Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (6 page)

“I will explain everything to her,” Angelica said. “Naturally.”

Grim amusement invaded his face. “I would like very much to be there for it; from what I’ve heard of the lady, it should prove interesting. However, I don’t think I would depend on her charity. What happens if she shows you the door?”

“In that case,” Angelica said with a militant look in her eye, “I have a house of my own, a plantation given to me by my father as a bridal gift.”

“Yes, of course, for the nuptials which never took place. Do you think I will like it?”

She regarded him with sudden wariness. “Why should that be a factor?”

“Because,” he said with watchful eyes but apparently unimpaired humor, “I have a way of becoming permanently attached to my pets. I don’t expect to have them always underfoot, but I object to being separated from them for too long.”

“I am not—” she began, then stopped.

“No, you aren’t a pet cat but my wife. Only think,” he said as he moved to the door and pulled it open, “how much more attached I may become.”

The heavy door shut behind him. Angelica lay staring at it in frowning concentration.

She felt as if she had been buffeted by a strong wind. All the carefully marshaled arguments and plans she had intended to set before Renold had been blown away as if they were no more than dust. She would have been happier if she didn’t have the creeping notion she was supposed to feel this way.

She didn’t trust him. How could she? Not only was there his treachery aboard the steamboat, but she had little faith in men after the way her father had lied to her for years.

Married. A wife. Why did those words make no connection in her mind? Why couldn’t she remember? Why did that particular episode have the nebulous unreality of a distant dream?

There was so much about the way Renold Harden had taken charge of her that she didn’t understand. More, the reasons he had given did little to relieve her mind. Because of that, she was forced to wonder if her confusion on that score wasn’t also his exact intention.

She couldn’t stay here. Soon, in a day or two, when she was stronger, she must leave.

It was infuriating, and also saddening, but Renold was right about her aunt. Her father’s sister would likely consider Angelica’s situation deplorable but fixed. She had no use for a man herself, but nurtured a firm belief in male authority and a husband’s prerogatives.

In addition, Aunt Harriet had shown unmistakable relief at the ending of her responsibility for Angelica. She had meant to attend the wedding; she had signified her intention of doing that much. Afterward, she had expected to return to the round of genteel entertainments given by the spinsters and widows of Natchez that had filled her days before she accepted the task of rearing her brother’s motherless child. She had, rather obviously, been looking forward to that time.

There was Bonheur, of course.

Would Renold really come after her? Would he actually shoulder his way onto the property meant as her dowry? If he did, would it be from real interest or just the careless, patronizing consideration he might give an animal kept for his amusement?

She was not his pet cat, nor was she actually his wife. Self-respect and self-protection in equal measure required that these facts be kept uppermost in the minds of them both. And she would not consider injuries or regrets.

Certainly, she would not think, even for a minute, of the stroking, attention, and affectionate attachment usually felt for pets who remained close enough to receive it.

Chapter Four

The passing voices, light and flirtatious, deep and caressing, had a joyous ring. They called back and forth with greetings and good-natured teasing. They rose above the sound of carriage wheels, and dropped to a low murmur with secrets. The light thrown by carriage lamps and lanterns carried by link-boys or servants wavered across the bedchamber walls. Now and then there was a gust of laughter. Fragments of conversation floated up from below, drifting in at the French doors that were open to the street and the unseasonably mild evening air:

“ . . . Hope they have something besides the pianoforte, violin, and French horn. Last time, the music was—”

“ . . . That Alphonse, no. I don’t like his mother; she said my gown was too bright!”

“ . . . So handsome, but he won’t look my way. I heard he was enamored of a lady in Paris, but I don’t think—”

There was tripping anticipation in the words, and a gaiety that made Angelica feel a wistful longing. Somewhere there was going to be dancing, music, people enjoying each other’s company. Perhaps it was a masked ball, since the Mardi Gras season was upon them here in New Orleans. How very agreeable it must be to join in such revelry.

She was not eligible, of course, in her state of mourning. And in truth, her spirits were not so lively that she felt able to take part in such festivities. Still, she felt a perverse urge to be out there, beautifully dressed, on her way to the ball. It was as if, lying there in the bed, she was stranded on the bank of the river of life that flowed past outside.

The door opened on the far side of the room. Turning her head, she saw Renold on the threshold. He paused with one hand on the doorknob, as if to be certain she was awake.

“Why has no one lighted the lamps?” he asked as he came forward. “Or is woolgathering better done in the dark?”

Angelica had seen no one for several hours. “I supposed,” she said with acerbity, “that you were being thrifty with the whale oil.”

A smile flitted across his face. “It’s been a dull evening, I see. Perhaps that will make dinner in my company more acceptable.”

“Dinner?” The look in her eyes was startled.

“I thought we might eat on the gallery, unless you think you might be too cool.”

“I’m allowed to get up?” she inquired.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said as he moved toward the bed.

A flush of anticipation rose in her face. Reaching for the dressing sacque that Estelle had laid out for her, she began to push her arms into the sleeves. She left it untied as she grasped the bed covers and flung them back, getting ready to slide from the bed.

Renold was there before her feet touched the floor. He leaned to slip one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, then lifted her high against his chest. She gasped, throwing an arm around his neck and shoulders.

As her arm struck him, he flinched, a minute stiffening that passed so quickly she wasn’t quite certain she felt it. His burns. Releasing him at once, she held herself rigid. He turned his head to meet her wide gaze.

Green, green, his eyes were like melted emeralds with flecks of jasper and gold around the fathomless black of the pupils. His brows were thick, his lashes so long and curving they rested against the skin under his eyes. The bridge of his nose was strong, the ridges of his cheekbones slanting perfectly into the hard lines of his jaws. The smooth shape of his mouth was taut at the corners, while his chin had a decided jut, as if he waited for defiance.

When it was not forthcoming, he said, “Food as a sedative? If you had told me, I’d have promised you a feast long before.”

She said stiffly, “If you expected me to fight you, why not give me the choice of walking instead of being carried?”

“What, and miss all your furious dignity? Not to mention testing your strength. How long are you going to lie as stiff and bowed as a plow handle?”

The tenseness in her muscles was due as much to the feel of his arms enclosing her as to her fear of causing him pain. Did he know that? With a fulminating glance she said, “I expect I can hold out as long as you can.”

He hefted her. She drew a quick breath and almost grasped his shoulder again. Remembering just in time, she sank her fingers into thickly curling hair at the base of his skull.

“As restrained as a bee walking the lip of a sugar bowl,” he said on a tight laugh. “Are you afraid of falling in, or just being dragged over the side?”

“Possibly I prefer not to sting the one bringing the sugar.” The words were stifled.

“Charming. But what makes you think I would mind — when a bee who uses the stinger in her tail loses it?”

“Oh, I don’t think it at all, but I mind enough for both of us.”

“Besides which,” he said, his voice carrying a softer note, “you are unprotected enough already. Though if I remember correctly, you prefer it that way.”

He was speaking of her nakedness under the thin batiste nightgown and dressing sacque. It was quite true that she felt rather precariously dressed, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. She said, “I prefer to offer no undue provocation, if that’s what you mean.”

“Having discovered the consequences? Men, as well as circumstances, are not always the same. You must learn to adjust accordingly.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said abruptly.

“Oh, I think you do; most women recognize it instinctively,” he returned. “I am suggesting that there are times when provocation is the better part of wisdom.”

Irritation crossed her face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “We are neither of us in shape for it.”

He laughed, a rich sound of real amusement. The tension faded from his face, seeped from his arms. Swinging toward the French doors that led out onto the gallery, he said, “Yes, well, you may be right. Sometimes it’s best to leave a honey bee unmolested.”

By the time Angelica was settled in a chair of woven rattan, Estelle appeared with a large dinner tray. Behind her came a giant of a man bearing a sizeable silver soup tureen which looked dainty in his enormous hands. This was Tit Jean, Renold’s manservant, and it was clear his name derived, in the peculiar way of such things, from the French word petit, or small. Angelica had heard his deep bass voice with its West Indies lilt a few times, either in the hall or coming from the dressing room which connected with the bedchamber. However, this was the first time she had seen him.

The man gave her a smile as he ducked his massive head. There was interest in his dark eyes, however, and also quick calculation in the glance he divided between her and his master.

The housekeeper allowed the big man scant time for thought. Bustling, competent, she ordered him about, sending him after the napkins that had somehow been forgotten, for the silver stand to hold the wine that had been chilled in the cistern, and for a cloth to cover the crusty loaves of bread on their silver salver. In moments, the savory, rich aroma of seafood soup was wafting on the air, mingling with the scent of burning wax from the candles in the silver candelabra that centered the table.

Renold surveyed the preparations. Everything was precisely as he had planned it. He gave his approval and the two servants departed. He and Angelica were left alone, watching each other through the wavering candlelight.

“So,” he said. “Don’t let me take your appetite. By all means, eat.”

Angelica picked up her spoon, turned it in her hand. She put it back down again. Her voice shaded with quiet suspicion, she said, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“I thought you might be ready for a little conversation with your meals.” He unfolded his napkin and dropped it into his lap.

“About what?”

“Whatever occurs to us,” he said, controlling his exasperation with an effort. “I have tried not to disturb your rest any more than necessary, but we must begin at some time to grow more used to each other, to take up normal married life. This seemed as good a place as any to start.”

“Normal,” she repeated.

“It is not a word of any great complexity or hidden meaning,” he said.

“Perhaps not to you.”

As she looked up at him, he saw the apprehension in her eyes and felt a brush of shame. “Is it such a terrifying prospect?” he said in quiet inquiry. “I can’t promise to be an ideal husband, but I will make every effort to be accommodating. You won’t find me difficult to please or ungenerous.”

“Are you saying — do you mean that ours will not be a close marriage?”

“That is something that only time will show,” he said with appropriate solemnity.

“What I mean to say—” she began again a little desperately.

“I understand very well what you meant. The answer is no. No, I don’t mean to imply that ours will not be an intimate relationship. That would suit me not at all.”

“You have some idea of an heir, then.”

His gaze rested for long seconds on the hectic color in her face. He could simply agree and leave the matter as it was, or he could elaborate. The question was which course would be least alarming for her. He didn’t know, so could only follow his own inclinations.

“A child in my image? Or yours? The idea isn’t disagreeable, but has no great bearing. Nor do I have any use for a cool union wherein husband and wife go their separate ways, maintaining strict courtesy when they do happen to come upon each other at some public entertainment or between the sheets. What I require is someone close beside me in the night, at the breakfast table, in my mind.” He stopped, appalled at the words that crowded his tongue on the verge of expression. He ended abruptly, “That is the purpose of marriage, isn’t it?”

She shook her head, her gaze considering. “I couldn’t say, having lived all my life with a lady who claimed to be a spinster by choice. But it appears a subject you have thought much about. Is — was there no one else you preferred to wed?”

This was safer ground. He said, “Are you asking if my past is littered with unforgotten loves? There was once a lady I considered taking to wife, but she chose another man. It was a lucky escape as matters turned out. My heart is free. And what of yours?”

“Mine?” The word had a startled sound. She met his gaze no more than an instant before glancing away into the courtyard.

“You were traveling to begin a new life with young Eddington — if you are in need of a reminder. I saw no signs of undying attachment, but it’s always possible I missed something.”

“You were watching?” she asked, a small frown between her brows.

“You know I was,” he said softly, and had the satisfaction of seeing her blush deepen. He waited, and was surprised to feel a tightening across the back of his neck.

“Laurence was a childhood friend, since my aunt and his mother were well acquainted. I had not seen a great deal of him in the last few years, though we stood up together at dancing parties and the occasional ball. He came to call soon after my father — well, soon after he returned to Natchez. He had my aunt’s approval and gained my father’s permission to address me. Papa was anxious to see me settled because of his illness.”

“You accepted the proposal due to the combined pressures,” he said helpfully.

“I’m not sure I ever actually agreed.” She looked away and back again. “I tried one day to have a conversation a little like this one with him, and he seemed to take it for granted we were discussing terms of surrender rather than the possibility of it.”