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“Hallie?”
She grinned and batted her lashes. “Yes.”
“Maybe we should just dance.” My palm met hers while my other hand settled on her waist.
There was a subtle, slight hitch in her breathing.
“Your breath just caught.” I said it without thinking.
“Maybe it did. So what?” She angled her chin up at me.
“Nothing. It’s just … it’s only fair. You make mine catch all the time.”
Chapter 12
Hallie
I’d never swooned in my life.
But if Dune kept talking sweet to me, I was going to need a fainting couch and smelling salts pronto.
His touch was gentle, and he smelled like the ocean. Not fishy ocean, but expensive, man-made, bottled interpretation of the ocean. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was in his arms, or how overwhelmed I was by my emotions when he pulled me closer.
Then the world melted around us.
Rivulets of the past flooded over the present, and the song playing in my mind bloomed from a few simple notes to a full orchestra. What I thought would be a waltz became a quadrille. Dune’s face faded. A masquerade mask replaced it, and the rip world replaced my own.
The eyes behind the satin assess me from head to toe. A cool
expression turns warm as what he sees passes muster. When the time comes to switch partners, he pulls me from formation.
“Cecile?”
I nod.
“You look beautiful. The dress pleases you?”
I nod again and offer a tentative smile.
“I’m going to arrange a meeting with your mother. Does this please you, too?”
“Monsieur Brionne.” My maman interrupts us. She wears a yellow dress of a much brighter shade than my own. Both complementary of our dark hair and skin. My skin and …
… not my skin. I looked down at my fingernails, not recognizing the oval shapes and bitten nails. I didn’t bite my nails.
“May I call upon Cecile tomorrow?” Monsieur Brionne asks my maman. He keeps his hand at my waist, and I know that he doesn’t want to let me go. Something about the way his fingers grip my waist is worrisome; as is the look in his eyes that tells me he hopes I’ll be alone tomorrow when he calls.
“That will be agreeable.” Maman dips her head into a slight bow.
The music begins, slow and disarming, and we step back into the throng of dancers, everyone here is part of the system of plaçage, arranged left-handed marriages of prosperous white men and women of color.
The soft glow of an electric chandelier replaces candlelight, and
the smell of calla lilies perfumes the air as bodies whirl around me.
Monsieur Brionne stops, and I spin out of his arms. The room fades, tilts, and the light changes, going from soft focus to sharp relief.
“A joining of two fine families.” I jump when a man with a shiny, bald head claps me on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”
