Still feeling agitated and unbalanced, Vanessa leaned forward in her chair, feigning an absorption in the play she did not possess. Her posture was at once a deterrent to further liberties and an opportunity to cool her heated features. She could feel her cheeks still burning, and she did not trust herself to look at any of the others in the box lest they see and question her high color.
What worried her was the knowledge it was not Mr. Wilmot’s conduct that caused her blush or caused the wave of light-headed giddiness that left a tingling awareness in its wake. She shivered slightly and wrapped her arms about her, though indeed, she was not chilled. It was strange, the tingling. She had experienced it the first time on the night of the ball when Hugh Talverton picked her up out of the mud. He had saved her from one embarrassing situation by creating another, as he had this evening. Part of her wanted to believe it was the embarrassment that spawned the tingling. She rubbed her hands along her upper arms as the tingling faded and her cheeks cooled.
The truth, illogical as it seemed, was she was attracted to Mr. Talverton. He roused her emotionally as no man had done before, and there was no comprehending the reasons. She began to realize emotions would neither be ruled nor understood by the mind. She knew herself to be an intelligent woman, but her intelligence left her foundering when feelings held sway. She was not confident she liked that fact. Maybe that was the reason her mother had merely smiled at her, and Louisa looked so dreamy-eyed. Love, as the strongest of emotions, did not allow for intellectual definition. If that was the case, she was not altogether sure love could ever be hers.
What piqued her most was the knowledge that Mr. Talverton should cause her to think in this manner. He was certainly not a man to fall in love with, a man who was alternately arrogant and shamefully teasing. Nonetheless, it was interesting that he should have displayed a keen understanding of her predicament with Mr. Wilmot and chosen to remedy it by bringing embarrassment upon himself rather than upon her. He had never shied from embarrassing her in the past. Perhaps he did understand the depths of her discomfort in this situation. Whatever his actions were not those of a man self-oriented and bereft of compassion. Maybe she had been too quick in her judgments. She hoped she was intelligent enough to admit and profit from her errors. She determined she would look upon Mr. Talverton more kindly in the future. She owed him that.
A raucous burst of laughter from the gallery below drew her attention to the stage. The play was nearly over, and the character Arnolphe was receiving the just recompense for his coxcombry. She tried to follow the rapid French. It was unusually difficult. Gnawing at the fringes of her mind was the knowledge she had yet to deal with Mr. Wilmot. She shuddered. He also roused emotions within her, but they were not emotions she wanted to consider. Feeling cowardly, she shunted the problem aside. No doubt, she told herself, Mr. Wilmot was also thinking better of his behavior and would beg forgiveness later. She wanted it to be just a bad dream and best forgotten.
Though missing the comic meaning in yet another line, she joined in with the general laughter. Resolutely she turned her mind to the stage.
* * *
Hugh Talverton stared contemplatively at the cheroot he held in his hand. He rolled it between his fingers, then raised it to his nose, savoring its aroma, and smiled. He and Trevor were seated in the cozy parlor above the Danielson and Hailey Company offices, drinking port and enjoying a smoke before retiring.
“Do you know,” Hugh said, holding the cigar out before him, “these are still not popular in England.” Shaking his head dolefully, he reached out to grab a lit taper from the table between them.
Trevor puffed on his, slowly releasing a blue cloud to wreath his head. “Mark my words, someday they will be, and snuff will be an anecdote of the past.”
Hugh set the candle down and leaned back, the tip of his cigar glowing red. “Is that Trevor the smoking enthusiast, or Mr. Danielson, the importer/exporter, speaking?"
"Both,” he answered, grinning.
Silent a moment, Hugh puffed on his cigar. Trevor was relaxed and mellowed. No lingering signs of rage or animosity appeared. His friend’s reaction to Wilmot’s actions baffled Hugh. He had not thought Trevor possessed more than friendly feelings for Miss Mannion, preferring Miss Adeline's gentleness. Could he have misconstrued the object of Trevor’s affections? If he felt more than brother-to-be affection for Vanessa, Hugh realized he was again in trouble.
Years rolled back in his mind as he remembered when he and Trevor had both courted Julia Branholm. It nearly cost them their friendship. Julia, though choosing to wed Trevor, was quite demanding that they forget their differences. She’d possessed a rare grace and understanding; one could do no less than accede to her wishes. Hugh remembered how stalwart he’d stood as best man at their wedding, offering congratulations and support.
Afterward, he purchased his commission and was off to war, claiming army life a proper occupation for a younger son. It was only later, after enduring the heat of battle, the triumph of winning, and the agony of defeat, that he understood his feelings for Julia. He had not loved her with the depth she deserved. She was a trophy he sought to win for winning’s sake. She had recognized the shallowness of his affection while he could not.
Eight years later, it appeared he played the same games with himself. He was attracted to Vanessa Mannion because she was an object to win. He certainly was not in the market for an American wife, yet inexplicably, he wished she’d look favorably upon him. What particularly galled was the knowledge he would have gone on deceiving everyone about his intentions, including himself. But with Trevor somewhere in the maze, as he’d been those many years ago, Hugh realized he could again be playing with mirrors. He had to determine Trevor’s degree of emotional involvement. He also vowed, no matter what he learned, he would support Trevor in his quest. His friend was a damned fine gentleman, and Hugh was confident Julia would wish her husband to remarry, for he deserved happiness.
Hugh set his cigar down to reach for his port glass, his mind wandering to the events of the evening. He shook his head slightly at the memory of Trevor’s expression when Wilmot refused to relinquish Vanessa’s hand. That was when he’d first begun to feel as if he'd stumbled into a new, unknown maze, and he had vowed to tread carefully through the remainder of the evening with the Mannions. By some adept maneuvering, reminiscent of his peninsular days, he mused, he’d altered the seating arrangements for the return trip to the Mannions’ home. He and Miss Chaumonde shared the carriage with Vanessa Mannion and Mr. Wilmot. And bless Miss Chaumonde’s naiveté, she prattled incessantly with virtually a scene-by-scene review of the play. Fortunately, her chatter did not allow for a response from anyone. It also precluded her falling across him on the pretext of a rough carriage ride. Still, under the circumstances, Hugh would have even welcomed that, for it would have created another form of diversion.
Upon her arrival at home, Vanessa retired immediately to her room, claiming a headache from the effort of understanding the rapid French dialogue throughout the play. After she left, there remained a curious tension in the air among the company that even Paulette’s gaiety could not overcome. Mr. Wilmot quickly made his exit. He and Trevor soon followed.
Hugh picked up his cigar and looked over at his companion who sat quietly smoking, a faint smile on his face. He wondered what the man was thinking. No, more than that, heneededto know what Trevor was feeling, particularly toward one Miss Vanessa Mannion.
He flicked an ash off his cigar and stared at its glowing tip. “This Wilmot fellow, where is he from?” Hugh casually asked.
“No one really knows, but speculators say he’s from Kentucky, since he gets on with the keelboat men. Why?”
“Curiosity. I wondered how he became a favorite in society.”
“So you feel it, too.” Trevor shifted uneasily in his chair and took a sip of port.
Hugh raised a questioning eyebrow.
“That feeling of something criminal,” Trevor explained, setting the glass on the table.
“I don’t know that I’d go so far as to say criminal; however, the gentleman is a creature of both crude and polished airs. I do not trust that duality. I take it others do not see the split?”
“Oh, I think they do, but they don’t recognize it as anything sinister. It’s more an indication of the man’s worth that he’s been able to build a business and thereby raise himself above his birth. For many who come to this country, it is the American dream. Wilmot embodies that dream. He has looks, intelligence, and great strength. And that was almost all he had when he came to New Orleans three years ago. In that time, he’s been able to parlay himself into more deals and schemes than you can imagine. And they’ve paid off.” Trevor paused and shook his head ruefully.
“Oh, there have been rumors about what his real business was. Most believe he was one of Lafitte’s legitimate fronts and might still be. Others connect him with the revolutionary filibustering that goes on over at Maspero’s, though few agree on the subject of the revolution. I’ve heard the Texas territory, Mexico, and South American locations named."
"Egad!”
“Precisely,” Trevor drawled.
