Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) by Jennifer Blake Page B

remember? Why did that particular episode have the nebulous unreality of a distant dream?
    There was so much about the way Renold Harden had taken charge of her that she didn’t understand. More, the reasons he had given did little to relieve her mind. Because of that, she was forced to wonder if her confusion on that score wasn’t also his exact intention.
    She couldn’t stay here. Soon, in a day or two, when she was stronger, she must leave.
    It was infuriating, and also saddening, but Renold was right about her aunt. Her father’s sister would likely consider Angelica’s situation deplorable but fixed. She had no use for a man herself, but nurtured a firm belief in male authority and a husband’s prerogatives.
    In addition, Aunt Harriet had shown unmistakable relief at the ending of her responsibility for Angelica. She had meant to attend the wedding; she had signified her intention of doing that much. Afterward, she had expected to return to the round of genteel entertainments given by the spinsters and widows of Natchez that had filled her days before she accepted the task of rearing her brother’s motherless child. She had, rather obviously, been looking forward to that time.
    There was Bonheur, of course.
    Would Renold really come after her? Would he actually shoulder his way onto the property meant as her dowry? If he did, would it be from real interest or just the careless, patronizing consideration he might give an animal kept for his amusement?
    She was not his pet cat, nor was she actually his wife. Self-respect and self-protection in equal measure required that these facts be kept uppermost in the minds of them both. And she would not consider injuries or regrets.
    Certainly, she would not think, even for a minute, of the stroking, attention, and affectionate attachment usually felt for pets who remained close enough to receive it.
     

Chapter Four
     
    The passing voices, light and flirtatious, deep and caressing, had a joyous ring. They called back and forth with greetings and good-natured teasing. They rose above the sound of carriage wheels, and dropped to a low murmur with secrets. The light thrown by carriage lamps and lanterns carried by link-boys or servants wavered across the bedchamber walls. Now and then there was a gust of laughter. Fragments of conversation floated up from below, drifting in at the French doors that were open to the street and the unseasonably mild evening air:
    “ . . . Hope they have something besides the pianoforte, violin, and French horn. Last time, the music was—”
    “ . . . That Alphonse, no. I don’t like his mother; she said my gown was too bright!”
    “ . . . So handsome, but he won’t look my way. I heard he was enamored of a lady in Paris, but I don’t think—”
    There was tripping anticipation in the words, and a gaiety that made Angelica feel a wistful longing. Somewhere there was going to be dancing, music, people enjoying each other’s company. Perhaps it was a masked ball, since the Mardi Gras season was upon them here in New Orleans. How very agreeable it must be to join in such revelry.
    She was not eligible, of course, in her state of mourning. And in truth, her spirits were not so lively that she felt able to take part in such festivities. Still, she felt a perverse urge to be out there, beautifully dressed, on her way to the ball. It was as if, lying there in the bed, she was stranded on the bank of the river of life that flowed past outside.
    The door opened on the far side of the room. Turning her head, she saw Renold on the threshold. He paused with one hand on the doorknob, as if to be certain she was awake.
    “Why has no one lighted the lamps?” he asked as he came forward. “Or is woolgathering better done in the dark?”
    Angelica had seen no one for several hours. “I supposed,” she said with acerbity, “that you were being thrifty with the whale oil.”
    A smile flitted across his face. “It’s been a dull evening, I see.