Out of the Dark (8 page)

Anne-Marie’s father surveyed Lucien, his gaze keen and measuring. What he saw there seemed to satisfy him. He nodded. “Come into the library.”

Lucien moved forward. At the door, he turned with a stiff bow for Anne-Marie who looked on with puzzlement and suspicion in her face. Catching the door handle, he pulled the heavy panel closed behind him.

Something was going on.

Anne-Marie could feel it in the air, sense it in her father’s grave stares turned upon her, deduce it from the flurry of letters sent from Pecan Hill in the care of a groom. It disturbed her in part because no one saw fit to explain it to her, but most of all because her stepmother was ecstatic over it.

She had feared at first that there might be a connection to Lucien’s interview with her father following the incident involving Satan and the hunters. That idea had slowly lost sway in the past three days as the Dark Angel failed to call again and all reference to the event faded away. She had not remained in disgrace nearly so long as she had expected, however, which was another bothersome aspect.

She tried to tell herself that Lucien must have put the best possible light on what had happened on the road and in the woods, that his account had somehow mollified her parent and stepparent. His attitude at the time had not indicated that he might do that for her, but he did seem to have the instincts of a gentleman.

It was also possible, of course, that he had put the worst possible construction upon it. In that case, her father and stepmother could be planning some terrible punishment for her. That would at least account for her father’s concern and her stepmother’s happiness.

Her greatest fear was that she might be banished. Several possibilities as to a destination occurred, each worse than the other. There was a cousin who had married a poor farmer and given birth to seven children in nine years, so had need of another pair of hands. Or she might be sent to be a companion to her father’s elderly aunt in New Orleans, an obese and raddled creature who smelled of snuff and camphor and talked interminably of her days as a belle. A last resort might be the convent in the countryside south of Paris she had heard whispers about, one where wayward females who had embarrassed their families were sometimes shut away.

To lose her freedom would be a terrible thing; the fear of it haunted her. Yet her mind wandered away to other thoughts and images with distressing frequency.

She could not stop thinking of Lucien
Roquelaire
. She had always felt sorry for hapless females who sighed and wept over the men in their lives, yet her spirits were low and everything seemed dull and dreary as she accepted that he was not going to call again. It was true that the two of them had sparred and sniped at each other without letup, yet there had been an undercurrent of something very different between them. He had looked at her in a way no man ever had before; she had felt in him a fearlessness and tolerance beyond anything she had ever known. She might despise him and abhor his past, but she had also been forced to recognize his essential integrity. Almost, she had allowed herself to believe that he had an interest in her, even if it was only because she was not like every other woman he met. Because of it, she had permitted herself to wonder what it would be like to be loved.

She had ignored that possibility so long, denying it because that was less painful than yearning after it when she could not have it. Even believing it could and would come to nothing with Lucien, she found that it still hurt to have the idea of being wanted removed so quickly.

Sometimes at night she lay staring into the dark, thinking of the moment he had kissed her. She could remember the sensation as his mouth possessed hers, the taste and liquid warmth of him. She seemed to feel again the heat of hands upon her, and their sure strength that she had recognized even through her clothing. Sometimes her imagination took flight, and she lay naked with him under the trees as her stepmother had suggested. Or else they stretched out on the pristine white sheets of her bed while he demonstrated to her all the many uses of his masculine ardor and power.

Useless daydreams. Yet they were so disturbing that she did her best to prevent them rather than retreating into them as in the past. The trouble was that they crept in upon her so insidiously that she could not always control the direction of her mind.

She had another and more insistent worry. She had not seen Satan since the day of the hunt. Though she went into the woods again and again to call him, he never came. It was likely he had retreated deep into the river’s swamplands, beyond the reach of dogs and riders. Cats were notorious for avoiding water, but she had seen Satan swim creeks in flood before, and knew he would have no trouble navigating the interconnected rivers, bayous, and wide, shallow sloughs. In any case, the water receded with the advance of summer, leaving vast areas of open grass or shady and leaf-carpeted bottom land that were reasonably dry.

She prayed that was where he had gone. If he had not— But she would not think of that. This was not the first time Satan had vanished; he would come back to her in his own good time, or else when instinct told him it was safe to be seen in this vicinity.

She was returning from another fruitless tramp through the woods when the young boy James came running to meet her. His feet were flying along the path, and he was frowning with the weight of his message. He was still several yards away when he began to yell.

“
Mam’zelle
! You got to come quick! They been looking for you everywhere. Madame is so mad she’s ‘bout to spit, and your papa is walking up and down with his pocket watch in his hand.”

“What’s wrong? Why do they want me?” She quickened her footsteps to a swift walk again as she met the boy and he spun around to return with her to the house. He was breathing hard, as though his search had been a long one.

“I don’t know,
Mam’zelle
. But Monsieur
Roquelaire
has been talking to your papa since the middle of the morning. When they come out of the library, they say they must see you. Monsieur
Roquelaire
wanted to come find you himself, but your
stepmama
said it would not be fitting. Why wouldn’t it be fitting,
Mam’zelle
?”

“Stupid propriety,” she answered shortly. “No one mentioned why I must be there?”

“No,
Mam’zelle
. But your
stepmama’s
maid has been talking with my mamma in the kitchen, and I heard them say they got to start at once to make a feast.”

She gave the boy a distracted smile. “I expect you liked the sound of that.”

“But yes,
Mam’zelle
. Don’t you?”

She didn’t. In fact, the idea sounded quite ominous to Anne-Marie. There was no time to work it out, however, for they reached the back door a few seconds later and made their way into the house.

She had thought to slip upstairs to wash her face and tidy her hair, perhaps change into something less faded and worn before going in to see Lucien. She was not given the opportunity. Her stepmother sailed down the wide central hall to greet her with hissing denunciations for her tardiness, her lack of consideration and her determination to disgrace herself. Ordering James to the kitchen, she grasped Anne-Marie’s arm and marched with her back down the hall to the salon. As she stopped at the door, her dire frown miraculously became a smile. Pushing inside, she said in tones of arch amusement. “Well, and here is the truant at last. Now we may get on with this delightful arrangement.”

Anne-Marie saw her father and Lucien standing at the French window that stood open to the front veranda. They turned as one, their faces mirroring an identical preoccupation. Lucien took a step in her direction, but stopped as her father spoke.

“At last, my dear. We were beginning to think you had run away.”

She tore her gaze from the visitor to attend to her father. “No, why should I?”

“Young women often take fright when they realize their future is being decided.” The older man gave her a warm smile as he walked to a silver tray on a side table where a decanter of wine and four glasses sat waiting. Picking up the decanter, he filled the glasses, then handed one to his guest and the other two to Anne-Marie and his wife.

Anne-Marie took the fragile crystal stem in numb fingers. Moistening her lips, she said, “You have been discussing me?”

Her father nodded. “Indeed. We have just finalized a contract of marriage. My dear daughter, I drink to your betrothal to this fine gentleman, Lucien
Roquelaire
, and to your happiness with him.”

Betrothal.

Anne-Marie could feel the blood leave her face. The glass she held slipped from her hand. Wine spilled down the front of her skirt like blood. The glass struck the toe of her slipper, bounced with a musical clang, then rolled over the Turkish carpet to strike Lucien’s booted foot.

Her stepmother screamed. “
Mon
Dieu
, but how fortunate it didn’t break. It’s an omen, a sign of benediction for the marriage.”

“Impossible.” The word was only a croaking sound in Anne-Marie’s throat. Her chest ached with the fullness inside it.

“No, no, only look here,” her stepmother said as she swooped down on the glass and held it up. “I will refill it, like so, and you must drink quickly.”

Anne-Marie wanted to cry out that they could not do this, that her life could not be decided without her participation or consent. But they could do it; marriages were arranged all the time. There was usually some pretense of courtship, some attempt at assuring the young woman of the benefits of the match, but the end result was the same.

Her stepmother was holding the brimming glass to her lips as if she meant to force her to drink. Pushing the woman’s hand away, Anne-Marie said, “How did this take place? Why was I not consulted?”

“The initiative came from Monsieur
Roquelaire
when you returned from your drive some days ago,” her father said. “Since then, we have been pursuing the matter of your dowry, also the amount you will be allowed for running his household and for pin money, which properties he will settle upon you and other such financial considerations. As for consulting you, why, I thought you would surely know how matters stood.”

She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “How so, when I was given no inkling of it.”

“What difference does it make?” Madame
Decoulet
demanded. “All women require to be wed. You should be glad for the chance.”

“Glad? But surely—that is, what of his background, the—insecurity of being wed to such a duelist?” She was grasping at straws, but that was all that was left to her.

“
Roquelaire
has revealed his past to me, including the details of his several meetings. I have made inquires and am now satisfied. I feel sure he will explain to you also if you should ask. Have you any other objections?”

“I hardly know the man,” she declared, barely glancing at Lucien’s set face. “How am I to guess what else I may find objectionable?”

“My dear girl, you are in no position to pick and choose,” her stepmother said in scathing tones. “People are chattering like magpies about your escapades with this beastly cat, both at the ball and in the woods. Some claim you are touched in the head, and those are the ones who are being kind. There are others who think you are in league with the devil himself, that you must be a witch to be able to command such a terrible creature. They fear you and use your name to frighten their children. What you need is a strong man to curb your ways. Now, drink!”

Once more, she brought the glass to Anne-Marie’s lips. As Anne-Marie pushed it away, it spilled yet again, this time splashing the older woman’s cloth slippers. With a cry of outrage, Madame
Decoulet
drew back her hand to strike Anne-Marie.

“That will do!”