Still, Mr. Danielson did possess other attributes she felt important in a marriage. He was a friendly, likable person, and her father approved of him. Unfortunately, she had yet to find anything beyond those attributes that would augur well for wedlock. She was looking for a certain zing, or exhilaration, that her elder sister Louisa mysteriously mentioned but refused to describe.
When the gentlemen rejoined them in the parlor, she made a push to cultivate Mr. Danielson’s company, searching for those feelings. He remained as charming as always. Ultimately, all she felt was the extent of Mr. Wilmot’s jealousy, for he glowered darkly, almost menacingly, and seemed to be forever interrupting their discussion. The emotions Mr. Wilmot managed to arouse this evening were far more potent than any engendered by Mr. Danielson; lamentably, the only warmth they received was the warmth of her ire.
Vanessa considered Mr. Wilmot a handsome man in a large and swarthy manner, his dark eyes and brows lending him a saturnine appearance. His everyday clothes were sober to the point of plainness, his single affectation a large diamond stickpin in the folds of his snowy white cravat. His austerity of dress, swarthy complexion, and raspy voice, along with the mysterious white scar, gave him an aura of power, danger and, an excitement that set many a New Orleans maiden’s heart fluttering.
Were those fluttery feelings akin to love? Did some men inspire love more easily than others? Vanessa acknowledged she was no more immune to Mr. Wilmot’s dark charm than other women, and she accounted herself fortunate to have drawn his attentions. During the evening, though, she saw his social elegance slip, revealing a rough-hewn core. It made her wonder about his background. Now she was not as confident as she had been earlier that she was flattered by his attentions. In all fairness, however, he’d never previously witnessed her devoting such considerable attention to Mr. Danielson, so perhaps she shouldn’t judge his actions too hastily or harshly. The same forbearance in judgment should also be extended toward Mr. Danielson. She would give both gentlemen another chance; after all, it was nearly past time she was married, and she had no other suitors waiting in the wings. Since at the age of twenty, she chafed terribly at her father’s restrictions, remaining in her parents’ home all her life did not bear imagining.
Leila carefully positioned her nightcap on her head, rousing Vanessa to the exigencies of her nightly toilet. She thanked the older woman for her help and tied the ribbon under her chin. She leaned toward the mirror, searching for the telltale evidence of her encroaching years. She knew herself to have a pleasant enough countenance, though lacking in true beauty such as her younger sister Adeline possessed-- not that Adeline saw any benefit from her appearance, as shy as she was. Any gentleman attracted to Adeline for her looks soon wandered away for her silence.
“What are you looking for there, Miss Vanessa?” Leila asked, her wide grin revealing large white teeth.
Vanessa pulled back, laughing ruefully at herself. “My youth, Leila.”
The woman snorted, shaking her bandanna-covered head at Vanessa’s folly.
Chapter 2
Hugh Talverton cradled a glass of port between long tanned fingers and leaned back in his chair, joining Trevor Danielson in the contemplation of his cravat in the mirror above the mahogany bureau. His amused smile under sleepy, tawny-colored eyes gave mute eloquence to his thoughts on Danielson’s efforts at sartorial elegance.
He yawned. “It appears you’ve become a curst dandy, my friend. Is all this . . .” he waved his hand in Danielson’s direction “necessary? One would infer by your fastidious primping that you’re about to attend a court function or embark on a nuptial engagement.” His tone held both the hint of a question and the aura of amused disdain.
Trevor’s shoulders shook with silent laughter at the reflection of Talverton seated leisurely behind him, faintly swinging one impeccably-attired leg in controlled patience. Still grinning, he gave a fold in his cravat one more sharp crease before turning to face his guest.
“And you’ve become a hard-bitten military man, shunning the social graces. If I appear to be fastidiously primping,as you call it, it is because society demands it.”
“Here? What semblance of society could there be in this swamp? No offense, Trevor, but I believe you’ve been poached in this sultry climate,” he drawled.
Hugh’s attitude amused Trevor, and he laughed good-naturedly. “I assure you, we take our social life seriously.” He leaned back against the bureau and crossed his arms on his chest. “Parties, balls, the theater, they’re all prominent parts of life here.”
“I believe you.” Hugh Talverton’s voice filled with dry skepticism. “Nonetheless, as important as this town . . .”
“City,” corrected Trevor.
Hugh inclined his head, his lips twitching with humor. “All right. As important as thiscityis to trade, I’m amazed people take time for socializing. There are fortunes to be made here!”
“How well I know. But it was bored into me just last evening that it is important to participate socially if one desires lucrative business contacts and contracts.”
“And the ball this evening that you’re so determined I attend will supply such contacts?” Hugh asked dubiously.
Trevor uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the bureau, laughing at his friend’s faintly sneering doubt. “Miss Chaumonde was right; you wereto the manor born.”
“What?”
“To the manor born,” Trevor returned patiently, though a smile threatened to twist his lips upward.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Hugh demanded, his sandy brows drawn in toward his hawk-like nose.
“It means that though you are not titled, you were bred like a titled aristocrat.” Trevor grasped his port glass from the bureau's top and took a sip while he watched Hugh grimace, then laugh.
“You make me sound like a racehorse bred for Newmarket.” He raised his glass to his lips. “Who is this Miss Chaumonde?”
“Paulette Chaumonde, and she is determined that you shall meet her tonight, for she is enamored of aristocrats.”
Hugh Talverton groaned.
“Miss Chaumonde’s father is a lawyer on a mission with the state legislature in Washington. While he is away, she is staying with the Mannions, a thoroughly American family. And,” he said, leaning forward, “Richard Mannion is a cotton factor. One of the most important.”
His guest stilled the gentle swing of his leg and raised an eyebrow.
