Iron Lace (19 page)

Yes, from the look of his wards at that moment, Vidal
suspected his days as guardian were numbered. Neither of them would be
a child much longer.

Not to be outdone by his elegant young wards, he wore his
own dark hair in the male version of the cadogan style, with the
shorter side locks neatly framing his face and the fall in the back
stylishly held in place by a black satin ribbon. Although some of the
older men at the ball still persisted in using powder on such formal
occasions, the younger ones like Vidal preferred now to wear their own
hair or wigs in natural colors.

Although Monique had instantly begun to fume from the
moment she realized that her guardian had arranged to meet Azema and
her brother at the ball, she couldn't help stealing an appreciative
glance at Miguel as he walked tall and proud beside her in his elegant
frock coat of garnet velvet. She had to admit begrudgingly at the
moment that he cut a fine figure from the tip of his high-crowned
beaver hat to the soft polished leather of his black top boots. How
jauntily his fine Toledo sword with its hilt of hammered gold swung
against the molded perfection of his thighs in their sleek white
breeches!

Grandmother Chausson had beamed her proud approval on her
attractive grandchildren as she watched them go off to the ball. Since
neither she nor Mlle. Baudier really cared about attending such
elaborate functions anymore, they had readily agreed to stay home and
keep each other company while Miguel and the girls went to represent
the family.

The large hall on the ground floor of the manor had been
turned into a spacious ballroom and it was ablaze with hundreds of
candles reflected again and again in the dangling crystals of the
chandeliers and the highly polished gold and silver of the countless
candelabra. Some of the guests were already dancing, but others seemed
to prefer the side of the room where the long tables of refreshments
were being kept constantly overflowing with fresh food and drink by
elegantly uniformed Negroes.

Despite the festive atmosphere, however, Vidal's hopes for
a pleasant evening soon dimmed when he noted the manner in which his
wards and his mistress greeted one another. From the moment the three
of them came face to face, the temperature of that mild September night
dropped by several degrees.

Azema, taller by several inches, looked disdainfully down
her pretty aristocratic nose at Monique, while the young girl tilted
the tip of her button nose all the higher and openly glared back.
Little Celeste, like a faithful echo, immediately reinforced her sister
with an equally seething stare.

All the while, Vidal stood uneasily to one side, silently
cursing his bad luck to have become involved with three such
ill-tempered females. Here he had made every effort to juggle them in
such a way as to please, if possible, both "camps", yet he didn't seem
to be succeeding with either one of them!

No sooner had the greetings been exchanged than Azema, set off to advantage in a
décolleté gown of
ice-blue satin, coyly rested her hand on Miguel's arm and announced she
wished to dance the next set.

Feeling obliged to attend her without further delay, Vidal
deposited his wards with a group of other young girls near their own
age sitting on the sidelines and, with a hasty excuse, allowed Azema to
whisk him off to the dance floor.

Bristling, Monique sat watching her guardian adeptly going
through the paces of a sprightly cotillion with his disgustingly
beautiful partner, while she fanned herself rapidly in frustrated rage
and tried to fight back her tears of vexation.

How she detested that pasty-faced, long-nosed witch!
Although two young men came up immediately to ask her and Celeste to
join them in the next set, Monique refused them without even noting who
they were. She kept her attention focused on her guardian and Azema
Ducole most of the time, and the longer she watched them, the greater
her chagrin. It had been bad enough to know about them, but to see them
together like that right before her very eyes was insufferable! To have
to sit there and watch her guardian dancing with that horrid woman only
brought home the bitter truth more forcibly than ever to her. She could
no longer deny the facts.

She tried closing her eyes for a moment, hoping to blot
out the sight of them together, but even worse pictures came to her
mind—her guardian making love to that woman…
kissing her… pressing his body close to hers. They were more
vivid than ever now!

When Maurice finally arrived and came over to her, she
gave him an especially warm welcome. Resolving to try to forget her
obnoxious guardian and his equally obnoxious mistress for a little
while, she readily accepted her friend's invitation to join the dancers.

Before long, however, it was Vidal who sought her out,
curious to see how she and her sister were enjoying the ball thus far.
He had seen Maurice Foucher dancing the last two selections with her,
and now, taking advantage of the fact that he had seen Foucher go off
to fetch some refreshment for her, Vidal had come over to talk to her.

"I hope you and Celeste are enjoying yourselves," he
began, thinking how the misty green of her gown had penetrated her eyes
as well. "From what I could see, you two have been dancing every set
since we arrived."

"And I see you've been doing the same," she retorted
coolly.

"Yes, I'm sorry to have neglected you until now, but I do
have to attend Mlle. Ducole. She's my friend's sister and—"

"And your mistress!" she finished for him, almost hissing
the word as she finally said it aloud to him.

Vidal stepped back as though she had struck him.
"What… what makes you say that?" he asked bewilderedly.

Monique tossed her head in an effort to appear nonchalant
about it all. "Oh, people gossip, you know," she replied airily,
flipping open her frilly fan of dusty pink tulle and lace and fanning
herself rapidly. "Besides, it's quite obvious… just the way
she hangs on to you… that she considers you her personal
property."

"Aha! Is that why you've been so belligerent toward me
lately, hardly addressing a word to me, and then only snapping when you
do?"

The little pink fan continued to flutter nervously.

"I don't like liars," she quipped.

"And when have I ever lied to you?"

"You say you're going out of town and you really just
sneak off with that… that fallen woman! I saw you with my
own eyes just this past Monday riding by with her in her barouche."

He flushed, but a twinkle was creeping into his dark eyes.

"Ah, yes, I forget sometimes that there's nothing more
self-righteous than untried virtue." He smiled. "It's true I sometimes
stop off at the Ducoles' before going home to the town house when I
return to New Orleans from my trips to the plantation, but I don't
recall lying about it. If you'd asked me, I wouldn't have denied it."

"But you always led us to believe you'd just arrived when
you came home…"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't realize I had to give a report of
my every movement to you. Actually, it never occurred to me you were so
interested in what I did every minute of my time."

It was Monique's turn to color. "It… it's not
that I'm interested," she protested. "You can have all the mistresses
you want. It's indifferent to me. What I… what Celeste and I
resent is the subterfuge."

"I only meant to be discreet. Was that so wrong?"

"What's wrong is that you're in a situation where you have
to hide anything in the first place."

"Touché!" He smiled. "I concede the point. Had I known you
objected so vehemently, I might have been more inclined to mend my
ways. Does my personal life really make so big a difference to you?"

She bit her lip and continued fanning herself.

"None whatsoever," she snapped crossly. "Your private life
is your own, Cousin Miguel. Just don't be a hypocrite about it!"

He sighed and his smile saddened a little. "You're so
young, little cousin. There are so many things you can't understand
yet."

"I understand enough to know that long-legged carrot stick
is your mistress, and that's more than I want to know already!" she
replied scornfully. "Now I think you'd better go back to her before she
comes over here to drag you off again."

He looked at her as one would at a petulant child who
required infinite patience. "You probably won't believe me, but I came
over here just now to ask you to be my partner for the next set. It's
going to be a quadrille, and I thought you might remember that
afternoon…"

Monique lowered her lids and fanned more violently than
ever. Of course she remembered, and it made her furious whenever she
thought how she had watched in secret those well-knit thighs flexing as
he'd danced just for her and Celeste. How she had thrilled to the touch
of those strong masculine hands as he had caught her and whirled her
around in the turns! But that had been before she'd learned that those
very same hands were caressing another woman and those fine thighs
holding Azema Ducole between them!

"I'm sorry," she replied curtly, "but I'm already promised
for the next dance."

"Then perhaps you can put me down for the next free one
you have?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, "but my dance card is filled.
I'm promised for the rest of the night."

He stood looking down at her defiant little figure in
frothy green trimmed with roses, trying to find some chink in that
delicate yet impenetrable armor where he might be able to get through
to her. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he acknowledged defeat.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "I'll leave you, then,
to enjoy the evening. I won't disturb you until it's time for us to go
home."

He turned and walked stiffly away while Monique sat
watching his tall, proud figure, so elegantly etched in the long-tailed
frock coat of dark red velvet. She brushed away the cloud of frustrated
tears blinding her eyes. Let him go back to that horrid Azema, she
thought angrily. After all, what could she expect of a Spaniard who was
a libertine!

Her guardian had stopped now to talk to Celeste, who was
still standing off to one side with the pudgy young boy who had been
her partner for the last set. Even from across the large salon, Monique
could see how delighted her sister was to accept her cousin's request
for a dance. She was immediately extending the little card dangling
from her wrist toward him so he could write his name on it. Celeste was
too gullible, thought Monique, annoyed with her sister for so readily
accepting their guardian's invitation.

At that moment, however, Maurice returned, holding a glass
of punch in each hand. There was an eager grin on his freckled
countenance. He had seen Monique's guardian conversing with her, so he
had deliberately waited until Vidal had left before approaching, not
wishing to have a confrontation with him if it could be avoided.

"I could see you seemed to be arguing with your guardian,"
he admitted as he apologized for his delay in bringing back her
refreshment. "It seemed more prudent not to interrupt, knowing how your
cousin feels about me. I hope you weren't having any words because of
me."

With a start, Monique looked at her friend, standing there
in his best finery, looking surprisingly aristocratic in his
purple-colored swallow-tailed frock coat and nankeen breeches. He'd
even made an attempt to comb his shaggy blond locks into some semblance
of orderly disorder, and the effect gave him a rakish look that was
rather appealing.

"No… no, it wasn't because of you," she replied
absently. "I was confronting him with what I knew about him and that
Ducole woman."

"I hope you didn't tell him I was noising it about?" he
asked, the smile fading from his face.

"Of course not. Your name didn't even come up in the
conversation."

Her eyes went back across the hall, singling out the slim,
erect figure of her guardian as he made his way back to Azema's side
through the couples milling around the dance floor. Maurice was saying
something to her, but she suddenly realized she hadn't heard a word.

The orchestra began to play the opening chords of another
quadrille, and she watched angrily as she saw Vidal leading the lissome
redhead out on the floor again to complete a group of dancers. With a
sigh she turned back to Maurice.

"I'm sorry I didn't hear you," she confessed. "You were
saying?"

"That, all considered, your cousin does have a right to
his private life. He's a bachelor and a free agent. But…
but… you really didn't hear what else I said?"

"No, I'm sorry. I was momentarily distracted."

"Well, I… I was only trying to point out to you
that, just as Vidal has a right to live his own life, so do you. After
all, you'll be eighteen this coming January. You should begin thinking
about making your own world… one more to your liking."

"Yes, I'd like that," Monique admitted. "But the courts
wouldn't emancipate me unless my grandmother and guardian said they
agreed to my being completely independent before I was twenty-one, and
I doubt they'd do that."

"I do, too," agreed Maurice, "but there is another way."

Monique's eyes lit up. "I'd like that. If only I
could… especially before that Azema Ducole completely
dominates my guardian and succeeds in convincing him to make an honest
woman of her. I hate to think of the day when he walks in with her on
his arm as the new lady of the house! I use the term 'lady' lightly, of
course!"

"If you were married yourself, neither he nor anyone he'd
marry would have anything more to do with you," Maurice declared,
anxiously watching her reaction to the idea.

The frilly pink fan stopped fluttering for a moment.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I confess the thought has occurred to me,
but…"