“It is a most beautifulmaison, n’est ce pas?Naturellement,it was built by a Frenchman.”
“Really,” was his dry reply. He stepped back slightly to view the house.
“Speak English, Paulette!” Vanessa snapped, venting her annoyance with Talverton on her friend. He slid her an amused glance, then returned to his silent observation of the Langley home. To her chagrin, she discovered herself also studying the building. In truth, it was a plain, unprepossessing edifice of peach-colored stucco; a house one might miss if unaware of its exact location. The only exterior hint of the family’s wealth and prestige lay in the wide front gates' ornate iron grillwork.
Vanessa looked back at Mr. Talverton. He possessed a strong silhouette, softened only by a wavy mane of dark blond hair. His jutting hawk-like nose stamped the description “arrogant” on his features, as did his languid studied manners and sleepy-eyed gaze. She was sure he was silently making comparisons of the Langley house to London homes. If he was passing judgments on first impressions, the gentleman was about to suffer the first of what she privately considered to be many disillusionments. The thought brought an anticipatory smile to her lips and lit her eyes.
Hugh Talverton glanced down at her as they passed the lanterns flanking the gated entrance. For a moment, her face was brilliantly lit before they stepped into the dark carriageway. Her expression fascinated him. It was the first time he saw her in bright light, and he was caught by the vibrancy of her features. Individually they were not beautiful. Her nose was not classically straight, and her gray-blue eyes, the color of the ocean’s horizon on a misty morning, were too wide-set; nonetheless, cast together and overlaid with emotion they were stunning. She was beyond a doubt endowed with a curious allure. In the dim and heavily-shadowed passage, he found himself straining to see her and calling to mind aspects of her person that he remembered from when he held her in his arms.
He knew her hair to be light brown; now, he wondered what other colors would gleam in its dark depths when she stood in the light of a chandelier. Her skin was like ivory, but he recalled a delicate rose blush flaring across her creamy complexion when he picked her up in the street and stared down into her affronted features. In his arms, while she writhed and spat like an angry kitten, he felt the sweet curves of her figure through her voluminous short cloak. With wry self-abasement, he knew his grip on her had tightened as much to feel her form as to still her struggles. She had been within her rights to deliver a resounding slap. Any delicately-reared woman of London would have done the same if she didn’t first succumb to a fit of vapors or faint dead away. Strange. He couldn’t imagine this little American doing either, for she was an enticing combination of propriety, pride, and passion. Vanessa Mannion would make a bewitching wife for some fortunate gentleman. Dispassionately, he wondered why the thought disturbed him.
Playful tugs on his arm reminded him of the coquettish young miss at his other side. Miss Chaumonde pulled her hand out of the crook of his arm and gestured wildly in front of her as she skipped ahead. He looked up, following her lead, and was astonished at the courtyard they were entering. Festooned with lanterns, it reminded him of Vauxhall Gardens; however, the gardens in England never sported such exotic and perfumed flowers as filled every corner here. Camellias, oleanders, roses, and violets grew riotously amid meticulously sculpted bushes and small benches. At one side, elegantly-gowned ladies, attended by Black servants, were washing mud off their bare feet. Bemused by the view, he realized they had shunned even the low boots the women of the Mannion party wore. Though initially shocked, his mind adjusted quickly to the sight and admiringly admitted a certain practicality to their actions.
He felt Miss Mannion gracefully slide her arm away from him. He looked back to meet her amused countenance. The little minx knew the courtyard tableau would amaze him! Suddenly he felt as naive as a schoolboy seeing the wonders of London for the first time. It grated that she should so anticipate his reaction. He needed to recover and suppress her pretensions to success.
His eyelids drooped until he looked at her through narrow slits. “Interesting,” he murmured, one corner of his mouth turning up in a condescending smile. “I am at a loss to know how I shall describe this scene in letters home. Perhapsbarbaric.”
“Barbaric!” Vanessa’s eyes flashed, reminding Hugh of an afternoon storm at sea.
“Too strong a word?” he asked innocently.
His tone did not deceive her, and she knew he was deliberately provoking. Her mouth opened and closed as she fought against the urge to give him a blistering set-down, sure her words would only fuel his humor. He was the most infuriating gentleman she had ever met. She could not believe he and Mr. Danielson could be close friends, for Mr. Danielson was the soul of gentlemanly conduct. From now on, she would be sure to remain out of Mr. Hugh Talverton’s orbit. He would not receive any encouragement from her to continue their acquaintance!
The quizzical expression arching his brow as he politely waited for her opinion suddenly gave way to a charming smile as he looked beyond her. Startled, Vanessa turned just as her mother appeared along with Mrs. Langley.
“Mary, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hugh Talverton, Mr. Danielson’s friend from England,” said Amanda Mannion, smiling warmly at Hugh. “Mr. Talverton, this is our hostess, Mary Langley.”
“It is a pleasure,” he said smoothly. “I hope you will forgive my presence at your home uninvited, but Trevor insisted.”
Vanessa thought his voice sounded oily, and his smile looked contrived. She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips slightly to keep from commenting.
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Mr. Talverton,” Mary Langley enthused, patting his arm gently. “Mr. Danielson did just right. Why, if he had not brought you along and I’d discovered your presence and availability later, I can promise you Mr. Danielson would not be in my good graces. No, not at all.” She shook her head emphatically, silver-gray curls dancing around her face.
“Vanessa, Amanda told me of your accident,” she continued, scarcely drawing another breath. She glanced down at Vanessa’s dress and clucked condolingly. “Such a beautiful gown, too. It is a shame. These streets are so miserable. Why, did you know, just last week Madame Simone caught her heel on a warped board as she was starting to cross the Rue de Chartres? I hear she landed very inelegantly in the mud. I know she wrenched her ankle dreadfully, poor dear, and suffered the embarrassment of being carried home by two young men just leaving Maspero’s Exchange.”
Vanessa flushed to the roots of her hair at Mrs. Langley’s mention of being carried, but their hostess didn’t notice, and she rattled on.
‘‘She says she is still suffering mortification from the incident and refuses to go out. Says her nerves are exhausted. Can you imagine? Anyway, Vanessa, why don’t you use Susan’s old room? You remember I’m sure, at the top of the stairs and to the right.”
“I’ll accompany you, Vanessa,” Amanda said.
“Oh, wonderful, simply perfect. And I’ll just take Mr. Talverton around and make a few introductions. This way, Mr. Talverton,” she directed, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward. “Now, you must tell me, what brings you to New Orleans and what do you think of our city?”
Vanessa laughed at the sight of the flighty Mary Langley taking the arrogant Mr. Talverton in hand. “I wager he’ll be lucky to say two words,” she told her mother.
Amanda merely smiled. She hooked her arm in her daughter’s, and they walked toward the grand stairway leading to the gallery overlooking the courtyard and to the bedchambers beyond.
“That man is impossible. If all Englishmen are of his breed, it is no surprise this country broke from England!” Vanessa continued as they mounted the stairs.
“Remember, we are of English stock ourselves.”
“True, but Great-Grandfather Mannion at least had the sense to emigrate.”
“Don’t you think you might be too hard on Mr. Talverton?” her mother asked.
“Hard! Mama, don’t tell me you, too, have been taken in by his thin veneer of charm. The man does nothing but look down that beak of a nose at us. He finds us uncivilized and contemptible.”
“Indeed,” Amanda murmured as she led Vanessa into a pretty pink and white bedroom. “Ah, good, the hot water is here already,” she said, glancing at a steaming copper bath set on the floor near the vanity. “Mary’s servants are extremely efficient. Here, let me help you with those fastenings.” She made short work of the gown’s closures and deftly pulled the garment over her daughter’s head without disturbing her coiffure. She laughed suddenly. “It is hard to warrant, but that petticoat does not have a speck of mud on it.”
