Royal 02 - Royal Passion Read Free Page A

wanted to be possessive, but Mara, uncertain that he would make a suitable husband and mistrusting his ardor, kept him at arm's length. Though he danced well and rode better, he had a tendency to bring up the subject of the duels he had fought far too often, and to brag about his progress up and down notorious Gallatin Street in New Orleans when not among his elders.
    It was a hot night in late May. Mara had planned a ball with a gold and blue color theme in the flowers and decorations, the favors, the programs, and the trimming of the ladies’ ball gowns. It was a great success, with carriages lining the drive and extending into the road. The night was sultry and hot, however, with thunder in the air. The press of people made the ballroom stifling, airless. The musicians had played a set of fast dances ending with a polka. Mara whirled through them all, and could scarcely breathe due to the exertion and the tight lacing of her corsets. She was gasping, fanning herself near a window, when Dennis suggested a stroll.
    His progress was not slow, however. He practically pulled her down the path to the summerhouse that sat wreathed in roses some distance from the main house. Once inside, he proposed yet again, though this time with greater force. The die was cast; he had joined the army and must report for duty, but before he went he wanted to make her his wife.
    She tried to distract him by making some playful rejoinder. Incensed by her failure to take him seriously, he caught her in his arms and covered her face with kisses as he held her tightly to him. Her first reaction had been surprise, but it was quickly followed by real distress as she could not catch her breath. She pushed at him, but he would not release her, only muttering thickly about her damned coquettish ways that led a man on. A moment later she lost consciousness, feinting from lack of air in exactly the same boneless manner of the whey-faced females she had always despised.
    The swoon had lasted no more than a minute or two, but when she opened her eyes she was lying on the floor and Dennis Mulholland's hand was under her skirts, groping at her thighs. He had been trying to loosen her stays, he claimed, but she did not believe him. Neither did her father, who came upon them before she could straighten her gown.
    André Delacroix had been enraged, not the least reason being because he felt himself to blame. Most girls of Mara's age were already married with families, but he had kept her near him, discouraging any man who seemed too determined. Now he swore that the scoundrel who had dared to touch his daughter, who had compromised her with such impunity, would marry her or face his pistol at twenty paces.
    Dennis was more than willing to be married; it was Mara who refused, who paced up and down alternately raging and pleading. In the end, she had her way, at least in part. There would be no wedding for the moment, but there would be a betrothal, and when Dennis returned from the war in Mexico they would be wed. She must make her mind up to it, for that was the way it would be.
    Dennis had rode away, and though he had kissed Mara good-bye, his eyes had been hollow with the knowledge that she cared not at all for him. He had been killed in his first battle.
    Everyone had been amazed at how her betrothal had subdued Mara's high spirits. Later they had watched with raised brows as she donned black for the death of her fiancé. There were those who said she was well paid for her flightiness, that she deserved to lose the man she loved, though others spoke of her Irish mother whom everyone knew had been unstable by both breeding and temperament. But as the weeks and months passed, and she grew daily paler and more withdrawn, their interest had turned to concern.
    Mara had taken little notice. Day after day she sat staring out the window, often holding in her hand the letter she had received from Dennis saying that he cared not whether he lived or died if she did not