Patricia Rice (25 page)

Had Francine written that article, he would have been infuriated. Astonished, too, for few women of his society could even read, and Francine hadn't been much better than her contemporaries. But he would have been furious that a woman of his would expose herself to the public in such a common manner as a newspaper.

Yet he had not only encouraged Eavin to write the article, he was the one who had carried it to the paper and not she. He had been damned proud of her wit and pleased to show it off. Perhaps his mother was right. He was becoming more American every day, more American than was good for him, or for Eavin. Perhaps he ought to send her back to New Orleans.

But the summer fever season was starting, and no one went to the city now unless they had to. And he wasn't about to bring his mother out here to make him crazy just to provide chaperonage. Not yet, anyway.

"If I had been offended, I wouldn't have taken the article to Daniel," Nicholas answered reasonably. "You are capable of making your own decisions. If you wish to write for him, that is your choice. Just see that your name is in no way connected with him or all the doors of society would be barred to you."

In Eavin's mind, that wouldn't be a half-bad idea, but she had to remember that Nicholas's only purpose in keeping her here was to someday help Jeannette enter that society. She would do well to play the assigned role of widowed aunt in the black robes of mourning, shrinking into the background of his life.

"I will endeavor to remember my place," she replied wryly, earning her a wary look as they entered the house.

If she could just remember she was supposed to be one of those black crows who inevitably haunted the salons of the best houses in New Orleans, she would do very well for herself, Eavin decided as she hurriedly returned to the nursery and out of Nicholas's sight.

Perhaps then Nicholas would forget the night she had lain naked in his bed, and he would go in search of a proper wife.

Chapter 21

"What the hell are you doing wearing that damnable black again?" Nicholas roared as Eavin started down the stairs to where he and Michael waited.

"I am being the proper maiden aunt required for Jeannette's sake," she replied, not at all surprised at her sarcastic tone. She hated the black as much as he, and denying herself the pretty things she had only come to know these last few months had her temper on edge.

"Don't play games with me, Eavin O'Flannery. Get yourself back up there and put on something suitable. We are going to a dance, not a funeral."

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, Michael watched this argument with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. His sister's continued defiance of the lordly Saint-Just was what he expected of her, but there was an undercurrent to this argument that he didn't like. Deciding it was time to put on his brotherly shoes, Michael stood up and placed himself between the two combatants.

"I don't think it's your place to tell my sister what to wear, Saint-Just."

Nicholas favored the broad-shouldered Irishman with a look of disgust. "Then it's your place to tell her she looks like an old crone of fifty years determined to mourn the dead clear into eternity. The disguise doesn't fool anybody, it just depresses the hell out of them."

"I am only trying to be what you want me to be!" Infuriated by the argument, Eavin placed her hands on her hips, unintentionally drawing the fabric of the gown tighter. "If even Michael has heard those awful rumors, I have to do something or Jeannette will never be accepted into the best society."

Nicholas drew in a deep breath as the gown outlined Eavin's full breasts and slender waist, and a sudden mental image of what lay beneath the gown flared in his mind. He could feel Michael looking to him for a reply, and he gritted his teeth to banish the image. "I will see to the end of those rumors. You will go upstairs and put on the green gown with the lace. You have five minutes."

In actuality, it was another half hour before they left for the plantation downriver. Carondelet had only recently been built on land that had once been part of the plantation that Nicholas now owned. The acreage had been parceled out as the original owner's debts increased, and the one piece of high ground along the river had gone to a French Creole and his Spanish wife. Although Carondelet was close, the only route to it was a treacherous drive through the swamps, had it not been for the river.

Arriving by keelboat wasn't the most elegant mode of transportation, but it was the most practical. If it weren't for the ever present mosquitoes, Eavin decided, she would travel like this all the time.

Inside the cabin, listening to Nicholas and Michael discuss the future of steamboats, she let her mind drift. For the first time in her life she felt comfortable. The sound of men's voices gave her a feeling of security instead of anxiety. The gentle lapping of the river relaxed her, and the low murmur of the crew had a hypnotic sound that made her want to close her eyes and smile. Times like this were rare, and Eavin wished the boat never had to stop.

They reached Carondelet's dock all too soon. As the boat pitched, and she heard the calls from shore, Eavin opened her eyes to find herself alone with Nicholas. They had left several lamps smoking to combat mosquitoes, and in their dull glow his face was shadowed. She recognized the danger of his expression, and shuddered at her innocence in feeling secure in his presence. Whatever Nicholas Saint-Just might be in the familiar surroundings of his home, outside of it he was a dangerous man, one capable of elemental passions that could explode at any time.

She wished she knew more about him, wished she had some understanding of the forces that had turned a pampered aristocratic Creole gentleman into a sheathed sword of rage, but he wasn't likely to tell her. Taking his hand, she allowed him to lead her out on deck and to the safety of the dock, where a carriage waited for them. She had no need to wonder what he was thinking. The look in his eyes now was no different from that of all the other men who had turned their desires in her direction.

She had made an immense mistake in allowing Nicholas to take her to bed. At the time it had felt right. He was an experienced man, and he had taught her wonders that she never would have known. But at the same time she had made him aware of her, and years of experience had taught her that was always a mistake.

That she was now more aware of Nicholas than ever wasn't helpful. Even the touch of his hand caused shivers of expectation, and Eavin had to will herself to remember the infant in the nursery.

She entered the brilliance of Carondelet's salons with relief and let the eddies of the crowd carry her away from Nicholas. The farther she stayed from him, the better off they both would be.

The crowd here tonight was more aristocratic than the guests usually attending the Howells' gatherings. Unlike Nicholas's family, who had come over from Santa Domingue just prior to the turn of the century, the family of Carondelet's owner had lived here since the early days of New Orleans. Many of his guests were the elite of society, and French flowed like fine wine around her as she greeted those she knew.

With uneasiness she noted the prevalence of the rapier like short swords called
colchemardes
favored by the gentlemen of society. Eavin had never attended one of the winter balls in New Orleans, but she had heard of the frequency of disputes and their inevitable outcomes in the hands of these volatile men. Her gaze unconsciously sought Nicholas, his fair hair easily located in this sea of dark, and she realized edgily that he had not worn a sword. Like the Americans, he was more inclined to favor a pistol, but she was quite certain he had not worn one of those, either.

Perhaps it was better that way. Gentlemen would not attack an unarmed man, and these were gentlemen here tonight. Insulated by his arrogant confidence, Nicholas was quite capable of turning down a challenge with a wicked word or two. The insult wouldn't make him any better liked, but he didn't seem overly concerned with the opinions of other people.

As if to confirm her thoughts, she watched in horror as Nicholas flung the contents of his wineglass at a Spanish-looking gentleman near the buffet table. She had not realized she had wandered so close, but she could hear his words clearly in the silence that suddenly fell over the salon.

"That should cool your tongue until your brain has time to catch up with it, Marquez. I suggest you carry the insult back to Reyes, where it belongs. Let him know I'll not tolerate this bandying of names of members of my household in public."

Nicholas strode off while the other man was still wiping his face with a handkerchief, and Eavin froze as she heard him muttering about issuing a challenge. Saner heads prevailed, however, and she uttered prayers of relief as she heard Jeremy enter the altercation.

"He's looking to kill someone, Marquez, and you know it isn't you. He can't challenge Reyes because the man's a cripple, but he'll accept anyone in his place. For the sake of your new wife, don't get involved in their quarrel."

Behind her, Eavin heard the familiar voice of Clyde Brown before she felt his hand on her elbow. "Saint-Just could kill him blindfolded, and Marquez knows it. They'll talk him out of it if they don't see you here. Go to the powder room, Mrs. Dupré, and pretend you never heard any of this."

Hastily she did as told, realizing belatedly that all the other ladies in the room had found some way of averting their eyes and ears from the altercation. Feeling heat rise to her cheeks, Eavin escaped through a nearby set of doors and wished to heaven that she had never come.

The door led to a torch-smoked gallery, but someone else was there before her. In horror she recognized Nicholas's broad shoulders as he bent to kiss the woman in his arms, and she fled back to the crowded ballroom. The scent of Mignon Dubois's heavy perfume filled the air behind her.

* * *

"You've been a naughty boy again,
mon chéri
."

The husky voice whispered against Nicholas's lips. Once upon a time her words would have sent a sensual thrill through his loins, but they did nothing for him now. As a widow, Mignon had sampled most of the men in the house. Once that fact had given Nicholas the freedom to do with her as he would without fear of the consequences. Now it only gave him a vague repugnance for the deliberate way she swayed into his arms and pressed her hips to his.

"I have a reputation to maintain." Nicholas shrugged off her chastisement with an insouciance he no longer felt.
 

He had wanted to strangle Marquez. At one time he would have goaded him to a duel. But he was torn by conflicting emotions these days. He—of all people—was well aware that Eavin Dupré was not a lady whose reputation need be defended as one of his own. Yet it was uncannily easy to go into a rage when he heard her name on the lips of another man. At the same time, he was certain that Eavin not only wouldn't appreciate the honor, but would be furious with him for endangering himself as well as another over such a trivial cause.

Why in hell he should care what Eavin Dupré thought was beyond his comprehension. Which was the reason he had come out here with Mignon, to assuage some of this confusion with pure, simple lust. He wasn't succeeding, but at least he was out of the press of bodies inside.

"You are in dire peril of losing that reputation,
mon cheri
," Mignon whispered as her hands roamed across his chest. "There has been no rumor of duels or adulterous liaisons for months. Why don't you turn their tongues away from your Irish paramour and to more interesting subjects?"

The suggestion in her tone was blatant, but Nicholas pushed her away with distaste. "She's my daughter's aunt, and it was a comment like that which got me out here in the first place. Why don't you circulate more interesting gossip like why Raphael is hiding on the docks of New Orleans instead of showing his face like an honest man?"

Unaccustomed to being treated so rudely, Mignon brushed herself off with a huff and glared at him. "Everyone knows he died in the swamps without even a proper funeral because of you, Saint-Just. Don't start pretending you're something you're not because of that bastard child. Go find your paramour and lie to her some more. I'm certain she'll believe every word of it."

As a lady, she couldn't repeat the rest of the insult, but the implication was clear enough as she stormed off. "Since her brain's between her legs" was a phrase he had heard before, and Nicholas wondered where Mignon might have heard it. She certainly didn't know Eavin very well if that was what she thought.

Staring over the shrubbery-studded lawns to the trees along the river, Nicholas thought it might be preferable to be an American right now. He had tasted their whiskey and tobacco in private and thought they might add a touch of comfort to this loneliness enveloping him, but he had a reputation to maintain, so he turned back to the lights and the crowd and started for the door.

The sound of booted feet along the gallery halted him. A shadow emerged from the darkness, and Nicholas recognized an acquaintance of his from New Orleans. A dedicated bachelor with a reputation as a dandy and a rake, the other man made a cynical bow and an offhand gesture to the shrubbery below. "There is a rogue below wishing a word with you,
monsieur
. From the looks of him, I am not so certain I would meet him unarmed."

Thinking a great number of the men he worked with
fell into that category, Nicholas shrugged off the warning. He knew how to handle riffraff. It was the gentlemen with their codes of honor and guns and swords who required weaponry. With a curt nod of thanks, he took himself off to the lawn with almost a relief at not having to return to the salon.