Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (18 page)

Beau waited until the last tour of the day before making his move. By then Mandy had told her story many times over. Carla had certainly witnessed it. Though she started out with her camera, snapping photos of the tours, she was soon outfitted in antebellum finery and pressed into service in the master dressing room to make certain none of the smaller antiques disappeared as souvenirs.

At the designated time, Mandy manufactured a reason to abandon her post, pressing Carla into service to end the tour with its historic tale before heading for home. She wasn’t totally recovered from her bout with a stomach virus, she said, but had been to the doctor for it early that morning.

So far, so good. All was going as planned.

Beau’s hands were sweating in his gloves, and the tall collar and cravat of his costume felt far tighter than they should. He stood stiff and straight because that was all that was allowed in trousers that tended to bag at the knees otherwise, also the watch chain draped across his waistcoat tended to snag on its buttons the size of silver dollars.

Now Carla was winding up her tour; she was leaving the master bedchamber and heading toward the stairs. He could hear the musical lilt of her voice as it rose and fell in the old, familiar story.

“To celebrate the anniversary of his occupation of Windwood, the handsome widower planned a private party. He invited a number of friends and also his late wife’s close family—the dining room, if you will remember, quite easily seats twenty-four, and the family china serves the same number, right down to the darling little syllabub cups. Now among Benedict’s late wife’s relatives was her younger sister, a charming young lady who had something of her same look, though with a brighter smile and better health. Her name was Emmeline, and on this evening she wore a gown of spring green trimmed with flounces of
Alençon
lace—oh, very like the one I’m wearing, I suppose. As she started down the staircase to dinner, her heart was as light as her feet, for she was unaware that her fate awaited her at the bottom step…”

Beau had heard that story a thousand times, and so knew exactly when to move from the shadowed hallway to the foot of the stairs. Though he kept his face straight, he chuckled inside as Carla stopped in mid-tale, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

He wasn’t supposed to be there, of course. No one was supposed to be there.

Behind Carla, one or two of the visitors gasped and then giggled, while the rest crowded nearer to see what was happening. For an instant, Beau feared they might press so close Carla would lose her footing. To have her tumble down the stairs into his arms wasn’t the plan.

Oh, but she was beautiful in her spreading skirts that made her waist look too small for words, with her hair piled in honey-gold curls and the light from the chandelier overhead shimmering on her shoulders and the soft upper curves of her breasts. Women lost some of their power to mystify and amaze, he thought, when they left off feminine fripperies and layers of skirts.

His libido went into overdrive, his stomach burned with the effort to suppress it, and the tips of his ears felt on fire. It was all he could do to force his features into a smile of encouragement.

It seemed the two of them faced each other forever in their frozen tableau, though it could only have been scant seconds. With a swift-drawn breath then, Carla took up her spiel and continued her descent.

“Emmeline’s host for the evening, Beauregard Benedict,” she said, bearing down on the full, ridiculous name that he shared with his illustrious ancestor, “being a consummate host and gentleman of fine manners, waited below to greet her. He had not been at home when the family arrived, so this was the first time he’d seen Emmeline since the funeral of his late wife over three years before. For an instant, he quite forgot himself and his memories of married comfort. He stepped forward and took Emmeline’s hand as she descended the final step.”

Beau played his part with practiced gallantry, but was a little unnerved as he felt Carla’s fingers tremble in his grasp. Realizing in an instant that the lace mitts she wore concealed the brace on her right hand, he loosened his hold but did not let her go. He could not, for he knew what came next, and was waiting for it with his very being burning in anticipation.

“Without speaking, the widower swept his late wife’s sister into a passionate embrace.”

At last, the part he’d been waiting for. Beau lifted Carla’s hand, pressed a kiss to her cool fingertips and then placed them carefully on his shoulder. He circled her waist with a strong arm, drew her to him and set his lips to hers.

He thought she might stiffen with surprise and reluctance, but no, not at all. Supple and graceful as a willow, she came into his arms as if she’d played the part of his future wife a thousand times.

Her lips were warm and tender, with a sweetness that mounted to his head like fine wine. She opened to him and he took instant advantage, tightening his hold as he discovered greater tenderness, along with the delicate flick and parry of her response. He felt her good hand encircle his neck, clasping with tensile strength as if it was necessary to keep from falling.

Applause burst from the paying customers that lined the stairs. The sound punctured Beau’s absorption, returned him to where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. God knew he needed it, for he was almost as bemused as poor old Beauregard Benedict must have been nearly two centuries ago, when he’d come close to ravishing an innocent lady in his own front hall.

Carla stepped out of his hold. Her face was pale, though spots of color flared across her cheekbones. He thought what came next had been purged from her memory, but he was mistaken.

Lifting her good left hand, she slapped him, a stinging blow with real annoyance behind it. Hard upon it, she went on with the story she seemed to have memorized so well.

“Emmeline, being mindful of her dignity and loyalty to her sister’s memory, struck her host to bring him to his senses.”

“And then,” Beau said a little louder, going on as clearly and calmly as he was able, “the master of the house hustled the lady into the library to beg her pardon and allow them both to recover. But that one fervent kiss sealed their fates. Within a month, the lovely Emmeline was the new mistress of Windwood.” He paused for effect, but also to send a dismissive glance over their audience.

“That’s all, folks. You can see yourselves out.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Carla demanded in a furious whisper the instant the library door closed behind them. She wanted to shout at Beau, but the last visitors of the day were slow in making their way down the hall, as if they hoped for more entertainment.

“Giving you a hand with your role as Emmeline,” he said without the slightest sign of remorse. “You can’t tell me it wasn’t appreciated.”

If he meant to infer something from the way she’d responded to him out there at the foot of the stairs, she might slap him again. Or maybe not; her hand still stung from the one she’d given him. “Those women out there might have been carried away with the romance of it all, but I wasn’t, thank you very much. You could have at least warned me you were going to join the story.”

“What, and miss the fun of surprising you?”

The gleam in his eyes made her wary, but not enough to keep her quiet. “Fun? That was supposed to be fun? You—you are the most—that was the most—”

“So I took advantage. Is that not allowed? Heaven forbid I should act like a man instead of a cardboard gentleman.” He took a step closer, there in the small alcove created by the massive cabinets that held shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes behind glass doors.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She eased away to keep a bit more distance between them. “Being a gentleman means having good manners and the intelligence to use them. It has nothing to do with being a man.”

“Are you sure? Or do you expect me to be too good for words, never giving in to temptation?”

He moved closer again. She tried to step back but was brought up short by the shelving behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest instead. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to be a saint.”

“Good, because I’m not,” he said with precision as he waded into the fullness of her skirts until only the ribs of her hoop separated them. He closed his hands on her upper arms, caressing them slowly through her thin sleeves. “You’ll find out, if you look close enough, that few southern gentlemen fit that description. We’re not like Ashley Wilkes, courtly, bland, and drawn to gentle ladies like Melanie. There’s a lot of Rhett Butler in us, which means we like fire and sass. We also go after what we want, and don’t mind being a bit underhanded to get it. For me, it means I don’t mind playing good old Rhett to your Scarlett by saying you need kissing, Carla. In fact, ‘You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’”

He caught her to him with swift power, his firm-muscled body pressed against her from breasts to knees. Smoothing his hand from her upper arm to her shoulder, he cupped her chin to tilt her head. His mouth, warm and sure, came down upon hers.

Annoyance and disbelief spun away, becoming vivid delight. Carla let her eyelids drift shut. Shivering with his heat against her and the gratification of overstrained senses, she grasped the fabric of his coat, wanting, needing to be closer. The hard planes of his body were gratifying in some way she couldn’t quite grasp, fueling the need to absorb his strength, to feel his weight upon her. Warm pleasure and something more spiraled up from deep inside her, mounting to her brain.

His thumb brushed the corners where their lips met so her own tingled, swelling to match his. The sure touch of his tongue along the line of their joining made her gasp, allowing entry for his careful probing. He swept the fragile underside of her lower lip, glided over the edges of her teeth, and invaded her warm, moist depths in a rhythm that hinted at more, much more. She met the entry, hypnotized by its sweet flavor and temptation, and returned it with ventures of her own.

Without releasing her mouth, he allowed his hand to drift down the curve of her jaw to the low neckline of her dress. He cupped her breast that was pushed up by her borrowed corset, seeking the tightly beaded nipple with thumb and forefinger. His gentle attention to that sensitive tip was enthralling in its certainty and promise of impending joy.

Never had she felt like this, so overwhelmed by tastes, touches or the beguiling desire that rose from the depths of her body and mind. She was drowning in purest eroticism and unexpected dreams. How incredible that this man of all others could do that to her.

But what could she do to him?

She spread the fingers of her good hand over his chest, sensing the play of rigid muscles, before sliding them under his old-fashioned coat. She loosened a stud and let if fall inside his shirt as she touched bare skin. Fine chest hair tickled her palm, sending a quick shudder over her before she flattened it above the hard throb of his heart. At the same time, she shifted her hips, brushing over the greater hardness she sensed below his waist.

He caught his breath, and an instant later, she felt the sudden freedom from confinement as he pushed her neckline lower and scooped her breast from beneath it. Releasing her mouth, he bent his head and took the nipple with hot, wet suction.

She arched toward him, pressing her head against the shelf behind her. Her blood raced hot and swift in her veins. She knew he was gathering her skirts up in one hand but didn’t care. Thrusting her fingers through the crisp thickness of his hair at his nape, she held him to her.

The jangle of a cell phone intruded. It wasn’t hers, as she had not replaced the one drowned in the flood, though it and her purse had been returned to her earlier in the day.

Beau whispered a curse and straightened. He adjusted her top, though with a lingering caress for the breast he tucked back inside. She was touched, inexplicably, by that gesture when most men would have left it to her. Yes, and also by his hard, uneven breathing that matched hers so well, and the way he rested his head against the top of hers for a strained second before finally answering the call.

“Yeah.” He voice was gruff, barely polite. He listened a moment, and his tone changed. “Yeah, okay. I’ve got it.”

He glanced at her as he tucked the phone away in a pocket in the tail of his coat. Carla lifted a brow.

“Two things,” he said without inflection. “Somebody let a kitchen grease fire get away from them. I’ve got to go.”

No wonder he’d answered his phone. As a volunteer fireman as well as member of the rescue unit, he could hardly have ignored it, as much as she might have wished he would. “Yes, of course. And the other?”

“Lance asks if you’ll take Mandy’s place for the opening night of the pageant. Seems it wasn’t a stomach virus she had, after all. She’s pregnant, and swears she’s not wearing a corset again this spring, not for anybody.”

Alarm filtered through Carla. “There must be half a dozen girls who can do that better than I can. Can’t they get someone else?”

“The costume Mandy was to wear fits you. Besides, it’s my partner, so my choice. I choose you.”