Iron Lace (16 page)

If only Monica were more mature, or at least more
receptive to him, there would be no need to concern himself over
mistresses and the like. Fortunately, Azema had proved to be a pleasant
companion both in bed and in the drawing room and was without
commitment, so it made the waiting until his little ward grew up at
least more tolerable.

From early Tuesday afternoon on, the guests began to
arrive for the party. Although the majority were youngsters like
Monique and Celeste, there was a wide range of ages, since older or
younger brothers, sisters, and cousins, as well as parents and
guardians, also came to swell the ranks of the invited guests.

The main rooms of the raised manor were gaily adorned with
colorful paper lanterns and clusters of gilded pinecones, and the
dining-room table was laden with an appetizing assortment of
refreshments, from roast beef, baked ham, and fried chicken to
sweetmeats of all types—dried fruits, sugar candies, and a
wide assortment of bonbons. There were liqueurs for the younger people
and a choice of imported wines for the older guests.

Between the proficiency of Celeste and two young men on
string instruments such as the guitar and mandolin and the dexterity of
one of the chaperons, as well as Monique's, on the harpsichord, there
was more than enough music to keep the party lively.

The odor of citronella burning in little braziers hung
heavy in the air throughout the rooms, so that the large double doors
leading out onto the gallery that circled the house might be left open
to invite the evening breezes without bidding welcome to the mosquitoes
as well.

Monique and Celeste had perked up considerably by the time
the guests had begun to arrive, and the two sisters flittered about
prettily in their new summer gowns—Celeste in a flounced
organdy of sunflower yellow that brought out the highlights in her
honey-colored hair, and Monique in a whispering multiskirted silk of
soft blue-gray that echoed her eyes to perfection. There had been a few
brief moments when Monique had first sallied forth from her room that
she had looked so alarmingly pale that Vidal and her grandmother had
feared she might have been coming down with something, but once Mlle.
Baudier appeared on the scene lamenting over the amount of rice powder
her charge had piled on her cheeks, everyone breathed a sigh of relief
and the young girl was simply sent back to her room to wipe off some of
her "fashionably pale complexion".

"I can't imagine what comes over the child sometimes!"
Grandmother Chausson had exclaimed as Monique had stamped off under
protest to obey their dictum. "One minute she wants to go around half
naked and the next looking like a clown! Merciful heavens! What will
the girl come up with next?"

Although Monique was annoyed over the reaction she had
received for her efforts to cover up the pronounced rosiness of her
cheeks, she did find some consolation in the fact that the décolletage
of her new party dress was a little more provocative than usual.

As long as it was daylight, the guests ambled about the
grounds, strolling arm in arm or playing games under the trees and in
the garden. Only occasionally would they go inside to the dining room
where neatly uniformed servants busily kept two huge tables, covered
over with embroidered white linen, constantly replenished with tray
after tray of fresh food and drink so that the guests could serve
themselves whenever and as often as they wished.

As the afternoon waned, however, and dusk began to fall,
the party moved indoors. The colorful lanterns hanging from the sturdy
cypress-beamed ceilings swung gently now in the welcome currents of
air
wafting through the open gallery doors lining both sides of the large
double parlor and dining room that spanned the width of the raised
house, riding high on its massive brick pillars.

Two magnificent crystal chandeliers, pride of the
plantation since Grandfather Chausson had imported them from France
forty years ago, were lit, together with the many wall and floor
candelabra scattered throughout the rooms, so that the main salons were
aglow with myriads of candles and, as glimpsed from outside through the
open gallery doors, gave the appearance of an island of light shining
in the darkness… a shimmering fairyland hanging suspended in
midair.

Miguel Vidal discreetly remained in the background, not
coming out of his back bedroom to mingle freely with his cousins'
guests until the party had moved indoors and little musical recitals
and extemporaneous dance groups had begun to replace the outdoor games.
For the most part, he deliberately kept himself among the older guests,
trying to relieve Grandmother Chausson of some of the burden that had
fallen on her to play hostess to the chaperons who had accompanied the
younger guests. But there were several mothers who persisted in pushing
him into the company of their eligible daughters, since it was obvious
they considered the Chaussons' newly arrived relative from Spain to be
one of the best catches of the season. Before long, therefore, Vidal
found himself being forced to take a more active part in the
festivities and, on several occasions, even compelled to participate in
the dancing as the partner of some charmingly persistent young lady.

Monique's eyes followed her guardian's tall, lithe figure
as he moved about the fiesta, begrudgingly noting how he looked more
striking than ever in his olive-green frock coat and those clinging
nankeen breeches that showed off to such advantage the hard, lean
muscles of his thighs as he deftly went through the paces of a
quadrille. Fleetingly she remembered how he had once taught her and
Celeste those very steps during one of their music lessons…

But even as she watched him, anger stirred in her again.
First, that carrot-topped Azema Ducole, and now, those horrid little
coquettes Camille LeBlanc and Emmaline Dossier hanging on to him like
that all night! If she had needed any further evidence to back up her
conclusion that her guardian was a woman chaser, that evening was proof
enough for her!

At that moment she lifted her eyes to thank the owner of
the white-gloved hand extending a glass of anisette toward her. It was
Claude Roget, the older brother of one of her young friends at the
party. Claude was the same age as Miguel, yet
he
didn't find her too young to treat like a full-grown woman. She could
tell by the look in his dark blue eyes that he found her desirable. She
had sensed his gaze fixed curiously on her all afternoon. Of average
height, but well built, with his light brown hair neatly caught back
and clubbed at the nape of his neck, he was clad in a lime-colored
frock coat and sleek white breeches, set off by a matching vest of
striped silk. There wasn't a marriageable girl in the colony who didn't
want to snare Claude Roget, for he had been one of the most
sought-after bachelors in New Orleans now for a number of years.

Not that she had any ambitions to be the one to snag him,
but it did flatter her that he was showing so much interest in her. She
hoped her guardian was duly noting that she was every bit as much a
woman as that Azema Ducole or any one of those giggling girls
fluttering around him at that moment.

With as enticing a glance as she could manage from over
the top of her rose-scented lace fan, Monique rose, determined now to
do a little flirting herself.

The
full moon hung huge and heavy against the darkened skies,
casting a pale silvery streak down the length of the shadowy gallery.
There at the far end of the raised porch, where the shuttered doors
leading to the rear bedrooms were closed at the moment, a warm breeze
gently stirred the midsummer night.

"Monique… you're so lovely… so
lovely…" Claude was murmuring softly in her ear. His arm was
easing about her waist.

The sounds of the fiesta seemed distant now as they wafted
out through the open doors of the brightly lit front rooms. Monique
wondered whether her guardian had seen her come out on the gallery with
Roget. Perhaps he had been too busy being charming to that flighty
little coquette he was dancing with even to notice what she was doing.

Claude was pressing her closer to him, trying to persuade
the curves of her body to mold themselves all the better to his.

Suddenly Monique realized they were alone out there in the
night and had strayed much farther away from the others than she'd
really wanted to. After all, if she were too far away from her
guardian's eyes, how would he know that Claude Roget was trying to
court her?

"Please, Claude, we should be going back with the others,"
she told him, trying to disengage herself from his embrace.

But he was not to be put off.

"Wait, my dear, not yet," he insisted. "Come
here… behind these palmettos. No one can see us back here.
Come, don't be afraid."

His arms were locked around her, and he was pulling her
slowly but firmly into the shadowy niche behind the cluster of potted
palmettos adorning that corner of the porch, all the while whispering
meaningless phrases in her ear: "my little dove… my sweet
cabbage…"

Although his breath was heavy with wine, there was that
same masculine scent emanating from him… stirring
her… reminding her of Miguel. Lavender and
tobacco… it filled her nostrils and brought back
memories… awakened desires… If she closed her
eyes she could almost imagine she was in her guardian's arms
again…

Passionate lips were clamping over hers now and swift,
eager hands were beginning to explore her body. Oh, Miguel! Miguel!
This is the way it always happens in my dreams. She began to tremble
and instinctively parted her lips to that persistent tongue trying to
push its way past them. There was heavy breathing in her
ear… a hand was searching for her breast…

But no, somewhere in the midst of that wild confusion she
knew something was wrong. That touch was wrong… that
pulsating body pressed against hers was beating to a different
rhythm… a rhythm she didn't recognize or want to follow!

Her eyes flew open and she saw the eager face of Claude
Roget, moist with the heat of the summer night and his mounting
passion, hovering above her with half-closed lids. The sight of him
jarred her back to reality.

"Oh, no, Claude! No, I… I don't
want… please, let me go!" She tried to push him away, but
his arms only tightened all the more around her.

"Don't be a tease!" he chided. "You know you want me as
much as I want you." His breathing was coming faster, and the strength
of him suddenly frightened her. The tiny fists flying against his chest
were as ineffective as falling raindrops on a mountainside.

"Come now, my dear, don't make me beg for it," pleaded
Roget, pressing his loins harder yet against her and stifling her
protests with still another kiss.

The potted palmettos quivered violently as she struggled
with him in that crammed space where he held her trapped in his arms.

Suddenly the huge fanlike leaves parted and there, staring
down at them like an avenging angel, was the dark, contorted face of
Miguel Vidal.

For a moment both Monique and her overly amorous admirer
stared back in complete confusion at the cold fury looming above them.
Claude Roget's jaw dropped even as his arm dropped from the struggling
girl.

Free at last, but wide-eyed and trembling, Monique broke
away from the confinement of the potted plants and ran quickly to her
guardian. She had never been so glad to see him as she was at that
moment. But he only seemed to have eyes for Roget.

"Monica… go into the house," he told her
acidly, without so much as a glance at her. He was like a dark panther
ready to spring, not wanting to take his sights off his prey even for a
second.

She stood there, however, paralyzed with an even greater
fear now, for she had never before seen her guardian so furious. Even
Roget was visibly shaken, his olive complexion ashen, as he saw that
Vidal had donned his sword and was clutching its hilt restlessly.

"Now, now, Vidal… I… I hope you
understand that your ward came out here of her own volition," he
stammered.

"I suppose the young lady thought she could step out on
her gallery with one of her guests without being mauled," retorted
Vidal icily.

Despite the fear that obviously gripped him, Roget drew
himself up as best he could and decided to brazen it out.

"I think you're misjudging this situation, senor," he
insisted. "Your ward here gave me every indication that my advances
would be most welcome…"

Vidal's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword.
"Senor, take care. You're talking about my ward, who, as you well know,
is not of age yet and, therefore, under my protection."

Roget smiled meaningly. "Mlle. Monique may be very young,
as you say, senor, but she's woman enough to let a man know what she
wants."

Monique gasped indignantly. "I told you to stop!" she
exclaimed angrily. "I didn't think you'd… I never meant for
you to…"

Vidal still didn't take his eyes off Roget, nor his hand
from his sword hilt. "I told you to go into the house," he told her
sharply. Then once more he addressed Roget, who continued to stand
there cornered behind the palmettos.

"Let me make myself clear, senor," he said with calculated
calm. "When a man takes advantage of a young, inexperienced girl, no
matter how foolish she might be, it's called seduction."

The Frenchman gave a nervous laugh. "Aren't we making a
mountain out of a molehill, Vidal?"

"That molehill happens to be my ward's reputation, senor,
which you seem to take much too lightly."

Roget was growing increasingly uncomfortable with his back
pressing against the plaster wall and the pointed tip of a palmetto
leaf tickling his cheek.

"If I do, it's because the lady in question seems to place
little value on it herself."