Vanessa sat on a low chair in front of the vanity, removed her boots, then plunged her feet into the copper bath. “Oh, this is bliss,” she said, leaning back for a moment and enjoying the warm water.
Amanda picked up the soiled gown, examining its condition. “Your father wants you to be nice to Mr. Talverton,” she said noncommittally.
“Why?”
“He is in New Orleans to buy cotton contracts for some new, modern mill in England. It could be a substantial amount of business for your father.”
“Ah! I understand,” Vanessa said, leaning over to wash her feet. “I am to make amends for my breech of etiquette.” A disgusted smile twisted her lips. “Naturally, Mr. Talverton is not likewise expected to make amends for his behavior.”
Amanda pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Of course not,” she returned lightly.
Vanessa shook her head at this hypocrisy, then she sighed. “All right, I promise to be sweetly pleasant should we chance to meet; however, I reserve the right to avoid him at all costs.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“What?”
Amanda laid the dress on the bed and picked up a towel, holding it out to Vanessa. “Your father is proposing a theater venture for Monday evening.”
“He doesn’t even like the theater! And what has this to do with Mr. Talverton?”
“He is to be invited, as is Mr. Danielson. Mr. Wilmot will be included, for his warehouses may be necessary for storage and as a staging area for the cotton bales.”
“Surely, he would not expect us to accompany them. Look how he gets now if any whiff of a business discussion is in the air.”
Amanda held up her hand. “I know. I’m only telling you what was told to me.”
A soft knock on the door interrupted her. It was Leila with Vanessa’s gown of French blue thrown over her arm.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, that I weren’t here sooner, only after we set out, I remembered I didn’t have any of the gewgaws that went with this, particularly Miss Vanessa’s blue fan, so we had to go back. I hope I remembered everything."
"That’s all right, Leila,” soothed Mrs. Mannion. “Vanessa has just now finished cleaning her feet. Your arrival is perfectly timed.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the dark woman said, sketching a curtsy before taking the new clothing over to the bed.
“I shall leave you two alone. You will both proceed faster without me. Vanessa, remember what I said about Mr. Talverton,” Mrs. Mannion adjured as she opened the door of the bedroom and slipped out.
“Well, Miss Vanessa, let’s get you in prime tweak. They’ve struck up the music, and I tell you, even this old soul’s having difficulty keeping her feet still.”
Vanessa laughed and walked forward to put herself into the woman’s capable hands.
* * *
Hugh Talverton stifled a yawn of boredom as he looked out across the room. The charming smile he’d adopted upon entering the Langley home faded as his mind wandered.
Mrs. Langley had perforce dragged him throughout her house, introducing him to all they passed, yet not allowing him time for more than a perfunctory “How do you do.” Names and faces blurred in memory. Finally, she’d led him to the ballroom, only to seat him on a small settee by her side while she entered into a voluble conversation with a substantially endowed matron. The woman, whose name he didn’t remember, made Mrs. Langley appear a quiet and retiring speaker.
As he looked at the ballroom’s polished cypress floor, it struck him that constant comparisons of New Orleans to London were meaningless. During his twisted meandering in the Langley home, he noted that there was a sense of austere elegance in the house’s decoration. No seraphs or nymphs in varying degrees of dishabille adorned the ceilings. No intricate carvings of heavy wood, no gilt accent on furniture or walls, and most curiously, no heavy damask draperies cluttered the rooms.
Odd. He’d never considered English decor as cluttered; however, seeing the Langley home somehow made him think of England's fashion as suffocating. If he had to typify the Langley home with any style, he supposed it came closest to some of the estates he’d seen during the peninsular campaigns.
Yet for all of New Orleans’s differences, there were commonplaces as well, like the people's social consciousness. He thought he would be escaping that nuisance when he left England, but Trevor was correct-- the people here took their society as seriously as most in England.
He looked across the dance floor to where a contredanse was forming. Trevor led out a shy Adeline Mannion, while the outgoing Paulette Chaumonde was partnered with a spindly gentleman in a bottle-green coat over a lavender striped waistcoat. Hugh raised a quizzical eyebrow at the lace handkerchief the gentleman clutched in one slender hand. Just then, Paulette and her partner cast down the line, and as she passed Hugh, Paulette noted his expression and saucily winked at him, her eyes glinting merrily. When she met her partner at the end of the line, and they joined hands for a four-hand-around movement, she was the picture of demure elegance. Hugh laughed silently, his big shoulders heaving with contained mirth. Quickly he excused himself from Mrs. Langley’s side. Fortunately, she heard him over the loud diatribe of the matron, and she waved him an acknowledgment, her quick eyes never leaving the woman’s face.
Hugh lounged against a pillar as he waited for the dance to end, determined to solicit Miss Chaumonde’s hand for the next set. He caught many a speculative young woman’s eyes on him but coolly disdained to notice their regard. It was a useful trick he’d learned after many years of being considered a prime catch on the London marriage mart.
While he waited, he let his eyes casually roam the room, only superficially heeding what he saw until she entered. Vanessa Mannion was back, standing in the doorway under a glittering chandelier, just as he had imagined her. And she was glorious. Oddly mesmerized, he studied her.
