Authors: Erica Spindler
Two hours later Brandon stood in the doorway of the ballroom observing the festivities, his expression resigned. His being here was a testament to social conditioning and filial obedience. Tonight he was behaving the way he always had: like a proper Rhodes and the perfect member of New Orleans society.
With a sigh, he wandered inside, nodding to people as he passed. He was fed up with doing what was expected of him. He was sick to death of ritual and tradition. He slipped a finger under his choking collar and tugged. And most of all, he was damned tired of tuxedos.
Brandon took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, motioned for him to wait, downed it and took another. It was difficult to believe, but he'd actually enjoyed the first few masquerade balls he attended. He'd thought them exciting, had thought himself important for having been invited. He knew better now; being invited had
nothing
to do with the kind of man he was and
everything
to do with his family and how much they had.
This was his fifth, and last, of the season. Thank God. Tonight was the ball of the Secret Society of the Sovereigns, an invitation-only affair, as exclusive as it was secretive.
Brandon drew his eyebrows together as the word
bunk
came to mind. He shook his head. He wasn't sure if his father's death and the discovery of his deceit was coloring his view of the world or if they had just topped off his steadily growing discontent.
His gaze circled the ballroom. Everyone looked expensive, well-heeled, chic. Plastic people. People with cultivated laughs and artificial smiles. People with perfect clothes, perfect teeth and perfect lives. Boring, repetitive and lifeless.
But what of himself? When had he become so civilized that dinner was inconceivable without a Rothschild or a Dom? When had he become so jaded that life had turned into a never-ending cycle of the same conversation at a dozen different parties?
He motioned to a waiter and exchanged his empty glass for a full one, then walked out onto the balcony. A storm was building; thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning flashed against the black horizon. He leaned against the railing and looked out over the French Quarter, listening to the raucous sounds of Bourbon Street.
A strange transformation had occurred in him between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five—he'd become his parents. He'd slipped into their life-style and their complacency without a fight. And he didn't have a clue how it had happened. Where had the dreams of his youth gone? Had someone stolen them as his father had stolen Goldstein's? Or had he just tossed them away without realizing their worth?
"Brandon?"
He'd recognized his mother's perfume, a special mixture from Paris, a moment before she'd spoken. Brandon turned to face her. "Mother." He inclined his head.
She laid a hand on his arm. "What are you doing out here?" She shivered and looked up at the rolling sky. "It's going to storm."
His eyes swept over her. Jeanette Rhodes, from her silver hair and crisp voice to her arrow-straight spine and severe wardrobe, was a regal woman. And a woman used to getting what she wanted. A grin curved on his lips; he held up his again-empty glass. "I'm getting drunk, Mother. Knee-walking, commode-hugging inebriated."
Her slate eyes softened; the fingers on his arm squeezed. "I understand, son. It's been difficult, I know. It was a shock to us all."
You don't know what shock is, Brandon thought, recalling the box and its contents. He swallowed the words as he gazed down at her remarkably unlined face. His mother wasn't a particularly warm woman, but she was a courageous one. She would handle the news of his findings without so much as a pause and crisply inform him of what was to be done. He admired that quality, but he intended to handle this alone. He bent and kissed her cheek. "I'll be fine. Make excuses for me."
"As you wish," she said without hesitation, turning to leave.
"Oh, Mother..." He waited until her eyes met his. "Have a bottle sent out, would you?" She nodded, and with a rustle of silk, was gone.
Brandon stared at the empty doorway for a moment before turning back to the railing. He had a meeting with the store's attorney scheduled for tomorrow. George Sebastian was a senior partner in the oldest law firm in New Orleans and had known his father for years. No support there, he thought, curling his fingers around the railing. Although the lawyer would deny it, Brandon suspected he'd been involved from the first.
"Sir, your wine."
Brandon indicated that the waiter should leave the bottle on the wrought-iron table to his right. He handed the man a twenty-dollar bill. "Check on me in half an hour." The waiter nodded, took the bill and disappeared.
Brandon poured himself a glass of the sparkling liquid, turning at the sound of husky laughter. A couple had danced out onto the other end of the balcony. He watched as they twirled to the music, then as the man bent the woman over his arm in a low dip. The column of the woman's arched neck was milky against the black backdrop of night; the hair cascading down her back looked heavy and dark. Like velvet, Brandon thought, taking a sip of wine, still watching the couple. The man murmured something, and the woman laughed again, then swung away from him. As she did, she stepped into a patch of light, and Brandon recognized the patrician features of Veronique Delacroix. His eyebrows shot up. What was she doing here, and who was she with?
The man followed her and tried to pull her back into his arms. She neatly side stepped his grasp. "I said no, Peter. A dance was all I agreed to." Brandon smiled as the man's low pleading tones floated down the balcony. His smile died as the man lunged at her. Brandon started toward them, a warning on his lips. Before he'd uttered a word, the man had dropped his arms and scurried back inside.
Brandon's expression changed from one of worry to admiration. Quite a lady, he thought, picking up the bottle and sauntering toward her. "Dodging lechers is thirsty work."
Veronique spun around. "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough to see that you can take care of yourself." He handed her his glass. "What did you say to him?"
Their fingers brushed as she took the glass. Suddenly warm, she sipped the cool, tart wine. After a moment her eyes met his over the rim of the crystal flute. "I told him I'd make him very sorry if he dared to touch me."
"That's it?"
She lifted one shoulder. "Maybe my phrasing was a bit more . . . descriptive."
Brandon laughed and refilled the glass. "What are you doing here? This doesn't seem like your kind of thing."
"It's not. My mother begged me to use her invitation." Veronique turned, lifting her face to the wind. "She keeps hoping that if I attend these silly affairs, I'll either become civilized or find a proper husband." She slanted him a glance from the corner of her eyes. "What do you think?"
"I think she's wasting her time."
Her lips curved. "I think so, too." She handed the glass back so he could drink. "And what are you doing out here? All the lovelies are inside."
"Not
all
the lovelies," he murmured, eyeing her elegant profile. Damn, she was beautiful.
Her pulse fluttered. "I suppose I should thank you."
She hadn't sounded thankful at all, and laughter rumbled in his chest. Leaning against the railing, his eyes trailed over her. The wind whipped at and lifted her hair, but she didn't touch it, didn't try to smooth it. Compared to the elaborate costumes of the women inside, hers, the long skirts and tight bodice of a medieval maid, was simple and unadorned. She wore no jewelry, and her hair was simply styled, hanging free but held away from her face with a band of baby's breath. He reached out and touched one of the tiny white buds. "At first I thought you a damsel in distress," he said softly. "But now I wonder if you aren't a princess sent to brighten my night."
Veronique turned back toward him, her eyes alight with humor. She bent her knees in a quick curtsy. "I'm just a poor serving girl."
Brandon laughed. "Well then, wench, a tankard of your best ale."
She lifted her eyes coquettishly to his. "My Lord Rhodes, why would you want to drink ale when you have champagne?"
"Why, indeed?" Brandon murmured, looking down at her upturned face. Her eyes, a deep, warm brown, sparkled in the darkness. Her lips, slightly parted and tipped up at the corners, looked soft and all too inviting. He suddenly wanted to kiss her. Wanted to pull her into his arms and taste that lovely, amused mouth. He pushed the need away.
"Champagne, then." He filled the glass. "If you don't mind sharing?"
"A serving girl and a prince sharing a glass?" Her eyebrows arched. "Scandalous."
He handed her the champagne. "You like scandal, don't you?"
"Oh?" She held the delicate crystal to her lips and sipped. "What makes you think so?"
"I've heard stories." A melody, heady with saxophone, drifted from inside. "Would you care to dance?" he asked, holding out his hand.
Veronique took it and stepped into his arms, and together they moved to the music. His heart was trapped under the fingers of her right hand; its beat was sure and steady. Liking its rhythm and its warmth, she pressed closer. "What kind of stories?" He paused; she felt his shrug.
"I've heard you're... disrespectful."
She laughed up at him, knowing he'd abbreviated his reply, not at all stung by his words. "That doesn't sound so very bad." Lightning flashed on the horizon and the distant rumble of thunder followed. Brandon twirled her around and around. "It seems only right that I should love scandal, that I should be unconventional, even notorious. After all, I was born under the light of a reckless act of passion, a scandalous deviation from propriety."
As I was born into obligations and traditions, Brandon thought. It's only right that I'm proper and upright and... bored. He shook off his melancholy. "You make it sound very romantic."
"Would you rather I think of my conception as sordid? Everyone else does."
"Narrow-minded bigots don't count."
She paused, then responded thoughtfully, "No, they shouldn't." But they do, she silently added. Sometimes they count the most.
"What are you thinking?" Brandon asked, noting that her perpetually upturned mouth had thinned.
"That I love nights like this," she answered, tilting her head and looking up at the starless rolling sky. "They're energy and power. I imagine great, angry gods stomping and shouting their displeasure. The power reverberates through me, making me timid... and reckless."
She laughed low in her throat. "Once, when I was afraid of thunder, Maman told me the gods were bowling. She told me the rumbling was the ball going down the lane and that the loudest booms were a strike. From that night on I'd lie awake during a storm and count the strikes, keeping imaginary scores in my head and deciding on winners. I was never afraid of a storm again."
She seemed so sure of herself. Confident and somehow invulnerable. "Are you ever afraid, Veronique?" he questioned softly. "Do you ever wonder at your choices?"
"I never second-guess myself. But..." She lowered her eyes and voice. "Sometimes late at night, when the only sound in the room is my own breathing, I'm afraid." Her gaze returned to his. "Are you?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes. There're times when I wonder what happened to the young man with dreams. When I wonder if I gave my freedom away or if someone stole it from me."
Her chest felt suddenly tight, her breath short. "And that frightens you," Veronique murmured, her voice husky with emotion. A chord, long buried, stirred inside her. It was warm and gentle, like a flower blooming after a bitter winter. "Why were you out here alone? What were you doing out here when there is a party going on a dozen feet away?"
"Getting drunk," Brandon said, breathing in her fresh, floral scent. "Thinking about life and changes and lies."
She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. For long minutes she followed Brandon's lead, listening to the rumble of thunder and the sound of the rushing wind as they danced. "The storm's closer," she murmured finally.
"Yes." With the storm's increased fury, Brandon picked up his pace. He swung her dizzyingly toward the darkest part of the gallery, then slowed his steps until they stood the way they'd begun, bodies brushing as they swayed to the faint music.
Their eyes met and clung. Brandon swore under his breath. "This is crazy."
She trailed her fingers across his chest. "It's reckless."
"It makes no sense." Brandon cupped her face in his hands, stroking her skin in soft, slow circles.
"No sense at all," she murmured.
Her voice was low and impossibly inviting, and his gaze lowered to her mouth. "I'd very much like to kiss you. But only if you want me to."
"Yes." She lifted her face to his. "Yes, kiss me." The fingers cupping her face stilled; his head lowered.
The first drop of rain hit her cheek at the same moment her pulse began to race. The second landed on the tip of her nose just as her lips were parting. Those two drops were nature's only warning; the skies opened, releasing a flood of water. Brandon lifted his head with a jerk.
Laughter bubbled to her lips. "Do you believe in a power greater than you or me?"
Brandon sucked in a sharp, surprised breath. At first he hadn't even realized it had started raining. This crazy woman had mesmerized him. He shook his head to clear it. "What?"