“Your pardon, Miss Mannion,” Wilmot said stiffly, a particularly feral gleam flaring in his eyes. “For the moment, I shall relieve you of my presence.” He bowed, then cast Trevor a malevolent glance, before turning to walk away.
Vanessa silently watched him leave, confusion and sorrow evident in her face. Her grip on her fan tightened until she heard a snap. Looking down at her hands, she was dismayed to see a stick of her beloved New Orleans fan splintered beyond repair.
“You are troubled,” said a soft, melodious voice. A gentle hand touched Hugh’s arm.
He looked down into the delicate visage of Adeline Mannion. She smiled sweetly at him. He stiffened. He did not want sympathy or even knowledge of his desires.
“So is my sister,” she added, looking to where Vanessa stood irresolute at the side of the room.
Wilmot was saying something to her. She nodded slowly, her face a canvas of tortured emotions. A sharpening of his features conveyed Wilmot’s ill will toward Trevor. Vanessa appeared to be attempting to placate him with little success. He bowed stiffly and walked away. Momentary anguish wrung her features as she stared down at her hands, but she recovered swiftly and donned a brilliant smile for the world.
“I cannot help her,” Hugh said harshly, hating the words as they left his lips.
Adeline looked at him piteously, then sighed. “For now, Trev—I mean, Mr. Danielson, shall offer such protection as she will allow; however, I greatly fear my sister will stubbornly tread her own path. At least Mr. Danielson has secured her company for supper.”
Hugh nodded. “That was to be expected,” he said loftily.
“Was it?” queried Adeline.
He looked at her sharply, momentarily shaken out of his stoic attitude. She was attempting to convey some message to him, a message he declined to comprehend.
Recognizing the absurdity of his pose, Adeline’s mouth twitched then lifted into a smile as she gave in to her inclinations. “And Paulette,” she continued airily, “has quite effectively claimed the attentions of the Comte Baligny.” She paused and looked at Hugh steadily. “I have a request to ask of you, Mr. Talverton, that I realize is highly improper on my part.”
He looked at her quizzically, her soft features unusually intent. He bowed. “Your servant, Miss Mannion,” he murmured.
She drew a deep breath. “It is nearly time for supper, and I have no partner. I confess these Creole gentlemen quite overwhelm me.” She grimaced slightly. “Their form of gallantry puts me so to the blush. I hardly know where to look. Many have the mistaken idea that American women are shockingly fast, you know.”
“I had no idea, Miss Mannion. I should be delighted to escort you and count myself fortunate that you should trust me.”
She laughed. “It is no mean request, Mr. Talverton, for I know you are enamored of Vanessa.”
“You quite mistake the matter, Miss Mannion!” he said abruptly, glaring at her.
She continued smiling. “Am I?” she said with feigned vagueness. “Oh, dear, I hope I have not embarrassed you, sir.”
He shook his head curtly and relaxed. “Not at all, Miss Mannion. I suppose my solicitude for your sister could be mistakenly construed.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
But she didn’t look at all convinced, and he chafed under her steady, calm regard. Drawing upon his vast store of presence and arrogance, he looked down upon her haughtily.
She clapped her hands together, delighted. “You do that so well. Come, they have rung the bell for dinner.”
Hugh’s breath expelled in a whoosh. “Are all you Mannion women so truthful?” he asked in exasperation.
“Oh, Louisa and Vanessa are much more discerning than I. I am quite the shyest of the lot,” she assured him.
“Indeed,” he murmured, caught between his initial exasperation and his natural inclination to see the humor in life. In jest, he once asked Trevor if he was being thrown to the wolves, and in jest, his friend had agreed. But some jests bear a striking similarity to reality, he thought wryly as he offered Adeline his arm, the beginnings of his own smile turning up his lips.
Chapter 12
Trevor Danielson came into the dining room the next morning softly whistling through his teeth, his face alight with good humor. Hugh Talverton was before him, filling his plate from the broad selection of meats, fruits, and pastries spread across the sideboard. His face bore a shuttered expression, and his complexion held a muddy cast accentuated by dark smudges under his eyes. He glanced once in Danielson’s direction then looked away, settling himself at the far end of the table.
Trevor noted the dissipated appearance of his friend and his concomitant surly behavior. Chuckling, he filled a plate for himself and grabbed a cup of coffee, seating himself across from Hugh.
Hugh barely glanced up, looking at him through heavily hooded eyes before returning his attention to his plate, where he absently shoved his food around.
“Got foxed, did you?” said Trevor jovially. “You must be showing your age. I remember the time. . .”
