Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) by Gretchen Craig Page B

more
roughly than propriety demanded.
    Abruptly, as if to make amends for his neglect, Marcel rose
and held the back of her chair. As she excused herself to leave the men to
their port and cigars, Marcel touched her elbow.
    “I’ll be with you shortly, Miss Deborah Ann.”
    She smiled sweetly. A lady never showed her displeasure.
    “Don’t be long, Mr. Chamard,” she murmured.
    She waited in the parlor, flipping through a magazine of
last year’s fashions. The longer she waited, the more her doubts surfaced.
Maybe he found her dull. The other gentlemen of the last two seasons had
admired her and sought her company. But they had been mere boys. Marcel was not
a boy. Maybe she was too young for him.
    She tossed the magazine aside. She touched her hair. It was
a lovely color, everyone said so. Her nose was good, not sharp or stunted or
long. She pooched her mouth. That’s how it looks when you’re going to kiss
someone, she thought.
    He was going to kiss her good bye, surely. They were
engaged, after all. And she was going to kiss him back, this time.
    At last, Marcel came to her. For a moment, he simply stared.
    “You’re lovely, Miss Deborah Ann.”
    She laughed, a little nervous. He took both her hands in his
and looked into her eyes. He does love me, she thought. When he kissed her
knuckles, she felt her lips tingle.
    He led her to the sofa and sat so his long thigh stretched
beside hers. The thought of their legs side by side, only layers of fabric
between them, made her breathless.
    “Do you understand, dear, why I’m going? Is there something
you would like me to explain?”
    Of course she understood, but all she cared about was that
he look at her as he was right this minute. “No, Mr. Chamard. I admire a man of
courage.”
    Marcel looked at the floor a moment. He’s a modest man, she
thought, gazing at the dark lashes displayed against his cheek.
    “The wedding, Miss Deborah Ann. Considering the present
climate, perhaps we need to discuss it. I will do my best to be here on January
the twelfth, but we are none of us in control of these events.”
    He looked at her to see if she understood. She’d never seen
eyes so beautiful. Marcel’s were somehow richer, clearer than any other brown
eyes. And framed by perfect dark brows. She imagined tracing her finger along
the arch of those brows.
    “What would you think of foregoing a wedding involving
musicians, caterers, dressmakers, and all the thousand preparations normally
involved? I think only to spare you the disaster of an absent groom on the day
of the grand occasion.”
    A whisper of panic fluttered in her chest. No wedding? He
was looking at her, expecting an answer. “An absent groom?”
    “Consider, Miss Deborah Ann. If the fighting took me to the
Red River. Or if I found myself at Vicksburg come January. I could not leave a
battlefield to come home for the ceremony. We could postpone the wedding until
it’s reasonable to plan a grand event, if you’d prefer. Or we could wed in a
modest way, on short notice, when I am able to return in the fall.”
    Air filled her lungs again. “Of course. A modest wedding.”
She laughed, her panic melting.
    But the occasion should be wonderful! Everyone in New
Orleans should be there. Her gowns. The flowers, the banquet. Seven courses, at
least, and the ball. How could she make it modest?
    But a lady does not argue with a gentleman. Of course, he
was correct. They were in the middle of a war. She’d manage it somehow.
    “We would be just as married, would we not!” she said gaily.
    “Good. That’s very sensible of you, Miss Deborah Ann.”
    He lightly slapped his hands on his knees as if to announce,
There, that’s done. Then he was leaving?
    Impulsively, Deborah reached her hand to touch his arm.
Surely he’d kiss her before he left, when he’d be gone so long. Who knew when
she would see him again?
    He raised her hand and pressed a kiss to it. It wasn’t
enough. It wasn’t what she wanted. She