Reckless Seduction Read online

  “I sometimes walk a little in the side garden before retiring,” she said breathlessly. “I find it helps me to sleep after the excitements of a party.”

  Dominic, who had decided he had sown sufficient seeds for one night and was preparing to abandon the beauty before launching a renewed attack on the next occasion, hid his surprise. His hand pressed for an instant against her waist, imparting a patch of warmth that increased Elise’s breathlessness; other than that, he simply inclined his head in acknowledgement. Then the music ceased and he returned her to Lorenzo with punctilious thanks to them both.

  Elise, as she watched him make his way to the gallery and the elders of the company, wondered if he had understood her to mean what she thought she had meant, although, in all truth, her statement had seemed to spring to her lips without volition. Just the thought of saying such a shameless thing brought hot color to her cheeks and a mist of sweat to her palms. Perhaps he thought it was simply a piece of small talk, an inoffensive, unimportant statement. Nonsense, of course he would not think such a thing. He would know that she was quite shameless, and was probably utterly disgusted that she should have responded to a meaningless flirtatious remark with such a disgraceful implied invitation. She could almost see the way Genevieve’s eyebrows would lift incredulously if she heard of it.

  “It is too hot in here, Lorenzo,” she said, suddenly pettish.

  “Escort me out to the courtyard, if you please.”

  Lorenzo was all attention. It was quite right and proper for delicate ladies to be overcome by heat when they had been dancing so indefatigably.

  “What the deuce is Delacroix doing here?” Victor Latour hissed at his nephew. He gazed at the elegant figure engaged in seemingly animated conversation with Madame Fourchet. The devil was amazingly personable. No one would think, to look at him, that he was a rogue—the blackest sheep ever known to the Delacroix, or to any other Orleanian family, for that matter. Except that the service he provided by running the British blockade with his privateers was one they could none of them do without.

  “He is a friend of mine, uncle,” Nicolas began his prepared speech. “I met him at a salle d’escrime, and we had several passages. He is a superb swordsman.”

  “Of course he is,” Victor snapped. “You would hardly expect anything else. The man’s no swordplayer! The instrument’s a weapon for him, not a toy, and he’s not welcome in my house.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Nicolas struggled to collect his thoughts, which always scattered when he was under attack from Latour. “I felt it would be discourteous in the extreme to refuse to extend the invitation this evening. I met him in the street, you understand, and our dealings in the past have always been pleasant, and he invited me to take a glass of wine with him this evening, which, of course, I could not because Hélène was receiving and—”

  “Oh, do stop wittering, man,” Victor interrupted impatiently. “Delacroix would not have expected to be invited here. He’s hardly some naive unsophisticated.” The accusatory glare that accompanied this statement left Nicolas in no doubt as to who was deserving of such a description. “However you spend your time when you are about town is of no importance, as well you know. You may enjoy what company you please, but you need to exercise some discrimination in whom you introduce to my wife and your cousins. Genevieve has no sense of decorum as it is, without your setting her such an appalling example.”

  Latour’s color deepened as he remembered his daughter’s scandalous conduct and the shamelessly matter-of-fact manner in which she had told him that his overseer had been taking his revenge on Amelie because the slave had dared to refuse him her body, and her husband had actually attempted to defend her. Victor, unlike the majority of his fellow planters, disapproved mightily of relations between his free employees and his slaves. It made for confusion and dissension, and Mr. King, as a result of Genevieve’s disclosures, was in need of another job, and Victor in need of another overseer. It was a problem that he did not care for, and one that he would not have had to contend with, if his daughter had kept her nose out of matters that did not concern her.

  “Monsieur Latour.” Victor was torn out of this unpleasant reverie by something no more pleasant. Dominic Delacroix was paying his respects to his host, and the host was obliged to respond in kind. Nicolas, with a sigh of relief, took a discreet departure. Dominic did not need his help further. Surely, he had done all that was required of him.

  Chapter Three

  The cabinet was lit only by a shaft of moonlight from the window midway up the outside wall. The darkness did not bother Genevieve who, in the five hours of her imprisonment, had come to know intimately every nook and cranny, every obstacle in the small room that served as a storeroom for kitchen supplies. It was one of two cabinets situated at the corners of the rear gallery, and its fellow opposite was used as an office by Victor Latour. Sounds of the party continued to drift under the door, and Genevieve sat glumly on a pickle barrel, alternately nibbling on a dry biscuit and dipping her finger into a jar of strawberry preserve. It was a distinctly inadequate supper when compared with the delicacies laid out for the guests; however, she supposed she should be grateful for small mercies since her only significant complaint at the present was boredom.

  Licking her fingers, she got up and dragged the barrel over beneath the window. The view of the side garden below was hardly thrilling, but it made a change, and the night air was pleasantly soft on her face as she propped her chin on the sill. The crunch of gravel below brought her up on tiptoe, peering over the edge of the window. The figure standing in the shadows was unmistakable. So, he had decided to act upon the invitation, Genevieve mused. But why? What could Dominic Delacroix possibly find to amuse him in the decorous entertainment offered by Hélène Latour? Was it Elise who had taken his fancy? Surely not. Elise was beautiful, certainly, accomplished enough for the correct marriage that was her destiny, innocent and simple in the manner considered de rigueur for a Creole maiden. But those were not qualities likely to appeal to such a one as Monsieur Delacroix, if rumor were true, and there was little reason to doubt it.

  Another figure appeared on the lawn, coming from the front of the house, and the watcher at the window recognized her cousin. Genevieve considered eavesdropping to be a perfectly legitimate activity, and particularly when it was the only diversion offered to her, so she strained her ears into the night gloom, concentrating with every fiber of her being as the two men came together in the shadow of the wall beneath her window.

  “Has it gone well, Dominic?” Nicolas asked, a note of anxiety in his voice, almost pleading, Genevieve thought. “Did you talk with Latour?”

  “Not beyond the courtesies,” Dominic replied. “But then I did not expect more on this occasion.” A flare sparked in the dark, then the glow of a cigar tip as Dominic drew deeply and with a small sigh of pleasure, the aromatic smoke curling in the air. “But the ground has been prepared, and he cannot deny me now when I call upon him at his office. Not when I have been welcomed as a guest in his house.”

  “And Elise?” Nicolas sounded distinctly hesitant. “If all goes well with her father you will not need—”

  “How unsubtle you are, Nicolas,” Dominic mocked gently. “Your cousin, I do assure you, would be most disappointed if I did not pursue our … our acquaintance. Indeed, I expect her to join me at any minute, so perhaps you would like to make yourself scarce, since I do not think she wishes for a chaperone any more than I.”

  “You promised me she would not be hurt,” Nicolas said, with a catch of desperation in his voice. “I would not have agreed—”

  “I do not recall that you were in a position to do otherwise,” the older man interrupted coldly. Genevieve’s scalp prickled. She understood nothing of what was being said, but so far she had heard nothing to dispel her earlier conviction that Dominic Delacroix was a very dangerous man.

  “But if she is discovered here, alone in the garden with you, it will create the most dreadful sc
andal.”

  “The suggestion was Mademoiselle Latour’s, Nicolas, I do assure you. I would not have had the temerity to make it myself, this early on in our acquaintanceship.”

  Idiot Elise! Genevieve bit her lip in annoyance, wishing she could make some sense of this conversation.

  “Don Lorenzo …” Nicolas began miserably.

  “Is a blind, complacent fool,” the other broke in bluntly. “Your cousin, my dear fellow, is ripe for the picking, and the sooner that arrogant Castilian sweeps her off her feet and beds her, with or without the vows, the more likely he is to find her still virtuous.”

  Genevieve nodded in sage agreement. She had been of the same opinion herself for weeks. Elise swung between panic and dismay at the prospect of the passionless years of marital duty, for all that in her heart of hearts she could conceive of no alternative life and would be devastated at the thought it might be denied her. But Genevieve knew and understood how she hankered for the romantic adventure, the fantasy to be indulged just once before she became the rich, respectable, aristocratic matron. However, if Elise thought she could have that adventure with Dominic Delacroix, she was going to burn more than her fingers in the fire; Genevieve was convinced of it. But she still did not know why Dominic seemed inclined to encourage the maiden’s foolishness, or what part Nicolas was playing in all this.

  “You promised that her reputation would not suffer,” Nicolas was insisting now, his voice low and urgent.

  “That is up to the lady.” Dominic laughed, and Genevieve felt that prickle again. It was not a reassuring laugh. “I do not need to ruin her reputation to achieve my object. If, however, she should insist upon …” He laughed again, and the tip of his cigar glowed bright. “Run along now, my dear Nicolas. You have discharged your debt, and I absolve you from all further responsibility.”

  Debt? Sweet heaven, what was going on? Genevieve watched as Nicolas turned and made his way slowly back to the house. Well, whatever it was, it clearly had to be stopped. Foolish Elise might be, spiteful, too, on occasion, but they were sisters, and if one was getting into waters too deep and too hot, then it was up to the other to fish her out. Genevieve did not stop to consider whether her rescue attempt would be gratefully received by her sister, although it did occur to her that Monsieur Delacroix would probably not be best pleased at her interference, but then his feelings in the matter were supremely unimportant.

  While she was pondering, her eye caught a pale glimmer against the trees. Elise, her hair and gown covered with a gauzy shawl, came slipping across the lawn. Dominic ground out his cigar on the gravel at his feet and took a step toward her. “I hardly dared hope I understood you correctly,” he said softly, his voice vibrant with a husky warmth.

  Genevieve scowled. No wonder Elise was fluttering and simpering. Who wouldn’t be when on the receiving end of that voice? Tightening her grip on the windowsill, she hitched herself up, scrabbling for purchase on the plastered wall with her toes as she scrambled onto the ledge. The window was a good eight feet above ground level outside, and Genevieve swung her legs over the sill, twisted awkwardly until her back was to the garden, then lowered herself over, hanging onto the ledge with her fingertips, preparing to drop.

  “What in the world!” Dominic swung round at the rustle behind him and stared at the pendent figure. In two strides, he had reached her and clasped her waist strongly. “Let go. I have you safe.”

  “I can manage myself,” Genevieve protested with a mutter, suddenly overwhelmingly conscious of his physical nearness. Her body was held hard against his, and when she released her tight grip on the ledge, she felt herself sink into his hold, helplessly dependent. She kicked her legs in the air, a reflex action that brought an infuriating chuckle from her captor/rescuer. He set her on her feet and she straightened her skirts, brushing the dirt from her hands, the busy movements giving her time to regain her composure.

  “An unorthodox method of egress,” Dominic observed, regarding her with exasperation not untinged with amusement. It somehow seemed entirely inevitable that this meddlesome creature should have dropped out of the sky into the middle of his carefully laid plan of campaign, once again to wreak havoc.

  “Maybe so, monsieur, but it was the only one available to me,” she informed him, attempting to retie the ribbon that confined her hair. “The door being locked—from the outside, you understand.”

  “Ah.” He nodded his comprehension. “This afternoon’s business as Maspero’s Exchange, I presume?” He couldn’t help smiling. Her efforts to tidy her hair were singularly unsuccessful. It was the most extraordinary color, ash blond streaked with deep-gold bands, the whole luxuriant mass cascading over her shoulders, catching the moonlight. Tawny eyes and silver-gold hair made the most unusual combination, as unusual as the person herself, he decided. Not at all like the rest of her breed—as different in her way as Rosemarie. But then Rosemarie had not come from the Creole breeding ground. He frowned. What the devil was he doing thinking like that?

  “Yes, exactly so,” she agreed matter-of-factly. “However, I achieved my object, so do not really mind the consequences. I was becoming a little bored, though, so I thought I would come down and join you.” She smiled benignly. “You have no objection, I trust, Elise?”

  Elise stared at her. “Papa locked you in the cabinet?”

  Genevieve nodded cheerfully. “Where did you think I was?”

  “In your chamber, naturally.”

  “Oh, well that probably would have satisfied him, except that I told him Mr. King had attempted to rape Amelie and she had resisted, which was why he was selling her. After that, only the cabinet would do.”

  Elise gasped in unfeigned shock at this appalling speech and Dominic murmured, “Remarkably forebearing of him, I would have said.”

  For a second, those tiger’s eyes flashed, then Genevieve shrugged. “You are entitled to your opinion, monsieur. But do not let me disturb your tête-à-tête with my sister. I will just stroll around the garden and stretch my legs for a few minutes.” There was no possibility of misunderstanding her. However shocked they might appear to be at her earlier behavior, she had just reminded them that they stood condemned in an infinitely more compromising position.

  “I do not know what you can mean,” Elise protested. “There was no question of a tête-à-tête. How could you think such a thing? I just came out for a breath of air. It is so hot in the house. I did not know Monsieur Delacroix was of the same mind.”

  “No, of course you did not,” Genevieve concurred calmly. “Has Don Lorenzo departed already? I cannot imagine him permitting you to take the night air without his accompanying you. And I’m sure, even then, he’d insist on a chaperone.”

  There was a moment when Dominic thought that he would be required physically to separate the warring sisters. Elise’s hand trembled on the verge of lashing out at the other’s blandly smiling face, then, recollecting their audience, she bit her lip, turned on her heel and went back toward the house.

  Dominic took a cigar from his inside pocket, lit it, and inhaled thoughtfully. He glanced up at the window of the cabinet and then back at Genevieve. How long had she been listening? Was her unconventional arrival prompted by pure mischief, simply by that tiresome tendency that he had already witnessed to interfere in the affairs of others, or did it have a more serious intent?

  “You do not consider yourself to be in danger of opprobrium by our unchaperoned meeting?” he inquired.

  “Oh, I am in so much trouble already, a little more will make no difference,” she replied airily. “Besides, I am not betrothed, and might still be excused the impropriety on the grounds of a childish lack of awareness. And I do not think, Monsieur Delacroix, that anyone would imagine you might be interested in a clandestine meeting with the baby of the family.”

  Baby of the family, she may be, Dominic thought grimly, but when it came to awareness, she could beat her elders to flinders. Just how much had she heard? Had she been listening when he was tal
king to Nicolas? Well, he was wasting his time here, now, thanks to this self-styled baby, and nothing would be gained by fruitless speculation. There was always tomorrow. “You are quite right,” he agreed smoothly. “And it is time I bade my hosts farewell. So I will give you good night, Mademoiselle Genevieve.”

  He had turned away when she spoke, her voice suddenly hesitant. “Monsieur Delacroix?”

  “Yes?” He turned back to her. She gave him a slightly rueful smile.

  “I do not think I can climb back through the window unaided. It is a little far off the ground.”

  He examined the window and the wall, then bent his gaze on Genevieve with a mocking deliberation. “For one so small, it is a little high, I agree. Perhaps you should return by more conventional means.”

  Genevieve swallowed the bitter pill of his justifiable vengeance. “I cannot do so undetected, monsieur.”

  “No,” he agreed silkily. “I do not imagine you can. But did I not hear you to say that you were in so much trouble already, a little more would make no difference?”

  “That may be so, but there seems little point in courting it.” She clasped her hands behind her back and met his gaze.

  “I quite agree with you. But that seems to be a lesson you are only just learning.” He smiled. “You should have thought of it before you decided to drop from the skies in such a dramatic fashion.” The gloves now well and truly shed, Dominic bowed, bade her a second good night, and strode off into the dark.

  Genevieve sat down on a carved stone bench and reviewed the situation. It was not encouraging. She may have saved Elise from the consequences of her foolishness for this time, but that did not mean that her sister would not persist in her indiscretion. One thing was clear: Dominic Delacroix would not be easily prevented from accomplishing whatever goal he had in mind. As for her, she was stranded outside the window of her prison, her only option to wait until the household had retired when she could perhaps creep back undetected, always supposing, of course, that the key to the door would still be in the lock so that at least she could get back into the cabinet. But she was no magician, and could hardly relock the door from the outside while she was on the inside. It rather looked as if she were heading for an abrupt exile on the Lake Borgne plantation where Victor would assume that she could get up to no further tricks. And, once banished, she would be able to do nothing to save Elise from whatever she was up to. Perhaps she could find Nicolas. He would help her without question, but then he’d quite legitimately want to know what she was doing outside and what had prompted her escape. And since he appeared to be in cahoots with the privateer, she could hardly tell him she had overheard their conversation.