Page 21 of Frankly, My Dear

Lizette turned back to James. “The opera house is open for a special performance tonight. Will you be there?”

James’s face colored and he shifted uncomfortably. “I had not thought to purchase tickets.”

“Ah, then you will escort me, mon cher. I have plenty of room in my box,” Lizette declared imperiously. “You will pick me up at nine. You do still know the way to my home?”

“Oui, certainement!”

“And will you be bringing your governess?” Lizette added, looking Selene over in a thoroughly appraising manner and obviously finding her not much competition for James’s favor—something the fair widow obviously wanted for herself.

“Non,” he commented quickly, muttering something under his breath about no food being served.

James kissed both of Lizette’s cheeks before she departed. Then he turned back to Selene and commented dryly, “Why are you still standing there? I have important business transactions to take care of today. Do you think I enjoy wasting all this time on you?”

Selene decided she was definitely going to buy a fan.

A short time later, Selene walked back to the hotel with James, wearing a full-length, green cambric day dress sprigged with cream-colored flowers and trimmed at the scooped neck and cap sleeves with ruffled ecru lace. She felt like a cutesy, overly tall, overdressed Barbie doll. In deference to the temperature, she scandalously insisted on wearing only one crinoline—one too many, in her opinion. Apparently, most ladies wore five or six. They must be masochists, Selene decided, or else slaves to the dictates of a fashion-conscious society, just like modern women.

“This dress is hotter than hell,” she complained.

“Watch your mouth. At least it covers your body, even if it is too tight,” he remarked, his insolent eyes honing in on her bodice, which hugged her upper body from scooped neck to pointed waist in what the dressmaker had called the popular Redingote style.

“James, slow down.” Even in her new low-heeled shoes, she had trouble keeping up with his long strides on the wide Creole sidewalks, called banquettes. “The smell of that open sewer running down the street is turning my stomach queasy.”

“Maybe your stomach hurts from eating too much.”

Selene mouthed her opinion to the back of the lout’s head.

“Likewise,” he retorted flatly, never even turning.

Geez, did the guy have eyes in back of his head, or was she just so transparent? Probably the latter, she decided.

But enough was enough. Her side hurt. All the beignets she’d eaten the night before, topped off with the huge breakfast of fresh sweet rolls, butter, and coffee she’d consumed late that morning, rose bilously to her throat. And a killer headache began to pound under the merciless Louisiana sun. She had to be the only woman south of the Mason-Dixon line not wearing a bonnet.

Finally, she halted with exasperation, put her hands on her hips and glared at James as he blithely continued on without her. She knew he resented her latching onto him, but he didn’t have to be so darn obvious. She wished she had some other choice; he should know that. Lord, she’d like to pick up one of those clods of horse manure on the street and hit him on the back of his stubborn head.

Seeing a nearby stone bench in a small park, she sat down with a whoosh of relief, too fatigued to care if he left her behind. If flesh could melt, Selene figured she would soon be a puddle. She really could use one of those fans the Southern belles favored. Or about two million BTU’s of air-conditioning.

It took James a few moments to realize she wasn’t beside him. He stomped back. Towering over her, he demanded, “What now?”

“I’m tired, and hot, and I don’t feel well. And we have to talk…about this governess and housekeeper and nursemaid business, among other things. Would you please get me a cup of lemonade, over there?” she asked, pointing to a street vendor who was chipping ice off a big block to put in the beverages.

James’s jaw tightened and she knew he considered balking at the delay. Instead, he muttered something about her being more trouble than a polecat in heat and went off reluctantly to purchase two metal cups of cold lemonade. He came back and handed her one of the frosted cups, then sat down next to her. Too close, she thought, as their eyes met and held for a long moment. A new and inexplicable warmth surged through Selene, despite the cool cup that trembled in her hands.

Selene’s mind spun with bewilderment as she tried to weigh the sequence of events that had led to her present dilemma. A strange wall separated her from her past. Her future loomed shadowy and uncertain. She had only this crazy, ever-changing present, and a man who was becoming too important to her. Amazed that she reacted so strongly to a brooding, cynical, rude man like James, she fought desperately to control her swirling emotions.

James continued to gaze into her eyes, as if unable to look away, and Selene sensed his confusion, as well, over this illogical bond that was growing between them. Finally breaking eye contact, James stretched his long legs out lazily and sipped his lemonade.

Selene watched, fascinated, as his beautiful fingers, slender and work-worn, circled the cup and traced the edge distractedly. She imagined those same fingers…oh, Lord, I am in big trouble. Forcing her eyes upward, she was struck by the starry highlights in his ebony hair. He had had no time to shave that morning, and his face carried a bristly overnight shadow that was not unattractive.

Yes, Selene really could use a cold shower.

Slowly relaxing, James’s lean body eased into a casual slouch as he surveyed his surroundings and the bustling people going about their business—white-robed nuns in their cowls and wimples hurrying toward the nearby Ursuline Convent on Chartres Street, more tradespeople hawking their wares from pushcarts, ladies and their maids ambling toward the French Market for their daily provisions.

And, to her chagrin, she saw James’s eyes halt appreciatively in appraisal of one platinum-blonde beauty whose hips swayed seductively as she passed on the other side of the street. She glanced with interest toward James, and he tipped his head, acknowledging the bimbo’s unspoken invitation.

“You like blondes, do you, James?” she asked in a voice thick with sarcasm.

“Hmmm?” He turned to her, tilting his head questioningly. She saw then that the edges of his jacket were frayed and the elbows shiny with age.