknowledgment. The bottle of alcohol dangles from one hand. “Le savauge.”
I’ve called Rainey le savauge since she was a little girl simply because she’s ferocious and untamed. Her tongue was as sharp as her mind. Her confidence as big as her opinions.
The world was a small, simple place against her strong will.
Within seconds, a red flush stains her cheeks. “Rainey. My name is Rainey.”
“When you’ve had the number of nicknames you’ve had, is your name Rainey?” I counter with a half-smirk.
She doesn’t return the smile. A guest laughs, grabbing Rainey’s attention. Standing on her tiptoes, she tries to peer inside the house. I know she’s furiously counting the many people spilling into the foyer in her head. I step in front of her, blocking her view.
Growing up, that was an easier feat but not any longer. As a child, she was skinny and far shorter with large, almond-shaped eyes that were disproportionate to her small features.
But now, at twenty-eight, Rainey Pleasonton has grown into her features. For a woman, she’s tall and lithe. Her eyes, the color of cognac, now perfectly complement her.
She appears so delicate. Perhaps some men would find her pleasing on the eyes. But then she opens her mouth, and the pleasing feeling fades.
“My apologies for bein’ so sensitive, Limp Lacroix.” She gives my leg she once used for target practice a pointed look.
“Did you come here tonight to trade nicknames?”
“No. I need to speak to you regardin’ a matter of utmost importance.” Abruptly, she stops speaking. Her eyes become shuttered, and it’s plain to see why. The woman who was kissing my neck and whispering all the indecent things she wanted to do to me moments ago has interrupted us. I blink at her rapidly. When she entered my home, she told me her name. I’m sure of it. I can’t remember what it was. I’m almost certain it starts with an L.
Lydia? Or was it Lillian?
Rainey arches a dark brow and inspects Lydia/Lillian with a regal stare. One that dares her to utter a word in her presence.
Rainey’s confidence fiercely clings to her, and when it’s not being directed toward me, it can be highly entertaining to watch. For Lydia/Lillian, she’s too busy clinging to me to notice.
“Well, I am so sorry, Livingston. I can see you’re terribly busy.” Disdain drips from Rainey’s words.
Lydia/Lillian tugs on my hand. She’s ready to retreat to the party, but I’m more curious about what le savauge wants. Grinning at her, I discreetly step away from Lydia/Lillian. She’ll stay, but Rainey won’t. Rainey never does. And so as baffling as I find Rainey Pleasonton, it’s important to remember every interaction with her. There’s always a hidden message with her.
“Who are you?” Lydia/Lillian asks at the same time as she wraps an arm around my waist.
Rainey’s chin juts out. Rather than dignifying Lydia/Lillian with a reply, she remains silent, staring Lydia/Lillian into submission. I’m surprised Lydia/Lillian doesn’t apologize and beg for Rainey’s forgiveness.
I clear my throat. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Rainey gives Lydia/Lillian an irksome expression before she pulls out a folded letter from her reticule and all but slams the paper against my chest. “I received some interestin’ news today.”
I recognize Miles’s signature at the bottom of the page, and my heart sinks. My smile fades as I slowly lower the letter. As the seconds tick by, Lydia/Lillian takes the alcohol from me, and takes a drink. She laughs at something someone says behind us and begins to have a conversation with them. My ears have become muffled, and my vision dims. And I swear the longer I hold my dead best friend’s will, the more my fingers grow numb. It becomes too much. I shove the papers between Rainey and me. “And this pertains to me how?”
“I think you know how,” she says through gritted teeth. She doesn’t take the blasted paper.
The paper feels like fire in my hands. Once more, I review the contents of Miles’s will. There’s very little that pertains to or interests me. But when I see my name linked with Rainey’s, I raise my brows. I see the word executor, a substantial dowry, and the heavy stipulations attached to the dowry. It’s so outlandish I force myself to read over it five more times.
My hands are shaking when I finish. Regrettably, the words haven’t changed. This time, I wave the will in front of Rainey until she has no choice but to take it. Breathing deep, I place my hands on my hips and stare at the floor. I can feel Rainey’s eyes burning holes into the crown of my head.
What does she want me to say? The idea is preposterous, but that Pleas would entrust me to be the executor of Rainey’s dowry cuts like a knife. It was indicative of the type of man Pleas was, and the friendship we had, and I was too much of a recreant to attend his funeral. If it were me who died, he would have paid his respects.
As the time ticks by, I can feel the whir of buoyancy from the liquor fading. This was far too soon for Pleas’s will to be read. I understand it came with death, but I still wasn’t exactly comfortable with that to begin with.
Suddenly, I look at Rainey. Right now is not the time to have this conversation. She needs to go. I have a house filled with guests who see me as fun and jovial. Their eyes aren’t all-knowing. They don’t see the cloak of death that’s clung to me ever since the war. And there’s a woman, whose name I cannot remember, waiting for me. And perhaps, maybe later, she might warm my bed. Doubtful. But it’s a possibility.
“I don’t care,” I say coldly. “Leave me, Rainey.”
Her head jerks back as though I’ve slapped her. “What?”
“Leave,” I command like the king people expect me to be.
When she makes no effort to move, I curl my hands around her shoulders and spin her until she’s facing the gardens. Rainey, who’s in a complete state of shock, lets me. Soon enough, though, she gathers her composure and whirls around with her mouth open to undoubtedly tell me her thoughts.
“Go to hell,” Rainey says through gritted teeth.
I place a palm against my heart. “Le savauge, you wound me. You know damn well I’m goin’ to stop by Vincent’s Chicco’s and drink until I can’t drink no more. Perhaps I’ll journey to New Orleans. I hear it’s quite enjoyable there. Then I will go to hell.” I wickedly grin at her. “Anythin’ else?”
A crowd has gathered behind us. Lydia/Lillian is back by my side. Reaching back, someone hands me my half-empty bottle of whiskey. Eyes on Rainey, I take a drink and arch a brow.
Everybody has heard my last words to her, and unlike her, th
ey found it highly amusing. Their laughter gathers and echoes throughout the foyer. Rainey remains utterly still, her cheeks staining from her fury. Her hand reaches out, and I brace for her palm to meet my cheek. Instead, her brother’s will makes direct contact with my chest. I don’t make any effort to grab it, and the paper flutters to my feet.
Before she has any more opportunities to touch me, I slam the door in her face, proving Southern manners are born and bred, but the war will bleed everything out of a man.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rainey
There is a reason I was dubbed “The Deplorable Debutante” at my first cotillion.
My etiquette was subpar, social grace contrived, and my patience? It was nonexistent. I don’t take kindly to being dismissed. Corsets itch. And I believe opinions shouldn’t be contained when they hold wisdom.
Slamming the door in my face was a big mistake on Livingston’s part. Worse, it was done in front of that woman who clung to him as though he was a life vest. The satisfaction in her eyes as Livingston closed the door on me still causes my hands to curl into fists.
I tried to sleep my anger away, but when I woke up this morning, vengeance coursed through my veins. As Momma prattled on during breakfast, I plotted how to bring Livingston Lacroix down. In a way, this felt … normal. Even though I felt the heavy sting of his rejection last night. First, he didn’t show up for Miles’s funeral, and then he barely batted an eye when he read the will. I expected him to say it was ridiculous, and he would have no part in the dowry deadline my brother has placed over my head. Instead, he put on a façade for his guests and snubbed me as though I was nothing.
There will be no truce between us. I’m quite familiar with plotting and games when it comes to Livingston. He took his first shot, and his aim was impressive. But now I need to retaliate. However, the longer I sit across from Momma, the more I can feel a noose around my neck. It becomes tighter with each second. I cannot remain idle. I have to do something.
“I’m goin’ out,” I announce as I push back from the table.
Momma appears shocked by the sudden change of subject. “Where to? Rainey, dear, it’s too early for any shop to be open.”
“I need to clear my head.” I keep my gaze focused on the table. “I’m still thinkin’ about yesterday.”
Momma’s eyes fill with sympathy. “Of course. Do what you must, but don’t be too long, all right? It’s unbecomin’ for a woman to be seen in public without a chaperone.”
Chaperones weren’t a worry when I volunteered my services to help with the Red Cross last October when influenza swept through Charleston. But now a chaperone is a must? When I have a large dowry over my head?
“Of course,” I say. I will agree to anything so I can leave.
The moment I turn my back, though, I grin and make one last stop in my room.
The only thing that’s unbecoming is what I’m about to do …
As I stroll toward the Lacroix house, I inhale the crisp, clean scent of the morning air. I encounter very few people on the sidewalks. Just a nursemaid pushing an ornate wicker pram. When she sees me, she takes one look and quickens her steps. At first, I wonder what’s the reason for her worry, and then I look down at my hand and realize I’m carrying my weapon.
It’s not a gun, though.
Oh, no.
A gun is too loud. Guns smoke, and I believe it would bring Livingston back to his days at war. Make him jumpy. And we can’t have that.
First and foremost, I am a lady. Comfort your target with silence before you go in for the kill.
No, I prefer a bow and arrow. Miles taught me how to use it when I was a little girl, and I instantly took to it. I enjoyed how tense my muscles became as I pulled back my arm. The concentration required as you squint with one eye and focus on your mark.
I am a perfectionist and prefer one shot to land my kill. Today, I have no intention of killing Livingston, but I do plan to capture his attention. The first time I used this on him seemed to do the trick, so why not try it again?
The tips of my shoes point toward the cobblestone road as I look both ways, and my heels click against the brick as I hustle across the road. When I lightly hop onto the opposite street, the hem of my skirt brushes against my calves. Up ahead, I see the Lacroix house hidden behind brick walls draped with ivy. With the birds happily chirping, you’d never know a debauched gathering occurred the night before.
Shaking my head, I grab the knob on the door and step into the narrow pathway. To my left is the Lacroix’s lush backyard. It remains one of Charleston’s most coveted gardens. With my head held high, I walk toward the door and stop short when I spot a man sleeping face down in Livingston’s nounou’s prized collection of azaleas.
My God, if she were alive, she would be speaking French at a rapid-fire pace, all the while beating this drunken man with a rolled-up newspaper all the way to The Battery.
As I walk by him, the man continues to snore. I shake my head and sigh. Luckily, I don’t come across any more drunken guests. But can the same be said for inside the house?
There’s only one way to find out. Holding my weapon behind my back, I give three sound knocks and wait. I strain to hear for any sounds coming from inside when the snoring man sounds like a blowhorn.
Impatiently, I turn and narrow my eyes. “Will you stop?” I hiss.
Of course, he continues to sleep. I knock four more times before I make the decision to try the door. I turn the knob, and the door opens.
“Oh, Livingston …” My voice fades away as I step into the foyer. Partially because I was getting ready to tsk him on his lack of safety, but the words slipped from my mouth the moment I saw the disarray before me. All I saw last night was a home filled with people. Now that they’re gone, the damage is unveiled, and it’s worse than I imagined. Curtains are torn and dangling from the wall. A vase is shattered on the floor. And this is only in the foyer.
I scrunch my nose from the rancid smell of liquor and vomit and begin to roam throughout the first floor. It will take several days to air this smell out and clean up everything. As I walk through the rooms, I spot no guests, and there’s no trace of Livingston. I stop in the middle of the ravaged sitting room and slowly tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling.
But I don’t hear any noises. I’m quite familiar with Livingston’s extracurricular activities, but if his inebriated state last night is any clue, then there’s no possible way he would be busy right now. He’s probably facedown in a pile of his own drool like the man sleeping outside. Or he might not even be here, but out with that strumpet. I tighten my grip on my bow at the very thought of her. From the smug expression, it was clear she enjoyed my humiliation. I can stand here, and guess where he is or simply find out. It will only take a few minutes.
Before I can change my mind, I hurry up the stairs. When Livingston moved into the Lacroix’s home in Charleston, he took over the entire third floor. He probably turned it into a harem den. I can only imagine how many women he’s entertained in that space.
I hurry up the second flight of stairs, gripping the banister with my left hand. Once I reach the third floor, I stop and turn my head to the right. Heart racing, I stare at the closed door and take a deep breath. The door is open a crack. There’s some rustling in his room. Good. He must be up.
With the toe of my shoe, I open it farther. My anger and humiliation from last night become my strength, encouraging me to pull back the string, and nock my arrow. I expect to see him blurry-eyed as he slowly sits up. Instead, I find a very naked Livingston on top of the woman from last night. At least, he’s naked to me. His shirt is off, and his pants are down to his knees. For some reason, my gaze settles on his ass. I’m not a connoisseur on behinds, and this is the first male one I’ve ever seen, but I’m certain it will be the best I’ll see. I feel my cheeks turn red. Squinting my eyes, I focus on the area where the woman’s leg is wrapped around his waist. I let the arrow go.
And then everything goes wrong.
As if he can sense me standing there, Livingston twists around, eyes wide with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The woman, who finally realizes Livingston’s no longer moving, follows his gaze. When she sees me, she scrambles to cover herself. My beautiful aim now becomes a miserable miss. The arrow grazes his hip and becomes embedded in his nightstand.
“Christ!” he shouts and jumps out of bed.
With my heart pounding, I regard the once moaning cow for a second and saunter into the bedroom while Livingston scrambles to pull his pants up. Funny, I thought his only skill was removing his clothes with speed, not putting them back on.
He’s so enraged he forgets to button his pants, causing them to hang around his narrow hips. Shirtless, he stalks toward me. All’s well for me. The man drives me mad, but he has never hurt my eyes.
“What. Was. That?” he says between clenched teeth.
Happily, I go toe-to-toe with him. “What. Was. Last. Night?”
Rubbing his hands down his face, he gestures to the bow, and shouts, “You just tried to kill me!”
Sighing, I stare down at my bow and lovingly pet it. “Livingston, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it years ago.”
He snatches my beloved weapon of choice out of my hands, causing me to cry out. I lunge for it. “Give that back!”
“Like hell!” he snarls. “You’ve become unhinged, stalkin’ into my room while I’m … I’m—”
“Entertainin’ a guest?” I provide with a cheeky smile.
He does not smile back. My gaze drifts to the woman who he was lavishing all his affection on minutes ago. In the midst of all our wordplay, she had managed to slip out of bed and get dressed. We stop our war of words just in time to see her inch toward the door. She freezes and stares at us guiltily.
Livingston gives her his signature grin. “Don’t leave, darlin’.” His accent grows heavier as he turns on the charm. He gestures toward me. “This one is leavin’.”
“This one is not,” I chime in. “I am not goin’ anywhere.”
