The Creole Princess by Beth White Page B

brother. By the time they came to the two-hand turn and ending, Lyse felt as if the blood beneath her skin might burst into spontaneous flames. She was aware of the calluses on the palms of his hands, the blood-red signet ring worn on his left index finger, the small moon-shaped scar at the corner of one eye. Together they honored the audience, then, turning face-to-face, she curtseyed to him as he bowed. She held the curtsey, heart thudding, breath coming in shallow gasps. Surely if she moved she would fall.
    As if he had seen her terror, he reached down to grip her elbow. “Come, prima , don’t faint on me,” he murmured, boosting her to her feet.
    “How could you do that?” she whispered, regaining her balance. “You know I’m no society girl.”
    “What? Have you no faith in my leadership?” He guided her toward a corner of the room amid a patter of polite applause.
    With her back to the wall and his tall figure between her and the rest of the room, there was nowhere to look except at his snowy, elegantly tied neckcloth and the firm chin above it. “Faith? I barely know you! I must balance your kindness in dealing with my father against the silly way you serenade my friend with love songs and antagonize my brother with nosy questions. For all I know, you are the pirate Monsieur Dussouy was describing earlier.”
    His mouth pursed in a soundless whistle as he stared at her. Fora moment the brown eyes had narrowed, darkening to a frightening near-black. She thought she saw a flash of not only intelligence but hurt.
    Ashamed that her discomfort had led to thoughtless words, she placed her fingers over her lips. “I am sorry, Don Rafael,” she mumbled. “There was no need to be rude.”
    Easy laughter dispelled the darkness in his expression. “A pirate! You have caught me out—and how clever I should be to damage my own ship so that I might steal the gold in my hold and hide it from myself!”
    “No more ridiculous than paying someone else to buy gifts for you.”
    He bowed in genial self-mockery. “And so we have established that Don Rafael is ridiculous and silly. I refuse to be drawn into bickering over the obvious. I am much more interested in discovering what is your relationship to the pretty little slave named Scarlet—who has already caused you such grief this day.”
    Ah. And here it was. If she didn’t tell him, someone else was bound to. Besides, he already knew that she was a fisherman’s sister and daughter of a drunken ferryman. There was little reason to withhold the whole truth.
    She focused her gaze once more upon the garnet pin nestled in the folds of his neckcloth. “It is a long, tedious story, I warn you.”
    He smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Then let us find refreshment and walk about the room. I am not in any hurry.”
    “Very well.”
    The refreshment table was a six-foot buffet table placed between the French windows opening onto the front gallery of the house. An obscene amount of sugared pastries on tiered silver trays flanked a crystal punch bowl filled with some pale liquid that might have been champagne but was probably watered lemonade. Rafa filled a goblet and handed it to her.
    “Thank you.” She sipped, resisting the urge to make a face. Some drinks were made for decoration.
    He toasted her lightly with his own goblet. “I’m fairly certain we shall both survive.”
    Arm in arm they began to make the round of the salon. After a quiet moment, Lyse peeked up and found Rafa observing her contemplatively.
    “Come, prima ,” he said. “Out with it.”
    She smiled in spite of her reluctance. “You have met my papa.”
    “Ah, the papa. I felt certain he must be somewhere in this long tale.”
    “Yes, but he wasn’t always so—so— outré. ”
    “ Outré ? I am not familiar with this word.”
    “Unconventional. Outside the accepted social norm.”
    “And what has your unconventional papa to do with the Harpy of la Mobile?”
    This time