Masquerade (23 page)

He stopped in front of her, the muscles along his cheek and jaw standing out in sharp ridges. "Your Negress said you wanted to see me." His voice was as hard and cold as the rest of him.

"I do." She moved aside to let Sulie Mae scurry past her up the stairs. "You spoke to Grand-pere—

"He has refused permission for me to call on you."

"I know. He has forbidden me to speak to you." She searched his face, looking for some glimmer of the warmth she'd once seen in it. "Do you intend for this to be the end of it? Will you stay away, as he has ordered?"

His gaze bored into her, dark and angry. And Adrienne recognized that hardness as pride.

"No," he said. "Never."

Then his hands were reaching out to drag her to him, and she went eagerly into his arms, tilting her head up to receive the satisfying crush of his mouth. Again she felt shocked alive by his kiss, and more certain than ever that this was how it should be between a man and a woman.

"There's a way," he muttered against her cheek. "There has to be."

"Yes." She drew back, needing to see his face. "My grand-père is a ... a stubborn man. But he means well. He thinks he is protecting me, and I have yet to make him understand that I have no wish to be protected from you, Brodie."

A corner of his mouth lifted in a near smile. "You make my name a melody."

"Do I?" She laughed softly, breathlessly, exhilarated by the look of desire that had returned to his eyes. Then she heard her aunt's voice coming from the courtyard, and she tensed in alarm. "You must go—before someone sees you." She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. "I will speak to Grand-père. Not now. In a day or two, when he will be more reasonable," she said as she hurried him toward the small gate.

"Do you know the blind fiddler, Cado?" He stopped at the gate, not yet opening it. "He plays on the corner of Royal and St. Philip."

"The Negro with the violin? I have seen him," she admitted. "But I never knew his name."

"If you need to reach me, leave a message with him, and he'll see that I get it." He opened the gate, then paused halfway through it. "If I don't hear from you, I'll be back."

"A week," she promised. "No more than that."

 

Thunder rumbled low and ominous as rain fell in slanting torrents, filling the garbage-strewn gutters, turning the dirt street into a quagmire, and inching over the sidewalks. Only those who had to ventured out, and they hugged the buildings, seeking what little protection the overhanging galleries offered from the wind-whipped rain. The rest stayed inside and waited for the deluge to pass.

From the shelter of the covered carriageway, Adrienne watched the street, a full-length cloak of Burberry cloth covering her dress and hooding her face. Few vehicles plowed through the deep mud on Royal Street, and still fewer pedestrians scurried along its banquette. None noticed the small gate held partially ajar, or the woman on the other side, silent, calm, and determined.

A closed carriage approached, pulled by a team of matched bays, their ears flattened against the rain. The driver swung the team close to the banquette and brought the carriage to a halt next to the cypress-lined ditch. The door to the carriage swung open. Adrienne darted from the shelter of the
porte cochère
and climbed inside before the driver could alight to assist her.

With a crack of the whip, the carriage lurched forward. Inside, Adrienne pushed back the hood of her cloak and finally met Brodie's gaze. She briefly wondered why she felt no awkwardness, no anxiety, no guilt—only this calm, smooth certainty. Brodie said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

"Grand-père remains adamant in his decision. He will not tolerate even the mention of your name."

"That doesn't change the way I feel," he said, leaving unspoken the question of whether she wanted to reconsider her position.

"Nor the way I feel," she assured him, firmly.

A small smile touched his mouth. "In that case we're left with the Yankee thing to do—run away together and elope."

"Non"
She had already considered that option and rejected it. "Flight carries with it the inference of wrongdoing, of guilt, of shame. I feel none of those things with you."

"I can't disagree with you. But neither am I going to allow your grandfather to keep us apart. You'd better understand that, Adrienne."

"I do."

In the last six days she'd had a great deal of time alone to think—about them, about herself, about life and what she wanted from it. She'd seen the loneliness of her aunt's spinster existence, the isolation of a single woman, her dependence upon the charity of a relative. And she'd seen the un-happiness of a loveless
manage de convenance,
the tension, the bitterness, the resentment of young brides as they tried to pretend they didn't know about the concubines their husbands kept in those little cottages on Rampart Street. Ever since she'd been old enough to be aware of these things, she'd been determined to marry for love. She had never doubted that she could. She was a Jardin, and the Jardins had risen above the need to further their power base through marriage.

She had never guessed she would choose a Yankee to love. And she'd never guessed that her grandfather's dislike of them was so deeply ingrained.

Twice this past week she had tried to reason with her grandfather, and both attempts had ended in arguments. She hadn't tried again, recognizing that more quarrels would only harden him. And tears and pleading wouldn't work with her grandfather; he disliked weakness, even in women.

While Dominique sympathized with her plight, he wouldn't side with her against their grandfather and suggested instead that she accept that their grandfather was a better judge than she of what was best for her. As for Tante ZeeZee—she was a woman. Her grandfather would no more listen to her than to Adrienne.

Her acceptance of his demands was out of the question. She would never submit to that.

Open defiance of her grandfather was unthinkable—scandalous.

All of which left only one option: she had to arrange for her grandfather to realize that the best thing would be for her to marry Brodie Donovan.

"We will see each other, Brodie, as often as we can." She twisted sideways in the seat to face him and reached up to trace the high arc of his cheekbone. "For now, we will have to meet like this."

Irritation flickered through his expression. "Why? You can't believe he's going to change his mind."

"In time he will, yes." She smiled confidently.

He looked at her, then slowly shook his head, his mouth reluctantly curving in a smile. "Why am I agreeing to this? What kind of spell have you cast over me?"

"Brodie. Do you think you are the only one who feels this enchantment?" she asked, feeling slightly wiser than he.

"I'd better not be." He drew her hand from his cheek and carried it to his mouth, pressing an evocative kiss in the center of its palm, his eyes never leaving her face. "How long before I have to take you back to your home?"

"Not long," she said regretfully, glancing up at the upholstered ceiling of the carriage, listening to the tattoo of the rain on its roof. "Already the rain is letting up. When it stops, the streets will be crowded." She left it unsaid that that would greatly increase her risk of being seen leaving his carriage.

"You don't know how tempted I am to tell the driver to keep going—how tempted I am to kidnap you and never take you back. I want to spend more than a few minutes with you, Adrienne."

"You will. I have begun to spend my evenings alone in my room, retiring immediately after supper, refusing to attend any of the parties or the opera. Grand-père thinks I am sulking, and I have not attempted to disprove him." She paused for an instant, marveling at her own daring yet never questioning her decision. "At night there is little traffic on the street, few people to notice a carriage going by—or stopping very briefly. We would have time to be together then—perhaps two, even three hours."

Brodie frowned in amazement, hearing her words and seeing the cleverness, the intelligence in her plan—and observing her seemingly unshakable calm. Rebellion against family dictum was so rare as to be almost nonexistent in aristocratic Creole families. That she was even in this carriage with him in the daytime, unchaperoned, showed stunning boldness. But to suggest meeting him at night—alone—for several hours. ... It humbled him a little to think of it, especially when he considered how strict her upbringing had been. And he wondered if she wasn't putting too much trust in a gentleman's honor—his honor. Didn't she realize that if he were really a gentleman, he'd never see her again?

"Is there a place we can go when we meet? I know of none," she confessed, calmly looking to him.

"I do." He knew the requirements without asking—somewhere private where they wouldn't be seen or recognized. "My home. About three miles from here."

There was one small flicker of hesitation, and then she smiled. "I would like to see your home."

"When?"

"In a day or two. I will send a message to you."

 

 

 

 

16

 

 

A waxing moon, a shimmering crescent in the night sky, joined the dusting of glittering stars to look down on the collection of elaborate homes with expansive front lawns that had sprung up in the partially wooded outskirts of the city, built by prosperous Americans on the former site of the old Livaudais plantation. Stately processions of towering columns, Corinthian and Doric in design, faced the streets, the wide galleries borrowing the lacework ornamentation of iron railings from the Creoles, and the interiors adapting to the subtropical climate of New Orleans with rooms sixteen and eighteen feet high, wide doorways, tall windows, and folding shutters that could be thrown open to admit the flow of air.

Brodie Donovan stood at a parlor window in one of those homes—his home, finished only a few short months before, its grandeur befitting the residence of a successful shipowner. Yet, looking into the mirror-black night, he had only to close his eyes and remember the unbelievable green of his native Ireland, the two-room mud house that had been his home, the meager meals that had been served on its crude table, the patched and worn clothes that had covered his back, the hunger that had been in his belly, and the smell of peat burning in the hearth. He had only to close his eyes and remember the sensation of the swamp's mire tugging at his legs, drying on his clothes and skin—the suffocating heat, the
zzzizzing
buzz of attacking mosquitoes, the trembling and aching of exhausted muscles, and the stench, always the rank, malodorous smell of the miasmal swamp.

It didn't matter that he'd left it all behind; it hadn't left him.

If Adrienne had seen him then, she would have given him a look of cool disdain and drawn her skirts aside to avoid contact with him. In all the times they'd met and talked, he'd never told her about any of it. Oh, he'd told her of Ireland, described the green of its countryside, the rocky promontories of its sea cliffs, the sparkling waters of its springs and lochs, and told her of the grand wakes—the keening and weeping in one room and the toasting and tale-swapping in another. And he'd recounted the story of how he'd started his company and built it, as well as his plans for the future.

There was a truth to all of it, but not the whole truth, not the parts that might change the way she looked at him. Did he think she wouldn't love him if she knew? Did he think he wasn't really good enough for her? Was that why he went along with meeting her in secret—because he didn't feel he had a right to be seen with her in public?

But this was America. There was no rigid separation of the classes here; a man was not forever bound to one station. He could rise—as Brodie had done. Look at his clothes, look at this house —they were as fine as anything Adrienne's family possessed.

The darkened windowpane reflected his scowling look. Brodie turned from it, irritated by the blackness of his mood. But he knew the cause of it: she was late. He glanced at the clock on the black marble mantel. The carriage had left to pick her up more than an hour ago. Had something gone wrong? Why wasn't she here? Had there been trouble? He cursed himself for not going with it and for waiting for her here instead.

He glared at the emptiness of the richly furnished parlor, the many crystal pendants of the Waterford chandelier increasing the spray of candlelight that filled it. Once he'd enjoyed this room, taken pride in its beauty. Now, when he looked at the sofa where they always sat, part of the walnut parlor set he'd bought for the room from Prudent Mallard, he always imagined her there. Sometimes, when he was alone, he'd run his hand over the curved armrest where her hand so lightly rested. And sometimes he swore the rich red velvet held traces of her fragrance.

There was no more contentment in this house for him, no more satisfaction. He remembered how proudly he'd shown it off to her the first time she'd come. Now every room was marked with the memory of her reaction—the sound of soft, indrawn breaths of admiration, the sight of a hand trailing in approval over a mantel, even the occasional carefully worded criticism offered under the guise of a suggestion.

Dammit, where was she? Brodie spun back to the window and searched the darkness beyond for a glimpse of the carriage. Would she come? Would she notice the magnolias the gardener had planted in the front lawn, or the newly laid flagstoned walk in the rear, the beginnings of the courtyard she'd thought would be attractive there?

The bright light pouring from the parlor beckoned to her. Adrienne quietly closed the rear entrance door to the wide hall and let the light guide her to the parlor, then paused just inside to face Brodie with clear-shining eyes as he pivoted from the window toward her.

"Adrienne!" Disbelief flickered across his face. He took a step toward her and then stopped, as if expecting her to disappear. "I didn't hear the carriage."

"When you were not at the door to meet me, I thought you might have given up on me." She quickly unfastened her cloak and swung it off her shoulders. "Grand-père brought guests home to dinner unexpectedly. I had to wait until they had left and Tante ZeeZee had retired to her room."