Deceive Not My Heart (67 page)

Leonie wrinkled her nose at him, and coming to stand at his side, she said delightedly, "Oh, it is! That's my maman!"

Curious about the woman who had given birth to his wife, Morgan glanced at the portrait, and recognizing the tawny hair and mysterious sea-green eyes that stared so serenely back from the oil painting, he knew where Leonie had gotten her coloring. An indulgent grin on his lips, he asked, "Shall I have them all refurbished and reframed? We can hang them in one of the new wings."

A sad little smile curving her mouth, she gently touched the canvas. "I would like that very much. I never knew her, but I would like some memento of hers near me." Almost reverently, her hand slid to the small, intricate crucifix that lay on her mother's breast. "My father had it especially commissioned for her to commemorate my birth. It was the only thing of hers that I had."

Idly Morgan's gaze dropped to the object in question, and feeling as if he had suddenly been hit viciously in the stomach by a barge pole, he stared incredulously at the delicate cross depicted in the painting. It was very familiar to him—he had looked at it not ten minutes ago. In a strangled voice he asked, "Had? What happened to it? Did you lose it?"

Her eyes clouded and turning away from the portrait, she said somberly, "Yes, as a matter of fact I did. But I don't brood over it anymore. It was lost a long time ago."

Morgan's hand closed with a viselike grip on her arm, spinning her around. With painful intentness, his gaze traveled over her features, trying desperately to remember a night over six years ago, a night a virgin whore had come to his rooms at the governor's mansion.

Leonie stared up at him in astonishment. "What is it,
mon coeur?"
she asked with concern.

Morgan swallowed with difficulty, the most inconceivable certainty taking hold in his mind. "When and where did you lose it?" he demanded.

Puzzled by his actions, she searched his face. That he was laboring under some great stress was obvious and slowly, hesitantly, she admitted, "I lost it at the governor's mansion, the night Governor Gayoso died."

Morgan sucked in his breath sharply. "How?" he prompted almost savagely.

Shooting him a defiant glance, she muttered, "I had to get my hands on the vowels that I knew
grand-pere
would sign that night, and so I planned to steal them. I waited until everyone had left and then I crept into the mansion and stole them!" Resentfully she continued, "I got lost inside and trying to find a way out, I stumbled into a room." The memory of what had happened in that room cutting through her like a knife, she cried out, "I don't want to talk about it anymore! I told you once I was someplace I shouldn't have been the night I was raped. Why do you insist that I speak of it again? It is in the past, dead and forgotten! It has
nothing
to do with us!"

His voice incredibly gentle, he said softly, "But you see, I didn't know we were talking about the same night... the night you lost your virginity and Justin was conceived."

Angrily, she shrugged off his slackened hold. "Bah! It doesn't matter anymore!"

The sound of Justin's laughter drifted in from outside, and Morgan thought it was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard... his son's voice. His throat tight, the blue eyes nearly black with emotion, he declared raggedly, "I, too, was at the governor's mansion the night Gayoso died. Did you know that?"

Leonie watched him with a wary, uncertain expression. "No, I didn't."

His hand trembling slightly he reached out and touched her hair and lips. Almost in a whisper, he muttered, "Gayoso had promised to send me a woman, and when a woman finally arrived, I assumed it was the one he had mentioned."

Leonie stiffened, her eyes widening with disbelief. She started to speak, but Morgan laid a silencing finger against her soft mouth. Huskily he confessed, "I remember that she had bright hair and that she was young. It was only after she had run out of my room that I discovered she had also been a virgin." Their eyes riveted with painful, unswerving attention on each other, he said with a rough sort of tenderness, "She also threw my money in my face."

Leonie was white, her lips quivering, tears of unbearable happiness brimming in her eyes. "It was
you!"
she exclaimed half accusingly, half joyously.

Not answering her, he reached inside his vest pocket, and with a hand that shook noticeably, he extended his palm to her, a small, golden crucifix lying in its center. "I believe," he said thickly, "this is yours."

A ray of afternoon sunlight streamed into the room, intensifying the gold of the crucifix, causing it to blaze with an almost blinding light—a light as gold and as warm and bright as their future together would be.

The End

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MIDNIGHT MASQUERADE

The Louisiana Ladies Series

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Excerpt from

Midnight Masquerade

The Louisiana Ladies Series

Book Two

by

Shirlee Busbee

New York Times Bestselling Author

MIDNIGHT MASQUERADE

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Morgan had busied himself preparing for the journey to Natchez. The next day dawned sunny and hot but there was the hint of a thunderstorm on the horizon, and eyeing it, Jason had said, "Are you certain you don't wish to delay your departure for a few hours?"

Morgan grinned. "My dear friend, what flimsy excuses you present to hold me here. I am not made of sugar, I assure you, and a little thundershower will not melt me!"

Jason had laughed, their hands meeting in a tight clasp; then, astride a prancing, chestnut gelding from the Beauvais stables, Morgan had ridden away, heading up the river for Natchez. Attached to his watch fob was the little gold cross from a virgin whore.

He had looked at that little gold cross more than once during the past weeks, wondering about its owner. A dozen times, he had cursed the darkness that had hidden her features, cursed the circumstances that had allowed the girl to vanish from his life as quickly as she had appeared. And the fact that he thought of her often, that he had almost desperately wanted to know more about her, that he had regrets about that particular evening, annoyed him. What the hell—she was a whore, he had reminded himself repeatedly, ignoring the taunting voice in his mind that wouldn't let him forget that
he
had initiated her into her profession. Nor could he forget the feel of her in his arms, the sweet mouth beneath his, the soft body pressed next to his. He was grimly aware that if he could have found her, if his attempts to learn her identity from Gayoso's servants hadn't been fruitless, that he would be taking her with him now as he left New Orleans.

If she had been determined to sell herself, he reasoned that he might as well be the one to take advantage of it—she would have found him a generous protector. A discreet house in Natchez, a stylish carriage, blooded horses, clothes, jewels, servants, he would have gladly provided them all, and as his mistress she would have been safe.