Out of the Dark Read Free Page A

before he spoke again.
    “You dance well. Actually, you are one of the most responsive women I’ve ever held in my arms. You follow my slightest turn without hesitation, and venture any complicated step I begin. I am tempted to wonder if such perfect grace of movement would translate to—places other than a ballroom floor.”
    Lucien Roquelaire had substituted another phrase for the one he had intended, she thought. There had also been an undercurrent in his voice that made her suddenly aware of herself as a female, one in the arms of a male not her father or her late brother.
    His hold was firm, with limitless support in its tensile strength. Their steps were perfectly matched, their bodies fitted together with exactitude. There was a sense of leashed power inside him that she responded to without conscious thought, making it easy to move with him to the music. Even through layers of petticoats and with the distancing of spring-steel hoops, she could sense the taut hardness of his muscular thighs shifting against her skirts.
    She liked none of it.
    Clenching her fingers on his shoulder, she gave him a slight push away from her. Voice tight, she answered, “I doubt it.”
    He relinquished his hold somewhat. “So do I,” he said. “It seems a great pity.”
    They said no more as the waltz swung to a gliding halt. Her partner released her, and then led her back to the chair behind the harp where he had found her. Inclining his head yet again, he walked away.
    She watched him go, and sighed with relief. Or at least she tried to convince herself that was the feeling uppermost in her mind.
    The evening advanced. Anne-Marie danced with her father, and also with Victor Picard, the son of her hostess, a somewhat pompous young man she had known since childhood. She spent a pleasant quarter hour in discussion with the parish priest who was of course in attendance; the two of them had a mutual interest in the novels of Dumas the Elder. Other than that, she remained alone in her nook, observing the kaleidoscope of movement and color.
    Roquelaire , she noticed, became a part of a small group which included the most popular belles and beaus of the community. She had expected nothing less; it was doubtless his rightful place as long as he chose to remain in that section of the country.
    The Dark Angel did not look her way again, which was precisely the way she wanted it. She cared not at all what he thought of her; why should she, when he was nothing to her or her to him? He would soon go back to New Orleans and his round of decadent amusements. And she would shed no tears.
    She wished she could go home; she felt a headache coming on. It was caused, no doubt, by the tight braiding of her hair. There was no excuse that would permit her to leave, however. Her stepmother was addicted to dancing and would not think of departing until the last waltz was played.
    The time crept past. The candles in the crystal and ormolu chandeliers overhead began to smoke and flutter on their sinking wicks. The number of couples on the floor became sparser as the dancers tired. Midnight supper was finally announced.
    Anne-Marie was not at all hungry, yet the pretense of eating would give her something to do for a short while. Taking the plate that was filled for her by a manservant in lieu of an escort, she returned with it to her seat.
    She ate a tiny buttered roll containing smoked ham, and then picked up a pastry puff filled with shrimp spread. She opened her mouth to take a small bite.
    A scream rent the air. Shrill with terror and loathing, it was still ringing around the room as Anne-Marie swung around in a swirl of skirts. The woman who made the noise stood no more than ten feet away. Mouth open and eyes starting from their sockets, she was pointing a shaking finger toward the open French doors just in front of her.
    In the darkness beyond the opening, a shadow moved. It shifted, shimmering in the dim light, then elongated and glided