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My Secret Yankee
by T. D. McKinney and AimEBOOK_AUTHOReacute;e Masion
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Romance

Copyright ©2004 by T. D. McKinney and AimCOPYRIGHTNOTICEeacute;e Masion

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

MY SECRET YANKEE

by

T. D. MCKINNEY AND AIMÉE MASION

* * * *

ISBN 1-59279-318-5

Amber Quill Press, LLC

www.amberquill.com

DEDICATION

In memory of Major Chatham Roberdeau Wheat, the “Gentle Tiger of Louisiana” and the companies that comprised his battalion. They had the most to risk and the least to win and the courage and savvy to risk it anyway. Where have all the good men gone?

CHAPTER 1

HDQRS. DEPARTMENT OF THE GULF,

NEW ORLEANS, MAY 15, 1862.

As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subject to repeated insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of New Orleans in return for the most scrupulous non-interference and courtesy on our part, it is ordered that hereafter when any female shall by word, gesture, or movement insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the town plying her avocation.

BY COMMAND OF MAJOR-GENERAL BUTLER:

GEO. C. STRONG,

ASSISTANT ADJUTANT-GENERAL AND CHIEF OF STAFF.

[Source: "General Order #28” O.R.—SERIES I—VOLUME XV [S#21]

Union Correspondence, Orders, And Returns Relating To Operations In West Florida, Southern Alabama, Southern Mississippi, And Louisiana From May 12, 1862, To May 14, 1863: And In Texas, New Mexico, And Arizona From September 20, 1862, To May 14, 1863.—#1 General Orders, No. 28 (Butler's Woman Order)]

* * * *

“Not only does he murder our menfolk, he's proclaimed us all whores!” Angele Valmont exclaimed as she read the posted proclamation. Growing anger and dismay twisted her pale face into a mask of intense resentment. “That ... bastard!"

“Mam'selle!” her maid gasped. “Such language!"

“Hush, Essie,” she ordered the quadroon woman, her voice sharp edged and biting. She ignored the dismay on her abigail's face. “Major-General Butler is most certainly exactly what I just called him.” Her Creole French accent was less evident than it usually was. Anger made her English clipped and precise.

“Actually he's worse than that. I doubt he is human at all. He's nothing but an animal!” She pointed at the proclamation. “This is unconscionable. That a lady be regarded as a common prostitute for any real or imaginary insult is just barbarous.” She reached up and grabbed the edge of the order.

“Oh, Mam'selle Angele, don't!” Essie cried. “There's no telling what the Yanquis will do to you if you tear that down.” She looked about as if expecting one of the blue-clad soldiers filling Jackson Square to clap irons on her charge's wrists.

Angele stilled. The bright sun shone down and the faint breeze that stirred the light net of Angele's veil was humid and hot. Her upper lip was heavily dewed, a testament to the discomfort of the black crepe mourning she wore for her brother William. He had fallen nearly seven months earlier at Leesburg in the battle of Ball's Bluff. She had declared to one and all she was glad he'd died before he could see his beloved New Orleans fall under the dominion of the accursed Yankees. Indeed she continued to wear mourning for the fall of her city rather than for the loss of her brother. She could return to colors any time she wished, according to Creole custom, but had returned to the full black of deepest mourning the day the United States flag had been raised over City Hall, only eschewing the heavy veil in favor of a lighter bit of net and lace that barely concealed her face. She felt to go fully veiled would have been poor taste as well as too uncomfortable and impractical for a New Orleans summer.

She stared a moment more at the latest example of General Butler's hated martial law. She might sacrifice her comfort to the point of wearing dull black in the heat of a Louisiana summer, but she wasn't William, willing to die for a cause without considering the consequences to the family. If anything happened to Angele, her sister would be devastated and there'd be no one to see to the warehouses and businesses here in town. She held the order for a moment before she allowed her hand to fall back onto her prim black skirts.

“Let's go home, Essie. I need to write to Mademoiselle Charlie. It may be best that she not visit me for a while yet. She should stay home with her godfather. Thank the Holy Virgin she has Cousin Séverin to take care of her. He is such a good man.” She sighed. “My sister won't like the news, but New Orleans is no place for her right now."

With rage burning her fair cheeks, she turned and automatically twitched her skirts away from a Union officer who stood behind her. She didn't want her clothing so much as to brush his boots. She stared with decided desdain at his bulk blocking her way.

“Come. I can't bear to be near these savages,” she said to Essie.

“Pardon me, ma'am,” he said with a tiny, ironic smile and a tip of his hat.

She blinked as a tiny chill raced up her spine. He had the most melodic voice she'd ever heard. Those three words were so astoundingly beautiful they robbed her of the power of speech. She stared up into a face as lovely as his voice.

“And I agree that this order is ludicrous,” he said as he stepped out of her path. “Butler is an imbecile."

Her cheeks flamed beneath her veil, the chill in her spine turning to fire as it reached her face. He was utterly magnificent and now he showed sensibility as handsome as his face. She rediscovered her voice enough to agree with him.

“He most certainly is. And a complete blackguard, just like every Yanqui ever born.” She ignored Essie's tug on her sleeve and gazed up at the officer realizing how very tall he was. The crinkles around his eyes spoke of long days spent staring at broad horizons from beneath his wide-brimmed cavalry hat. His shoulders were broad and his whole aspect radiated quiet strength. He was undoubtedly as handsome and manly as anyone she'd ever seen, but it was his look of outrage at the posted order that won her complete admiration. He obviously found the posted order as repugnant as she did. The indignation on the officer's strong face as he read General Order Twenty-Eight caused her heart to warm as much as her flushed cheeks.

He moved slightly and the sun glinted on his buttons and braid. They stood out against his uniform calling the deep blue to her attention. She realized with an unpleasant shock she was openly admiring a Yankee officer in the middle of a public square. It wouldn't do for anyone to see her conversing with a Yanqui. She knew that social conventions required she offer him her coldest glare and sweep away, but her sense of fairness wouldn't allow that. His words were too admirable for her to render him that sort of insult. Indeed she had already insulted him and her breeding wouldn't allow such a thing. Oddly unsettled by his clear gaze, she framed an apology.

“I suppose I should say like most Yankees. Your sentiment does you honor, sir, and sets you apart from your fellows.” It was true. With his bright eyes and musical voice, he was like no man she'd ever seen. He was certainly like no Yanqui she'd ever heard of.

Reluctant to leave him but knowing it was impossible to continue conversing openly with him, she gave in to Essie's silent entreaties. With head high, she turned away from the Cabildo and toward Royal Street. As they reached the corner she was unable to resist an impulse and turned back to find the Union major staring after her with an arrested expression, visibly riveted by her proud carriage and strong words. He touched his hat in salute and she couldn't fight the urge to raise her hand briefly in a surreptitious farewell.

The entire walk home and at odd moments over the next few days, the memory of his beautiful voice, fine form, and finer convictions played through her mind and she found herself wishing he was not her enemy.

* * * *

Major James Darling tapped his pen on his desk and tried to pull his mind away from thoughts of the woman he'd seen outside the Cabildo. Her outrage wasn't without basis. General Butler's order was a grave insult to the entire female population of the city and by extension to their gentlemen. James had a feeling there would be repercussions from the order such as Butler never dreamed. And they would all be deserved. James feared the general had given the rag and tag of the army far too great an opportunity to abuse their authority. He knew there were several who would be willing to use the order for their own pleasure. Luckily he also knew many of his fellow officers were doing their best to stress that all women be treated courteously.

James smiled a bit. There was no doubt these women who so insulted Butler's sensibilities were patriots to a seditious cause. However, regardless of what Order Twenty-Eight implied, they were most certainly ladies.

The woman at the Cabildo was obviously so. Dressed in deep mourning from her bonnet to her shoes, only the angry blush on her cheeks and the faint wine of her lips had relieved the somber black of her attire. He wondered which battle had claimed her husband. It didn't really matter; so proper a lady shouldn't be exposed to the possibility of insult because of Butler's insane order.

James set aside his pen and strode to the tall window of his quarters to look outside. The area before the Saint Charles Hotel hummed busily. He could see the tents of the soldiers below him and dimly hear the noise of their bivouac. Civilians, most of them women, moved up and down Saint Charles Street. They either stared in fascination at the soldiers or avoided looking at them at all. After over a month of occupation, the Northern soldiers were still a new attraction to many of the citizens. Major-General Butler's newest orders had only deepened the overall animosity and curiosity the townsfolk felt for the Union forces. There was trepidation on nearly every face—black, white, or in between—that gazed at the encampment.

The bright sun glared down from a firmament white with heat and moisture. James would have given a month's pay for a clear blue sky and a dry breeze. His last post at Fort Kearny was as different from this assignment as could be imagined. He longed for the clean, fresh scent of a Nebraska prairie wind. Instead, the foul smell of the city flowed through the open casements. Even in May it was nauseating and the temperature sweltering. Growing up on his father's farm in Maryland had been hot and humid, but not like this. He'd never been anywhere that compared to this city.

James had spent his adult life in uniform. The second son of a moderately well-to-do planter, the only career paths open to him had been the military and the priesthood. The priesthood was out of the question—Bible thumping had never appealed to him, and he was sure celibacy would kill him. So he'd used every connection he had through his mother's family to gain an appointment to West Point. He'd done well enough there to come out with a decent commission. He'd spent the years since on the frontier fighting Indians and exploring the wilds of the West. Nothing could have suited him better, but with the outbreak of the war, he'd been sent back east of the Mississippi to join Farragut's expedition to take New Orleans. Now he was expected to oversee a city full of civilians. It chafed. He'd already applied to be sent back to the frontier and prayed the approval for that change came swiftly.

He glanced back at the half-finished letter on his desk. How could he describe the mingled smells of damp decay and raw sewage that ruined his appetite, the stifling heat and moisture-heavy atmosphere that made it hard for him to breathe, and the hostility of the townspeople that made simply walking down the street a chore? It would be beyond his gentle parents’ understanding. James sometimes wondered why Farragut hadn't simply blown the levee and let New Orleans sink back into the fetid swamp that had birthed it. It might have been better for all of them.

He reread his father's letter and dipped his pen into the ink well. The deep indigo liquid began to dry as he held it poised above the page for long minutes. How could he write to his mother and father how horrible he found it here? He couldn't add to their worries and concerns. So with a few brief assurances that he was fine and his agreement that his mother and sisters should be sent farther north for their own safety, he sealed and addressed his letter. It would go out on a packet ship that night and be in Maryland in a few weeks. Would that he could join it! For perhaps the first time in years, he missed his home and family.

His sense of loneliness grew as he added to his journal all he couldn't say in his letter home...

This city has a worldwide reputation for hospitality, though I've yet to see any indication of it. So far I have experienced only scorn and the most intense dislike I have ever felt. It would not be exaggeration to say the citizens of New Orleans loathe every thing connected to the Union and especially those men who wear her uniform. I fear I return their loathing, not so much for the individual man or woman, for I understand that the burden of being defeated must be hard for them to bear. My loathing is for the city as a whole. I have never been in a place so hostile and unwelcoming. The kindest word I've yet had was from a lady who said I was not a complete blackguard like most of my kind. If a creature so refined and genteel considers me in such a light, I have no wish to know what a less polite soul thinks of me. As it is, I have no recourse but to feel all of New Orleans hates me.

And so does the lady, he thought as he put away his journal. Regardless of her final parting wave, her words had made clear her opinion of all his kind. With a sigh he lay back on his bed. He felt too exhausted to do anything else. The wretched Louisiana heat sapped his strength and he tried not to think of what July and August would be like. He closed his eyes and a vision of her seemed painted on his inner eyelids. He didn't know why he couldn't get thoughts of the well-bred widow out of his mind. Her face, faintly obscured by the delicate net of her veil, haunted him. He wished he could have seen her rosebud lips turned up in a smile rather than set in haughty displeasure. Fleetingly, he wondered what those lips would feel like against his own. He quelled the thought immediately. He wouldn't countenance such disrespect for a decent lady, even in his own imagination.

Unhappy with his thoughts, he drifted into a restless sleep populated by dreams of the widowed lady from the Cabildo. He might be able to govern his conscious thoughts, but his sleeping mind dwelt on the rose-wine of perfect cupid's-bow lips and the glimpse of lily-pale skin above the sable lace of her collar. In his dreams those lips and that skin tasted as sweet as candy and as intoxicating as whiskey. In her illusionary arms James found the first peace and happiness he'd experienced since he came to New Orleans.

CHAPTER 2

Charlie snorted her indignation and Séverin Valmont spared a glance at her from his claw-footed desk.

“What is it, cherie?” The unladylike huffing was not characteristic of Charlie's dainty femininity. She had been reared under exacting standards of gentility by Séverin's own mother, a lady universally admired for her elegance and grace, but sometimes Charlie exhibited manners as masculine as the curious nickname an American friend had bestowed upon her in childhood.

“That man is a boor and a barbarian,” she exclaimed.

Séverin did not ask which man she meant. While Charlie might refer to far too many people in indecorous slang, only one person was villainous enough to spoil her enjoyment in Angele's letter—Major-General Benjamin Butler.

Charlie was always eager to ride for the post each day hoping for letters from her sisiter or some of her girlfriends in town. Most news was welcome in their quiet lives out in the country where the days had once been rife with hunting and socials. News about the major-general never failed to irritate her.

Butler had managed to secure the ill-will of the citizens he governed in a very short time. It was as though he had a talent for passing orders that enraged New Orleans and took peculiar pleasure in administering them. The president of the Confederacy had advised his officers to hang the man as a criminal rather than hold him as a prisoner of war should Butler ever be captured and remanded to their custody.

Butler and his Federal troops had only occupied the city for a little more than a month.

Séverin repressed a sigh. After his fall and brutal wounds at Manassas—wounds that left him with a game leg and a horror of warfare—the mild-mannered planter preferred to remain at Bougival, the beautiful home his family had lived in since they'd fled the uprisings at Saint-Domingue, and forget the war as much as he could. That wasn't easily done. Even had his healing injury allowed him to travel, he would have avoided New Orleans like the plague now that it was occupied territory.

As a Confederate officer, albeit an inactive one, he could be arrested and incarcerated or even hanged. Yet the Butlerian regime seemed eager to overlook his voluntary services to the Confederacy. Séverin grimaced at how easy it had been to arrange for his safe return. The bribes masked as contributions and war loans paid to the major-general's administration were cheaper than Séverin expected—the Union patriots did not place a premium on preserving their country at all costs—but Séverin grudged every penny.

Still, what else could he have done, fled to the swamps and lived as a renegade? Séverin glanced at Charlie. He was the closest male relation she had in the world now that William was gone.

Despite the loneliness and inordinate boredom of the abandoned countryside, Séverin opted to remain there. The food crops, a large portion required by Butler to feed his troops, had to be tended and carefully watched if they wanted any profit from it. There was always the dangerous possibility that Confederate troops might appear to commandeer food and supplies and destroy the crops so that the Federal troops could not use them. A watchful eye and cautious vigilance were needed on the plantation more than ever.

Besides, it was midsummer in New Orleans itself, and the weather was hot and damp. The putrefying air in the Vieux Carré streets intensified with the sweltering heat, a climate that encouraged various fevers and ill tempers, and the influx of Federal troops and refugee slaves seeking asylum only added to the risks of disease.

In any case, the thought of facing Bluecoats governing the most beautiful city he'd ever seen nauseated him.

At least he didn't have to worry about money for the bribes now or for maintaining his family when this was all over. Séverin had been clever, investing large portions of his fortune as well as his cousins’ abroad. It was obvious enough to anyone paying attention, the Confederate Cause was doomed. New Orleans, the main port for the South, was lost to them. Every other port in the South was under Union blockade. It was only a matter of time before the army ran out of food, supplies, and munitions. Séverin had taken good care that his family would not emerge from this wreckage as paupers. He owed that much to William.

“That person has issued a ridiculous order permitting his own soldiers to abuse ladies in the city!” Charlie practically sneered the words. Then her face saddened. “Angele says I can't come to town yet."

“But that's all right, chere,” Antoine reassured her in a velvety voice. “You just don't worry about visiting New Orleans for a while. You stay home with us.” His liquid Cajun pronunciation pulled her a little bit out of the sulks.

Séverin smiled. He understood perfectly. Antoine had pulled him out of sulks often enough over the years.

Antoine Brouillette was Sophie Valmont's godson and he had come to live with them permanently when he was eight years old, after enduring a particularly harsh thrashing from his drunkard stepfather. For all his reputation as a hotshot duelist, ruthless gambler, and general black sheep, the Cajun man was as true blue as a man could be. He had been Séverin's best friend since childhood, hunting, fishing, and getting into the general and not-so-general mishaps young men often got into.

Antoine had accompanied Séverin, William, and Angele on their tour of Europe back in 1851. He'd followed Séverin and William into the war, although he hadn't stayed in the fight a moment longer than it took to collect Séverin's discharge and help him on the train to follow William's body back to New Orleans.

His place in their social circle was unique. He probably couldn't be called a gentleman, though he expressed the charm and manners of a gentleman when he chose to, and his family's farm was sparse indeed compared to the opulence of Bougival. His general appearance—tall, lean, and fit, with well-cut features, brilliant aquamarine eyes, and the softest black hair waving over his broad shoulders—made more than one lady lament the fact that Antione's ancestry combined Natchez Indian and perhaps even Negro heritage with the Acadian French.

Charlie had known “Cousin Antoine” since she was a baby. Séverin knew she could no more imagine Bougival and Séverin without Antoine than she could imagine springtime without fresh strawberries and thick sweet cream. Neither could Séverin.

Charlie folded the letter back into its envelope and sighed. Séverin felt a twinge of compassion for his goddaughter. He rather missed her long flowing curls tied back in satin ribbons and her ruffled pinafore dresses. Seventeen and small for her age, she'd reluctantly made the change to long skirts and snoods at Cousin Suzanne's shocked insistence that she was too old to show her pantalettes and ankles.

Séverin knew William Valmont had planned an elegant party this year, an opera ball to formally introduce his youngest sister to all the local society families who'd known her and her family since before she was born. Now, instead of sweet music for dancing and an opulent banquet so rich and generous the dinner table groaned from the weight of its bounty, Charlie had come to “rest” quietly at Bougival with her godfather after William died. Instead of a fantastically beruffled, lace-covered white gown and blush roses in her hair, she wore a plain dark dress with only a touch of black soutache braid to trim it and a locket with a clipping of her dead brother's dark curly hair in it.

When Séverin had gently urged Charlie to let him present her later in the year perhaps, she'd only smiled sadly and told him the party just wouldn't be what she'd thought it might and she didn't want it. Now it was too late. The city was under martial law and the major-general had forbidden any lavish private entertainments.

“It's not enough that he hung that odious Union flag over the Place D'Armes,” Charlie fretted. “Or that he defaced Andrew Jackson's monument.” She stood up, slim shoulders squared. Her mouth, full and tender, bloomed into a pout she continued to complain. “He wants to insult women, too?"

She flounced around the table and crossed the study to her favorite window seat where she settled with arms folded. Charlie missed the amused glances her godfather exchanged with his best friend while she struggled to make her skirts and crinolines accommodate her desire to sit leaning upon the window frame with one foot tucked beneath her. When she was comfortable and her skirts neatly piled in a lopsided bunch she took refuge in a sigh.

“I wish Major Wheat was here,” she fumed. “The Tigers would give those soldiers what-for!"

Antoine chuckled. “Yeah, m'belle, they would.” Powerful fingers, long and lean as the rest of him, fingered the hilt of the large Bowie knife he always wore sheathed on his belt. The Cajun had indulged in some of that wild brawling the Tigers were so famous for on the war front. Séverin struggled not to laugh. It was a poor example to Charlie.

The thought cheered the young woman and her pretty pout retreated, supplanted by a contagious smile. “If the poor Yanquis are so distressed by sharing our city—when they weren't even invited to begin with—just imagine how honored they'd feel if the Tigers arrived to escort them out!"

“And play the fiddle while they're at it,” Séverin added glibly. A mischievous sparkle danced in his eyes to match his cousin's.

The varied “gentlemen's companies” in the Confederate Army had originally scorned the Louisiana Tigers, a makeshift battalion led by Major Chatham Roberdeau Wheat, when they had first arrived in Virginia. With their colorful Zouave uniforms, long knives instead of swords for hand-to-hand combat, and frequent drunken, rowdy brawling among their own battalion as well as with other units, General Stonewall Jackson doubted their ability to be of much serious use in battle against the enemy troops.

Séverin couldn't help grinning. Once Stonewall had any time to see the battalion in active combat, he'd probably change his mind.

“I don't believe a single man in the Union Army can possibly be a gentleman,” Charlie declared. She sighed a second time, dark eyes feasting on the lush grounds outside.

The gardens were culled of their complexity, growing only a few varieties of flowers. Séverin focused most of the plantation's labor on farming food crops, sugar, and a little indigo. The profits weren't the best, and he had to bribe various Union patriots to get shipments imported through the blockades. Still, Bougival retained a stately elegance in its reduced circumstances many plantations lacked.

“Why don't you change your dress, cherie? Antoine and I'll take you for a drive."

Séverin understood the young girl's restlessness. She'd been raised mainly in the country at Bougival and was accustomed to long pleasant walks and riding for exercise and fresh air. Séverin kept her indoors as much as he could nowadays. Things seemed quiet at Bougival, but there was a war going on. Deserters or vagabonds could be hiding on the acreage. Séverin had no intention of allowing Charlie to discover firsthand whether they were friendly or not. Giving her a gun to protect herself would not help. Charlie had never shot a rabbit, much less a person.

Antoine pressed his lips together to hide a smile as Charlie climbed awkwardly out of the window seat.

“I don't think you ought to go out again, Charlie.” Suzanne Brouillette Valmont, Antoine's sister, filed into the study, an elegant cloud of pale lavender silk and rose sachet. Stray gilded hairs stirred over her coiffure as she fanned herself with a palmetto fan. “You've already ridden out for the mail. You'll get too much sun."

Séverin glanced at his brother's widow. A wave of resentment surged through him and was stifled by a stronger wave of reluctant sympathy. Slender and petite, Suzanne's family connection made her a suitable chaperone for Charlie, although her temperament had seemed unstable to Séverin since he'd returned from Europe just before the war broke out.

Séverin had always thought Suzanne was high-strung for his elder brother Michel's pacific nature, but their marriage had been too short-lived to be remembered as anything but happy. Suzanne's wedding had been an impossible social triumph, catapulting a Cajun small farmer's daughter into the tight ranks of the Creole elite. Her husband's early death had demoted her from the pending position of mistress of the house to a childless dowager relative.

“Charlie your dress is all rumpled on one side! You can't sit down like that and stay tidy!” The palmetto fan's edges scratched the blonde lady's silk basque in agitated flutters.

Antoine's shoulders rippled. “I say we should just put her in britches. No one care if they crumpled.” He grinned without a trace of repentance or concern before his sister's glacial frown. His Cajun dialect thickened to molasses. Séverin knew Antoine despised his sister's efforts to reinvent herself into a hallmark of society and Suzanne resented her brother's efforts to remind her of their roots in less exalted soil.

Suzanne's voice dropped one accusing octave and she turned back to her niece. “Your Aunt would expect you to listen to me!"

Whether the loss of the coveted situation as a grand planter's wife was combined with real grief for her husband's passing or not, Suzanne had never been the same since Michel's death. Denied the place she'd expected, Suzanne devoted inexhaustible energy towards her new responsibility in life, turning Charlie into a lady with rigid attention to propriety and, Séverin suspected, a touch of jealousy as well.

Séverin waved a languid hand. “Charlie looks peaked, Suzanne. The air will do her good. In fact...” He stifled a jolt of pain and rose gracefully from his own seat. “I could do with an airing myself. Would you like to join us?"

“No. Thank you.” Suzanne's clear blue eyes met Séverin's in ladylike reproach before she looked down at her lace-ruffled sleeves. “I thought Charlie might like to go through your mother's wardrobe. Maybe some of the dresses might be cut down, made to fit her.” She tilted back her regal blonde head so that she seemed to be looking down at Charlie when the women were about the same height. “She'll need new things when she goes to New Orleans."

“Maybe tomorrow,” Séverin replied with a soothing nod. It hadn't registered to Suzanne that there would be no “season” in town that year. No opera, musicals, or theatre, and very few balls or parties. Suzanne had always been a little flighty and she couldn't seem to accept that the war had changed things. “Would you ride with us, then?"

“No. Thank you,” she answered in the same toneless inflection. She looked down at her smooth lily hands. “I might get freckled.” Suzanne turned away and swept out of the room without another word.

Séverin smiled at Antoine when Charlie sighed in relief impossible to conceal.

“Go on and change, petite.” Séverin pulled a bell cord near his desk to order up the open buggy. Antoine handed him his cane.

He waited until he heard Charlie's quick footsteps on the stairs before he opened his desk drawer to lift out his pistol and tuck it neatly under his waistcoat.

CHAPTER 3

Angele Valmont stared in immobile horror at the Union soldier who held her second-best black bonnet in his thick-fingered hands. Her wrist hurt and burned where his big hand had wrenched it when she'd tried to slap him just moments earlier. He'd only laughed at her as he'd twisted it with pleased cruelty, shattering any illusions she might have had about her ability to command him. A smirking, superior smile still lingered on his lips.

“Well, would you lookee there. She's got red hair,” he said in an accent she could barely understand. Nasal and harsh, it grated on ears used to the soft French of the Creoles and the drawls of the Confederate Americans.

“You reckon all of her hair is red?” a second soldier asked, his pale mustache standing out against his too-ruddy skin. Sweat speckled his forehead as the morning sun shone down on the infantry insignia on his kepi cap and glinted hot and mocking on the brass buttons of his companions’ uniforms. The stench from the open sewer nearby was only slightly less than that coming his body.

“Well, yeah, it ain't got no gray in it that I can see,” the third of her captors said, his vacuous blue eyes faintly confused.

The blond soldier shook his head, pushing his pale hair off his face and back under his cap. “Not on her head, you idiot! Between her legs.” He grabbed at Angele's skirts as if to lift them.

She shrank back in abject horror at being touched by such rabble, but there was only a brick wall behind her and no way for her to escape the pawing hands and lascivious grins of the soldiers. Terror such as she'd never known clutched at her soul the way the Bluecoats clutched at her dress. No man had ever dared to offer her violence before. She had always been able to quell any advance with a lifted eyebrow and a haughty glare. These ruffians were impervious to her usual tactics and she was unexpectedly defenseless.

“Leave me alone. Go on and leave me be,” she managed to say, though she was ashamed at how weak and trembling her voice was.

No Valmont had ever been branded a coward, but she had never felt helpless before and it rendered her afraid for the first time in her life. She knew exactly what these men intended to do to her. The greatest dread every woman in the city had was to be alone at the hands of the Yankees with no rescue to be had. Now she faced the brutal reality of what New Orleans had feared ever since the Union fleet had sailed up the river. There was only an empty street and these beasts wearing the forms of men who would take her body any way they wanted.

It was insane such a thing could happen. She'd simply walked to the offices of the family shipping concern as she did nearly every day, done her book work, seeing that such business as they had was being handled competently, and walked back. The family name and position had always protected her. No one would dare accost Angele Valmont; it was unthinkable. The dockworkers all knew her and had likely worked for the Valmonts. And they knew anyone touching her would face Séverin Valmont's pistol and Antoine Brouillette's Bowie knife.

The gossips tsked over a well-born woman handling business affairs, but they blamed it on the way Phillipe Valmont had reared her. They accepted it because it was hardly her fault Phillipe was misguided enough to leave the running of his shipyards to his daughter. And they all admitted she was far more suited for it than poor William had been. So they'd become acclimatized to her daily trek to the office. She had done so since she was twelve, first with her father and then alone in the years after he'd died.

But today, simply because she had underestimated the threat the Yanquis posed and had been foolish enough to believe she could continue to walk out alone, these brutes had accosted her. They claimed she'd shown contempt for them, though she'd done nothing at all, and was subject to Butler's Woman Order. That perhaps was the worst aspect of all this, these animals had the legal right to treat her any way they pleased. She had no recourse. They would use her as a common whore and unlike many genteel ladies, she knew exactly what that meant. She'd never been naïve. She was twenty-seven years old and far more knowledgeable in the ways of the world than most women twice her age were. These men intended rape and anyone who tried to assist her would be risking their life.

That new horror rose to torment her. She had no doubt she could scream and some brave New Orleans man would come to her aid. She also had no doubt he would be shot down by these marauders or hung as a traitor for standing up to them.

Regardless of what might happen to her, she couldn't allow that. She had witnessed poor Mr. Mumford's execution—hanged for no better reason than striking the Union flag off a state building before the Yanquis had even taken possession of the city—and she had no desire to contribute gallows-fodder to Butler's ruthless regime. She had seen how horrible William Mumford's death was. The memory of it would never leave her. She could not allow that to happen to any man for her sake. She wouldn't give these monsters the chance to murder an innocent man. Nausea gripped her at the very thought.

So when she heard a seam rip under the blond soldier's hands and felt air flow across her bare skin, she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. She would not scream. It occurred to her this was the way she could fight back. She was a Valmont; she would not show them her fear. She wouldn't give this scum that satisfaction. Regardless of what they did, she would not allow them to break her spirit. She would not allow them to defeat her. As he laughed, she forced her eyes to the face of the beast that would take her first. She would not quell before him. She wouldn't let him make her scream. They might kill her, but they would never make her cry or beg. She was a Valmont and Valmonts did not beg. She bit down harder as he reached for her bared flesh.

“That's enough. Let her go,” a forceful voice rang out.

Angele's gaze turned from her attacker. She saw a tall man astride a buckskin horse glowering in fury at the men surrounding her. A second, slighter man sat a fine chestnut, his face as disapproving and angry as his companion's.

“M'aider, plaire.” Even as she managed to whisper that disgustingly weak plea for help, the taller man was dismounting.

His green eyes were hard and filled with loathing as he glared at the soldiers. Angele barely registered he was wearing the same uniform as her attackers.

“I said that's enough! Take your hands off the lady,” he ordered.

“Major, ain't you heard? There ain't no ladies in New Orleans, only women of the streets. This ain't nothing but a whore,” the fat-fingered soldier said as he tossed Angele's bonnet up, his hand out ready to catch it.

The tall officer grabbed the bonnet, pushing Fat Fingers away and placing himself between Angele and the other Union soldiers. “I'll have you up before a courts martial."

She had heard that beautiful voice before—a pleasing, faintly hoarse baritone. The sun glinted from his light hair and the hilt of his sword. He might not be clad in armor, but he was certainly as beautiful and golden as any knight-errant she'd ever seen depicted by paint and brush. He'd invaded her thoughts and dreams for a week and now when she needed him most he appeared.

“Consider yourselves all on report.” There was a hard, bright edge of pure rage in his voice.

“Aw now, Major, you can't do that. General Order Twenty-Eight lets us treat any disrespectful woman like they ought to be treated. She was rude to us, so we arrested her and now we can use her like the Rebel bitch she is.” Blondie laughed. “Come on, join the fun."

The sound of a pistol cocking silenced any further argument. “I believe the major asked you to stand away from your ‘prisoner.’ General Order Twenty-Eight does not excuse disobeying the direct command of a superior officer,” the still-mounted officer said in a deep, bored voice though his gray eyes were bright with fury. “Disobeying such an order does, however, give me the right to shoot you down like the dogs you are.” There was a hard tint to his soft familiar Southern drawl.

A second gun cocked, and Angele saw a large pistol in her rescuer's hand. The tall officer's broad shoulders blocked Angele's view. She couldn't see how the three miscreants reacted to the officers’ threats. She could see nothing but her rescuer's blue-clad back and the sun-streaked hair that curled gently about his collar. He was a reassuringly solid, protective wall between her and her would-be rapists. She had never seen anything more wonderful in her life.

She felt light-headed for a moment. When the dizziness passed, she discovered her assailants were moving away. Her rescuer was also stepping away. She had to force herself not to call him back to her side. She wasn't prepared to face the world without his comforting bulk between her and it. What would she do if he left her alone on the barren street? She vowed silently to never leave the house again without her pistol.

To her intense relief, he gathered his horse's reins and tossed them to his friend. “Wes, tend to Caesar. If you'll see these three to the stockade, I'll see the lady home."

“Of course, Major.” The officer tipped his hat to her in respect. “Mademoiselle V—” He stopped, as if realizing how very inappropriate it would be to mention a lady's name aloud in such a situation. “Mademoiselle."

Gratitude filled Angele as her dizziness returned. This other officer knew her then, but he was obviously a gentleman and behaved accordingly.

She allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes for just a moment. She didn't hear the man's reply and didn't care. Whatever he had to say didn't matter. Undoubtedly she knew him and would be able to place a name to his face if she was clear-headed, but she was too disoriented and distressed to think. He'd helped her hero and she was thankful to him.

The monsters who had threatened her were leaving and her rescuer was staying. That was the only thing of any importance. Even now she could hear the creak of his boots as he returned to her side. It was not without some anxiety and trepidation that she found the courage to look up.

When she did, it was directly into the anxious face of her rescuer. What she saw there caused her fears to flee. He had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen, full of compassion and concern. There was no hint of lust or avarice in them. She knew in her heart he meant her no harm. He was a savior not an abuser. Overwhelmed by the caring in those silvered green eyes, she leaned back against the wall and concentrated on not swooning dead away at her Yankee hero's feet.

CHAPTER 4

"She's going to faint," James thought in panic.

He had no idea what he would do with an insensible woman on a public street. This situation was completely outside his experience and he had no inkling how to proceed. He'd been a callow youth when he'd last attended balls and parties where he had a chance to interact with ladies. Even then the women would not have been such creatures as this one. His family holdings and antecedents weren't such that he moved in the first circles of society. He was used to the wives and daughters of small planters and businessmen. What to do when a delicate lady felt faint after having her life and virtue threatened was not a scenario they'd ever discussed at West Point either.

His frontier experience was of no help. There were few white women at any of the outposts. And they'd all been pioneer farmer women suited to birthing children and helping plow a field, their work-reddened skin and rough linsey-woolsey shirts little different from their men's. None of them had been delicately bred ladies with snow-white skin untouched by the sun and fine gowns spread over generous hoops. James didn't know what to say to her, much less what to do if she fainted.

Looking at her ghostly face, he saw there was blood on her chin and he realized she was injured. The need to tend to her immediate requirements gave him some direction.

“Ma'am?” His voice was more tentative than he cared to hear. “You're hurt, ma'am. Your lip, it's bleeding."

He fished a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and was then unsure what to do with it. He reached first to place it in her black-gloved hand, but found her fingers were trembling too much to hold it. He wasn't sure she even noticed he'd tried to place it in her hand. After a few aborted attempts, he gently pressed the square of linen to her mouth. The cloth was only a shade paler than her face. Anger roiled in him at the sight of those trembling fingers and her bloodstained face. It was unfathomable to him that any man could cause a woman such distress and injury. His body was beginning to shake in anger as hers did in fright.

“Which one hit you, ma'am? You just tell me and I promise you I will personally see to it he never touches a woman again. He won't live out the day."

To his amazement, she shook her head. “They didn't hit me,” she said so softly he could barely hear her. Her voice was trembling as much as her hands.

James frowned as he dabbed carefully and he feared rather ineffectually, at her swollen lip. Looking at it closely, he realized the wound was self-inflicted. She'd bitten her lip so hard she'd drawn blood. He was afraid to ask what they'd done that had caused her to injure herself so. Sluggish blood still flowed from the wound. He wanted to maim the men who'd caused an innocent woman such terror. He pushed down his anger. He'd deal with those bastards later. He had to keep a clear head so he could take care of her first.

As he took a closer inventory of her injury, he recognized her. She was the woman he'd seen at the Cabildo, the one who had haunted his dreams for the past week. Even with her lower lip red and swollen, he recognized the perfect cupid's bow of her top lip and the line of her delicate chin. The anger he felt tripled in intensity as he realized his dream lady had been so menaced by the dregs of his own army that she'd nearly bitten through her lip. A knot twisted his insides. He felt hot and cold by turns.

As he further took in her condition, he was barely able to keep from cursing aloud in impotent rage at how profoundly she'd been mistreated. Only consideration for her delicate sensibilities put a rein on his tongue. She had been exposed to enough rough language already, he was sure. He had only to look at her to see she had suffered severe indignities.

He still held her bonnet in his hand. Her hair glowed in the bright sunlight. Heavy strands loosened in her struggle lay like wine against her skin. He had wondered what color her hair might be and what it would feel like, but even his fevered dreams hadn't evoked visions of such silken beauty. He'd never seen hair of so deep a red. It reminded him of fine cherry wood, polished and rare. His grip on her bonnet tightened as he was torn between reaching out to tuck those locks back in place and screaming at the insult that had been offered her.

Taking her bonnet was the least of what the soldiers had done to her. He could hardly bear the thought of what she had felt when the entire front of her dress was torn to the waist, the sheer batiste of her corset cover revealed. The charms he'd castigated himself for dreaming of lay uncovered under the burning sun for anyone to see. The reality was more than his imagination had conjured. Skin nearly as pale as her corset cover glowed against the black of her dress. Generous mounds of pink pearl rose above the top of her corset, deep cleavage visible through the gauzy batiste of the corset cover. The barely seen lace that edged her chemise unknotted the anger in his gut and replaced it with a hunger that was nearly a physical pain.

James was appalled at his body's reaction to the sight of such feminine beauty. He should be neither thinking nor feeling such things at a time like this. She was a gentlewoman now in his care. He was supposed to be her protector, not offer her further insult.

James jammed the bloodied handkerchief back into his pocket and shrugged out of his shell jacket as quickly as he could. He placed it carefully around her shoulders. He hoped she'd be able to hold it about her.

“Ma'am, I ... I'm so sorry."

He didn't know what else to say. He wasn't sure if he was apologizing for the attack on her or for the warmth that settled in his stomach at the sight of her fair skin and richly gleaming hair. The scent of her perfume, delicate and floral, turned that warmth to a burn. He'd never been so deeply ashamed of himself. He held her bonnet out to her. It was a crime to cover hair of so glorious a color, but decent women didn't walk the streets with their heads uncovered. It was best she replace her bonnet. And apparently he wasn't fit to see such loveliness, since he couldn't help but long to touch her hair.

“Ma'am, can you direct me to your house. It's best I get you home as soon as possible. I ... We.... “He was not normally so incoherent, but his shame and desire robbed him of sensible speech.

She was able to take the bonnet from him, but her hands still shook so that she wasn't able to tie the ribbons. “I'm afraid I'm fumble-fingered today, monsieur,” she said with a laugh as shaky as her hands.

“With your permission, ma'am.” He straightened the black silk and tied a perfect bow beneath her dainty chin, careful to not allow his fingers to brush against her skin. He was sure such contact would burn him.

“I have four sisters,” he felt compelled to add as though he needed to explain how he came by his knowledge of how to properly tie a lady's bonnet.

“I have one,” she answered as she indicated the way they should walk. “They can be a trial."

He wasn't sure she could stay on her feet and offered her his arm. They spoke of younger sisters and being the elder as they walked along. Even under the circumstances he felt in accord with her. It was amazing they could walk along discussing siblings. The mundane subject seemed as much a comfort to her as it was to him. She leaned heavily on him and for all her easy conversation, he could feel her shivering though she was wrapped in the heavy wool of his shell coat.

James was happy the street was deserted as he followed her directions. He wanted no one to add to her embarrassment or offer her further insult. A sense of responsibility and a need to protect her such as he'd never known, held him as tightly as her small hand gripped the lawn of his sleeve.

James was afraid they might face a long walk, but there were only a very few blocks to her home. He wasn't sure if he should be glad it was so close or appalled she had been molested in her own neighborhood. He took the key from her and opened the door when he saw how her hand still shook. Fearful she was once more on the verge of collapse, he called out for assistance, but no one answered.

“Essie and Matilde have gone to help Mrs. Nelson with the preparations for Sarah Louise's betrothal party,” his charge explained as though he knew whom she was talking about.

James panicked again. She needed assistance. He couldn't simply leave her in an empty house.

“You need a strong cup of tea laced with some brandy.” He guided her into a parlor and seated her in a finely carved chair. He helped her remove the bonnet he'd so carefully returned to her just minutes earlier.

“We haven't any. There hasn't been any tea in this house in over a month. There's none to be had at decent prices in this city.” Her voice was stronger, but still a touch frail. For the first time he really noticed her accent, delicate and faintly French.

“Wine then?” James’ mother swore by strong tea with lots of sugar and brandy for any crisis, but he decided wine would do.

“The sideboard in the dining room."

James rushed through the door she indicated. He was aware of the elegantly furnished room, but he had no time to take in the intricacies of the pine-green draperies or the polished cherry wood table and refined accessories. He did notice the scent of flowers and beeswax, so clean and refreshing after the stench of the streets.

He found the wine decanter, poured a glass, and hurried back to the woman leaving her bonnet on the sideboard without even realizing he did so. The liquor burned her injured lip as he held the glass for her and he winced in sympathy. He set the glass on a low table. That scarred lip fascinated him.

“What did they do to you? To make you hurt yourself so?” He wanted to know so he could beat the life from her attackers with a clean conscious and righteous anger.

She hesitated, but answered after a moment. “I dared not scream. If I did, some poor man would have come running and they'd have killed him or had him hanged. I couldn't let someone die uselessly for me. Comprenez-vous? I couldn't cause the murder of some good man, don't you see? And even though I couldn't stand against them physically, I had to do something to fight back. I couldn't just give up and let them defeat me. I am Creole! I am a Valmont! I could not let them have the satisfaction of making me beg."

He was impressed as much by her statement as by the strength in her up-till-now weak voice. Her words had to be the most honorable and brave sentiment he'd ever heard from anyone, male or female.

She finally looked up at him. He felt a shock like static electricity run through his body. He'd never seen such eyes. He supposed they could be called hazel, but that was like calling a diamond a shiny bit of rock. They were as golden as a fine piece of amber and, like his own, heavily ringed with spruce green. And they were filled with firm resolve. James knew she meant it. She'd have suffered her torture rather than risk the death of any other person. She'd have let those brutes torment and abuse her in silence rather than submit to them. James felt his heart contract at the thought. He'd been right in his estimation of her at the Cabildo.

The warmth still lodged in his stomach, spread to his heart. She was beyond incomparable, as far above him as the sun in the sky. He'd never seen such beauty and her courage was equal to any battlefield hero's. She exceeded the illusory lady of his dreams. Yet she was solidly real and looking at him as though he was something uncommon.

He reached out with tentative fingers to touch the evidence of her bravery. “Oh, your poor lip.” He brushed his fingertips across her wound. “Your poor, poor lip. They'll pay for causing this.” Drawn to her golden eyes, he leaned forward. “I'll kill them for touching you,” he swore. “I'll kill them for even daring to look at you."

“Oh, please don't,” she whispered. “You'll only cause problems for yourself. I couldn't bear it if you came to harm for my sake."

Her gloved hand grasped his left hand where it rested on his thigh. He could feel the warmth of her fingers through the fine kid of her glove, and he experienced a second electric jolt at that fleeting touch on his thigh. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to feel her touch against his bare skin. Fever burned through him at the thought.

“Please! You've been so good and kind,” she pled. “Promise me you'll do nothing that will cause you trouble for my sake, s'il vous plaît."

“So brave,” he whispered.

Her face was scant inches from his. He trailed his finger from her swollen red lip to her soft cheek, cradling it with all the gentleness he felt. He could smell the clean flower scent of her perfume. Her hair glowed in the dim light and he felt the brush of soft strands as they fell across the back of his hand.

“So very brave. And so very, very beautiful.” Of their own volition, his lips found hers and he tasted the wine he'd given her.

CHAPTER 5

The Union officer's words were a balm to Angele's soul. Her attackers left her feeling disgustingly weak and cowardly. Never before had she considered herself weak in any way. Since her teenage years she had been castigated for an unbecoming strength of character and been labeled “mannish” in her attitude since long before her come-out, but she'd been completely helpless against the Yankee soldiers. Her one attempt to strike the soldier who snatched away her bonnet had been easily blocked. Even now her wrist was hurt and bruised from the force of his grip. Powerless against them, her self-confidence and sense of safety had been shattered.

Now this handsome, strong man was whispering of her strength and beauty in the gentlest of tones. But he was the one who should be described as strong and beautiful. She'd never known a man as brave and fine. He should have been her antagonist bent on her destruction and shame, but instead he was her savior and hero. He could have joined the beasts that assaulted her. Despite the tenderness of his touch, she could sense the strength in the hand that caressed her cheek. He could have overpowered her without the least effort, but he'd chosen to help her instead. He had stood up to three armed men without the least hint of fear. He'd routed the brutes that would have harmed and probably even killed her. Then he'd stayed to care for her with a kindness she'd never have expected from someone not of her own family. He'd shown her nothing but the utmost courtesy and care, giving her his coat to cover herself and helping her with her bonnet. He'd shielded her with his body and presence and seen her safely home. Even then, when any other gentleman might have considered his duty done, he'd stayed to see to her needs. His chivalry and goodness were beyond description.

And now he was looking at her as though she was something bright and wonderful. It was he who was brave and so very, very beautiful. His silky hair was a sun-washed pale gold where it had been exposed to the elements, soft and rich brown where it rested against his collar. Brows of dark gold complimented his tanned skin and shaded deep-set eyes the silver-green of a willow leaf in summer. His lashes were thick and far darker than his brows. A strong, straight nose of classical perfection matched his determined chin. The narrow planes of his face and his well-proportioned mouth smoothed and softened what might otherwise have been too sharp and masculine a face. His mustache and goatee were neatly trimmed and the clean soap scent that rose from his skin simply added to his comeliness.

Her heart was full of the sight and scent of him. The feel of his bare hand on her skin awakened emotions she'd never felt. When his lips touched hers, longings such as she'd never known flared though her. Her hands came up to grip the white lawn covering his strong arms, pulling him closer to her. She pressed her lips tightly to his, feeling desire for a man's kiss she had seldom experienced. She wanted his arms about her. She wanted to feel his strength and know the power that resided inside him. As he pulled away to look down at her with surprise in his green eyes, she tugged him closer.

“Hold me,” she breathed. “Please. Hold me."

With a sharp exhale, he crushed her to him, nearly pulling her from the chair. His embrace felt every bit as wonderful as she'd imagined it would and his lips were surprisingly soft against hers. She honestly couldn't say what emotion made her kiss him with fervency such as she'd never known, but it ran like floodwaters through her mind, body, and heart. She'd dreamed of his kiss and then been haunted by those dreams when daylight came. Now that dream kiss was as pale as any other ghost. The real article was a thousand times more vibrant. It was as alive as anything she'd ever experienced.

Angele had made the Grand Tour. She'd been touched and kissed before. She'd been romanced by European lords and princelings as well as some of the Gulf Coast's finest gentlemen, but none had ever awakened such emotion deep inside her. She couldn't get enough of the taste of him. When he pulled away and climbed quickly to his feet, she felt stunned at the sudden separation.

“I ... I should go,” he stammered and strode toward the door.

She was after him in an instant. “Please!"

She couldn't bear for him to leave. For the past week she'd regretted walking away from him. Now he was here, how could she simply let him leave?

He turned back to her even as he reached for the handle of the front door. Chest heaving with the import of what she was about to say, she paused for only a second. “Stay?"

Mon Dieu. Did I say it?

He was holding her before she registered that he had actually moved. “Oh, God, I want to. But I don't want to force ... You don't owe me any ... If I stay I won't be able to keep from touching you,” he warned her, his anxiety plain.

Heat surged through her. He was so good. Even now, he was trying to assure he took no advantage of her. His stammered protests were completely endearing. The hunger in his eyes was tempered by uncertainty and suddenly she had to know what it was like to see the uncertainty fade and the hunger grow before it was finally satisfied.

“Stay."

The delight on his face was worth whatever consequences she might face. Never had a man looked at Angele with such pure joy. Whatever else might happen, she knew in her heart this was right. She reached up and ran her thumb across his cheek as her palm settled against his jaw line. “Kiss me, s'il te plaît."

With a groan of pleasure and want, he lifted her off her feet, cradling her in his arms, even as he honored the request. “Bedroom?” he asked, taking only a second from her lips to ask.

Unwilling to remove her lips from his for even that tiny space of time, she pointed up the staircase. Her skirt tangled in the newel post and she snatched it loose, ripping the flounce. It didn't matter. All she cared about was the overwhelming need that was growing inside her with each kiss from her willow-eyed hero. She wouldn't let him go. Not this time.

As he set her down inside her bedroom, she allowed his jacket to fall to the floor. In his haste to withdraw from her earlier, he'd not even noticed he was leaving without it. He groaned anew at the sight of her torn dress and hastened to remove it. His clever fingers quickly unfastened the ties of her skirt and petticoats. Hers fumbled at the brass buttons of his vest. It seemed to take forever to free him of the navy blue wool. The cotton shirt was no easier and she ripped a button off in her haste to reach his skin. Finally freeing her of her crinoline, he lifted her from the pool of black-and-white clothes and placed her on the bed. He tugged off his high black boots before joining her.

He felt so good against her as he half covered her with his lean body. Nimble fingers worked at the hooks up the front of her corset. When his lips abandoned hers to trace the path of the opened garment, she cried out in unrestrained pleasure. There was bliss such as she'd never known in the feel of his warm breath through the thin material of her chemise. Then his hands were touching her bare flesh and she thought she'd finally faint.

She had never imagined that simple kisses and the gentlest brush of a man's hand could cause such fire inside a woman's body. Aching hunger for something she couldn't quite reach grew and grew, until she thought she'd cry if she didn't discover what it was she needed. Then his hand eased between her legs and he touched her in a way she'd only dimly imagined was possible. No other man had ever managed to evoke such feelings. Her own touch had never felt so. Her fantasies and bouts of self-induced pleasure could not compare with the feeling his hand was producing. Then his tongue replaced his fingers and her world exploded.

Gasping and filled with the sweetest sensation she'd ever known, she gladly accepted his kiss. His hands continued roving and exploring her body, and she was shocked to feel hunger building again. His mouth on her breast had her crying out for more. Heat settled in her womb and flowed down, molten need and longing making her push against his hard frame. Her body reacted to him without her conscious thought. It knew in the most primal ways he was right and necessary for her. When she felt him hard and heavy against her fluid heat, she arched up against him, driving him into her. She gasped at the pain, sharp and sudden, startled though it hurt no more than a pinprick.

* * * *

James froze. He could not have felt what he just had. It wasn't possible.

“You, you've never ... No man has ever ... Oh my God.” He tried to catch his breath. “You're a virgin.” Or were, he thought with sudden consternation.

She nodded and he felt dizzy. Why? Why had she begged him to stay, shown him the way to her room, and undressed him when she was untouched? He looked down into her golden eyes and saw the answer. She loved and desired him. She wanted him as greatly as he wanted her. Even as he gazed at her, he felt her hips move, pushing him deeper inside her. Wonder and joy shot through him. This lady had known no touch but his. She wasn't a widow already familiar with the ways of men. No man had known the glories of her body before him. This gift was for him alone. He was the first to claim her. And claim her he would. He'd marry her before the week was out and make her completely his. She was the sort of lady poets wrote of and rough soldiers dared not even dream of possessing. And she would be his bride.

But first he'd show his sweet virgin just how loved he could make her feel. She protested when he withdrew from her, but he shushed her and with even greater care than he'd shown before, he made love to her. When at long last he buried himself deep inside her and allowed himself release, her eyes were sated and joyful with his love for her.

Lying in her arms and knowing he would do so for the rest of his life filled James with a contentment he'd never known. Unlike many men he knew who weren't true to their wives, he'd never stray from her. Why should he want to? He had all things in her. She was a fine lady, yet she'd just proven to be as warm and passionate a lover as he could wish for. He smiled up at her ceiling dimly visible through the mosquito netting that draped her bed. He'd give her children and a home. She'd have his protection and love for the rest of their lives. James had never been quite so happy. He drifted into soft sleep surrounded by the scent of her perfume and the feel of her warm body and silky hair against his skin.

* * * *

Angele shook her lover gently. “Oh wake up. You have to go,” she whispered desperately.

His eyes were confused as he looked up at her.

“My servants are back. They can't find you here,” she explained. “You have to dress and go. Rapidement."

Her distress was acute as she watched him stumble from her bed. While he'd slept, she'd realized the enormity of what she'd done. She'd given herself to a Union officer. It didn't matter how kind and good a man he was; he was still the enemy. His kind had killed her brother and grievously wounded her cousin. It was unlikely but still a dreadful possibility this man had even fired one of those bullets.

She fought back tears as she helped him dress as quietly as he could. He was so beautiful a man, so noble and gentle. And so completely unsuitable. The world would never countenance a relationship between them. It was impossible for them to be together ever again. That knowledge freed the tears she'd been holding back and brought a band of pain across her chest. She stumbled over her black dress lying on the floor and knew she had a new reason to wear mourning. For her Yanqui officer's sake she'd never put it off, though no one would ever know the reason she no longer sported happier colors.

She heard the women servants moving about, their voices coming up from below. “Please, sir. You have to hurry."

“I know.” He kissed her, quick and fervent. “I would never do anything to damage your reputation."

Heart breaking anew at this further evidence of his fine nature, she wanted to cling to him but allowed herself the luxury of only one final kiss before she led him out the French doors and onto the back gallery. The sun was gone from the sky and crickets were beginning to sing in the lush plants of her garden. Careful that they weren't seen, she took him down the stairs and through the courtyard garden. She pushed aside the heavily flowered branches of a four-o'clock plant where they half-covered a wooden gate set in the brick wall. The magenta blossoms glowed in the lingering light and their scent mingled with honeysuckle hanging over a wall from the alley outside. She pushed open the gate.

“This alley will lead you out,” she said, gazing at him in the gathering dusk.

He nodded, his hand resting on the gray wood of the old cypress gate. “I'll call tomorrow morning. Who do I need to speak to when I ask for your hand?"

Her heart shattered. He wished to marry her! This perfect, noble man wished to make her his wife. “You can't! We can't ever even see each other again!” she blurted out, her own hurt too deep to think of softening the words.

“No,” he protested and the pained confusion in his green eyes sliced at her heart. “No, you have to marry me!” The utter disbelief on his face proved he'd never even considered sharing her bed without marriage in the offing.

It was completely impossible for him to have what he wanted regardless of his boundless honor and goodness. He was a Union soldier, nothing more, in no way qualified as suitor for a Valmont.

Silent tears flowing down her cheeks, she shook her head. “Non. I can't. This is all there is for us. Don't you understand? You must never come here again. You belong to the enemy army. It's completely unacceptable for us to be together. I'm a Confederate."

He grabbed her hands as she tried to push him farther down the alley. “I don't care. Let me see you again. Let me come to you."

“You can't!” If he didn't go soon, she'd collapse completely. Her chest hurt and she couldn't breathe. Even hearing of William's death had not been this hard to bear. But she could not weaken. “I dare not! Not ever again."

“No. Don't say that.” The man shook his head, and his lovely eyes seemed to deepen with hurt. “It will be fine. What we did won't be known. I'll make it right. We'll marry. Then it won't even be a sin."

“We can't!” She searched her mind for a reason he'd accept. In desperation she finally said, “I'm already engaged. I'm to marry someone else.” It was true. She'd known for years that when she finally married, it would be to her cousin Séverin.

His face went deadly white. He looked as though she'd ripped away his heart and spilled his life's blood on the muddy ground. He drew back, a sudden jerky movement, his features set in a mask of anguish, and her breath caught in her chest. Then resolute determination hardened the line of his mouth and just as suddenly as he'd drawn away he shot forward to kiss her once more. She moaned, grappling with him, holding him to her. One touch of his lips on hers and she was ready to surrender to his wishes. She'd do as he asked and be damned to the consequences. She would gladly be his wife and thank God every day for sending him to her.

“Yes. Yes, I'll—"

She heard a door slam and Essie's voice called out from the garden behind them. Reality reasserted itself and her pragmatic nature shattered her brief fantasy. There was no way she could ever be his for more than the brief hours they'd already had. If her alliance with him ever became known, the scandal would destroy not just her reputation, but her sister's as well. She didn't care so deeply for herself, but Charlie had to be protected. She couldn't allow her own unsuitable passions to harm Charlie.

“Please!” she pled. “Please go. If you see me on the street, you mustn't acknowledge me or show that you know me in any way. Please! I would be ruined if anyone knew."

She hated the hurt she was causing him, but this was best for him as well as Charlie. A Confederate wife would destroy his career and whatever social standing he had. He could even be arrested like poor Philip Phillips when it was found his wife was a Confederate. And Senator Phillips was a Union man! Weren't the Phillipses forced to leave Washington and were even now living in exile in New Orleans, Senator Phillips’ career in ruins? She wouldn't do that to a man as decent as this one. It was better he bear this hurt now than a life of ruin and regret.

“I will always remember you with the greatest regard and affection, sir, but we must never speak again. I...” She couldn't continue. “Please go."

“I'll go, but I will see you again,” he promised with firm resolve.

She had no doubt he meant it and she feared for him. He ground his lips against hers before he released her and slipped away.

Angele waited until she had regained the safety of her room before burying her sobs in pillows that still smelled of him.

CHAPTER 6

Antoine was just as touched by the beautiful simplicity of Bougival as he'd been when he'd first arrived as a small boy to share Séverin Valmont's tutor. Unlike the glorified farmhouses that made up most plantation homes, Bougival was a stately Greek Revival mansion surrounded by lush gardens and massive oaks amid smaller, more graceful crepe myrtles in a bouquet of pale pink, lavender, and fuchsia. Huge white magnolias browned and wilted quickly in the humidity, permeating the air with a sweet, slightly waxy lemon scent while sweet olive trees showered the grounds with tiny aromatic petals.

The plantation house was as yet untouched by any attempted robbery or burning by Yankee troops. Perhaps it was because the slightly rolling dirt path leading to Bougival wasn't that noticeable from the main road.

Union gunboats had fired shots at the house as they made their way to New Orleans. It had taken all of Antoine's self-control to hunker down behind the house with Séverin and the slaves and staff, and pray the Yankees didn't stop and torch the plantation after they stole anything they wanted from the place. Thankfully, the nearly three-hundred-year-old oak trees growing in front of the property sheltered it from most of the shells, but some of the slave cabins beyond the oaks had been hit and the slaves were now frightened to stay in them.

For all their fine talk about liberating Negroes from the oppression of slavery, the Union did not appear to object to firing upon their homes just as readily as they might fire upon alleged armed military targets.

Séverin smiled up at him from the ledgers and receipts he was working with at his desk.

“Our last shipments did better than I'd hoped,” he replied to Antoine's inquiring brow. “Even with the bribes, this cost less than I'd expected. And the invested profits are remarkable.” He lifted a page off his desk. Antoine recognized the precise, clear script of the British solicitor acting on behalf of their businesses in England.

"The United States’ efforts to preserve its unity makes criminals of us all,” Séverin read aloud. “But at least we're rich criminals. We've received some tidy prices for the rice and sugar harvests and that bit of indigo did surprisingly well. Although the new synthetic dyes are highly praised for their more uniform coloration, the new trend among Parisian dressmakers is to use indigo grown in the South as a show of support for its suppliers. I've never seen more blue dresses and bonnets and shawls in the history of fashion!"

The planter waited for Antoine to finish chuckling before he continued reading. "And the visiting Yanks take it all very well, they consider the choice of color a show of support for themselves! They're some of your best customers!"

Séverin smiled as he folded the letter and tucked it back in its envelope.

“Best burn that, mon ami,” Antoine suggested quietly.

“Non,” Séverin returned crisply. “Paper's getting dear. I'll reply to him on the back of the page."

A poisonous draft of anger chilled Antoine. He'd known Séverin since they were boys and the rich planter's son was the heart of generosity to others whether they deserved it or not. There was something wrong with him having to save a letter just to have paper to answer it.

But life wasn't always fair. The Cajun had known that since he was eight years old and his stepfather had beaten him with the buckled end of his broad leather belt for spending too much time in the outhouse when there was fieldwork to be done. The next day, his white-faced mother had sent him to live with his godmother Sophie's family at Bougival. He'd learned not to look back.

One day, they'd do the same with this damned war.

* * * *

“Bon soir, Michie Séverin, Michie Antoine.” Vincent, Séverin's valet, glided into the room carrying a cut-crystal bottle of rum and two glass highballs on a deceptively frail-looking lacquer tray. Fourteen years Séverin's elder, he'd tended to Séverin, Michel, and Antoine's wardrobe since Séverin was twelve. Black as soot with pronounced African features and heavy bone structure, Vincent moved with the dignified grace of a much lighter man. In childhood, Séverin had often thought Vincent might have been an African chieftain, though Vincent had been born at Bougival just as Séverin had been.

“Bon soir, Vincent."

"B'soir." The two men, courtesy ingrained in them from childhood, returned his salutation cordially.

Séverin watched his manservant set the tray on a low credenza in the precise pattern of movements Vincent used daily. Now, with the war casting shadows of threatening change everywhere, there was comfort in the small routine.

Séverin's eyes flicked over to the credenza and found his attention caught by the large mirror framed in heavy gilt above it. A reflection of his cousins’ portrait hanging behind his massive claw-footed desk met his eyes and he smiled at the cheery scene of the three children in the garden courtyard at Ville-des-Fleur.

Angele Valmont was sixteen in the portrait, yet she appeared awkward and long-limbed in her shorter skirts. She wore a golden-brown sacque coat, the sleeves and bottom trimmed with three bands of gold ribbon, over an ivory dress. Her luxuriant hair was worn loose, held away from her arresting face with a matching ribbon fastened into a bow. Angele had looked grown-up even in her childhood years and the requisite ankle-length skirts and loose hair fastened away from her face with ribbons seemed a poor disguise before she came into her own with flowing gowns and upswept hair. Even then there was no forgetting her brilliant chestnut hair and magnificent golden hazel eyes. She was no beauty by traditional standards, yet her facial expression depicted great character and strength; the leonine eyes blazed with energy and high spirits.

Angele was seated on a black wrought-iron bench beside Charlie, an adorable pink-cheeked little girl in a rose cashmere dress trimmed with black velvet ribbon. Their late brother, William, then a wiry ten-year-old with a high-cheekboned face and slightly pouting mouth stood alongside Angele on the opposite side. Above them, the delicately winding limbs of a silvery gray-barked tree bloomed with exquisite, blushing Japanese magnolias.

That was such a beautiful spring, Séverin remembered. Tante Marie-Louise had died, but it was long enough ago for Charlie to stop crying for her Maman. Oncle Phillipe had not died yet and William was so excited about Shakespeare's sonnets he'd driven them all mad reciting them. William should never have gone to war, and he certainly should not have died, although perhaps he'd argue there was poetry to that.

How I love this painting. The work is so true I think I could almost reach out and touch the flowers! It was a beautiful spring, almost perfect, and thanks to the Secessionists and the Abolitionists and the Yanquis we'll never have another spring like that again.

“Michie Séverin?” Vincent's dulcet tones drew his employer away from the all-too-painful memories of returning home lame to his orphaned female cousins to tell them that their only brother was lost.

Vincent was waiting for Séverin to rise from his desk and pour the rum or to direct Vincent to pour it, if his master was too stiff and tired to get up. Séverin loathed the glow of compassion in the valet's eyes even as he appreciated the kind feeling behind it.

He was not old enough to be waited on like this, damn it! It was wrong, all so sickeningly wrong! It wasn't that long ago that he and Antoine rode hell for leather all the distance to New Orleans to surprise his mistress with a new gift or simply to love her and Antoine for a few precious hours. Then they would gallop right back home the same night just for the hell of it!

The portrait's reminder of the surviving family surrounding Séverin also reminded him of the family farther away and his thoughts turned toward them hungrily. He'd sent Solange and their precious children to England when the war broke out and he was grateful he had. The Federal occupation was pointedly prejudiced against the free colored class. Séverin had absolute trust in his close European acquaintances to safeguard his family's interests but the thought of his children growing up without their father left a hole in his heart nothing could fill.

Thanks to the Secessionists and the Abolitionists, and most especially thanks to the Yanquis for their jealousy and hypocrisy over the way we live.

Séverin's hands clenched into fists and his knuckles brushed the thick linen texture of a buff-colored envelope on his desk. He'd forgotten he hadn't finished reading the mail. Séverin swallowed his anger. Rage about the drastic changes being forced upon their lifestyle would not help his family survive those changes.

“Merci, Vincent,” he replied once he'd tempered his feelings. “Antoine will get it. I'm not done with the mail."

Vincent bade him good night and made a graceful exit.

“Oh leave it, Séverin!” Antoine urged. “You worked plenty for one day. Or...” His brilliant eyes gleamed with hope. “Is this a letter we want to read?” Antoine spoke of them less, but Séverin knew he missed their shadow family as much as he did.

Séverin shrugged in answer. The envelope was smooth, in good condition, so it had not traveled far, but the elegant script was unfamiliar to him. He slid a sharp silver letter blade along one side of the envelope and removed the thick, expensive cream-colored paper inside.

Séverin read the few scrawled lines and paused, frowned his disbelief, and re-read them. Antoine turned away from the rum when Séverin swore, a hot expletive he rarely used.

“Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? What is it?"

Séverin remained silent for a moment. Antoine carried the half-filled highball of rum toward him and set it on his desk.

“It seems we have been invited to attend an entertainment in New Orleans hosted by the major-general himself,” Séverin declared. His voice was hushed with incredulity. He read the note aloud for Antoine's benefit.

"In the interests of assuring the loyal citizens of New Orleans in this rather dark time that their lives are not at threat or in jeopardy during this amiable occupation, the New York Ballet is appearing at the major-general's warm personal invitation. The honor of your presence is requested at the New Orleans Opera House for a presentation of “Giselle” on June 17, 1862 at seven o'clock in the evening, followed by a reception ball to honor noted industrialist and patriot Mr. Steven Wilkins, patron of the ballet, at the St. Charles Hotel on June 19th at seven o'clock in the evening."

Séverin stared at the paper, then peered inside the envelope. “And there isn't a card to send a regret."

Antoine shrugged. “He must be worried about a glut in the mail."

“Or an empty theatre.” Séverin glared at the offensive command so poorly disguised as an invitation. Fresh anger kindled in his heart. Not only must I fear losing everything I own, but I must dance attendance on this reprobate like a courtier attends his monarch!

Séverin swallowed the bitterness and willed it not to show in his face. New Orleans was a conquered province, occupied by the enemy. Such a situation was never enjoyable in any of the history he'd studied.

“I suppose Suzanne should look at Maman's gowns to see if something can be made for Charlie,” he mused. “And there's a chest of dress stuffs Edward Ross’ sisters sent last year."

Antoine's brow furrowed. “You ain't set on going, are you?"

“I don't believe the major-general is accepting regrets, mon ami.” Séverin sighed and left the note on his desk to answer tomorrow. He rose gingerly from his padded chair and stretched, exhausted.

Antoine made an airy gesture of brushing away something irrelevant. “Oh, cher, just write your regret on the back of the page! I'll hand carry it to New Orleans!” His smile gleamed with warmth, but the hand not holding his highball rested against his Bowie knife.

Séverin considered the other man. Antoine was lean and lithe, built light and quick but strong like a jungle cat. The Cajun had an infamous hair-trigger temper and he wasn't terribly concerned about whether the issue offending his temperament was a high-profile military dictator or some nobody who would not be missed. To Antoine they amounted to the same thing.

Séverin chose his words with care. “All the same, it might be best for us to go. And for Charlie, too. Who knows if there'll be a ballet or musical again anytime soon?” He smiled. “It would be helpful for her. She needs more practice walking in those ridiculous crinolines."

“They do bounce around when she walks, don't they?” Antoine shook his head, not understanding it. “Angele's never do that."

The men chuckled and savored their drinks. The rum, mashed and aged from Bougival's own sugar cane, was rich, full-bodied, and scalded the back of their throats when they swallowed it. When they'd finished, Antoine took their empty highballs and returned them to the tray before he followed Séverin through the sliding faux bois doors that connected the office to Séverin's bedroom.

Séverin had already stripped to his waist and was bent over the washstand, splashing his face with the soothing cool water when Antoine entered. He felt Antoine's eyes on him, watching the muscles in his back, rippling under his pale skin.

“Not a bad ending to the day,” Antoine declared as he yawned without covering his mouth. “You sure you want to go to New Orleans in this ungodly heat?"

“Mais oui!” Séverin smiled while he blotted his face and chest with a towel at the washstand. He managed to sound cheerful about it. “I believe Butler's theater soirée would be ruined indeed without Charlie there to explain to him why the occupation and the war itself are illegal.” His careful smile grew genuine at the idea.

“Oui!” Antoine chortled while Séverin stripped his boots and shucked his trousers. “I bet Mem Elysée blessed her out good and proper at bedtime. Did you see her face when Charlie brought that up at supper?” He flashed sharp white teeth when he grinned. Charlie's aged nanny had very stern ideas about what a well-brought-up young lady ought to talk about at social functions, and political issues weren't on her “list."

“I'm sure.” Séverin chuckled. He drew his nightshirt over his head and carelessly buttoned it up halfway before he climbed into bed.

The white chenille bedspread was already turned down for them, folded back at the bottom of the bed. It was way too warm to be covered up much while sleeping, but Séverin tugged the cotton muslin sheet up to his waist, anyway. It was an idiosyncrasy of his. He simply couldn't fall asleep without a cover of some kind.

Antoine had given up shaking his head over it and grumbling it was too hot. Instead, they'd reached a happy compromise—Antoine simply slept naked beneath the sheet.

He waited until Antoine finished undressing and set his folded his clothing on the marble-topped nightstand before Séverin put out the oil lamp. A moment later Antoine's weight sank into the thick mattress stuffed with heavily wadded cotton and Spanish moss beside him and Séverin's eyes shut in sheer contentment, savoring the other man's familiar closeness.

“I've been thinking of Europe more and more,” Séverin confided after the golden moment began to fade to lassitude. “Edward has exhorted us to come visit several times. His son is only a few years older than Charlie.” He smiled sensing Antoine's frown. “He seemed to admire her portrait."

“Don't blame him. Charlie's a fine girl. ‘Course he's English and all. And he's nearly your age."

Séverin smothered his laughter. It was impossible to guess what exacting standards Antoine had in mind to make an adequate suitor for Séverin's pretty young ward, but living a continent away from the two of them was no advantage to the candidate's eligibility. Queen Victoria would have found herself driving a hard bargain trying to make one of her own sons acceptable in the Cajun's mind.

Antoine and he had been twenty years old when Séverin's Oncle Phillipe Valmont had died and Séverin had found himself called upon to accept his duty as his youngest cousin's godfather. Just as they shared every other thing in their lives, fun or doldrum, pursuit of pleasure or shouldering responsibility, they shared responsibility for Charlie's upbringing and protection. After his own father's passing and his elder brother's death the following year, Séverin was the formal guardian of all three of his cousins.

“Edward Ross is a good man from a good family,” Séverin kept his voice soft as he pointed out the fact. “I know he lives in London, but we have to think of Charlie's future happiness.” He was silent for a moment before adding, “She's not a girl who'd be comfortable unmarried."

Antoine snorted. “Of course she's not! She's a frisky young thing!” He smiled, proud of the girl's beauty and intelligence as well as her verve and excitement for living itself. “But she don't need to leave the country to be decently married! ‘Sides, if he ain't good to her, it's a longer trek to England for me to kill him and see her home!"

Séverin remained silent as he thought. He'd had grave reservations about the war as the country had been slowly but surely propelled in that direction. Although he'd contributed generously to the Confederate political machine, he had not allowed patriotism to cloud his sense of duty to his family. He knew for a fact that many of the finest families in society had gambled all their wealth on the idea that the South reigned supreme and would enjoy absolute victory over their northern neighbors, changing all their funds for Confederate dollars, which were rapidly losing value. Planters who enjoyed the elegant lifestyle of gentlemen farmers were discovering that they might not have enough savings and resources to provide for their families and their slaves in another year or two.

An impoverished husband was not Séverin's main concern, however. Indeed, it was vulgar to consider a suitor's eligibility by mere wealth without consideration for his birth. It was the sort of things Yanquis were reputed to do and were scorned for. Far worse than simple poverty was the realization that so many of the finest, most promising young men might never return from the war at all, or else they might return so changed that married life would not be suitable for them.

Séverin's sensual mouth turned down at the corners as he recalled unwanted visuals of men crumpling in agony when they were shot. Amid the spray and stink of blood and gunpowder on the battlefield, the wounded had wept in pain or thirst or terror because they'd been somehow maimed and couldn't move normally. Southerners were active people—even the city dwellers—and riding, shooting, fencing, and dancing were regular activities for all men from a simple farmer to a grand planter. Being deprived of the ability to make simple movements was terrifying to these outdoor folk.

The simple truth of the matter was that the Confederacy was doomed and young men from nice families suitable to court and marry Charlie might be in short supply.

Séverin sighed at the dilemma.

“Humph!” Antoine grunted as he turned on his side and shifted into a comfortable position. “You sure about taking Charlie to New Orleans? ‘Cause I'm thinking I might go and bring Angele back instead. If them soldiers are so uppity and dangerous that Angele wanted Charlie to stay home, she should be at home, too."

“Non, mon amour, I miss New Orleans,” Séverin lied. “I miss Angele, too. You know she can't tear herself away from all our uncle's businesses to come home. I would like to see her.” That, at least, was true.

Antoine grunted and lay a gentle hand on Séverin's cheek. “Oui,” he agreed. “It'd be good for us to all be together. Like the old days."

In general, Antoine Brouillette was one of the most easygoing people Séverin had ever known, but when the Cajun set his mind on an idea, it wasn't worth sea salt to try and change it. Séverin was relieved Antoine seemed willing to acquiesce now.

“But what about this order for women to be arrested?” Antoine persisted.

It was Séverin's turn to snort and his mouth curled in contempt of such a law in a modernized Christian country. What next? Would Butler enact the droits de seigneur from old Medieval European laws?

“I don't think this Order Twenty-Eight can even be legal! It is uncivilized at the very least! Surely the Union government itself is railing against it!” The mattress rustled pleasantly as he shifted to his side in bed to reassure his lover. “It should be inactive by the end of the month."

* * * *

The next day's post brought more concerns for the men who ruled Bougival. Séverin's face grew more and more pensive as he read Angele's letter.

My dearest Séverin and my adored Antoine,

Long ago we agreed to have no secrets from each other so I must share with you the greatest event of my life. Oh, mes amours, I have fallen in love at last. I understand now what you have both told me so many times about this emotion. Though I have always loved you and will always love you, you are right that this feeling is somehow different. Be assured this new love I have found is no deeper than the emotion I feel for the two of you. Still I find I do not have the words to describe it.

Oh, Séverin! You would have been so impressed with my James. He saved me, Séverin. He is very much the hero. He is like our Antoine in that regard.

Séverin smiled at Antoine before continuing to read with mounting horror how she was assaulted by three thieves and saved by this kind stranger.

Antoine's cheeks were bright with anger and concern that their Angele could have been in such danger. “I must thank this James of hers personally. I need to shake his hand. Dieu! To think we came so close to losing her.” A muscle in his jaw twitched as he tried to deal with anger and concern that had no outlet.

“Oui, we owe him a great debt,” Séverin agreed. “But listen, she writes more. Oh, it is sad! Our poor, poor Angele!"

And now I understand that hopeless sadness you feel. And the anger that comes because you cannot acknowledge your love openly. Though he has confessed as great a love for me as I have for him, I cannot receive James as a suitor. Indeed, I cannot ever see him again. There are circumstances that make him completely unacceptable to society. The people he comes from, well, it is simply impossible. Oh, Séverin! What am I to do? I love him so deeply, though I have seen him only once. He makes me feel so alive. But I must think of Charlie and of you. I cannot let scandal ruin Charlie's chances of a good marriage. So I have sent him away. I think I will die from the pain of it, but I have no other choice. Oh, my Séverin, my Antoine, why can't we love more wisely? Truly you were right when you told me to guard my heart because there is no pain that compares to this.

I will pray daily that God keeps you both in his good graces and you continue to have the strength to love each other regardless of what the world thinks.

It may be that we should finally wed. I think I will need your strength to help me bear this loss. I will write again when I am more composed.

Until then know that I remain...

Your Angele.

Séverin set the letter on his secretairé. “Our poor cherie. It seems this generation of the Valmonts is cursed. William and Michel are dead before they had a chance to enjoy life and Angele and I must love in secret.” He welcomed Antoine's comforting embrace though his heart was full of sorrow. “And I have passed that curse to you. It isn't right that I've done this thing to you, Antoine. I should have married you to Angele so you both could have children and a normal home. Instead I have doomed her to heartbreak and bound you to me and so ruined both your lives."

Antoine shook his head. “No, Séverin. You ain't ruined anything. I'm not the marrying kind, me. I got a wandering eye and a taste for the high life. I'd pity any woman married to me."

Séverin laughed. “So you have a taste for the high life, heh? Then how is it you're here with me every night? How is it you're always beside me whenever I need you?"

Antoine shrugged, but the light in his ocean blue eyes erased the hurt in Séverin's heart. “Maybe you just keep me honest. Séverin, all you done my whole life is make me happy.” His laughter rolled through the room. “If this is the Valmont curse, I'm fair pleased to share it.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe Angele is right and it's time you married her. The three of us could be real content together. And then we'll see Charlie finds someone proper. Angele did the right thing. Our Charlie's happiness has to come first. So we'll just have to make damn sure this curse of yours doesn't touch our petite, oui?"

Séverin nodded as he thought of his goddaughter with a smile. Antoine was right. Angele was strong and would survive her heartbreak, but Charlie was little more than a child. She was their first responsibility. “Oui. As you say, amour, we'll make damn sure our Charlie finds the right man. We'll make sure her life is happy.” And normal, he added silently.

CHAPTER 7

Captain Wesley Leighton strode in and plopped down on the edge of James’ bed. “Well, I have to say that Angele Valmont is every bit as clever as I remember her being,” he said as he tugged at his boots. “Rumor has it that she stepped on a loose flounce and fell down the stairs. Poor thing has an assortment of bruises and a cut lip."

James looked at the captain in confusion. He was trying to write in his journal, but his current emotional state was nearly impossible to describe. It had been three days since he'd made love to the finest lady he'd ever met and three days since she had broken his heart and left him completely miserable. As he'd known they would, his feelings for her only grew with each passing moment. He'd taken to spending many of his off-duty hours lingering near her house, hoping for a chance to speak to her. To be honest with himself, he'd be happy for simply a glimpse of her. So far the most he'd seen was her outline against the lamp-lit windows.

He knew such actions were better suited to a man many years his junior, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. It was ludicrous that he could be so in love after only a single meeting. Tonight he'd given up his lovelorn vigil in self-disgust and came back to his quarters to pour out his sorrow in his journal. But the words to describe his fair darling, or his feelings for her, wouldn't come. He'd ended up staring at the elaborate plastered ceiling of his room in the St. Charles Hotel. Morose and revolted by his own behavior, he was in no mood for Wesley's idle chatter.

Unfortunately, Wesley didn't seem to notice the major's need for solitary brooding. “That explains her injury neatly, I have to say.” Wesley sighed in relief as his boots finally came off.

Slim and barely an inch shorter than James, Wesley's sharp features proclaimed his breeding. His piercing eyes, blue-gray as a storm cloud, were a startling contrast to his nearly black hair but a complement to his faintly tanned skin. Wesley was accounted a very handsome man in both form and face and considered one of the most refined and educated officers among the Army of the West. Many a matchmaking officer's wife had set her sights on Captain Leighton as a proper husband for a sister or daughter. Wesley dodged all their efforts as easily and gracefully as he waltzed across a ballroom's parquet floor.

James had met the other man when he'd first joined West Point. They'd become close there and been pleased to be assigned to the same post upon graduation. Captain Leighton had been James’ subaltern ever since they'd gone into the cavalry. Though they were both twenty-seven, they were very different in temperament and outlook. Still, if James had anyone he could call best friend, it was Wesley. That didn't mean he always understood the leaps and convolutions of Wesley's quicksilver thought processes.

“I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about, Wes,” James said, thinking instead of the blank page of his diary. He despaired of ever being able to sufficiently describe his lady or his sudden love for her. It all sounded preposterous when put into words on the cold expanse of a sheet of paper.

“I'm simply saying that Mam'selle Valmont has come up with an astonishingly clever way to explain her injuries,” Wesley answered with patience.

“Who is Miss Valmont and why should I care that she's good at prevarication?” James asked absently. He cared about very little at the moment. His thoughts were all centered on a small house on Rue Royal and a wealth of deep red hair half-veiling golden eyes. He could think of nothing else. His mind, waking and sleeping, was consumed by memories of the sight and feel of her. The depth and intensity of his obsession somewhat concerned him. He was sure he wasn't functioning in an entirely rational manner.

“Well, I simply thought you might be interested that the lady you rescued has so handily covered the injuries she received when she was accosted by our soldiers. She's managed to completely hide that anything untoward happened.” He laughed. “Nothing's changed since I left here. Scandal still rolls off the Valmonts like water from oilcloth."

Wesley now had James’ concentrated attention. It had never occurred to James to ask Wesley about his mystery lady though he knew the other soldier was a native of New Orleans. It had been over a decade since Wesley had set foot in Louisiana and he'd been little more than a boy when he left. Wes seldom spoke of New Orleans and James simply didn't think of him in context with the city. And now, like Captain David Farragut, Wesley Leighton had returned to his hometown as part of the conquering army. There was a festering anger attached to that fact that often colored Wesley's speech and actions. It was particularly evident whenever Wesley discussed his family. They shunned him for the sake of his uniform, though he'd confided to James that his mother at least spoke to him.

"Though only because it's in her best interest. That great monstrosity of a house she's so proud of, technically belongs to me, else it would have been confiscated for use by our army. It's only through my good graces that she keeps the roof over her head." The laugh he'd given had been hard and full of a hurt that Wesley couldn't hide. "My sisters simply pretend I don't exist. I'm still the family scandal."

James cursed himself for an idiot. Of course, Wesley would know about James’ lady. He tried to control his reaction so his roommate wouldn't notice how eager he was for information about her. And he was more than eager to know anything at all of her. Only after he'd left her, as he'd walked back to his quarters in the dusk, had James realized he had no idea what to call his lady. He was in love for the first time in his life and didn't even know her name.

“Valmont? Her name is Valmont?” He hoped Wes didn't hear the desperation in his voice.

Wes smiled. “Indeed it is. I see you really did spend little time with her. You, my friend, had the pleasure of saving the incomparable Mademoiselle Angele Amelie Josette Valmont.” He laughed again at James’ expression. “A more upright, proud, and proper lady is not to be found among our Creole aristocracy,” he added with that touch of bitterness that always tinted his words whenever he spoke of New Orleans society.

James could barely breathe. Angele—he finally had a name to go with images superimposed on everything he saw. The name seemed perfectly right for her. He was overjoyed to know it. It explained the glorious lilt to her words. He hadn't been able to perfectly place her accent, but now he understood it was a more delicate version of the Creole French he sometimes heard on the streets.

He smiled. She was as well-born as he'd suspected and beautifully Creole and possessed of an impeccable reputation. And Wes obviously knew far more than her name.

“Tell me about her,” he said with what he hoped was nonchalance. He could not allow even his best friend to know of his liaison with Miss Valmont. He'd protect her honor more scrupulously than he protected his own.

James knew Wes wouldn't find the request odd. The Northern military had discovered holding New Orleans was tedious, boring, and ultimately exhausting. The army, common soldiers and officers alike, had little to do. The men might drill, but it was too hot to do more than the minimum required or half the troops would be down with heat prostration. So a good bit of their time was spent lounging about, trying to avoid the debilitating sun and the clouds of biting insects. Most found the boredom harder to bear than the mosquitoes. Any diversion, even petty gossip was welcome.

“Mam'selle Valmont and I are contemporaries and distant kin, so I know rather a good deal about her,” Wesley explained. “The Valmonts are well known, one of our oldest Creole families. My mother is Creole and I've known them my entire life. Very good bloodlines, if you appreciate such things. Mam'selle Angele's mama was a D'Aviles of Spanish Creole extraction."

This time his laugh was full of sarcasm. “There's a rather famous anecdote concerning that. There was a visitor from Boston here the year of her debut, lording his ancestry over one and all. Mam'selle took exception to his tone at one of the Carnival balls. When he bragged of his forefather who came over on the Mayflower, she turned those cold yellow eyes of hers on him. Just as haughty as a woman three times her age, she said, ‘Ah yes, I had heard that many Americans are the descendants of recent immigrants of rather poor heritage.’ The whole assemblage roared and Antoine Brouillette was only too pleased to explain that Angele could trace her people all the way back to the original governor of St. Augustine on the one hand and to the Bourbon rulers of France on the other. I believe she became a leader of society and an acknowledged grand dame with just those few words."

Wesley snickered. “It does not do to mess with that woman. Probably why she's an old maid. No man wants to come home to that sharp tongue."

James thought of the feel of that tongue against his skin and wrapped about his own in a deep kiss and decided the men of New Orleans were all idiots. “I heard she was engaged,” he said, hoping Wes wouldn't think it odd that he knew that bit of information but didn't know her name.

The captain didn't comment on James’ contradictory knowledge, but he did quirk one eloquent eyebrow. “Ah, yes. The Valmont Engagement. That's actually how they refer to it around here, as though it were some event worthy of being carved into marble."

He snorted his derision for society, elite mores, and everything connected with them. “Mam'selle has been officially engaged to her cousin Séverin Valmont since her coming out. Lord, it's been understood they would marry since Angele was in her cradle."

He leaned back against his pillows and stared up at the ceiling, the weight of some memory turning his gray eyes dark and serious. His shoulders hunched under that weight, some long ago recollection draining his former amusement and leaving him thoughtful and melancholy. After a few moments thought, he said, “I wonder why they've never actually done the deed? Perhaps Séverin is hoping if he waits long enough, the lady's advanced age will explain why they have no heir."

He fell silent again for a bit. “Of course, I would have thought they'd have married long ago if for no other reason than to provide Séverin an heir.” He snorted again. “Though without doubt the child would look like Antoine. Every other child supposedly Séverin's looks like Antoine Brouillette, even those belonging to his placée."

James’ brow furrowed. “His what?"

“His placée,” Wes enunciated as though James were a small child. “A free colored mistress,” Wesley clarified. “Unlike we crude Americans, young Creole gentlemen are expected to sow their wild oats in a most genteel fashion. They find a nice lady of color at a Quadroon ball and negotiate with her mama and family to set her up in her own establishment."

He misinterpreted the consternation on James’ face. “Good Lord, James. I've explained this to you before. This is New Orleans, not Maryland. Life is different here. And these are the Creoles we're talking about. They don't live by the same rules and standards as even the American half of the community. All white Creole men of a certain social standing have a placée. It's expected. And it's all very sophisticated and well-bred. The ladies gain a wealthy protector and status in their own society, and the gentlemen have beautiful, educated women to keep them amused. Everyone benefits,” he concluded harshly.

There was a hectic blush on his high cheeks and an angry fire in his eyes. He took a moment to control whatever emotion had gripped him before continuing more calmly. “Placées are like secret wives. They don't have any other lovers and their children are acknowledged by their fathers and given proper education and roundabout inheritances. The children are even known to take their father's surname.” His eyes were still cold and hard. “Everyone's happy and the world turns a blind eye to it all.” The bitterness was stronger than ever and not for the first time James wondered what scandal had led to Wesley leaving New Orleans as a young man.

There was several minutes silence as James tried to picture what Wes was describing. Finally he shook his head. “My God. It is a different world here. Men have mistresses back home, but nothing like that!"

“It is somewhat unique,” Wesley acknowledged with a shrug that was quite Gallic.

“And this Séverin Valmont has one of these placées?” James was dumbfounded. How could any man engaged to his beautiful lover even think of wanting another woman?

“Oh yes. A very, very beautiful high yellow girl who's barely colored at all. I hear all of the children could easily pass for white,” Wesley said with a casualness James couldn't share.

“He has children, too?” James was having extreme difficulty wrapping his mind around it all.

“Well, they are acknowledged by Séverin as his, but Madame Solange's eldest son looks just like Antoine. I've seen the boy myself. Of course, it's no surprise; Séverin doesn't do anything without Antoine beside him. No one is shocked he won't visit his placée without his precious Antoine."

James stared at him in confusion.

“Séverin and Antoine are very good friends,” he said with peculiar emphasis on the last word. “They've been inseparable since they were small children,” he clarified.

“I don't think I understand."

Wesley sighed and for the first time seemed uncomfortable with the conversation. “Séverin Valmont and Antoine Brouillette are rumored to have a rather unique and extremely unnatural relationship. Séverin is a fine gentleman, known to be a good man, and Antoine has a reputation with both the ladies and a sharp knife, but I personally know that the rumors are true,” he said with a touch of regret in his voice.

“You're telling me Miss Valmont's fiancé has one of these placées and children as well as some ... man!” James’ shock could not be measured.

Wes sighed in exasperation at the repugnance on his friend's face. “Of course he has a placée. Séverin is of a level of society where it's expected that he keep a placée, at least until he marries. It doesn't matter if he'd prefer to have a man in his bed. In fact, it's even more important for him to keep up appearances. I suppose it's a good thing Antoine is up to giving Madame pretty babies. It helps maintain the illusion of normalcy. Séverin claims them as his own and everyone pretends it's all perfectly fine. And that's all that matters.” Virulence tinged his words again. “As long as we all pretend it's the way it ought to be, it is the way it ought to be."

The horror and distaste James felt couldn't be any greater. “That perfect lady is engaged to a philanderer and a ... a ... pansy!"

“Well, I wouldn't say that!” Wes protested with a laugh. “Séverin's never been considered the least bit effeminate. God knows no one embodies the principles of machismo more than Antoine. They are both considered extraordinary examples of Creole manhood, even if Antoine is technically Cajun. As for being a philanderer, as far as I know Séverin is completely monogamous where Antoine is concerned. Of course, the same can't exactly be said for Antoine, but no one doubts he's completely devoted to Séverin."

James was nearly shaking in anger. “I don't give a tinker's damn how devoted those two sodomites are to each other! You're telling me that sweet, beautiful angel is engaged to a man who doesn't even like women?” He grabbed his jacket off a ladder-backed chair. “That's ... wrong!"

“Well, she won't have to worry about that. Séverin will probably never touch her.” Wesley sniffed. “It's a good thing Mam'selle Valmont has a noted fondness for Antoine Brouillette, since he'll doubtless be the one to share her wedding bed and get any children on her. The way they carry on, everyone's surprised he hasn't already given her a babe or two. If she ever does whelp, the baby will look just like Antoine and everyone will swear it belongs to Séverin Valmont.” His smile was unpleasant. “Discretion and appearances, James, that's what this city is built on. Séverin and Angele are Valmonts. They can do whatever they want as long as they're discreet.” Whatever lurked in Wesley's past was sharp and relevant on his face. “Any of us born at that social level can."

“My God!” James was so distraught he barely heard what Wes was saying. He couldn't tolerate the thought of the woman he adored trapped in a loveless marriage, ignored and unappreciated by her husband. Who knew how she might be treated?

“What are you upset about?” Wes demanded as James searched frantically for his gauntlets.

“Everything!” James snarled as he gave up the search and stormed out the door.

CHAPTER 8

Angele answered the pounding on her front door with trepidation in her heart and a gun in her hand. Stumbling backward as the shutters covering her front door were wrenched open, she stared dumbfounded as her Yanqui hero grabbed her shoulders with firm hands and blazing eyes.

“You can't do it. You can't throw your life away on some man who doesn't even like women. I won't let you."

She blinked up at him. She had no idea what he was talking about, but his voice was just as beautiful as she remembered.

“You shouldn't be here,” she whispered.

Then she made the mistake of looking directly into his eyes and coherent thought fled. With a groan, he kissed her with three days’ worth of hunger. Her arms wrapped about him and she returned the kiss with need equal to that flowing from him. Already dressed for bed, she could feel every line of his hard body through her thin night rail and it ignited a fire deep inside her.

“Your servants? Where are they?” he asked as he nuzzled her neck, breathless and demanding.

“In their quarters at the back of the house. Asleep,” she answered.

“Good!” She wrapped her arms about his neck as he scooped her into his arms and carried her up the mahogany staircase to her bedroom. He kicked her door shut behind him and deposited her on her bed. “I don't care about any sham engagement. You're mine. I'll think of some way we can marry, but until I do, you're still mine."

A groan escaped her lips as he smothered her neck and face in kisses, making it hard for her to think. She knew she should protest and explain that it was impossible for them to ever be together, but all she could think of was how much she'd missed him and wanted him. Sleep had become a memory, something that occurred no more than an hour at a time since she'd watched him disappear down the white shell path of her back alley. It was impossible to concentrate on anything but him. Now as she'd dreamed and fantasized, he was again in her bed, his hand on her bare thigh, his lips on hers, swearing he'd find a way to claim her.

“I love you so,” he murmured, and she surrendered to passion and gave herself over to him without thought to sensibility or consequences.

* * * *

The sky was still dark though dawn wasn't far off when she let him out the back gate. “I'll be back tonight,” he swore as he cradled her face in his hands.

She nodded. A single night in his arms and she couldn't imagine sleeping alone again. “Come here to the back and I'll let you in after I send Essie and Matilde to bed."

Holding him as he slept, she'd decided she'd be his secret lover. Half of her married contemporaries had paramours, why should it be different for her just because she had no husband to cuckold? Why should it be a greater sin for her to be with James than for them to betray their husbands? At least no one's honor was at stake but her own. She had been raised to think like a man and perhaps it was time she lived at least part of her life like one. Séverin and Antoine had each other. Didn't she deserve a lover just as much?

She wasn't concerned that James would reveal their secret. Her major was not the sort of man to brag of his conquests; she didn't fear he would bandy her name about. As long as she was cautious and discreet, there should be no repercussions. She'd allow their affaire d'amour to continue until he was posted to another command. By then, he'd have realized the impossibility of a marriage between them and he'd go without demur. Until then, she'd love him with all of her heart and give her body freely to him.

“I love you,” he whispered as he kissed her goodbye, his lips lingering on hers even as his body pulled away. She finally pushed him out into the alley and closed the gate least he linger until the sun and prying eyes caught them both.

She made her slow way back through the predawn garden. He'd be hers until his army called him away. On that day, she'd retire to Ville-des-Fleur to mourn his leaving as deeply as she'd mourn the loss of a husband.

She lay down on her bed and pulled his pillow close and thought of the feel of his arms about her. She would have his love for whatever space of time God allowed and the world would never know. Tears formed, but she fought them back. She couldn't change what was and crying would not help. All she could do was love James for the time she had and prevent scandal from destroying his career. He wouldn't be hurt by his liaison with her. She'd make sure of that.

* * * *

James placed his sword and gun on the bureau, careful not to awaken his roommate. Already pale light poured through the open windows and he could hear the soldiers beginning to move about on the hotel lawn below. He'd simply have to pretend he'd come in while Wes was asleep and had just risen early. He reached for the covers, intending to muss the bed enough that it would look as though he'd slept in it.

“The next time you decided to kiss Miss Valmont in her foyer, I suggest you make sure her front door is closed and the shutters fastened,” Wes drawled as he pulled the light sheet back from his face.

“Oh, hell,” James cursed and sank weak-kneed onto his bed.

“You were quite lucky I was there to do it for you.” Wesley rolled over and folded his hands behind his head. “As a well-born man of New Orleans, you realize I'm honor-bound to call you out for debauching one of our fair flowers of womanhood, don't you? Luckily for you, I gave up that sort of nonsense years ago.” He arched a satirical eyebrow and settled himself more comfortably in his pillows.

James castigated himself as the worst kind of idiot. “You can't say anything about this to any one, Wesley.” He didn't try to disguise the plea in his voice.

“Well, of course not. Though I doubt much would happen to you if I did. After all, you're a Yankee and as such expected to have no morals. She, on the other hand, would be completely ruined."

There was enough light coming through the windows that James could see the unpleasant smile that twisted Wesley's mouth. He'd seen it before, usually just prior to Wesley utterly destroying someone with a well-placed rumor or cutting comment.

“It might be interesting to see if this is a scandal Mademoiselle Valmont can shrug off as easily as she has all the others in her life."

“Oh, God, no!” James gasped. “Please Wes, don't even joke about that.” He knew just what his friend was capable of, if Wes was in the mood or felt someone deserved repayment for a past transgression. He prayed Angele had never had occasion to insult his friend.

Wesley used his highly expressive eyebrow to advantage. “Well, now, seems the fair Angele has you firmly in her clutches."

“I love her and she loves me,” James protested.

Wes laughed. “So I saw. It was a rather uninhibited display of the lady's fondness for you, I have to say. I was quite surprised. Angele is accounted more careful than that. No one ever sees her playmates. I never would have thought to see the so-very-proper Mam'selle Valmont in her night rail with her hair down acting the whore."

James swung at Wesley, but the dark-haired Southerner avoided the punch. “Now James, that wasn't nice. I'm just looking out for you.” He lay back again without any evident concern for James’ anger. “I doubt if you're thinking straight. Mam'selle is a handsome, exciting creature and it's a lonely life we live, but as your friend I can't allow you to become too entangled with a loose woman."

“Take that back,” James ordered. “She's an angel. If anyone is to blame here, it's me."

Wes snorted with derision. “Considering the rumors that abound about all the Valmonts and the evidence of my own eyes, I doubt that."

James growled. “She loves me. That's what you saw!” His hands were clenched in tight fists. “She's completely blameless. She's pure and perfectly chaste."

Amused disbelief covered Wesley's face. “My dearest friend, everyone knows she's been involved with Antoine Brouillette since they were teenagers! She was his lover before Séverin was!” He shook his head at James’ naïveté. “Angele appears as modest and prim as any woman in the city. I'm not saying she isn't respectable. She is, highly so, but she's also far from virginal. Her name has been linked to both her cousin and Antoine for over a decade. There were rumors about an Italian count, a pair of French noblemen, and a Spanish prince while she was on her Grand Tour. I'm sure she's genuinely fond of you, but you are simply the latest in a string of gentlemen who've warmed Angele's bed."

Anger nearly blinded James. “Say that again and I'll kill you.” He reached for his friend, but Wesley rolled off the bed and evaded his grasp. Wesley had always been a bit faster than James.

“Now, James, there's no reason to get like that,” Wes said, even tempered and cool in the face of his friend wrath. “I'm simply concerned for you. I have no wish to see your heart broken. It's a most unpleasant sensation, I promise you.” He kept just beyond James’ reach. “Angele is the sort of woman every man should have a chance to know at some point in his life, but she's also the sort to leave you feeling like you've been through a hurricane. Enjoy her while you can, but never forget that you aren't the first man to touch her and you won't be the last."

“That's a filthy lie! I'm the only man who's ever touched her!” This time Wesley wasn't fast enough and James’ satisfaction at the feel of his fist impacting Wesley's jaw was enjoyable. “Do you think I'm a complete fool? I'm old enough to know if the woman I make love to is a virgin or not!"

Wesley stared up from where he half-reclined on the floor. Shock was palpable on his expressive face. “You're certain? A virgin?"

Some of James’ anger bled away as he realized what he'd just inadvertently revealed. “Well, she was until she met me. I swear to you, Wes, whatever you're thinking about her isn't true. She was completely pure until I came into her life. I'm the only man who's ever touched her."

Wesley stared at him with wide eyes as he let James help him to his feet. “Good Lord. All these years we've thought she and Antoine...? You mean she really never had ... And she let you...? Dear God.” He sat down hard on the side of his bed.

James sank down across from him on his own bed. “Yes.” He laid back, suddenly tired. He stared up at the Rococo plaster ceiling. He didn't understand what was going on in his life and decided he was too exhausted to think about it. None of it meant anything any way. What mattered was that he knew she was virtuous and he knew she loved him. He repeated that to himself. She loved him. She had to. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I've asked her to marry me, but she's refused. She says it's impossible."

“She's right!” Wesley sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “There's no way you can marry her. She'd be completely ruined socially. You both would."

Some of his shock faded and his habitual bitterness returned as he considered the situation. James could nearly see the thoughts flowing behind Wesley's gray eyes. He wasn't surprised when the unpleasant smile returned to Wesley's lips.

“So she's willing to bed you, but not wed you. How eminently practical and completely Creole of her."

James shook his head. How could he make Wesley understand that whatever the rumors or however she might have been when the other man knew her, his Angele wasn't that calculating and cold-blooded. “She said she doesn't care for herself. If it was just her, she'd marry me and be damned to what the world thinks, but she can't because of her sister."

Wesley blinked and some of the bitterness faded. “I hadn't considered Mam'selle's sister. She was just a child when I left.” He sighed and something oddly wistful settled over him. “Lord, what a tangled mess you've gotten yourself into.” He was silent as he thought for a moment. “James, do you truly believe she'd marry you if not for her sister?” There was a strange sort of hopefulness in his voice.

The major nodded. “I do, with all my heart. You have no idea what I feel when I look at her, Wes."

Wesley smiled though there was no joy to the expression. “Oh, I know all too well. But by my soul, if you're right about your lady, then I swear your love affair will turn out better than mine did.” The sadness in his smile lifted though a peculiar light had appeared in his stormy eyes. “If I'm remembering correctly, Angele's sweet sister should just be of marriageable age. You only need wait until she's safely married. Once she has the protection of her husband's name, you can marry Angele and endure that scandal however you will. As a Valmont, I'm sure she'll weather it better than most.” He smiled slowly. “Yes, that just might work. I've an idea."

“Would you want to share that?” James propped himself up on his elbows and asked as the minutes stretched by in silence. “This is my continued happiness we're talking about here.” He knew Wesley had already forgiven him for that sock in the jaw. It wasn't the first time in their long friendship that James had clocked Wesley. Wesley had decked James a few times as well. It didn't mean they weren't still best friends and willing to do anything for the other.

“I didn't want to go into it until I'd had time to check on a few things. But I was supposed to marry Mam'selle Charlie. Our families arranged it years ago,” Wesley confessed.

James sputtered. “The sister's name is Charlie? That's a boy's name!"

Wesley turned slightly indignant. “Her name is Charlotte. I gave her that diminutive. She wanted an American name.” He sighed. “She was a child, James, little more than a baby, fascinated with being an American. When I left, I doubt she even realized what it meant to be betrothed to me. She was happy enough with the idea, but I suspect it was no more than a game to her. It was a simple part of her future. Just as one day she'd be old enough to go to school or put her hair up, at some point she'd be old enough to marry me. She doubtless thought of it as a more elaborate version of playing house. I was just someone who gave her little trinkets on special occasions and would at some distant date be her husband."

“She was an engaging moppet, but far too young for me to have any sort of interest in her as a female.” Wesley sighed. “And now they will no more let me near her than they'll accept you!"

“So how will that help me? And why won't they let you around? I thought you were the same social rank and everything.” James’ head was starting to hurt.

Wesley sighed. “I'm a traitor in their eyes. That's how every Confederate in this town sees me. Even my own family considers me a turncoat."

“But what about before? I mean before the war? You said you were a good friend to them all. Well, you must have been; they wanted you married into the family.” James lay back again. He didn't want to give up on the brief flare of hope he'd felt, but he didn't really see how Wesley could help him.

“Yes, I was. As close as anyone. Still ... As I said, I need to check on a few things. And I only have the inkling of an idea. Give me some time to see what I can figure out. In the mean while, you have to be completely circumspect, old son. No more bursting in Angele's front door and kissing her where the world can see you.” He thought for a moment. “Yes, as long as you're discreet, there shouldn't be a problem. Like I told you, you can do anything you want to as long as you're discreet."

James nodded, too tired to discuss it any more. He wanted to go to sleep and dream of Angele. He wanted to shorten the brief hours until evening fell and he could return to her arms. Instead, he'd have to make muster in a few minutes.

“No one but you will know a thing about us,” he swore. “I'll be the soul of discretion."

CHAPTER 9

My dearest Séverin and my adored Antoine,

I write to you with mixed joy and fear. My James has returned to me! I am so happy. I have taken him as my lover and I have agreed that when the time is ripe I will marry him. My darling Séverin, I know you swore that if I ever found someone I felt an affection for you would gladly step aside. And I have no reason to doubt that you will not stand by that oath. I hope that you will even do so with a glad heart when you see how happy James has made me.

But I have no real hope that such a thing will come to pass.

So there is sorrow as well as joy in this decision. Nothing has happened that will make James’ suit any more acceptable. I know that at any time he will regain his good sense and realize how impossible our love is. He will realize that I was right all along and we can never be wed.

Do not think harshly of this man I love. This secrecy is entirely of my doing. He has begged me to marry him from the day we met. He is honorable and has always sought to legitimatize our relationship. But I am weak and ashamed of what he is and I feared Charlie will suffer from what I do. I have no doubt there will be a great scandal if James and I do marry. I would still protect Charlie as much as I can. So James must be my secret. And as it has ever been, my secrets are yours just as yours are mine.

Oh Séverin, James is the kindest and gentlest man I have ever known, save only you. He loves me with all his heart and I love him. Why could he not have been born to our society? Then nothing would make me happier than to be his wife.

Séverin, I must ask a great favor of you. For the time being, let our engagement stand. Let society think nothing has changed. My affaire must remain hidden. No one can know. When James leaves, we will continue as we have always done. Should you have no wish to marry a soiled woman, I understand and will, of course, make no demands on you. I do urge you to keep our engagement intact for your own sake. As long as I am your fiancée, the gossips have little to fuel their tongues and you and Antoine are safe.

My sweet Antoine, my wise Séverin, am I doing the right thing? I know we always planned to share our lives. But I love him so much. Forgive my uncontrollable heart! What should I do, mon amours? I need your council and your love. Please send both by the next post.

Know that regardless of what happens, I will always remain...

Your Angele.

Angele sealed her letter and set it aside. She would send it to Bougival as soon as the servants were up. She could not go to bed until she'd written her two dearest friends. There was so much in her heart and no one here she could talk to. She resolved to visit the cathedral that very day and pray for their safety and happiness as fervently as she would pray for herself and James. She knew it would take nothing less than God's intervention to see that the sin she committed with James didn't ruin them all. Though she could see no way this could end happily, she prayed He would look on her romance kindly and send no further stumbling blocks than those she already faced.

* * * *

Essie stared at her mistress, controlled disgust radiating from her before she turned to glare at the soiled and rumpled sheets on the carved fruitwood bed.

“Who is it? What man did you have in here last night? And every night for the past week?” She pressed her lips tightly together in distaste before she continued. “I know it ain't Michie Antoine. I thought at first he might have snuck into town for a while, but I'm sure now that it wasn't him. He wouldn't never come and stay for a week without speaking to some of us. Besides, he wouldn't ever leave Michie Séverin alone for that long to play with you. And I hear from Marie he's been home all week. So who you done had in here?"

Anger surged through Angele, but she forced herself to appear calm as she turned to her maid. She was not surprised; she had been expecting this. Nothing could be hidden from someone who cared for a woman as intimately as Essie cared for her Mam'selle Angele. When Mem Elysée had decided she was too old to accompany Angele to Europe, Essie had taken her mother's place and officially become Angele's lady's maid. But Essie had been part of Angele's life long before that.

As the daughter of Angele's nurse, Essie had been both playmate and servant for as long as the Creole girl could remember. Essie followed Angele as best she could about Ville-des-Fleur and Bougival as her young mistress romped like a boy with Séverin and Antoine. Essie learned long before she was out of short skirts to keep silent about whatever misbehavior Angele might get up to. If Angele was of a mind to climb trees, build rafts, or strip down to her underwear to swim the bayous with the two boys, Essie was to keep her mouth closed or suffer the consequences. The slave girl discovered that Mam'selle had a temper when she got roused and that temper was of the cold and unyielding sort. Tattling resulted in days, even weeks, of being banished from Mam'selle's sight. But that never stopped Essie from telling her mistress exactly what she thought of the other woman's exploits in private. She'd say nothing to anyone else, but she'd never kept her own council from Angele about anything she considered improper or immoral. Her mistress often heard exactly what was on her maid's mind. As often as not, Angele had no interest in Essie's opinion.

This time was no exception. “That's none of your business, Essie,” Angele advised her maid, ice sharpening each word into clear focus.

“Just like this is none of my business, I reckon,” Essie said and held out her hand. A small brass button rested in her palm. “That's a Yanqui button. Now how in the name of God the Father and the Holy Virgin did a Yanqui button get into your bedroom? You tell me that!"

She was shaking with suppressed emotion. Anger and disbelief radiated from her in equal measure bringing high color to her cafe au lait cheeks and snapping fire to her dark eyes. “Mon Dieu! You done took a Yanqui to your bed. I would never have thought..."

She turned away, her thin shoulders hunched beneath the white muslin of her shawl and her hands clutching at the blue floral of her cotton skirts. Apparently the substance of that thought was more than Essie could tolerate. “You sharing your bedclothes with a blue-bellied Yanqui! Have you lost your mind? Is that it? Es tu insensé?” She whirled back to face her unrepentant mistress. “They killed your brother! They shot Michie Séverin!” She visibly tried to compose herself.

Angele sighed. She knew it wasn't William's death or Séverin's injury that was so upsetting to the maid—Essie's man was off fighting with the First Louisiana Regiment. She'd warned Essie about getting too attached to Clement Lawson. It was so senseless. Essie could never hope to marry him—he was a free man of color and Essie had been born a slave. She'd fallen in love despite her mistress’ warnings. But now Essie had decided to hate the Yankees for Clement's sake. Angele had never understood before how a levelheaded woman like Essie had let love turn her head in such a way.

Angele lifted a quelling eyebrow and Essie tried a new tact. “What do you think your maman would say? Poor Madame Lourdes! She would die of the mortification. Dieu! If your papa was alive, he'd whip you and throw you out of the house!” She shook her head, the violence of the action setting the blue ribbons of her cap aquiver. “No. I won't have you embarrassing your people like this. I won't have you embarrassing me like this!” She turned back to the bed, her head shaking from side to side in denial. “Am I supposed to tell my maman I've not looked after you rightly?"

“Essie,” Angele said with a tight hold on her temper. “No one is going to be embarrassed! And I'm saying again and for the last time, this is none of your business.” She pulled herself as stiff and erect as Lourdes Valmont ever stood. “Your maman will know exactly as much as I choose to tell her. You will say nothing to Mem Elysée or to anyone else about this."

Essie's dark eyes flashed with fire. “You remind me of your papa when you get like this! You and Miss Charlie are both just like Monsieur Phillipe when you're on a tear. No, you're worse than she is. You don't think of nobody else. You don't care about nothing but getting your own way! Ain't there enough rumors about you and men already?"

Angele felt her bitterness overflow and she gritted her teeth to keep from screaming. “Yes! And after all these years of everyone whispering lies about which man I might be bedding, I have finally actually taken a lover. And yes, he is a Yanqui. And he will visit me whenever he can."

Essie had a touch of the Valmont stubbornness herself. “Not if Mam'selle Charlie is here. You won't be soiling that child with your carryings on. That Yanqui sets foot in this house when she comes to visit and I'm telling Michie Séverin even if I have to walk all the way to Bougival!” She crossed her slender arms over her chest. “You can send yourself to Hades if you want to. God knows, ain't no one ever been able to rein in that wild streak you got when you decide to indulge yourself. You and Michie Antoine and even Michie Séverin have got up to some things ain't no decent woman supposed to even know about. But up to now you always had sense enough to keep it in the family and to keep Mam'selle Charlie out of it. But since you done gone and lost your mind, I reckon it's up to me to see she stays the sweet innocent she is."

“I would never do anything to hurt Charlie!” Angele's temper cracked her icy facade for just an instant before she forced it to freeze over again. “You can rest easy. Charlie will be kept completely free of this."

“You're right about that! ‘Cause you have that man in this house while she's here and I'm telling Michie Séverin and Michie Antoine.” She sniffed. “Though I don't want to hurt them like that. What they gonna think? You giving what should be theirs to some blue-belly invader. I never thought I'd live to see the day."

“Essie! I mean it. I don't want to hear any more about this,” Angele said through clenched teeth. “I'll see Charlie is protected. I will see that no a hint of scandal is attached to the Valmont name. I will take care of everything the way I've done since I was twelve years old.” She took a deep breath and the imperious coldness she was famous for settled over her. “Now, send for Amaury and tell him I want my horse. I feel the need to ride along the levee for a while. He'll accompany me, of course,” she added before Essie could complain of her riding without her groom. “Then you can help me with my habit."

To make sure Essie knew just how displeased she was, Angele didn't attempt to soften her orders by phrasing them as a polite request. “While I'm gone, you can clean my room and change my sheets."

Essie’ own displeasure was more than evident, but she held her tongue as she swept from the room with a defiant swish of her skirts.

Angele sighed again. She had been expecting and dreading the confrontation with her maid. She didn't feel up to dealing with it today; she'd been feeling poorly off and on for some time. It was likely the heat. And like the heat, Essie's erect carriage and stiff displeasure would simply have to be borne until Angele could escape to the levee for a while. If Essie kept up her insubordinate ways, Angele would ship her home to Ville-des-Fleur for while. That would cool the impertinent harridan down. If it did not, Essie would find herself tending to household chores permanently while someone else tended to Angele.

Oddly saddened by that thought and by the argument, Angele sank into her delicately carved rocking chair and wondered if Essie was right. Maybe she had gone completely insane. It certainly seemed that way. Her mind was full of her Yankee major to the exclusion of all else. Even now she longed to have him beside her. A fantasy of riding the riverbank with James flashed through Angele's mind. He was a cavalry officer and she could imagine how beautiful he'd look astride a horse. A longing to see if he rode as well as she believed was nearly overpowering. She could see the sun glinting from his brass and gleaming on his fair hair. The lines about his eyes would deepen as he squinted against the brightness and his tanned cheeks would glow with color. He would be nothing short of magnificent.

She actually reached out to pull the bell and have Essie take a note to him when common sense overcame her fantasy. Riding out with James was impossible. Angele shuddered as she imagined the gossip such an act would cause. He'd be accused of fraternizing with the enemy and her reputation would be ruined. She let her hand fall back limply on her black skirts. Essie was right. She'd gone insane. Love for her precious Yankee had driven her slightly mad.

Essie was correct about something else—James could not visit her if Charlie came to stay for a while. She'd warn him that evening when he visited as promised. Of course, in all likelihood she wouldn't have to worry about it. If Angele was lucky, Séverin would keep Charlie at Bougival for the summer so the young girl wouldn't be exposed to the heat and bad air that so often brought plagues of fever to the city during the summer months. Ever since her parent's deaths from yellow fever and Charlie's own illness, Séverin had been extremely protective of his goddaughter. He'd keep her in the country until cooler weather. By fall, James would doubtless be reassigned or, more likely, this frightful war would finally be over and he'd have gone home. Then it wouldn't matter. Séverin could present Charlie from his big house here in town and Angele could retire to Ville-des-Fleur to mourn for her lost Yanqui.

The finely painted chicken skin fan in her hand creaked as her fingers tightened on its delicate slats. She had always known marriage to James was a fantasy, but she'd said nothing to him. There was no need for him to share the sadness she felt whenever she thought of his eventual departure from her life. She would let him have this brief season of happiness and illusion. He would realize the impossibility of their marriage soon enough. By the time Charlie came to town, James would surely know that a Union soldier could not marry a Confederate lady. The repercussions were too great.

Unbelievably saddened by the thought of James leaving, she fingered the crepe that so generously edged her skirt, and decided she'd put off her blacks. She had a premonition that she might be confined to them forever soon enough. She wouldn't want to wear colors once James was gone. But for now Essie could take out her brighter dresses. That should keep the other woman out of mischief and give her something new to think of. Maybe Angele would even have a new dress made up. She had some dress goods hidden away. She wondered if James would prefer to see her in pale summer pastels or in the rich jewel tones that became her high coloring so much more. She'd also have Essie unpack the fancy silk underthings she'd bought in Paris three years earlier. She'd thought to save them for some special occasion, but she could think of nothing more special than the nights she spent with her aptly named Major Darling. If a summer with James was all she could have, she'd make it full of halcyon, golden days for them both. When he left, he'd remember her with nothing but pleasure and joy, she swore to herself.

Angele reached into her pocket and pulled out the missive she'd received earlier. She wasn't sure why, but she felt no comfort as she reread Séverin's letter.

Mon cherie,

Antoine and I have nothing but joy and concern for you and your affaire amour. Listen to me, mon Angele, if this love is real, and I have no reason to think otherwise, then know that it is rare and precious and not to be tossed away. Yes, we must all protect Charlie. In that you are doing exactly as you ought. But love your James. Love him with your heart and your body. Be discreet and careful, but find what joy you can. As we have found to our deep sorrow, life can be very short and none of us know when ours may end. William and Michel are gone already. I came close to dying just as easily and quickly. Love your James while you can; there is too much uncertainty to do otherwise. And know that in this as in all things, Antoine and I will stand beside you. We remain as we always have...

Your Dearest Séverin and Your Adored Antoine.

Angele wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh, Séverin, you wouldn't feel so if you knew James was a Yanqui. That may be the one thing you will not be able to forgive me."

Rising from the rocking chair, she settled at her Oriental writing table and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer. Séverin's words only strengthened her resolve. As he advised, she would love James for whatever time she had. She would bear the pain of separation when it came, but until then she would see James happy. Her pen scratched across the page, sounding loud in the stillness of the hot afternoon as she confided her sorrow to her two best friends.

It is not possible for James to remain. The risk of scandal is too great. In time he will be called away or the war will end and with it our affaire. In either case, he will eventually go and I will be left alone. Oh, my first loves, what am I to do?

* * * *

Antoine looked out over the emerald paddies of rice that spread toward the distant trees. Here and there men and women moved through the fields, tending the crop. Clouds, blue-gray and angry white, were building high on the horizon in preparation for the daily rainstorm. Thunder made distant music and the breeze from the storm's coming wrath blew fresh and cool across slaves and master alike. It carried the scent of mud, pines, and dust.

“We should head back to the house before it rains,” Antoine advised. The breeze that ruffled the rice, sending waves rippling across the fields and turning them into a green ocean, blew his black hair across his face. Hatless, he sat a horse as raven as his hair. “If we avoid hail and Yanquis, the crop should be good this season."

Séverin's appreciation of how Antoine looked silhouetted against the coming storm was plain on his face. “Oui. You have done excellently, mon amour. Everyone is saying so."

Antoine shrugged. With Séverin recuperating for most of the spring, Antoine had finally taken on the duties of a son of the household that he'd avoided for years. He knew he was considered a ne'er-do-well who lived off Séverin's bounty and generosity. In general he didn't care what the world thought of him as long as they didn't say it to his face. But if the crops came in well this summer, he'd have proven he was much more than Séverin's pretty companion and Madame Sophie's charity case.

For some reason he was immensely uneasy with his success and even more uneasy with Séverin's gratitude. Séverin had no reason to be thankful to him. It was he who owed everything to Séverin. He knew that and had known it for years. He was comfortable with his debt. He was not comfortable with those who said he was finally paying back some of what he owed the Valmonts. He didn't want to pay back anything. He simply wanted to take care of Séverin. That wish had nothing to do with debts or obligations; it had to do with love.

To change the subject he said, “Angele's last letter concerns me, cher.” He turned his horse into the wind and headed toward the storm beside Séverin. “It is not so much her sadness. You and I know all too well that love can be painful even when it is true. But I don't like that she doesn't tell us what's so unsuitable about this man of hers."

He paused while he scanned the road ahead for any danger to Séverin. Seeing Séverin fall shot and bleeding on a Virginia battlefield had driven a spike of fear straight through Antoine's heart. Manassas was etched into Antoine's mind in a way that could never be erased. In his dreams he could still smell the sharp bitterness of cordite and feel the deafening boom of artillery. And in his nightmares he heard Séverin's screams as the surgeon dug the bullet from his lover's hip. So he watched constantly and didn't allow Séverin to ride without him. He knew he had become a touch overly protective, but he also knew they were still at war and even the seemingly peaceful fields and forests of Bougival could hide lethal danger. So he watched the woods and fence rows and kept his gun and knife loose in their holster and sheath. Today he saw nothing untoward and so rode at casual ease beside Séverin.

Séverin agreed. “I have wondered myself. It is not like her to hold anything back from us.” Antoine noticed Séverin was scanning the area himself. “Do you think ... Well, is it possible he is a man of color?” Séverin said with great hesitation.

Antoine shivered though Séverin was only voicing what they'd both wondered from the beginning. “That would be a scandal all right.” He looked off to the storm now obscuring the horizon. “But I don't think that's it. She keeps talking about marrying him. She wouldn't be able to marry a colored man; it's illegal and no priest would do it anyway. Besides, Angele told me once that she don't find Negroes attractive.” He laughed suddenly. “Or blonds. She likes her men with straight black hair.” He smirked. “And blue-green eyes."

Séverin laughed along with him. “You know vanity is a sin."

“Oh mais oui! But I've got a whole list of sins, Séverin. Vanity is fairly far down that list.” Antoine smiled as Séverin laughed harder. He liked to hear Séverin laugh. There had been too little laughter ever since this idiotic war had started. “But you know, if this James is only a little colored, if he's white enough to pass ... Well, what are we gonna do then?” He sighed and fell into a brief reverie. “We could kill him and make sure she never knew it was us."

Séverin nodded again. “I know, but would that be right?” He rode in pensive silence for long minutes. “He saved her life and from her letters he's been nothing but good to her. And, and ... Antoine, our own children are colored.” Their mixed heritage was one reason Séverin sent Solange and their babies to Europe. She, Séverin, and Antoine considered the possibility for many years and agreed before the War it would be best to pass their children off as white. They planned to marry them into their fathers’ race when they were grown. “How can we condemn him for doing something we want our own babies to do?"

“I know. I'm not saying it's the right answer. I'm just saying it's one answer.” Antoine thought of Séverin's lovely daughter, as pretty as her placée mother and possessed of her father's dark, liquid eyes. He thought of his own sons, as teal-eyed and beautiful as he was. They would pass on his male lover's last name and their mother's Negro blood to his grandchildren. Thunder rumbled louder, and Antoine was reminded of distant canon.

“Séverin, you know, some say I may have colored blood, too. I don't know for sure. Mam-Maw Brouillette always said she was part Choctaw but, well, it could be Negro."

“I know. I've known that since we were little.” For once his expressive face gave nothing away.

Antoine rode silently beside the one person who meant more to him than living. He knew Séverin wouldn't care if he was coal black. Antoine felt much the same way about Séverin. Did Angele feel for her James even half of what he felt for Séverin? “I reckon we can't go killing him then."

Séverin relaxed in the saddle. “No, we can't."

“If he is passing, well, I reckon we could find some way to help him do that. Make sure no one finds out?” Antoine said slowly.

“We could do that. We owe him that much for saving her life.” Séverin quickened his horse's pace as the white columns of Bougival appear through the trees. “And we owe Angele that much for all the years she has loved and supported us. If she did not turn away from us for loving each other, how could we turn away from her for loving a man of whatever color he might be?"

Antoine felt a cool drop of rain strike his cheek. “Oui. She has never turned from us or found us disgusting. So now we will stand by her. We will see Charlie married well and then we will see Angele married happy.” Séverin's smile was indulgent and made Antoine grin in response. “It will all work out, Séverin. I'll see to it."

Séverin laughed. “I'm sure you will. In any case, we will know more soon. Since Beast Butler has ordered us to town as if we were his lackeys, we might as well turn it to our advantage. We will insist on meeting this James."

“Oui." Antoine looked out over the fields. “We'll be in New Orleans by this time tomorrow. Reckon we can meet him tomorrow night?” His grin grew at Séverin's raised eyebrow. “Yeah, I know. She ain't gonna want us to see him at all.” He shrugged. “Don't much matter, I suppose, as long as he makes her happy."

Fat drops pattered on the dust of the carriageway as a pair of slaves ran out to hold the horses while he and Séverin dismounted. The mystery of it still bothered him. He turned it all over in his mind one more time before he voiced his decision. “Yeah, our Angele will be happy or I'll know the reason why not. And we will help her James. Unless he ever hurts her.” Antoine's dark smile caused one of the grooms to step quickly out of his way. “If he breaks her heart, I'll carve his out and show it him."

Séverin clapped him on the shoulder. “Oui, mon amour, you will. And I'll stand watch while you do it."

CHAPTER 10

Mrs. Abelard Hennington-White had to be the worst trial Wesley had yet faced in his military career. After only a short while in the corpulent woman's company, Wesley could not countenance the fact that General Hennington-White had insisted he couldn't bear to be separated from his wife even to the extent that he had her transported miles across hostile territory to keep him company in New Orleans. Wesley would have thought the relatively pleasant-natured officer might have regarded the war as a welcome respite from his wife's sharp-tongued opinions and imperious nature.

The general had entreated Wesley's assistance as escort to the lady because he mistakenly believed that Wesley, as a native son of the region, might be better able to procure Mrs. White access to the best shopping and society in town. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. There was not a single home in the Vieux Carré where Wesley even expected to be acknowledged, much less received. His mother welcomed him, but there was broken-hearted bitterness in her smiles whenever Wesley paid his discreet calls upon her at Saint Charles Avenue to make certain she was comfortable. Wesley had no doubt her door would have been barred to him as well if his father still lived.

“What do you mean there's no orange blossom cologne water left?” Mrs. White shrilled at the clerk, a striking mixed-blooded woman clad in a severe dark gray pelisse. “I just saw the shop boy parcel some up a moment ago!” Her Roman nostrils flared and the silky ostrich plumes on her bonnet quivered.

“I am sorry, Madame, but there is no more orange blossom. You must understand the times and circumstances. We don't always have access to the supplies we need.” The young lady spoke calmly, even serenely, with the softest trace of a liquid French accent. Yet there was an attitude of quiet insolence in her stance, an apathetic amusement at the other woman's displeasure. Her pink lower lip curled in what might have been courtesy or contempt. She glanced up at Wesley and fluttered dark-lashed hazel green eyes at him without a trace of guile.

Wesley grimaced. He was more than willing to wager a month's income that the Bourbon French Parfumeur was more than adequately stocked with orange blossom water. But the proprietor in all likelihood was disinclined to sell even a dram of it to a despised Yanqui general's wife.

“Perhaps we ought to consider another shop, Mrs. White,” Wesley suggested. He offered her an encouraging smile she did not return. “There are some wonderful shops on Canal Street that might still have what you want."

“This is disgusting!” Mrs. White rounded upon the younger woman squarely, her eyes like daggers as she reached the end of her short temper. “You people are the most hard-hearted and insolent fools I've ever struggled to get along with!” She sniffed, nostrils flaring wide as a trumpet, and her blue eyes snapped with rage. “You don't know when you're beaten!"

The mulatto woman remained calm; it seemed to Wesley that she was incapable of becoming angry or irate. More likely, though, she was demonstrating her contempt in the most passive way possible. Even Mrs. White's insults were not important enough for her to take offense to. She flashed Mrs. White a cool bland smile and asked her to please check for availability on the orange blossom some other day. Better yet, why didn't she just send a courier to check for her?

“Sir, I do not understand how you managed to evolve into a gentleman if you were surrounded by this sort of society throughout your youth!” Mrs. White fluttered as Wesley gallantly offered her his arm to lead her from the little shop back toward her waiting carriage. “I vow that's the queerest-looking creature I've ever seen! A darky all done up like a lady and speaking like one, too! Who could imagine such a thing? And her hair is actually blonde and soft just like a ... You don't suppose she's one of those mixed-bloods?"

“Perhaps not,” Wesley said. “Surely there are fair-haired darkies to be found all over Africa,” he added too politely.

Mrs. White had a curious fascination with the free colored population in the South, a fascination shared with most of the northern region. It had taken all his control to remain polite when she'd asked him outright if he kept a colored mistress. Wesley flinched inwardly as he imagined her writing letters to her family describing colored businessmen and planters as though they were a bizarre social oddity like a three-legged calf.

Many of the free colored families in Louisiana and Mississippi were descended from men and women who'd never worn the yoke of slavery and had evolved into a separate social aristocracy all their own. These families, as respectable as Wesley's own, did not fraternize openly with the Creoles except in commerce, and expressed the Creoles’ same polite contempt for most Americans. They valued their heritage and guarded it lovingly. Some of their numbers were comprised of placage households, but there were other families who boasted no Creole or Anglo blood at all and would have been offended at the introduction of it because of the unsanctified nature of such alliances. They were by turns misunderstood and held in contempt by the Union who saw them as a glorified slave race.

He handed Mrs. White into the carriage and waited while she arranged her skirts and her reticule in whatever fashion best suited her. She didn't appreciate him joining her in the carriage until she was completely composed and prepared for his intrusion. Wesley found this custom most annoying when it rained.

“Oh, Sabine! Wait please! Don't close just yet!” The words were lilting and filled with breathless laughter.

Wesley glanced back over one shoulder as a young woman climbed down clumsily from a carriage about two yards behind the general's and rushed along the brick sidewalk toward the parfumeur they'd just left. She was short and delicately built, and her swinging skirts looked like they might carry her away if a good strong breeze blew. A few dark tendrils of curly hair escaped her snood and waved about her bonnet.

Wesley saw the shop attendant's real smile, pleased and welcoming as she bowed into a slight curtsey and stood aside, holding the narrow door wide for the Creole lady to enter. Another girl, fair-haired, called laughingly for the first to wait as the driver, a brawny muscular deep-complexioned black man in a dark blue livery handed her down then turned back to assist her maid, a middle-aged mulatto woman clad in a simple black-checked gown and a black straw hat.

A tall gentleman in a well-cut brown suit descended last to follow the ladies toward the shop.

Wesley Leighton did a double take and took in the man's height and build. It was Séverin Valmont, he thought. The brim of his silk hat shadowed his facial features but Wesley was sure he recognized his friend. He took in the ivory-handled cane and Séverin's slight limp as he skirted some debris on the banquette. It was impossible to pity him. Infirmity couldn't detract from Valmont's presence. There was too much good blood in Séverin for that to matter.

When the fair-haired girl stopped on the banquette to wait for Séverin with the wily smile of a cream-filled cat, Wesley had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Even an acknowledged betrothal to his formidable cousin Angele didn't save Séverin from flirtatious young women.

“Sabine, cherie! I'm in desperate need of orange blossom water! I ran out weeks ago!” The dark-haired girl grieved.

That must be Miss Charlie, Wesley thought. The girl hanging on Séverin's arm was too fair and buxom. The younger Miss Valmont had always been rather small and favored Séverin in her looks.

Lilting French rang sweetly on Wesley's ears like a precious wave of music he hadn't known the name of and so couldn't direct a musician to play the song for him later on. Her melodious accent reminded him of his youth in Louisiana when his grandparents permitted only French to be used for conversations during meals. The language was light and lyrical, without the harshness of English spoken in varying accents in some larger northern cities he'd visited. Charlie's sugared French assured the captain he was at home.

Even if he wasn't welcome.

Wesley turned his head sharply back toward the parfumerie, hungry for a look at the woman he might have married, and watched the back of her disorderly skirts brush the doorframes as she disappeared into the shop.

“You come in, Mademoiselle! How is your dear sister?"

“Very well, thank you, considering the circumstances. I've just been in town since yesterday. Things are ... awfully different.” Her tone, friendly and gracious, left no doubt in Wesley's mind what she actually meant.

There are intruders, Yanquis everywhere, and they're simply abhorrent! They don't understand our ways, our extra languages, the way we like to add milk to our coffee instead of just sugar. They're interlopers and intruders and all of them are well nigh unbearably barbaric!

And he was part of they. Wesley's lips felt dry. He licked them.

“Captain!” Arlene White snapped. “If you're done watching the perfume social, I'd like the carriage closed before more mosquitoes get trapped in here!” She vented her irritation by slapping the wall of the carriage with her left hand hard enough to make it vibrate.

“Ma'am.” Wesley climbed up into the opposite seat and pulled the door shut before directing the driver to head towards Canal Street.

* * * *

“Was that a Yanqui?” Miss Charlie asked Sabine, curious. “Her accent was harsh to that soldier."

“Worse than a Yanqui,” Sabine declared. “A Yanqui officer's wife.” She sighed in annoyance. She and her partners had deliberately moved their parfumerie from Rue Royale to Rue Bourbon because it was too disturbing for their regular clientele to watch the Bluecoats conduct the business of occupying the local state buildings and offices on that street.

Generally, Sabine didn't mind soldiers as customers. Not every soldier in the Union Army was a barbarian and some were genuinely courteous and respectful. A surprising number of them tolerated her cool hauteur without complaint. Her shop was one of the best-known boutiques in the country. Some of them came to buy perfume or toilette water to send home to their wives or sisters. Others were intrigued by the Eau de Cologne, a man's fragrance blended from a guarded recipe that was said to be Napoleon Bonaparte's favorite scent. Heaven knew they needed it to refresh themselves after all the drilling and marching they did! But Sabine would be damned if she'd tolerate any hoity-toity treatment from any of them, much less a condescending, piggy-faced woman. They behaved themselves, or they were not served.

Mademoiselle Charlie's rose-petal lips bloomed into a pout.

“They despise us, yet they want to shop with us.” She shook her head. “Mr. Butler's audacity knows no bounds. Next he'll expect us to invite Yanquis to call on us at home and dance with them at parties!"

“Oh, Charlie! What an idea!” Josephine Delacroix, Miss Charlie's friend, shook her head until the pale blue feathers on her bonnet quivered. She lifted a handsome flask of violet water and admired it for a moment before putting it back down regretfully.

Sabine had seen that action far too often in recent months. The young lady's family had switched to Confederate funds and now she had no pin money for the trifles so important to someone her age. Sabine sighed. She feared that soon it would be more than perfume that was returned to the shelf because there was no money.

“Although some of the soldiers we passed drilling in the streets today were nice-looking!” Mademoiselle Josephine's feminine giggle died when her mammy glared daggers at her for such unpatriotic sentiment. “At least, I thought so,” she insisted.

Sabine did not reply as she retrieved the items she knew Miss Charlie wanted: a flask of perfume, a larger bottle of cologne water to rinse her hair in, and several cakes of fine French-milled soap—all in her favorite orange blossom fragrance.

“And how is Madame Valmont?” The parfumeuse inquired politely, although she already knew quite well Suzanne had been packed off to some of her Cajun relatives farther away from the city.

“The city air doesn't suit her in summer.” Charlie made a valiant effort to hide the dimples surging at the corners of her mouth. “She opted to stay in St. Martinville with her cousins."

“Do you want things for the masters as well?” Sabine ignored Monsieur Séverin Valmont's climbing brow with aplomb. After all, Charlie was in long skirts now, she was perfectly capable of shopping for their household without consulting her guardian.

“Yes. More soap and some good perfume water and cologne. And bath powder."

Sabine grinned. Michie Séverin and Michie Antoine bathed enough to be considered dandies! She assembled several packages of the items Charlie wanted in their favorite sandalwood. It was strange that both the men chose to wear it and had been doing so for years.

“You're just an old-fashioned girl, Mam'selle,” Sabine declared. “You don't want to try something different? Monsieur Doussan, he's made some wonderful new blends very popular with the young ladies."

“Non.” Charlie shook her head and smiled her thanks. “I like the orange blossom best."

“You always have.” Séverin Valmont's dark eyes poured affection over his youngest cousin. Sabine had never seen a bachelor take on so over an inherited ward. Of course Séverin was known to be fond of his own children, too. He'd cried buckets when he put Solange and her babies on a ship to Europe to get them away from the war. “Since you were very little."

“I know. It's so warm and clean."

The elegant man pinched his cousin's cheek. “Your maman loved it."

“Is that why Antoine says I smell like an old lady?” she added just to make M'sieur Valmont laughed before turning back to the counter. “And something for my sister. Something very nice.” Charlie mused at the various containers and gift curiosities in the shop.

“There is plenty of olive blossom, Mam'selle. It's one of the easiest things we still make. Tea olive blooms through most of the late summer to the winter months."

Charlie shook her head. “No, I want to take her something different. She's been so very—isolated since poor William. I wish she'd leave off mourning and wear a pretty dress. Things are bad enough with the Yanquis here."

“I understand, Mam'selle.” Sabine nodded. “Let me fetch some of her bath salts. They might do her good.” As she stepped away from the counter, Sabine thought she would include the salts as lagniappe to Miss Charlie's extravagant purchases. Heaven knew Angele Valmont deserved a relaxing fragrant bath after the awfulness she'd endured. Sabine tsked silently at the rumor she'd heard. That situation with the soldiers was une horreur, she thought as she disappeared into the back stockroom.

* * * *

Josephine sighed dramatically. “Oh, Charlie, isn't it awful? There's hardly any velvet for winter dresses!"

Charlie twisted her lips into what she hoped seemed a genuine smile as she searched for a sympathetic reply. For heaven's sake, the heat and humidity in New Orleans were unbearable nine months out of the year! Why was the girl fretting over velvets?

D. H. Holmes was crowded, far more than Charlie ever remembered it being, and she'd shopped here at least a few times a week for her entire life. It was the first department store in the South and carried a variety of dry goods and necessities. It was the largest store on Canal Street and easily the most glamorous. Everybody who was anybody went there to shop, to run into friends, to see and be seen.

Charlie only saw dark blue jackets trimmed with various golden insignia. Epaulets, braided cords, and brass buttons overwhelmed the entire floor. The store had never seemed so warm and stuffy. A pleasant-faced soldier looked at a selection of collars and buttons in the corner while his more portly friend reluctantly parted with money for a belt buckle.

Séverin spoke to her, gently asked her if she was well. She ought to say no and make her excuses to Josephine so that she might go home. She wanted to climb upstairs to her bedroom—Allaire would have unpacked things by now—and think about anything but the most fashionable shop in the city filled to capacity with strangers. Charlie had never imagined it was possible for her to enter D. H. Holmes and not know most of the people around her.

Her shoe slid awkwardly over the floor and she gasped as she lost her balance and began to fall in a graceless heap. Josephine made a surprised noise, and Séverin hastened towards her.

“Ma'am!"

A hard arm laden with whipcord strength curled easily around her waist and pulled her back up. The sudden break in her fall caused Charlie to squeak in surprise and catch a relieved draught of air

“I'm sorry, Ma'am, are you all right?"

His voice was curiously soft, liquid, a trace of accent she found oddly familiar—a honey-sweet drawl mixed with crisper consonants. He sounded local to her. A careful glance at his uniform confirmed he was a Union officer and not one of the Confederate companies who refused to change their blue uniforms after the war broke out. Charlie's brow knit in confusion.

“Ma'am?” He released her once she gained her feet but lingered closely lest she needed more assistance. “Mademoiselle?"

He must have thought she didn't reply because she couldn't speak English. How ludicrous! Almost all Creoles spoke English now!

Charlie lifted her head to say something, mumble some sort of acknowledgement or thanks.

“I'm so sorry!” One of the shop clerks broke into profuse apology. “A flask of lamp oil broke there earlier and we've had trouble keeping it clean."

The soldier was a fine figure of a man. At least he would have been if his impeccable uniform was not deep rich marine blue with gilded trimmings. His smile was all courtesy as she blinked up at him, her own lips parting slightly to thank him.

The man was tall, extremely so. Charlie was fairly short and used to having to look up at people, but he was taller than most. Very neatly built and strong, with handsome features and keen blue-gray eyes. A faint cleft framed the left corner of his well-drawn mouth.

Nervous recognition pinched Charlie, causing her to frown. That was impossible, though. She didn't know any Federal officers.

His fine mouth turned down at the corners.

“Why Miss Cha—” he began.

Her eyes widened and she heard Josephine's breath hitch in nervous excitement. How on earth did Charlotte Valmont find herself on such polite terms with a Yanqui officer that he might address her by her first name? Charlie could almost hear the question bursting to break free on her friend's lips.

A hard body, compact and muscular, imposed itself between her and the Union officer. Charlie felt a swell of reassurance that Séverin was with her, as always, to protect her and keep her from scandal. To her right she saw Josephine's mammy loitering nearby with Josephine pulled behind her, farther away from the potential disgrace of being on familiar terms with the enemy. The good-natured woman's face was etched into a wary mask of condemnation for the officer.

“We thank you for your assistance, sir."

Charlie shivered. Séverin's gentle voice was ice chipped away from a frozen block of water as he acknowledged the shopkeeper.

When he turned toward the officer the cold stone in his face hardened to glittery sharp diamond. Charlie realized the war had changed Séverin in ways he tried not to show her. Even on his most irate day on the plantation she'd never known him to be so abrupt, so near outright rudeness, not even with the most simple-minded or obstinate field worker.

“I'm in your debt.” The briefest of pauses as obsidian eyes swept over the taller man's uniform to evaluate his rank. “Captain,” he concluded with excruciating civility. Séverin's English was always too precise to be mistaken for his native tongue.

The Yanqui soldier—or Creole soldier, or Creole Yanqui, or whatever he was—was not intimidated by the icy gratitude of Charlie's guardian or the open hostility in her friend's glaring servant. He drew himself up to his full height and made a short bow.

“It was my pleasure, sir.” Once more, the words were all right, the tone suitable to the situation. So why did they sound so discordant to her? “Please excuse me."

The captain's eyes flicked to hers gravely for just a moment and the cleft in his cheek strained. He wanted to laugh after being frozen by Séverin Valmont! The look on his face was almost playful, even familiar. What insolence! Charlie's brows dipped and she retreated further behind her beloved parraine.

Turning to the clerk, the ebon-haired captain lapsed into clear French. “I dropped my hat. Where is it off to?"

Charlie frowned, unhappy at her own confusion.

Immediately, Séverin's hard mask relaxed into soft affection when he read her worry.

“Allons, petite,” he murmured, tucking her light hand securely on his arm. “We go home, yes?"

Josephine and her maid were already beside them and eager to depart. Josephine glanced behind her several times despite her servant's disapproving huffing.

“What a thoughtful gentleman, he was so nice to you, Charlie!"

“Ma'amselle, this isn't proper discussion for young ladies.” Her maid reprimanded her severely.

“But he sounded like one of us! How could he be in the Union Army?” Josephine frowned, then brightened as she thought. “D'you think he's a spy?"

Charlie refused to groan aloud at the other girl's empty-headedness. She wove her face into an unknowing expression that seemed to satisfy Josephine's daydreams.

“And how did he know your name? What a mystery!” Josephine giggled. “Ow! Clymene!” She complained when her maid pinched her.

“You shush yourself and get in the carriage!” Clymene's scowl didn't lessen even when Josephine shrank from her. “Not one more word! It's indecent!"

Séverin did not seem to notice any of Josephine's untoward behavior or her maid's chastisement. He guided Charlie through the crowds of shopping Bluecoats towards the store's entrance on Canal Street.

“This is my fault, petite.” He petted her hand to soothe her. “You are too tired to be out today."

* * * *

“Miss Charlie,” he whispered softly, now that the fierce-eyed glaring planter no longer stood in front of him. He whispered it again, loving the sound of it. “Mademoiselle Valmont."

Military training and several years on the western frontiers dealing with Indian troubles had lent Wesley excellent observation skills for petty details. This talent had not been necessary to detect Séverin Valmont's disappointed hostility—a blind lunatic could have perceived that—and it surprised Wesley how keenly he felt the censure of his former friend.

It had been a relief when Mrs. White had finally settled upon purchasing some trifle or other at D.H. Holmes’ and allowed Wesley to return her to the hotel on St. Charles Avenue where most of the officers were domiciled. He'd stored his thoughts and impressions of the day, burying them behind looks of bland courtesy and the motions of etiquette until he was safely ensconced in his quarters to analyze them.

Séverin's open contempt and his refusal to notice him by their former acquaintance had burned him. Wesley had returned to New Orleans knowing perfectly well he should expect censure from every quarter and, because he expected it, he normally found it easy enough to bear. His sisters shunned him and he knew better than to approach his mother's house on her at-home days when other callers might be expected.

His grandmother, a formidable French aristocrat, would hug him in the street and let the world be damned, and there were some acquaintances, mostly Federal sympathizers, who treated him with civility in private. By and far, however, Wesley found himself an outcast. He'd learned to accept the uncomfortable position; if nothing the passing years had made Wesley adaptable. Wesley shrugged. Even the best armor had its flaws.

Miss Charlie ... Wesley recalled each detail of her, drinking them in as he raised his coffee mug to his lips. The large brooch pinned on her dove-gray zouave jacket—a cameo design of two nymphs circling a large urn—was too distinctive to be common. It had once adorned Séverin's smartly tailored riding coats when he was a young man. The snowy undersleeves beneath the full cuffs were trimmed in tiny lace ruffles edged in slender lavender ribbon that matched the ruching on her double-tiered skirt ruffles and the enormous bow adorning her silk-covered bonnet. Her hair was thick and voluminous, darker than the Egyptian plague, and stray tendrils escaped her white snood to dance cheerfully round her pink-cheeked loveliness. She'd grown prettily pinker when she'd clutched him in a wild effort to regain her balance after she'd slipped in the department store.

Wesley frowned, both intrigued and troubled. His last recollection of Charlotte Valmont had been a late summer afternoon on the wide gallery of Bougival during Michel's wedding. Dressed in her best party frock and gardenias artfully pinned into her sooty ringlets, Jean had drawn her up in his arms to waltz as he carried her, her fair cheek pressed to his swarthier one. The orchestra music wafted all around them from inside Bougival's massive white-paneled ballroom, and Jean had twirled with her until Charlie couldn't stop laughing.

She'd been all of seven years old. Jean had been deeply concerned about Charlie's slow recovery from the yellow fever that had already claimed the lives of both her parents, and he spoiled and cherished her all the more for that. At fifteen, Wesley had rarely thought much about her. His parents arranged his marriage and he saw the decided advantages in it. The child had been sweet-tempered and likely to mature into prettiness if she survived, and their lands shared a common border.

Charlie more than fulfilled the promise of budding beauty in her childhood, the round face narrowed into a sweet heart shape. Her lush rose blossom mouth begged for kisses and Wesley couldn't forget the darling confusion in her dark-eyed stare as she tried to reconcile who he might be. Remorse gnawed Wesley's vitals. While glad to see her once more, he couldn't escape the annoying guilt he ought to have made a better effort to retain some kind of acquaintance with Charlie. Although, he remonstrated, at least since she didn't recognize him she looked more confused than scornful towards him.

A whole ten years had passed since he'd laid eyes on her that day, and his mind reeled with the effort to accept the wonderful differences of the curly-haired lively French moppet transformed into a slim beauty. Wesley shook his head in frustration and adjusted his boot jack to work off his left boot. Only a short while after the wedding reception at Bougival. he'd incurred his father's ire and found himself disgraced, banished to the comfort of an excellent boys’ school several states away.

“I'm sending you north not just to keep your sisters from the scandal, but to keep you alive! Do you want her cousins to call you out for this insult?"

It was several months before he got any letters from anyone except his iron-fisted sire, and it didn't surprise him that his grandmother was the first to write to him. His father was a bastard, but his grandmother was a perfect hellion when she wanted her way in something.

“Mon fils, I am doing my best to reason with Mr. Leighton ... “ She never would refer to him as “your father” or “my son-in-law” or even “my daughter's husband!"

"To arrange for your return for a visit to us if nothing else. As you know, he is a difficult gentleman in the most pleasant circumstances and the circumstances you brought to light upon the family are certainly not pleasant! Your maman misses you terribly and cries often so that Mr. Leighton is more often away from home ... Mon fils, I love you, je t'adore beaucoup, but how could you think so little of your family and your obligations to our friends? I am forwarding additional funds to your credit through my bank. Be certain you have a good warm coat this year, mon fils. I love you dearly."

The easy pampered lifestyle that every Creole was born to revere had become a bitter memory to Wesley. Then the entire country had gone crazy. To Wesley's surprise, his grandmother had abjured him not to resign his commission with the Federals and to remain at his post in the West, reminding him with her usual practicality for such matters that he was the only surviving male heir to the Leightons and if he switched alliances the family's fortunes would likely be confiscated once the Confederacy lost the war

Wesley flicked his attention back to the present and his mouth softened into the faintest hint of a smile. He dropped his right boot next to the left one, and barely restrained his own laughter when the small mirror in front of the bureau near his bed reminded him of his dark blue uniform. He'd always taken it for granted Charlie Valmont was meant to be his one day. He could never recall wanting her so much before, though. And if Séverin's ice-slivered glare was any indication, Wesley was further away from what he wanted than he'd been when he was first packed off to West Point.

Part of him wanted to laugh at the irony, but instead his lips parted to speak the sweetness again.

“Miss Charlie Valmont. Mademoiselle Charlotte."

* * * *

James paused in his story to snuggle Angele close and sigh in contentment. She smiled against his skin. She loved the little sounds he made. The sound of his heartbeat had become precious to her. Everything about him was something precious to be treasured. She allowed her fingers to wander through the sprinkling of silky hair on his broad chest and thought again what a wonderful pillow he made. How could she ever have favored goose down? She had never slept so peacefully as she did cradled by his strong arms. It felt so good to just lie with him and listen to his beautiful voice as he told her about his day.

“So, poor Wesley ends up carting this battleaxe to two other shops before he finds one that will sell her what she wants.” He chuckled and she could feel the vibrations from his laughter beneath her cheek.

She laughed along with him. It was good to be friends with Wesley again though he was much changed from the boy she remembered. So much so in fact she had been forced to ask James the identity of her second rescuer. As the major lay in her arms after storming her front door she'd discovered her old friend was her other savior. Wesley had shielded her from possible embarrassment again that same night. She'd not known until Jack told her the next evening that Wes closed and bolted the doors they'd left open.

Dear Wesley, he always helped her out of scrapes. There was an aspect of the knight errant in his makeup as strong as the one in James. Maybe Wesley wasn't so changed after all.

Wesley's actions the afternoon she was attacked hadn't gone unnoticed by New Orleans and no one was shocked or surprised when Wes was admitted through Angele's front door. Wesley was a traitor, of course, and hardly socially acceptable, but everyone knew he'd done Angele a good turn and his grandmother received him openly. There was tsking, but Angele's standing in the community was such that she could speak to him in public and even allow brief afternoon calls.

James was vocal in his pleasure at their renewed acquaintance though Angele found it ironic her old playmate was her lover's dearest comrade. Still, it felt very good to see her old friend alive and well.

“And was Madame La General happy with her purchases?"

“I guess she was.” James moved a bit beneath her. “I don't see how General White keeps out of bankruptcy! She paid over fifty cents for a tiny bottle of scent!"

Angele looked up at him in confusion as he continued. “I know. It's crazy. Of course, my sister's fiancé is just as crazy. The fool spent nearly a dollar for a bottle of toilet water for her last Christmas. Have you ever heard of such? I hope she has sense enough to make it last and only wears it for special occasions."

Angele's fingers stilled as blinding realization hit her. She'd known James’ background wasn't as affluent as her own, but she'd no idea how very far apart they were socially. The tea olive cologne she used to scent the rinse water for her hair cost as much as Mrs. White's lavish purchase. Her perfume cost many times that. She'd never considered it an exorbitant luxury. She'd never thought of it at all. Tea Olive was far from the most expense fragrance the Bourbon French Parfumeur carried. Yet to James it was a foolish and wasteful extravagance. He would doubtless consider most of her expenditures spendthrift. How could they build a life when the ones they currently lived were so far apart?

Angele held him close and wondered how long she would have until their backgrounds pulled their love asunder. If by some miracle she did marry him, how would James tolerate the disapproval of her friends? Some would be cutting and cruel. Others would pity him. All would look down upon him as someone inferior. She wasn't sure how she would bear it if the world found out about James’ background. She had been worried about scandal when she should have been concerned that James would be cut not for his uniform but for his upbringing.

She was sure now she'd made the right choice. No one could know about their love. She would have to protect her family's name and James’ feelings. She'd had no idea how dangerous a game she was playing.

“James, mon coeur? I do not wish to talk of this general's crass and indelicate lady. I wish to love you.” She pressed her lips to his skin. It would be the last time she could do so. She would hold him and love him one final time before she told him that her sister had returned to town and he could visit her house no more.

CHAPTER 11

Angele looked up as her sister flounced into the parlor, her verdant calico skirts swaying dangerously. Normally Angele would have admonished Charlie to walk with more grace, but Charlie's out-thrust chin and frowning brow proclaimed that the child was not in the mood to take a decorum lesson well. And Angele did not feel like arguing with her sister. Angele had been unaccountably melancholy and ill when she'd awakened and though the illness had passed, her sadness had only increased as the day wore on. She waited until Mathilde had finished lighting the lamps and withdrawn to the kitchen before she asked Charlie what the matter was.

“It's the Yanquis,” the girl answered. “They are just insupportable.” She plopped down on the pine velvet of the sofa, the cushions a perfect compliment for her dress. “Going around the town showing their authority over everyone and everything! They make me so angry. Now they've posted one of their hateful bills on our wall. Right outside on our house just like it belongs to them!"

Angele shrugged and picked up the book she'd been trying to enjoy. She'd read the same page three times now and it still made no sense, but she could think of no other occupation that would suit her any better. “If that is the worst complaint we have with our conquerors today, I am not inclined to worry."

She didn't want to think about the Yanquis; that would only conjure up memories of James. The knowledge that memories of him were all she would ever have, added to her depression and brought pain to her body and soul. The past days had been hard to bear. A longing for his voice and an ache for his touch kept her awake long after the house had fallen silent. Nothing seemed able to distract her for more than a brief moment and everything brought him to mind. She'd come to hate the fine crystal decanter set in the dining room. Each time she saw it she thought of how caring he'd been when he brought her wine and told her she was brave and beautiful. Seeing it made her feel like crying. She couldn't sleep. Even when she did, she'd awaken thinking she'd heard the creak of the back gate or his footsteps on the gallery outside her room. Her bed had suddenly become too large and empty without his long frame filling the barrenness.

She stared down at the printed page of her book so Charlie wouldn't see the longing she knew was written on her face. “Do not think of it, petite soeur."

“It's hard to think of anything else,” Charlie countered. “It's all you hear of. The Yanquis did this and the Yanquis did that.” Her hands flew about in agitation. “Did you know that a pair of them accosted Sarah Nelson's maid just yesterday?"

Angele's head snapped up. “Accosted?” she whispered as a band of remembered fear tightened about her chest.

“Yes! They teased her unmercifully and said all sorts of awful things.” Charlie paused for a moment. “Well, I suppose they were awful. Sarah's mama wouldn't let Lucille actually tell us what they said, but she did say it was just horrible and ... filthy."

Charlie frowned. “I haven't been able to entirely figure out why that was so frightening, but Lucille was quite afraid even though it happened yesterday.” Her pansy eyes widened with her sense of insult. “She did say one of them actually had the audacity to try and peep under her skirt."

For an instant the room darkened and Angele heard harsh voices uttering disgusting suggestions and laughing with cruelty. She could feel unwanted hands pawing at her own skirts and remember the horror of being helpless as her bodice was ripped. She understood perfectly why poor Lucille was still frightened. There was nothing worse than that sense of weakness and exposure. The same vulnerability flooded her again, bringing with it nausea too great to fight. She heard that horrible man's laughter as he twisted her wrist and smelled the stench that rose from his body as he tried to pull her close to him. She could see the sun glinting on his hateful smile and feel the sun hot on her bared skin. Her insides twisted and writhed at the humiliation and fear she couldn't completely erase. She dashed to the polished spittoon beside the fireplace and emptied the contents of her stomach into the brass container.

* * * *

Charlie held her sister's hand in shock as Angele sobbed. She had no idea what to say or do. Angele never cried, not like this. She'd shed a few tears when they'd heard of William's death and she'd cried a bit on Antoine's shoulder when she'd first seen Séverin, so pale and ill from his wound. But that was nothing to compare to this. The older woman hadn't even bothered to get up from the floor after she'd thrown up. She just sat beside the spittoon and wept.

“Soeur?” Charlie finally ventured as Angele sobs lessened in intensity.

“Charlie? Promise me you won't leave this house unless there's a man with you,” Angele said as she squeezed Charlie's hand. “If Séverin and Antoine are not with you, make sure to take one of the footmen or grooms. Take Amaury if one of Séverin's people isn't available. Promise me!"

“What?” Charlie had always walked out with simply her maid for propriety. There was no need for more unless she needed someone to carry her purchases when she went shopping. “Just because some Yanquis bothered Lucille? I mean it's horrid, of course, but you know how silly Lucille can be. And she is a slave after all. The Yanquis aren't going to bother a lady."

The grip Angele had on Charlie's hand tightened. “But they will. They have!"

Charlie shook her head. She was seriously concerned now. She'd never seen Angele so overwrought. “Don't be silly. Those are just stories. No one we know has been accosted. We're perfectly safe."

Angele looked up and Charlie couldn't help but think her sister should never cry. She looked awful. Her red eyes and blotched cheeks made her look old and somehow frail. Charlie had never once considered Angele frail! “Soeur?” she said, unexpectedly frightened.

“I was accosted, Charlie,” Angele admitted. “I was attacked. If not for God's own intervention I would have been...” Angele stopped and shook her head.

“What? Sister, what?"

“Raped,” Angele whispered. “They were intent on rape, Charlie.” She shuddered. “There were three of them. Common Yanqui soldiers. They ... It was more horrible than you can imagine, little one. They tore my dress. Took my bonnet. Touched me. I couldn't do anything to stop them."

Charlie shook her head in disbelief. “No. That can't be so. I've seen you stare down any number of men who've importuned you. No one would dare.” She thought for a moment. “Besides, even if they were all that bad, surely some decent man was about to help you out. I mean, Antoine would've just shot them all,” she said with a tremor.

The smile Angele gave was watery and tinged with sorrow. “Antoine wasn't there. No one was. I was all alone. Not three blocks from here. And I would never have made it home. When they were done with me, you would have had to bury me in the tomb beside William."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Apparently she had decided she'd cried enough. Angele could be that way. Charlie had never known a woman and few men who were as strong-willed as her sister. “And I'm afraid even Antoine realizes that he can't stand against the entire Union Army.” Her voice trembled as she continued, “But you are correct. A very wonderful man came to my rescue. I have not the slightest doubt that without him, I would have been molested and killed. I owe him everything.” She rose a bit shakily to her feet. “So swear to me that you will not leave this house without a man beside you."

“I swear,” Charlie murmured. She didn't know what else to say. She wanted to cry for her sister's sake. She wanted to make the pain and fear in those amber eyes go away forever. And she wanted to kill every Yankee ever born.

* * * *

James leaned against an iron supporting pillar and stared at the house across the narrow cobbled street. Wrought iron roses twined in eternal bloom about its balconies and decorated the curved door handles. Gentle light spilled from the windows on its lower level while the French style doors and long windows of its upper floors were dark. He wasn't sure if he was glad or not. The lighted windows meant his precious Angele was still awake and downstairs. He decided he'd rather think of her tucked in the soft sheets of her generous bed with her russet hair unbraided so it flowed in waves over smooth, white, embroidered pillows.

He drew a long, deep breath as his body grew heavy with desire. He didn't know why he insisted on torturing himself this way. In the past week he'd managed one, just one, kiss from his adored lover. And that had been a hurriedly snatched farewell outside her back gate when she told him her sister had indeed come to stay and he couldn't come in and indeed dared not visit her any longer. He had neither seen nor spoken to her since.

James decided he disliked the sister sight unseen and wondered if it was possible to order her to marry Wesley. How long did Southern courtships take, he wondered? He hoped they were quick affairs, rapidly commenced with a wedding to follow soon after the initial meeting. He'd known within moments of holding his fair love in his arms that he wanted to marry her, why did other people dilly-dally about? They needed to be more decisive. Couldn't the girl see Wes was perfect for her? They needed to marry so he could return to his love's side. It had already been far too long. He ached for her.

James was quite certain he was going to expire from unrequited desire and longing if he couldn't soon quench the fires burning inside him in his sweet lover's body. His fantasies of her caress brought only the most fleeting of release followed by ever-deeper longings for her real touch. James felt like he was being driven slowly mad.

Wesley apparently thought so, too. “James, this is insane.” He leaned against the wall of the house behind James.

“Well, you should know all about this kind of insanity. All I've heard for the past week is how beautiful Miss Charlie's grown up to be and how she looked at you in D. H. Holmes'. You're just a little bit fixated on her, Wes.” James’ eyes never moved from the house across the way.

“She was gorgeous, James. She was absolutely the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. A true pocket Venus. So dainty and tiny. And so full of grace and life.” Wes’ gray eyes glittered in the dim glow of the street lamp.

“You're mad as a March hare.” James sighed. “You said yourself that her guardian gave you a look that froze your insides and that there was no way he'd consider your engagement valid. Your love affair is as hopeless as mine. You won't be allowed to court her. You can't even speak to her because you haven't been introduced!” James shook his head at the strangeness of the situation. He didn't mean to be harsh, but he wanted Wes to go away and let him brood in peace. “You're touched in the head."

“I'm not the only one touched in the head. Do you intend to stand here every night like some mooncalf?” Wes pushed his hat off his head allowing the moisture-heavy breeze to ruffle his thick hair. Thunder rumbled as distant lightening flashed across the sky.

“I'm afraid so.” The air was charged with ozone, and James longed for the storm to come and bring just a few moments relief from the stifling heat. Maybe he could sleep a few minutes if his skin was cooled. He felt feverish and had ever since he'd first laid eyes on Angele Valmont. James sighed again. He knew it would take more than a summer storm, however violent, to cool his blood.

A curtain in the window across the way twitched and James was instantly alert for a glimpse of his lady. But the silhouette was too petite for his love and he tried not to groan in disappointment.

“Honestly, James. This really is ridiculous,” Wesley said. “What are you going to do if word gets back to the higher ups that no less than a major is loitering outside a Creole lady's house like a love-struck youth?"

“Have myself confined to the nearest insane asylum? I don't know, Wesley!” James glared at his friend. “You keep saying you know what it's like, but you don't! If you did, you wouldn't be standing there so relaxed and cynical. She's in there, just the other side of that wall. And I know she's there. I can almost feel her. I swear I can sometimes smell her perfume on the breeze."

He gripped the pillar beside him so tightly his knuckles were white. “And I can't talk to her. I can't see her and I can't touch her! It's killing me.” He clenched his teeth. “If I can't talk to her soon, I think I may actually go insane."

The front door opened and James caught only the faintest glance of the face of the lady exiting. It was a sweet face, with large eyes and a full, pretty mouth. She was dressed in a deep green dressing robe over a gown of green-sprigged calico muslin, and her dark hair was covered with a confection of lace, ruffles, and ribbons that passed for a cap.

It occurred to James she might have been called a beautiful girl if she were taller, or if that lovely mouth had been smiling. It wasn't. It was twisted in a pout of displeasure.

Dainty, slippered feet stepped over the front stoop of the house and her skirts swished smartly with the force of her stride. James and Wesley stared, wide-eyed, as the ruffled edges of her skirts occasionally drifted high enough to reveal slim ankles while she rounded the corner of the house.

This must be the sister. Angele's precious, innocent, must-be-protected-at-all-costs sister. Why was she glaring at the wall? James thought she looked awfully angry at an object as inanimate, ordinary, and unoffending as a wall. Then, she leaned slightly forward on tiptoe and reached up to tap the bricks. There was a rustle and tearing of paper and James realized exactly what had given the lady offense.

* * * *

“Ma'am? Ma'am? I'm sorry but you can't do that!"

James was downright frightened and it annoyed him. He was a major and his duty was to enforce the orders of his command, even the stupid ones. It shouldn't intimidate him to confront this lady even if she was his beloved's sister.

“We've got to stop her before anyone else sees her,” he said in an apprehensive undertone to Wes. “It will kill Angele if her sister gets in trouble."

He ignored Wesley's glare. Let Wes worry about his would-be fiancée; Angele's feelings were James’ foremost concern.

“Miss, please stop,” he called out again.

The lady glanced looked over her shoulder at the two men as she folded the copy of General Order Number Twenty-Eight into quarters and ripped it to tatters. The approaching storm was reflected in her eyes.

“Miss? Miss?” James hurried across the street with Wesley nearly treading on his boot heels as she whirled around in a swish of silk-satin over cotton. She glanced at them once, then turned her face away with the careless indifference of a Creole and made her way back to her door. She almost achieved her goal before James stood directly in front of her to stop her.

“Excuse me, please.” She made an effort to step around him.

“Ma'am, you just removed a printed order from the side of this building.” James felt like a fool telling her such a thing, but he knew the patrol passing on the next corner could see everything that transpired.

Her flashing dark eyes assured him she knew exactly what she had done. “I removed extremely offensive material from the side of my house, sir.” Her tone was cool and ladylike, not unpleasant in comparison to how some of the other locals had addressed him.

“That notice is displayed there by order of the Union representative,” James said loudly enough that the patrol could hear him.

“Well, I've no objection to the Union representative displaying any orders he likes on the side of his own house,” she replied reasonably enough.

James was baffled. Outright rudeness or defiance he could have dealt with. But what she was saying wasn't necessarily rude. She was being calm and reasonable, even polite to a point.

“Incidentally,” she added. “The Union invasion and occupation of this region is absolutely illegal.” Something in her expression left James with the impression she expected him to already realize the fact without her mention of it.

“Miss, it is against the law to deface or interfere with these laws and that includes their display,” Wesley said firmly. At least, he sounded like he was trying to speak firmly. He cleared his throat as though he were choking and his eyes gleamed almost silver.

James was glad the captain had discovered his voice and decided to add his support. Perhaps Wes had finally noticed the patrol that so concerned James. This was Wesley's fiancée treading upon General Butler's precious martial law and he wasn't “allowed” to talk to her. A sense of the bizarre overwhelmed James for a moment. The niceties of Creole etiquette were going to suffocate James with anxiety while his friend smothered in his own laughter.

“It is not. You may display any nonsense you like on public property. This is a private residence and I do not consent to this display.” Firm resolve that James categorized as pure mulishness was plain on her doll-like face.

The two men looked at each other, utterly baffled. James couldn't let this child deal with a common patrol, however tempting her sheer pig-headedness might make that idea. She was his sister-in-law-to-be after all. He shuddered at that thought.

“Excuse me, please.” Miss Charlie attempted to walk around James again. “My sister is waiting for me and she wouldn't like it if we were talking."

James suddenly seized upon an idea. It might not be nice to use the sister's actions against her this way, but her flagrant flaunting of the law had nearly given him heart failure. So he repressed his urge to smile as he said gravely, “You've violated a very important law, ma'am. It's a very serious thing.” He was sure the patrol had heard him that time. He could see their grins whenever the lightning flashed.

“Serious? That I won't allow you to post rubbish on my home that says the women of this town can be treated like trash by any man in a uniform?"

“Yes,” James snapped. “It's a crime."

Wesley looked at James like he'd lost his mind.

“I am not a criminal.” Her sensitive nostrils quivered with insult. She turned her back on them with hauteur that might have impressed James had she been a foot taller. As it was, he felt rather as though he'd been given the cut direct by a mouse.

James’ hand clamped down on her shoulder and she whirled back to face him, large eyes larger with shock and maybe a little fear. James didn't need to be a mind-reader to know what was going through her head. He'd heard all the rumors and propaganda. Everyone knew the Yankees were perverts and rapists. There were reports of unspeakable crimes in territories they'd attacked. James felt the muscles of her shoulder tighten under his hand and it angered him. In her mind, he was probably a rapist, too. She probably considered it gruesome even to be touched by him. His anger grew, bitter on his tongue, and what sympathy he had for her fled. He was tired of being considered a villain.

“I am following my own conscience to manage property I partially own and pay taxes on,” she said persisted in a sharper tone.

“What do you mean you're a taxpayer?” James asked incredulously. What did that have to do with anything? Maybe he and Wes weren't the only crazy ones on the street tonight.

She sighed, impatient. “I pay many taxes, sir. By seeing that my brother died in battle, your so-kind government has made me and my sister the joint holders of several properties and we pay taxes on them.” She made it sound very simple. “And I am certainly not going to allow you to arrest me for that."

“I want to speak to your sister,” James returned solidly. “Before I arrest you."

He was beginning to feel tempted to actually incarcerate her. She was either slightly mad or completely naïve about what was going on in New Orleans. Either way, she was rapidly wearing on James’ nerves.

“I've told you I will not be arrested,” she insisted.

“James...” Wesley began. The major turned toward him and shook his head.

Before Wesley could say another word, James had pulled Charlie in front of him by her elbow, then plunked her neatly against his friend. “Don't let her get away, Wes."

“Get away?” she squeaked indignantly. “I am not going anywhere except back into my house."

CHAPTER 12

Wesley winced when the slave girl who answered the door fled toward the back of the house with a cry of “Mam'selle! Mam'selle! Yanquis! Le Bon Dieu nous protège! Ils sont venus nous tuer tout!"

He wanted to call after her that there was not the least need to cry out for the Good Lord's protection and that he and James certainly had no intentions of killing them all. He knew it would be useless. Between the propaganda of the Confederates and the reality of General Butler's brutal reign, half the women of New Orleans regarded any Union soldier with abject horror.

“Matilde? Qu'est-ce qu'il ya?” a woman's voice called from a room to the right of the narrow staircase. It belonged to the elder Miss Valmont. There was fear in her tones.

Light blossomed in James’ eyes as he hustled the captain and young Miss Charlie toward the sound of his beloved.

A few steps to the wide, doorless entryway and Wesley saw Mademoiselle Angele standing amidst the glories of her famous double parlor with one hand resting in trepidation upon the lilac net lace that covered her breast. The deep purple-pink tones of her dress became her fair skin and wine-red hair. Wesley had heard she had put off her mourning dress when her sister returned to town though he suspected her more fashionable clothes had nothing to do with her sister and everything to do with her wish to appear attractive for James Darling. In fact, her tension visibly drained when she saw that one of the dread Yankees invading her home was her lover.

James removed his hat and held it tightly in his hand. “Ma'am, there's been an incident involving this young lady. I understand she's your sister and under your guardianship."

Angele nodded with a frown. “Oui. What has happened?"

James licked his lips and Wes could feel the tension that had fled Mam'selle Valmont infect his friend. “I, ah, that is to say ... Ma'am, I'm afraid there's a problem."

Wesley quelled his mild panic as James bowed to his lover with pure need shining from his eyes so strongly it made Wes uncomfortable. They would never manage to keep their affaire a secret if James didn't learn to control his countenance better. Wesley was acutely aware of the woman-child beside him. Was it as obvious to her as it was to Wesley that the other two were lovers? “Is there somewhere I can speak with you privately?” James asked.

Angele's eyes were wide and frightened as she stared from Wesley to her sister to her beloved Yankee major. “Of course,” she stammered and motioned to a door on the other side of the parlor. “My study, monsieur,” she said as she proceeded him across the room.

James motioned to the tiny Venus Wesley hoped was his future wife. “Wes, watch her and make sure she doesn't go anywhere. I need to, ah, consult her guardian."

Wes gaped in astonishment. He'd never been left alone with a young lady before. It simply wasn't done! It didn't matter that he hoped to one day be allowed all manner of intimacies with Charlie; there were still some niceties to be thought of.

“James! You can't possibly mean to..."

“Captain! Just guard her. Get her to fix some tea, talk about the weather, or needlepoint, or fashions, or ... or something,” James answered and hurried after Angele.

Wesley's hesitant smile didn't keep Charlie from looking at him as though he made her skin crawl. He motioned her toward a parlor chair and she jumped as though she expected him to pounce on her at any moment. Wes swore silently to himself and decided he'd hurt James as soon as he possibly could.

Charlie flounced across the room and threw herself into a chair, her hoops swaying and bouncing in a most unladylike way. The swish of her skirts sent a delicate wave of perfume over the room—clean, soft, slightly bittersweet. Orange blossoms, Wesley thought detachedly, his mother's scent.

He followed her in a much more sedate manner and watched her, silent and uncertain. He'd had little time to actually look at her in the department store. Now he took the opportunity to study her. She was even more exquisite than he'd thought then. Her hair was held back from her face by the festoons of lace and ribbons she wore in lieu of a hat. The glorious mass was thick, dark as ebony, and glossy with a dense, natural curl. Her skin was clear and fine, the texture of fresh cream and her generous mouth was positively kissable despite its taut irritation. Her dark eyes were bright and large and full of loathing. She was so perfectly beautiful it made his heart hurt.

After waiting several moments for her to offer him a chair, he finally gave up and sat down uninvited across from her. She glared at him. He cleared his throat and made a completely trite comment about the weather. She pointed her dainty nose at the ceiling and sniffed.

Wesley passed the next few minutes trying to decide a fitting torture to inflict on James for putting him in this position and looking at the rather well done portrait over the fireplace. A pretty, insipid woman with generous dark curls smiled out from the frame. The resemblance was strong enough that he had little doubt it was Charlie's mother, though the painted lady's chin lacked the stubborn determination of her daughter's and her vacuous eyes didn't have the intelligence and passionate fire of young Miss Valmont's.

A second fireplace boasted its own portrait, this one a more patrician lady with red hair and Angele's aquiline nose. “The two Mrs. Valmont,” Wesley whispered, wondering at the vast differences between the women that were evident even in their painted images. He had no memory of Angele's mother though she was said to be formidable. She'd died when he was very young. Charlie's mother he recalled as a pretty, empty-headed creature. The paintings seemed in keeping with their personalities. He'd heard the differences in their daughters were just as great though it was said they both shared their father's famous stubborn streak. Looking at the tight little moue of Miss Charlie's mouth and her dramatically averted face, he had no trouble believing it.

He sighed. Miss Charlie presented an appealing picture. It really was a pity that she was wasting her time in overblown histrionics. She could easily sway any man's thinking with those lustrous eyes. Had she the least deceit in her nature, she could wind anyone about her delicate fingers. Her guileless censure was delicious. Charlie Valmont was as innocent and open as a babe, and Wesley felt something stir that he thought dead and buried.

Was it possible that there was one female who wasn't bent on manipulation? That there was a girl who didn't use her beauty to control and entrap men? Could Miss Charlie's emotions and aspirations actually be displayed that honestly? Could she be as beautiful within as she was without? Why in the name of all that was holy was the delicious baggage wasting her time in overblown contempt when she could be kissing him.

He had little time to indulge his rapidly degenerating thoughts. With a sound of complete exasperation she jumped to her feet.

“Enough is enough!” she snapped and crossed the few feet to the study and threw open the door before Wes could stop her. She gasped and Wesley closed his eyes against the vision of Mam'selle Angele Valmont with her head thrown back in ecstasy while Major James Darling held her closely to him and kissed the pale column of her throat.

“Oh, oui, ma James!” the elder lady was moaning softly.

Charlie's face was puzzled and slightly curious. “What? Soeur?"

Neither of the embracing pair heard her. Wesley doubted if they would have heard an artillery barrage.

“Oh, Dieu! James, je t'aime,” Angele breathed as she tangled her fingers in his hair and urged his head lower, his kisses now falling on her décolletage. James’ hand was working at her skirts trying to lift her crinoline.

Wesley's eyes were even larger than Charlie's were as he seized her round the waist with one arm, ignoring her indignant grunt, and hauled her out while he shut the door with his free hand. He spun her about and planted her on her feet, his hands lingering at her diminutive midsection.

“Now, will you sit still and do needlework, order tea or ... something?"

There was a distinct squeak in his voice. He was definitely going to kill James—in as slow and painful a fashion as he could devise.

Charlie slapped him across the cheek. “How dare you put your hands on me!” She scowled fiercely up at him for a moment, then her rounded jaw sagged. “Dieu! It's—you!"

It was nice to see she remembered him from their earlier meeting once she got a look at him, he thought. Nicer still to see her pink cheeks deepen.

Mercurial, she looked at the closed door behind him. “Do something!” she said waving her hands fruitlessly.

“Ow! About what?” Wesley rubbed his abused cheek while muttering to himself, “My lovely termagant."

Charlie was fuming with rage and helplessness. “That ... He ... Your contemporary is in there seducing my sister! Do something!"

“Ahm, well, you see ... Actually, Miss Charlie..."

“How dare you address me in such familiar terms?” She lifted her hand to strike him again.

Exasperated, Wesley caught her wrist and his face darkened angrily. “Because I gave you that name as I plucked you from a tree when you were five!” He released her and ran a hand through his dark hair and resisted the urge to smile at the adorable spitfire's baffled expression. “You were a troublesome brat then and apparently you still are."

He took a deep breath and put his temper and his longing to kiss her rebellious lips under tight control. “Miss Valmont, in case you did not notice, your sister was a willing participant in that, er, scene we just witnessed. And I think it far more likely the other Miss Valmont is seducing my contemporary than the other way about. The Good Lord knows she's by far more seductive than he is."

“You ... You...” Charlie was speechless. “Who are you?"

“Wesley Emerson DuPré Leighton at your service, mademoiselle."

Charlie sank down in shock on an ottoman as Wes identified himself. “But, but, you're wearing the wrong uniform! You're a ... a ... You're supposed to be one of us, not one of them!"

“I'm a captain in the United States Army,” he said softly, mingled pride and anger in his tone.

“The Union Army,” she said as horror joined her shock.

“Yes, the Union Army,” he agreed.

“But you grew up here! Oh, Lord, help me! I remember you. You've been to our house. You've been to our parties and things. You used to play with Séverin and Antoine and all.” A new shock occurred to her. “You're Creole! Or at least part Creole!"

“Where did you think Union soldiers came from, child?” he asked gently. “We're just men, not monsters spawned from Hell. Captain David Farragut is from New Orleans, too."

“But I don't know him!” she protested.

Wesley wasn't sure what caused her greater shock—that a man born in New Orleans was a Union soldier, or that she knew a Union soldier.

“And he's a black-hearted traitor any way,” she added as an aside. Her lip started to tremble. “But you were one of our friends. I liked you!” He watched as new dismay blossomed, was followed by sudden sadness. The emotions overpowered the shock in her eyes. “You were supposed to marry me. You were always nice and kind to me. You gave me my name,” she almost wailed. “You can't be a Union soldier."

How could anyone's world be that simple? He was part Creole, therefore it was impossible he could fight against the Confederacy. He had been nice and kind, so he couldn't be a Union soldier. Wesley felt guilt for her distress and disillusion flow through his heart and struggled to quashed it. It wasn't as simple as she obviously thought it. He could hardly believe that to her it was so black and white. He started to tell her he'd never been that naïve, but he stopped, the words unspoken when he remembered that there had indeed been a time when his opinions were just as clear cut.

Wesley sighed and reached for the bell pull. When a different light-skinned maid from the one that had opened the door appeared, he instructed her that Miss Valmont had suffered a shock and needed a cup of tea. The maid looked as in need of the tea as her mistress. The sight of a Yankee officer in the parlor struck her dumb and she simply nodded fearfully before scurrying away.

Several minutes passed before Charlie said slowly, “Allaire won't be able to do as you ask. There's not any tea. Angele wrote that there hasn't been any to be had for weeks, just like there's no flour or coffee. There's still some at the plantation and Séverin said I could bring some to town with me, but I forgot. It's still packed at Bougival."

The words had barely left her mouth when Allaire reappeared with a tray. She deposited it on a low table.

“Matilde is hiding in the pantry, Mam'selle,” she whispered. “She's crying something awful."

Charlie glared at Wesley as if to say the maid's hysterics were his fault. “Go stay with her until Essie gets back from Mrs. Norton's. Leave the door open so you can hear me if I call.” The maid withdrew with fearful glances at Wesley.

She sighed and Wesley's gaze fell on the china pot and single cup the maid had brought. Apparently Yankees, even Southern born ones, weren't expected to drink tea in the houses of decent Creole families. Wes frowned at this latest evidence of how all Union soldiers were viewed.

He watched as Charlie gaped at the tray in dismay. Like some sort of automation she poured a cup of the fragrant brew. She stared at the golden liquid for long minutes before carefully pouring it onto the tray, staining the pristine white doily and napkin.

“The only tea in this city comes from Yankee ships and is given out for the use of Yankee soldiers.” She looked at the closed door of her sister's study with new understanding. “My sister's affection and honor cannot be bought with Yankee tea."

Renewed panic settled in Wesley's gut. The poor girl was teetering on the edge of hysteria. Alone with a man who wasn't her kin for probably the first time in her life and for all that she knew him, he was still a feared Union soldier. Heaven alone knew what thoughts were going through that innocent head. And after what she'd just seen in her sister's study, he could only hypothesize what some of them might be. He doubted she had the knowledge to make the obvious connection, but the ones she was imagining were bad enough. Wes knew of no way to calm or sooth her wounded sensibilities. How in the name of God could he explain that her sister's preference for a Union soldier had nothing to do with bribes or gifts and everything to do with a very adult sexual attraction? And this was no time for James to be indulging that attraction. Miss Charlie needed her sister. And Wesley needed a drink.

In two long steps he was beside the study door. His eyes never strayed from Charlie as he pounded on the carved oak.

“James! I need you out here right now!” He ignored the muttered curses he could just hear through the thick panels. “James! Now!” He continued pounding.

It was still several minutes before James flung the door open. The major was trying to tuck his shirt into his pants. His suspenders hung about his hips and his jacket and vest were nowhere to be seen. Angele Valmont was a bit more presentable, but her dress was crushed and her hair was down and hung about her hips.

Wesley looked at the pair in exasperation. “Honestly, James! Have the two of you no self control?"

Angele had the grace to blush though she looked at Wesley without flinching. “As you know, Captain Leighton, I am noted for my self-restraint. However, it all seems to flee when I am near Major Darling,” she said with her head high and her voice calm.

Even with her hair loose and her dress as askew as a just-used demimondaine's, she managed to look and sound like a duchess. Wesley didn't doubt for an instant that she was the descendant of Spanish conquistadors and French kings.

James obviously felt the same way. The pride on his face was nearly comical.

“God spare me from true love,” Wesley murmured in exasperation.

“Love!” Charlie exploded as she practically leapt from her chair. “Don't you dare insinuate that my sister could possibly be in love with that...” She searched for a word to describe James, but her lady-like vocabulary didn't contain those sorts of expletives. “That Yankee!"

Some of the joy faded from James’ face and Wes knew this was the first time James had actually faced the average Confederates’ opinion of his liaison with Mam'selle Valmont.

Angele took a deep breath. “You're wrong, Charlie. I do indeed love the major.” The joy returned to James’ face before being dashed by the coldness of her next words. “But you are correct that it is a completely unsuitable alliance. That is something for me to deal with."

Wesley, like everyone else in the room, was aware Charlie was wise enough to know that she must say nothing of her sister's Yanqui suitor.

Angele sank with inherent grace into the chair Charlie has just vacated. Like the rest of room, it was dressed for summer and draped in smooth white cotton. Her deep lilac muslin skirts and auburn hair stood out against the pale background. Unhappy or not, James stationed himself beside her chair as if he'd done so for decades. Wes doubted if the major had even thought of what he was doing. He had to admit it seemed natural and somehow right for James to place himself so. Once again Wes swore to himself he would do everything he could to see those two were married for the world to see.

“Now what is this incident that Charlie has caused?” she asked.

“Good Lord, James! What were you discussing in there?” Wes demanded and quickly added, “Never mind! I know."

Charlie was glaring daggers at the major. “I didn't do anything wrong! I tore down that insult they'd tacked to the wall of our house."

At Angele's baffled expression, Wesley explained, “There was a copy of General Order Twenty-Eight posted on the wall outside. She tore it down just as one of the patrols was passing."

CHAPTER 13

Terror gripped Angele. After her attack, she realized all too well what could have happened had some Yankee other than Wesley or James seen Charlie do something so ill-considered. She could barely breathe for fear for her sister.

“Thank you, Captain Leighton. I cannot convey how grateful I am to you and Major Darling for all the assistance you've given me over the past few weeks.” The smile she gave him was warm though her insides were frozen with might-have-beens.

“Think nothing of it, ma'am,” Wesley said with a graceful bow.

Her voice was far colder than she intended when she addressed Charlie, but it was that or surrender to her fears and break down completely again. “Charlotte, that was a very rash thing to do. Please thank the gentlemen for helping you."

“Helping me?” Charlie squeaked in outrage. “They threatened to arrest me! They told me I could be held under guard just for tearing down that trash."

“And they are exactly right. You could very well have been arrested and sent away if anyone saw you.” Angele drew a deep shuddering breath. She wasn't sure she could convey to Charlie the full repercussions of what could have happened to a young innocent girl without terrifying her sister. She needed time to gather her wits and figure how to talk to her sister about this calmly. Perhaps the consequences for the rest of the family would be easiest to explain. Charlie was always considerate of her godfather's feelings.

“Think about what would happen to Séverin if the Yankees cart you off to Ship Island. It would kill him. As a former Confederate officer, he won't be able to help you at all! He'd just end up in prison himself!” Angele knew asking Charlie to think of her own situation would be useless. Charlie would simply build some elaborate fantasy of her own incarceration.

“I'm not going to Ship Island!” Charlie declared. “And I'm not having that trash posted in front of our house!"

“Charlie!” Angele gasped. Why didn't Charlie see what she had done? Why was she being a petulant child when Angele desperately needed for her to have an adult awareness of the world? “Understand something and understand it right now. We are a captured people. We have no rights except the ones the Yankees deign give us. Mr. Seals lost his house last week. The Yanquis need it. He is out on the streets. Plantations have been taken or destroyed and their owners dispossessed or imprisoned. Séverin's afraid that will happen at Bougival any day! Even he capitulates to this regime. General Butler has ordered us all to some accursed entertainment and Séverin says we all will go. Why do you think he's come to town in the middle of summer?"

Charlie had to see the whole city tiptoed around the invaders. It was manifest in the glances the soldiers received in public. The mixture of wary fear and resentment that colored nearly every face was obvious. Despair bled from the very walls of the buildings of New Orleans.

“If they want, they can do anything to us."

“You mean like that captain putting his hands on me!” She turned her basilisk glare on Wesley. “I'll tear down every one of those horrid orders I see."

“Charlie!” Angele gasped. “You'll do no such thing."

“They are abominable and an insult to decent people!” Scathing contempt colored the younger woman's tone. “And they are illegal!"

“Charlie! I mean it. I will send you to Ville-des-Fleur this instant if need be. I'll have Mem Elysée keep you in hand.” Angele couldn't help imagining all the horrible things that could happen if Charlie did anything half so headstrong. It turned the blood cold in her veins. “I thank God it was Captain Leighton and Major Darling that saw your rash act and no one else."

“Oh, yes,” Charlie hissed. “Lovely Major Darling spying on us. I've seen him hanging about outside all the time. He's there every night and half the day, sneaking and spying! And now! Well, I saw what you were doing with him. It was disgusting. He was doing nothing but taking mean, common advantage of you! Just like those men you told me about!"

Cold anger at such an insult to James flowed through Angele. “Never, ever, accuse the major of taking advantage of me! I would be lying dead in the streets were it not for him.” She drew a deep breath and tried to compose her thoughts. It occurred to her she'd never revealed that it was a Yanqui who had come to her rescue.

“The man I told you about, the man to whom I owe my life is Major Darling. James is the one who saved me.” She looked up at James with love and tenderness. The smile he gave her eased some of her panic and she felt better just knowing he was so close. “He was kindness itself. Never has a man treated me with such care or respect. I've never known anyone finer."

His blinding smile made her want to kiss him more than anything she'd ever wanted before. She had a decidedly unladylike desire to drag him upstairs and lock him in her bedroom for about a week.

“Is that why you feel the need to shower him with favor?” Charlie scoffed. “If he helped you, it's the least he should've done!” She stomped her foot angrily. “They're not even supposed to be here, and if they went on ahead home and minded their own business, we'd mind ours!” She pouted, but her cheeks flamed with anger. “I'm not at his folks’ house pinning up nonsense on their property!"

Angele knew she had to make Charlie understand or her sister could put herself in real trouble. Angele placed her fury under tight rein. In a soft voice, she tried to explain. “Charlie. We are in the middle of a war, a real war, not some history lesson or a child's game. William is dead. He came home to us in a pine box. Séverin was wounded and will never walk right again. And they were only the beginning. We got word today that Thomas Duvaré has been killed. He was only a year older than you are. You went to school with his sister. You used to play with them."

She shuddered at the thought of the lists of dead and wounded that appeared nearly every day. She was grateful for the warm strength of James’ hand as it settled on her shoulder. “This isn't a game or a story book. The Winstons have lost everything they had because Confederate money isn't any good any more. The Nortons have taken them in. There are I-don't-know-how-many others trying to sell off jewelry and anything else they can think of so they can eat. Fanny Milton begged me to buy her family rubies just yesterday because she can't bear the shame of going to a public jeweler to sell them."

Those jewels were locked in the safe in her study even now. She'd never wear them; it would be an insult to Fanny. Maybe Charlie would have a daughter to whom Angele could give them. That was if she could keep Charlie from doing something that resulted in the direst of consequences.

“There are soldiers on our streets who can arrest you or hurt you if you so much as look at them the wrong way."

She was nearly crying as she thought of her sweet, innocent sister faced with ruffians such as she'd faced. Charlie had been far more sheltered than Angele and wouldn't even understand what was happening to her. She was sure Charlie had no concept of what rape actually encompassed. Such an attack would destroy Charlie, mind and body.

“It nearly happened to me. So I know it's true. They could take you away from me. They could hurt you, Charlie. Even kill you. And I won't be able to do a thing to stop them."

The anger died out of Charlie's deep eyes and her lips trembled a bit as she gazed back at her sister. “Well ... what do you want me to do?” she whispered, woebegone.

“What we all have to do. Submit. Keep our hopes alive, but submit for the time being. We're lucky. We still have money.” Her hand came up to cover James’ where it rested so comfortingly on her shoulder. “And good men willing to protect us as best they can."

“Like Wesley Leighton trying to help me in Holmes'?” Charlie truly couldn't understand. She looked at James with confusion. “What would our papa say if he knew that you and he..."

“Papa would thank Major Darling for saving my life and my virtue from three of the most disgusting and terrifying creatures I have ever seen. Major Darling and Captain Leighton helped me that day just as I believe he and the captain were trying to help you tonight."

Charlie bit her lip. “Captain Leighton called me Miss Charlie like we're old friends."

Angele couldn't help smiling a bit at Charlie's ingenuous nature. Her sister really was a sweet girl. “Well, dear, Captain Leighton is an old friend. He grew up here. He probably remembers you as a child."

“He wasn't a Union officer when I was a child.” New flames began to burn in Charlie's eyes. “And I'm not a child now!"

“Indeed,” Wesley said with a light in his own eyes that caught Angele's attention. “I would say you are a most beautiful and spirited young lady."

Angele frowned. Charlie blushed the color of a peony rose and rewarded the captain's audacity with a fierce scowl. Wesley met her eyes and did not retract his comment. Her scowl faltered in the face of the officer's stubborn silence. Angele felt James’ hand tighten on her shoulder and looked up at him. He placed his index finger gently over her lips and winked at her.

Angele arched an eyebrow. So that was how it was. It seemed M'sieur Leighton had not forgotten his attachment to the family after all. Well, Angele would have to see if he was still a proper suitor for her sister. James leaned toward her slightly and thoughts of the traitor Leighton fled Angele's mind completely. All she could think of was a pair of smiling green eyes and the softest lips she'd ever felt pressed against her own.

Oddly it was Captain Leighton who recalled her to her surroundings. He cleared his throat and glared at James in clear condemnation. She turned to find her sister staring wide-eyed at the Yankee major touching her sister.

Charlie didn't speak at first. She just folded her arms and gazed fascinated as Angele's fair major caressed her sister's bare hand oh-so-tenderly. The child could have no way of knowing how secure that tiny, solicitous touch made Angele feel.

“Why does he keep watching you with that concerned, hopeful look?” Charlie demanded, her anger gone, leaving her voice soft. “What does he want?"

Angele drew a deep breath. “As I told you, Major Darling rescued me from a very dire situation. In the time following that rescue, I have come to know just how fine and good a man he is.” She closed her eyes and said the words she'd never really expected to voice aloud. “Major Darling is my affianced husband."

CHAPTER 14

“Angele! And Charlie! Charlie's come home! Viens-ci, mes dames!"

Mrs. Leighton welcomed them warmly when her maid ushered the sisters into her “second best parlor.” It was a sign of what a hard-nosed skinflint the late Mr. Leighton had been, Angele thought dryly, that his widow continued to follow his mandate of entertaining all company in the music room even after his death. It had the most windows and required little lighting. Still, the soft muted rose and sage tones of the décor were comfortable and welcoming. Angele had always liked the room despite Mrs. Leighton's unfortunate habit of serving tea and luncheon there.

How typical of an American millionaire, to invest a fortune in a house larger and more elegant—not to mention more gauche in its size and grandeur—than any other home on Saint Charles Avenue, and then restrict the use of the rooms when their original purpose was for entertaining! Was it more important to build and own the house than it was to live in it?

“Charlotte, petite cherie!” Marie-Hélène DuPré, Mrs. Leighton's stately mother, urged the younger Miss Valmont to the empty seat beside her on the delicate settee.

It was the seat of honor, or the hot seat, depending upon Madame DuPré's mood and why she beckoned one there. But Madame had always been kind to Charlie. Wesley Leighton's grandmother felt she stood as grandmother to Charlie Valmont and acted the part. Regardless of Wesley's exile and apparent disinterest in his marriage contract, Madame had always behaved as if Charlie would one day become her beloved granddaughter-in-law. No one had the nerve to gainsay her.

Charlie treated Madame with the circumspection and respect the lady deserved; after all, even Angele bowed to Madame's grandeur. And whether or not a closer connection between their families was ever finalized, Madame would always be an intimate to the Valmonts.

Angele tried not to laugh at her sister's carefully delicate steps to prevent her hoops from shaking or gliding upwards. Madame waited patiently for Charlie to settle herself against the comfortable petit-point cushions and arrange her violet skirts so that not a hint of slippers peeked beneath them before the society dowager kissed her, then patted her cheek and said she was as lovely as any Valmont.

Charlie smiled and thanked Madame as graciously as she might have thanked a queen for a compliment. Angele shrugged. There wasn't much difference between a queen and Madame anyway.

Angele found herself awkward and confused as the room full of women oooohed and ahhhhed over her dress and told her how nice it was to see her out of mourning.

“It's lovely that you're out, darling. And you look so very well in that color!” Mrs. Leighton escorted her guest to a comfortable chair, then busied herself at the tea cart to furnish Angele with a good strong cup of tea brimming with cream and scented faintly of rose petals and mint leaves used to stretch out the pittance of actual tea used in the brew. It was sweetened with honey-thick molasses. “Mourning makes fashions so dreary dull these days, not to mention the blockade!"

Another lady sniffed. “You'd think the Yanqui wretches would at least permit us to import dress fabric!” She made a sour face. “What, do they think we might defeat them because we have better dress sense?"

Henriette Jeffords, Mrs. Leighton's eldest daughter, sat still as a rock before an English harpsichord. “I am not certain I want to wear a pretty new dress while the city is occupied by hostile invaders,” she declared in her grandiose contralto. “I seriously doubt they've the taste and manners to appreciate haute couture.” She smiled coolly as several of the ladies murmured endorsement of her wisdom.

Lillian Fabray twittered. “Some of them do not even speak English or French! The Union has to press foreigners into their army. Immigrants! I've heard they just sign them on as soon as they get off the boats from Ireland or Germany.” She huffed, shaking her head. “For all their grievances against us, they haven't even the courage to defend their own convictions."

“But not everybody in the Union Army is a foreigner,” Charlie pointed out. Her eyes, dark and troubled, flicked to Angele's for a moment, but she said nothing else.

Lillian ignored Charlie and continued. “And to think that appalling Mr. Butler expects us to all be friends because he's invited a Yankee theatre production to New Orleans? The very idea!"

Angele felt her stomach cramp in misery and she wished she hadn't come. In happier days these same women were Angele's closest friends and acquaintances. They had formed sewing circles for the Ursuline orphanage and laughed away lazy afternoons at a country fish fry or strove to outdo one another in glamour at evening parties.

It wasn't the external changes and circumstances that made her feel so peculiar, Angele mused. Half the ladies were in mourning or partial mourning, and several wore dresses from last year's fashion or even the year before. Charlie's own dress had been hastily made over from one of her aunt's and the skirts were narrower than the dictates of fashion prescribed. Mrs. Leighton's silver triple-tiered dessert plate boasted simple bread and butter sandwiches and plain shortbread cookies instead of dainty pinwheel sandwiches filled with salmon mousse or herbed cream cheese and delicate finger tarts and imported chocolates. War privations were not pleasant, but they only knitted their tight community closer together.

The difference was she, Angele thought woefully. It was the idea that James Darling's eyes—loving, admiring, and heated with desire—lingered over her memories and that her cherished Major Darling was utterly unfit to accompany her to any of the innocent entertainments she took for granted. Why, she thought as she exchanged smiles and small talk with her friends, if James were to show his face at a barbecue the guests might fall on him en masse and roast him in the pit instead of the hog! They would never see his finer qualities or appreciate his gentleness. They would only see an enemy. And what did that make her?

Julia Danton, an American heiress who'd married into one of the more prominent Creole families, cleared her throat. “Mr. Butler is a reprobate, yes,” she agreed. “But I have to say I've found the soldiers appearing in our neighborhood to be very amiable and respectful to people."

Angele's eyes widened at the mousy girl's declaration in her soft Charlestonian accent. Where had she found the sand to speak up for Yankees?

Julia's comments detonated an explosion of huffing, sputtering, and incredulous exclamations.

“Julia Myra Danton! How can you say that?” Henriette scolded. “Your own papa is in Virginia this minute fighting those vile oppressors!"

Madame DuPré's brow arched at her granddaughter's tone to a welcome guest, and Henriette returned a look that could only be called insolent.

“Excusez-moi.” Madame rose languidly from her settee and waved imperiously for the other women to keep their seats when they began to rise. She motioned Charlie to accompany her and her handsome mulatto maid, Hortense, out of the room. “We're going to my room,” she said in clear rapid French. “I want to lend Charlie some baubles for the opera."

Angele watched the majestic old lady stroll out of the room, tall and silent, with Charlie a violet shadow beside her. Angele wished more than anything to think of some credible excuse to accompany them.

“Your tea's going cold dear. Let me heat it up.” Mrs. Leighton reached for Angele's cup and saucer.

“But they have been!” Julia Danton insisted. “Kind, I mean. One afternoon Eugene's kite ripped while he was playing in the park and one of the privates pasted it back together for him. He was very civil and polite. I felt horrible when Eugene broke the kite to bits and snapped at him he wouldn't touch a toy made by Yankees much less a Yankee makeshift toy."

“Would you have rather he played with the kite again?” Lillian asked.

This is really too much, Angele thought. Madame Fabray made it sound like the poor soldier had contaminated the toy when he repaired it. And how could the ladies cut Union soldiers with such alacrity when everyone had to know Mrs. Leighton's only son served in the Union Army? She glanced toward her hostess and saw Mrs. Leighton's refined features etched into a carefully neutral mask Angele recognized from times her husband had been boorish and indifferent to his duties as a host. The familiar faces of her friends seemed strange and ugly to her and Angele found herself peering into the creamy golden tea in her cup. Except for the weakness of the brew, tea at least was familiar.

“I guess not,” Julia admitted. Then she rebelled. “But, I couldn't help feeling badly for the soldier. He was young—too young to be in the army. He's probably got younger brothers or sisters Eugene's age at home. He seemed awful hurt."

“Well, if he has younger kin he ought to be at home, repairing their playthings instead of here imposing himself and harassing private citizens,” Lillian declared, implacable.

Julia sighed. “You're right, of course.” She turned to Angele. “Have you visited Catherine Woldman lately?"

Angele shook her head, relieved at the change of subject, and focused her full attention on the woman across from her. “No, not for a few days. Charlie's just come into town recently."

Julia smiled. “Well, you must see her. You should see what she's done with her chamber pot."

All of the women burst into sniggering laughter.

* * * *

“I do think pearls suit you best, cherie. Do you not think so, Hortense?"

“Oui, Madame.” Hortense nodded her agreement. “Her skin is like pearl. And the whites of her eyes. They make her hair and eyes even darker and more lustrous."

“They are beautiful.” Charlie studied her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror of the old lady's dressing table. It was strange how a small accessory could dramatically affect one's looks. The pearls were large and radiant with a faint rose cast to them, and her eyes and teeth gleamed in an effort to match their brilliance. They drew attention to her face and made her look more grown-up.

“Generally, I do not favor pearls. Especially on young girls. They signify tears.” Madame took Charlie's chin in her hand and slowly turned her face in profile to observe the affect of the jewelry. “But they do flatter you nonetheless."

Hortense glanced at her mistress. “Perhaps the opals?"

“Non.” Madame shook her head decidedly. “She is pretty, but not exotic. One should not arrange roses with passion flowers."

Charlie smiled. The grand French aristocrat displayed a careless self-assurance and poise that made Charlie believe everything she said. Hortense, after years of attending the most fashionable lady in New Orleans, mirrored her mistress's confidence.

Charlie glanced down and her eyes fell upon a miniature portrait of Madame's late husband, the painting aged and very much cherished, alongside a photograph of her grandson. Wesley Leighton gazed confidently back at the world before a Union flag. The friendly grayed tones of the photograph made it difficult to tell which side he was on, only the flag betrayed him.

“My grandson.” Madame DuPré caught her looking. “Votre fiancé. He is handsome, oui?” If she took exception to Charlie's slack jaw, she did not show it. “I hired Jules de l'Aime to take this portrait while he was exhibiting in America. This was taken just before Wesley was stationed in the West."

“It is a handsome portrait.” Charlie had no idea what more she should say. She gave up on swallowing her feelings and declared, “But I don't know how you can still own him when he's marching with Yanquis this minute in the Place D'Armes!"

“Ah!” Madame DuPré slowly closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. Her smile never faltered. “I would rather Wesley fight for what he believes than fight for what I believe."

“Even if it makes you enemies?"

Madame's eyes twinkled. “Wesley's lived most of his life in the military. First West Point, then the army. Once Mr. Leighton packed him off to school, he was rarely permitted to return home.” Her smile puckered on the taste of mentioning her late son-in-law. “I'm not sure Wesley even knows where his home is."

Charlie thought back to some catty remarks Henriette and Hélène Leighton had made at childhood parties after Wesley had gone away to school.

“Mr. Leighton sent him away because he didn't want to marry me,” she recalled.

The fact didn't ruffle her; Charlie was not a vain woman and it certainly made sense to her that a man ten years her senior would love someone else while he waited upon a child bride. All the same, the child she'd been, hurt for the fact that she wasn't worth waiting for.

Charlie gasped when Madame uttered a short coarse oath. She turned, startled, in her chair and met snapping blue-gray eyes.

“Wesley loved a young woman his own age, yes,” Madame remarked. “But he could not marry her. She was a half-caste slave, cherie."

Charlie shivered at the woman's narrow gaze.

“They were childhood playmates. Wesley wished to manumit her, grant her freedom, and offer her a small household under his protection. You understand?"

“Yes,” she said and her voice rose in question even as her round cheeks flushed warm pink. Charlie was just as aware of the placage system as she was aware of the impropriety of a white woman to claim such knowledge. She knew perfectly well Séverin had kept a quadroon mistress for several years and had children with her. He'd sent them to England when the war broke out. Charlie had seen the occasional letters, some from the lady and others in the more scrawled handwriting of the younger child, find their way into a cherished stack of letters in Séverin's secretaire. Neither Séverin nor Antoine ever spoke to Charlie about the woman or her children, but she knew the custom had been fashionable when they were her age. Young men often kept a mistress while they waited for marriage and it was not customary for their parents or their affianced wives to object.

“The alliance was not acceptable to Mr. Leighton,” Madame explained, “because the slave's mother was his own concubine. I'm afraid he was too tight-fisted to consider freeing her or her child.” She smiled at Charlie's wide-eyed horror. “Rather than own his own sins, he sent away my grandson and sold both women—his mistress and what was almost certainly his daughter.” Her smile faded to much older cynicism when Charlie gasped and her cheeks burned. Hortense looked on dispassionately. “I believe he meant to allow Wesley to return when you came out, but of course he died before that happened."

“What happened to them?” Charlie whispered.

“Wesley traced his father's agents to try and buy them back. I was perfectly willing to finance that sale for him.” Madame's lips grew very tight under the distasteful subject. “He did locate the buyers—planters in St. Martinville. But between the time the pair of them were sold and their arrival in their new home, they'd taken ill and died from a cholera outbreak.” A world of regrets languished in Madame's sigh as the grand dame conceded defeat to perverse sons-in-law and the whims of fate.

Frantic knocking on the bedroom door caused Charlie to jump nervously and stand up. She hoped no one had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

Madame nodded at Hortense and the slave opened the door to a young female maid who dipped into a awkward curtsey.

“Madame, Michie Wesley has come to see you and Madame Jeffords is ordering him out of the house!"

Charlie flinched when Madame DuPré swore a more violent oath than the first one and her eyes snapped fire as she dismissed the servant and motioned Hortense to accompany her. After standing a moment, undecided, Charlie followed them out of the room.

Her head swam with all the information she'd just received and Charlie couldn't think. She'd often heard of Mr. Leighton's excessive sense of thrift. It was a running joke that he used the same napkins for two dinners so he didn't have to pay for the soap to wash them twice. But his treatment of his slaves—his own mistress and almost certainly his own daughter—and his son, went beyond the codes of gentlemanly behavior. She had always been terribly proud that Wesley attended West Point. It had never occurred to her that he might not have wanted to go. Charlie bit her lip and her shoe squeaked on the hardwood floor as she pivoted toward the stairway.

How must Wesley have felt if he really loved the girl and then discovered she was ... The idea of Wesley loving another woman, a slave, should have infuriated her, she thought. If she was in love with him herself or even as vain as that atrocious Henriette Jeffords, perhaps she would have been jealous. Her brows knit almost painfully at the idea. Anger throbbed in her temples and Charlie longed to mount her horse and gallop home to Bougival where the parish might very well be empty, isolated, and dull, but the secrets kept there were far less disquieting.

Her confusion grew into foreboding as she followed the tall lady and her taller maid down the stairs. Charlie could not see past them, but she heard the faint stirrings of light footsteps and fabric skirts brushing against each other. The soft, low whispers frightened her and she didn't know why. She wished with all her might the war had never happened just as fervently as she'd wished it when William had died.

“You've no call at all to be here. How dare you show your face in this house?” Henriette's tone cut with contempt and Charlie swallowed. She'd never known Henriette to be an affectionate person, but her tongue struck like whiplash.

“I've come to see Grand-mère.” Wesley's voice was quiet, not argumentative, just the soft slur of consonants blending into endearingly imperfect French. “I shan't disturb you. I'll wait..."

“No, sir, you will not wait! Mother has a parlor full of company this minute and none of them need to be reminded that a traitor was born here! Perhaps it escaped your notice that you've been killing their sons and husbands in battle!” She was all scathing condescension and righteous outrage.

Why would Henriette tell such a despicable lie? Charlie had only received intermittent letters from Madame but she knew Wesley had remained on the frontier since before the war began. Henriette had to know that. Her recollection brought Charlie a strange sense of comfort despite the unsettling tableau before her. Wesley Leighton had been far from the war front when her brother was shot dead and her cherished godfather received crippling wounds from the enemy.

Charlie was only dimly aware of the ladies as she passed the music room on the first floor. Many of them remained in their seats, doing their best to act according to the form of good manners and going through the motions of taking tea and chatting as though nothing untoward was happening, but Charlie knew every ear was poised and curious for the scene unfolding in the foyer mere yards away. She glanced around for Angele, but did not see her.

Henriette's voice rose to crass shrillness.

“Leave this house! At once, sir! Or I'll call Simon and Zachary and order them to throw you out!"

It was Charlie's turn to indulge in indignant snorting and she repressed an inappropriate impulse to laugh. Simon and Zachary, Madame's coachman and her late husband's manservant, had been with the family since Wesley was a small boy. Surely Henriette's senses were not so departed that she believed the two elderly men would bodily throw Wesley out of his own house?

“Ca suffit, Henriette! That is enough!” Madame DuPré barked. She sounded very angry.

“This is my father's house, Grand-mère!” Henriette said bitingly.

“Your father's dead! Mon André and I built this gothic monstrosity for your mother's dowry!” The older woman's voice was glacial French and she snapped her fingers. “If someone is to turn Wesley away, it will not be your place!” It sounded like she was speaking to a stranger who displeased her and not the child of her only very beloved daughter.

Charlie clung to her skirts as she managed to squeeze past Hortense then stopped short, awkward, and watched Wesley standing in front of the wide French doors. Her only intention had been to reach him and now that she had she didn't know what to do. She caught her breath as she took in the sight of him.

Charlie had thought Wesley attractive when he'd assisted her in D.H. Holmes, but his obvious alliances had not allowed her to think more of him than that. When he and James Darling had paid their ghastly call on Angele, Charlie had been too upset by her recognition of Wesley to be interested in his looks. She had never thought Wesley was handsome or even distinctive when she was a child. He was too boyish and unprepossessing to appear attractive next to her cousins’ dark smooth grace and Antoine's remarkable beauty. Charlie's liking for Wesley had stemmed mainly from the fact he was quiet and well-groomed and always brought her sweets from town and stopped his sisters from breaking feathers off of her hats.

When he'd left the state to go to school his figure had seemed gawkish and rangy to her. Now Wesley had the height to flatter his long muscular limbs and a dignified ease in his movements and posture. His dark hair was neatly combed and shone like polished walnut wood. His skin was faintly sun-kissed and, while unconventional, Charlie felt obliged to admit the soft golden tones enhanced the contrast between his dark hair and gleaming eyes.

He was dressed in a light summer suit, pale silvery gray broadcloth with a violet cravat. Charlie felt slightly relieved he had the sense not to call on his mother and grandmother in his uniform. The coat fitted well over his powerful shoulders and trim body. His boots shone, dark and glossy, and his soft blue eyes seemed clear, jewel-like, in the muted mid-day sun.

For a moment their eyes met and Charlie's mouth went dry.

“Will you go now?” Henriette gestured at the door with all the drama of a prima donna.

Wesley's complexion darkened and his eyes grew remote. “I forgive you, ma soeur.” His words were all civility but a hint of his grandmother's iciness invaded his tone.

Crack! The woman's open hand struck his face. Charlie flinched at the unexpected violence. Her eyes widened as the hand-shaped print on Wesley's face stood out against his complexion, first blanched, then darkened to red.

Henriette practically snarled. “I am not your sister! You are nothing to me! I'm no sister to the like of you and no child of mine is kin to you! Get out of this house!” She sounded tearful.

“Henriette!” Madame DuPré's voice rose.

Wesley attempted to step past his hysterically angry sister, when she caught his arm in a pinching grip that made him grimace.

At first Charlie's mind did not register the snuffling coughing noise Henriette made. It was simply too improper a gesture for a lady and regardless of what Charlie thought of her, Henriette was certainly a lady. So she couldn't be doing what it sounded like she was doing. There was a soft wet splash as the woman spat on her brother and Madame swore as Hortense lost her granite composure and gasped. Charlie stifled a scream.

Wesley stared at Henriette as she glared back in blind hatred. They looked like strangers. It was impossible to know what he must be feeling, but Charlie felt terrible. White-hot shame stained her recollections of her hostility to him just the night before. She had been furious when she slapped him for his forward behavior, but she had not known who he was. Morbleau! She still didn't know who Wesley was supposed to be to her! Was he still her fiancé? Marie-Hélène said so. Séverin and Angele had never said differently. Being a traitor didn't necessarily cancel that out. Did Wesley Leighton have the right to expect better than the hard words and treatment she'd given him yesterday? Humiliation at her own actions boiled red inside her until she felt it scorch her cheeks. Whatever her uncertainty about that, Charlie knew in her heart she would have received her own brother with far more grace than Henriette received hers, no matter what uniform he had on.

Perhaps the most horrible thing about the war wasn't the way the Union treated them, but the way it made them treat each other. Charlie watched, dazed and still unbelieving, as Wesley drew a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted away his sister's spittle from his cheek. He took a deep trembling breath as he mopped his face, then he bowed gracefully towards his grandmother. He never looked at Henriette.

“I apologize. Clearly this is a bad time for me to call. I'll be back, Grand-mère.” His tone rang of defeat.

“Please!” Charlie appealed.

Wesley turned to her, stiffening with the realization she had witnessed his discourse with Henriette. Did his eyes always glimmer so, or was their beauty enhanced by tears?

“Mr. Leighton, I'm not well and I want to go home,” she declared as she dredged up her courage. “Would you be very kind and escort me and my sister?” she whispered.

She could almost hear the gasping and sputtering in the music room behind her. Charlie had no idea what Madame DuPré or Angele thought and she didn't care. The visit had exhausted her and the animosity and sickening curiosity of her family friends made her want to flee the house.

“Yes, of course, I'd be delighted, ma'am,” he replied in a trembling voice. He looked puzzled and wary, as though he expected her to spit on him, too.

“You're very kind. Hortense, would you please get my shawl?” She turned to Madame DuPré. “I must take my leave of you here.” She apologized, sinking into a short curtsey. “I am sorry, but I shouldn't wait."

“Non, petite cherie.” The older woman bent to kiss her cheek. “You should not wait."

“Charlotte Valmont! Really!” Henriette reproached her as the entire tea party observed the new spectacle of the younger Miss Valmont acting like a woman who could make up her mind.

“I think you ought to go home, too, Henriette,” Charlie told her without inflection. Through the corner of her eye she recognized Angele and Hortense approaching them. “I think you're not well at all, Henriette. If William Valmont came through that door, I wouldn't care what army he served. I'd kiss him and thank God he'd come. You ought to go home and rest."

She accepted her reticule from Hortense and did not acknowledge the brief squeeze on her shoulder as the slave adjusted her fine paisley shawl.

“I think we're ready, Captain.” She managed to smile and feel very proud her voice didn't tremble when she wanted to weep for the lost innocence of her own society.

* * * *

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Angele asked as soon as they were home with the doors closed and she and Charlie were alone. “What possessed you to ask Captain Leighton to take us home?” Angele's voice was harsh. “Leaving with Captain Leighton was a very pointed gesture of support for someone considered a traitor and a Yankee collaborator. Especially since our own carriage is at Mrs. Leighton's.” She tried to control her temper. “It seems I remember you railing at me just last night for daring to consort with a despised Yanqui."

“Yes, I was and you told me you loved the major and plan to marry him! Yet you sat there in silence and let all our friends and neighbors speak ill of him! Why didn't you say something?” Charlie's dark eyes flashed with her own bit of temper. They might have different mothers, but they were both very much the daughters of the fiery Phillipe Valmont.

“It was hardly a suitable time.” Angele drew slightly away from Essie as the servant eased her silk carriage cape from her shoulders. “And given the circumstances of the occupation, hardly welcome news!"

“Are you only in love with him when he's safely hidden in our parlor? If I loved someone, I surely wouldn't allow them to be spoken of the way that awful Henriette spoke of the Yanquis.” She glared up at her taller sister. “And don't expect me to believe you would ever spit on William for anything. Even if he came home—” Her high-pitched voice broke for a moment and she concluded, “—in a Union uniform."

Charlie stood still long enough for Allaire to unfasten her shawl and take it away with her parasol before she strode into the sitting room so violently her crinolines rocked and flipped nearly to her knees. Snowy muslin pantalets embellished with lavishly embroidered eyelet ruffles peeked out above each ankle.

Some of Angele's anger bled away as she watched her sister fill a heavy crystal tumbler with water at the small sideboard. It had been her intention and, she thought, her duty to chastise her younger sister for behavior that made a spectacle of them and threatened their position. The younger woman's indignation with her as well as their friends took Angele by surprise. It had been an unsatisfactory visit altogether and now, on top of her unease with her friends, Angele had to deal with the discomfort of her own hypocrisy. It stung.

Charlie's tumbler of water hit the small oriental table beside her chair with a solid chink as Angele glided in behind her and sat on the opposite chair. Angele waited until she was composed in her seat before she spoke again.

“Non.” She agreed with her sister. “Of course not. I would love to see William walk through that door regardless of his colors. But Henriette Jeffords doesn't understand that. She hasn't lost anyone to this war yet."

“In a manner of speaking she has. She's lost—or I should say given up—her only brother!” Charlie stomped her delicate foot. “Henriette is an imbecile and a ... a hateful thing. I don't think I've ever liked her one bit.” She screwed her mouth up in distaste. “Antoine doesn't like the Leighton sisters. He says they preen and fuss too much. He says they remind him of a bunch of guinea hens squawking."

Sighing her relief at stating all her feelings, Charlie sank into the jacquard covered easy chair, folding one leg beneath her and arranging her skirts as gracefully as she could.

Angele pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “Oui. I'm afraid he is correct."

“Guinea hens have more manners though,” Charlie continued. “If I acted like that, you'd send me to my room for ... for ... the rest of my life."

“Most likely,” Angele admitted with a smile. “But, Charlie, you must be careful. Your reputation can be hurt by being too kind to Captain Leighton."

Charlie sniffed. “I'd rather be a scandal for being too kind than one for being an ill-mannered creature like Henriette Jeffords."

Angele's heart warmed. Charlie had always been a rather tenderhearted child. And too brave. She didn't understand how vicious society could be. Angele did. She knew that the depth of her love for James would not matter to people like Henriette Leighton Jeffords. Words sharp as sabers would be turned on both Angele and James when their alliance became known. Neither kindness nor bravery would be able to combat that. And there was nothing Angele could do but try to keep those verbal blades from slicing Charlie to pieces.

“Oui, petite soeur. But I would rather you were not a scandal at all. Leave that for me. It will come soon enough.” Her eyes met her sister's and found a mirror for her own apprehensions. “Now come, let us pick out some new dresses for that box of fabric Séverin's English friends have sent. Maybe there will be something proper for a wrap for the ball gown I intend to wear to that horrible General Butler's opera."

CHAPTER 15

“You look right fetching."

Antoine's smoky voice still made Angele's pulses quicken and she rewarded the flirtation with a brilliant smile.

“I wore this old thing two years ago, mon beau, for Séverin's birthday.” And you're not bad yourself, she added silently. She glanced appreciatively at the lean muscular Cajun clad in impeccable evening dress.

“Don't matter none."

Antoine leaned against the massive marble mantel over the fireplace and gave her a long steady look, eyes drifting from her painstaking coiffure and the warm glowing jewels on her magnolia skin, voluptuous curves enhanced by rich brandy silk moiré and tiny rows of gold-edged ivory lace. His perusal was pleasant and indecently slow. If any other man looked at her that way, Angele would have felt offended or even defiled. Except one. Her eyes flitted closed for a moment at her betrayal of Antoine, her childhood love. What would he think of her if he knew another man looked at her with the same hungry heat her old friend showed?

No, not the same ... More.

Angele made it a point to stroll through the room very slowly, her careful steps creating a sensuous even swaying in her skirts. Antoine's smile gleamed in the soft twilight and he left the fireplace to meet her halfway in the room. They faced each other and Antoine lifted her gloved hand to kiss it.

“You mighty fine, cherie.” He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her kid-covered wrist. “Way too fine for Butler.” He stood back up and his eyes shone like clear aquamarine. “Even in a dress you've already worn.” He kissed her temple and whispered, “Way too fine."

She turned away from the kiss headed for her mouth, proffering her cheek instead. Antoine did not demur, but pressed his warm lips to the side of her face, lingered for a moment, then drew back.

“Thank you.” There was no awkwardness between them. Antoine knew every secret about Angele except where her heart lay. Her body was well used to his closeness and warmth. She could love Antoine honestly now, without regretting his heart's preference for her cousin. In a way, she realized with delicious clarity, she loved them both now, Antoine and Séverin, without any regrets at all.

She bestowed a rare smile upon Antoine and didn't object when he swept her easily against his heart, steadying her waist with one hand as he guided her into a silent waltz. He hummed a soft tune to keep time, not sugared symphony but the darker more exciting tone of Cajun music. They danced closely enough for Angele to feel the vibrations of his humming against her body.

“You're more beautiful than ever,” Antoine declared. His eyes shone with warmth above a broad grin. “It is your James, non?” He dipped her smoothly and chuckled at her gasp. “Will we see your amante tonight at the opera?"

“Why no, Antoine, how could we?” She shook her head and the scent of her pomade enveloped them. “Charlie will be with us. It isn't suitable for us to meet. Where is your own beloved?” she added.

“He brought a present for the petite. Went upstairs to give it to her."

“I hope it's pearls or something to match them. Madame DuPré insisted Charlie wear her pearl bracelets and earrings tonight."

Antoine's broad shoulders rippled. “Some pretty bijou out of Madame Sophie's jewelry box."

They whirled past the back of the sofa and stopped.

“And how is Madame DuPré?” he asked.

“We called on Mrs. Leighton the day after you brought Charlie to Maison de Rose.” Angele's eyes rolled. “That was a disaster!"

Antoine's laughter was not kind. “It must've been if her girls were at home when you called."

Her friend's sarcasm caused her to giggle. “You can't imagine!"

He attended to Angele's description of what had occurred at the Leighton tea party. When she explained how Charlie had reproached Henriette Jeffords, Antoine made an effort to check hearty laughter and his merry eyes glowed.

“You mean Charlie stood up to that constipated hedgehog Henriette and told her to go home?” he chortled. “Our Charlie?"

“Oui. And walked out on Captain Leighton's arm quite proudly.” She shrugged. “For pity's sake don't compliment her about it! No doubt we're branded as Union sympathizers and William died for the South less than a year ago. Now I have no idea whether we ought to expect callers for our next at-home!"

“Mon cheri, you just hold your next tea at our house when Séverin and I are at home. The women all come to see me just for how beautiful I am.” Antoine winked.

Angele nodded as though she took the suggestion quite to heart. “It's a wonderful advantage.” Her tiny mouth quirked in spite of herself.

A brief flash of movement caught her eye at the open doorway closest to the front door. Essie and Allaire, both dressed in beautifully remade ballgowns handed down to them from past seasons, were arranging Angele's and Charlie's wraps.

“You come stay with us,” Antoine urged. “Séverin is having fits about you two living here alone what with all the refugee slaves that are flooding into town. I'd no change left at all today when we walked to mass. Séverin would've given them dollars if we weren't afraid of being mobbed by the poor beggars.” He shook his head. “And there are blueberries everywhere, too."

“The Americans call the soldiers blue-bellies, Antoine, not blueberries. And we're barely eight blocks away from you!” Angele protested. “Besides, I love my little house."

“Séverin misses you. And the petite. New Orleans ain't much good for him. Way damper here than at Bougival and he really feels it.” Antoine ran a hand over his left hip and upper thigh to indicate Séverin's injury. “You know he loves it when his family is around him. I think it makes him feel stronger."

“Séverin is the strongest of us all.” Angele's inner eyes looked back on all the family's accomplishment. For a second son who anticipated living a life of pleasure and intellectual study, Séverin had risen to the occasion of being heir and paterfamilias to the Valmonts with little to be regretted about his leadership.

“Oui.” Antoine nodded in agreement. “But we make him stronger."

Angele sighed. “I prefer not to move, mon ami, but perhaps Charlie would be more comfortable at Valmont House. She's happy with me now, but you know she's so easily bored! Valmont House has the larger library, the conservatory, and the music room. Perhaps her girlfriends and she will even put on a production in the little theater to amuse you."

Antoine proffered another nod and a wicked smile. “And if we keep her you can hurry your James back to visit and love you?” he prompted.

Angele had the grace to look guilty.

“Think of Séverin, m'belle. And it don't look right for Charlie to stay at Valmont House if you don't.” The face Antoine pulled made Angele laugh again. “Etiquette says we can't keep Charlie by ourselves ‘cause we not close enough kin to her to be proper? Horsefeathers!” The Cajun's disgust was plain. “We done bathed her when she had the yellow fever and Séverin's her own parraine!"

Angele nodded and murmured, “All right.” It felt like the pretty night had suddenly grown cloudy and stifling. She managed to glance around the parlor that had seen so many happier days in the past. “I do miss this house,” she admitted.

A chorus of swift breaths and admiring words drew the couple's attention away from each other. Antoine's brow rose.

“Sounds like we're ready to go.” He offered his arm with cavalier flair to his best friend, moving just enough apart from her so that her gown was not crushed against his legs as they drifted toward the wide open French doors leading into the foyer.

Only the foyer lights were lit. Gaslight sent a gentle gleam over the lovingly polished carved pineapple adorning the end of the staircase handrail. The waning sunlight struggled with budding moonlight to cast incandescent puddles over the striped silk chairs and pie crust table beyond the entry. The massive mahogany armoire, carried from French ancestors to Saint-Domingue and then to Louisiana, sank into cheerful obscurity in the broad alcove designed for it when the Valmonts built their town house. Allaire and Essie hung back quietly, dark eyes raised in awe to the stairway as Séverin led Charlie down with him.

“Que belle enfante!” Antoine hissed his admiration.

Angele shook her head but said nothing. Soon enough Antoine would realize Charlie wasn't really a child anymore.

Charlie's gown had been copied from a French fashion magazine the Ross family in England had sent along with the dress goods to Bougival. The bell-shaped skirt was wider than any crinoline she had ever worn, almost six feet across, made of a soft blushing silk, pink so pale it was almost white. A white lace tunic overlay covered the bodice, extending halfway down the skirt revealing tiers of ruffles edged in a deeper pink velvet ribbon. Essie had carefully worked real flowers into tiny bouquets to pin around the edges of the overskirt and in Charlie's hair. Smaller lace ruffles adorned the scooped neckline and large pink satin bows and velvet rosettes finished her bodice and tiny puffed sleeves.

Her luxuriant hair was gathered in a white snood trimmed with more velvet roses and strands of pearls, and several locks of hair had been tamed with a curling iron to dance over her shoulders in glossy ringlets. Aunt Sophie's handsome diamond lavaliere glittered at her throat and pearl teardrops dangled from her lobes.

For a moment Angele didn't see the glamorous young lady and her equally elegant escort. Instead she saw a much younger Séverin in the small chapel at Bougival. The boy had no limp and required no cane and he carried the armload of cooing baby dressed in white silk and lace ruffles with delightful affection. He waited through the small service and anointed her with a careful finger before he drew off her lace cap, smoothed her damp curls and casually ordered the groom to fetch his buggy, the baby was too warm in the church and wanted to go for a drive.

Angele's eyes burned and she swallowed to clear her tightening throat.

Charlie tripped on the last step, setting her wide elegant skirts to quivering, and clutched at Séverin wildly for balance.

“Drat! I wish shorter skirts were fashionable!” the young girl exclaimed.

The sentimental ache in her throat bubbled into laughter and Angele fluttered her lashes to keep mirthful tears from staining her face.

Antoine chuckled and Séverin's smiling dark eyes assured Angele he understood her feelings.

“La! Non, merci, Vincent!” Antoine casually refused him as the valet held up his fine cashmere cape. “It's midsummer!"

Vincent frowned, befuddled. “But Monsieur, you're going to the theatre. You're in evening dress. You cannot just walk out of the house without something over you.” His tone was ever placid, mild and refined.

“I'm plenty dressed now!” Antoine planted Séverin's top hat squarely on his head before putting on his own. “We'll likely die of heat stroke tonight!"

“But it is requisite to evening dress!"

The little family looked at each other, glanced at the front door, at Vincent, and at their selection of opera cloaks and wraps.

“Non, merci, Vincent."

“No, I don't think so. Thank you."

“Take it back, Essie, I don't want it."

They walked out with studious dignity, the female servants accompanying their ladies to Séverin's large coach in mild shock at the sight of their young ladies exposing bare arms and shoulders to the admiring violet night. Only when the doors were closed securely on the coach and the horses trotted over Rue Esplanade towards the New Orleans Opera did the Valmonts permit themselves to laugh at Vincent's chagrin.

“Well, Vincent oughtn't be disappointed with us,” Séverin decided with a bright-eyed smile. “If the major-general had any understanding of the New Orleans climate he would not dream of having an assembly in this heat! We certainly know how to dress for the occasion, but the occasion is at the wrong time!"

“I'm sweating already!” Angele added. “Thank God we've got our own box! I wouldn't want to sit in the orchestra this evening!"

“We're lucky Butler didn't charge us a fee to retain the box.” Séverin's lips smiled but his eyes did not.

“Dieu! What does the man expect, mon ami? Are we supposed to sit in the gallery and let the army have our places?"

“He does seem to have an unlimited capacity to take advantage of any situation in a way that generates profit for himself.” Séverin shrugged.

“I wouldn't want to share the Jeffords box!” Charlie groused.

“That is unkind, Charlotte."

“It's also true.” She turned to face her godfather and insisted, “I don't believe Henriette likes to bathe."

She smiled when Séverin recoiled. He glanced at the opposite side of the coach. Angele looked back, nonplussed, and Antoine carefully traced an odd bit of dust on his trousers that amused him enough to smile at it.

“I think it's prob'ly true,” Antoine noted. “Remember when we had to dance with her at Madame's barbecue and—"

“That is gossip! And it is rude."

Charlie shrugged at Séverin's final tone. Angele knew her sister had no intention of quarreling with her beloved guardian over Henriette Jefford's toilette. She watched Charlie fan herself briskly with a gorgeous fan of carved sandalwood decorated with silky ostrich feathers. Séverin relented and chuckled when the feathers tickled his chin.

“I hope the ballet is worth watching.” Angele's gift for changing the subject with tact was equal to her cousin's, if not better. “In spite of the weather. One should always look for the good in the bad and who knows what else the major-general will get into his head to do?"

* * * *

“Catherine! Did you hear?” Carolyn D'Olive said a bit too loudly. “That Odious Man has sent Eugenia Phillips to Ship Island!"

James, along with half the people standing about waiting to find their seats for Giselle, couldn't help but overhear her every word. He groaned inwardly. That particular incident had already become a sore point for him. If General Butler thought the ladies of New Orleans had been cold before, James had no idea how the man thought arresting one of their own would cause them to warm toward him. His treatment of the women of the city via General Order Twenty-Eight and Mrs. Phillips’ arrest had created a complete uproar.

Already P. G. T. Beauregard, the beloved Confederate general from New Orleans, had labeled him “Beast” Butler. James feared the name would stick. And it wasn't just the Confederates that were incensed by General Order Twenty-Eight. Several Union generals and senators had made personal protests and both the British and French governments had issued official complaints about it to President Lincoln. Added to the rumors about his graft and corruption, Ben Butler had managed to make himself a byword for heavy-handed dictatorship on two continents. James was embarrassed to claim the man as his commanding officer.

Mrs. D'Olive continued her scandal-mongering. “Eugenia was arrested for laughing when a Yankee funeral procession passed her house. She was having a children's party and said she was laughing at that, but he refuses to believe it. So he's enacted that awful Woman's Order and sent her to the prison camp on Ship Island."

Catherine Woldman shuddered. “He really did? He is actually sending her to Ship Island for ... for disrespect? But there's nothing there. It's just a strip of sand. There's not even a post or a stockade. He might as well have sent her into the wilderness."

“Mercy, yes. My dear, it is the most complete outrage. A senator's wife. Sent away like a common criminal. Just when you think That Man has reached the depths, he presents us with some new horror. But do you know what she said to Him? She told Him Ship Island had an advantage over New Orleans since He did not live there.” Mrs. D'Olive waved her fan with fervor, whether to combat the heat or to emphasis her ire at the general, James couldn't be sure. She glanced out over the assemblage.

“Oh my, would you look there. Isn't that Wesley Leighton? It's a sin and a shame. How can such a fine-looking man from such a good family be wearing that uniform? Doesn't he have any feeling for his grandmother? Marie-Hélène DuPré must be fit to die from the shame of it."

Mrs. Woldman shrugged. “It is a quandary, I'll admit."

“Poor Marie-Hélène, she had such a bright future planned for him. If he had a lick of sense, he'd have listened to her. He'd be planning his wedding to Charlie Valmont right now instead of strutting around in that hateful uniform.” She sighed. “I hope Séverin Valmont had the sense to rip that betrothal contract to shreds and burn it in his fireplace."

Mrs. Woldman shrugged again. “It's likely moldering in his lawyer's safe. I doubt the Valmonts even remember Charlie was contracted to marry that traitor."

James jumped just a bit as General Butler's hand settled on his shoulder. “Shall we find our seats, Major,” the general said with a bright, jovial smile.

James swallowed and allowed the man to lead him away. He couldn't help but hope Butler hadn't overheard the women's gossip. James felt sure the less the major-general knew about the Valmonts the better for them all.

* * * *

“Good God!” Wesley inhaled as though his next breath was needed to sustain him for eternity. “They're here! There they are, James."

He was only dimly aware of James turning beside him, the heels of his well-polished boots squeaking as he pivoted sharply on the waxed floor while his dress scabbard rattled against his boot-tops. The admiring murmurs and exclamations of the people around Wesley wove into a fascinating current of attention that threatened to tug him down and drown him.

They were beautiful, of course, all the Valmonts. Nothing could detract from Séverin's sensual handsomeness, the slight unevenness of stride only added to his stylish dignity. The delicate etching of laugh lines framing his prominent eyes as well as the odd steel-gray strands glinting in his rich, dark hair enhanced his looks. His impeccable eveningwear was dated a year or two behind the fashion and even this contributed to his distinctiveness. He didn't look frumpy or out of style; instead, every other man seemed overdressed in comparison. Tall and muscular with a careless pride integral to his being, Séverin was a man few women could look upon and not help but find their own men somehow lacking. Wesley had always suspected Séverin would grow to be someone special, but he'd never really imagined how impressive a man his childhood friend would become. There was no doubt in his mind—Séverin Valmont was the epitome of a Creole gentleman planter.

As for the young woman on his arm ... Wesley's eyes devoured Charlie Valmont as she glided swan-like beside her guardian. Wesley didn't even care that the proud set of her head prevented her from glancing toward him and his fellows. She seemed to gaze over them, beyond them, a captive princess mocking her conquerors. The smiles she deigned to bestow upon some lucky friend to her family or a fond personal acquaintance were graceful and calm, but somehow they lacked the vibrant warmth he'd come to love so well in her.

Her gown was lavish, marvelously so given her general sense of simplicity in her usual dress. There was enough soft pink silk and lace, ribbons and feathers, ruffles and flounces to please even the strictest fashion maven. Wesley imagined being close enough to smell the spicy fragrance of the carnations decorating her skirts as the soft fabric brushed against him.

“You see, Captain,” Major-General Butler observed with a pointed look. “There is a woman worth fighting for, don't you think?” He shook his head. “Such a shame, these people will all go down fighting to defend a way of life that has no place in the natural world order. But I've seen a sight or two like this from time to time and I can understand why they'd fight so desperately to preserve it.” He smiled with great good humor.

“Please excuse me.” Wesley's bow was crisp and neat, without any indication that he longed to shoot his superior for having the audacity to admire Charlie Valmont. His mouth was arid though he'd just had dinner a short while before. He had to move, had to do something before the emotions coursing through him ripped his body apart. “I must pay my respects to my grandmother.” He paused to consider a short moment. “You will join me, James? Grand-mére remembers you most kindly from when she visited West Point. She might take it amiss if you didn't see her."

“Why, yes. Of course.” Astonished and thankful, James rose from his seat and bowed to the greenish major-general. “You will excuse me."

* * * *

James Darling glanced up as Séverin Valmont squired his pretty ward into their box and seated her on a carved chair covered in silk brocade. Intrigued by the spectacle, he allowed Wesley to hurry off to his grandmother's box. He'd join Wes soon enough. At the moment he was slightly awed by the majestic aura surrounding the Valmonts, but especially that encompassing Charlie. He had a tendency to think of her as little more than an untoward obstacle in his pursuit to openly claim the woman he loved. At best he'd thought of her as a flighty child rather than a desirable woman in her own right. Tonight there was little of the child evident. He suddenly understood Wesley Leighton's longing for her.

But for all his awe, he couldn't dispel a faint sense of disapproval at the haughty air of the Creoles as they thumbed their noses at the occupying forces in the best way a conquered people could.

See us? See our traditions? See our greatest treasure? This is something you can't take away.

The full force of their silent declaration hit James. It stung. It burned his pride and hurt his heart. By virtue of his birth as well as his affiliation, he would never be considered fit to love Angele Valmont openly in the eyes of the polite world. It was unheard of. His aspirations to her hand would be considered just as impertinent as a dirty private sitting in one of those silk-covered chairs.

James tightened his jaw at the grimness of that thought. He didn't care. They would find a way to be happy together, even if he had to give up everything he had. He would do whatever was necessary for them to be together once his obligations to the army were complete. His intent was never to fight in another war, nor to be separated from Angele once they were able to live together.

His coveted desire appeared as if by magic, slightly behind the clouds of Charlie's fantastical ball gown. Angele was dressed in silk the color of brandy in candlelight and the rich color made her creamy skin glow. Everything about her radiated warmth James could feel deep in his soul. Her lustrous hair was ornamented with strands of fine topaz and pulled back in myriad thick ringlets that fell longer than was considered fashionable down her back. A cluster of heavy curls rested like dying fire on one bare, snowy shoulder. James suddenly found he couldn't breathe. He knew what that fair shoulder felt like against his palm. He knew what it tasted like on his tongue. The remembered flavor of her skin turned his knees liquid and ignited a living flame in his belly. It took every iota of strength he had not to go to her and bury his face in the bend of her shoulder. She'd smell of tea olive and desire. It was nearly more than he could endure.

In the interests of his continued sanity, he pulled his gaze from her beautifully exposed décolletage and focused on her adored features. He found it brought him no relief. Her eyes were soft, golden amber swirled with limpid mossy green as she looked up at her escort, a tall, lean brunette entirely too good-looking to be called anything but beautiful. He must be the infamous Antoine Brouillette, James realized not without some jealousy. As the gorgeous man bent toward her to mutter something, probably a disparaging remark about the sexual deviance of Union troops or some equally inappropriate comment, her deliciously full rosebud mouth parted slightly in a smile and desire exploded in James.

James wanted to kiss those plum-rose lips until she begged him to touch her. He wanted to set a fire alight deep in those tawny eyes and love her until the fire was quenched. His body ached to hold her. It had been three days since he'd touched her. And hurried kisses stolen when her sister wasn't about had done nothing to ease the want in James’ heart. He wanted to hold her until his hunger was appeased and to sleep clasped in her arms so he could finally find some peace. He had to know she loved and needed him at least half as much as he loved and needed her. To see her from a distance like this was nearly insupportable.

He willed her to at least look at him. He prayed that God would turn her glowing eyes toward him. Did he only imagine it or did Angele's golden glance drop down toward the orchestra? Was she covertly searching for him to offer him a discreet smile or even a hidden gesture of greeting and gladness to be in the same building with him even though they could not be near each other? James had little time to wonder. As the orchestra struck up the opening score and the dark maroon curtains spread and swept away from the stage, Antoine Brouillette sat down blocking Angele from James’ sight. He glanced around frantically as the music began and hurried to catch up with Wesley beckoning him from the lobby doors.

CHAPTER 16

“How lovely to see you out again, Séverin.” Madame DuPré's soft blue-gray eyes shone with genuine fondness for him, and Séverin knew her greeting wasn't a mere social pleasantry. His godmother had been concerned and was now glad to see him recovered and moving in society after his wounds.

“I've thought of you so often since your return to Bougival. And Antoine is with you still!” She gave him the charmingly suggestive smile of a seasoned woman who understood many things, judged little, and handled all with tact and discretion.

“La! You are cruel, the pair of you! Come to the opera together so that not a single lady present can watch the play in peace.” She lowered her lashes then raised them again. “Your box is opposite the stage and no one could watch both at once."

Séverin smiled with pleasure as well as amusement while Antoine's mouth curled into a grin. Both of them muttered “Madame,” and bowed gracefully, rising with the languid ease that assured a lady she was worth taking the time to bow to in the first place. Angele and Charlie glided up more slowly, careful not to disturb their skirts, and dipped into a brief curtsy.

No one had ever doubted that Séverin's godmother was the finest of ladies. Marie-Hélène DuPré was eighty years old—a grand dame from a rougher time in history. She had been born into the glory of Louis XVI's court. As a young girl during the Reign of Terror, she had immigrated to England with her brother and her mother. Stripped of the wealth and protection her title and position had afforded her before the Revolution, she'd found the nerve to dispute her brother's efforts to marry her off to an English merchant's son to secure the family's future.

She'd selected instead a younger son of French and Scots gentry descent, a man with nary a shilling to his name and only a vast holding in the Louisiana territory to make him worth anything. That holding, Thibaux-Renault, was now one of the largest sugar plantations in the entire South. She had been a good friend and mentor to Sophie Valmont and godmother to both her sons. Séverin never thought of her without the profoundest respect and admiration.

“You ought not have left your seat, Madame. You needed only to send for me. I'd swim the length of the Mississippi to get to you,” he promised.

Marie-Hélène giggled like a girl. “I wouldn't dream of putting you through that trouble, mon petit choux, tired old thing that you are.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “Besides, the tribute to beauty must be kept open throughout intermission or the young men feel cheated."

She grinned down at Charlie. “And how is it, ma'am? Does it suit you being the center of attention and having every boy you've known your whole life look at you like he's never seen you before?” She did not give the bewildered girl a moment to reply that half the boys she knew were far away from New Orleans that night.

“My word, Séverin, you let her wear Sophie's necklace.” Marie-Hélène shrugged. “Not that Sophie minds, but I think she's a little young for it."

She whirled back toward Séverin like a duelist. “My grandson wishes to be introduced,” she explained blithely. “He is unsure of his welcome."

Séverin looked genuinely surprised. “You wound me, Madame, if any kin of yours fears his unwelcome here."

He knew very well Marie-Hélène had one child, now the widow of a wealthy American merchant, and several granddaughters, but only one grandson—Wesley Leighton, who had returned home in Yankee blue. Séverin had done his best to avoid thinking about Wesley since he'd seen him in D.H. Holmes a mere day after his family had arrived from Bougival. Old family friendships became ever more twisted and confused as the war progressed. Still Séverin could not bring himself to cut the man in front of Marie-Hélène without better cause than his politics.

“It's Wesley, is it not?” Séverin prompted. “Tell him to come in."

Charlie stirred restlessly and her cheeks flushed pink. Séverin frowned and speculated as her gloved fingers twisted and worried the thick silk tassels on her evening bag. He glanced to the rear of the box. Allaire and Essie both looked anxious, darting frightened glances at each other and toward Charlie. Beside Antoine, Angele gazed back as calm as any poker player, a sure sign that there was more to be discerned than what there appeared. Angele drew into that deceptive tranquility to dissuade attention or inquiry, to keep secrets. What had the females in his household stirred up like a clutch of hens with a fox sniffing about? What had they been up to?

If Madame noticed Charlie's trepidation she did not seem to care. She turned her head toward the door and called imperiously, “Wesley! Viens-ci!” She prompted Essie with a commanding nod. “Open the door, ma fille."

That worthy servant obeyed with an expression that suggested she smelled rotten milk in the air. Her air of disapproval deepened when she saw who waited without. What now, Séverin wondered. He half-expected Major-General Butler to be standing beyond the door expecting an introduction to the ladies.

Two men stood there, and to Séverin's relief, neither was the despised commander-in-chief of occupied New Orleans. One man was fair and golden, the other smartly dark, officers and gentlemen, groomed and polished to a high gloss that couldn't be seen past the dark blue of their uniform jackets.

Charlie's round dark eyes were large and afraid. Séverin wanted to attribute her fear to the fact they were Yanquis. All the women of New Orleans cultivated a habitual horror of them. But there was something in her flower petal eyes that made him suspect there was more to her nervousness than fright. Standing beside her, he didn't allow his expression to change. His only outward show of surprise at finding not one Yankee but two at his door was the tightening of his grip on the ivory griffin's head handle of his cane. At his side, Antoine watched wary and ready, his handsome face impassive as the two Union soldiers bowed and offered quiet greetings to the ladies.

“Wesley.” Séverin tried to sound sincere. A part of him had been grateful to see his old friend alive and well when he'd discovered Wesley in town, though another part was just as angry with Wes for choosing the wrong side. They should have been comrades-in-arms, not enemies. The taste of betrayal was harsh on his tongue. Séverin struggled to hide his bitterness.

“You'll have to blame Leighton for his colors, coeur-de-ma-coeur. Neither I nor Andrew bred that into him,” Marie-Hélène assured him.

“I believe you, cherie,” Séverin replied with a graceful bow to his old friend and his unknown companion. “Gentlemen.” His formal acknowledgement allowed the rest of the family to speak. To his surprise, the anxious youngest piped up with gusto.

“Captain Leighton!” Charlie burst out. “And, Major Darling, how very nice to see you again.” She broke into a pleased smile.

Wesley's blond friend looked at her in patent disbelief. Behind him, Séverin heard Antoine mutter in mock horror, “Major Darling? Mon Dieu, what a name!"

“Antoine,” Angele shushed reproval.

“You're both looking very well this evening,” Charlie added for good measure. “Séverin, Antoine, you remember Captain Leighton from when we were all young."

Séverin hid his amusement at her terminology. Apparently in her mind Charlie was now quite grown up and aged, though she was, of course, still very much a child.

“This is his friend Major Darling. I haven't told you how very kind the captain and the major were when they saw me removing that awful Mr. Butler's printed orders from the side of our house.” She looked up at her guardian and Séverin wondered at her anxiety. “I didn't recognize Captain Leighton at first.” She looked down, ashamed. “And I'm afraid I was rude to him.” She brightened back up. “I could have been arrested and sent to Ship Island if they hadn't stopped me or if some other soldiers passing by at the time had seen me. And, of course, Captain Leighton had already saved me from a nasty fall in D. H. Holmes. They've both been very, very obliging.” She glanced quickly at Wesley and then away, her cheeks a very becoming rose.

Séverin forced himself not to frown at Charlie's artless prattle. She was obviously quite taken with the captain. He smothered a sigh. He'd have to put an end to that infatuation gently. For not the first time in recent months, he wished the world were a different place. Then either Charlie would have so many suitors she'd never consider Wesley in a favorable light or Wesley would still be their dear friend and the perfect husband for her.

“Wesley. Major.” Séverin took a short step forward and held out a dry hand. “I'm in your debt, gentlemen."

Wesley smile was as good-natured as Séverin had ever known it and he met Séverin's eyes without any of the awkwardness the Creole would have expected when they shook hands. The major's handshake was firm and straightforward, but he seemed distracted. No doubt, he had little interest in meeting his friend's old companions especially since they were Confederates. Antoine followed Séverin's suit without a hint of reluctance. His welcome to Wesley was warm and the smile on his face friendly enough. Séverin knew his companion did not care enough about the country's politics one way or the other to mind that the other men were enlisted with enemy forces. If Séverin found them acceptable, that was good enough for Antoine.

Marie-Hélène rewarded Séverin with an affectionate smile and directed the conversation into channels of fond memory that would insult neither party, while Séverin dealt with the unusual sensation of facing Yankees who weren't shooting at him.

* * * *

James couldn't pull his gaze from Angele. If he'd thought her beautiful from across the theater, she was devastating with scant feet separating them. He understood not a word of the conversation swirling about him. None of the rest of them mattered. He only wanted to hear what she had to say. But aside from the smallest of greetings to Wesley and an even briefer nod to him, she'd been silent. That one gesture had been majestic, and James had felt an instant of pride at her regal bearing. By God, he'd found a woman second to none! She could easily have been born a queen. For a moment he felt rather like one of those knights so popular in current literature that rescued a fair princess royal, married her, and suddenly found himself a king. Just by loving him, she'd made him ruler of everything around him.

Currently he was feeling more like one of those princes who was hidden as a commoner or turned into a frog by some spell. Her subterfuge was perfect. If he did not know the truth, he'd have sworn she held nothing but the utmost disdain for the two Yankee officers visiting her box. Her chill civility was an example to the seditious ladies of the city in the proper way to treat these importunate invaders while maintaining ones dignity. They were unworthy even of her ire. They were to be ignored as if they were nothing more than lackeys listening at the tables of their betters. If he didn't know she loved him, he'd have been intensely angered by such a cultured insult.

He tried to catch her eye, bidding her silently to let him see that love light he so adored shining from her golden eyes. When she remained with her lovely profile turned to him, he moved unobtrusively closer to her. Finally, he stood beside her, the antique bullion of her skirts brushing his boots. Still she didn't turn toward him.

Providentially, it was Antoine Brouillette who offered James the chance to gain her attention. Illustrating some long ago adventure for Charlie and Madame DuPré, Antoine jostled Angele's elbow. It was James who bent quickly and retrieved her fallen fan. Perforce she turned to thank him for the courtesy. As he smiled at her, she looked through and past him. There was no warmth in her face or bearing. Her mien was as frosty and aloof as any he'd yet faced in this city full of enemies. There was no spark of love or delight in her eyes at seeing him. The polished jewels in her hair, hard and stony, held more welcome.

The epiphany that rolled through him threatened to destroy him. She didn't love him. Or if she did, her love wasn't strong enough to overcome her shame at who and what he was. He felt as though someone had taken his own sword and plunged it through his midsection.

As she plucked the fan from his nerveless fingers, he did the only thing he could—he bowed slightly and excused his unwanted presence from her sight. As he stumbled down the stairs and out into the sweltering night, he realized it really was possible for a human heart to break. He could testify to the fact—his own now lay in shards inside his chest.

CHAPTER 17

Major Darling looked about the docks. New Orleans might be a Union-held town and James had been told that shipping had been cut in half or more, but it surely seemed busy enough to him. He realized that with Vicksburg still in Confederate hands, materials couldn't move freely up or down the river. But supplies for the Union forces both in the city and fighting in dozens of other locations still flowed into New Orleans via the Gulf of Mexico. It was as busy as any port he'd ever been through. Even with written directions in hand, in the bustle it was hard to know where to go. He sighed. He wasn't familiar with anything about docks or waterfronts. James was cavalry, not navy, and ships had never interested him except as a way to get somewhere in a hurry. Overall, he much preferred horses.

An Irish stevedore pointed him to a warren of warehouses and docks. It was quieter here with almost no activity. He was now more lost than ever. A group of dark-skinned urchins were loitering about, playing some game involving several pebbles and small squares marked on the warped gray boards of the dock. They eyed James warily, but for a penny one of them was happy to act as his guide. A question that he ended up phrasing in French had the child smiling. The boy led James through a nearly deserted shipyard where half-built vessels of various sorts sat decaying in the hot Louisiana sun. Another rank of warehouses and the boy pointed to a flight of stairs before he ran off with his penny clutched tightly in his fist. A well-maintained sign on the side of the building declared it the home of Valmont Shipping and D'Aviles Shipyards.

There were no clerks bent over ledgers inside the office at the top of the stairs, though there were desks for several employees. It was quiet and dust motes floated tiredly in the early afternoon sunbeams that slanted in the windows. He called out a hesitant hello.

“In here, James. Lock the door after you,” Angele's voice answered from the office beyond. “Though it is unlikely anyone will come, I'd rather we weren't interrupted."

He found her seated behind a huge walnut desk, a wealth of papers and ledgers arrayed neatly across its slightly scarred surface. The sleeves of her blonde silk blouse were carefully gartered and covered to keep them free of ink stains. A simple black snood held her hair away from her face. James added his hat to her russet silk jacket and matching hat where they hung on a stand near the door.

He was still angry and hurt that she'd so completely ignored him the previous night at the opera. While Charlie had made every effort to make Wesley and him feel welcome, Angele's cold distance had hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced. She had been even more aloof than her cousins, with a haughtiness of manner that crossed the line into disdain. She didn't have to look at him as though he was some insect crawling on her fancy skirts.

“What's all this?” he asked.

“My business. It is not normally so quiet. It is often hectic, but this war ... Well, what is the sense of building ships that will just be confiscated by one side or the other to be used in the war? I've already given enough to the Confederacy and I have no wish to support the Union. So we build no ships and with the blockades, we have no shipping to do."

She gestured to a chair and he sank into it gratefully. He felt like he'd been wandering in the sweltering heat for hours trying to find this place. He hadn't slept at all after leaving the theater. He'd wandered the streets for a while, not wanting to face Wesley's enthusiasm over the warm welcome his friend had received from Charlie. When he'd finally laid down, it was only to toss and twist, seeing nothing but cold yellow eyes looking through him as if he didn't exist.

He'd been only half-surprised when Amaury had delivered a note from Angele requesting he meet her at a shipping office. She was ready to send him away. He didn't doubt that for a single instant. She was done with him and even with the anger and pain he was feeling, he wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to go on without her.

She didn't seem to notice his resentment or worry, and continued. “The news from our offices in New York, Madrid, and London comes but slowly. Luckily, I have the utmost confidence in my agents from those offices. I do not fear they will cheat me. They and their families have been with us for generations. And my ship captains are good men. They sail under the flag of Great Britain, so they are not likely to be troubled on the high seas."

She glanced down at the ledger before her. A stack of travel-stained papers stood beside the open book. James was sure the rusty-brown blotch on the edge of several of them was blood.

“The China trade does well, even if I can't ship into New Orleans, Mobile, or the other Southern cities. There is still profit in shipping to New York, Boston, Madrid, and London—especially London.” She shrugged. “The trade from India is not as profitable, but I think there may be some opportunities in Egypt. With no cotton coming from the Confederacy, the English mills are hungry for Egyptian cotton. Séverin and I have invested in some futures. We'll see how that goes."

Her eyes glittered like a hunter's. “The construction of the canal between the Mediterranean and Red Seas is progressing nicely. They are saying it could be open in less than a decade. With a shorter route between the Orient and Europe, I can increase profits nicely. I've made sure to cultivate the proper contacts in Egypt and Britain. I need to keep in their good graces, n'cest pas?"

James looked at her as though she was speaking the language of that far off land of the Pyramids of which she spoke so easily. “You run all this?"

“Oui, Séverin and I. The Valmonts have always been planters and ship owners, the D'Aviles ship builders and explorers. My parents’ marriage was a very good business alliance. Mon oncle had no heirs that survived childhood and so the entire D'Aviles fortune passed to me. Papa and Oncle Gérard made sure I understood all about the businesses before they died."

She related it as though a woman running such a concern was the most normal thing on earth. Of course, this was Louisiana. James had discovered early on the rules of ownership here were very different than those in Maryland. Women and Negroes, and those who were frequently both at once, were land and business owners here. As often as not, within the confines of the Vieux Carré and the bayous where French was more common than English, the dark-skinned man or woman behind the counter owned the shop. It was disconcerting at first, but he'd become used to it.

“The Valmont inheritance is, of course, shared with Charlie and she has a separate inheritance from her maman's legacy. It's mostly money and jewelry, but there are some good tracts of farm and timber land as well. Ville-des-Fleur and all of D'Aviles Shipyards are mine. Séverin has the controlling interest in Valmont Shipping. Charlie and I share most of the remaining interest in the shipping business while Antoine has a small legacy in that from Tanté Sophie. Séverin has also done well for us all in investments in the railroads and he is very good with the futures market. Overall we handle some few millions of dollars, though much is tied up in the ships and the land."

James stared at her in consternation. The kind of wealth she was talking about was hard for him to imagine. “But your house is very small. It's elegant and the garden is beautiful, but it's small,” he finally said.

She shrugged. “For a lady living alone it is most suitable. I don't need a great many slaves to run it and, of course, it would be improper for me to keep male slaves on the premises at all. Amaury is housed with Séverin's slaves. In any case, I like Maison de Rose best of all my town houses. It is comforting. It was my grand-mére's and I have very fond memories of it from my childhood. I have much larger houses if you would prefer we live in one of them."

James nodded as the weight of what she was saying settled onto his shoulders. “So you asked me here to show me this? Why?” He didn't like the suspicion that was gnawing at the back of his mind at all.

“You need to know.” She still sat behind her big desk, as separate from him as she'd been in the opera balcony the night before.

Something cold was clutching at his heart. “Why? Because you're my fiancée?"

She nodded. “Oui. If we marry, you will be a very, very wealthy man, my James.” She looked at the ledger before her, not meeting his gaze.

He noticed her use of the supposition. It shot arrows of ice into his gut. Séverin Valmont's engagement ring glinted mockingly on her finger.

“If?” he couldn't keep the harshness from his voice and didn't want to.

“When,” she amended, but he could detect little warmth in her voice.

He understood exactly what she was showing him. She wanted him to understand why she'd never marry him. He really was no more than a bug climbing her skirts. He was the grandson of an English Catholic immigrant who'd managed to carve a large farm from the Maryland countryside. An advantageous but not brilliant marriage had helped his father increase the size of their holding, but it was nothing compared to what she was talking about. As a second son, he expected to inherit nothing of anything but sentimental value. The farm, the house, and all that went with it were slated to his brother, Liam. James had a soldier's pay and his grandmother's seed-pearl necklace to offer a woman who ran a shipping empire. He rose with unseemly but necessary haste.

“I have to get back.” He couldn't sit and listen to her say the words that would likely destroy any chance of happiness he might have. Maybe he'd be strong enough to read whatever letter she would later send him saying their affair was over. At least he'd be alone and wouldn't have to cry in front of her. He had no doubt that if he actually heard her say she didn't love him, he'd collapse.

“James, wait,” she called, finally rising from the big leather chair behind the desk. He couldn't stop himself from turning to look at her.

He recognized a mix of hope and fear beneath the controlled blankness of her pale face, but he was too angry and wounded to soften his stiff bearing. The hurt inside him ran far too deep for him to unbend. If he did, he'd break. So he stood at parade rest and tried to control his breathing. He waited for her to speak again.

“James.” She looked up into his eyes. “I thought we might have some time together. I've missed you since you can't visit the house as easily as before."

So she intended to be gentle. He supposed he should be grateful for her thoughtfulness, but that was another source of consternation for James. She was without doubt his mistress, but he was so well hidden he might as well have been a complete stranger to her. She'd certainly treated him so the night before.

“It's best I go,” he said.

He spun and reached blindly for the door. Then he felt the weight of her hand on his sleeve before her other hand settled over his where it rested on the doorknob.

“James, mon amour. Do not act so. I know we have been apart too much, but you understand it is only until we find a proper husband for Charlotte.” Her voice returned to the warmth he remembered and longed for. And thought he would never hear again. He looked into soft, golden moss eyes. “S'il tu plait, amour."

When her warm fingertips brushed his cheek and she murmured in breathy French how much she loved him, how deeply she'd missed him, and longed for his kiss, he thought his heart would burst. He couldn't maintain his anger. She could be so sweet, a thousand times more so than the olive blossom perfume she wore. Wasn't this what he'd wanted last night, the touch of her hand and a warm love-light in her eyes? Wasn't this what he was so afraid of losing? He had only to open his arms and she would come to him; he knew that. He could see it in the delicate blush on her face, the way her chest heaved with deep breaths, and the way her ripe plum lips parted as if begging for his kiss. With a groan, he pulled her to him.

She really did love him. He could feel it in her kiss, in the way she clung to him. If she loved him, she couldn't believe the things he feared. She wasn't ashamed of his birth. She didn't think he was somehow less worthy because he was a Yankee. She didn't want to send him away. He was wrong. Her culture was different; perhaps he'd simply misunderstood. She couldn't be as cold as he feared. She certainly didn't feel that way as her fingers threaded into his hair and held him tightly for her deep kiss. That had to be the answer. He'd simply misunderstood. He loved her so and their time together was so rare and precious, he couldn't waste it on being angry and hurt over a misunderstanding. He tightened his embrace and put his concerns from his mind. Right now, he'd be content to just love her while he could. It was really all he wanted to do. He just wanted to love her.

* * * *

His concerns returned when he was alone and finally found expression as he answered his father's most recent letter.

I am glad to hear Ma and the girls are safe in Connecticut with Cousin Martha and her husband. I know you can't leave the farm, but I wish you were with them. I worry because you are so close to Virginia. If you have not already done so, hide all the valuables in the place we talked about when the war started and burn any letter referring to where that place is.

For myself, I am fine and you at least do not need to worry about me. New Orleans has not changed since I wrote to you last, though I often think I am seeing it with different eyes. I am no longer sure what my place is here. As I wrote to you earlier, my fiancée is a fine lady, but I had no idea until today how very advantageous a match the world will consider I've made. And all the advantages seem to be mine; at least I see no advantages for her save my undying devotion to her. That should be enough, shouldn't it, Pa? I am willing and even eager to give everything I am to her. What man could do more than that? Still, it makes me uncomfortable that she is so far above me socially and financially. I know it should not matter, but I don't wish to be seen as an adventurer who set out to snag a wealthy wife. And I have undoubtedly snagged a very wealthy woman. I knew she had a comfortable house and income, but I find out now she has money and vast tracts of land, wealth such as I've never dreamed of. From what she has shown me and from what I have been able to find out by asking a friend, our farm would fit in one small corner of her holdings. While it is true she shares her wealth with her sister and a pair of cousins, it is still staggering. In addition to the land, there are other houses, investments, businesses, and ships! Pa, what do I know about business or ships? I'm a soldier, a good one, but still just a soldier. I fear I am in no way worthy of her. Yet I can't let her go. I love her too much. I have to find a way to make this work.

I'm not sure what all this means yet. Though I am glad that I will not have to worry about how I will provide for my wife and any children God sees fit to send us, I cannot help but feel I am somehow in the wrong. And I don't even know how. It fills me with frustration and I fear she is ashamed of me. I don't think I will be able to tolerate that. I love her so and am so proud she has consented to be mine. I do not know if I can bear the certainly she thinks me somehow not worthy of her love.

Even with the letter sealed and laid out for posting the next morning, its contents affected James'slumber. His dreams were filled with visions of ridicule and laughter. He was awakened over and over by whispers of how James Darling had bartered his good looks for a pot of gold and how Angele Valmont deeply regretted purchasing a man who had nothing to offer but a fair face and form. In his nightmares the depth of his love didn't matter to society or to her.

The terror of that thought haunted him long after he was awake and stayed with him throughout the day and for many succeeding days.

CHAPTER 18

Charlie giggled uncontrollably as she tried to relate the story of her recent visit with Catherine Woldman. “And then she showed us her chamber pot.” She collapsed into laughter again.

Séverin quirked an eyebrow at her and wondered what could possibly be so amusing about something as mundane and disgusting as a chamber pot. “And? What was so interesting about Madame's chamber pot, petite?"

Charlie dimpled at him from her seat on the ottoman. “It had a caricature of Major-General Butler painted on the inside!” Her eyes glowed with mirth.

Séverin could feel his lips spreading in an uncontrollable smile. Antoine's laughter burst like a breached levee. “Non! Really?"

Angele crinkled her nose in distaste. “Yes, it did. It's quite the most repulsive thing I've ever seen.” At Antoine inquiring looks she expounded, “Well, I can't say I want him staring up at me."

Antoine nearly doubled over in laughter. “I wouldn't mind, cher. I don't think I'd mind piss..."

“Antoine,” Séverin interrupted with a nod toward Charlie.

His warning didn't dampen Antoine's enthusiasm or smile in the least. “Well, I still think I wouldn't mind doing my business in the major-general's face one bit."

Séverin couldn't help but laugh. Even Angele had to smile at that image. She brought her fan up to cover her grin.

Séverin patted Charlie's cheek. Her complexion was pink with laughter. Séverin had the annoying feeling something was off about her appearance and he scowled in vexation because he couldn't see what it was. She was not improperly dressed, he thought. In fact he was glad to see she had donned one of her new dresses to visit the Woldmans. The lilac-sprigged silk grenadine trimmed with multiple flounces at the sleeves and the skirt and ruched velvet ribbon decorating the bodice had been painstakingly copied from one of Worth's fashion plates.

Charlie looked quite lovely, in fact, serene and comfortable on the thick padded ottoman near his chair, her skirts arranged with care and her beautifully shaped hands folded neatly in her lap. That was the difference, he realized in a mixture of pride and sorrow. She wore her gowns more easily now. She was not still his precious child disguised in women's dresses, but a young woman dressed as a young woman.

If I live as long as Methuselah, I may never understand the complexity of parenthood! I love that she is so beautiful and comports herself so well and is admired by our friends and family. But I still miss the way she was.

Angele was turned out quite prettily as well in a rich lavender striped poplin dress with a beautiful stitched lace collar. He was glad to see them both looking fresh and cool in new clothes. Luxuries were going to become more limited if the war dragged on so they might as well have the pleasure of what was available.

A polite throat being cleared drew Jean's eyes to the wide doorway of the ladies’ parlor. Vincent's customary suavity did not hide the manservant's rapid footfall and apprehensive intake of breath.

Whatever could a soul as decent as Vincent have to be anxious about?

“Michie Séverin?” Séverin pricked his ear at the unusual note of anxiety in Vincent's voice. “Major-General Butler is here. He wants to speak with you.” Even as Vincent's words echoed through the Ladies Parlor, the object of his announcement strode into the room.

“Hello, Séverin,” General Butler said with jovial friendliness.

Antoine bristled at the excess familiarity of Butler's greeting. Angele gasped and drew herself up in indignation. Séverin could understand her reaction. He could hardly believe the man could have the effrontery and sheer poor manners not only to enter unannounced, but to barge into the sanctuary of the women's section of the house. It was only permissible that Antoine was there because he was family and on the most intimate and affectionate of terms with Angele and Charlie. Even Séverin, as master of the house, asked permission from his female cousins before he intruded upon their domain.

Séverin stood, slow from his injury and the situation, and bowed. “General, bon jour. To what do I owe the ... pleasure of this visit?” He smiled with what he hoped the interloper would see as welcome, though his heart contracted at the sight of the troops accompanying the Yanqui leader. They were numerous and well-armed, far too many for Séverin and Antoine to overcome if that dreadful necessity arose.

Butler gave the barest of nods to Angele and sat down uninvited on one of the imported French chairs that graced the parlor. Angele's nostrils flared; she was almost certainly making a mental note to have the chair thoroughly brushed and cleaned upon the major-general's departure. Butler reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick packet of papers embellished with seals and ribbons. “I'm so pleased to see you in New Orleans, Séverin. A man in your position seldom has the mettle to come to town."

“Naturally, my family and I came in response to your kind invitation. The performance was lovely."

The general's bright smile sent a shaft of fear through Séverin. If the man meant to arrest him, how would Séverin keep Antoine from doing something that would put the Cajun at risk? The general continued speaking without acknowledging Séverin's response. “I've been very pleased with your continued contributions to the Union cause."

Antoine snarled, but had the good sense to say nothing. Séverin was unperturbed. He knew that his family was aware that the regular extortion he paid Butler could hardly be termed contributions to the Union cause. He nodded at Butler to continue and be gone.

“I've been thinking of ways to further secure your reputation as a Union supporter. After all, should your loyalty come into question, the effects could be detrimental to you and your family."

Séverin found it difficult to breathe. The general's words were more chilling than any of the artillery and bayonets he'd faced at Manassas. Had he been without dependents it would be different, but any threat to his family unmanned him.

“Luckily, I came upon some information that shows a genuine interest on your part to reconfirm your ties to our ordained government,” Butler said, that same supercilious smile in place.

“I'm sure.” Séverin's fear turned to anger. The bastard wanted more money. His greed knew no bounds. He was determined to bleed Louisiana dry. “And what further security do you need, m'sieur?"

Butler feigned laughter. “I didn't come here to get anything for myself, Séverin. I only want to help you continue to maintain the position you and your family are accustomed to. The best way to do so is to cement your ties to our government by honoring your family's obligation to have your ward marry one of my officers."

Séverin's hand snaked out and clamped over Antoine's wrist before his lover had a chance to grab the handle of his Bowie knife. Even so, he could feel the tense sinews straining as Antoine fought for self-control.

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean, General Butler.” He spoke slowly, measuring each word along with the time it bought so that he could think. Time bought him clarity and the ability to plan.

“Why, the betrothal contract between your lovely ward and Captain Wesley Leighton.” Butler took a moment to smile down at Charlie.

She gasped and Séverin placed his free hand on her shoulder, giving her what comfort he could. “Pas l'inquiétude, petite,” he whispered, hoping he could truly find a way to dispel her worries.

Séverin wondered how in the name of anything holy Butler had managed to retrieve that document. The two copies were secured in private vaults, one in his own family's law office and the other in the Leighton's interests. Had Wesley Leighton brought the contract to his commanding officer and requested him to enforce it? Jean's belly boiled. How dare he? Of course, Wesley had to know Séverin would never release Charlie or her personal fortune to a man serving in hostile forces. How could Wesley have imposed upon his grandmother's standing with the Valmonts to pay his respects with such an air of sincerity when he plotted like any other rabble in the Federal Army to force Séverin to hand over his well-loved godchild? Why hadn't he confronted Séverin personally, like any gentleman with a claim of family friendship, instead of sending Beast Butler to his home? The betrayal he had felt when he'd received Wesley and his fellow officer in the Valmont opera box was a superficial cut compared to this. Séverin realized he felt dizzy, exhausted. He'd actually stopped breathing. He inhaled deeply and patted Charlie's hand before he looked back with nonchalance at the heavyset Major-General. Butler looked impatient, probably waiting for Séverin to respond.

“I see.” Séverin replied. “The agreement was the dear wish of my late uncle and my aunt many years ago. I'm sure you understand that circumstances are too awkward, too uncertain, to consider the matter at present."

A hard and uncompromising expression settled over Butler's face. “I'm sure you understand what I'm saying. It's certainly in your best interest to honor this contract."

Séverin indeed understood what he was saying. His and Antoine's continued liberty, his family's property, and quite likely his very life were in danger if he did not surrender to Butler's demand. He had no intention of seeing Charlie's life ruined, but knew that his own incarceration or death wouldn't save her. He had to be alive and free to do that. For the moment, he had to pretend to give in to Butler's iniquitous demands.

“Oui, I understand your position quite plainly.” He squeezed Charlie's shoulder, willing her to remain still and trust him. “What is it you wish me to do?"

“My ball tomorrow night. It's going to be quite the event. Everyone in New Orleans is attending. It would be wonderful if you and the noted Miss Valmont—” He paused to nod toward Angele whose cold, set face would have frozen the very soul of a less presumptuous man. “—would assist me in assuring the success of my party."

Angele lifted a frigid eyebrow in inquiry. Séverin was so grateful for her. He could almost feel her support as a physical touch. He knew she understood the full extent of Butler's threat and was perceptive enough to understand they could not offer any affront to the general. She knew that Butler's soldiers were there to arrest Séverin and Antoine if Séverin didn't capitulate. Her perception had always been a source of pride for Séverin and he'd never felt greater pride in her or his goddaughter. Charlie's little hand settled over Séverin's where it rested on her shoulder showing that she, too, understood. Antoine's arm moved under his fingers and there was a fleeting touch of his lover's hand on his own wrist before Antoine took the audacious step of actually taking Séverin's hand. For once Séverin didn't care about appearances. He needed Antoine's strength too greatly to remove his fingers from Antoine's warm clasp. He silently praised God for his family. They gave him the strength to stand quietly waiting for Butler's next dictate.

He didn't need to wait long. Butler continued uninhibited by the cold disapproval of the Valmonts. “I want you and your family to join me in the receiving line, help me host the event, and, in general, see to the comfort and pleasure of my guests. Miss Valmont, you are one of the most noted hostesses in the city and I would be suitably grateful if you would see that my officers have dance partners and are properly introduced to the young ladies of New Orleans. I will join you here for tea before the ball and provide you with suitable escort to the hotel."

With another overly-amicable smile, he accepted Angele's chill nod and Séverin's reluctant acquiescence and turned toward the door.

“Oh, and Séverin, wear your uniform. We need a bit of gray to offset all the blue. Show that we're all actually friends here in New Orleans.” He grinned, like he'd clutched a lemon wedge in his teeth, double chin folding from the gesture. He laughed as he added, “What is it your people say? Laissez les bontemps rouler? Let the good times roll?” His grin widened to grotesque proportions.

The three elder Valmonts sat perfectly still, dumbfounded.

Charlie stared at him, dazed by all that had occurred. “Séverin's uniform isn't gray,” she explained. “He's a member of the Washington Artillery, a local unit who has been in action for many years. Some of their members fought in the Mexican War. Their uniforms are Union blue. Trimmed with red."

Butler looked down at her, his supercilious smile fading as his brows knit into a disapproving scowl for the first time since he'd entered the room. “Very well. I'm sure whatever evening dress Séverin chooses will be fine then.” His tone went glacial. “I will see you for tea.” He turned without another word and departed.

Séverin waited for Vincent to assure them the interlopers had departed before he sank into his chair, suddenly exhausted. Antoine's face had gone from flushed to pale.

“What do you want me to do, amour?"

“Help me play for time,” Séverin said taking them all into his confidence. “With enough time, we will find a way to secure our safety. If I must, I will spirit us all out of the country."

His family gazed at him and he felt the weight of his responsibility more than he had since the reading of William's will. “Don't worry,” he assured them. “I will not let that loathsome despot arrest any of us or coerce my Charlie into a forced marriage."

Angele shuddered. “Butler is vile, perfectly vile."

Charlie nodded and stared at the door as if she could see him through the closed panels. When she spoke she was all sincerity.

“I think he looked much better at the bottom of Catherine's chamber pot."

CHAPTER 19

James sipped his tea, wishing it was something much stronger. Over the elegant clutter of the teacart, he could see Wesley felt exactly the same. Seated beside the ostensible commander-in-chief of New Orleans, his jaw was set and embarrassment had painted a rose flush high across his sharp cheekbones. Every taunt line in his body reverberated with the same question that was on James’ mind. What in the name of all that was holy were the pair of them doing in Séverin Valmont's parlor with Major-General Benjamin Butler of all people?

The general was exhibiting the greatest of good humor, but James had no trouble sensing the tension and reluctance of his hosts. His precious Angele was pale, rigid, and correct. The garnets at her throat and ears twinkled like old blood. Her fingers were clenched together, snowy where they lay on the matching silk of her skirts, the deep red shade leaching any color that might have lingered on her skin. If he didn't already know how warm and loving she was, he'd have been utterly convinced she was as cold and unwelcoming as it was possible for a woman to be. Her elegant cousin was just as chill and every bit as socially correct.

Antoine Brouillette, in contrast, was grim-faced and clearly angry. He sat beside Charlie on one of Séverin's sofas as if guarding her from the world. James had to admit the sister looked as though she needed it. She was as pale as Angele, but there was fear in her big, round eyes. James could understand her apprehension. There was a small contingent of armed soldiers lounging in Séverin's foyer. There was no possible reason for them to be there unless it was to threaten the Valmonts. In all likelihood, the soldiers were there to arrest Séverin Valmont or Antoine Brouillette or both.

James just didn't know why the general was withholding the order. He wasn't sure what game Butler was playing, but he was willing to bet it was deep and certainly unpleasant for the Creole family. Considering what James knew of Butler's past conduct, he was more than willing to side with his fiancée's family. Looking at his darling's set face, he could detect the fear that lurked under her cool facade. Immediately James began to try to formulate plans for helping his Angele should the need arise.

In the meanwhile, he suffered through one of the tensest social functions he'd ever experienced. Everything about the tea proclaimed the stress everyone but Ben Butler was under. The sweets on the teacart, though a luxury during this time of war privations, were virtually untouched. Only the general seemed to have any appetite, though his was healthy enough.

A petit fours covered with sugared violets sat untouched on the delicate dish in Miss Charlie's hand, a perfect match for her white, violet-besprinkled gown. She sent glances toward Wesley periodically, darts of pure fear. Antoine's gaze at James’ friend was steady and filled with undiluted animosity. His hand patted Miss Charlie's as he glared at the captain. Séverin refused to even look at Wesley. The infrequent remarks Wesley had made were answered politely, but without any elaboration or sense that Séverin wished to prolong the discussion. Indeed, there was more hostility directed toward his friend than toward the general. James wondered what the hell Wesley had done.

A regal Negro entered. James was under the impression he was Séverin's butler or at least the head of Séverin's servants. The slave was so kingly James half-expected to be corrected for holding his tea saucer wrong or reaching for a sandwich at the inappropriate time. Between his sense of intimidation and the hostility that filled the room, James’ appetite had been completely ruined. The tiny sandwiches on his plate were as untouched as the confection on Miss Charlie's plate.

“A marvelous tea. Truly elegant,” General Butler said as he popped a whole petit four into his mouth. He smiled up at the butler. “Just first rate all around. What is your name, my good man?"

“Vincent, sir,” the black man replied with a slight bow. The French pronunciation only added to his elegance.

“A man in my position could do with such service,” the general said, all airy equanimity. “You know there are rumors that Lincoln will pass a general order liberating all slaves in hostile territories as soon as this year. You ought to be thinking about your future and how you want to improve your condition. There's a place for a good boy like you in my employ."

“Thank you, Major-General,” Vincent said. “I am completely happy with my current state.” His tone was graciously neutral.

Wesley set down his cup with studied elegance. James recognized the hectic glitter in his eyes. Wes was highly offended by something.

“Well, I would think so,” the captain remarked with studied casualness. “Vincent, you've chosen to stay on with M'sieur Valmont for quite a long time now, haven't you?” Before Vincent had a chance to reply, Wesley continued. “You were manumitted before I left for West Point, weren't you?"

Vincent didn't bother to suppress his grin. “Indeed I was, Michie Wesley. I've been a free man these ten years or more."

James couldn't contain a grin of gratified surprise while General Butler's mouth dropped.

There was a decidedly pleased spark in Angele's eyes as she indicated that tea was finished and Vincent could clear the paraphernalia. Vincent began to gather the dishes and silver. As he approached Butler, the major-general slurped the dregs of his tea and handed his cup and saucer to the servant.

“Oh, just a minute,” he exclaimed. Butler reached up and drew away the miniature silver teaspoon he'd been using. Under the manservant's imperturbable gaze, Butler began to slip the spoon into his pocket.

As Angele's eyes narrowed in approbation, James wanted to sink through his chair. He'd never actually seen the act of conspicuous thievery, though he'd often heard of General Butler's tendency to retain silverware as a souvenir of the fine families he'd dined with. James had also never been so acutely embarrassed.

Before the bit the silver could disappear into the general's pocket, Wesley plucked it gracefully from Butler's fingers, set it beside his own on his saucer, and handed the collection to Vincent.

“It was very good, Vincent. Thank you,” he said with gracious courtesy. He stood abruptly. It was obvious to James if to no one else that Wesley had had enough of the major-general for the time being. Wesley didn't bother to disguise the authority in his tone when he stated flatly, “I believe we should go to the ball now."

* * * *

James had never been overly fond of parties. Dancing with the ladies was well enough, but overall assemblies were boring. And a ball such as this was tedium beyond James’ ability to measure. Well-dressed gentlemen escorted ladies garbed in a rainbow of colors about the broad ballroom of the Saint Charles Hotel. It would have been a scene evocative of revelry had James not felt the tension that permeated the room. He noted how the pockets of blue uniforms were segregated from the more colorful civilians. Still, through Angele's efforts, many of the Union officers present had partners and there was some mixing of the separate groups. James couldn't quite understand why Butler insisted the Confederates attend his functions. There had always been a decent percentage of the city that supported the Union or practiced complete neutrality. The votes for Louisiana to secede had been remarkably close and even among the Confederates, most were loyal to Louisiana rather than to their newly proposed country. He didn't understand why willing participants weren't enough for the general.

James also couldn't quite understand why Angele was introducing the seditious débutantes of New Orleans to her enemies, but had no doubt General Butler was at the root of it. He wished he knew what that charlatan was up to.

At the moment, the general was expounding on the faults of the various Confederate units he knew of.

“The Louisiana Tigers! They're riffraff,” Butler declared in response to an officer's comment that he understood the battalion to be quite fearsome. “I heard they were nothing but rabble. All the gentlemen in the area had already joined their commands and Major Rob Wheat recruited his troops out of the Cajun swamps and from riverfront trash to form his battalion."

James wanted to strangle him. Didn't he realize that Séverin Valmont had acted as liaison between the Cajun part of the Tigers and the English-speaking upper echelon while Brouillette had even commanded one of the Cajun units for a while? They had both been invaluable to General Roberdeau Wheat in controlling the battalion made up of rowdy Cajuns, wild Irish dockworkers, and the general dregs of New Orleans. Angele had confided proudly to James that several of the troops serving the Tigers battalion worked for the Valmont shipping interests. The depths of Butler's contempt for, and underestimation of, the Confederate enemy never failed to amaze James. Now he'd insulted the Tigers while the former colonel and his corporal stood by.

“Those swamp foxes and river trash put the fear of God into our troops for certain,” General Abelard Huntington-White attested. “Some of our boys who've survived action with them say they're actual tigers in human form and they say Wheat himself is unkillable."

An uncomfortable pause allowed the participants in the conversation to mull over that statement. Everyone who loved a hero, Union or Confederate, had heard the strange story of Major Wheat's brush with death a year ago at Bull Run—or Manassas as the Confederacy referred to it. The giant officer was struck by rifle fire—a mortal wound piercing one of his lungs. Despite intense enemy fire and Wheat's own protests to be left behind, one of the companies under his command carried him to safety on a litter made of their own muskets.

When the field surgeon advised Wheat to make his peace with God, the major cheerfully replied, “I don't feel like dying yet."

Despite there being no history of a man ever surviving such a wound, Wheat recovered and managed to rejoin his battalion within two months of being shot.

“They don't even know how to fence!” Butler scoffed. “Instead of foils or sabers, they carry big knives and cut down their opponents like they're chopping cane. Pure rabble I tell you."

If Charlie was troubled by Butler's remarks, it didn't show. “Yes, this is very true. Dangerous rabble. It's said they fear no man, God...” Her doe's eyes focused upon Butler and her lips flared into something like a smile. “...or the Devil."

Antoine Brouillette grinned from his stand beside her as Charlie raised her glass in toast to the Louisiana Tigers. “To Rob Wheat and the bravest men in the South!"

To Butler's evident surprise, several of his own men murmured an assent and drank their wine. Wesley Leighton didn't bother to murmur. His “Hear, hear,” was load and strong.

James held his glass on high and bowed towards Séverin Valmont and that too-pretty secretary of his. Whatever Butler might think, the men who fought for the Confederacy were neither backward nor stupid. They might be misguided in their choice of allegiance, but James had the greatest respect for them.

If Butler's scowl was any indication of his pleasure in the party, James thought, his money had been wasted. As the glasses were drained, he took Séverin Valmont's elbow. “I'd like to speak to you a moment,” he said and led Séverin away.

Antoine deposited Charlie in Angele's care and followed after them.

Charlie glared. “I hope he doesn't try to take all the silver from the hotel,” she remarked. “Maybe you should go after them, Captain Leighton. You seem to have the ability to force some measure of proper conduct on him at least."

* * * *

James was still grinning some time later when he remarked to his friend, “I've never seen Spoons put in his place quite so well."

He had no qualms about using Butler's other nickname. After all, it had been gained by the very propensity to take silver spoons that Wesley had hindered. He couldn't help smiling at the memory.

Wesley tsked as he looked about the ballroom to make sure they weren't overheard. “James, you really have to be more careful what you say. What if someone hears?"

“There's no one here but you two.” He and Wesley were keeping an eye on Charlie Valmont while her sister went about her reluctant duties of securing partners for the wallflower Union soldiers who were waiting for the next set to start. “Besides, it's embarrassing. How are we supposed to respect someone who steals the silver at dinner parties?"

Charlie smiled at him. She'd warmed to the two officers considerably following Wesley's rescue of the spoon and their clear participation in the toast to the Louisiana Tigers. An expressive sniff revealed her softening that did not include their commander-in-chief. “Well, I think that whole habit is hopelessly vulgar."

Wesley smiled. “I'm sorry, Miss Charlie, but I fear Major-General Butler is hopelessly vulgar."

She sniffed again. “You need to find a better class of commanding officer.” Her pert nose pointed toward the ceiling while James leaned against a supporting pillar and indulged in a fit of laughter.

Wesley grinned and set James off again by remarking, “Well, you know President Lincoln says Butler is as full of poison gas as a dead dog."

Miss Charlie looked at him in wonderment. “I had no idea Mr. Lincoln was so perceptive. I fear I've underestimated him."

Wesley laughed aloud. The military band struck up a mellow-spirited waltz and he turned to her eagerly without even making a show of checking his dance card. “I believe this is our dance, Miss Charlie."

James nearly rolled his eyes. No doubt Wesley had been waiting to say that for the last fifteen minutes or so. He watched as the color and verve drained from Charlie's pretty face.

She slowly placed her hand on Wesley's sleeve and replied with all politeness, “Of course."

James frowned at the change in her. What now, he wondered. The unease she'd had at tea had returned. Charlie seemed downright frightened of dancing with the man she'd just been very happily speaking with. She'd danced with James earlier without a murmur. What did it all mean?

Wesley sighed and looked at James in consternation before turning to the diminutive woman beside him. “I must ask. Miss Charlie, what have I done to offend you and your family?"

“Of course you've not offended me, Captain, but I do feel it unseemly to continue to remind my family of our obligation,” she responded.

James shared Wes’ complete bewilderment.

“In fact, I think it's in complete poor taste to even consider a marriage while things are so unsettled because of the war,” she continued.

A shiver of distaste coursed through James as a particularly nasty image arose of General Butler's hand falling upon his shoulder two nights earlier at the opera. Fear that the general had overhead the gossip about the marriage contract between Wesley and the Valmonts had plagued him until several minutes had passed with his commanding officer saying nothing that indicated he had heard or was interested in that rumor. He thought Butler still unaware of the connection. James now had the sinking feeling he was wrong in that assessment. If the general did know, James had not the least doubt the old reprobate would use it to his every advantage.

Wesley, lacking James’ awareness of Butler's knowledge, agreed with Charlie's statement. “Indeed, it would be improper to consider such a thing at this time. But I thought that, for tonight at least, we might simply enjoy being acquainted.” He smiled all softness and hope. “I realize some of the circumstances are awkward, but I've always valued your family's goodwill."

“Then why did you let that odious man threaten my cousin to announce our engagement tonight?” Charlie's soft voice could not hide the condemnation in her dark eyes.

James watched his friend recoil from the smaller figure on his arm. Wesley's boyish features grew pinched with tension. Disappointment warred with disgust in his steel-blue eyes.

Wesley reached down for the fragile kid-gloved hand resting on his. He swallowed hard before he spoke. “I am sorry, Miss Charlie,” he said honestly. “I'm afraid I misunderstood ... everything. Forgive me.” Tight-lipped and ramrod-straight, he handed the woman he'd been raving about for weeks into James’ care.

“James, please see Miss Charlie safely to her sister."

* * * *

“Damned awful weather! How do you people stand this heat?"

Séverin smiled without humor at Butler. The major-general fumed as though Séverin was responsible for the unpleasant reality that New Orleans summers—even the evenings—were plagued with unbearable heat and moisture. A light nighttime shower had done nothing to improve the situation and had even worsened it. The miserable humidity induced perspiration, drooping corsages, and lackluster soufflé.

“Indoor parties are held during the fall, winter, and early spring,” he informed the churlish officer. “Most folks spend summers in the country to avoid the extreme heat and the possibility of disease."

Butler cursed in fury. Half of the “guests” had retired for the evening, citing long travel distances to return home, without touching any of the sumptuous supper Butler had provided. They were gracious and delicate and thanked their host so profusely it was impossible to detect any of the scorn Butler was dedicated to eradicating in the citizens.

It was a marked indication of the man's pathetic insistence to be included in the city's social circles. Butler was a known schemer and a criminal. He had seized the valuables of private citizens and bestowed their properties and possessions upon his own family and friends. He had even confiscated cash crops in the name of the Union government and then sold them privately and pocketed the profit. Butler was a skinflint; he clearly did not wish to spend a penny of his own funds if he could extort it or outright steal it from his own government. The night's extravagance reflected Butler's desperation to be well-received in the Creole aristocracy, and the concept that such a place could not be bought or broken into seemed to be beyond the major-general.

Séverin might have felt sorry for the man if Butler wasn't such a bastard and a crook. How could Butler be so deluded by his own self-importance that he believed captive New Orleans, Creole, and American alike, would find his hospitality acceptable?

“You ought to go out, Séverin, and make a toast. Announce the engagement before everybody is gone,” Butler advised, cross and ill-pleased.

“I'd rather not, Major-General,” Séverin declared. “This is not a suitable time. I mean,” he hastened to add as the absurd thick fringe on Butler's epaulets quivered when he straightened his shoulders in indignation. “The war and its circumstances ought to be resolved before Mr. Leighton is even prepared for marriage."

“I-want-your-cousin's-engagement—announced—” Butler bit out each word. “At my party!"

“I do not!” Wesley's imperious tone rang over the stained cypress paneling of the handsome lobby office.

CHAPTER 20

James wondered why he'd never noticed before that Fredrick Martin was a supercilious, arrogant scoundrel. The man had always seemed pleasant enough, but as he watched the major dancing with Angele, he couldn't help but grind his teeth. He now found Martin's manly build and thick golden hair highly annoying. Of course, Major Martin was just the latest in a string of Union officers and former friends James now found irritating. The level of physical attractiveness and proficiency at flirtation each man possessed dictated whether James found them merely aggravating or if he had to actively resist the urge to plant his fist in their face. So far, Fred Martin was closer to finding out just how good James was with his knuckles than any other man present. James growled as Martin bowed over Angele's gloved hand and handed her off to her next partner. At least Bill White was pockmarked and corpulent.

The lack of his name on Angele's dance card bothered James no end. That was his fiancée, damn it. But she had said her card was full when he asked. James tried to smother his disappointment as he watched his love and Bill White wait for the next dance to begin. As they stood there, Jeff Wilkins approached Angele with a bow James considered overdone. It wasn't until he saw Jeff scrawl his name on Angele's dance card that James realized she had lied to him.

* * * *

Angele gasped and looked up at her paramour. “What are you doing!"

It was clear she couldn't believe it when James pulled her bodily from the hallway into the spacious clubroom of the hotel and locked the door. He'd then kissed her soundly without so much as a word. He gave her the chance to blurt out that one sentence before he kissed her again.

She pushed against his broad chest. “James, stop it! What is wrong with you?"

“You don't mind me doing this when we're alone. Well, we're alone,” he grated. He could barely form the words.

He kissed her again and it took a visible amount of will for her to bring her mind back to the present.

“James! Dieu! You make me forget myself. But I must return to the ball before I am missed.” She tried to move, but he held her immobile.

“No,” he said simply. “Not yet. You can give me at least fifteen minutes of your time tonight."

She reached up to touch his cheek, caressing it. “Oh, my darling Major Darling, I wish I could but I dare not,” she said with sadness.

James’ expression didn't soften, in fact, his jaw clenched more tightly. The rage that surged through him was so strong he could barely contain it. “Funny, you dare to flirt outrageously with every man in the building but me."

He reached up to grasp the fingers that petted him. He pulled them away from his face. “I've watched you tap them with your fan, lay your hand on their shoulders, even run your fingers over their cheek like you did to me just now. Every man out there, whether he wears evening dress or a Union uniform, it's all the same. You have them all under your spell."

His mouth tightened into a hard line, his teeth clenched so tightly they hurt. “And what do I get? Nothing. Not so much as one smile. Not one courteous word. They're all fit to dance with you and I'm not?"

He lowered his mouth to hers again and knew she could feel his anger. He made sure she could also feel his need. He fed that emotion until it awakened her own desire. Soon she was clinging to him, kissing him with a hunger as great as his.

“Do any of them make you feel this?” he murmured as his fingers tangled in her hair, destroying her tidy chignon. “Does anyone make you feel like I make you feel?"

Her moan of desire and her fingers working at the buttons of his frock coat were all the answer he needed.

“They don't, do they? They can't. They don't love you the way I do. It's not possible for them to love you like this.” He reached behind her for the ties of her skirt and crinoline. They soon lay on the floor in generous heaps of garnet silk and lace-edged cotton. His lips brushed the tops of her bosom revealed so enticingly by the low décolletage of her deep red gown. Her fingers worked frantically at his buttons. Her fine kid gloves were clumsy on the brass and she tore the gloves off, ripping the pearl buttons at her wrists in her haste to free her hands. He heard them dance and skitter across the floor.

He lifted her from where they stood and laid her back on a huge table. Its solid surface was intended to hold the weight of heavy tomes and feasts, not the weight of a broken heart.

“They don't love you,” he continued as his hands roved over her, eliciting soft cries of pleasure from her love-reddened lips. “They admire you or desire you. But they don't love you."

He buried his fingers inside her as she arched up into his touch, pleading for more. Her hands were busy with his belt and trousers, reaching for his body, needing more than his clever fingers.

“I love you,” he said as he joined himself to her. “With all my heart. You own my soul."

He showered her with kisses as he gave his body to her, feeding her desire and need. “There is not a single iota of me that doesn't,” he murmured as she cried out in completion and he emptied himself into her. Panting he lay atop her for a moment.

“I always will,” he said into her fragrant hair. “There is no other woman I'll ever feel this way about.” He rose slowly, fastening his clothes. “And I'll never touch you again."

“James!"

The shock on her face as she rose up on her elbows nearly gave him pause, but he stood firm. “If I'm not good enough to touch you on the dance floor, I'm not good enough to touch you at all."

He couldn't stop the slight tremor that crept into the words, but he allowed no tears to fill his eyes. He paused at the door. “I mean it. I love you. Hell, I adore you. But I won't be treated this way. I'm a man, not a toy you can play with when it suits you. Until you decide I'm good enough to at least speak to on the street or touch your hand at a party, I'm for damned sure not good enough for you to screw in secret."

He blinked rapidly to cool the sting that burned his eyes. He dipped his head to her and touched the brim of an imaginary hat. “Ma'am,” he said formally and slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

* * * *

Angele skirted the dance floor ignoring Antoine's question. Only when he repeated it twice more, did she bother to answer. “I'm fine, cher. I told you, my hair came loose; that is all. I had to have Essie redo it."

She couldn't see James anywhere. What if he had already left? There were plenty of blue coats among the guests, but with his height and blond hair he shouldn't be so difficult to find. He wouldn't have simply left the ball, would he? Her chest felt tight at that thought. How would she find him if he had left? It had taken too long for Essie to help her clean and redress. She begrudged every second it had taken.

She couldn't believe she had doubted James for an instant. And Antoine's tale of how Wesley Leighton had absolutely refused to even consider General Butler's order to marry Charlie and had indeed come close to calling the man out, commanding officer or not, had soothed her soul and drowned her anger. If Wesley had known nothing of Butler's plot—and even Séverin and Antoine believed Wesley completely innocent of collusion with the general—then it was clear James was not involved either.

How in the name of the Holy Virgin had she been stupid enough to doubt her James? Even as angered as he'd been with her, he'd been solicitous of her and sent Essie to her in the clubroom. Had a finer, more sensitive man ever been born? And now she'd offered him a grave insult.

Antoine snorted in derision. “Looks like the wallflower decided to dance with someone besides your sister after all. And doing it with a vengeance I'd say."

“What?” Angele said distractedly.

Antoine nodded toward the distant side of the dance floor. “That Yankee major who wouldn't dance earlier. He's sure made up for it the last hour or so. He's got half the women in the room making fools of themselves over him. Never did understand why some women like blonds so much."

She looked where he indicated and nearly collapsed in relief. “So I see.” James was whirling a rather young and very giggly miss though the figures of the dance while a gaggle of other young ladies watched as aflutter as a group of guinea hens with a fox in their midst. Their older sisters and aunts watched him just as avidly, fans waving and eyes following his every move, more predatory and experienced than the young girls. “They all seem quite taken with him."

Antoine snorted again. “Yeah, they all think he's mighty fine."

She paused for a moment to smile up at him. “He is very handsome, but you are still the most beautiful man in the room. And you know it."

His grin was as bright as the crystal chandelier above the glittering dancers. “Well, yeah. But still, them girls have all been making eyes at him all night."

“Have they now?” She moved around the perimeter of the room, uncaring if Antoine followed or not. She paused to speak to various guests, but she never lingered long. As the set ended, she was near enough to watch James hand his partner over to her mother with a courteous bow and a kind word.

“Major, have you met Miss Norton?” Mrs. Wheeler began, but Angele swept in with aplomb.

“Emaline! How lovely to see you tonight. I'm sure the major would love to meet Mae, but I'm afraid she'll simply have to wait a bit. They're about to start another dance and if the major is willing, I would dearly love to share this set with him.” She looked up into his bright eyes with all the seriousness of an accused criminal awaiting a jury's verdict. “Major Darling? Would you be so kind as to dance with me, s'il vous plait?"

He bowed low, his eyes never leaving her face. “Ma'am. There is nothing I wish to do more."

As she moved away on his arm, his hand covering hers, she heard Emaline Wheeler tsk. “La! That Angele Valmont! I never have seen a more mannish girl. Asking a man to dance. She's far too forward for a lady sometimes. It's all her daddy's fault, you know. You can't raise your daughter like she's your son. See what comes of it. It's no wonder she's still a spinster. She probably scares Séverin Valmont to death!"

As James whirled her into position, she saw Antoine smile with charming deprecation at the matron while Emaline continued. “Oh, well, we should all be well used to her ways after all these years. And at her age a woman is allowed some leeway.” She sighed and smiled up at Antoine in that special way all women smiled at the gorgeous Cajun. “Now you, sir, you are never anything but perfectly behaved."

Angele looked up into James’ eyes and forgot everything Emaline had said. She knew immediately she'd made the right decision. Séverin might fuss and Antoine might frown, but one dance with James, even two, wouldn't set tongues to wagging. There was nothing wrong with dancing with James. It made him happy and she truly didn't want to hurt him. And no one would suspect a thing. Their secret was still perfectly hidden. It really took so little to keep him happy and secure at her side.

She looked up into his warm eyes. She smiled and lost herself in the love that shone deep from their willow depths.

CHAPTER 21

Séverin frowned at the date on the letter from his attorney and friend, Thomas Wolfe. Nearly two weeks had passed since Tom had posted it. While he and Antoine had been forced to kick their heels in New Orleans waiting on General Butler's pleasure, it had lain on the desk at Bougival awaiting their return. Didn't General Butler understand that the fields had to be tended? Reports of unrest near the borders of Bougival had finally given Séverin the excuse to return home.

Still the rumors of marauders both Union and Confederate were likely real and so, against his heart, Séverin had left both his female cousins in town. New Orleans might be filled with Yanquis and refugees but at least there was law and order. Angele and Charlie would be safer there while he and Antoine saw to the harvests and tried to keep their lands and people secure.

Anger coursed through Séverin as he read.

Dear Séverin,

I thought you ought to know that the official in charge of the city's occupation sent a small staff to our New Orleans office on June 18. Although the clerks on duty argued most emphatically against the invasion of a client's privacy, the soldiers were armed with a warrant of investigation signed by no other than Major-General Benjamin Franklin Butler, himself. The clerk was obliged to permit them to search your family's personal vault, and in all fairness I should say they were quite gentlemanly about it. They retained none of your interests or documents except for the sealed marriage promise for your young ward, Charlotte Valmont, and Wesley Leighton. They returned the document, none the worse for wear, two days later.

It is unclear to me what Major-General Butler wanted with the contract. An unwholesome rumor circulated about town that he intended to force you to honor this agreement and even announce a formal engagement between the two parties at that wretchedly humid supper party. Since that never actually happened, I cannot begin to guess what the man's intentions were. I should advise you the contract, signed by your late uncle and witnessed by your father and Michel Valmont as well as yourself, was notarized by our firm and is, perhaps regrettably, a valid legally binding contract.

However, given Mr. Leighton's current alliances, it is certainly understandable if you have opted to re-think the wisdom of fulfilling the contract's promises. If that is so, arrangements can be made to provide Mr. Leighton with fair financial compensation to renege on the marriage. Obviously this is probably not a suitable time to plan weddings at all so you certainly have time to make a decision.

I await whatever instructions you might have, Monsieur.

Thomas Wolfe

Séverin cursed before he shook his head. “Well at least I know how that scoundrel acquired the contract.” He tossed Tom's letter to Antoine. “And it seems Wesley is a much a victim of General Butler's machinations as I am.” He turned toward the window to stare out at Bougival without bothering to wait for his lover's response. He knew Antoine would feel as violated and abused as he did. As perhaps Wesley does.

He cursed again. Though he felt great sympathy for the man he had once called friend, he couldn't help feeling grateful Wesley had so publicly denounced the old engagement contract. Sympathy or no, Wesley was in no way suited to be a husband to Charlie. He might not have betrayed Séverin personally, but he still had betrayed Louisiana.

* * * *

“You know what's wrong with you, don't you?” Essie said, a harsh note under the soft words. “You ain't had your courses in near three months now.” She set aside the basin she'd held solicitously while her mistress threw up and draped a towel over it. “You been sick near every morning for I don't know how many weeks."

Essie sat on the bed beside her charge and bathed Angele's throat with a soft cloth dipped in lavender water. The clean scent seemed to ease the nausea.

“You're enceinte. That Yanqui done gone and planted a baby in your belly."

Angele nodded. “I know.” She felt tired though she'd just awakened. She seemed tired all the time lately. “I calculated some and I think he must have done it that very first time."

“Le Bon Dieu help us all. That means the bébé will come before spring!” Essie shook her head, the blue ribbons on her starched cap swaying with the movement. Silence reigned in the bedroom for several minutes, each woman busy with the gravity of her own thoughts.

“I best let out some of your dresses,” Essie finally said. “You'll be starting to show any day. And if you got any more dress goods hidden away, you best pull some out, you gonna need at least two maternity dresses. I don't know what we'll do for cotton for underthings. What's left in the stores costs dear."

“Buy some today before it's all gone,” Angele ordered. “I'll just have to bear the cost."

She breathed deeply, waiting for the morning sickness to ease. She was grateful she was a wealthy woman and had possessed sense enough not to donate all her money to the Confederate cause as so many others had done. There was patriotism and then there was stupidity. She knew far too many men who'd been stupid.

Of course, she could claim her patriotism was as great as anyone's since at least three of the “English” ships running the Yankee blockades belonged to her. The tidy profit their cargoes brought wasn't sent to the Confederacy either. Their war had already taken her brother and crippled her cousin. She felt the Valmonts had done more than their part for the war effort.

She turned her mind back to more immediate needs. “Buy plenty. If this war drags on, they'll be no lawn or muslin to be found to sew baby things. And I'd like to have plenty of clothes for the baby."

“What baby? Why do you need to sew baby clothes?” James asked from the doorway that led to the courtyard balcony.

Essie gasped and stood. “Don't Yankee mamas teach their children to knock?"

James signed. “I'm supposed to be discreet and quiet and not let Miss Charlie know when I'm here, remember?"

Essie snorted. “You shouldn't be here at all. That's what would be discreet."

She looked at her mistress for a moment then back to James with haughty accusation on her narrow face. “Though it's far too late for that now.” She put the bottle of lavender water on the carved fruitwood bedside table and gathered up the towel-draped basin. “Ain't no way to be discreet now. The whole world's going to know about the two of you before much longer,” she warned as she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

* * * *

“What is she talking about?” James asked as he took the place Essie had vacated on the bed beside Angele.

Her fair complexion was whiter than he'd ever seen it and beads of perspiration dewed her upper lip. The delicate scent of lavender wafted from a damp cloth resting on her throat. He frowned as he took the cloth and ran it over her face. He'd heard that fevers were often rife in New Orleans in summer and claimed sometimes hundreds of lives in a single week. He knew her father had been claimed by such an illness. Worry settled into his stomach.

“Are you ill, sweetheart?” he asked before leaning forward to place a kiss on her forehead. Her skin was cool beneath his lips and his concerns over fever eased a bit. “What's wrong?"

She wavered for a moment and her amber eyes were undecided when they met his. “I'm not sick, James,” she finally said.

“Honey?” He'd never seen her hesitate so. “What is it?"

“I...” She paused for a fortifying breath. “I'm with child, James."

For just an instant the world stopped spinning. It was as if time froze and the instant was captured like a reed trapped in the winter ice of the pond on his father's farm. He knew he would always remember the mingled uncertainty and hope on her sweet face as she told him she was to bear his child. His child! He had thought holding her in his arms and just sharing time with her was the sweetest thing he'd ever known, but it was nothing compared to the joy that now rushed through him. He was weakened by the intensity of it.

The world tilted slightly before it resumed its rotation. His wordless shout of happiness rang though the house as he caught her to him and kissed her with eagerness such as he'd never imagined he could feel. He had not broken the kiss when Charlie burst through the door nor when Essie followed but a moment behind her. Even the surprise on Charlie's face at finding Major Darling in her sister's boudoir couldn't dampen his elation. He smiled at her with delight.

“We're going to have a baby,” he proclaimed. He had to say the words. The sheer delight inside him made it essential that he tell someone or burst from the power of the joy he felt. The happiness he felt was so great and so evident Charlie's smile was bright and even Essie's frown lessened as she pulled Charlie from the room.

“You come with me, Mam'selle,” Essie ordered. “He went and made such a noise it startled Matilde and she dropped a bowl of rice. It's broken all over the kitchen floor. She'll be hiding in the pantry again thinking the Bluecoats have come to kill us all. You'll need to calm her while I help Allaire with the mess Matilde made."

James could hear Charlie talking rapidly as the two women disappeared down the hall. “Is it true, Essie? We're going to have a baby in the house? I love babies! Oh! I'll be an aunt! I'll like that beyond anything. Babies are much more fun than dolls. Can I help feed and dress it? Oh, can I make clothes for it? I can make it look so darling. Darling! That reminds me. We'll have to name it something American, won't we? I don't think I'd like that, even if it is part American. Can't we name it something Creole? Or maybe both? Like Wesley. I mean Captain Leighton. He has both American and Creole names like me. What will the baby be? I mean if half-Negro babies are mulattes, what do they call half-Yanqui ones?"

“Marie sainte, m'aider!” he heard Essie say before the firm closing of a door silenced them.

Angele chuckled a bit. “I think it will take more than aid from the Virgin Mary to calm Charlie right now."

James joined her laughter before kissing the top of her head, enjoying the feel of it resting against his shoulder. “Your sister is right though, what are we going to call it? I'd like to think the world at least will call it by my last name.” He kept his tone gentle, but there was firm resolution in his heart as he said, “I won't have my child born a bastard, Angele. There's no time to wait for Charlie to wed. You have to marry me now, this week if I can manage to arrange it."

He felt her arms tighten around him before she said, “Yes, James. I will marry you this week."

Relief washed through him. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to argue with her about this. “Thank you,” he whispered both to her and to God above. “I love you. You have to know that,” he added, just for her.

She looked up and he saw her own love for him shining from her golden eyes. “I do know. And I love you. And I will gladly be your wife."

She settled against him as he pulled her into his lap. He liked the weight of her on his thighs and the feel of her pressed against him.

“It should be something simple, James,” she said at last. “It is best we not make a grand production. I'm too far along and if we are vague about our marriage date, it will be best for the baby when it comes, n'cest pas? And better for Charlie. It will be hard enough when it is known I've married a Union soldier."

James knew her statement was true, though it stung a bit. In fact, he had a new worry. Under Butler's rule, anti-Union sentiment was growing in the city daily and he actually feared for her safety when it was known she'd paired herself with a member of an armed force many saw as oppressor and subjugator. Eventually he'd have to send her to her plantation, but he wanted to keep her here as long as he could so he could see to her safety and assure himself she was all right. He wouldn't be able to ride out to Ville-des-Fleur often, and he had no wish to be separated from her until it was completely necessary.

“It would be best if no one knew for a while,” he said. “There are some who will have to know—your household, Wesley...” He thought for moment before adding. “You have to tell your cousin. The one whose ring you wear. It isn't right that he not know."

It had always bothered James that the whole time he had been sharing her bed she was publicly engaged to another man. It didn't matter that the engagement was as much to cover Séverin Valmont's peculiar relationship with Antoine Brouillette as it was to unite the family's holdings. It was still a legitimate engagement. James might deeply disapprove of the other man's lifestyle, but he couldn't honestly claim his own recent actions had been perfectly honorable.

He felt Angele nod against his chest. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is time I wrote to Séverin. He needs to know. I've been very unfair to him."

James held her for a moment before tilting her face up so he could kiss her. “Don't be sad,” he said against her lips. “You will be my wife and we will have a healthy child. There's nothing but joy in that.” He kissed her again. “Be assured, you have made me the happiest of men today."

* * * *

That night, preparations for his wedding well under way, he wrote in his journal:

I have never until this day understood the pride that shines from the faces of other men when they announce their wives are to present them with a child. I have never known such elation. That beautiful, perfect creature carries within her body a child of my making. No greater truth has ever been said than that birth is a miracle. By next spring I will be a father! Men speak of the enduring fame of their deeds and try to create memorials of one form or another to preserve themselves for posterity, but I tell you that it is only through the bodies and spirit of our womenfolk that we achieve true immortality. My darling lover, no, MY WIFE will give me a child and through that child and succeeding generations a part of me will live on. By giving the love I feel for her a physical form, she has given me a gift such as I have never imagined. I did not think it possible to love her more, but tonight I believe my feeling for her has easily doubled. She bears my child! I want to stand atop the Mint and shout it for the whole city to hear.

CHAPTER 22

“Amour? What is the matter?” Antoine asked.

Séverin's skin had paled beneath his tan and his hand shook as he handed the letter to Antoine.

“I can't actually believe it,” he said. “It can't be."

Antoine read the brief message from Thomas Wolfe, then read it twice more. Like Séverin, he had difficulty grasping the reality of the words. Had the letter been from anyone else, he might have discounted it was rumor, but Tom was Séverin's lawyer in New Orleans. He was also Major Robereau Wheat's cousin. Tom was counted as much a friend as a lawyer and this letter proved he saw himself in that light.

Séverin, I didn't want you to hear this from some stranger or in passing at some gathering. I don't quite know how to even word it so I'll fall back on common form. It is with the deepest sorrow that I inform you of Rob Wheat's death at Gaines Mills in Virginia. God help me, that sounds like a lawyer talking. I've just heard myself and am not sure what I'm saying or doing. I think we'd all come to believe Rob was as untouchable as legend had it. And maybe he was. It took a shot to the head to kill him. He was buried on the field according to his last orders to his men. God help me. I can't write any more about that.

I know you considered my cousin your mentor and friend. Take comfort in the fact that, in return, Rob had a deep fondness and respect for you. There were few men Rob liked more than he liked you, Séverin.

What have we come to when men like Rob are taken from us in such ways? Damn this war and damn the Yankees for killing him.

Antoine shook his head, trying to believe the news. Moving half in a daze, he poured two glasses of rum and pressed one into Séverin's nerveless hand. He didn't say a word when Séverin finished the rum and reached for Antoine's hand instead. He'd put his own grief aside and be Séverin's strong support if that's what Séverin needed. After all, that was what he lived for, wasn't it? He'd be whatever Séverin needed him to be.

* * * *

The glasses had been emptied, refilled, and emptied again before Antoine was satisfied Séverin was over the worst of the shock. He fiddled with the pile of mail, unable to sit idly and watch his lover's pain. One of the pieces of mail caught his attention. He recognized Angele's handwriting easily.

“Look, mon amour. Here is a note from our cherie. Read what she has to say. Maybe she has news of our Charlie, heh?” A few words from their petite goddaughter might ease some of Séverin's hurt.

He settled on the arm of a chair to leaf through the rest of the mail and see if there was anything else that needed to be opened. He found nothing of importance and was about to say so when Séverin swore a terrible oath.

“Read, and tell me this is not some demented fancy."

Antoine frowned as he took the letter from Séverin. The page was blotched and stained in places as if Angele had shed tears while writing it. What could possibly make his strong, resilient Angele cry, he wondered as he began to read? Had she heard of Rob's death already?

My dearest Séverin and my adored Antoine,

I have done you both a great injustice. I can only beg your pardon and hope you will find it in your hearts not to hate me. I can never hope for your forgiveness.

I am with child and have been for some three months I think. I have known for some weeks, but told no one, not even my child's father. By not telling you earlier, I have offered you all a grave insult. I have only this day told James. He is overjoyed and insists we marry immediately. I think I always knew that would be his reaction and that was part of the reason I delayed telling him. I knew he would never allow our unmarried state to continue. To be honest, I was cowardly. I had no wish to cause you pain and I feared Antoine's temper. My Séverin, I am so sorry. I know my marriage will hurt you greatly and anger Antoine.

I have been careful not to reveal who James is and I know this has concerned you. You have written that regardless of who or what he is you will support me, but I know you will find him completely unacceptable.

My best loved friends, you have met him several times. He has even been formally presented to you. So I know exactly how you already view him. I have seen the loathing in your eyes, my Séverin.

My husband is James Edward Francis Darling. And you hate him because he is a major in the Union Army. My dearest friends, by the time you read this James and I will already be married. Oh Séverin, forgive me!

I offer no excuse for my love for James and only seek your pardon for my secrecy and beg you to curb any rash action Antoine might consider taking. I ask this for Antoine's sake as well as James'. This city is firmly under Union control and should he come after James they will hang him! Do not let him risk his own life so uselessly. It would only leave you and I to grieve for him for the rest of our lives. Antoine, I pray you, as my dearest friend, abide by my wishes in this. Should you or James come to harm, it would destroy me. Please do not come to New Orleans!

There is no more to be said. I love you both. I know at this moment that you do not believe that. Please remember that though to all others I now sign my name Madame Darling, I remain as ever...

Your Angele.

“It can't be true,” Séverin said as Antoine lifted shocked eyes from the page.

Antoine tossed the letter onto Séverin's leather desk blotter. He rose from the arm of the chair and went to stare out at the night-washed garden. He and Séverin had been out all day about plantation business and had found the mail waiting for them upon their return. They hadn't even bothered to change out of their riding clothes before reading it.

“Oh, it's true all right. I can tell by the way she writes. When she gets all stilted and formal like that, she's telling us something she don't want to. And she may not always tell us everything, but she's never lied to us. Even now, she didn't lie. She just didn't tell us who the bastard was.” He snorted in derision. “She knew exactly what I'd do if I knew."

He raised an elbow above his head and leaned it against the doorframe. “She knows very well that I can slip into New Orleans and kill anyone I want and slip out again with no one knowing I even been there. I've done it before.” He harrumphed. “More than once. She's just afraid I'm gonna kill this Yanqui son of a bitch she's gone and married."

“Married,” Séverin said as though in a daze. “To a Yanqui!"

He rose unsteadily and moved toward Antoine's side. The combination of too much time in the saddle and on hard makeshift seats around the plantation had brought a bone-deep ache to his hip that Antoine could nearly feel as he watched Séverin make his way across the study. His lover leaned heavily on his cane. Antoine was sure not all the pain was physical. Séverin's heart hurt far more than his hip. First news of Rob's death and now this! It would have killed a lesser man.

“Even with all her talk of loving this man, I never really conceived of her married to anyone but one of us,” Séverin finally said.

“Oui,” Antoine agreed. “I never thought she'd ever really want anyone else. All that time in Europe and all. No one else ever interested her."

“She was supposed to be ours. She was going to come here to live forever.” Anger bloomed deep in Séverin's dark eyes. “She said so. The three of us were going to be together just like we've always been. And now she says she's taken that Yanqui major instead of us! I wish he had turned out to be a Negro instead!” The anger drained away as suddenly as it appeared and was replaced by confusion. “Why would she do such a thing? How could she?"

* * * *

Angele set Antoine's letter beside the fine porcelain cup that held her coffee. The morning sun had barely risen over the docks and warehouses of the West Bank and a lamp still burned on the dining room table. It gleamed on the painted china and engraved silver marred by the remains of breakfast. Though the post had been delivered last evening, she had only now opened it. She had put off reading Antoine's letter until she was alone. If the contents were too upsetting, she didn't want James to see her reaction. As it was, her eyes stung from the words Antoine had so carefully penned. In script as perfect and beautiful as his face, he vented his anger and Séverin's hurt.

I understand the insanity of passion and that love is not something you can control. Believe me, I understand that better than anyone. I don't doubt that you did not set out to love this Yankee bastard. But that don't excuse the secrets or the hurt you've caused Séverin. I've always known you have a cold, cruel streak, but I never thought I'd see the day you would turn it on Séverin. He doesn't deserve that. The three of us swore we'd always take care of each other. Well, you went and broke that vow. I ain't ever seen Séverin this hurt.

I won't come to New Orleans and kill your damn Yankee, since I reckon this isn't entirely his fault. I figure you got him wrapped around your finger as much as every other man you ever decided to entangle. I am tempted to come there and beat you senseless. It would be no less than you deserve. But since I ain't in the habit of horse-whipping women, it's best I stay here. Besides, Séverin needs me. Looks like I'm all he's got left. With the shock of losing Rob Wheat and what you done, he isn't doing so well. Between that and the strain of travelling to New Orleans, you may have set back his recuperation a good two months.

I'd come to fetch Charlie home today but it isn't safe here. There been some rough folks hanging around and trouble at some the nearby plantations. Much as I hate it, Charlie is safer with you than she would be here.

Still and all, I needn't tell you that neither Séverin nor I consider your major or any of the company he keeps, suitable company for her. Do not test the limits of our friendship by exposing her to society that is unfit for her.

I doubt I'll be seeing you any time soon. You wouldn't want to hear what I got to say anyway.

For the first time in her memory there were no assurances of his continuing love and the letter was signed simply ... Antoine.

She felt completely bereft until she read his postscript.

One more thing, make damn sure that Yanqui son of a bitch understands that if he ever raises his hand or his voice to you, I will kill him.

She smiled through the tears that threatened. Regardless of his anger and disappointment, Antoine would stand her protector forever. He might not have written it, but his love once given was never revoked. His anger was not because she had married an unsuitable husband, but because she had hurt Séverin's feelings by so doing. And there was no surer way of earning Antoine's ire than by hurting Séverin. On the other hand, if Séverin could ever see that James was a good man, Antoine would happily accept her husband.

And Séverin had to see that James was a good man. Angele had no fear Antoine would ever need to kill James for striking her. She couldn't conceive of James ever offering her any sort of abuse, physical or otherwise. He wasn't that sort of man. She wished there were some way she could make Séverin see how very fortunate she'd been in her choice of husband. Were it not for what she had done to Séverin and the continuing need to hide her marriage, her contentment would have been nearly perfect. She had never been happier. Life as James’ wife was everything she could wish and far more than she had imagined.

Even now she could hear James moving about upstairs, his bootsteps sharp on the polished hardwood floors. Though he maintained the illusion of quarters in the Saint Charles Hotel and still came and went through the back gate, James was for all intents and purposes living in her house. Wesley, of course, knew where to send for James if he was needed and so did a few others of James’ subordinates, Sergeant Seamus O'Riley most notably. The sergeant appeared at the back gate daily it seemed with some message or another for the major.

At first, Angele was concerned about having a Union soldier in her house. Her earlier experience with the rank and file of the army had not engendered any confidence in the behavior of the average Yankee soldier. But unlike the men who had accosted her, Sergeant O'Riley was unfailingly polite, addressing even the slave women as “ma'am.” It never failed to amuse Angele to hear him call her “Mrs. Major Darling” in his heavy Irish brogue. Essie, for all her hatred of the dread Yanquis, had taken a liking to the grizzled Irishman and often kept back some tidbit of food or another for him. It had become so common to see him sitting at the kitchen table that Matilde had wandered through the house that very morning muttering in French about Yanquis in the kitchen and Yanquis in the bedroom and what on earth would Mem Elysée say.

Angele smiled at the memory. She listened to the sounds coming from the floor above. She loved hearing James move about the house. She liked caring for him and doing all the small things that wives did for husbands. Learning his habits and quirks brought her immense satisfaction. She would see he went off each morning with a decent breakfast and that his clothes were properly cleaned and taken care of. She saw to his mending herself, not leaving that chore to her serving women. His shirts were so ragged, in fact, that she was sewing new ones for him. To be honest, it was the one thing she could do herself.

Angele had never learned to cook or knit. While talented enough at plain sewing, she couldn't do fancy stitchery. She'd never be able to monogram his handkerchiefs or petit point a pillow for him. She'd learned to balance ledgers and negotiate contracts when other girls were learning to crochet lace and embroider pretty flowers. She feared that over all she made a very poor wife.

Still, he seemed to think her well enough a bride. She would never forget the flash of surprise and pleasure that blossomed in his face when he found out the red cotton in her lap was the makings of a new shirt for him. He sat with her in the evenings and she often looked up to find him watching her, the book in his lap forgotten, his green eyes glowing with pure love. In those moments, she'd never felt greater joy.

She went each day to the church to light a candle and pray that God would watch over James and allow this wondrous thing they had discovered to continue forever.

Rising as she heard his tread on the stairs, she set out to begin their daily ritual. Each morning she walked him to the back gate and gave him a proper farewell before sending him out to face his day. He never left the house without her kiss and assurances of her love. She had sworn an oath that it would always be so. Whatever might come, her husband would know he carried her undying affection wherever he went.

CHAPTER 23

James was sure New Orleans was going to be the death of him. He dropped gratefully into the big cotton-covered armchair in his wife's bedroom. He thanked God she was his and he could now come home to his love. Particularly on afternoons like this. He sighed appreciatively. It seemed much cooler here than it was outside, but he still felt ready to expire from the oppressive heat.

“Ah, mon James pauvre."

The lilt of Angele's Creole tones washed over him. He loved to hear her speak. Though she didn't pepper her speech with French as liberally as many in the city, the tones were always there. It was a subtle music James deeply appreciated. Like her perfume, it was understated and elegant. It could simultaneously sooth and excite him.

“My poor James, you are too hot. Come, I know how to make you more comfortable, mon amour."

He smiled softly as she tugged him from the chair. She was in a very Creole mood today. He liked it. He loved it when she called him love names in French. She led him out onto the gallery that encircled her garden. He could see Matilde below gathering something from one of the trees.

Angele called down to the slave in French. The young woman nodded and disappeared into the house with a quick “Mai oui, mam'selle.” The servants were not yet used to calling their mistress “Madame” and with the marriage still hidden, it was probably best they not develop the habit.

Angele led James to the balcony opposite the slave quarters and through a door he had not yet explored. “This used to be the sick room. But since I am hardly ever sick and if I were I would be more comfortable in my own bed, I had this built."

James looked around in amazement. “It's a bath!"

“Indeed it is. They are becoming quite fashionable. Mr. Gallier built one in his house while I was on my Grand Tour of Europe. Monsieur Randolph has a most beautiful one at Nottoway and indeed, I have to admit he gave me the idea to have this one built on the second floor.” She smiled and turned a tap. Clear water began to fill the deep tile-lined depression.

“It's a bath,” James repeated.

She laughed, the rich sound filling the room. “Yes, my darling. It's a bath. It is Roman, actually. Very old. I fell in love with it when I saw it in Italy. I bought and imported it.” She began to unbutton his coat. “There is nothing better than a bath to help you cool off."

“You have a built-in bath inside your house,” he said as he watched the water swirl and splash against the royal blue and tuscan red of the complex mosaic.

She laughed again and eased his coat from his broad shoulders. “Yes, have you never heard of such a thing?"

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “But I've never seen one."

She set to work on the brass buttons of his vest. “I enjoy my daily bath immensely."

He frowned. “Daily? You take a full bath every day?” No wonder she always smelled so sweetly delicious. Though James was quite particular about his hygiene and washed daily himself, it was with a cloth and a small pan of water not in a tub full. That was a luxury reserved for the public baths he couldn't often afford.

She tsked at the dust on his vest. “I'll have Matilde brush your coat and vest while you are bathing. It is not right that you should do it yourself when you now have people who can do it just as easily."

James was too busy watching her nibble fingers unbutton his shirt to care about the condition of his uniform.

She sighed over his sweat-soaked shirt. “My poor darling, you are not bred for the Louisiana heat."

Essie knocked before entering. She carried a silver bowl of peaches and strawberries and a pitcher of lemonade. Her expression was far more sour than the lemons in the cut glass pitcher. She was obviously displeased to see the major. She didn't approve of him being in the house, husband or not.

“Matilde needs to tend the vegetables and pick the fruit,” she said. “She's also too young to see the major without his shirt,” she added sharply.

Angele drew a long breath. “Then I suppose it is best you are here to fetch and carry for her, though that's beneath your station."

“Better that than another woman in this house gets corrupted,” the slave complained.

“Essie!” Angele snapped in warning. “Bring up a pitcher of hot water and the major's razors so your master can shave. And leave that viper's tongue downstairs when you do.” She sighed as the quadroon woman left in a huff. “I'm sorry, James. I will see you are treated with respect in your own house even if I have to send her back to Ville-des-Fleur permanently."

James wrapped his hand around her small fingers. “She has a point, my dearest. It's highly improper for me to be here like this. But there's an easy solution to that ... let the world know you've married me."

“As soon as my sister is wed, I will stand on my balcony and shout it for all to hear. Being your wife has given me the happiest of hearts,” she answered.

James kissed her fingers. “I hope she finds a most eligible parti soon then. I want everyone to know you and the child you carry are mine. I will not wait forever. I'm not that patient a man."

“I don't expect you to be, my love.” She poured him a glass of the cool lemonade and returned to undressing him.

James thought of the icehouse on his father's big farm with longing. A bit of ice in the lemonade would make it perfect. He breathed deeply as he felt her hands against his bare skin.

“My pouvre darling,” she said. “You are so overheated. What this city does to you! But soon I will wash the heat and grime from you, mon amour."

He smiled down at her. “This is hardly the grimiest I've been since I got here. I'm afraid some of your Confederate sisterhood have a habit of emptying their chamber pots on any soldier luckless enough to pass beneath their window. I've been a target at least twice, I regret to say."

He was surprised at the indignation that she evinced. Her hands stilled on his chest as she drew herself stiffly upright. “Non! Such females are no sisters to me! They are utterly ill-bred and completely without manners."

He smiled at the sparks that danced in her golden eyes.

“I say this not just because it is you they so abused, my James—though give me their name or address and I will see them ruined in social circles—but for anyone who terms themselves a lady to perform such an act. C'est excessif!"

A pleased grin spread across his face. She really was a dear treasure. He assured her he'd never imagined she'd do such a thing and kissed her indignation away before allowing her attention to return to undressing him. He was still grinning at her anger on his behalf as he helped her tug off his boots and strip away his trousers.

He watched as she ran her hand through the water. It seemed she'd decided his comfort was more important at the moment than ranting about the lack of breeding some women evinced.

“In the winter I like the water very warm. But when it is so hot, like today, I prefer my water tepid. This time of the year, the water in the cistern is warm enough.” She indicated he climb into the tub.

As he sank into the few inches of deliciously cool water, he had to agree with her. It felt better than almost anything he'd felt in weeks. She pulled a peach in half and handed it to him. Its juice was sweetly tart and still warm from the sun. Compared to the stark fare the army supplied, the peach was pure heaven on his taste buds. To maintain appearances, he still had many meals away from the house and James more often ate with the men than with the general's staff. He had always had the rank, but seldom the funds to run with that crowd. And he found Major-General Butler harder to stomach with each passing day. The man was not only unpleasant to look at, but more examples of his dishonest nature seemed to come to light each week.

Butler had come damnably close to arrest when he'd purchased cotton on a forced loan and used naval vessels to transport the large stores to his home in Boston intending to sell them. The Federal Government had seized the shipment at the waterfront in Massachusetts, and Butler had lost whatever profit he was thinking about turning on the transaction. He'd also barely escaped prosecution.

Poets and songsters were kept busy making ditties about him. James had heard a street minstrel reciting Samuel Newton Berryhill's poem decrying Butler as "O Picayune," a "Codfish Mars" who was too cowardly to fight men and instead made war on women. James couldn't say he disagreed with Mr. Berryhill. How was he supposed to have any respect for a man that behaved like that? HoHJames, along with some others in the command staff, had taken to distancing themselves however they could from the man. James had never been a favorite with Benjamin Butler, so it wasn't hard for him to avoid his commander. If that meant eating like a common soldier, James was prepared to make that sacrifice. He'd rather dine with the men. He at least had some respect for them. And unlike the general, he wasn't comfortable dining at the tables of New Orleans’ elite when he knew he was hated and despised by his reluctant hosts. The only society house where he really felt welcomed was here, with his highborn wife. Her welcome was unquestioned.

Smiling, he urged her to take a bite of the peach as well. Somehow the luscious fruit seemed to taste even better when he shared it with her. She squeezed a great sea-sponge and the soothing water flowed down his chest. He closed his eyes and lay back against the tile, content to let her minister to his needs. He had to admit he found married life very to his liking.

After a few minutes, he noticed that she was no longer beside him. He opened his eyes to find her unfastening her simple day dress. Disbelieving, he watched her undress.

“Mon ami Antoine, he loves to bathe with my cousin Séverin. He says it's better than those champagne bonbons they sell in Paris. Now Antoine, he's a very sensual man, so I believe him when he says that sharing a bath with your lover is one of the great gifts God has given to man. But I have never tried this."

She climbed into the tub wearing nothing but her chemise and pantaloons. Wherever the water touched, the delicate cotton and silk turned transparent. James had seen her nude and thought nothing could be lovelier. But this, her body revealed and hidden all at the same time, was more arousing than he'd imagined possible. He reached out for her, his wet hands painting flesh-colored patches on the white silk of her chemise. He could tell her waist was a bit thicker by the space that now showed between his thumbs when his hands encircled her.

“Do you have these odd sorts of conversations with Antoine very often?” he said thickly.

“Oh, oui. Antoine has been my bel ami since we were babes. He tells me a great many things.” Her smile was secret and enticing as she placed a small strawberry in his mouth.

He crushed the tiny fruit with his tongue and enjoyed the flavor while he considered her statement. “I'm not sure I like that. What sort of things has he been telling you?” he asked with a frown.

“Oh, my chéri doux! You should be very thankful to Antoine. You reap all the benefits of our discussions."

“How so?"

She reached for a fine French-milled soap and began spreading the sweet smelling lather over his chest. “Well, Antoine and I once had a most interesting tete á tete during an English ball. It was in London in 1855. He told me a great many, very interesting things that night.” She shrugged with Gallic elegance. “We were terribly bored."

She laughed at James’ raised eyebrow. “I was curious and Antoine has always told me the truth about everything. He says it will keep me out of trouble if he gives me the answers I seek so I do not go looking for them myself. So when I asked him how it was that two men could physically love each other, he told me.

James looked at his wife in amazement. “He told you about ... My God!"

She tsked. “Now, you have proven to me more than once that Antoine was quite correct about what women like. Shall we see if he is as good at knowing what men like?"

She smiled and James suddenly realized that maybe it was a good thing that his very proper lady was just as improper. As he felt her mouth around him, he decided he might like Antoine Brouillette after all.

CHAPTER 24

“Ow!"

Charlie shook her hand and nursed her index finger when she stabbed it with the heavy basting needle for the fourth time that morning. Normally she was more than an adept needlewoman and genuinely enjoyed stitchery, whether it was simple linens or fancy work. This morning her mind wandered and flitted and refused all aspiration to do something useful.

She had not hesitated to join the sewing circle when Josephine Delacroix had invited her and several of their friends. It was plain work—basic linens and clothing for the hundreds of vagrants flooding Camp Parapet. Mostly abandoned slaves or fugitives, the refugees, were being held under Major-General Butler's orders as “contraband,” a rather dubious category for people who thought they were escaping to freedom.

Some of the young women balked at the idea of participating in a charity that provided free labor for the occupying government, but Charlie had met the commander of Camp Parapet, John Wolcott Phelps, at Butler's supper party, and found herself liking his humanitarian manner even if he was a staunch abolitionist. It was also good for the younger women to have something to do. Most of the schools in New Orleans had closed when the city was taken by the Union, and the sewing circle meetings were a time for them to meet and chat while they worked. And as Josephine had said, it would be awful if all the contraband slaves ended up half-naked or all naked because the Yanqui women didn't sew fast enough to clothe everyone. The number of refugees increased by the day, sometimes by a hundred or more.

“Charlie you're turning your hand into a pincushion!” Sarah Nelson exclaimed.

“I know.” The last stab of the needle had made Charlie's eyes water and she stared fixedly at the man's shirt she was working buttonholes into. She'd left a blood drop or two on the plain muslin.

“Are you unwell, Charlie?” Josephine asked, all crisp politeness. She had been all crisp politeness with Charlie since the day after the reception.

Charlie almost sighed. It was funny how things could change a person. Charlie had known perfectly well her courteous attention toward Wesley Leighton and Major Darling would offend some of her peers.

“I'm afraid I am.” She rose from her seat and folded the shirt she'd been working on. “I'll take this home to finish and join you again tomorrow."

“If you wish.” Josephine nodded politely. She did not smile.

It did not surprise Charlie that Wesley's own sisters avoided her since the afternoon tea party at their mother's home. But the loss of their respect did not distress her. Josephine's change in tack and manner to her did. Of course, Josephine's family had thrown in their all to the Confederate cause and were slowly losing it, Charlie reminded herself. There were all sorts of reasons a friend changed toward another friend.

Charlie acknowledged the expressions of sympathy from the other women and excused herself. Allaire took the shirt from her, folded it with her own work into a small satchel, and followed Charlie out of the Delacroix house.

For once Charlie was thankful Amaury remained outside, waiting for her to go home. She had always urged him to use his time as he wished when she remained in the sewing group for nearly three hours, but the servant had told her with his usual forthrightness he didn't dare risk her walking home and showing half her legs to the Union soldiers if she didn't want to wait for the buggy. Amaury waited for her every day until she was ready to go, while one of Séverin's grooms drove the small buggy in circles around the block of the house.

Charlie ignored the heavy presence of Federal soldiers around her on the street, only acknowledging their civilities with a simple nod before Amaury handed her into the buggy and opened a sunshade for her, then assisted Allaire to sit beside her. He joined the groom on the box and they headed toward home.

She had not deceived the sewing circle when she told them she felt unwell. Her head ached slightly and she was tired. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of commotion that only grew more complicated until Charlie wondered if everything would boil over at an impossible moment. Charlie wasn't certain which information was more scandalous, Angele's pregnancy or her subsequent marriage to Major Darling. A woman sometimes married a sweetheart and bore a child rather early afterward, but such things were easily covered up and ignored as long as the couple was of good family and their own families approved the match.

It had been a relief when Séverin and Antoine had decided on the necessity of travel to Bougival, promising to return for her in another month. She had witnessed Angele's marriage to James Darling herself and prayed fervently for her sister's happiness during the mass. Charlie wasn't sure what turn of events could create a happy outcome for their union, but she wanted it to happen anyhow. It was all done in secret, without Séverin or Antoine's inclusion, and that was another cause for Charlie's temples to throb. She felt terribly guilty and ashamed of keeping such a thing from them. She didn't dare write to Séverin when he first left New Orleans except in the most casual and briefest of hands for fear Séverin would read her anxiety at keeping secrets from him and force her to tell. It had been a splendid relief when Angele owned she'd written him the truth.

Charlie sighed deeply and Allaire adjusted her parasol. The intense summer heat added to the oppression of Charlie's thoughts. The horses cantered past the Theatre d'Orleans and the building looked less magical in the afternoon. She'd felt like a princess in her new gown when Séverin had led her into the opulent lobby and all the families that were their friends smiled at them while the uniformed soldiers stared. In the late morning it looked abandoned, a forgotten palace of memories.

She could not stop thinking of Wesley Leighton and she tried her damnedest to do so. It was impossible not to think of where he might belong in her own future. Wesley had attended Jack at the private wedding and each time she'd glanced toward him beneath decorous lowered lashes his eyes seemed to pierce her. She'd wanted to smile at him and had to stop herself.

His gaze spoke of interest, so why had Wesley refused the opportunity to endorse his claim on her at Beast Butler's ghastly party? Even Angele didn't know what to make of it, though Major Darling insisted Wesley had never anticipated Butler pressuring Séverin to do such a thing. The mini-scandal ignited a series of rumors around town—gossip spread like wildfire—that Wesley Leighton was already married to a northern woman, or that Séverin had bribed him to retract the contract, or that Charlie was in love with another man whose identity changed depending upon who told the tale and she had thrown an infamous Valmont temper fit to be released from the betrothal.

She'd been presented at the theatre, a social event that declared her matrimonially available. What was she supposed to do if another man—an acceptable suitor—expressed interest in her? Charlie gritted her teeth against the thought of someone else and clenched her hands so tightly the crochet pattern of her gloves imprinted itself into the skin on her palms and reminded herself she did not love Wesley Leighton, why she barely knew him at all! Not as an adult, anyhow. A few meetings and pleasant conversations didn't tell her anything about his principles, and her guardian didn't approve of him.

So why did she think more and more about the day he offered her his arm and assisted her into his mother's coach? The touch of their hands even through their gloves had been exciting—it was the first time he had ever touched her. Except for when he'd assisted her when she slipped in D. H. Holmes and the time he'd bodily moved her out of the study the night Angele confessed to Charlie that she loved Major Darling. Those times did not really seem to count, because they had been strangers then.

That was the trouble with willful elder sisters who favored Yanqui officers as lovers, Charlie thought as the buggy pulled in front of dear Maison de Rose and Amaury clucked for the horses to stop. They introduced their unsuitable friends and incited controversy. Never would she find a more disagreeable place in the world than New Orleans. Especially when it was occupied by the Union. Particularly in summertime. In fact, the entire territory was all wrong with the Yanquis intruding upon it. Bougival was too quiet and New Orleans was too crowded and hot.

Charlie climbed halfway out of the buggy before Amaury could dismount to assist her and Allaire exclaimed when Charlie's crinolines bumped and twisted against the lower step. Charlie jerked her skirt impatiently and hurried along the curved brick banquette through the black iron gate toward the cottage.

Wesley did not want the engagement. He did not want her. Then why did he look at her so hungrily at Angele's wedding? And why did she feel it so much?

Charlie let herself into the foyer and left the door ajar for Allaire to follow her inside.

“Good afternoon, Essie.” Angele's maid was seated on the empire bench nearest the parlor bent over one of Major Darling's dark blue uniform coats. The corner was an excellent sewing spot because the sunlight through the front windows was reflected from the handsome Italian mirror hanging on the wall behind the bench.

“This man has no more care for if his buttons are even than a scarecrow!” Essie fumed, tying off a thread and snipping her needle free with her scissors.

“Where is my sister?” Charlie folded her parasol and hung it on the small rack behind the door, then sighed in relief as she removed her bonnet and handed it to Allaire.

“In the bath. With him.” Essie sniffed.

“Oh.” Essie managed to make it sound unpleasant and Charlie wondered why. In this weather a long bath seemed like a wonderful possibility and why shouldn't a married couple share it? Séverin and Antoine shared baths.

She felt the ghost of Wesley Leighton's gaze upon her in church and Charlie wondered if he would like to bathe with his wife or would he consider such behavior immodest. Many of her friends had terribly skewed ideas about marital relations. But her cousins and her sister had always assured her that loving was a sweet and pleasing pastime when done with care and nothing to be ashamed of. Would Wesley look so covetously at her without her clothes or would he expect her to keep her chemise on when he indulged in her? If he had wanted to marry her? Charlie felt the tips of her breasts ache against the edges of her corset.

Wesley did not want the engagement. He did not want her. Then why did he look at her like that?

“Mam'selle?"

Charlie turned back to the maid, certain her unladylike thoughts were plain on her face.

“Michie Leighton stopped here earlier, when the major first came home."

What was so perplexing about that? Charlie wondered. The two men were comrades and worked together.

“Yes?” She made an effort not to sound interested.

“And he left a basket for you.” Essie's golden-brown eyes were pinched with indignant disapproval. She did not raise her gaze from James’ coat while she brushed it clean. It was impossible to tell what annoyed the servant more, Wesley's gift or James’ uniform. “Major Darling left it in your own room."

She thanked the servant before she ambled upstairs. Her headache and the ugly heat outside were crowded out of her consciousness by the suspicion of an idea that excited her curiosity until her palms sweated and her hands trembled with eagerness to be in her room without this brief climb to the upper floor. Angele's soft, contented laughter trailed from the back of the house and Charlie smiled. Thank goodness somebody in the house was happy at the moment. She gripped a handful of her skirts and tugged them up a few inches, freeing her legs to scurry up the last few steps. A faint dewy sheen covered her upper lip and she blotted it away with a finger. Charlie hoped Angele and James didn't languish in the bath too long.

She tugged her bedroom door closed as soon as she entered it and at first tried to focus on the pretty details of the décor to keep from rushing to the plain bleached wicker basket set right in the center of her small writing table.

It cannot possibly be that. Wesley's family isn't even really Creole. Monsieur Leighton never spoke a word of French in all his days!

Plaster cherubs gazed down from the corners of the room's molding, and the carved swans on the desk waited for Charlie to find the courage to face the basket. It was large enough to carry a picnic for at least eight people.

What was it like to kiss him? Kissing wasn't acceptable behavior for courting couples, Charlie knew, but that didn't mean people didn't do it. She had never forgotten the delighted ecstasy on Angele's face when Charlie had discovered her kissing James in the downstairs study. At their wedding, James had clung to Angele greedily, kissing her in soft adoring pecks, then tugging on her lips with his. Angele had pressed against him as far as the width of her skirts allowed.

Did Wesley ever want to kiss Charlie? Did he think of that when his glance dropped to her mouth? Charlie touched her lips and found them curiously sensitive. Her lower lip was fuller than the upper bow, and dark pink. She imagined herself crushed in Wesley's arms and feeling the tension of his limbs on her body. And his mouth, eloquent with a new language, one only lovers understood, whispering secrets against hers.

Her corset felt tight and unnatural. She longed to take it off and put on a dressing-gown.

If I wanted to marry him—if Séverin agreed to it—I wouldn't want to be married in town. I'd rather stay at my room in Bougival. It's larger and has the sitting-area.

Charlie separated the handles crossed over the top of the basket and unfastened the leather thongs holding the hinged lid shut.

The lace inside was exquisite, undoubtedly imported and expensive. It seemed impossible any pattern could be so intricate and perfect. The background was so fine it looked nearly like cobweb and the pattern's cabbage roses and curved vines were lovingly detailed. Yards and yards of this exquisite lace, well more than enough to trim a dress and lingerie. There were a baker's dozen handkerchiefs of pressed smooth cotton. Charlie stripped off her gloves to finger the fabric. It was soft and cool to the touch. Several were trimmed in different types of lace, others were hemmed with exquisite borders embroidered on them. Birds, flowers, and elegant scrollwork. One was trimmed with narrow satin ribbon woven and carefully stitched into the handkerchief itself.

A fan slid out amongst the handkerchiefs, painted in watered colors, of a group of people at a May festival carrying baskets of flowers while musicians played and couples danced in a green field. A delicious perfume emanated from it when Charlie waved it. She folded the fan and put it away. She couldn't keep any of these things, but she couldn't forbear admiring their beauty.

Séverin has never said yes ... Charlie perused the basket's contents further and felt a smart flush warm her face when she discovered a glove box of carved alabaster. How did he know the right size? She almost laughed at the idea of James Darling searching her gloves to find her size and smuggle the number out to Wesley. He was a man of action, totally out of place in a boudoir. Angele must have helped them.

Another bundle was wrapped in pristine tissue paper bound in satin ribbons. A fine cashmere shawl unfolded in Charlie's trembling hands to reveal more roses, dark red and creamy soft white in the painstaking Indian weaves from the far East and trimmed in heavy black fringe. It was a beautiful item, lightweight and warm, large enough to cover her legs and keep her feet toasty if she wanted to stretch out on a sofa to read, and fine enough to wear to the theatre.

At the bottom of the basket were several smaller cases covered in velvet and leather in various sizes. Some looked older and were slightly familiar to her. Charlie had seen them on Madame Du Pré's dressing table. Others looked brand new.

Charlie's hands fell to her sides and she turned away from the basket and all its finery as her courage deserted her through a soft exclaiming noise in her throat. She wiped her trembling hands on her dress and moved away to the small window seat on the opposite of her bed, sinking into the cushions of the window seat and wrestling her skirts into what she hoped was moderately good order. Outside her bedroom, the small garden bloomed with radiant summer flowers. The double hibiscus in all its rich red-ruffled glory looked like it dared to grow as tall as the house itself and the roses bloomed and wilted quickly but were nevertheless beautiful. Even with regular attention by the servants the lawn grew quick with dandelions and other weeds that sprang up no matter how often the grass was manicured. Drunken honeybees glided around the available flowers to indulge in their sweetness. The glass of the window warmed her hot face.

Handkerchiefs and lace. Gloves and fans. A cashmere shawl ... The cases in the bottom were jewelry meant to be worn after they were wed. Why did Wesley send her the traditional gifts for a Creole bride when he had stared down his superior officer in front of her cousin and loudly declared he did not want this engagement announced?

Her body shook in confusion. She hated the way Wesley made her entire life seem twisted every which way until it no longer made any sense. What she loathed most was the way she felt. If she could only stop seeing him as attractive, and stop remembering that their parents had wanted them married ... if she could stop wondering about his kisses and all those other things she wanted to feel that made her blush but she still wanted them...

If Séverin had approved, he would see her married with a good heart and hold as large a supper for their friends as Butler would permit. She wondered if Wesley would wait when she went upstairs to change into her nightdress to wait for him, tucked under the white wedding quilt that had come from her mother's relatives in Provence. Surely he wouldn't come to her the worse for drink, as she'd heard an occasional married friend bitterly complain. Not with all the longing in his eyes when he watched her.

Her breasts grew tender again, nipples swelling and aching against her chemise. Charlie felt moisture between her thighs, warm and slick, and an uncomfortable moan stirred in her throat.

What would Wesley think of her if she had the courage to leave the bed after Angele tucked her in and strip off her nightgown and chemise? What if he entered her bedroom to find her absolutely bare, covered in the length of the lace he'd sent her?

Charlie's eyes squeezed shut and she shifted and moaned at the image she could not dispel of Wesley's hands tracing the shape of her body through the lace before he lifted it away. If they followed true Creole tradition, they would stay up in her bedroom for an entire month after they were married. The heat outside was nothing compared to the flames in her skin. This desire was going to consume her, she knew it.

Séverin had not said yes, though. Neither had Wesley. Charlie moaned again. There was no engagement and probably never would be.

Sighing, Charlie pulled herself out of the window seat and tucked damp tendrils that escaped her chignon behind her ears. She would put all the lovingly selected treasures back into the basket. She couldn't imagine how she could return it to Wesley without provoking new gossip about what had already happened. Tears filled her eyes while she worked. He'd picked such beautiful things for her.

If it were not for this war ... If he was not commissioned in the Union Army ... If Séverin could forgive him...

Charlie put down the package and wiped her eyes, then picked it back up and peered into the basket. There was a pouch in one corner, probably money, another gift that belonged in the bride's basket. She smoothed the shawl down over the jewelry boxes, then replaced the box of gloves, the handkerchiefs, the fan, and the lace. She tugged the lids back up to tie them shut and a piece of paper, a message folded over, slid out of the far lid.

She finished tying the lid and left it on her desk, unsure of where else to put it. Tonight she would speak to James and appeal for his help in returning the basket as tactfully as she could. If she thought about it, Charlie was sure there was some sort of form letter she had learned at school regarding the refusal of inappropriate gifts.

Dear So-And-So, While I am deeply flattered and grateful for your esteem, I cannot accept such generosity. Please remember I place incalculable regard upon your friendship. I am yours most sincerely...

She turned away from the basket again and picked up the note. Surely there was nothing harmful in a few written words. Wesley's hand was bold and decisive, a mere seven words made his intent plain.

"Tu et moi, nous choissons le jour."

You and I, we choose the day.

Charlie sobbed. Does he love me? Does he want me? He wants the marriage?

Before she could start crying in earnest a quick rap on the door startled her so badly she jumped and had to bite back a scream.

“Yes?” Her voice cracked.

“Michie Wes is downstairs, ma'am.” Essie announced, defeated. “Will you see him? Shall I show him in?"

CHAPTER 25

James’ pen flew across the page as he wrote in his journal.

I am a soldier and have been one my entire adult life. I have always viewed being posted to New Orleans for this assignment as an insult and a hardship. My years at West Point and fighting Indians on the frontier were not spent in preparation for sitting in a sweltering city policing recalcitrant civilians. I am a trained military commander, not a guard for subjugated women and children. The day I set foot in this city I requested a transfer to a more active unit. Now, when I thought it long forgotten, that transfer has been granted. I am finally being sent back to war.

Four months ago I would have rejoiced at this news. But now my life has changed. My responsibilities have changed.

How in the name of God am I going to tell my wife?

* * * *

“Non!” Angele declared. “Non. C'est impossible!” She clutched at his sleeve, her fingers crushing the calico Matilde had ironed so carefully. “You cannot go!"

Desperation gripped her. She knew what could happen to him on the battlefields of this insane war all too well. She'd buried her brother. She'd seen the horrible wounds from the exploding shell that had claimed his life. She'd helped Antoine tend Séverin through the early days of his convalescence and knew the pain he'd endured from his shattered hip. She and Antoine had cried over the gaping hole torn and cut in their beloved Séverin's flesh. She knew James, for all his bravery and strength, was not immune to the same fate as Séverin or William. He could be maimed or killed in an instant.

“Non!” she repeated as she was gripped by a terrible premonition. “You will die! I know this. If you leave here, you will die!"

James tried to calm her. “Sweetheart, I'm a soldier. I've been one for years. I've fought Indians on the prairies for the past five years. I know what I'm doing."

“Non! Do not speak to me as if I were a child, James! I know what war is. I know you are a soldier, but I also know soldiers die. How many have already been lost in this insanity? Thousands? The numbers are so huge I can't even imagine them.” She looked up with tears stinging her eyes. “I cannot bear even the thought of losing you. Oh, James! I beg you, don't go."

He held her as close as he could. “I don't have any choice, my love. None at all."

She cried then, knowing he told the truth. The feeling that she would never see him if he left the city remained with her long after her tears were dried and her sobs quieted. There was nothing she could do save pray each day for his safety and hope her premonition was only a fancy and not a true vision of the future.

* * * *

Angele saw to James’ belongings herself. She made sure he had sufficient clothes, that they were clean, and in good condition. She gave him one of her horses as a pack animal and urged him to take one of her slaves to “do” for him while he was gone. He accepted the horse, but refused the manservant.

She saw that he had extra food and gear, the finest her money and plantation could provide. And they exchanged tokens. James declared he wanted nothing but a lock of her long hair. She braided a narrow plait of her hair and a fine gold chain together, hung a blessed medal on it, and had the ends capped with gold. She fastened it about his neck, hoping the medal would help keep him safe. In turn, he gave her a locket containing a coil of his golden hair and a photograph he'd had made only that week. It was inscribed elegantly, "For my wife with my eternal love, James."

It had cost him every cent he had. He knew he was now a wealthy man by virtue of his marriage, but he wouldn't spend her money on such a gift. He wanted to purchase it with funds he'd earned himself. Like the plain gold band he'd placed on her finger, this was a token that had to come from him and him alone.

Along with the locket he gave her his promise he would do everything he possibly could to return to her before their child was born.

She saw him off with kisses and assurances of her love. Wesley later wrote him that she cried bitterly as soon as he was gone and could not be consoled.

* * * *

“That'd be an unlikely pairing,” one man commented idly, glancing up from his card game at the front of a riverside restaurant.

His companion looked over his shoulder and watched Captain Leighton canter his rangy chestnut gelding alongside a pretty dark-haired lady on a blood-bay mare. A finely liveried Negro on a strawberry mare accompanied them at a respectable distance through the dank streets. They were headed toward the levee, probably seeking cooler, more open space to exercise in.

“You think she might be one of them fancy quadroon Negras? Hard to believe they can breed so fair.” The sergeant shook his head in amazement at the young woman's beauty. “Thought I heard the captain had a thing for one of them and it's the reason he left town in the first place."

“Naw. That's his lawful sweetheart,” his friend, a corporal, replied. “I mean the girl he was supposed to marry."

“The one Butler tried to foist on him?” The sergeant shook his head again and glanced at the back of their retreating figures. “If that's the one he could've had and didn't want her, how pretty was the quadroon?"

“Wouldn't know. Never met her."

* * * *

“It's a pretty day,” Charlie said, deciding to speak after enough awkwardness had passed through the silence between them.

“Yes.” Wesley watched the humid, acrid river breezes ruffle the brilliant scarlet ostrich plumes on Charlie's hat. The moisture-laden atmosphere fingered little tendrils loose from the silken mass of hair in her snood, setting the ringlets dancing as flirtatiously as earrings.

No, he reflected, that was wrong; a lady's earrings never made him yearn to trace their design with his fingertips.

“The major's letters have been very reassuring,” Charlie commented. “I think he's hoping to be home very soon, if there's no trouble."

“It'd be good to have him back."

Wesley meant it. Without James, he found the daily aspects of army life less and less pleasant. The rumor mill had gone into effect with a vengeance and virtually everyone in town had heard some account of his long-standing obligation to marry Charlie Valmont. He found himself very much a fish out of water, the subject of speculation, humor, and condemnation. The men in the barracks avoided him—some distrusted him, others envied him and others noted him as a traitor to his own people. He didn't fare much better with “his own people,” although some of them seemed less hostile than they had been.

“And Angele seems very well,” Charlie declared.

“She does look wonderful,” he agreed.

They rode in silence for some time and Wesley waited. He had escorted her on several rides and understood her well enough to know when Charlie had something on her mind that she was almost ready to say. He'd come to like her impetuous manner. Perhaps it wasn't always strict etiquette to be as plain spoken as she could be when curiosity or interest got the better of her, but sometimes it was very pleasant to know what another person really thought.

“Do you ever miss her?” she asked. “I mean, now that you've been home a while."

“I see my grand-mère at least twice a week,” he replied. “And sometimes my mother as well. My sisters choose not to notice me.” He was worried about that. Henriette's husband had not been heard from in some time. In a time when news, good or bad, traveled excruciatingly slowly, each day was wearing for her. Wesley did not offer her comfort; she did not want it. He did the most decent thing he could, which was what she wanted him to do. He stayed as far away from her as possible.

“I mean—I wasn't talking about them.” Charlie glanced farther away from him toward the town. “I mean—” She struggled for more refined speech and finally gave up. “I mean the mulatte you loved from your papa's place. The girl he sent you away for."

The pace of everything around him screeched to incredible, nearly stopped slowness—the dappled river currents, the moist breezes sending the veil on Charlie's hat adrift, the lightly cantering horses, and the fisherman and small boats. Everything still moved, yet it was all stopped. How could that be?

“Oh.” He drew in a breath. He should not be surprised that scandal was known to the woman he loved. How could his idiotic father have ever been stupid enough to think such a thing could be hidden?

“Mignonne was my sister.” He had not lied to Charlie about anything. There was no reason to lie now. “My half-sister,” he added.

Charlie nodded. “Madame told me you found out before your papa sent you off.” A soft cedar twig blew into her veil at the corner of her eye and she picked it out.

Wesley gave her a strange look. “I always knew she was my sister,” he declared.

At least she was looking at him again. Even if she doubted him.

“It was impossible not to know,” he persisted. “Sabette, her mother, took care of me and my other sisters from the time we were very little. She never married. My father wouldn't approve any husbands for her for his own reasons.” Even now, over a decade later, rancor spilled out of him when he thought of it. “Mignonne looked just like Hélène, give or take a shade or two of complexion. I didn't notice it at first, of course. And, being a child, I assumed they looked alike because they were such close friends. But I knew after a time. Well before I left home."

His lips folded, uncertain whether to smile or cry as he remembered. “She was good-tempered—certainly she had a better disposition than Henriette! And she was clever. And very pretty.” He sighed, and the breath still trembled after all these years. “I'll never forget the last time I saw her. I was sixteen years old. She was a year younger. It was her birthday and I'd bought her a green silk parasol she'd wanted. She'd embroidered a pair of gloves with a pattern of green vines to wear to mass. And I told my father he ought to set her free."

“But didn't you want—"

“I wanted her to have more than a slave's life. Was that a lot to expect for one's own sibling?” He smiled. “She was an intelligent, lively young woman. She should have gone to school—she wanted to learn proper English of all things! She deserved an opportunity to marry a free man, and raise free children. I thought surely my father saw the merit in such an idea. His own daughter ... surely he wanted his own daughter to live free and be a lady?"

A fisherman called out laughing to a younger boy who'd tumbled out of the boat they rode in, quickly shouting for help from other men aboard the craft. The river's currents were treacherous and could turn deadly in the blink of an eye. Swimmers got sucked under and disappeared indefinitely. Sometimes they were never found. Sometimes they were found miles upriver or downriver depending upon the water's whims. And some people bathed and swam in the water almost every day of their lives without incident.

“I was mistaken about him. In fact, I don't think I know for certain that he ever thought much more of me than he did of her. He had to spend money on me to make me go away and he got a good twelve hundred dollars to get rid of her. She was beautiful, young, healthy, and industrious. She was worth a good deal of money and I only cost him. We didn't know the people he sold them to. Mignonne and Sabette. Strangers bought them.” Wesley stared hard at the reins in his hands. “They died from cholera."

“Oh. Wesley.” There was a world of compassion in her near-whisper. He wished he could thank her for it but he didn't quite dare. How could that long-ago loss still hurt so terribly when he brought himself to talk about it?

“I gather you heard the more romanticized version of the sordid little tale. I never was in love with Mignonne. I'm sorry. The truth is less sensational.” His voice grew gruff in his tightening throat. “My father never acknowledged her and people drew their own conclusions.” He blinked a few times as he looked around. “Well, look at this. We've gone quite a way! Better turn about, Miss Charlie. We'll be late for dinner."

She nodded and turned the mare with a drape of her hand and a soft word.

They journeyed back toward the city more at a walk than a canter. For a long time they rode in silence. They were not uncomfortable quiet and Wesley liked it sometimes. Now he did not. He wished his own story was not so final.

“It'll be grand when this is all over and we can all go home.” Charlie looked over her shoulder, dark eyes fixed on the muddy blue ribbon of river as if she could see Bougival over half a day's ride down its length. She was a country child, preferring expanses of green lawn and woods to slate-brick banquettes and structured gardens. She sat her horse beautifully and the skirt of her crimson habit fell over the mare's shiny dark flank. Wesley wished with all his might he'd never left home.

“Why'd you say that?” Wesley asked.

Her gaze flew to his, startled.

“I mean why'd you say it like that? You just want it to be over. Don't you want to win?"

Charlie righted her mount when she stumbled on a bit of lose gravel and didn't look back again.

“I don't think we're going to win,” she said. The bitter taste of defeat flooded her tone. “I don't think we ever could have."

Wesley watched her take a deep, painful breath before she continued.

“I don't believe, nor have I ever believed, that we were in the wrong. The Constitution guaranteed all states the right to withdraw from the Union if state legislatures voted to do so. The Northern States chose not to honor this right. There is more than one statement from Congress that indicated the Northern States were concerned with losing the economic advantages the Southern States provided. It doesn't surprise me that they didn't want to honor the secession. But..."

Her soft clear voice grew fierce. “What does surprise me and what I don't understand is the Northern States’ response. The Union Army is permitted to burn homes and businesses suspected of succouring enemy troops. The columns in front of my cousin's house were scarred by fire from Union gunboats making their way to New Orleans. We never fired a shot at the boats or threatened them or expressed any kind of resistance.

“They've burned some homes and confiscated or destroyed any cash crops people are growing, whether they're big planters or small farmers. The food and crops they haven't stolen or commandeered they've burnt. If this continues, there are families, black and white, free and slave, who are going to starve as food becomes more scarce."

She sighed and added, “It's already happening. Some of the refugee slaves come to New Orleans not because they wanted to leave their families, but because the planters who owned them threw them off their places. They couldn't afford to keep them anymore.” Horror laced her voice at the thought of such a thing. “Dwindling food stores and the fall of Confederate cash values are making them desperate, so they cast out whole families who have always depended upon them. Whether they want to go, or have anyplace to go, or not."

She closed her eyes. Wesley wondered if she saw the families at Camp Parapet, thin and tired, of every age and description waiting patiently for bowls of hominy cooked with pork grease or cornbread and rice porridge and whatever vegetables and additional rations the occupying troops contributed. The local planters contributed as generously as Butler's stringent claims on their own crops would permit. It seemed there was never enough food and the numbers of refugees increased by the day.

Her slender shoulders rolled into a graceful shrug and a lone seagull cried out over the river. “Major-General Butler has shown a level of genius in confiscating personal property and enriching himself from the pockets of private citizens.” She laughed, a bitter Creole's mirth. “The war's just starting, and each side has decided advantages that can keep the war going for some time. The North has more money and supplies, but we have most of the better men. I don't believe we can win, but I don't believe the North will profit by this, either. If they choose to destroy all the wealth in the South, then they've ruined all the advantages of our unity to begin with."

She sighed. “But it's tiresome to have Butler here telling us what to do and throwing evening dances in stifling weather. I'll be glad when it ends."

Wesley felt a quirk of terrible sadness tugging in his chest at Charlie's quiet despondency. He wondered if many other Southerners shared her opinion and kept it to themselves or if they were fooling themselves with the propaganda du jour that guaranteed their victory. He glanced out onto the deceptive serenity of the Mississippi River. The pale blue swirled in mud was dappled in sunlight.

“I wish things were different.” He wished his heart wasn't in his throat. “I wish I'd been able to know you before there was war."

She managed to smile even as she fought back tears. “You did know me. You plucked me out of a tree when I was five."

“I don't mean that.” Without thinking, he reached for the bit of misty dark veiling that clung to her hat. “I wish I'd come home before the war."

“I wish you had, too.” She didn't demure when he lifted the veil nor when his lips brushed hers in the most delicate of kisses. Unashamed of the groom that followed them, she pressed her lips tightly to his and for a moment Wesley forgot the war existed.

* * * *

James,

You needn't worry so.

Your wife is quite well though she misses you. I call every day to see she is all right. And before you bother to thank me excessively, it is no imposition. Indeed, it gives me a chance that I otherwise would not have to see my darling Charlie. I can call her such in truth now, James, for she has finally said that she returns my affection. While I may not feel the urge to lurk outside her window such as you felt to lurk outside Angele's, I do believe I would pine and likely throw myself in the river if I was no longer able to see her sweet face each day. Unfortunately, throwing myself in the river may become necessary. I doubt Séverin will look any more favorably on my suit than he does on your marriage. However, knowing that my bride is willing, I will do whatever is necessary to achieve my happiness. I would much prefer to do so with Séverin's blessing or at least without his active antipathy. Charlie loves her godfather dearly and I'll do all I can to secure his approval and so maintain her happiness. But I will find a way to make her my wife.

I'm thinking of giving up the uniform and devoting myself to my grand-mére's lands. She claims she needs the help and they will be mine one day. And in truth, I hope Séverin Valmont might look more kindly on me if I am no longer a soldier. I can't help but laugh, old son, at the thought of the pair of us as gentlemen planters. You realize that the lands I will inherit march alongside those you've gained through marriage, don't you? It seems our lives are meant to intertwine. It doesn't trouble me. I know of no man I'd rather spend my life calling friend. Indeed, for now I sign myself your friend, but I hope one day soon to sign myself your brother-in-law.

I hope you aren't having too hard a time and that any battles you find yourself in are light. Try not to get yourself killed.

Your friend and would-be brother-in-law,

Wesley.

CHAPTER 26

"My beloved wife," James wrote with satisfaction.

Those three words meant more to him than he could possibly explain to anyone. He'd tried to tell Wesley a few days after his marriage, but had found he lacked the eloquence to accurately describe how truly wonderful he found married life. Just watching Angele sitting in the lamplight in the evening with her head bent over a bit of sewing or a book filled him with contentment. He was fascinated by her ability to make beautiful and useful things with her slender fingers. He couldn't help but smile when he remembered how embarrassed she'd been to admit to him that sewing was her only wifely accomplishment. Her chagrin had been so great, she'd insisted Essie teach her to tat just so she could lay claim to something besides simple sewing.

He'd laughed, but the grace of those digits as they spun out fragile tatted lace amazed him. The ivory shuttle seemed to dance between her fingers as the twin spools of thread became a length of wide lace to edge his coming child's garments. His pride in her new domestic ability was as great as any he might have for his own manly talents. She might feel inadequate, but she was everything he could wish in a wife.

He ran his hand along the seam of his cuff and thought of her needle flashing in the lamplight as she placed each small stitch. He felt wrapped in her love whenever he wore one of the shirts she'd made. He smiled as he returned to his letter.

My mosquito netting is the envy of all here. The troops surrounding Vicksburg are besieged by hordes of flying and biting insects. Yet because of your thoughtful foresight, I sleep peacefully at night and can rest unmolested in the day. I have taken great pleasure in extolling the virtues of my wife to all who will listen. I have no doubt they are quite tired of hearing me by now and greet my approach with weary looks. It can hardly be accounted my fault that my wife is so superior to theirs.

My darling, all jests aside, I see more and more each day what a treasure I have found. I can barely wait for the day we are reunited. I miss you every instant of every day. I have determined that when this conflict is at an end, I will retire from the army and devote myself to being a husband to you and a father to our children.

Your wish that I head your businesses and plantation is gratifying. I am a planter's son and so understand the land, but your shipping and manufacturing investments are as foreign to me as far off China. I know you have no need for my help and know far more about the world of commerce than I ever will. I will happily accept your tutelage in these endeavors and so hope to learn enough that I will not embarrass you, but I am intelligent enough to know that our financial future rests more with your skills than with mine. I know many men would be uncomfortable admitting this, but I see it only as another example of how very lucky I am in the woman I have married.

My dearest love, every day I spend away from you is torture. Know that I intend to return to you as soon as possible, but it looks as though I will be sent farther north soon. The news is vague at the moment and I'm not sure where I'm going. I will write more as soon as I have any information.

Until I hold you again, I have only these words to tell you how much I love you. Know that now and forever my heart is in your keeping and I remain your loving husband, James.

* * * *

Angele considered Catherine Woldman a tad mad for wanting to visit the shops on Canal Street in the middle of the afternoon, but she had been friends with Catherine since they were schoolgirls. So, despite the heat of the afternoon and the continuing exhaustion she couldn't seem to shake, Angele had agreed to accompany her friend shopping. Soon she wouldn't be able to go out. Her waist was already significantly thickened and very, very soon she wouldn't be able to hide it. This might conceivably be her last outing until after the baby came. She'd need to retire to the plantation before many more weeks had passed.

She hoped the companionship and conversation might improve her mood as well. If she stayed home, she would worry about James. Any day that passed without word of him was torturous, and mail was becoming more unreliable. His latest letter, received only that morning and already more than three weeks old, again spoke of him being transferred north.

She feared constantly that he would be sent into the thick of combat. Vicksburg was bad enough, but there were many other areas where the fighting was far fiercer. And much farther away. She could feel every foot that separated them and she had never been so lonely. He had been gone for over a month and already it seemed an eternity. She couldn't bear to be without his locket, and the velveteen case that held a larger photograph of him was becoming worn from constant handling.

“What do you think?” Catherine asked as she modeled a rose-pink slip of a hat.

“It is very pretty,” Angele answered with little enthusiasm. “Trés belle. And the color goes well with your complexion."

“It would become yours more,” Catherine countered. “I wish my skin was so snowy fair. It's the envy of half the city."

Angele smiled a tiny bit. Catherine's skin was the much admired “peaches and cream” so often praised in modern song and verse. With her ash blond hair and arrestingly dark eyes, she was accounted one of the most beautiful women in the city.

“You have no need for my complexion. You have far too much beauty already, Catherine,” Angele said as her friend surveyed herself in the mirror.

Catherine laughed. “Perhaps. George certainly seems to think so. My husband says I have become a vain creature,” she added as she unpinned the hat. “Well, I don't believe this hat appeals to me. La! I can find nothing appealing today. Perhaps you should buy it.” Catherine removed the hat and rose with a swish of taffeta and cotton.

“I have no need for a new hat.” Angele wished James was about to tell her if she was becoming vain or not. Catherine was very lucky her husband was English and had no interest in the war. “Come, there is nothing here I wish to purchase today. It is too hot to shop, Catherine. Let us go home and have something to drink in the shade of my garden."

Catherine agreed and had to admit that the thought of Angele's cool garden was a vast improvement over the too-warm haberdashery. As they left, both women spoke with longing of the coming month when perhaps there would finally be a respite from the heat and humidity of summer.

The carriage was even hotter than the shop had been, and when an overturned cart blocked the way, the two women opted to walk the few blocks from Jackson Square to the Valmont residence. Catherine linked her arm through her friend's as they strolled past the tri-steepled bulk of Saint Louis Cathedral. Angele smiled as she remembered kneeling before a military chaplain in the quiet of the nearly empty edifice listening to James vow to love and honor her forever. His voice had sounded so beautiful that evening as he spoke his wedding vows. She had never been happier. The only joy that could eclipse the wonder of her marriage was the day he would return to her. She was incomplete without him and would not be whole again until he was back with her where he belonged.

“Mrs. Woldman, Miss Valmont, how do you do this afternoon?” Mr. Cecil Stowcraft asked as he awkwardly tipped his hat to the ladies.

Like Séverin, Mr. Stowcraft had been wounded at Manassas and was no longer able to fight. Unlike Séverin, the former corporal had no staunch and stubborn Antoine standing by to guard and tend him and had lost his foot when gangrene threatened. He was still uncomfortable with the crutch he needed to get about.

“Have you heard the sad news?"

Angele's heart quelled a bit. The tidings must be grim indeed. News these days was never good, but Mr. Stowcraft seemed extremely agitated.

“No, monsieur, we have heard nothing,” she advised him.

“There's been a great battle somewhere up in Maryland. Some place they are calling Antietam. They say over twenty thousand men are wounded or dead!” The shock of such a number was plain on his narrow face.

Both women gasped. Such a loss of life was inconceivable. Mr. Stowcraft nodded in agreement with their emotion. “It's a terrible, terrible thing. General Robert E. Lee has been pushed back and it's a great loss for our side. Or so the Yankees say. It'll be days if not weeks before we get the right of it from our own people. Still, even hearing it through their propaganda it's clear we may have punched a fair size hole in the Army of the Potomac since they say more Yankees died than our boys. That's a good thing, I'd say.” He shook his head. “It's frightful. So many men and so many of them good patriots just fighting for our freedom."

He stared off at a large group of Union soldiers gathered about one of the great bulletin boards set up in the square. His face betrayed his hatred for them all. It took a visible effort for him to shake off the mood. “One bit of good news for you, Miss Valmont. You won't have to worry about that Yankee that's been hanging about you and your sister. Looks like that Major Darling went and got himself killed at this Antietam."

Angele's sight went black about the edges. She grappled for the locket that hung around her neck. She clutched it tightly in her hand.

“Non,” she breathed. “He's not in the Army of the Potomac. He's in the Army of the West.” He didn't notice the desperation in her voice as she said, “You are wrong."

“No, ma'am,” Mr. Stowcraft asserted. “I heard those other damn Yankees—pardon my language—talking about it and saw his name on the lists myself. You don't have to worry about him any more. Major Darling is dead."

Angele's parasol fell to the flagstones and lay rocking back and forth as she gathered her skirts up and ran toward the bulletin boards. He was wrong. That awful Mr. Stowcraft was wrong. He had to be. He and Catherine called after her, but she gave no sign she heard them. She had to see for herself. She would prove he was wrong. James’ name wasn't written on the rolls of the dead. It couldn't be.

It felt as though it took hours to cross the square and reach the crowd about the bulletins. A thick band squeezed her chest and she couldn't breathe. A press of people, most of them dressed in Union blue, crowded around the posted notices. She shoved and fought her way into the sea of blue, trying to make her way to the lists. She had to see for herself. She had to see that James wasn't dead. She pushed hard against a particularly bulky soldier who blocked her way.

“Here now, stop that shoving! That's no way to ... Ma'am!” the grizzled face of Sergeant O'Riley swam into her view. “Mrs. Major Darling, ma'am, what on Earth are you doing here. You shouldn't be in this mob.” His brogue was as deep and heavy as the peat bogs of his native Ireland. He tried to steer her back and away from her goal.

She stood her ground against him. “He's not on the lists! They told me he was on the lists but he can't be.” It was so hard to breathe, she could barely speak. She gasped for oxygen, but the hot air seemed to have none.

He tried again to turn her from the lists and the consternation on the sergeant's face told her what she didn't want to know. She refused to move and the sergeant nodded sadly. “Ah, it's sorry that I am, ma'am, but he is."

She shook her head in rapid denial. “Non."

Faced with her recalcitrance, he finally said, “You'll have to be seeing it for yourself, I suppose. I understand.” He took her elbow in an awkward gentle grasp. “Here now, move aside,” he ordered the men around him, pushing forward. “Make way. Make way for the major's lady, you rabble!"

She didn't bother to scold or shush him for calling her the major's lady. She didn't care. All she cared about was seeing the death lists herself.

Using the force of his strong bulk and his commanding tones, the sergeant cleared a path for Angele. He pointed to a spot on the long rolls of casualties. She ran her gloved fingers over the name. Plain and clear, written in fine penmanship, the name seemed to stand out from all the others, “Darling, Maj. James E., mortally wounded.” She didn't recognize the regiment number, but with his transfer she no longer knew for certain what military unit James was attached to.

She stared at it for several moments before turning away. “Thank you for your help, Sergeant O'Riley,” she whispered.

She began to make her way out of the crowd unaware that the sergeant continued to clear a path for her. He was speaking to her, she knew that, but she couldn't hear his words. Blood rushed and pounded too loudly in her ears for her to hear anything but Mr. Stowcraft's voice inside her head repeating over and over, “Major Darling's dead."

The words rebounded from the walls of her mind to the exclusion of all else. Like a set viewed through a theater shim, everything she saw was veiled by James’ name on the death lists. The band wrapping her chest was so tight now, she could draw none of the muggy, heavy air into her lungs. Her feet seemed miles away from the rest of her body and moved of their own accord.

She knew Catherine had appeared at her side and was speaking to her, but it didn't matter. Catherine's voice penetrated her consciousness no more than Sergeant O'Riley's did. Nothing mattered. James was dead. The unthinkable had occurred. The beautiful voice that she loved so well was silenced now. The body that had protected her from harm and brought her so much joy was cold and unmoving. The willow green eyes that sparkled and danced with such love and care would never look at her again.

As she reached the edge of the square, anguish for all she'd lost welled up inside her. The cry torn from the depths of her soul echoed inside her long before it ever escaped her throat.

* * * *

Wesley ran to Angele as she sank to the pavement. Sergeant O'Riley murmured an urgent explanation in his ear as he bent over a screaming Angele. He stifled his own urge to scream as he heard the sergeant's news.

“What's happened?” Charlie called from the open carriage. “Mrs. Woldman! What's happened?"

When they had seen her sister emerging from the midst of a mob about the bulletin boards and heard Catherine calling out, she'd ask Wesley to halt his carriage to see what the matter was.

Catherine's face was confused as she looked at the younger woman. “I don't know for sure. We were talking about that awful battle they just had at Antietam and ... Well, I'm not really sure what happened,” Wes heard her say.

Wesley lifted Angele and strode toward the carriage. She was no longer screaming, but somehow her silence was worse than her cries.

“James is dead,” he told Charlie. He had no other idea what to say. His own grief and hurt were thundering through him. His best friend was dead.

Charlie's eyes widened in shock and worry. "Oh le Bon Dieu m'aide. Ma soeur pauvre!"

She gathered Angele into her arms as Wesley lifted the nearly insensible woman into the carriage with the sergeant's help. Wesley wanted to fall into her arms and cry out his loss as well. But more than that, he wanted to hold Angele close and give her what comfort he could. He had sworn an oath to James he'd care for his wife and child should something happen. He'd take that oath seriously. James was gone, but Wesley would see his child knew his father through his best friend's eyes. He swore silently he'd fulfill his oath to James in every way.

Charlie was now crying, too, silent tears flowing down her cheeks. “Oh, Wesley! Take us home,” she pled as she shielded Angele from the view of the crowd with her parasol. “Take us home!"

* * * *

Before the sun set, the town was agog at the news that Angele Valmont had collapsed screaming upon hearing the news of James Darlings’ death. That several of the nearby Yankee soldiers had doffed their hats and stood with bowed heads as she was placed in the traitor Wesley Leighton's carriage only added fuel to the burning furnace of gossip. When she didn't appear in public the next day or the next or the week after that, stories of illness and insanity began flying through the Vieux Carré and the American Quarter alike.

CHAPTER 27

Charlie didn't know what to say, that much was plain to Catherine Woldman. “It's a very simple question, dear. How is Angele?"

“I'm awful, Catherine,” Angele said from the top of the stairs. “Come up, s'il te plaît. Merci, Charlie. You run along. Sarah Nelson is expecting you."

Catherine frowned as Charlie scurried out the front door with evident relief. When Catherine looked back up, Essie stood waiting patiently to guide her to wherever Angele waited. Angele herself was nowhere to be seen. The foyer mirror was draped in black crepe as it had been after William's death. Catherine studied it for a moment before climbing the mahogany staircase. She'd already noted the other signs of mourning about the house. She found it very troubling. As far as she knew, none of Angele's relatives had died. She frowned as she followed Essie.

Angele's boudoir was dim, the carefully painted blinds drawn against the sun. It took Catherine a moment to locate her friend seated beside a small table, a vacant chair across from her. As Catherine sat down, she noticed a basket of sewing beside the chair, filled with what seemed to be the makings of a man's shirt.

Essie stood nervously just inside the door. Catherine was surprised by the hesitation in the servant's demeanor. In Catherine's experience, Essie was never hesitant or shy about anything. In fact, Catherine often found the slave to be far too pert and had told Angele she needed better control over the woman's tongue.

“Should I fetch some tea, Madam?” Essie asked.

“No!” Angele ordered.

Both of the other women flinched at the sharpness of the word.

Angele took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. No tea, Essie. I couldn't bear to see tea just now. I'm sorry, Catherine. I'm sure Essie can fix whatever you'd like, but no tea, please."

“I don't need anything, thank you."

“That will be all then, Essie,” Angele said in a voice as colorless as her face.

Essie left with a hurried, “Oui, madame."

Catherine didn't hesitate. “What is it, my dear? What's happened?"

Her friendship with Angele was of long standing and it had been years since she'd stood on ceremony with her Creole friend. Angele's black dress and pale face proclaimed more loudly that some tragedy had overtaken the household than the crepe-covered mirror downstairs.

“Has someone passed on?"

“Oui.” Angele did not look at her friend. Her eyes were unfocused as if she were looking within rather than at anything in the room. “My husband. He was killed at Antietam."

“Your husband!” Catherine had suspected several different things after Angele's collapse at Jackson Square, but marriage was not one of them. Nonetheless she made the correct connection quickly. “That Yankee who died? Major Darling? You were married to him?"

“Yes,” Angele whispered. “That Yankee who died."

“Lord have mercy!” Catherine said, glad she was seated as weakness assailed her.

“He hasn't any.” Angele's bitterness stunned Catherine. “If so, he would not have taken James. I...” She stopped, her jaw clenched against whatever she'd been about to utter.

“But you never said a word. How on earth ... Why didn't you say anything?” Catherine asked.

Angele didn't answer immediately. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the arm of her chair. Catherine watched as it took several long seconds for her to compose herself. “I couldn't. You know what would have happened if I had."

Catherine thought for a moment. “Charlie. It's her debut. This would have ruined it."

Angele nodded. “So I said nothing. I still can't say anything. Being the widow of a Union officer is no better than being the wife of one. Society will never forgive me, or her by association."

Catherine understood perfectly. “What are you going to do then? There are rumors flying to the four winds."

Angele shrugged. “There have been rumors and more rumors about my doings since long before my debut. This is just more grist for their tawdry mill. As long as there are only rumors, there will be no actual action taken. Dieu! I'm Antoine Brouillette's mistress and have been for years. It doesn't matter that it isn't true. It's considered fact. And accepted. No one cuts me and I'm invited everywhere. I just need to keep everything as it is until Charlie is married."

She finally focused on Catherine. “And that is where I need your help. I can't leave the house, but Charlie needs to attend what few functions there are. I know you are invited everywhere, cherie. Would you take her about with you?"

“Of course,” Catherine agreed with alacrity. “But it would be best if you did so yourself. It would dispel many of the rumors."

Angele stood as she said, “And create entirely new ones."

“Oh, my.” Catherine stared at the unusual cut of her friend's dress. “When I saw you last week I thought you had put on a good bit of weight. At our age that isn't uncommon but ... oh my dear.” She sighed. “When is the baby due?"

“Late winter, early spring,” Angele answered.

Free of the concealment of her corset and enhanced by the loose panels of her maternity dress, her pregnancy was now obvious. She moved slowly to the window and looked out through the edge of the blind. “I hope it's a boy. I want to have his son. If I thought God would listen, I'd pray this child have his father's eyes and voice."

Catherine wasn't sure what Angele was looking at, but she was sure it wasn't the quiet expanse of Royal Street.

“I would dearly love to hear his voice again,” Angele whispered.

Uncomfortable in the face of Angele's bone-chilling grief, Catherine hastened to rise and say, “I'll send for Charlie so we can compare our invitations and see what functions are most suited for her."

“Merci, Catherine,” Angele said. “Whatever you think is best."

Catherine had never heard such complete disinterest. Angele didn't move from her post by the window. Catherine feared her friend watched for a rider who would never come. Angele's hand came up to clutch the gold locket that rested on her breast. It was the only item she wore that was not proper mourning and Catherine knew without asking it had something to do with Angele's lost major. She also realized Angele had said all she intended to say and their interview was over. Catherine allowed Essie to show her out with grave concerns for her friend troubling her heart.

* * * *

“Essie, come in here, please. I need you."

Essie jumped when her mistress called from the top of the stairs. She hurried up the carpeted steps though her heart was full of misgivings. Those were the first words she'd heard Angele speak in over three days. Ever since she'd heard the major was dead, Mam'selle had withdrawn into herself. She'd emerged long enough to speak to Madame Woldman and then shut herself away again. Essie knew Angele cried though the rest of them seldom saw it. Mostly she just sat and stared at nothing. Mam'selle had a reputation for coldness that Essie had always thought false. Now she wasn't so sure. It was as if any warmth Mam'selle had ever possessed died with the major in far off Maryland. Any feeling she'd had was gone, leaving her frozen.

Essie was surprised and even a touch frightened to see Mam'selle was dressed. True, she was wearing the simplest of the day dresses they'd sewn to accommodate her growing child, but why would Mam'selle get dressed without Essie's help?

As the maid entered, Angele sank into the muslin-covered chair at her writing desk and picked up a thick packet of papers. She held them out to Essie.

Weakness sank into Essie's limbs with each word she read. As she reached the end of the document she could barely stand. She gripped the edge of Mam'selle's desk to stay on her feet.

“This says I'm a free woman. It says I always been a free woman."

Angele took a sip of the water that sat on the desk. “I learned to sign my papa's name so well that no one could tell if it was him or me doing it before I was thirteen. He taught me how himself."

So, Mam'selle had forged the old master's name. It wasn't the first time, but Essie couldn't figure why she felt the need to do so now. Essie shook her head in confusion. “But why, mam'selle? Why are you making me free?"

“There isn't much that goes on in this town I don't know about and nothing that happens in this house I'm not aware of. So I know how you feel about Clement. Well, a freed slave can't marry a freeborn man even if they're both colored. So I made sure that paper said you were born free.” At Essie's still uncomprehending look she continued, “You write that man. You tell him to quit fighting and come home to you. This war isn't anything but a way for all of our men to die. You tell him to get his ass home and marry you."

Essie didn't dare scold her mistress for inappropriate language. This was far too momentous. Angele looked up and that soul-freezing fear returned to Essie. The eyes that lifted to meet Essie's dark ones were yellow and dead. If there was anything left alive inside her mistress, it was the child growing in Angele's belly. Everything else had perished along with James Darling.

Her voice was as lifeless as her eyes. “I don't want you living with the kind of regret I'm feeling. So you send for your man and you marry him and you be happy. Vous me comprenez? Don't you give a damn about what the world or anyone in it thinks. You just love him while you have him."

Essie sank down beside her now-former mistress’ chair, overcome.

Angele stared into the empty distance. “If anyone asks, we found those papers amongst some things of Papa's.” She seemed no more animated for the length of her speech. Her voice was as toneless as when she'd begun.

“Get up, Essie. We'll go on like we always have until your Clement comes for you. When this damnable war is over, you take him and go somewhere where it doesn't matter what side you fought on. And don't you ever be ashamed of him."

Essie could see the tears that hovered unspilled in Angele's eyes and knew this had far more to do with Angele's own guilt than with helping Essie achieve her own happiness. Angele had hidden her Yankee lover away even after he was her husband, and now she was full of remorse because she'd been ashamed of him.

A touch of that guilt bled over and Essie was sorry for the way she'd treated the major. Whatever might be said about the man, he'd made her mistress happy and he'd insisted on doing the right thing by her when he'd found out she was with child. He'd let Angele rule him too much, but Essie had yet to see the man that could rule over Angele. And now he was dead and from the looks of it, Mam'selle would never get over that. Essie had heard the stories of Mam'selle's great-aunt Jolene Valmont who had grieved herself to death for her husband and joined him in the grave within six months of his passing.

Near tears herself, Essie fled the anguish that wrapped Angele so tightly and went in search of pen and paper to write to Clement, for once unafraid of anyone finding out Mam'selle had taught her the forbidden skill. When Essie returned hours later with her mistress’ supper, Angele was still sitting at her desk staring into emptiness as if she had not moved all afternoon. Essie wondered how long a woman could live with the sort of grief and guilt Mam'selle Angele was feeling. She prayed Angele had some concern for James Darling's child and that it was enough to keep Mam'selle alive, because Essie could think of nothing else that would.

CHAPTER 28

Séverin handed Charlie's letter to Antoine and sank into one of the white wicker chairs scattered about his second floor veranda. The sheer weariness of the action concerned Antoine, but he turned his attention to the letter as Séverin wished.

Cher Parraine,

I write to you because I don't know what to do. As I wrote you earlier, my sister's husband has been killed in this awful war and she lies devastated by the news. It's been nearly a month now and she's gotten no better. I've never seen her like this! I've always thought of Angele as the strongest among us, but all that strength seems gone now. It's horrible to see her this way. She hardly sleeps and barely eats and takes no interest in anything. She sits and stares at nothing or lies in her bed looking up at the ceiling. I'm afraid for her health and the health of her baby.

I know you're angry with her for marrying a Yankee. I was, too. But whatever I might have thought of that or of Major Darling, I didn't really want him to die. I think he was a good man at heart, despite his uniform. And it's awful to contemplate her baby never knowing his papa. It's not even born and it's already an orphan. I want to cry for it, the poor little thing. I was lucky. When my papa died, I had you, and you've been the best papa anyone could want. But if you stay mad at Angele, who's going to be papa to her baby?

Please don't be angry any more. Whatever she did, I promise you she's been punished more than enough. She needs you and Antoine now. Please come or send Antoine.

Your loving daughter,

Charlie.

Séverin stared out over the gardens to the fields beyond. “I can't leave right now, but you go to her. See if it's as bad as Charlie says.” Séverin's voice sounded distant and tired. He hadn't sounded this weary even during the weeks of his convalescence. “She exaggerates sometimes."

Antoine shook his head. “I don't think so. Not this time, cher. She sounds scared and our Charlie does not scare easy.” He stared out over the acreage Séverin was contemplating and wondered how long it would be before the Yankees came to take it away. “You're still mad at Angele and her Yanqui, yes?"

“I don't know,” Séverin answered though he didn't look at his lover. “I don't really know what I feel. I'm sorry she's so distressed and I can't find it in me to be glad another man is dead. There's been too much dying already."

Séverin sat in silence for long minutes. Antoine let him. He knew when Séverin needed to just sit and think.

Finally Séverin took a deep breath. “Go to her, Antoine. Go for me. Tell her she needs to come home where she belongs. Charlie's right. That baby needs a father. Tell Angele it's time she married one of us. If she doesn't want me, considering how I feel about Yanquis, tell her to marry you."

He finally looked at Antoine. “I know you don't give a damn about politics. You only care because I care. And she knows that, too. She might be more comfortable with you being papa to a child fathered by a Yanqui. Either way, she needs to be here with us.” Séverin rose and headed into the house. “I'll let the housekeeper know to expect her. Go get her and bring them both home, Antoine."

* * * *

Antoine nearly cried when he saw Angele. Charlie's letter was no exaggeration. In fact, it downplayed his cherie ami's condition. He'd seen Angele sick before. He'd nursed her through bumps, bruises, cuts, sniffles, colds, cramps, and a half a hundred complaints of one kind or another. He'd held her hand while Séverin had pulled a branch from her arm where she'd fallen on it when she was ten. She still had the scar. It had gone all the way through her skin and muscle and come out the other side. It had frightened them all. They'd been a good two miles from the nearest house. Séverin had bandaged her with Antoine's shirt. He and Antoine had taken turns carrying her home. Afraid of what Mem Elysée would say, weak from blood loss, and scared Doctor Pritchard would chop off her arm the way he had Louis’ when the big blacksmith had managed to shove a piece of iron through his wrist, she hadn't looked as bad as she did now.

The delicate skin around her eyes was purpled as if bruised and seemed even darker against her colorless face and pale lips. Her eyes were huge in her thin face and the eyelids over them were swollen and red. Even her hair seemed dull and lackluster and was confined in the simplest of knots at the back of her head. There was no light or life about her. Whatever joy she'd once felt had drained away and left her hollow and empty.

He had no words in the face of such manifest grief and just opened his arms to her. He rocked her softly and hummed wordlessly as she cried against his chest. There would be time enough for words later.

* * * *

The porch swing creaked a slow rhythm, the sound soothing in the sunset. Lightning bugs flashed in the gathering dusk as they searched for their mates. Mosquito hawks darted about, their lacy wings capturing light still lingering in the sky. Antoine pushed the swing with one foot as he sat beside Angele and watched the smooth flow of water over the rim of her marble garden fountain.

“So, belle, what you gonna do? When you gonna tell everyone you married your Yanqui?” He put his hand over her swelling waist. “I think you got more than enough reason."

Angele placed her hand over his. “I can't."

“Why not? You loved him. I think the whole town has figured that out.” There was no condemnation in his voice. Antoine didn't judge. He could see how deeply she cared for this blond Yanqui soldier who had been stupid enough to go off and get himself killed. It was a good thing her major was dead or Antoine would have to horsewhip him for causing his Angele doux such pain.

She shook her head. “That doesn't matter, cher ami.” She didn't demure when Antoine pulled her closer. She clung as tightly to him as she ever had. “He was an officer in the Union army. For me to have married him is no more acceptable than for you to marry Séverin.” She laughed bitterly. “In fact, most people would consider your relationship with Séverin in a better light."

Antoine smiled. “And think it a good deal less unnatural."

She nodded. “Exactement. If it was just me, I wouldn't care. But the scandal will ruin Charlie's social standing. She wouldn't be received anywhere. And I have to think of the baby. As is, it's all just rumor. Right now, it would be better for me to go back to Ville-des-Fleur and let everyone speculate about the father, rather than say this baby belongs to James.” She sighed. “I doubt anyone would believe me if I said I was married to James. They'd think I was just covering up an affaire."

Antoine nodded. “Then marry me. Won't nobody dare say a thing about you or the baby then.” He grinned coldly. “At least not to your face."

Angele shook her head. “Séverin would hate it. You know how he feels about Yankees and I can't blame him.” She settled her head against Antoine's broad chest. “I can't bring James’ child into Séverin's house. And I'd never expect you to live anywhere but with Séverin."

“Now that's where you're wrong, mon amour. Séverin sent me to tell you it's time you married one of us and came home where you belong. He says you get to pick. Me or him.” Antoine thought for a moment. “But that's not right. No, mon amie. It's best you marry Séverin. Best for all of us. Your child will have a good name, Séverin will have an heir, Charlie won't be touched by a breath of scandal, and me and Séverin will have the protection of your presence. It's best for all concerned."

Angele nodded. “C'est vrai,” she whispered.

They rocked in silence as the crickets’ noise grew louder and the night scent of the four-o'clock flowers joined the gardenia and honeysuckle perfume of the day.

“We'll all be miserable together, heh?” Antoine said at last with a smile much warmer than his previous one.

He hoped to coax a smile from her, but her sadness didn't lessen. She sighed against his chest and he could feel the warmth of her breath through his muslin shirt. “Not miserable, cher Antoine. At least I hope not. Things shouldn't change for you. You know I won't interfere with you and Séverin. You know how much I wish the world was otherwise and you could be free to show what you feel for him."

“I know, belle. I know. But we can't, no more than you can show how you grieve for your Yankee. Sometimes I wish me and Séverin didn't feel this way. I wish God had made it so Séverin and I could love women. Then he could marry you and everything would be all right."

She reached out and turned his face toward her. “If God had made it so you and Séverin weren't in love and so you wanted a woman instead, I'd have married you, m’ beau Antoine."

He smiled down and kissed her gently. “Oui. I can see that, ange. In another world, I bet we could be real happy together."

He let their kiss turn a bit more personal. “Maybe we will in this world, too. Séverin and me, we want you to be happy with us. I'll do my best to make sure of that.” He ran his hand over her rounded stomach. “I'm gonna claim this one as mine. My mama, she was blonde with green eyes. If this baby has light hair, shouldn't nobody be surprised. I'll be a good daddy to it. And I'll kill any man that says it isn't mine ... or Séverin's. Don't you worry. As far was everybody knows, it's gonna be just like they always suspected. Me, you, and Séverin, we stood against the world before. We will in this, too.” He smiled down at her. “In the coming years, me and you, we'll give Séverin a house full of children to carry on the Valmont name, yes?"

Antoine was pleased to see a hint of a smile on her when she looked up at him.

“You know, you are quite likely the most beautiful man ever born, but I sometimes forget that your heart is as beautiful as your face,” she said before falling silent again. It was completely dark and the flowers in the garden were gray against the blackness of night before she spoke again. “Yes, my dearest friend. Yes, we'll see Séverin and Charlie happy.” She placed her hand over his where it rested on her stomach. “And I'll teach this baby to call you Pa like the Americans do."

* * * *

Antoine stayed for three days, but Angele seemed no better. Indeed, she seemed more despondent as each day passed. Finally, she came to him as he stood in the afternoon shade of her garden.

“I can't marry Séverin,” she confessed as she twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “I can't marry you, either, mon cher Antoine. I just can't do that to James."

Antoine frowned. “I don't understand, cher belle. Your James, he's dead. You ain't doing anything to him."

“But I am!"

Antoine had never seen her quite so overwrought.

“I denied even knowing him the whole time he was alive. I hid him away because I was ashamed of his uniform. I was ashamed of his birth. Dieu me parddone! He was the best man I've ever known and I was too weak and cowardly to walk the streets on his arm!"

She began to weep, but stepped back when Antoine would have comforted her. “I wronged him. I won't keep doing that. I denied him in life. I won't deny him in death."

Her fingers were now shredding the bit of cotton and lace they held but she stood straight and resolute though. “This child will be born with James’ name. And he will be born here in the house I shared with his father, in the bed where he was conceived."

The weight of her words left her panting. “Thank Séverin for everything he is willing to do for me and the baby. I know how hard it was for him to make such an offer. But I can't. I just can't do that to James.” She fled to the safety of her room and for the first time in his life, Antoine found her door locked against him.

CHAPTER 29

Allaire had to give credit where it was due. Mam'selle Charlie might spend half her life battling her hoopskirts in an effort to retain a certain level of grace whenever she walked around or sat in a chair, but on horseback she was a very different creature. Her habit was pearl grey broadcloth and Allaire had replaced the mother-of-pearl buttons on her jacket with plain jet buttons after the major died. Her veil was blown back over her ostentatious hat and a black enameled hatpin glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. Allaire had given up on counseling her charge that the sun would brown her face if she didn't keep the veil down. The whimsical river breezes kept blowing it back no matter what she did with it anyway.

“Your gloves are cracked!” Captain Leighton remarked as they drew up alongside the cottage. “You should throw them out and use some of your new ones."

The roses in the Creole girl's face blossomed. “You know perfectly well that would not be proper, sir. Your own mother would tell you so."

Allaire nearly harrumphed. Of course Captain Leighton knew Ma'amselle Charlie could not wear any of the items he'd sent her in the basket until they were properly wed. Essie had huffed and made much over it. She said it showed his American breeding that he sent the bride's gifts long before he was even assured he had a bride.

Allaire was quite aware the bloom in Charlie's cheek and her glittering eyes were probably just as symptomatic of Captain Leighton's company—and perhaps even more familiarity than was proper between them—as the vigorous exercise of a good three-mile ride down the riverfront beyond the marketplace. The entire situation of the courting couple left Allaire just as confused as the other house servants. Everyone knew Captain Leighton had been expected to marry her as far back as when Mam'selle's papa was still alive. He'd come home as an invader, clad in enemy colors, and yet he was as gentlemanly and kindly as he'd ever been.

The whole issue of how to treat Michie Wes had become the speculation of several mealtimes amongst the female attendants of Maison de Rose. Even the outspoken opinionated Essie was foxed. After all, it was all very well to argue that Major Darling was nobody, a northerner and an enemy, but Captain Leighton was somehow different. He never entered the home without showing all the proper attention and courtesy to everyone therein.

Wesley Leighton did not scuttle down side alleys and enter the house through the garden; he was received at the front door and offered rum. Allaire, for one, found his visits comforting. At least he cared enough about his friendship with the dead major to watch over his widow. And perhaps it was not the worst thing to be friendly to a Yanqui officer, especially if the occupation continued and the war went badly.

“Allaire, put down that chest, ma fille.” Séverin stepped out onto the threshold of the front door. He planted his cane on the brick banquette and smiled at her. “It's too heavy. Amaury will put it in the coach."

Then his smile rearranged itself as she glanced towards Michie Wesley helping Mam'selle alight from her mare and hand the reins to Amaury who rode behind them.

“Séverin!” Mam'selle cried out joyfully as soon as she saw him. She abandoned Michie Wes at the iron jockey where he hitched his own horse, dashing over the battered brick to greet the only papa she had. “Oh Séverin! You're here!” She threw herself into his arms as hard as she dared, given his infirmity, and clung to his broad shoulders tightly. “I've missed you something awful!"

He kissed her cheek and whispered to her lovingly as he drew her under one arm. Allaire collected some of Mam'selle's hat boxes to load into the coach.

“Have you seen Angele?” Mam'selle's voice dropped as Allaire walked past them. To her left she saw Michie Wes hastening to join them, proudly upright, and a cordial smile in place. Allaire couldn't help thinking well of him. He was gallant enough to be honest about his feelings for Mam'selle and not pretend, regardless of what side he allied with. She had to grant him respect for that even if it made his position in the household difficult.

“Oui, I have seen her.” Michie Séverin's low voice reflected his concern. “And she is not well at all. You must help me to persuade her to come home with us. She will be better off at home but she thinks she would rather stay here."

“Séverin.” Wes met his eyes and held out one hand. “It's good to see you in town again."

Allaire's heart pounded as she handed Mam'selle's hats into the coach. It was a relief to hear the thud of Michie Séverin's leather-gloved hand against Michie Wesley's as he gripped it heartily.

“It's very good to see you, Wesley. I see you've been kind enough to accompany Charlie for exercise. I'm obliged to you. It would not be safe for her to ride out here alone."

“It was truly my pleasure."

“Merci. And now I will take her back to Bougival where I may chaperone her myself and you need inconvenience yourself no further on her account.” Michie Séverin was the master of kind words that stabbed like Michie Antoine's sharp Bowie knife. “Again, I appreciate your care of her for the sake of an old friend. Thank you, Captain.” He turned away, the matter closed, and guided his godchild towards the house. “I would ask you to have some rum with us before we leave, but you probably have orders you should be returning to. Non?"

Allaire watched, incredulous, as her master, one of the kindest gentlemen in Louisiana, deliberately cut Mam'selle's favorite suitor and left him standing in front of the house he'd lately been so welcome in.

* * * *

Angele fiddled with the fringe of her delicate silk shawl. Séverin watched her pale, thin fingers combing the black strands nervously as a chill ribbon of fear wound about his heart. Antoine had not exaggerated her state. His companion's letter ordering him to come at once had been startling. Antoine seldom commanded Séverin to do anything, and such commands had always concerned Séverin's health or wellbeing before. So when his love had written for Séverin to come at once to New Orleans, he'd known it was serious. He'd just had no idea quite how grave Angele's condition would be.

Séverin had never imagined his strong-willed cousin could appear so frail both physically and emotionally. He certainly didn't want to add to her distress, but she had to see reason. She couldn't continue as she had been, that much was clear to any observer.

“I understand you need to see that your bébé has your husband's name. I honor you for that,” he said gently. Regardless of how he felt, he doubted he'd be able to raise his voice to her; she might shatter. “But your health is failing, mon cherie. You need to think of your babe. It will need its maman."

Angele shook her head, and Séverin sighed. Regardless of how frail her body might have become, her stubborn streak was every bit as strong as it had ever been.

“Please, mon amour. Come home to Bougival with me. The country air, the peace, it will be much better for you and the bébé than staying here in the city.” He had to get her out of this house where she was surrounded by memories of her dead major.

She rose, still graceful despite her swelling belly, and stared out the double doors at the courtyard garden. “Non, Séverin. Merci. Merci beaucoup. I am so grateful for you.” She turned, her bearing ramrod straight. “I will always love you, my Séverin. So much so in fact, that I have named you as guardian to my child should anything happen to me."

The cold bonds around Séverin's heart turned icy. “I will gladly stand as papa to your baby, mon cherie, but I'd rather do so with you beside me as his maman."

Her slight shrug didn't warm him. He feared deeply he would soon stand as parent to yet another orphan. How could he bear to lose her this way? To see her pine and waste away for a love she couldn't reveal to the world? He could not imagine how it would be if something should happen to Antoine and he was forced to bear his grief in secret. He shuddered. He had to get her away from this place and somewhere her mind and heart could heal. But short of physically loading her in his carriage, he could think of nothing he could do.

Mathilde curtseyed to Séverin as she entered, hesitant and shy. “Mam'selle, pardonne. Michie Wesley is here. He wishes to speak to Michie Séverin."

Séverin could hardly believe her terminology. “Michie Wesley?” He didn't need Wesley Leighton and his Yanqui uniform reminding Angele of her lost husband. And what was his former friend doing here? And how was it he was on such friendly terms with the household? Surely he had not been visiting with that sort of frequency or familiarity.

His rising ire was not lessened when bright dots of color appeared on Angele's pale cheeks. “Send Wesley in, Mathilde,” she ordered.

Her use of so familiar a name was not lost on Séverin.

“I have no need to see Wesley Leighton,” Séverin declared with as much gentleness as he could muster. “I have nothing more to say to him."

Angele ignored him and held out her hands in welcome as the Union officer entered the room.

Wesley took them in both his and brought them to his lips. “How are you today, dearest?"

Séverin did have to admit that the concern on Wesley's face seemed genuine.

Angele didn't answer Wesley's question, but instead led the captain to Séverin. “Wesley has been caring for me since James ... since I heard James was dead. He has been everything that is kind and good. Even now he is trying to discover where James’ body was sent or if it was buried on the battlefield. I would like to have my James entombed here. He has written to James’ family for me, assuring them this would be James’ wish. He sees I have things that are not easily obtainable and harangues me unmercifully about caring for myself."

For the first time since he'd entered the house, a small smile appeared on her face. “He agrees with you, Séverin, that I should retire to the country. If not to Bougival then to Ville-des-Fleur or even his grandmother's plantation. He's being quite stubborn about it, but I am more stubborn.” Her smile faded and she turned serious. “Séverin, Wesley needs to speak to you. And you need to know he has my permission and my blessing for his request."

Séverin frowned and she looked at him with a plea in her golden eyes. “Please think before you answer."

With a sigh, Séverin nodded. However, if this request was what he thought it was, he'd already made up his mind. Charlie had written him of her growing feelings for Wesley, though Séverin had no idea Wesley was in Angele's house daily. It explained a great deal. There were few if any young men in New Orleans to pay court to his goddaughter so, of course, she was gratified by the attentions of a man as comely and polished as Captain Leighton. And he couldn't blame Wesley. He'd been brought up to believe Charlie would be his and, despite his past behavior, Séverin knew Wesley took his oaths and obligations seriously. Reminded of his vow to become Charlie's husband, Wes had tried to fulfill that commitment. Séverin should have made it plainer that he no longer wished Wesley to honor his oath.

“For your sake, amour, I shall,” he said.

“I'd rather you did it for Charlie's sake,” she answered and allowed Wesley to settle her on the couch.

Séverin watched as the captain took the time and care necessary to see Angele was truly comfortable. There was no denying his solicitousness was authentic. Séverin felt sorry for Wesley. He couldn't feel any real animosity toward the man. They'd been childhood friends and whatever Wesley's political leanings, he'd continued to show himself a friend to the Valmont family. Séverin was truly grateful for the care he'd shown to Angele during these troubled times. But he knew what Wesley wished to ask him, and he couldn't see how it was in Charlie's best interest.

He sighed. There was no other sensible choice than the one he'd made. He had fought too long for Charlie to have a normal life to allow her to marry a man the whole city considered a traitor, even if he was as good a man as Wesley Leighton. Even now, Angele was sacrificing her health and maybe her life to protect Charlie's reputation. How could he allow Charlie to throw that away on a childhood infatuation? Still, he owed it to Wesley to at least hear his request. So he listened attentively and when the other man had finished speaking, it was not without sadness that Séverin had to politely refuse his request to marry Charlie.

Unfortunately, Wesley was not willing to accept that answer and neither was Charlie.

“But, Séverin, why?” Charlie cried as she vaulted into the room.

She'd obviously been listening outside the door. Séverin didn't bother to chastise her for eavesdropping. She was too upset as it was.

Carefully mindful of her feelings, Séverin began to outline his fears for her future. “I want you to have a normal, happy life. I want you to be received everywhere and to continue as you have always done."

“But why should marriage to Wesley hinder that? Papa wanted this marriage and you never voided the contract.” She reached for Wesley's hand. “I love him and wish to be his wife."

It hurt Séverin to refuse her this, but he knew there would be hurt piled upon hurt later if he didn't. He wished so much to spare her the pain he had foisted upon Antoine. Loving outside the rules of society was painful, even when hidden as well as he and Antoine had concealed their relationship. He wasn't sure he could bear to see her face such sorrow.

He turned to Wesley. Surely his old friend understood the situation even if Charlie did not. “I mean no offense, but you are a Union soldier, Wesley. Our society will never accept you again."

Wesley didn't bother to hide the fact that he was holding tightly to Charlie's little hand. “True. But not all of New Orleans are Confederate sympathizers. Half of the city sides with the North. I'm not alone in my political leanings. Charlie will be more than welcome in many of the homes here."

Séverin shook his head. “I will not see her snubbed because your uniform is blue.” He sighed. “If you have children, how will Charlie feel when they are not welcome? Many will consider them as unwanted as the Yanquis and their children."

Angele rose from the couch. “I ... Excuse me,” she muttered and fled the room.

“Damn it, Séverin! Did you have to say that?” Wesley demanded. “Have you no idea of the guilt she's feeling over the way she treated James just because he was a Yankee? It's that guilt that's killing her as much as her grief.” Some of his anger faded and he looked down at Charlie. “I'd dearly love to see her pass a full day without crying."

Séverin dropped onto the sofa and ran his hands through his hair. Angele's tears were as much a concern to him as they were to Wesley, and Séverin knew of no way to comfort his beloved cousin. It had taken but a few moments in her company to know her major's death was a blow that might well be mortal. Séverin wasn't sure anything short of God raising her husband from the dead could mend her broken heart.

CHAPTER 30

James lay near the wall of the riverboat. He had long ago learned the veracity of the axiom “Never stand when you can sit and never sit when you can lie down."

So he was stretched out with his saddle for a pillow on the deck of the paddlewheeler. It was actually pleasantly cool in the shade. October had brought relief from sweltering summer and fresh, dry breezes blew down the river making it far more comfortable on deck than in his cabin. A wealth of autumn wild flowers bloomed on the riverbanks as refreshing to the eye as the breeze was to the skin. Still, pleasing as the display of golden rod and black-eyed Susan were, he wished they would flow past more quickly. Even though the boat sped down the Mississippi pushed by its paddle wheel and the mighty current of the river, it wasn't fast enough for James. He wanted to be home. He grinned at the thought.

New Orleans was now home. That vile pit that smelled continually of sewage and rot had become the one place dearest to James’ heart. His wife waited there. In a house of simple elegance wrapped about a garden full of sweet fruit and fragrant flowers, his wife was even now waiting for him to return to her. It had been far too long since he'd heard from her, but he knew that his recent weeks had been too full of movement for his mail to catch up with him.

Sent from the siege of Vicksburg to help quell an Indian uprising, he'd spent all of September fighting the Santee and Dakota Sioux. Chief Little Crow's insurrection had cost the lives of five hundred white settlers and God knew how many Indians. It had not been an easy fight. The Sioux were a brave people and their warriors made tough opponents. But they couldn't stand against the might of the U.S. military once the army mobilized. They'd been doomed to defeat and it had come swiftly.

With the uprising firmly put down and the trials of the miscreants well underway, James had finally managed to be reassigned to his regiment in New Orleans. General Pope had been pleasingly accommodating. Dissatisfied and bitter about his own posting to the frontier, John Pope had approved James’ request with little question. He also listened carefully to James’ complaints about General Butler's handling of the situation in New Orleans and offered his advice on where James could best voice his opinions to receive the proper attention. James had penned several carefully worded letters before he left Minnesota. Hopefully, his concerns would fall on the correct ear. Pope might be out of favor after his defeat at the second battle of Bull Run, but he still had a wealth of knowledge about the military hierarchy and life in Washington. And he'd placed it all at James’ disposal.

While his letters headed to the capitol, James was ecstatic to be returning down river. Though he found John Pope easier to stomach than Benjamin Butler, James was more than willing to return to Butler's domain if it meant he could return to his wife. He lost himself in a daydream of their reunion and passed the next few hours in pleasant reverie. The growing bustle as they entered New Orleans finally distracted him and he noted that more passengers had come on deck. They were all scurrying about getting ready to leave the boat.

He smiled to himself. He'd been ready since morning. He only needed to collect his horses and gear when they were offloaded and he could head directly for Royal Street. He joined the queue of passengers eager to leave the ship as the crew went about the final aspects of docking the vessel. He was a seasoned army veteran and far more patient than his fellow travellers. He'd learned the art of waiting years earlier.

Disembarking was easy, and his mounts were soon ready. He smiled at the setting sun. He'd stable his horses and after a brief walk he should be home before the night was too old. His Angele should still be awake. His smile broadened at the thought.

He had just finished loading his packhorse, his mount already saddled and ready, when his love's name caught his ear.

“Oh, I know, Sadie, it was the talk of the town for a good month. But, well, considering how things have turned out, you can't help but feel sorry for Angele Valmont,” a woman's voice drawled.

“Well, I suppose. But such carryings on are just not decent,” a second woman commented, her soprano heavy with judgment. “Still she has reaped what she's sown what with the baby dead and her lying at death's door herself and all."

James’ heart stopped. He was sure of it. He couldn't breathe or move even when his heart restarted with a lurch that set up such a pounding he couldn't hear or see for several seconds.

“Well, I still say it's sad. I expect we'll hear she's dead any time now if she isn't already. You know they say the baby wasn't even Antoine Brouillette's.” The gossip's voice dropped as she related the most grisly aspect of the scandal to her friend. “It was some Yankee's. Oh, yes. That's what caused it all. She heard he was dead and took the brain fever and now she's like to die of it."

* * * *

James wasn't sure if he rode down any pedestrians in his wild gallop to reach Royal Street. He didn't particularly care. He was focused on only one thing—reaching Angele before she died. The fear that twisted and pulled his insides into knots stretched the ride from the river to her house into a never-ending torment. Darkness had fallen over the streets before he leapt from his horse outside her door. The shutters weren't yet closed for the night and he had his key in the lock and the door open before the dust from his gallop settled.

Matilde gave a strangled shriek when he burst into the foyer.

James grabbed her plump little shoulders. “Where is she?” His gazed darted about the area, seeking any sign of his wife. The black-draped mirror sent a jolt of pure panic through him. Matilde's black dress did nothing to ease his fear. If the house was in mourning...

“Where is she!"

Poor Matilde pointed wordlessly up the stairs and collapsed in a heap when James released her and vaulted up the stairs, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. He called for his wife as he ran. “Angele!"

He froze for an instant just inside her doorway. She stood before her rocker as though she'd just risen. The letter she was holding fell from her fingers, sliding down the black sateen and crepe of her skirts to lie on the carpet. Even from the doorway he recognized it as one of the multitude of love letters he'd sent her from Vicksburg.

“James,” she gasped barely above a whisper.

He had never heard anything more beautiful in his life. He was across the room in quick, long strides, holding her as tightly as he could. The scent of sweet olive blossoms enveloped him and her arms wrapped around him.

“You're alive. Oh, thank God,” he murmured. “You're alive.” He tilted her dear face up where he could see her golden eyes. “I love you,” he said before he lowered his mouth to hers and silenced her cries of joy.

* * * *

Séverin took in the sight of Matilde sitting on the floor weeping and waving her hands in hysteria and ran for the stairs, Antoine half a step behind him. Shouts and the pounding of heavy steps on the stairs had drawn Antoine from the back of the house and Séverin from the parlor, his argument with Wesley momentarily postponed. Whatever else he might feel about the man, Séverin had no qualms about leaving Charlie under Wesley Leighton's protection. Wesley might be completely unacceptable as a husband, but he was still a Creole gentleman and would protect Charlie with his own life.

Séverin didn't allow his disability to slow him as he rushed to confront whatever danger faced the older of his cousins. He pulled his pistol from his waistband as he went. He knew without looking that Antoine would have his knife or his gun in hand already.

The door to Angele's room stood open and he stopped at the opening, everything in the room clear in the light of the lamps. Whatever he'd expected to find, it certainly wasn't his cousin wrapped tightly in the arms of her supposedly dead Yankee, Major Darling's head bent, his golden locks mingling with her red ones like fire over embers. Angele's fists were clenched in the blue calico of the major's shirt, pulling the material taunt across his broad shoulders.

“Looks like the son of a bitch wasn't killed after all,” Antoine said from just behind Séverin's shoulder. “So where the hell has he been and how come he didn't let her know he was all right?” he growled.

Before Séverin could snarl his agreement, James lifted his head and Séverin found himself staring directly into the major's eyes. In their green depths Séverin recognized the love he saw and felt every time he looked at Antoine. Angele had not lied when she said her Yankee's love was as strong as what he and Antoine shared. Tears flowed unrestrained down tanned cheeks, no shame or concern that others might think the drops or his love for his wife a weakness marred the pure light of the major's emotions.

Séverin's hand spread across Antoine's chest, restraining the Cajun from stepping into the room. Séverin bowed slightly to James. “Monsieur, we will await you downstairs,” he said with a tiny smile.

James nodded once before turning his complete attention once more to his wife.

Séverin closed the door softly and steered Antoine back toward the staircase.

“What in the name of the Holy Virgin was that?” Antoine asked as he sheathed his knife and secreted his pistol away.

Séverin smiled, suddenly happier than he'd felt in weeks. “That was love, l'amour-de-ma-vie. I don't know what else it was and I assure you, we will find that out before we leave this house. But for now, it is enough that I understand why our Angele has been so ill."

He paused for a moment while they were still out of the view of anyone below. Antoine stood on the step below him, his teal eyes level with Séverin's brown ones. “If the day comes that you are taken from me, I will be as she was.” Séverin reached out and ran his fingertips over Antoine's cheek. “Once we discover our mate, the Valmonts need their love as much as we need air to breathe. You are my air, Antoine, and I now see that the Yanqui major is Angele's. And she is his. He can no more live without her than she can live without him. It is a rare thing they have found.” He kissed Antoine's frowning brow. “I think perhaps I was wrong. The Valmonts are not cursed in love, we are blessed."

CHAPTER 31

Angele rubbed her cheek over the soft cotton of James’ shirt. In his wild ride from the docks he hadn't taken time to put on his vest and coat and only the thin calico separated her cheek from his chest. She could feel his heart beating sure and strong beneath her ear. Its music was only slightly less beautiful than that of his voice. She heard Séverin speaking, but didn't move. She wanted to listen to James’ heart and his steady breathing. She reveled in the auditory proof he lived.

James’ hand slipped beneath her chin, lifting it so she was looking up at him. His eyes were as silver-green as she remembered, bright with tears. He caressed her face.

“They said you were dying.” His voice caught on his final word.

His touch moved from her face to her stomach. He spread his hand wide, feeling the hard swell of their child secure inside her.

“They said the baby was dead and you were dying. I...” He couldn't continue and leant to kiss her, his hand tightening on her abdomen as if to hold the baby safe.

She reached up to wipe the tears from his cheek. “Oh, mon amour, I know what you are feeling. Your name was on the death rolls. You were supposed to have been killed at Antietam. All these weeks, I thought you were dead."

Her tears joined his as she clung to him. “I treated you so badly and God took you away. You were gone forever and I thought I would die from it. James!” She began to sob. “Never go away again. Please, James. Never leave me again."

* * * *

Her words mirrored James’ own feelings. He kissed her desperately. “Never. I'm never going away from you again."

He thought hard for a moment, searching for the words. “J'y suis; j'y reste.” He covered her face in kisses, his fingers trailing over its contours. “Here I am and here I remain. If you can't go with me, I won't go. If I left and something happened to you while I was gone..."

He couldn't finish that thought; it was too agonizing. Looking at her now, that fear didn't fade. He had thought the time away from her was hard for him, but it had obviously been devastating for her. She looked extraordinarily tired and very unwell. She had always been fairer than any woman he had ever seen, but now her skin was sickly pale, its translucence showing the network of blue veins beneath plainly. For all the generous bulk of her stomach, he could feel her ribs and her features had a new sharpness. Concern for her health bloomed amidst his joy at seeing her alive and he kissed her again, holding her so tightly he pulled her from her feet. He could feel the swell of her stomach against his, their child pressed between them.

She gasped, pain flashing across her face.

“Honey?” he said fearfully as he lowered her to the floor. He feared he'd hurt her. Weren't pregnant women fragile? Had he squeezed her too tightly? “What's wrong?"

She took his hand and placed it on her stomach again, moving it until she had it positioned the way she wanted. “Wait.” A few seconds passed and then she winced slightly. “There."

James’ lungs stopped working as a tiny something moved beneath her skin. Even now he could feel it pushing weakly against his palm. He gasped. “The baby ... That's our baby?"

She nodded. “Yes. He is very active, your petite fils."

“My son? You think it's a boy,” he said, amazed at the feeling of life inside her.

“Oui. I'm not sure why but, yes, I believe this child will be a son. I hope so.” Her fingers were soft and warm as they traced the outline of James’ classical brow and nose. Her golden eyes glowed, and James felt that glow melt his heart.

“I don't care,” he whispered. “Boy or girl, it doesn't matter. Just as long as you're all right.” He pulled her to him again, unwilling to have even an inch of space between them. “All I care about is you,” he said, his lips brushing hers. “Nothing else matters,” he whispered before giving himself over completely to loving her.

* * * *

Wesley couldn't quite believe it—James wasn't dead. He hadn't believed it when Séverin had informed him that the sudden upset to the household was due to Major Darling's startling return. Wes had holstered his guns, told Matilde to stop sniffling, and sent her off to help Essie get fresh coffee without really comprehending what Séverin was saying. Even now, watching James station himself beside Angele's chair as he had seen his friend do so often before, it seemed a touch dreamlike.

James looked solid enough, with his hair much longer than Wes had last seen it and a day's worth of stubble around his mustache and goatee. His lack of spit and polish somehow made him more real. The flowered blue of his shirt was slightly dingy and travel stained. A faded red kerchief bound his neck instead of the more proper narrow military cravat. He definitely had the look of a man just come from a frontier campaign.

But it was seeing the light in James’ eyes as he looked down at his wife that had Wes finally believing James was indeed among the living. No ghost could look that pathetically in love. James was just as besotted as he'd been before he left, perhaps even more so. Wes couldn't help grinning.

James was explaining he had no idea why Angele had not received his letters. He admitted he had not been able to post any while chasing the Sioux across the Minnesota territory and it was possible he had traveled down river faster than his last posts from Fort Snelling. But he had written just before leaving Vicksburg and again when he'd reached Fort Snelling and she should have received at least those missives. He was as confused by the lack of mail as the rest of them.

Angele held tightly to his hand, unwilling to go without physical contact with him. She was still pale and sickly looking, but the horrible emptiness that had them all so concerned for her health was gone. Light and life had returned to her eyes and she was smiling. Wes had not seen her truly smile since her collapse upon hearing of James’ death.

One of the mysteries of his friend's supposed death was explainable. James had an idea who the man listed as mortally wounded might be.

“I have a cousin, James Ethan Darling. We're both named after our grandfather. Ethan was a captain the last I heard, but there have been so many battlefield promotions it's not improbable that he made major."

He shifted so his arm went around Angele and rested on her shoulder opposite where he stood. “He was a good man. I'm sorry to hear he's gone, but I'm sorrier still my wife has been put through this."

He reached across to take her hand and held it pressed against his stomach. He met Séverin's steely gaze without hesitation.

“Fair enough,” Séverin said. “And I am sure we are all happy you are safe ... for Angele's sake, if nothing else. However, we still have this marriage of yours to deal with.” He accepted the coffee Essie passed to him. “There is still Charlie's reputation to think of. I believe we should move Angele to Ville-des-Fleur as soon as possible. Your marriage can be hidden for..."

“Non,” Angele said firmly. “I will not leave James and I will not hide my marriage any longer."

Wes had seen a teenage Angele acting the grande dame, but this was no act. There was a quiet determination in her voice and an uncompromising tilt to her chin that was as impressive as any he'd seen from his grand-mère Marie-Hélène.

Séverin blinked at the interruption and she continued, “I will not conceal what James is to me. He is my husband, he lives here, and from now on he will come and go from the front door of his own house. I will not have him sneaking in and out any longer."

“His house?” Antoine said. “This isn't his house. This house belongs to you and Charlie and Séverin."

“No,” Angele said. “This house was never Valmont property. My father's mother left it to Charlie and me. And, of course, what is mine is now my husband's property. This is James’ house."

Charlie's nose wrinkled in a way Wesley found adorable. “Mon Dieu, but Angele is right! James and I co-own a house. Good Heavens!” She gave him a long, thinking glance. “Since you're a Union soldier are your taxes ever excused?"

James was every bit as dumbfounded as Séverin and Antoine. Wesley couldn't help grinning. Angele saw his grin and tilted her nose a little higher in the air, but there was a touch of amusement in her eyes now as well. Wes lifted a brow to his superior officer who gazed upon Charlie with the baffled expression he so often wore when dealing with Charlie.

“And you said she had no more sense than a grasshopper,” Wesley chided him.

“Hmmm.” James nodded. “Looks like I was wrong."

“Essie!” Charlie's clear high voice rose to a slightly unladylike volume.

Wesley remembered Séverin saying she might grow up to be an opera star if she wasn't a lady. “Bring my brother some food. He must be starving by now."

Abruptly Charlie rose from her seat and crossed the parlor. Essie gasped in shocked surprise when Charlie hugged James Darling tightly, her thick curls tangling in some of his shirt buttons. Wesley's grin was so broad it hurt his face. There was a multitude of reasons he loved her, but her generous, open nature was certainly one of the strongest.

“I'm glad you're home,” she whispered. Her voice still carried to everyone in the room.

Wesley's smile didn't diminish as he watched James’ hand tightened around Angele's. His friend smiled down at his sister-in-law.

“So am I. And thank you,” he said, his eyes conveying he understood what her few words meant. He straightened a bit and glanced at Séverin. “But Monsieur Valmont is right. We do have to think of your reputation. It's going to be bad here for a while. Your godfather has a fine town house. It would be best if you moved back there to live while you're in town."

Charlie's smile drooped slightly and some of the pleasure in her eyes died away. Wesley didn't like seeing her joy dampened.

“You've ... You've just come home and you want ... You think I ought to leave?” She glanced at her sister. “I can't go. Angele has not been well."

“No, I haven't, but I will be fine now,” Angele said with a smile at her Yankee major.

Charlie nodded and Wesley couldn't help smiling again as she said, “Yes. All the strange and wonderful events this evening mean everything will be fine now. I'm so glad you're alive, James. My sister will be strong again now. And I can wait out ... Goodness!” She looked at Angele in confusion. “How long is a respectable interval to wait before calling on one's sister after she's married a Yankee officer?” she asked, her brow knitted in adorable consternation. “Will I ever even get to meet the baby at all?"

Wesley watched as James’ fingers carefully worked Charlie's hair free of his shirt buttons so she wouldn't rip it out as she moved away.

“I'm sure we can arrange to sneak you in the back gate,” James said with a smile, but Angele winced.

James obviously had no idea how guilt had plagued her after they'd all thought him dead. Wesley would never forget the sight of the once overly-haughty Angele weeping uncontrollably as she knelt beside James’ favorite chair and begged his spirit for forgiveness for her shallow pride. Her contrition and sorrow had been heart-breaking to observe. He had held Charlie close while she wept for her sister's grief. He'd seldom felt so helpless.

Thinking back on that moment, he had no wish to see Charlie placed in Angele's predicament with her heart warring with her head over what should or shouldn't be done. He'd no desire to watch her pansy-brown eyes filled with tears because she felt guilty or an instant of shame because he'd chosen to fight for the Union.

“Perhaps you're right after all, Séverin.” He shook his head. “Maybe I should withdraw for a bit until everything settles down. I suppose it would be for the best. The Good Lord knows I understand what a scandal can do to a person better than any of you.” He suppressed a shudder. “I don't want Charlie to face that. What I feel for her doesn't really matter compared to her well-being. The two of us fighting about an engagement certainly won't help that.” Though he felt his heart tearing in half with each word he'd do it for her sake. “I'll withdraw my request for her hand,” he said somewhat shakily.

Her tiny sound of protest cut as deeply as a bayonet thrust.

“Really, Wesley, you've none of your grandfather's spirit in you!” his grandmother snapped from the entryway. “He'd have settled with Séverin and taken Charlie to bed by now!"

CHAPTER 32

Madame Marie-Hélène's utterly frank, utterly inappropriate comments wafted across the room like tinkling crystal fringes on candelabra. “You don't do him an ounce of credit."

Heat rose into Charlie's face as she imagined Wesley “settling with Séverin and taking her to bed."

James made a sympathetic face at her, but remained completely silent as all the other men rose hastily to their feet. Marie-Hélène strode in with slow majesty and sank into the easy chair Charlie had vacated. Her blue-gray eyes, so like Wesley's, flashed their challenge at Séverin.

“What seems to be your fuss, sir?"

Séverin and Antoine looked at each other with a confused vexation that evoked Angele's soft laugh. Charlie was tempted to join her sister in laughter. She could easily imagine Séverin's consternation. How did one tell a grand dame like Marie-Hélène her grandson wasn't a fit suitor for one's goddaughter?

“I understand he's American,” Marie-Hélène added, unapologetic, without really waiting for Séverin to respond. “But it is only half. It's not like he's Yanqui."

James’ eyes were wide. Charlie could tell he was hoping to avoid the lady's notice and her merciless remarks. Charlie couldn't blame him. However, he wasn't that lucky.

“Major Darling, it's nice to see you,” the former French aristocrat beamed upon him. “And not dead at all. Some the worse for wear, maybe, but still very alive. That's a good thing,” she added with a graceful shrug. “You'll be about to give your child an example of how not to behave in civilized society."

Charlie drew in a deep breath at the waspish remark and glanced at her sister. Angele's eyes had turned hard and sharp, but James forestalled any comment she might have been about to make by speaking first.

“I'd always do my best, ma'am,” James returned without hesitation. “By my child and by my wife. Indeed, I try to do my best by all my family and friends."

* * * *

Any rejoinder Marie-Hélène wished to make was silenced by the appearance of two of Angele Valmont's—no, Angele Darling's—slaves with laden trays. Marie-Hélène repressed a shiver. What an utterly appalling name to be saddled with! And she'd thought Leighton was bad enough.

Charlie thanked the slaves as Matilde settled the tea tray at her elbow and Angele's maid placed the other tray on a low table. Charlie handed a large plate of steaming hot food to her brother-in-law herself. It was simple fare—just leftover beef chopped and cooked with red and green peppers and poured over grits probably left from breakfast—but it was hearty and James Darling seemed grateful to have it. Madame took her cup of tea and watched Charlie grin as James tried to convince Angele to eat at least half of it.

Marie-Hélène watched in disinterest while the dirty—literally filthy—Yankee officer offered a large piece of softened beef to his embarrassingly pregnant wife. She had to admit he was a gentleman, even if he didn't bother to wash or shave before he took his meals. She thought of her deceased husband with longing and some of the mischief they'd indulged in when they were younger. A smile flickered across her lips.

“Well, Séverin?” Her smile faded with her recollection that Séverin was refusing her grandson a chance to build those same sorts of memories as well as an extremely advantageous marriage.

“Madame.” Séverin made a brief half-bow. “You know I would never intend insult to your family. But I have thought Charlie might benefit from a tour of Europe. There are many simple joys the war has taken away from her. There is much she has not seen. I would be remiss in my duty as her guardian if I allowed her to affiance herself with anyone at this time without first having a chance to experience the world."

Angele's brow arched, her approval at Séverin's reply written clear on her face. Marie-Hélène shared her pride. What diplomacy! Sophie really had done a superb job when she'd birthed this one. It reminded Madame how pleased she was to be his godmother. Why couldn't her granddaughters have chosen a man like Séverin instead of those dull sticks they'd married?

Still, for all his cleverness, she was more so, and he'd dance nicely to a tune of her making. Indeed, he might have just handed her the instrument himself.

Marie-Hélène thought about it for a minute, then smiled her agreement. “Yes, I think you're right, Séverin. We ought to send the pair of them to Europe."

She smiled graciously at Séverin and Antoine's identical expressions of chagrin. “All the ... culture and polish one acquires from that sort of thing. I know the years you spent with Angele and Antoine in Europe were some of the most life-changing in the world."

Marie-Hélène smile turned meaningful. She knew exactly the sort of shenanigans those three had gotten into in Europe, including the fact they'd all shared a single bedroom more than once. She even knew Angele, poorly disguised in boys’ clothes, had entered such disreputable places as gaming dens, taverns, and even any number of brothels with the two young men. After all, it was Marie-Hélène who forwarded the three's letters to Wesley where he languished in exile up North after his own scandalous behavior. Of course, in his best interests, she'd read them all before sending them on. And in the best interests of three young people she actually cared a great deal for, she'd never said a word to another living soul about the contents of those letters. But she wasn't going to allow Séverin Valmont's fear that Charlie would be tarred with a tittle-tattle brush interfere with her grandson's happiness. Wesley had been miserable long enough.

Her smile grew. “And Charlie can go to Worth's in London and have some new dresses made for her trousseau. And some of the most wonderful corsetieres work in England. Angele bought some beautiful silks while she was there and in Paris. She looked quite glorious in them, don't you remember, Antoine?” She paused as the Cajun's face flooded with warm color.

“La! Forgive me! Of course you wouldn't remember. Listen to me prattle on as though Antoine Brouillette would've been privy to Angele's lingerie while they were in Europe. Or after."

Angele clamped a napkin over half her face and began to cough.

“Essie, quick! Madame's choking, bring her some water!” Madame ordered.

Charlie's eyes were round as saucers as she stared from Séverin to Antoine to Angele, waiting for them to say something. The lovely major looked much the same. That would teach these children to think they could beard an old lioness.

“You're right, Séverin, absolutement. We ought to send them to Europe now. Immediately.” Marie-Hélène nodded.

Wesley sighed. “Grand-mére, I don't think..."

“No, Wesley, don't think. For pity's sake, don't. If you do, you'll forget what's really important. You want the girl or you don't and the rest of it be damned. I'm sorry, cherie.” She smiled at Charlie's shocked gasp at her crude language. “Séverin, you know as well as I do the Valmonts always court scandal. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I was a scandal myself in my time. My brother never spoke to me again after I came here with my husband. Wasn't much of a loss, the man could barely pronounce a single sentence that wasn't boring."

She waved away whatever comment he was about to make. It wasn't yet time for any of them to speak. She still held the stage.

“He had no real familial feelings for me, or me for him. But you're not that way, not you and Charlie. We all know Charlie won't accept this offer if you don't like it. That's the only thing keeping her from my grandson. So, why don't you like it? Because he's all in Union blue?” She shrugged again. “When the war's finished, he'll wear some other color. What does that matter? He's neither poor nor stupid, and he's good breeding stock.” She thought for a moment. “You'll need that. Charlie's too short."

Charlie gasped in horror and fled the room.

“Grand-mère!” Wesley's voice sharpened in disapproval.

“Well, she is.” Her grandson's wrath intimidated her not one bit. He glared at her for a moment before following Charlie from the room.

“Madame, have you finished your tea? Would you care for more?” Angele offered in a smooth, clipped tone.

A fine cobweb of indignity colored her words and Madame had seen duchesses who could learn from Angele's studied hauteur. Madame didn't fight the smile that curved her lips. In time, that one would be nearly as intimidating as Madame herself. Perhaps Madame would cultivate that. It would be good to have someone with those talents to look after Wesley when Madame was gone to whatever reward the Lord saw fit to provide.

She considered Charlie's shortcomings for a moment. “Of course, you could settle her with Antoine and he might do just as well. He's tall. And much prettier than she is."

“Madame!” Séverin thundered. “That is going too far!"

“Not far enough.” Marie-Hélène shook her head. “Stop being an ass, Séverin. Your reasons for keeping her from Wesley are just as nonsensical as wishing to breed her to Antoine for the height and beauty of their offspring. It matters not one whit that Wesley's in the Union army. Nothing's changed for him. When this war is over, he'll be a rich man, a gentleman with lands adjoining your own and a few friends on the enemy's side. I'm not willing an inch of land to Henriette or Hélène or their idiot husbands if they manage to survive the war—stupid Americans both of them."

Her mouth pursed as if she tasted sour lemons. She couldn't think of her supercilious grandsons-in-law without feeling that way. “Wesley loves Charlie and will treat her well, and she'll be near you. Do you really want to bargain her off to some destitute English knight and never see her again?"

“Enough,” Angele snapped. “My sister is not some object d’ art to be bartered.” She reached for James’ hand. “You speak of what you want and what Séverin wants. But what about what Wesley wants? What are Charlie's feelings in this? What does my sister want? What will make her happy?"

She drew herself up and Madame revised her opinion. This one needed no cultivation. She was ready to bloom into her full power all on her own.

“I just spent the last weeks in a veritable hell because I was separated for what I thought was forever from the man I love. I will not confine Charlie to that hell simply to conform to some stupid societal dictate. If she loves Wesley and wants him, then I swear to you I will not stop fighting for her to have him."

She did not calm when the major laid his hand lovingly on her shoulder. Indeed, the action seemed to deepen her resolve.

“I was foolish enough to care about such things and nearly lost my James because of it. I will never be that foolish again."

Her head tilted upward just a bit more. If ever Madame was forcibly reminded of the forgotten days of the Ancient Regime, it was now. Truly Bourbon blood still flowed in this one's veins.

“Hear me, all of you. I will accept no slights to James for either his birth or his uniform. Speak disparagingly of him and you will find my door closed to you forever."

To Madame's surprise, the major closed his eyes for a moment before bending to kiss his wife as if no one else was in the room.

Dieu! Where had Angele Valmont found such a man!

When he was done, Madame Darling looked about the room with resolute mien. “I ask you all again. What will make Charlie happy?"

* * * *

Séverin was utterly stricken.

What will make Charlie happy?

In his mind's eye, he watched Charlie beaming in the late afternoon daylight as she cantered smartly past the house, her long gray skirts trailing neatly alongside her horse's flank and the curled ostrich plumes on her musketeer's hat waving in the breeze.

Why on earth had Antoine ever bought her that thing?

She wasn't smiling at him. She was smiling at Wesley. She'd been so happy. Until Séverin told Wesley he wouldn't be needed to escort Charlie any longer and then the smiling stopped.

“Séverin?” Antoine question didn't need more words.

It was always hard to know what to decide where his loved ones were involved. Séverin had always worked toward bettering them, but sometimes it was hard to guess what was best for another person. He looked to his lover for his opinion.

Meeting his stare, Antoine shrugged. “At least he's Creole."

James cleared his throat and looked at Séverin without hesitation or flinching. “Wesley Leighton is a good man,” he said with simple sincerity.

Angele nodded. “He has cared for me while James was away. I could ask for no better champion."

Antoine shrugged without commenting, but Séverin knew he was thinking of the years Wesley had been their friend and confidant. Wesley had never shied from them even when they'd told him the truth about how he and Antoine felt about each other. Antoine was a man who valued that sort of friendship and loyalty.

“He isn't received by half the families in New Orleans,” Séverin insisted with more than a twinge of regret. “Your own granddaughters don't receive him!"

Marie-Hélène sniffed. “Somehow I think that might change when the war is over, Séverin. And in all honesty, I think Charlie only cares that you receive him."

“Madame, I believe a word or two from you will go far in changing Wesley's current social situation,” Angele said with a glint in her eye. “If Wesley is received by you, by Séverin, and by Catherine Woldman ... Well, who would dare stand against such approval, n'cest pas?” She smiled. “And Charlie's scandal will be completely overshadowed by mine. Wesley has family and some social standing, regardless of his uniform. My James has none."

She smiled up at him. “I no longer care if I am received or not. I only care that James is with me."

If Séverin had any doubt of their feelings for each other, they would have vanished in that moment.

Antoine glanced at the parlor window facing out onto the small courtyard. Séverin followed his gaze. Wesley was speaking urgently with Charlie and drew her hand in his. She looked so sad, her sweet, pretty mouth all knotted up in a pout. Wesley tilted his head to one side and said something to untie the pout into a reluctant smile.

“I always liked Wes,” Antoine said, his tone idle and nonchalant. “Even though his sisters get on my last nerve."

Séverin nodded as Madame DuPré chuckled.

“I fear I feel much the same,” she said.

“Perhaps, when the war is over...” Séverin tried to deliberate.

Marie-Hélène shook her head, merry eyes gleaming. “I'll send them to Europe tomorrow,” she warned.

Séverin sighed in resignation.

James cleared his throat again. “A smart man knows when he's defeated.” He shook his head. “You Rebels should have made your women generals. We'd all be wearing gray by now and calling Jeff Davis president."

Séverin met his new cousin-in-law's eyes and laughed. They were all correct. What did it matter what the rest of the world thought, if his dear daughter was happy and had her family around her?

He grinned at the major. “I'm sending my tailor to you, m'sieur. Tomorrow. Wesley, too.” He took a deep breath. “I don't want a stitch of Union blue on anyone at Charlie's wedding."

James grinned back. “Fair enough, Colonel. Fair enough. In truth, I'm getting a bit tired of the color myself."

He nodded at Séverin and then Madame DuPré. “Well, if that's all settled, my wife is very tired. She hasn't been feeling well and she needs to rest. All this upset isn't good for her."

His stare was slightly accusatory. “I'm sure Essie can see to your needs. Ma'am, gentlemen. If you'll excuse me, I'll take my wife upstairs now."

To Madame DuPré's everlasting and obvious amusement, the Yankee major lifted Angele from her chair without so much as a by-your-leave and carried her from the room.

Séverin stared after them, mouth agape in amazement.

Antoine laughed, the sound rippling through the room. “I think we should get used to that, coeur. I think our Angele is going to be one very spoiled woman. Her and that Yankee are gonna scandalize the town for the rest of their lives."

Madame laughed along with him. “Oh Lord help us. I haven't seen a man like that in years. You Valmonts can't do anything by halves, can you? Not a lick of shame in the pair of them."

Through the window, Séverin could see Charlie smiling up at Wesley Leighton who was turned out in the full dress uniform of her enemies. He was looking at her as though she was the last morsel of food in the midst of a famine. Her expression was little different. His own lover, beautifully masculine and every bit as socially unsuitable as the captain and the major, was grinning at Séverin with a pure impish light of love in his teal eyes. And all the while his notoriously proper cousin was upstairs with her rough-edged Yankee lover, her belly swollen with a child that would come far too soon for propriety's sake.

Scandalous? Oh mai oui! All of them. And blissfully in love beyond the reckoning of most mortals. His smile was bright and filled with pride.

“Non, Madame, we do nothing by halves,” Séverin stated.

T. D. McKinney

T. D. McKinney was probably born with eclectic tastes. Growing up on the American Gulf Coast, she gained a great appreciation for all things Southern and a fascination with what the community around her termed the “War of Northern Aggression.” Frequent trips to New Orleans to visit relatives instilled an early love for that city and for the Cajun culture; one of her earliest memories is viewing Mardi Gras parades when she was three years old. She freely admits that at the tender age of six she fell in love with both Barnabus Collins of Dark Shadows' fame and Jonny Quest's scientist-father, Benton Quest. Sherlock Holmes followed soon after as one of the great abiding interests of her life.

These early influences doubtless explain a great deal about the author and her writings. There is very little she doesn't find interesting, whether it's art, music, history, vampires, web design, or forensic science. Everything is there to be explored, investigated, and attempted at least once. This trait often carries over into her writing. She loves exploring characters that are not afraid to take a risk or step outside the constraints of society or family. And if the character doesn't want to take that chance, she likes creating situations that require they do so.

Her two freshman offerings from Amber Quill Press perfectly express her eclectic nature. Dancing In The Dark is a dark romantic fantasy combining her love and life-long study of vampires with the hard reality of criminal profiling. My Secret Yankee (co-authored with Aimée Masion) is an American Civil War historical romance set in Union-occupied New Orleans that explores cultural and class differences and what happens when people from different worlds collide.

T. D. lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area of north Texas with her husband and young daughter. Artist, author, career woman, web designer, mother, and wife, she manages to keep busy. In her spare time, she shares her husband's interest in collecting swords, vampires, the internet, science fiction, and all things Japanese.

You can email T. D. at tdm@tdmckinney.comor visit her website at www.tdmckinney.com.

* * * *

Aimée Masion

A lifelong resident of New Orleans, Aimée Masion shares a Mid-City Creole apartment with the sweetest tempered Birman in the world. She enjoys reading and writing a variety of fiction with an emphasis on historicals, fantasy/horror, and romance. Her hobbies include baking, bellydance, films and theatre, and visiting historic homes.

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