His expression was inscrutable. "How do you know? What have you ever been forced to destroy?"

"It's a mistake to think that a woman's feelings are less powerful than a man's, etienne."

"All her feelings?" He touched her cheek.

She could feel each separate fingertip against her skin. When etienne touched her, she felt as if something had been completed, as if something that had always been missing had now been returned to her. She closed her eyes and kissed his palm. "All," she said.

Hand in hand with her, he showed her the bridge, equipped with the most modern technology, and the crew's quarters. They stared down through stained-gla.s.s skylights to the smoking and drawing rooms below. As the sun dipped behind the horizon, they went down to the promenade deck and patiently strolled the circ.u.mference of the ship.

The smoking room was luxurious, with ornately carved walnut paneling, burgundy carpeting and comfortable leather chairs. Tables were set up for dominoes or a rowdier game of cards, and a bar extended along one side to cater to a gentleman's whim. Beside the drawing room, in the center of the deck, was a small writing room for ladies, with gilded mirrors on the walls and delicately carved plaster ornaments adorning the ceilings.

"If I was traveling on this ship, I would adjourn here every day and write you a sad, sad letter," she said, dragging a gloved fingertip along the surface of a Queen Anne secretary.

"What makes you think I'd let you come on board alone?"

Her voice grew softer. "Wouldn't you?"

He moved closer. "And have you so far away? A letter wouldn't be good enough, Aurore. Not even a sad, sad letter."

She was afraid to believe what she saw in his eyes. She had yearned for love all her life, even as she had grown accustomed to living without it. Now she couldn't think of anything else. Her waking moments were filled with thoughts of etienne; her dreams were the same. She lived for the hours they spent together.

"I wouldn't want to leave you behind," she said. "But what a scandal we'd cause if we took a room together."

"Not if we married."

She looked down at the secretary. "What a scandal we'd cause if we married."

He lifted her chin. "Would the pleasures be worth it?"

"My father has plans for my life. He'd be furious if I married you."

"I'm good enough to work closely with him, but not good enough to marry his daughter?"

"No," she said honestly. "But those are his thoughts. Not mine."

"And what are yours?"

She looked away. "Do you understand that if we married, my father would do everything in his power to leave me penniless? Even the law couldn't protect me. He would give away everything, just to be sure I received nothing after his death."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I've never claimed to understand my father, but I do know he expects total obedience from me. He'd crush us both if I strayed too far from his plans."

He dropped his hand. "Then why are you here? To pa.s.s a little time? To stray just a little?"

"Why are you here?" she countered. "Did you think you might better your prospects by seducing the daughter of your employer and making an advantageous marriage?"

She expected him to turn away; most men would have. But etienne didn't. "I'm here because I want you."

"Even without my money or my name? Even without a single share of Gulf Coast Steamship stock?"

"I've never wanted your name! And I have money of my own."

She had held herself erect throughout their exchange. Now she sagged a little. "Then why do you want me?"

"The first time I saw you, I knew you were going to be mine."

"There are more beautiful women, cleverer women."

"None of them is Aurore Le Danois." He took her hands and clasped them in his own. "But tell me if I'm wasting my time. If you're bound by what your father thinks or says, then you have to tell me now."

"He's your employer."

"There are other shipping companies on the river. Other companies in other places."

"You would give up what you've worked so hard to achieve?"

"My goals aren't as narrow as you seem to think." He pulled her closer. Their faces were only inches apart. "I've never expected to stay at Gulf Coast forever."

She gave herself up to a kiss that said more than words ever could. With his arms around her, she felt surrounded by his warmth and strength. She had never thought of love as a refuge, but now she escaped into the world he was creating. For the first time, she really allowed herself to imagine a life with etienne, a life far from the demands of her father.

His lips moved over hers, insisting with pa.s.sionate grace that she had nothing to fear and everything to antic.i.p.ate. She swayed against him and wished that her clothes weren't a barrier to the hard pleasures of his body.

"I have more to show you," he said at last.

Her breath was coming quickly. She had learned the joys of intimate kisses, of tongue dancing with tongue and hearts beating together. "You've already shown me so much."

He took her hand. Hers was trembling, and his was not much steadier.

He led her to the stairs and down to the saloon deck. She had forgotten about the tour, but he pulled her into the grand saloon and left her by the door. "Wait here."

She didn't know what to expect; she hadn't known what to expect since the day etienne had walked into her father's office. A small flame flickered in the corner, then another. As she watched, the darkness turned gradually lighter, until she could see dozens of candles set against huge mirrors. She clapped her hands as etienne circled the room. When he had finished, he joined her and held out his hand. She let him lead her to a table in the center.

"Mademoiselle Le Danois." He gestured to the table. "Your host requests the pleasure of your company at his table tonight."

The room was an enormous octagon, a fairy-tale ballroom with a vaulted ceiling that rose two decks. Between the many mirrors were beautifully rendered figures from Greek mythology. She recognized Apollo and his twin sister, Artemis.

A balcony circled the room a floor above them, and tall windows behind it let in the soft glow of moonlight. The table etienne had chosen was one of more than twenty, octagonal, like the room. Although the others were bare, theirs was covered with fine linen and set with china adorned with spidery letters: intersecting D Ds, the insignia of the Danish Line.

Pale golden roses bloomed in crystal at the table's center, and sterling shone beside the plates. "etienne?"

"Mademoiselle." He pulled out her chair. She let him seat her. Before she could ask another question, he disappeared into the shadows at one side of the room. She had eaten a light meal, because she hadn't expected to eat again. But now she realized she was famished.

He returned with a silver platter. As she watched, he lifted a dome and displayed two small, glistening roast ducks. He set the platter on the table and disappeared again. When he had finally returned for the last time, the table held a salad of colorful vegetables cut into thin strips and dressed with a pungent sauce, a dish of fragrant oyster dressing, spinach garnished with hard-boiled eggs, and a fruit compote with its own pitcher of heavy cream.

"How did you arrange this?" she asked.

He seated himself beside her. "It's better not to ask."

"It's wonderful. You're a magician." She spread her hands to encompa.s.s the room. "And this is truly magic."

"Shall I carve?"

"Please." She watched as he expertly sliced one of the ducks. She pa.s.sed her plate, and he presented the tender fowl to her on a slice of toast. Together they served up the remainder of the meal, pa.s.sing and receiving plates. Her eyes rarely left his. They ate, and although she knew the food had been prepared by a talented, if mysterious, chef, she hardly tasted a bite.

The candlelight flickered in etienne's eyes. He had taken off his hat, and his hair brushed his forehead in a way that made her want to test its curl with her fingers. She watched the planes of his face shift and change in the soft light. She could imagine watching him this way forever. Until tonight, she had not dared to imagine watching him grow older, to imagine children they might have together.

He smiled, and she saw possession in his eyes. It was not the careless ownership she saw in her father's. It was darker and more intimate. It hinted at secrets, at whispered words exchanged in candlelit rooms, at kisses more pa.s.sionate than those they had exchanged.

etienne pushed his chair back and stood when she had finished. "Is Mademoiselle ready to dance?"

"Can the magician produce an orchestra?" She stood, too.

"The magician can produce music."

She watched him vanish into the shadows again, but this time her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness. She could see him stooping at a table on the far side of the room; then a man's voice began to sing. She clasped her hands. "A gramophone. etienne, you think of everything."

He returned. "May I have this dance?"

"I'm not sure you're on my card for this one." She pretended to check, holding the imaginary card up to the candlelight. "You are at that."

He took her in his arms. They waltzed between tables to the strains of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart." The gramophone scratched at the words and distorted the melody, but she was as entranced by the sound as if it were a full orchestra.

She closed her eyes and let him guide her between the tables. He had a sure sense of rhythm, and waltzing with him was like floating. He pulled her closer, and she could feel his signals-turn, two, three, turn again-through her whole body.

He left her for a moment when the song had slowed to nothing, then returned to take her in his arms for a Strauss waltz that continued long after silence filled the room. By the third waltz she was no longer thinking about the music, only about the delicious freedom of standing so close to him. When he kissed her, she wasn't surprised. They waltzed on, slowing their steps until they were no longer dancing at all.

She clung to him, too aware that their evening was ending. She didn't want to let him go. She had found love, and she never wanted to live without it again.

"Aurore." He held her tighter and rested his cheek against her hair.

"I don't know when I can get away again," she said finally, moving away to see his face. "My father seems suspicious. He couldn't avoid attending a meeting tonight, but most nights he stays home and expects my company."

"We'll find a way." He framed her face with his hands. His eyes burned with emotion. "Shall I show you another room in the time that's left? One you haven't seen?"

"Yes." She didn't ask where.

The cabin to which he led her was on the promenade deck. It was the largest and most luxurious on board, a muted blue-and-green suite with its own connecting bath. The bed was wide and soft, dressed in fresh linens. Moonlight floated in from a wide window.

She didn't pretend that this was a stop on the tour. It was the end of one thing and the beginning of something else. She knew so little about love, but she did know that when love appeared it was to be held close and cherished.

etienne didn't touch her. He stood in the doorway with the lantern as she wandered the room. She parted the lace curtains and looked out over the river. "I've always been alone," she said. "I think you have been, too. How do we learn what we need to know to be together?"

"We teach each other," he said.

"Will you begin?"

"Only...if you're sure."

She faced him. "I love you, etienne. I think I have for months. Would I be here if I didn't?"

He came forward and set the lantern on the vanity, but he still didn't take her in his arms. "Do you say that easily?"

"Are you asking if I've said it to other men?" She rested her hands on his shoulders and looked for answers in his eyes. "There's never been a reason to."

He seemed to struggle with himself. "This will change your life," he said at last.

"I hope so." She rose on tiptoe and tested her mouth against his. "Dear Lord, I hope so," she whispered against his lips.

His arms came around her, and he crushed her against him. Her body curved into his, as pliant as her will. She helped him find the hooks and b.u.t.tons of her dress, the ivory pins in her hair. She slid his coat from his shoulders and smoothed away his shirt. She learned the feel of his bare chest, the mysteries of a heart beating against hers, the heated slide of his lips against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

On the bed, she let him teach her the secrets she had never expected to learn. She took him into her body and gave herself in return. And when at last he held her quietly in his arms, she knew that he had been right.

Her life had changed forever.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

By the time carnival had New Orleans in its whirlwind grip, Aurore had little doubt she was carrying etienne's child.

For once Cleo, the housekeeper who had few opinions that couldn't be bought, gave her opinion for free. Yes, Aurore's friend, whose monthly bleeding had stopped and whose stomach was tormented by the smells of horse droppings in the street, was surely enceinte. enceinte. Cleo knew how the friend could be rid of the unwanted burden. Horrified by the diagnosis and the remedy, Aurore escaped to ponder both. Cleo knew how the friend could be rid of the unwanted burden. Horrified by the diagnosis and the remedy, Aurore escaped to ponder both.

Her room looked over the back garden, where something was almost always in bloom. Ephraim, the gardener, and his crew dug up flowers on schedule and replaced them. She had always hated those mornings when the old, spent plants were ripped from the ground and callously tossed in a pile, their tired leaves and blossoms shriveling in the sun until they were carted away.

Today, as mockingbirds sailed back and forth from magnolia to magnolia, the old man and his crew replaced asparagus fern and tiny white snowdrops with pale lavender pansies. Tulips nodded in the row behind, on the verge of bursting into scarlet glory. When they had finished blooming, they would end up in the gardener's cart, too, because their life cycle couldn't be sustained in the Louisiana climate.

Aurore was flushed. She could feel heat pulsing against her skin and beading on her forehead, but she didn't dare open her window. The sounds of Ephraim ripping the snowdrops from the soil would make her worse. Then she wouldn't be able to control the bile rising in her throat, the sick rumble of her stomach. She drew the curtains closed.

A child.

She hadn't wanted children. What did she know of caring for a child, of cuddling a baby on her lap or smothering it with kisses? How did a mother listen patiently to a child's innocent prattlings? What did she say in response?

She was carrying a child. etienne's child. She wondered how she could tell him. Despite everything, thinking about him pumped an errant giddiness through her veins. etienne, whose dark eyes found all her secret thoughts, whose slender, clever hands knew all her secret desires. She had never imagined that love could be like this, that she would ever believe there was only one man for every woman.

But etienne was that one man. Until her monthly bleeding had ceased, she had thought of nothing but him. She had lied repeatedly to be with him. She had risked her good name and freely given her virginity. She had traded security for love. And, despite everything, she would do it all again.

When she was with etienne, the sheer glory of his touch was enough to make her give up everything. She had found she was weaker than she had dreamed, but stronger, too. Love was worth any risk. She had tried her entire life to earn Lucien's love, and she had failed. She had done nothing to earn etienne's, yet he'd given it without asking anything in return.

She wandered the room, afraid to be still. Lucien had firm ideas about his daughter's room. There was nothing of substance inside the four walls, nothing that spoke of strength or courage. Everything could be destroyed with the sweep of a hand. But Aurore had learned she was nothing like the dainty Louis XIV furniture, the Staffordshire shepherdess on the mantel, the Brussels lace that hung in airy folds from her tester bed.

She was carrying a child, and even as nausea roiled inside her she knew she would carry this child safely into infancy. The pale little girl who sometimes gasped and fainted had changed into a strong woman. Her body would surround and cushion the baby growing inside her. She was not Claire. A cycle would be completed. Neither man nor nature itself would interrupt that cycle until it was time for the child to be born.

"etienne." The name gave her courage. She felt it on her lips and in her heart. He hadn't known love, either. He had nearly said as much, and she had guessed the rest. Like her, he had been raised alone. There had been no children in his life to smother with affection. But together they would learn how.