Rachel Caine & Kristin Cast & Claudia Gray & Nancy Holder & Tanith Lee & Richelle Mead & Cynthia Leitich Smith & P. C. Cast (28 page)

Time for a girl to look her best
, she thought bitterly.

Patrice dabbed Florida water on her wrists and at her throat, and she tucked verbena sachets into the folds of her gown so that she would smell sweet no matter how warm the crowded room became. Powder would keep her face from becoming shiny and make her skin look even paler.

Althea tied a bit of lace around Patrice's throat and fastened a cameo in front. Then she laced Patrice into her corset; once it was so tight that Patrice felt almost dizzy, Althea proclaimed that she would now fit into her gown.

“Eighteen inches,” Althea said proudly as she helped Patrice step into her hoop skirt. “That's as thin as my waist, before I had you.”

Struggling for breath, Patrice did not care about any of that—at least, not until she saw herself in the mirror.

The satin of her dress was the palest lilac, and fine lace ruffled at the sleeves and upon the broad, bell-shaped skirt. Her bodice was low enough to show off the new curves of her bosom. Patrice knew there was no girl in New Orleans who could outshine her that night, and for a moment her pride eclipsed her shame.

But he wouldn't see her tonight. Instead, she would be on display to the men who sought to take her as a concubine—including, probably, the one who would take her away from Amos forever.

The thrill of anticipation she felt for tonight, for Amos, could not entirely eclipse the knowledge of her ultimate fate. She and Amos would become lovers soon, but her destiny was still to be a white man's mistress. His plaything. His possession in all but name.

“Pull tighter!” Althea grunted, bringing Patrice back to the here and now, in which she was lacing up her mother's corset in turn. “I swear, I don't know where your mind wanders off to sometimes.”

The carriage called for them just after nightfall. Patrice and Althea rode through the streets to the Salle de Lafayette. Horses' hooves and wagon wheels rattled against the cobble-stone streets, and the gaslights on each corner kept the dark at bay.

They swept inside the ballroom side by side, but that was the last moment Patrice would spend with her mother all night. As usual, Althea's friends drew her into a corner for punch and gossip. Patrice might have sought her own friends, who were at least as nervous as she was, but she wasn't in the mood for company.

The band tuned up its instruments as the men began to enter. At first, the arrivals were mostly the older gentlemen,
the ones Patrice already knew—the men who kept company with their mothers. She saw Mr. Broussard staring at her with ill-concealed interest, at least until Althea took his arm and began paying him the sweet compliments he liked so much.

Patrice also glimpsed a tall man with white hair—Laurence Deveraux, whose last name she and her mother kept although he had last visited Althea many years ago. His face reminded Patrice of her own. Although no one had ever dared to call him her father, Patrice knew the truth.

Really, she did not expect Mr. Deveraux to pay attention to her. He never had before. But it would have been nice for him to at least glance her way and see how pretty she looked in her satin dress.

Then the younger men came. One carriage after another emptied out on the walk below, each one filled with boisterous, laughing gentlemen, most of them fresh from university. They strode into the club proudly, their cravats bright against white shirts with high collars. They wore broad smiles and waistcoats of watered silk, and their laughter was too knowing for Patrice's taste.

One of them did not laugh.

He caught Patrice's attention right away. It was only because he was quieter than the others in the room, but he was handsome too. He seemed to be a few years older than some of the other boys, and he held himself with dignity. His chestnut hair was as long as a girl's.

His dark eyes swept through the room, bored and disdainful, as though he hardly expected to see anything that would interest him. Yet when his gaze arrived at her, he paused.

Patrice ought to have behaved like a proper lady, averting her eyes while unfolding her fan. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared back.

I won't play the demure little girl
, she swore.
Not for him or for anyone! If I let him see how much I hate him, then he won't court me. I'll have longer to spend with Amos.

Slowly, he smiled.

Surely he had to be smiling at someone else. Patrice turned her head and started to push through the crowd toward the window. It would be easy enough to lose him in the crush.

Then a hand closed over her shoulder.

She turned to see the man with chestnut hair, who had crossed the busy room with surprising speed. The white kid leather of his glove was soft against her bare skin. “There you are,” he said, as though they were old friends, long separated by chance.

Patrice pulled away. “Sir, we have not been introduced.”

“I am Julien Larroux.”

At first she didn't know how to respond. Unmarried girls and young gentlemen did not introduce themselves to each other; they waited to be introduced by a mutual friend or a chaperon. Julien had been rude to approach her like this, but it seemed ruder to walk away after he had given her his name. “Patrice Deveraux.”

“A delight to meet you.” Julien's bottle-green eyes focused on her with disconcerting intensity. “Tell me, Miss Deveraux, is this your first dance?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” She ought to have fawned on about how elegant the arrangements were, but Patrice did not want to
charm this man. If he desired her, then he was a threat; for the first time, she might be looking into the eyes of the man who would take her from Amos for good.

Her brusque answer seemed to please him. His lips were dark against his alabaster skin; Patrice found the contrast surprisingly sensual—yet not nearly as handsome as Amos's burnished dark features. “You do not flirt like the other girls.”

“You flirt just like the other boys. Though less politely, I should say.”
There, that will get rid of him.

Instead, Julien laughed softly. “You don't want to be here, do you?”

“Don't presume to know what I want.”

“You have pride. Something most of the women here are sorely lacking. Many of the men too. They crawl. They conform. You—you hold your head high. I believe you have spirit, Miss Deveraux.”

Patrice wished she could have slapped him. “If you can't behave properly, I'll have to fetch my chaperon.”

“In your heart, I think you don't care very much about proper behavior.” Julien's pale eyes seemed to be staring down into her soul, glimpsing her plan to welcome Amos to her bed. Patrice felt the almost irresistible urge to run away from him, as though he were a thief on a darkened road late at night instead of a a gentleman at a party. But fear and confusion kept her frozen in place. He continued, “I shall behave properly—for now. May I have the very great honor of the first dance?”

She could think of no valid excuse to refuse. “You may, sir.”

The first dance was the Virginia Reel, a bouncy dance that made everyone laugh and clap their hands. Usually Patrice enjoyed dancing a reel. With so many couples upon the dance floor—three dozen, at least—she should have had more fun than ever.

Not with Julien Larroux.

She told herself that he unnerved her merely because she could not immediately understand him. These other proud, boastful boys—she did not have to meet them to know them. They had no concerns any deeper than the shiny pomade in their hair. Julien danced as well as any of them, never missing a step, and he smiled all the while. But it was not the silly grin the other men wore; it was cool, almost mocking. Worst of all, he seemed to think that Patrice should be in on the joke.

The dance ended, and for a while she escaped to other partners—which was not much escape at all, given their frank appraisal of her charms. But halfway through the night, Julien reclaimed her for a waltz.

“A far superior dance, the waltz.” Julien's hand rested upon her back as he led her through the movements. He had thin, bony fingers that made her think of claws. The air was thick with the scent of camellias. “Much more intimate.”

“I quite agree.”

“Did your mother tell you that?” His eyebrow arched disdainfully. “To agree with anything I say?”

“She did say that, actually. Not that I pay her any mind. I said I agreed with you because I really do. As you should know by now, if you say something foolish, I'll tell you so.”

His smile broadened. Julien's teeth were almost unnaturally white. “You don't act like a young lady who's trying to catch a man.”

“Perhaps I'm not.” She thought of Amos and the way he had kissed her beneath the magnolia tree.

“Why else are you here?”

“I have no other choice,” Patrice said flatly.

Such honesty ought to have wiped the smirk from Julien's face. It did not. “You may have more choices than you think.”

“I suppose you're referring to yourself?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

So soon! Patrice had hoped to have another few months at home before she would have to give herself to some stranger. Yet here was Julien Larroux as much as asking for her already.

“Why me?” she whispered.

“Why not one of your vapid friends?” He nodded toward the corner, where an awkward young girl was valiantly attempting to flirt with chubby Beauregard Wilkins. “Because you wear your satin and lace the way knights once wore armor. I think you see life as a battle—and I like a fighter.”

Patrice knew she ought to have been grateful that at least the man who sought her was someone of intelligence and discernment. That, or she should have been terrified of the inner sense she had that something about Julien Larroux was simply
wrong
.

But all she could think was:
He's taking me away from Amos. Taking me soon.

After the party, during the carriage ride home, Althea was beside herself with glee. “They say that Mr. Larroux is new to the city, but clearly he's of good family, and tremendously rich. He's taken a whole suite in the finest hotel, and he's been asking about a mansion on St. Charles Avenue.”

Patrice shrugged. “Has he spoken to Mr. Broussard?”

“Not yet, but I expect he'll pay a call in the morning.”

“How can you be so happy?” Patrice whispered. “How can you want this for me?”

The cool, artificial smile never left Althea's lips. “This is all you could ever have,” she said. “What else could I want?”

Her implication, clearly, was,
What else could
you
want?

Julien Larroux was genteel and handsome. His wealth would buy her a well-appointed house, not unlike the one she'd grown up in, and countless beautiful dresses and bonnets. His slaves would clean her home. She might even have her own horse and carriage.

Those were the sort of prizes that Althea valued. Patrice wanted something else: freedom to make her own choices. As of tonight, any chance of that had been stolen from her forever.

At least I'll be with Amos tonight
, she told herself.
They'll never be able to take that away from me.

As they descended from the carriage, Patrice lifted her skirts to avoid the mud. In the corner of her eye, she caught a bit of movement at the fence beside the house.

Her pulse quickened.

That night, she lay in bed, tremulous with excitement and fear. Her thin cotton nightgown stuck to her sweaty body; the New Orleans heat did not relent, even after midnight.

We'll have to be very quiet
, she thought.