Creole Fires (8 page)

“M’sieur du Villier is teaching me.” She still couldn’t believe it. But he’d said he would, and Alex did what he said.

“Yeah, well, you can ride with him as you like, but if you ride with me, I’ll show you how to have some fun.”

Nicki’s eyes lit up. Patrick O’Flannery had the look of the blarney, but one never knew for sure. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, you keep practicin’, then we’ll wait until dark one night, and take a couple o’ the duke’s good ‘uns out for a run.”

“Steal them?”

“Nothin’ like that. Just give ’em a little exercise.”

It sounded like heaven. “I’d love to ride Napoleon,” she said, just itching to feel the big blooded stallion beneath her.

“Not ‘im. The duke would be mad as all get-out if
he found out we took Napoleon. But any of the others …”

Some of the finest horses in the world graced Belle Chêne’s stables. To ride them would be a joy she hadn’t known in years. “What’ll they do to us if we get caught?” Weighing the consequences of her actions was something Nicole had rarely done. But now that she knew what it was to be caned, her face battered and bruised, she gave it some thought.

“Might give us a few extra chores. Never got a lickin’, so you don’t have t’ worry on that score.”

Nicki grinned. Extra work she could handle. Riding free again, feeling the wind against her face, would be worth the risk.

“I’ll be gone for a coupla weeks,” Patrick said, “takin’ some o’ the horses up to Plaquemine to the races. You keep practicin’ and when I get back we’ll make a night o’ it.”

“All right, Patrick—you’ve got a deal.”

Alex headed upstairs to bathe before his meeting with Thomas Demming.

Lemuel, the aging black man who served as his valet, had readied the copper tub and laid out his clothes, a dark gray frock coat, burgundy waistcoat, and darker burgundy breeches. A tray of cold meat, cheese, bread, and fruit sat on a mahogany tilt-top table beside his favorite overstuffed chair, along with a bottle of wine and a stemmed crystal goblet.

He smiled at the old man’s efficiency. There’d be late supper for him and Thomas, served to them in the study, but this would do nicely until then.

Lemuel always looked after him. Alex made a
mental note to check on the old man’s rheumatism, make sure he wasn’t working too hard.

After a hurried bath, Alex toweled himself dry and started getting dressed. He should be thinking about the contracts Thomas was here to review, but found his mind on his little copper-haired bond servant instead. He was glad he had bought her, he admitted, remembering the stories she had told. He couldn’t stand the thought of her mistreatment—and he liked her. He had discovered that again tonight as he had before. She was open and honest. Guileless, as he wouldn’t have expected from one who had led such a difficult life.

What he didn’t like was the physical attraction he felt whenever he was in her presence.

Nom de Dieu
, the girl was still a child. Well, not quite a child, but certainly not old enough for his conscience to allow him any real interest in her. She seemed older than her years, to be sure. But her body was far from ready. Where were the lush curves he’d always found attractive, the swell of bosom his hands should be eager to hold?

It was insane, and he knew it. But a problem just the same. He’d been thinking about it all evening as he watched her on the old dun horse. And he thought he’d found a solution.

In three more years, four at most, Nicki would be grown. If she matured anywhere near her potential, she would be a beautiful woman. She liked him; that much was obvious. And she certainly had no one to provide for her. What better candidate for a mistress?

Alex was a patient man, he could wait if he had to. His instincts told him the girl would be worth it. In
the meantime, he could surely control himself. After all, he had Lisette to warm his bed, and soon he’d have a wife as well. With a smile of satisfaction, Alex combed his dark-brown hair, straightened the cuffs on his ruffle-fronted white shirt, and headed downstairs.

“Thomas,” he said, striding into the elegant receiving salon and extending his hand, “it’s good to see you.”

Smiling, the slim blond man in navy-blue tailcoat and fitted gray breeches came to his feet, accepting the handshake heartily. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Thomas isn’t the only one who’s come to call. I hope you don’t mind, darling.”

Alex turned at the sound of a female voice approaching from behind him. “Clarissa …” He captured her slender, white-gloved fingers. “I wasn’t expecting you back for another two weeks.” Leaning over, careful not to muss her elegant silver-blue, satin-trimmed skirts, he kissed her cheek.

“Fortunately, Maxwell’s improvement was more rapid than we’d anticipated.” Maxwell Thornton was Clarissa Endicott’s brother-in-law. He had fallen ill two months ago, so Clarissa had been staying with her sister, Margaret, in New York to await his recovery.

“Besides,” she finished, rolling her pale-blue eyes, “Margaret can be such a trial.” Tendrils of pale blond hair that escaped from smooth, carefully coiffed coils on each side of her face floated with the shake of her head. “I couldn’t wait to get home.”

“It’s good to have you back,” Alex said dutifully, and Clarissa smiled. She was a tall woman, fineboned
and sparsely built. She was pretty, in a straightforward sort of way.

Though she was English by birth, her family had arrived in Louisiana when she was a child. The Endicotts owned Elmtree, one of the larger neighboring sugar plantations. But they had made the majority of their fortune in the engraving business. Endicott and Company printed individual currency for most of the southern states, each with its own monetary value and differing rates of exchange.

Clarissa stepped back to look at Alex, noting the lines of fatigue beside his eyes, the tiredness no amount of pretense could hide.

“Still working late, I see.” Her words rang with concern, but also a note of approval. The Endicotts believed in hard work. They’d built a dynasty over the years; Clarissa intended to see it grow and prosper.

“I meant to get in a little earlier, but with Fortier’s note coming due, we’re under a great deal of pressure.” He never minced words with her. As the woman he would marry, she expected the truth and gave nothing less herself. It was part of their arrangement.

A servant appeared carrying two crystal snifters of brandy and a stemmed glass of sherry on a silver tray. Each of them picked up a glass, and they seated themselves in front of the marble-manteled fireplace, which with summer coming on was brightened by a spray of purple wisteria instead of a fire.

“It doesn’t really seem fair,” Thomas said. “François let the place run down so badly you’ve got to work fourteen hours a day just to get it back in shape.”

Alex sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It really wasn’t his fault. My father knew my brother’s capabilities. François has never been interested in the family businesses. Father expected too much of him.”

“As I understand it,” Clarissa said in that no-nonsense way of hers, “your father needed you to manage his affairs in France, which left him very little choice.”

“Yes,” Alex agreed, “I suppose that’s true.”

“François is a self-indulgent, spoiled little boy,” she said. “You’re better off without him.”

Alex forced back a denial. Though what she said was true, it was not her place to say so. Compassion wasn’t one of Clarissa’s virtues. “He’s having some problems right now. He’ll settle down.”

“He’d better,” she said. “After we’re married, Belle Chêne and Elmtree will be one. I certainly don’t expect him to be squandering Elmtree money the way he does yours.”

A muscle bunched in Alex’s jaw. Marriage to Clarissa wasn’t going to be easy. But the advantages, at least as far as Belle Chêne and the du Villiers were concerned, far outweighed the obstacles.

“François is my responsibility, Clarissa, not yours.” As his wife, Clarissa would have her say in family matters, that much was only fair, but the final decisions would be his. He had made that clear before they’d decided to marry. He was certain it wouldn’t be the last time he would have to make his point.

Clarissa seemed to be weighing her next words. “You’re right, darling, of course. And speaking of responsibilities, that’s one of the things I wanted to discuss. Thomas, I’m glad you’re here. I want all of this
spelled out in detail; everything’s to be completely legal.”

Alex arched a brow, but didn’t speak. Clarissa was an intelligent woman. Whatever she had in mind would probably benefit both of them.

While Nicole waited impatiently for Patrick O’Flannery’s return and their promised outing, she met Alex out at the stables four nights each week after supper. Though he never mentioned it, the other three nights he caught the steamboat into the city. Nicki didn’t have to ask the reason.

Lisette.
It galled her, though she tried to tell herself it shouldn’t.

Alexandre du Villier had provided the first real home she’d known in years. What more could she ask? But each night after they finished with the horses and she returned her room, she knew. She wanted him to look at her as a woman. Wanted the friendship he had given her to grow into something more.

It was a fantasy, a dream that could never be. A duke would never involve himself with an indentured servant no matter what her family heritage had been.

Closing the door behind her, Nicki removed her mobcap, unbraided her hair and brushed it out, then removed the child’s-length black-and-white uniform she had been given upon her arrival. Off went her
petticoats, chemise, then the uncomfortable strips that bound her breasts. Thank God, she occupied the room alone. At least her secret remained safe.

But how much longer did she want it to? She was coming to trust Alexandre du Villier, coming to believe he might help her, maybe even release her from her contract. But where would she go? What would she do?

She’d been raised on a plantation, groomed to be a planter’s wife. It was the woman’s job to help with the family business, to make a home for her husband and children, and to look after the workers, the hundreds of people it took to make the miniature city run smoothly.

It was a hard job, but a rewarding one. She would have been good at it. Her mother had been an essential part of Meadowood, and she’d taught Nicole everything she knew.

Then, thanks to some tariff that had been passed, the bottom had fallen out of the sugar market, her parents had died, and Meadowood was gone. She was eighteen now and worse off than she’d been three years ago, when she’d first indentured herself. At least back then she’d had a goal, a plan to set her life back in order.

The Ramseys had promised to teach her accounting, a skill she had dabbled in on occasion and seemed to have a knack for. There were few women in the profession, but Nicole thought that with the small amount of money she would have coming at the end of her indenture, if she learned well enough, eventually she would find employment.

“God in heaven!”

Nicki whirled at the sound of the voice. Mrs. Leander
stood in the open doorway, staring at Nicole’s bare breasts, making the sign of the cross as if to ward off evil demons. She stepped inside and staunchly closed the door.

Nicki swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t hear you knock.”

A hurrumph was her reply. “All right, little missy, just what the devil is going on?”

Nicki pulled a soft cotton nightgown over her head, but without her bindings, it couldn’t disguise the ample bulge of her breasts. “Please, Mrs. Leander. I was only trying to protect myself.”

“Protect yourself? By deceiving us all? Pretending to be something you aren’t?”

“I didn’t set out to. It just sort of happened.” Praying for the housekeeper’s understanding, Nicki went on to explain about Lorna and her narrow escape from the guards at the prison. “Then it was time for the auction and Lorna thought I might be … well … spared ill treatment if I kept on pretending.”

The older woman crossed herself again. “Lord have mercy. We do have a problem.”

“Maybe it’s just as well,” Nicki countered. “M’sieur du Villier will have to find out the truth, sooner or later. It might as well be now.”

“Are you daft?” The housekeeper’s snowy brows shot up. “Miss Clarissa would never stand for you being here.”

“Who’s she?”
Not another of his mistresses!

Mrs. Leander looked surprised. “Surely you’re not so old you’re hard a hearin’? Seems to me the servants are always talkin’ about her, spoutin’ off as to what a cold sort she is and how poor Master Alex is settin’ himself up for a lifetime of grief.”

“I guess I haven’t been paying much attention lately.”

“Miss Clarissa’s the master’s intended. She’ll be runnin’ Belle Chêne by the first of the year.”

“What?”

“Soon as the hot weather is past, she’s plannin’ an outlandish affair to announce their engagement and the official date of the weddin’. Probably right after the harvest. Party’s gonna cost a fortune, but since she’s payin’, I guess it doesn’t hardly matter.”

“He—he’s getting married?” she repeated dumbly, still unable to believe it.