be her husband’s singular honor to pry apart those maidenly knees to expose his properly unresponsive bride to the shocking sounds and movements attached to matrimonial consummation, all done in the modesty-preserving pitch-black of an unlit bedchamber. Almost never motivated by love, these awkward alliances seemed necessary to produce the requisite pure-blooded heir to a Creole dynasty.
Lucien refused to compromise his life’s happiness by shackling himself in such a sham union. As well, marriage to him would not be fair to any woman—whether or not she was Creole. His subversive activities were far too dangerous to allow him the freedom to commit to a long-term relationship.
He thought of Anne Weston. He hadn’t seen her since the Belvedere docked in New Orleans, but he’d thought about her every day, every night. He’d tried to obliterate her golden image from his mind by paying more frequent visits to his mistress, Micaela, trying to lose himself in an orgy of undiluted sex. But it hadn’t worked. He only wanted Anne more and more.
Sometimes he whiled away an hour or two making up excuses to visit Katherine Grimms. Common sense always prevailed, and the visits were never paid; at least no acknowledged visits. But late at night he sometimes drove his carriage down the street where she lived, pausing across the way and watching Anne’s bedroom window.
Twice he was lucky enough to see her lean out of the opened window, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders. A tree near her window looked as though it could be easily climbed. As each day passed, that tree seemed more and more tempting. Someday he would climb it and enter Anne’s bedroom while she slept. And then…
He dared not imagine further. It would be enough just to look at her. Or perhaps just to kiss her once…
Unexpectedly a cool breeze blew softly against Lucien’s heated skin. He arched his neck and closed his eyes, relishing the freshness, the crispness of it. It reminded him of the mountain wind that blew through Switzerland’s snowy vales into northern France, and of the bracing river wind on the banks of the Thames. It was a taunting whisper of another time, another place.
How he wished he could be himself, as he had been in Europe! How he longed to talk to Anne with nothing between them but the truth! This masquerade was crushing his soul…
There was a knock at the door. Lucien had dismissed his small staff of servants for the night, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. He moved across the shadowy room with the confidence of familiarity and the soundless grace of an athletic man used to maneuvering in the dark. He opened the door a crack.
“Lucien, I know I shouldn’t be here, but—”
Lucien grabbed the man and pulled him into the room, darting his head through the doorway to scan the hall before shutting the door behind him and locking it.
“Christ, Armande, you’re damned right you shouldn’t be here!”
“No one saw me.”
“Are you sure?”
Armande nodded his head. “I was very careful.” He swallowed hard and threw Lucien a beseeching look. “I had to come.”
Lucien observed his friend by the weak light of a single-candle wall sconce just inside the door. Tall and lean with copper-brown skin, dark hair, and hazel eyes, Armande was a free black of mixed blood. He was dressed in a neatly tailored gray suit, as if he’d just come from one of the ticketed balls being held in the public rooms. Sweat trickled down his temples, more from agitation than from the heat, Lucien surmised.
Armande was obviously very upset. Lucien was ready to believe whatever he told him, because Armande was the best spy and, more importantly, the most trusted friend a man could hope for. They’d met in the intellectual society that orbited the university in Paris, where Armande had studied to be a physician. Armande was the son of a quadroon and a wealthy American banker in New Orleans.
In Paris, he and Lucien had become instant
Lucien refused to compromise his life’s happiness by shackling himself in such a sham union. As well, marriage to him would not be fair to any woman—whether or not she was Creole. His subversive activities were far too dangerous to allow him the freedom to commit to a long-term relationship.
He thought of Anne Weston. He hadn’t seen her since the Belvedere docked in New Orleans, but he’d thought about her every day, every night. He’d tried to obliterate her golden image from his mind by paying more frequent visits to his mistress, Micaela, trying to lose himself in an orgy of undiluted sex. But it hadn’t worked. He only wanted Anne more and more.
Sometimes he whiled away an hour or two making up excuses to visit Katherine Grimms. Common sense always prevailed, and the visits were never paid; at least no acknowledged visits. But late at night he sometimes drove his carriage down the street where she lived, pausing across the way and watching Anne’s bedroom window.
Twice he was lucky enough to see her lean out of the opened window, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders. A tree near her window looked as though it could be easily climbed. As each day passed, that tree seemed more and more tempting. Someday he would climb it and enter Anne’s bedroom while she slept. And then…
He dared not imagine further. It would be enough just to look at her. Or perhaps just to kiss her once…
Unexpectedly a cool breeze blew softly against Lucien’s heated skin. He arched his neck and closed his eyes, relishing the freshness, the crispness of it. It reminded him of the mountain wind that blew through Switzerland’s snowy vales into northern France, and of the bracing river wind on the banks of the Thames. It was a taunting whisper of another time, another place.
How he wished he could be himself, as he had been in Europe! How he longed to talk to Anne with nothing between them but the truth! This masquerade was crushing his soul…
There was a knock at the door. Lucien had dismissed his small staff of servants for the night, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. He moved across the shadowy room with the confidence of familiarity and the soundless grace of an athletic man used to maneuvering in the dark. He opened the door a crack.
“Lucien, I know I shouldn’t be here, but—”
Lucien grabbed the man and pulled him into the room, darting his head through the doorway to scan the hall before shutting the door behind him and locking it.
“Christ, Armande, you’re damned right you shouldn’t be here!”
“No one saw me.”
“Are you sure?”
Armande nodded his head. “I was very careful.” He swallowed hard and threw Lucien a beseeching look. “I had to come.”
Lucien observed his friend by the weak light of a single-candle wall sconce just inside the door. Tall and lean with copper-brown skin, dark hair, and hazel eyes, Armande was a free black of mixed blood. He was dressed in a neatly tailored gray suit, as if he’d just come from one of the ticketed balls being held in the public rooms. Sweat trickled down his temples, more from agitation than from the heat, Lucien surmised.
Armande was obviously very upset. Lucien was ready to believe whatever he told him, because Armande was the best spy and, more importantly, the most trusted friend a man could hope for. They’d met in the intellectual society that orbited the university in Paris, where Armande had studied to be a physician. Armande was the son of a quadroon and a wealthy American banker in New Orleans.
In Paris, he and Lucien had become instant
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