Royal 02 - Royal Passion (2 page)

Demon capered forward to lick her fingers, wriggling in delight as she scratched behind his ear.

"Disloyal brute,” Michael said.

"Ugly, too,” Jacques offered without heat.

"But lucky.” Estes sighed as Demon tried to climb into Mara's lap.

Roderic transferred his gaze from the dog to the men before him. He did not speak; still, so forbidding was his glance that smiles faded and spines stiffened. The dog was removed at once. The cadre drifted away. The old gypsy began to play a quick tune, and a woman with loose, dusky black hair and high cheekbones got up to dance, capturing the attention of the others.

"Even the enigma of the Sphinx can pall. How is it that we may serve you?"

The tone of the prince was abrupt, dismissive. He meant, it seemed, to have done with her. That was not at all what Mara wished or needed. She looked up at him with panic rising in her eyes. “I don't know. I—I can't seem to remember where I came from, where I live."

"Your accent is not Parisian, but interesting, with the cadence of an old song. It is typical of your province?"

Another trap. “I couldn't say."

But she could, of course. Hers was the accent of the Louisiana French and was closer to that used by Parisians of the past century than of the present year of 1847. Oh, she knew the idiom; there was enough travel, enough commerce between Paris and New Orleans to keep it current, but the rhythm was different, slower, more musical, with now and then a word or a twist of phrase that had once been heard at the court of the Sun King.

Mara had lived much in New Orleans, journeying from her father's plantation near St. Martinville to enjoy the
saison des visites
in the city each winter with her widowed grandmother, Helene Delacroix. She had made her debut at the opera house dressed in the purest white, wearing white roses in her hair as she received the visits of friends, relatives, and the numerous eligible suitors who had ensured that the night was a success. How long ago that seemed.

Her father, André, had always accompanied her to New Orleans, but seldom stayed longer than a week or two. He had no heart for the amusements and entertainments that Mara and her grandmother had so enjoyed, preferring the quiet of his plantation with its waving acres of sugarcane. It had been different once, or so Helene said, when André Delacroix was a young man, before his marriage.

His wife, Mara's mother, had been Irish, a quiet woman with eyes the color of the fog on Galway Bay and the gift of second sight. The marriage had been considered a misalliance; the Irish were looked on as little more than uncouth savages by the French Creoles, those of French blood born on American soil. No one knew precisely what André Delacroix felt for the Irishwoman, but he had taken her to his plantation and had always treated her with kindness and honor.

It had not been enough. Mara's mother had soon discovered that her husband's deepest affections had been given, years before, to another woman. Angeline Fortin had been her name, and she had been taken from him under peculiar circumstances by a Balkan prince, Rolfe of Ruthenia, who had been visiting in Louisiana. When Mara was born, André, with unusual stubbornness, had insisted that Angeline in far-off Ruthenia be named as godmother to the child. Mara's mother had protested. The connection with Ruthenia would bring sorrow, she had insisted. André had remained adamant. In due course there had been the usual gifts of silver and lace from the woman who, by that time, ruled as queen of Ruthenia. There had also been unfailing gifts on Mara's birthdays through the years, with sometimes a note of great warmth and friendliness. But there had been no other contact.

Little by little, Maureen O'Connor Delacroix had retreated. She refused to come down when there were guests, never attended social occasions. She called her daughter Mara, instead of Marie Angeline, and because it was easier the servants and even her husband did the same. Gradually the lullabies she sang in Gaelic to her daughter ceased. She no longer intruded on the meals shared by father and daughter but ate in her room with a priest sometimes in attendance. She died quietly of a fever when Mara was ten, and she had hardly been missed.

Mara had grown up secure in the open adoration of her father and with the affection, guidance, and common sense of her grandmother. She rode on the plantation with André trotting behind him on a cream-colored pony, and followed behind Grandmère Helene in New Orleans, wearing a gown just like her grandmother's and a veil to protect her fair complexion, while buying for the household at the stalls of the French market. She had been installed in a convent school during a portion of each year until she was twelve so that though she was sometimes spoiled and willful, she also understood the value of self-discipline.

By the time she was fifteen, she had received three offers of marriage. André was in no hurry to see her wed, however, so had sent her to a finishing school in Mobile. There she had learned a thousand rules of etiquette, but also many arts, among them the agreeable one of flirtation. Until then she had not taken much notice of her effect upon the young men of her acquaintance, but, in practicing on the brothers, cousins, and friends who came to visit her fellow students, had found a heady sense of power in her own attraction. With lighthearted pleasure and a comfortable familiarity with men that she had learned in dealing with her own father, she had tried her hand at captivating the males who brought themselves to her notice.

When she returned to St. Martinville in the summer of 1844, the men swarmed around her like wasps to a ripening apple. Proud and indulgent, André placed no curb upon her. She did not pass the bounds of good behavior, but still she embarked on a constant round of rides, carriage drives, picnics, teas, and balls.

Before many weeks had passed she had collected a garden of bouquets, enough sonnets to her beauty to fill a volume, and so many cones and boxes of candy that her maid had gained pounds. There were any number of young men who had possessed themselves of one of her gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, or flowers from her hair, and it was rumored that at least two duels had been fought over her. One man emerged with his arm supported, most romantically, in a black silk sling. She never allowed a man to do more than kiss her fingers or put his hands on her waist when she dismounted from horse or carriage; still, the whispers began to circulate that she was far too at ease with gentlemen for her own welfare, that she was running wild and would come to no good end.

It made little difference. Even if Mara had known what was being said, she was having too much fun to consider the consequences. A year passed, two, and still she showed no indication of settling down. Finally, there came a reckoning.

Dennis Mulholland was one of her most persistent suitors. He was something of a firebrand, a touchy young man always spoiling for a fight. He had attended Jefferson Military College in Mississippi and spoke often of going off to join the army, which was involved in the border skirmishes taking place more and more often between the United States and Mexico. That was when he was not proposing marriage. He wanted to be possessive, but Mara, uncertain that he would make a suitable husband and mistrusting his ardor, kept him at arm's length. Though he danced well and rode better, he had a tendency to bring up the subject of the duels he had fought far too often, and to brag about his progress up and down notorious Gallatin Street in New Orleans when not among his elders.

It was a hot night in late May. Mara had planned a ball with a gold and blue color theme in the flowers and decorations, the favors, the programs, and the trimming of the ladies’ ball gowns. It was a great success, with carriages lining the drive and extending into the road. The night was sultry and hot, however, with thunder in the air. The press of people made the ballroom stifling, airless. The musicians had played a set of fast dances ending with a polka. Mara whirled through them all, and could scarcely breathe due to the exertion and the tight lacing of her corsets. She was gasping, fanning herself near a window, when Dennis suggested a stroll.

His progress was not slow, however. He practically pulled her down the path to the summerhouse that sat wreathed in roses some distance from the main house. Once inside, he proposed yet again, though this time with greater force. The die was cast; he had joined the army and must report for duty, but before he went he wanted to make her his wife.

She tried to distract him by making some playful rejoinder. Incensed by her failure to take him seriously, he caught her in his arms and covered her face with kisses as he held her tightly to him. Her first reaction had been surprise, but it was quickly followed by real distress as she could not catch her breath. She pushed at him, but he would not release her, only muttering thickly about her damned coquettish ways that led a man on. A moment later she lost consciousness, feinting from lack of air in exactly the same boneless manner of the whey-faced females she had always despised.

The swoon had lasted no more than a minute or two, but when she opened her eyes she was lying on the floor and Dennis Mulholland's hand was under her skirts, groping at her thighs. He had been trying to loosen her stays, he claimed, but she did not believe him. Neither did her father, who came upon them before she could straighten her gown.

André Delacroix had been enraged, not the least reason being because he felt himself to blame. Most girls of Mara's age were already married with families, but he had kept her near him, discouraging any man who seemed too determined. Now he swore that the scoundrel who had dared to touch his daughter, who had compromised her with such impunity, would marry her or face his pistol at twenty paces.

Dennis was more than willing to be married; it was Mara who refused, who paced up and down alternately raging and pleading. In the end, she had her way, at least in part. There would be no wedding for the moment, but there would be a betrothal, and when Dennis returned from the war in Mexico they would be wed. She must make her mind up to it, for that was the way it would be.

Dennis had rode away, and though he had kissed Mara good-bye, his eyes had been hollow with the knowledge that she cared not at all for him. He had been killed in his first battle.

Everyone had been amazed at how her betrothal had subdued Mara's high spirits. Later they had watched with raised brows as she donned black for the death of her fiancé. There were those who said she was well paid for her flightiness, that she deserved to lose the man she loved, though others spoke of her Irish mother whom everyone knew had been unstable by both breeding and temperament. But as the weeks and months passed, and she grew daily paler and more withdrawn, their interest had turned to concern.

Mara had taken little notice. Day after day she sat staring out the window, often holding in her hand the letter she had received from Dennis saying that he cared not whether he lived or died if she did not love him. Guilt and remorse were weights she carried with her, dragging her down. She accused herself of being careless and self-centered. Her own emotions had been so little involved that she had not fully understood how deeply others could feel for her, how easily they could be aroused to commit acts of which they were bitterly ashamed. If she had realized, she would have been more careful, more restrained. Such thoughts were well enough, but they had come too late.

André, becoming alarmed at his daughter's state of mind, had sent for Mara's grandmother. Grandmère Helene had taken charge. A spritely and warmhearted woman with little regard for her increasing years, she had declared that Mara must accompany her to France. It had been ages since she had last made the voyage, and she longed to see Paris again. Too much for her? Nonsense! She was far from her dotage. They would visit relatives, attend the opera, absorb a bit of culture, but most of all they would patronize the modistes in order to banish the black and purple from Mara's wardrobe. The period of mourning was over; Mara must begin to live again.

Roderic, watching the flicker of emotion playing with the firelight over Mara's face, made an abrupt gesture. “There is a husband who will be anxious for your return? A lover?"

"No,” she answered, her voice tight, then added, “at least, I don't think so."

"Ah, you don't think, but can virginity, like pregnancy, legitimacy, fidelity, prosperity, security, or liberty, be in doubt? Do you know if there is mother, father, or child waiting? Sister? Brother? Priest? Faithful maid? Lap dog? Is there no one who will mourn you if you don't return?"

"I can't say."

Her grandmother would not know where she was, what she was doing. Her grandmother who had brought her to Europe.

Paris had been everything Helene had promised, a place of grace and beauty and unbounded fascination. They had stayed with a distant cousin, an elderly woman of aristocratic habits and connections if rather reduced circumstances. When Helene was not tracing exhaustively the relationship of some elusive branch of the Delacroix family with their cousin, she and Mara had walked the streets of the city, crossing and recrossing the many bridges over the Seine. They had sampled the confections at the pastry shops, sipped cups of tea or coffee at the sidewalk cafés, stared at the antiques in the shops on the Left Bank, and searched out the houses where the famous and infamous had lived. They had duly visited the Louvre, strolling its endless galleries, admiring the paintings and sculpture they had only read about before, and promenaded in the gardens of the Tuileries, which were open to the public despite the fact that the Tuileries Palace was the official residence of King Louis Philippe.

These agreeable promenades had come to a halt following a visit to the fashionable modiste, Madame Palmyre. There had been time afterward for nothing except fittings and more fittings, or else shopping excursions for bonnets and shawls, gloves and whisper-light silk corsets and stockings from the shops on the rue de Richelieu. One of Mara's favorite purchases had been made at the Maison Gagelin where an assistant with a heavy English accent and the unlikely name of Worth had taken one look at her and brought out a shawl of a clear gray wool so finely woven it could be pulled through a wedding ring. It had been made for her alone, he had declared with fervor, and in truth it had made her skin appear as fine and delicate as porcelain and turned her eyes into pools of soft mystery.