Creole Hearts Read Free Page A

different than most of the Creole men he knew, taking a free woman of color as a placee, in place of a wife.
    Francois, the fencing master, was born of such a union between Guy's father and a mulatto named Genevieve Olivier. She'd died of yellow fever the same year the disease killed Guy's mother and his baby sister.
    Francois was seven years older than Guy, a black half-brother, freed as a matter of course by his father. He bore the La Branche name and was certainly as talented as any La Branche with the sword—as well as with the mulatto women, or so it was rumored. But, of course, no black could ever inherit a white father's property. Francois had no claim on La Belle.
    Surely Senalda would be happy at La Belle, Guy thought. He'd make her as happy as she'd make him by consenting to the marriage.
    As he neared St. Louis Cathedral, next to the Cabildo at the Place d'Armes, Guy looked to his left, seeing the masts of the ships in the river, French, Spanish and American, stretch out like a forest afloat, as many ships as he'd ever seen anchored there at one time. He turned right onto Orleans, passed the gardens behind the church and walked toward the rue des Ramparts, his pace quickening. He'd not seen Aimee for a week with the press of his duties as aide to the prefect.
    Ah, Aimee, with her skin the color of heavy cream and as smooth and tasty. She had the ripest breasts, the roundest hips of any quadroon in the city. Guy smiled as he remembered how he'd won her from the very arms of Nicolas Roulleaux at one of this year's Quadroon Balls. Aimee had been far and away the belle of the ball.
    Gentle Aimee, eager to please him in all ways. Was he to give her up when he married? Not all men deserted their placees when they married. He'd at least see Aimee was provided for. If Senalda was his, he wouldn't need a placee. Would he? Some men said otherwise.
    His father hadn't given up Genevieve for there'd been other children besides Francois, one a girl the same age as Madelaine. All except Francois were now dead of Bronze John, the yellow fever.
    The afternoon was too fine to spend worrying about the future. It would take care of itself, would all work out. Meanwhile, he'd enjoy Aimee.
    At the rue des Ramparts, Guy turned to his left toward a row of one storied white cottages built directly on the ground. Aimee's was at the far end, somewhat apart from its neighbors. He'd bought it for her. As he hurried his steps, he saw her on the porch, waving. She ran to meet him and Guy caught her in his embrace.
    "Oh, I've missed you so," she whispered.
    He picked her up, carried her into the house, strode directly to the bedroom and laid her atop a spread of ecru lace covering the mahogany four poster.
    " Un minute, s'il vous plait ,'' she begged, sliding off the bed and taking off the lace cover, folding it carefully. Her hands began to unbutton his waistcoat.
    "No," he said. "Take your clothes off. I want to see you as I undress."
    With the charming grace of a kitten she swayed and bent as she slipped off her gown and her chemise. The light brown nipples of her breasts came erect as he gazed at her, his coat and shirt in his hands.
    She was lovely, a pale yellow Venus, and she was his. Guy tore at the buttons of his breeches, ripping one off in his haste. It rolled onto the floor as he yanked his breeches down, stepped out of them and reached for Aimee.
    She came into his arms with a little cry and then he could think of nothing but his need, feeling her silky skin, the softness of her breasts. He lifted her onto the bed and lay beside her, wanting to savor his excitement, but when he touched her he couldn't wait.
    Her sex was smooth and warm as he entered her and she clung to him, fueling his desire so that it rose out of control, mounting, mounting, until he exploded in a spasm of release.
    A few moments later he lay beside her again, facing her, lazily watching the rise and fall of her round breasts. His fingers moved to a nipple and he