Читать книгу The Countess Misbehaves - Nan Ryan, Nan Ryan - Страница 8

After a restful afternoon nap followed by a long leisurely bath, Madeleine Cavendish was again feeling like her old self. Relaxed. Self-assured. Looking forward to her first evening at sea.

When the blinding summer sun had finally slipped below the horizon and full darkness had fallen, Madeleine was humming happily as the surprisingly talented Lucinda meticulously dressed her long hair. It took a good half hour, but when Lucinda had finished, Madeleine’s heavy locks were skillfully fashioned into a shiny coronet of thick braids atop her elegant head. The style was quite flattering to Madeleine as it accentuated her graceful, swanlike neck and beautiful throat.

Madeleine had chosen, for the first dinner at sea, a shimmering green silk ball gown with a low-cut bodice, an uncomfortably tight waist, and billowing skirts that spilled attractively over yards and yards of crinoline petticoats.

By ten minutes of nine she was fully dressed and ready for dinner. But she waited another half hour before leaving the stateroom.

Arriving fashionably late, she swept into the immense dining hall with its blazing chandeliers, deep lush carpet and gleaming sandalwood walls. A uniformed steward ushered her directly to the captain’s table. A dozen diners were seated at the enormous round, white-clothed table.

All the gentlemen stood as a chair was pulled out for her. Nodding and smiling as she was presented to the well-dressed group, Madeleine noticed that one table companion was even later than she. The gilt chair next to hers was vacant. Perhaps the guest who was to be seated there had come down with a bad case of mal de mer. Poor miserable soul. She recalled, all too well, her first crossing years ago, when she had suffered from sea sickness.

As a white-jacketed waiter shook out a large linen dinner napkin and draped it across her silk-covered knees, Madeleine glanced up and saw the stranger from the railing. He was dressed impeccably in evening clothes and was making his way across the crowded room.

Dear lord he was coming straight toward the captain’s table!

Lady Madeleine stiffened. She gritted her teeth as he pulled out the empty chair on her right and sat down. The captain made the introductions and she learned her rogue was Armand de Chevalier, a New Orleans native on his way home after a lengthy summer stay in Paris. The elderly, gray-haired gentleman on her left, a New York banker, leaned close and whispered that de Chevalier was an aristocrat. A wealthy Creole who often traveled to Europe. He was, it was rumored, of the chacalata—the highest born of the Creole elite. Madeleine nodded. She knew that the haughty Creoles were the descendants of the early French or Spanish settlers who had been born in America. She also knew that they were considered the nobility of New Orleans.

Conversations resumed. Diners began to sample the vichyssoise. Armand de Chevalier turned away to politely reply to a question from a stout, expensively dressed woman seated on his other side.

Lady Madeleine suffered a mild twinge of alarm knowing that she and this raffish Creole were to be dwelling in the very same city. At the unsettling prospect, she involuntarily shivered.

“Are you chilly, my Lady?” Armand de Chevalier, turning his full attention to her, softly inquired. “If so, I could…”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you, Mr. de Chevalier.” She icily set him straight and reached for her wineglass.

From the corner of her eye she saw that the Creole’s full lips were turned up into a hint of a sardonic grin. Her dislike and distrust of the man increased.

It was, for Madeleine Cavendish, a miserable meal. Her usual healthy appetite missing, she pushed the food around her china plate and forced herself to smile and engage her fellow diners in idle conversation. All but de Chevalier. She said nothing to him. And, further, she silently, subtly let him know that she was not interested in hearing more about him nor did she intend to tell him anything about herself.

He didn’t press her.

Still, she was greatly relieved when at last the seven-course meal finally came to an end.

At the captain’s insistence, the smiling countess courteously allowed the beaming, white-haired ship’s officer to escort her into the ship’s mirrored ballroom. Leaving Armand de Chevalier behind, Madeleine immediately began to relax and enjoy herself.

Lavishly dressed dancers were spinning about on the polished parquet floor as a full orchestra in evening wear played a waltz. Warmed by the wine and relieved to be free of the bothersome Creole, Lady Madeleine was gracious when the aging captain lifted his kid-gloved hand and led her onto the floor.

She smiled charmingly as the barrel-chested captain turned her awkwardly about. And she laughed good-naturedly when he stepped on her toes and quickly assured him she was unhurt, no harm done.

Her smile was bright and genuine as the captain, soon wheezing for breath and perspiring heavily, continued to clumsily turn her about on the floor.

But her smile evaporated when Armand de Chevalier appeared and tapped the Captain on the shoulder. He brashly cut in, decisively took her in his arms and deftly spun her away.

She was trapped. Everyone was watching. The other dancers abruptly stopped dancing to watch the Countess and the Creole. Madeleine couldn’t make a scene. She couldn’t forcefully push de Chevalier away and storm out of the ballroom. She was left with no choice but to smile and endure the dance.

Madeleine’s smile was forced.

She was as stiff as a poker.

At least at first. But that quickly changed. The Creole was such a graceful dancer and so incredibly easy to follow, Madeleine—who had always loved dancing—found herself relaxing in his arms. And enjoying herself. Too much.

Soon she was no longer aware of the watching crowd. She was aware of nothing and no one save the man who held her and turned her and spun her about. His lean body barely brushed her own, yet she sensed his every movement as if she were pressed flush against his hard male frame. It was as if they were one body, hers so finely attuned to his, she could easily anticipate even the slightest nuance of movement before it took place.

It was strange.

It was exhilarating.

All her senses seemed suddenly to be heightened. Her vision was so sharp that as she looked at him, the thought struck her that this handsome man’s aquiline profile could have been traced from a drawing of a conquistador.

Her hearing, too, was nothing short of incredible. She could hear, above the music and commotion, his deep, steady breathing and even the heavy, rhythmic beating of his heart. His clean, unique masculine scent, so subtle, so intoxicating, caused her to inhale deeply.

Most pronounced of all was her sense of touch. His hand at her back, gently guiding her about, was warm and persuasive, the tapered fingertips only lightly touching her waist, but seeming to burn through the silk of her ball gown. His other hand lightly clutched her own slender fingers and pressed them against the solid wall of his chest. The heat emanating from him was intense; her sensitive fingertips, which touched against his muscled chest, felt as if they were on fire.

A thrill rippled through her.

She was overwhelmed by the sight, sound, smell and touch of this sinfully handsome man. Guiltily she wondered about that other sense. The sense of taste. What would it taste like to be kissed by him? Covertly, she glanced at his sensual lips and felt butterflies take wing inside.

Quickly she looked away.

And saw—reflected in the ballroom’s mirrored walls—duplicate pairs of the dancing duo. He so tall and dark and broad-shouldered. She so pale and slender and bare-shouldered. The two of them moving perfectly together. Swaying seductively to the music.

It was a powerful image and Madeleine felt quite faint. Her partner immediately sensed her condition and artfully danced her out of the warm ballroom and onto the ship’s deserted deck.

Armand solicitously steered Madeleine to the railing where the salt-laden sea breeze cooled them. He gave her a chance to catch her breath, watched as some of the color returned to her cheeks.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded and took a couple of long, deep breaths. Then she gripped the railing tightly, lifted her face into the wind and closed her eyes. In silence Armand stared at her in frank admiration. What a lovely vision she was with her noble head thrown back, her delicate chin lifted, her long dark lashes fluttering restlessly over her closed, beautiful eyes. He noted, and not for the first time that evening, that she possessed the most exquisite shoulders and bosom he had ever seen.

The bodice of her emerald-green gown was cut low enough to reveal the tempting swell of her milky-white bosom. At the same time the gown’s fabric rose high enough to modestly conceal her soft, rounded breasts.

Madeleine opened her eyes. She turned to look at Armand and some of the disturbing warmth quickly returned. Struck by his imposing height, the width of his shoulders and the way the moonlight silvered his raven-black hair, she said anxiously, “Good night to you, Mr. de Chevalier. I…I must retire to my…my…stateroom.” She stammered as she stared at his mouth and tingles of excitement swept though her. “I hardly know you and it’s improper for the two of us to be here alone.”

Armand smiled at her and asked, “Would it have been better to have stayed inside where you would have fainted before all those staring people?”

“I never faint!” she promptly defended herself.

“Ah, I see. My mistake,” he replied in a low, teasing voice. “I thought that you were feeling a little dizzy and…”

“I was, but I am perfectly fine, Mr. de Chevalier. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me.”

She turned away.

He followed.

“I will see you to your stateroom, Lady Madeleine,” he said.

She was quick to protest. “That isn’t necessary, I can find my way….”

“You heard me, Countess,” he interrupted as he commandingly took her arm and escorted her to her cabin.

Outside the closed door of her stateroom, Armand stood facing her. He raised a long arm above her head and rested his hand on the door frame. Leaning close, he said, “Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

Her back pressed against the carved door, Madeleine said, “That, sir, is out of the question. You see, I am…that is, I…” She started to inform him that she was an engaged lady, but decided against it. She owed him no explanations. She owed him nothing. She said pointedly, “I am not interested in sharing lunch, or anything else, with you, sir.”

Unperturbed, Armand lowered his raised arm, brushed the tips of his fingers along her bare white shoulder, smiled easily and said, “Well, I can take a hint. Good night, Madeleine.”

She scornfully corrected him, “That’s Lady Madeleine to you, Mr. de Chevalier!”

Armand shrugged, grinned and said, “Now, Maddie, you are not my lady.” She whirled about, opened the door, and rushed inside as he silently added, Yet.