welcome."
Madelaine stared into his eyes, her breath quickening. Her blood seemed to race in her veins, infusing her with liquid heat as his face came closer and closer until his lips met hers. For a moment she melted into his arms, her entire being responding to his kiss, then she jerked back, horrified. What was she doing?
She trembled when he released her. "Go away," she cried. "I never want to see you again." Turning on her heel, she ran to Empress, scrambled into the saddle and urged the mare ahead.
"Wait," he called. "Please . . ."
"No," she said. "No, never." She kicked the horse's flank and Empress broke into a lope. But though she fled from John Kellogg, she couldn't escape from the memory of how he'd made her feel. How dare he do this to her?
I hate him, she told herself. It's Philippe I love. Only Philippe.
Chapter 6
A week before Shrove Tuesday, before Mardi Gras, the two story white columned stuccoed brick mansion at La Belle was filled to overflowing with friends. In the garconniere, the guest house to the south of the mansion, men were forced to double up. House slaves rushed about serving the guests and putting the final touches to the wedding decorations. Guy and Senalda had been married before the altar of the St. Louis Cathedral, Father Antoine presiding, and now everyone was at the manor house for the wedding reception.
"La Belle never look so nice, not for long years," Odalie told Madelaine. "Mademoiselle Senalda be a beauty, that be for sure." She shook her head. "Got to be saying Madame to her now, I be forgetting."
Madelaine said nothing. Senalda Gabaldon La Branche was a beautiful woman. Among the dark Creoles, her blondeness made a sharp contrast, magnifying her attractiveness. Her eyes were every bit as blue as the spring sky and her figure was stunning.
I wish I liked her more, Madelaine thought. Can it be my fault? Am I so difficult? Guy tells me I am, but he’s teasing—at least I used to
believe he was. Senalda seems to hold me off or else treat me like a child. She can’t be very much older than I am. She doesn’t let me get close enough to her to be able to like her.
"You be a pretty sight in that yellow," Odalie said. "Maybe soon you be smiling instead of looking so cross."
Obediently, Madelaine turned up the corners of her mouth, but she'd never felt less like smiling. I wish it could have been me, she thought. Philippe and I before the altar at St. Louis' receiving the sacrament that made us man and wife, arm in arm at the reception here at La Belle...
Yet she didn't begrudge Guy his happiness. Impulsively, she hurried from her bedroom down the stairs, searching for her brother amid the throng of wedding guests. He stood beside a radiant Senalda, smiling and talking to the Lafrenieres. Madelaine eased in on Guy's other side and put her arm through his. When he looked down at her she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
"I'm truly happy for you," she whispered into his ear.
He put his arm about her, hugging her. “She’s so lovely," he said, his eyes on Senalda. "How can I help but be the happiest man in the world?"
"Certainly the luckiest," Andre Lafreniere said.
Guy nodded. He was lucky to have won Senalda as his wife when every young man in New Orleans had wanted her. And tonight— tonight she'd be completely his, they'd be one.
He was scarcely conscious of Madelaine leaving his side, or of talking to the many who came to offer good wishes. Nothing seemed real except Senalda beside him. His wife.
Although Guy tried to limit the toasts he drank, he could feel the wine muzz his head by the time he climbed the stairs behind his bride. The candles on the brass and crystal chandelier cast a soft glow over her fair hair so that she almost seemed to be wearing a halo.
Guy smiled. A saint for a wife wouldn't do, not at all. A memory of Aimee's golden body slipped into his mind and he shook his head, pushing the thought away. Now that Senalda was
Madelaine stared into his eyes, her breath quickening. Her blood seemed to race in her veins, infusing her with liquid heat as his face came closer and closer until his lips met hers. For a moment she melted into his arms, her entire being responding to his kiss, then she jerked back, horrified. What was she doing?
She trembled when he released her. "Go away," she cried. "I never want to see you again." Turning on her heel, she ran to Empress, scrambled into the saddle and urged the mare ahead.
"Wait," he called. "Please . . ."
"No," she said. "No, never." She kicked the horse's flank and Empress broke into a lope. But though she fled from John Kellogg, she couldn't escape from the memory of how he'd made her feel. How dare he do this to her?
I hate him, she told herself. It's Philippe I love. Only Philippe.
Chapter 6
A week before Shrove Tuesday, before Mardi Gras, the two story white columned stuccoed brick mansion at La Belle was filled to overflowing with friends. In the garconniere, the guest house to the south of the mansion, men were forced to double up. House slaves rushed about serving the guests and putting the final touches to the wedding decorations. Guy and Senalda had been married before the altar of the St. Louis Cathedral, Father Antoine presiding, and now everyone was at the manor house for the wedding reception.
"La Belle never look so nice, not for long years," Odalie told Madelaine. "Mademoiselle Senalda be a beauty, that be for sure." She shook her head. "Got to be saying Madame to her now, I be forgetting."
Madelaine said nothing. Senalda Gabaldon La Branche was a beautiful woman. Among the dark Creoles, her blondeness made a sharp contrast, magnifying her attractiveness. Her eyes were every bit as blue as the spring sky and her figure was stunning.
I wish I liked her more, Madelaine thought. Can it be my fault? Am I so difficult? Guy tells me I am, but he’s teasing—at least I used to
believe he was. Senalda seems to hold me off or else treat me like a child. She can’t be very much older than I am. She doesn’t let me get close enough to her to be able to like her.
"You be a pretty sight in that yellow," Odalie said. "Maybe soon you be smiling instead of looking so cross."
Obediently, Madelaine turned up the corners of her mouth, but she'd never felt less like smiling. I wish it could have been me, she thought. Philippe and I before the altar at St. Louis' receiving the sacrament that made us man and wife, arm in arm at the reception here at La Belle...
Yet she didn't begrudge Guy his happiness. Impulsively, she hurried from her bedroom down the stairs, searching for her brother amid the throng of wedding guests. He stood beside a radiant Senalda, smiling and talking to the Lafrenieres. Madelaine eased in on Guy's other side and put her arm through his. When he looked down at her she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
"I'm truly happy for you," she whispered into his ear.
He put his arm about her, hugging her. “She’s so lovely," he said, his eyes on Senalda. "How can I help but be the happiest man in the world?"
"Certainly the luckiest," Andre Lafreniere said.
Guy nodded. He was lucky to have won Senalda as his wife when every young man in New Orleans had wanted her. And tonight— tonight she'd be completely his, they'd be one.
He was scarcely conscious of Madelaine leaving his side, or of talking to the many who came to offer good wishes. Nothing seemed real except Senalda beside him. His wife.
Although Guy tried to limit the toasts he drank, he could feel the wine muzz his head by the time he climbed the stairs behind his bride. The candles on the brass and crystal chandelier cast a soft glow over her fair hair so that she almost seemed to be wearing a halo.
Guy smiled. A saint for a wife wouldn't do, not at all. A memory of Aimee's golden body slipped into his mind and he shook his head, pushing the thought away. Now that Senalda was
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