Emerald Ecstasy (9 page)

He took a small wood carving from his pocket. He'd carried it with him for weeks, not certain he should give it to her. But now he wanted her to have it, and hoped she'd cherish it as much as he cherished the hours carving it. “For you, madam.” He held it out to her.

She took it from him, a thoughtful look on her face. Amelie examined the smooth finish of the oak, the beauty of line and detail and could almost imagine Claude's strong, sure hands whittling every inch of Amie's form. She smiled at him, her tears still wet on her cheeks. “You carved Amie for me?”

He nodded, too overwhelmed by her beauty to speak. Every morning when he situated her on the porch to watch the horses graze, she always fastened her gaze on L'Amour Impossible, or Amie. He knew of her love for horses, how she was the best horsewoman in the area before her accident, and though he'd never tell her this, he held Daniel responsible for making her a cripple. Daniel had once been his friend, but he'd never forgive him for abandoning this rare and fragile flower of a wife. A woman who would never ride again, a woman he had grown to love.

Tenderly she stroked the carving. “No one has ever done such a thing for me. Especially for me.
Merci,
Claude.
Merci.”
She took his hand which rested on her gown and gently brushed her lips against it. This simple, unassuming act brought tears to his eyes and a fire to his blood. If he hadn't spotted Bruno Haus meandering toward the house, he'd have kissed her then and there.

Claude drew himself up, standing stiffly before Amelie. “Good day, Frau Flanders,” he said much too pleasantly. “What have you there?”

“A carving of a horse,” she told him and cupped the carving in her hands, to keep it hidden from his leering eyes.

“Ah, one of Claude's pieces, I'm sure. Still whittling your time away, boy? You ought to be working hard like the rest of the slaves instead of holed up here with such a pretty lady.” He turned his full attention on Amelie, taking in her delicate beauty and wishing that he could be the one to spend his time with her, not some dark-skinned uppity wood-carving slave. “I'd be wary of this one; I hear the slave girls raving over his prowess as a lover. I hope he doesn't get ideas into his head and attack you, Frau Flanders.” He openly licked his lips, his eyes resting on the slight cleavage her gown revealed. “If you have any trouble disciplining him, I'll be more than happy to oblige.” He patted his whip.

Amelie felt Claude's anger and saw it on his face, but she calmly gazed into Bruno's face until he was forced to remove his eyes from her bosom. “Thank you for your kind concern, sir, but Claude is an admirable slave. If he does give me trouble, I shall be only too happy
not
to turn him over to you. Now, good morning. Claude, take me inside.”

They left a dumbstruck Bruno on the veranda, and when Claude had carried her upstairs and settled her on her bed, his mother came into the room to see if she wished to nap.

“Not now, Lallie. I'm not the least bit tired.” She took the woodcarving and placed it on her nightstand. “Thank you, Claude,” she said again, her smile so bright he felt blinded.

“It was nothing,” he told her and left the room, but shortly after he returned to his own room, his mother entered, unannounced. Lallie had been at Green Meadows since Claude was five years old, and she knew her son as well as she knew everyone in the house. Her dark eyes expressed sad concern.

“She is the master's wife,” she said, standing in the doorway, her hands on her wide hips.

“So?”

“Don't pretend with me, Claude. I know what it's like to love a white person. And I know it can bring only misery and tragedy.”

Claude went to his mother and held her. “The only tragedy, mama, would be not loving her.”

When Philippe's carriage stopped before a small house, he turned to Lianne. “Here we are, chérie. I hope you like it.”

Peering from the window Lianne noticed a small town house whose original sandy color was now faded, but Lianne didn't mind. She fell in love with it almost immediately, liking the large front window and the side entrance, but most of all because Philippe told her it was only a short walk from the opera company.

“The house has been empty for some time,” Philippe explained. “I haven't used it since … well, never mind that. Suffice it to say that I'm most pleased you shall be living here.” He helped Lianne from the carriage, then Maria and the baby. When they entered the house, a servant waited to see to their belongings and immediately showed Maria and her charge to their room. Philippe had ordered a speedy departure for Maria, not wishing to put up with her disapproving looks or the whinings of the child. He wanted Lianne to himself, without any interruptions.

Lianne surveyed the room and decided she liked what she saw. The furnishings were in the period of Louis XV and covered in a green and peach print. Two small chairs matched the sofa, and all three pieces surrounded a low mahogany table. Philippe escorted her into the small dining room which contained a round table with only four chairs. The carpet was dark green, and the drapes were gold. He didn't bother to show her the outside kitchen, telling her she'd never need to enter it. After all, that's what the servants were for.

He passed her quickly through the baby's room which Maria shared, and then threw open the door to Lianne's bedroom. Lianne caught her breath and turned a stunned eye to Philippe.

“This is so very grand!” Her gaze took in the tall tester bed which was covered in lacy folds of fabric to the floor. A white lace counterpane covered the bed and was embroidered with tiny, gold lilies of the valley. Across the French doors, which led to the courtyard, hung the same lace fabric. The remaining furniture of night stand, dressing table and chair were made from the finest oak and polished to a high sheen.

“It looks like something from a fairy story.” Lianne's eyes glowed.

He turned her face, easing her chin into his hand. Her eyes tilted at an angle, almost like a cat's. “You're a fairy princess, my love. My princess. Everything must be perfect for you.”

A slight smile parted her lips. “This is beyond my wildest dreams. I haven't seen anything like this since my room at the chateau.
Merci,
Philippe.” She reached up and kissed him, but immediately knew she shouldn't have. His arms flew around her waist, and his mouth refused to loosen its hold on her lips. He had always acted the gentleman, attending to her every need, but now he seemed like an animal and reminded her of de Lovis. She didn't want Philippe to take her like this, not because he had arranged a house for her, decorated a room for her, and she should show her gratitude. So, she pushed away, forcing him to break his hold on her mouth.

“Lianne!” His voice was ragged, desire still in his eyes. He made a move to grab her again, but she escaped him, putting the chair between them.

“Don't rush me! It's too soon.”

“Mon Dieu,
I am but a man, and you inflame my senses. What do you want of me? Shall I play your devoted admirer lapping any crumbs of affection you throw to me? You're not a cold woman, Lianne. Don't hold back from me. How long has your husband been dead? At least a year since your child is nearly the same age. You must crave a man's touch by now.”

She hadn't told him that André died nearly three years ago and that her child wasn't his. She allowed everyone to think Désirée was her husband's daughter. How could she tell him that it was too soon for her to forget the touch of a stranger, a man she'd never see again, the father of her child? At that moment she felt pity for Philippe and almost wished she could make love to him. “Give me time, Philippe. That's all I ask.”

He watched her for some seconds, knowing he could force her but that would win him nothing but her hatred. He loved her and wanted her, so he decided he'd play the devoted suitor until she was ready. Originally he had wanted to bed her first, then marry her. Now he felt the marriage should come first. After all, he didn't want to compromise her or have her scorn. He wanted her love, and he'd wait, however long it took.

He sighed and held out his hand to her. “Come here. I promise I won't attack you again.”

She believed him, and she inched closer, then took his outstretched hand. He held it tightly. “I love you, Lianne, and I'll do anything to prove that love. I want you for my bride, but I know you're not ready for marriage, that you have dreams of an operatic career. So, to prove to you how much I do love you, I shall take you within the hour to the opera company and let you meet the director. When the new performance begins within the next few weeks, I assure you that you shall perform.”

“You intend to buy me a place in the company?”

“No.” He read disapproval on her face. “I know that you will be accepted on your own merit.”

He tickled her chin with his fingertips. “However, it doesn't hurt to have friends in high places.”

She relaxed. Her eyes brightened, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “I'm very lucky to have you, Philippe.”

“I love you very much,
chérie
.” Those are the words he whispered to her, but he didn't tell her that she wouldn't perform long with the opera company. He wanted her to devote herself exclusively to him and Belle Riviere.

True to his word, Philippe introduced Lianne to the opera's director less than an hour later. Although she was nervous and wondered if she'd be able to squeak out a note, she sang beautifully and immediately became a member of the company. Told to report for rehearsals the following day, she kissed Philippe soundly on the lips once they were outside the building.

“Thank you for coming with me and helping me,” she said.

Philippe laughed. “If I'd known I'd receive such favors, I'd have dragged you here the first moment we met.”

She tucked her arm through his, and since it was such a lovely afternoon, she insisted they walk the distance home. Philippe agreed but told the driver to follow along. He felt like a king with Lianne on his arm, aware of the admiring glances sent their way. She was more than beautiful in a gown of topaz silk, her shining tresses piled upon her head, and her face turned upward to his. With love? He hoped so. He wanted her more than any woman in his life, and he'd have her.

To Lianne, Philippe was more than a friend, a would-be lover. In the few weeks they'd known one another he had become as important to her as André when he was alive. She found herself depending upon him, asking his advice and hoping he cared for her daughter. Certainly she knew Philippe's faults, his indolence for one, but she felt that with time and with the right woman, Philippe would change. Though she knew he wished to marry her and she seriously considered it, she couldn't rush. Marriage was much too important to her to be entered into lightly.

Just as they neared the house another carriage passed them at a leisurely pace. Lianne glanced at it, taking in the two inhabitants. A woman with skin almost as fair as hers was seated with a small boy of about five. The child, too, was fair-skinned but Lianne noticed the woman wore a brightly colored turban which branded her as a quadroon. The Spanish government had decreed all quadroons cover themselves in a respectable fashion, so the women had respectfully done so, except their headdresses were so elaborate that everyone took notice of them. Huge golden hooped earrings enhanced her appearance and in a bright orange gown which matched the turban, Lianne thought she was the most exotically beautiful woman she'd ever seen. The child beside her resembled her but it was clear to see that his father was white. His hair was a curly black and set off his fair skin and the startling blue color of his eyes.

As the open carriage drew nearer, the woman looked at them and her own beautiful face registered surprise and something else, like hurt. The boy began to point and say something, but his mother quickly whispered into his ear, and he sat in regimented silence. But his eyes sadly lingered on Lianne and Philippe until the carriage turned the corner.

Philippe's own face had turned ashen. “Who were they?” Lianne asked.

“Who, my dear?”

“The woman and the little boy. They seemed to know you.”

“You're mistaken, Lianne. I haven't any idea who they are. Just a quadroon and her bastard out for a drive, I suppose.”

Did she imagine she felt the pressure of his arm tighten? She stopped walking. “Philippe, I'm well aware that many white men have quadroons for mistresses. Is she your mistress?”

“You do come to the point. Yes, I do know them. Her name is Chloe and she is the mistress of a friend of mine.”

“Then why didn't you tell me that from the start?”

Philippe shrugged. “I didn't want to expose you to such things. Decent women aren't to mention the quadroons.”

“But surely ‘decent' women know of their existence. Sometimes you baffle me so, Philippe, by your desire to protect me like a fragile flower. I've been married and have had a child, I do know such women exist and am not the least offended.”

“Really?” He looked surprised.