guardian was holding her hands than
because of the turns. In spite of herself, she couldn't help admiring
the sinewy grace of those long, athletic limbs as the smooth, clinging
breeches encasing his thighs set off to advantage the fascinating
ripple of the muscles beneath them.
Celeste was applauding merrily. "Oh, please, Cousin
Miguel, let me do the turns again!" she begged excitedly.
Almost reluctantly Monique yielded her guardian to her
sister, but she continued to watch him through veiled eyes while he
caught the younger girl's hand and repeated the steps with her.
Afterward, he proceeded to show them other geometrical patterns for
both the cotillion and the quadrille, which he told them were in vogue
in Europe at that moment.
Monique found herself looking forward to her turn with her
agile guardian. That aroma of lavender and tobacco that she had come to
associate with his nearness… the feel of his hands holding
hers tightly as he whirled her around… it all left her
giddy, as though she had been imbibing too much wine.
When finally, after another half hour or so, Vidal brought
his impromptu dancing lesson to a close, his tireless wards seemed to
be bounding with more energy than when they had begun. Despite their
protests, however, he insisted that he should withdraw and allow them
to go on with their more serious studies of Spanish and French grammar
which still had to be hurdled that day, urging them to put some of
their revived energies into their forthcoming language lessons.
As Monique watched her guardian walk across the room to
the exit, admiring the disturbing rhythm of those fascinating thighs
once more, she found herself thinking how different things had seemed
between them when they had been dancing together. The memory of his
presence lingered. There was something about that proximity that always
disconcerted her. It was so difficult to tell what her guardian was
really like. Every time she thought she knew, he'd say or do something
so completely unexpected…
That afternoon, for the first time, Monique paid a little
more attention than usual to her Spanish lesson. Perhaps if she learned
more about Miguel Vidal's language, she could understand him a little
better, too.
Chapter Nine
Monique
and Celeste had been getting ready all day. Since early
that morning, they had had the upstairs maid running in and out of
their room keeping the coals hot in the brazier for the curling iron.
Every time the door opened or closed, snatches of girlish
giggles could be heard, and there was such an air of excitement in the
household that Mlle. Baudier had finally agreed to suspend classes for
that day so the girls could devote themselves entirely to their
elaborate preparations for what was to be their first outing to a real
theatrical performance.
Grandmother Chausson sent up two large tortoiseshell combs
for them to use with the full-sized black lace mantillas that Cousin
Miguel had brought them from Spain. Despite Monique's momentary
resistance to wearing something so "unpatriotic" as a typically Spanish
headdress to the performance, once she saw how elegant and ladylike the
graceful black lace mantilla made her look, she offered no further
objections.
Vidal had dressed in his royal-blue silk frock coat and
breeches, tastefully trimmed with a silver and blue brocade vest and
his finest white cravat and cuffs. Then he had gone down to enjoy a
glass of wine with Grandmother Chausson in the parlor while he waited
for his cousins to finish getting ready.
Five-thirty in the afternoon seemed like an unusually
early hour to him for a theatrical performance, but Grandmother
Chausson had explained that many of the theatergoers liked to finish
out the night—sometimes until dawn—at the
festivities offered on the ground floor of the theater itself or the
nearby Cond é Ballroom.
Since the city's first and only theater was only a few
blocks away and it was still daylight, Vidal planned to walk there but
to return in
because of the turns. In spite of herself, she couldn't help admiring
the sinewy grace of those long, athletic limbs as the smooth, clinging
breeches encasing his thighs set off to advantage the fascinating
ripple of the muscles beneath them.
Celeste was applauding merrily. "Oh, please, Cousin
Miguel, let me do the turns again!" she begged excitedly.
Almost reluctantly Monique yielded her guardian to her
sister, but she continued to watch him through veiled eyes while he
caught the younger girl's hand and repeated the steps with her.
Afterward, he proceeded to show them other geometrical patterns for
both the cotillion and the quadrille, which he told them were in vogue
in Europe at that moment.
Monique found herself looking forward to her turn with her
agile guardian. That aroma of lavender and tobacco that she had come to
associate with his nearness… the feel of his hands holding
hers tightly as he whirled her around… it all left her
giddy, as though she had been imbibing too much wine.
When finally, after another half hour or so, Vidal brought
his impromptu dancing lesson to a close, his tireless wards seemed to
be bounding with more energy than when they had begun. Despite their
protests, however, he insisted that he should withdraw and allow them
to go on with their more serious studies of Spanish and French grammar
which still had to be hurdled that day, urging them to put some of
their revived energies into their forthcoming language lessons.
As Monique watched her guardian walk across the room to
the exit, admiring the disturbing rhythm of those fascinating thighs
once more, she found herself thinking how different things had seemed
between them when they had been dancing together. The memory of his
presence lingered. There was something about that proximity that always
disconcerted her. It was so difficult to tell what her guardian was
really like. Every time she thought she knew, he'd say or do something
so completely unexpected…
That afternoon, for the first time, Monique paid a little
more attention than usual to her Spanish lesson. Perhaps if she learned
more about Miguel Vidal's language, she could understand him a little
better, too.
Chapter Nine
Monique
and Celeste had been getting ready all day. Since early
that morning, they had had the upstairs maid running in and out of
their room keeping the coals hot in the brazier for the curling iron.
Every time the door opened or closed, snatches of girlish
giggles could be heard, and there was such an air of excitement in the
household that Mlle. Baudier had finally agreed to suspend classes for
that day so the girls could devote themselves entirely to their
elaborate preparations for what was to be their first outing to a real
theatrical performance.
Grandmother Chausson sent up two large tortoiseshell combs
for them to use with the full-sized black lace mantillas that Cousin
Miguel had brought them from Spain. Despite Monique's momentary
resistance to wearing something so "unpatriotic" as a typically Spanish
headdress to the performance, once she saw how elegant and ladylike the
graceful black lace mantilla made her look, she offered no further
objections.
Vidal had dressed in his royal-blue silk frock coat and
breeches, tastefully trimmed with a silver and blue brocade vest and
his finest white cravat and cuffs. Then he had gone down to enjoy a
glass of wine with Grandmother Chausson in the parlor while he waited
for his cousins to finish getting ready.
Five-thirty in the afternoon seemed like an unusually
early hour to him for a theatrical performance, but Grandmother
Chausson had explained that many of the theatergoers liked to finish
out the night—sometimes until dawn—at the
festivities offered on the ground floor of the theater itself or the
nearby Cond é Ballroom.
Since the city's first and only theater was only a few
blocks away and it was still daylight, Vidal planned to walk there but
to return in
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