Nan Ryan (36 page)

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease.

The smile slipped and then completely left Malcolm’s face. He stared at Johnny, amazed and disappointed. Nevada stared too but she was not astonished. Nothing Johnny Roulette did surprised her. It did, however, make her angry. While she listened to his deep voice adding exactly the right inflection to every line of the beautiful sonnet, she had the overwhelming desire to slap his smug face.

Later refreshments were served to the gathering. Nevada, sipping from a frosted glass, stood at Malcolm’s side while he talked with Richard Keyes, Father Leonine, and the drama professor. The subject was still Shakespeare and his works.

A few feet away Johnny was surrounded by tittering females, laughing and nodding and hanging on to every word. When one of the spinsters innocently asked how he got any rest in the scorching hot weather, Nevada heard him reply, without the slightest trace of apology, that he always slept in the nude, winter or summer.

The straitlaced ladies giggled and gasped and gulped from their frosty drinks, envisioning, Nevada suspected, the big dark man naked in his bed.

Nevada loftily decided that the literary ladies were every bit as silly as Denise Ledet!

34

That night Nevada tossed fitfully in her bed. The hot, humid air was so still and stifling she felt she might suffocate. Not a hint of cooling breezes wafted into her stuffy, too warm room through the tall French doors thrown open to the night.

Her long batiste nightgown clung to her clammy skin and made her miserable. Soft and thin though the filmy fabric was, the gown seemed to weigh her down, making it difficult to turn over. And in her discomfort she felt the need to change positions constantly.

Nevada sighed wearily and punched at the fat pillows. She turned on her side and folded her hands beneath her cheek. She flopped over onto her back and flung her arms up over her head. She lay still for only a second, groaned loudly, and slithered around onto her stomach, irately jerking at the binding tail of her nightgown. Thrusting a bent knee out, she hugged the pillow and closed her tired eyes. They came immediately open. And she turned once more onto her side. She clawed at the choking ribbon tied securely at her throat, irritably pushed the garment’s gathered yoke apart.

Feeling as though she might scream to the top of her lungs, she lay there in the heat, suffering in the darkness. And all at once she recalled Johnny calmly telling the learned ladies of the Shakespeare Society that winter or summer he slept in the nude.

She knew it was so.

All too vividly she could recall the cold, rainy night in London when she had gone to his room and gotten into bed with him. He had worn no pajamas that night. If he slept naked on cold British winter nights, she had little doubt he did so on hot Missouri summer nights. And, further, she had no doubt that he was sleeping peacefully, naked, out there in his
garçonnière
while she was wide awake and miserable.

Nevada got out of bed. With swift, eager movements she jerked the hot, shackling nightie up over her head and off. Jaw set, she wadded it up and threw it as forcefully as she could across the room, not caring where it landed.

Naked, she sighed with relief, smiled, and got back into bed. It was, she’d have to hand it to Johnny, much more comfortable to lie on the silky sheets in the buff. Nevada sighed again. She stretched luxuriously. She folded her arms beneath her head and smiled foolishly.

She would, she thought as she dreamily drifted toward blessed slumber, never wear nightclothes again.

The next morning Nevada, rested and fresh, was in Miss Annabelle’s room, going over the preparations for the upcoming wedding.

Miss Annabelle, seated at a small Queen Anne desk by the window, was making a list of all that still needed to be done, while Nevada walked about, nodding and making suggestions.

Miss Annabelle said thoughtfully, “Quincy has already ordered the flowers … we go for the final fitting of your dress next Thursday. Let’s see … Mr. Snyder said he’d have the engraved invitations ready no later than mid-July. The bridesmaids and groomsmen will—”

“Know what I wish, Miss Annabelle?” Nevada cut in, coming to stand near the desk.

Miss Annabelle looked up. “What, dear?”

Nevada tilted her head. “I wish that King Cassidy was going to be here to give me away.”

Miss Annabelle’s light eyes at once grew wistful and she hastily lowered them back to the list. “Ah, yes, that would … that would be nice but …”

Miss Annabelle felt herself flushing at the mere mention of the man’s name. She’d not want anyone—not even Nevada—to know that the handsome silver-haired gentleman was in her thoughts far too often. It was ridiculous and she knew it was, but she sometimes daydreamed about King Cassidy as though she were a young girl. In her foolish fantasies she envisioned the handsome silver king coming for her. And taking her home. Home to the beautiful, beloved Delaney mansion on the banks of the meandering Mississippi above Baton Rouge where she’d grown up.

“Miss Annabelle, are you all right?”

“What? I—I’m sorry, dear … I suppose my mind was wandering.” She smiled apologetically. “That happens when you get to be my age.”

“I said Denise is going shopping with us this afternoon. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Dear,” said Miss Annabelle, reaching for Nevada’s hand, “would you mind very much if I stayed behind? It’s going to be another warm afternoon and I—”

“You stay right here,” said Nevada. “I won’t be gone long.”

Nevada and Denise were laughing when they came out of the expensive little shop on Locust. The discreetly small name above the establishment’s front door said simply
ANGELIQUE’S
. Nothing more. There was no merchandise displayed to be seen from the street. Rose curtains and pink shades covered the windows.

Still, everyone knew that the fashionable shop was
the
place to purchase the finest of ladies’ underthings. Frothy, frilly nightgowns and negligees of antique satins and Chinese silks. Skimpy tittle chemises trimmed in Belgian lace. Clinging camisoles and daring drawers and sheer stockings.

Each and every wispy “little bit of nothing” was especially designed to tempt the amorous male. The blushing brides of St. Louis—if they could afford it—chose their honeymoon lingerie at Angelique’s. No groom, it was whispered, could resist a bride outfitted at Angelique’s. It was the only way to begin a successful marriage.

Pleased with the beautiful things she had selected, Nevada was smiling when she came out of the shop. Turning toward the curb, she stopped dead in her tracks.

With his back to the waiting carriage, stood Johnny Roulette, smiting at Nevada. Elegantly outfitted in an eggshell linen suit, powder-blue shirt, chocolate-hued tie and a cream-colored broad-brimmed Panama, he was casually smoking a cigar.

“Johnny!” exclaimed Denise Ledet happily and rushed forward.

“Ah, Miss Ledet”—he tipped his hat—“how nice to see you again.”

Denise thrust out her hand, hoping he would kiss it. He did.

His dark gaze came to rest on Nevada. “Choosing something you hope will bring out the beast in my older brother?” He cut his eyes to the rose-curtained Angelique’s to let her know he was quite familiar with what was sold inside.

Angry, Nevada closed her lips tightly and narrowed her eyes but controlled herself. Speaking coolly, she said, “I would certainly hope that you, Mr. Roulette, are the only beast in the family.”

Johnny laughed and said, “Now, Miss Hamilton, just how could you know whether or not I’m a beast?” His dark eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

Nevada lost her temper.

“Get out of the way,” she snapped. “I want to go home.”

“I thought you might give me a ride,” said Johnny, his wide smile still firmly in place.

“You thought wrong,” Nevada replied acidly and nudged him aside, anxious to get away.

Smiling, he helped her up into the carriage and turned back to assist Denise. To the awed redhead he said, shaking his dark head, “Miss Ledet, I swear I can’t understand it I’ve tried ever so hard to become better friends with Miss Hamilton.” He flicked a glance at the steaming Nevada. “We are, after all, soon to be brother and sister.”

The hardening of Nevada’s delicate jaw bespoke just how desperately she longed to shout obscenities at him. Johnny stood there watching as old Jess flicked the whip to the horse’s backside. The carriage pulled away and rolled down the avenue with the red-haired, smiling Denise looking over her shoulder, waving madly.

Nevada stared straight ahead.

Denise, sighing, finally turned back around. She said, “I don’t know why you don’t like Johnny Roulette. As he said, he’s to be your brother soon and—”

“Who said I don’t like him?” snapped Nevada.

“Well, do you?”

Nevada rolled her eyes. “He’s arrogant and rude and I’m not all that fond of—”

Denise wasn’t really listening. She said, “When Johnny helped me up into the carriage, he smiled right into my eyes and I’m almost certain that he squeezed my waist more tightly than was necessary. I honestly believe he is interested in me! What do you think?”

Nevada tossed her dark head. “You wear skirts, don’t you? That’s all it takes.”

It was just after they had dropped Denise at her house and were on the final leg home that she saw him. Stryker, mounted atop a big bay stallion, turned a corner and came down the street in her direction.

She recognized him at once and said, “Stop! Jess, stop the carriage, please.”

Stryker caught sight of her, pulled up on his mount, and swung down out of the saddle even as Nevada scrambled down from the carriage and ran to meet him. Reaching the powerful giant, she quickly threw her arms around him but Stryker, glancing warily around, set her back.

“Miss Marie, you can’t be seen on the streets of St. Louis embracing a man of my class.”

Nodding, knowing he was right, Nevada said, “I’ve missed you, Stryker.”

He took her elbow and escorted her back to her carriage. “And I’ve missed you. Matter of fact, I was on my way out to Lucas Place. We need to talk.”

“Good. Follow me on your horse and—”

“No. This is better. I’m leaving and I didn’t—”

“You’re leaving St. Louis? But, Stryker, you promised that after I was married, you would—”

“And so I will. Until then, I’ll be in the employ of a gentleman recently returned from abroad. I’m traveling downriver with him; he’s looking to purchase an expensive piece of property near Baton Rouge.”

“That’s fine, but I want you here when—”

“And here I’ll be,” said Stryker. He helped her back up into the carriage. “Everything okay?” he asked, his ugly face suddenly stern, protective.

She touched his cuff. “I’m happy.” She smiled then and added, “Or I would be, if it would rain. This heat is awful, isn’t it?”

“You get on home where it’s cooler,” said Stryker and waited until she was gone before he remounted. He rode directly to the river and tethered his bay at a hitching post. Then he descended to the to the levee in the hot afternoon sunshine, where he patiently waited in the heat for the Mississippi steamer
Morning Mists
to arrive from New Orleans.

It arrived shortly before sunset.

His narrowed eyes carefully appraising every disembarking passenger, Stryker began to smile when a dapper man sauntered jauntily down the companionway, a varnished malacca cane in his right hand, an orchid in his buttonhole, his silver hair gleaming in the last blood-red rays of the setting sun.

As the sun’s last light slowly disappeared, Quincy Maxwell dressed for dinner. And as she dressed she considered the changes that had taken place in her life of late. Quincy wrinkled her patrician nose.

She did not like change.

She would have much preferred that the well-ordered life she had shared with Malcolm remain as it had been. Before Marie Hamilton.

But that was impossible, thanks to the late Louis Roulette! Quincy’s jaw tightened as she thought of the big dark Frenchman who had been John Roulette’s father and her second husband. A wealthy but common man whom she had married when Johnny was four years old, Malcolm seven.

No sooner were they married than she had cajoled the big Frenchman into making a new will. Suspicious, Louis had refused to leave his wealth to her. Instead he had drawn up an instrument leaving the bulk of his vast estate to the son—be it Malcolm or Johnny—who married first and produced an heir.

Quincy had been less than thrilled with the terms of the will but had figured that since her son was the elder, the money was safe; it would go to Malcolm. Looking back now, it was almost as though the disgustingly lusty, cruelly vindictive Louis Roulette had known that Malcolm would never wish to marry!

Well, no matter. Malcolm was going to marry—she’d seen to that. He would marry Marie Hamilton at summer’s end. And by the time another summer came to a close, a child of that union would have been born. And Louis Roulette’s fortune—and it was vast indeed—would become Malcolm’s. And hers. And she would waste little time ordering the crass, bothersome John Roulette off her property!