The Creole Princess by Beth White Page A

brother fishes out of the islands near the Point. He’s not mentioned anything like that.” Lyse watched Rafa’s face, wondering if he’d seen any such pirate.
    He merely looked vaguely confused. “Why would the French be this far north and west? Their ports are all in the Caribbean.”
    “Laddie, this was a French port for sixty years. Just because a British flag flies over the fort doesn’t mean the French are gone completely to ground.” Dussouy spread his big hands. “Besides, as I’m sure you know, we—the French, I mean—entered treaty with the Americans some weeks ago. Lafayette himself has put on a uniform and come over to aid Washington.”
    “Monsieur my husband.” Madame firmly took her husband’s arm. “Everyone knows we are loyal British subjects now and have no knowledge of what the French would be up to.” She gave Rafa a coy smile. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that our Spanish neighbors have thrown in their lot with those bourgeois continentals. King Carlos is notoriously interested in gaining back his control of Gibraltar and Minorca.”
    Rafa laughed. “Madame, you are pleased to jest with your guests. Why would His Majesty give aid to a group of colonists rebelling against their monarch, when that would endanger his own God-given authority? Have you not heard about the American captain who took port in New Orleans? Captain Gibson was apparently selling rum in an attempt to cover purchase of clothingand blankets and gunpowder for their little uprising. I assure you Governor Gálvez arrested him in short order.”
    “And rightly so,” said Dussouy, frowning at his wife. “Women, as you will discover, have only a vague understanding of politics as it applies to the daily running of a household, and none at all of its international complexities. Monarchies aside, Carlos is far too fond of his treasury to risk it in such a fly-by-night endeavor as colonial self-government.”
    Lyse had heard her grandfather and her papa arguing over just these subjects on many an occasion—and had been taught to vigorously participate.
    Before she could object, however, Rafa smiled down at her and patted her hand. “One must agree that such topics are tedious in the extreme, when there is music to be danced to with the loveliest of partners. Señorita, would you honor me with the minuet?”
    She had not noticed that the dancing had stopped, and the musicians were retuning. She cast a desperate look around. It was a test. A mild, but signally cruel test. The minuet—complex, dignified, and performed one couple at a time while everyone else watched—could establish one hopeful debutante and set another up for a future of obscurity and social ruin. What could it do, she wondered, to a girl who was neither debutante nor hopeful?
    The Spaniard held her eyes with a lazy smile as she slowly dipped into a curtsey. Grandmére Madeleine had once taught her and Simon the dance, though of course they’d had little opportunity to practice. What if she forgot the steps? What if this stupid bum roll decided to shift again? What if her hair fell down from its tower?
    The thought made her want to laugh. Rising from the curtsey, she went palm to palm with Don Rafael as they performed the opening honors to each other and then the audience. She would show him. She would show them all!
    Dancing parallel to Rafa, she followed him in the lead-in figure. To her relief, she found the stately four-step, six-beat patterncoming without conscious thought. Curving sideways, they met at the rear of the open space, then danced forward to the middle, where Rafa wheeled her in a three-quarter turn and danced her sideways to a corner. By the time they had completed the initial crisscross figure, her knees had stopped trembling.
    Though there was nothing particularly seductive about the dance—except for her partner’s refusal to let his sleepy gaze drop from her face—this was far different from dancing with her older