“My word,” I manage. He didn’t have to tell me Matilda was uncommon. One night spent at Brignac House, and I more than understood. The handsome man nods and looks straight ahead.
“Are you goin’ to tell me how you know this?”
He smiles at me, and I swear on the good Lord above the angels in heaven sing. “I thought you would never ask. I’m Rea’s younger brother.” He holds his hand out to me. “Loras.” His smile widens. “And your name?”
I shake his hand. “Rainey Pleasonton.”
“You’re not familiar with my sister so you can’t possibly be from Savannah,” he says.
I smile faintly, unsure on how to reply. Most Southern ladies would politely move the conversation onto another topic, but I’m curious. “I suppose that means she has a reputation that precedes her.”
“Possibly.”
“If I was to ask people what her reputation is, would they all say the same thing?”
Loras stares out into the crowd, contemplating my question. “Depends on who you ask.”
I nod, thoughtfully and then lift a shoulder before I lean in. “Then it appears I’m still in the heart of the South.”
At that, Loras tilts his head back and laughs loud enough to earn the gaze of several people standing around us, including Livingston. He’s standing beside Nat across the room. When he sees I’m not far from the source of the laughter, his light eyes narrow into thin slits. At once, he excuses himself and walks across the room.
From afar, when you see Livingston, you notice a strikingly handsome man with not a hair out of place and impeccably dressed. But he begs for a closer look. When you’re given that inspection, those arresting green eyes tell a far different story. They’re bold and impish as though he knows all your darkest secrets. And he wants to inform the world but doesn’t because the wicked side of him likes knowing how you really are.
How Livingston gazes at me right now is intimate. The way a lover would, and he makes no effort to hide it in front of Loras.
This is a day of mourning and remembrance for Oliver, and here Livingston is, nearly undressing me with the heat in his eyes. I momentarily turn away and try to gather a deep breath, but that’s essentially impossible with Livingston standing so close.
“Hello. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Livingston addresses his words to Loras, yet I can’t help but notice how he shifts his body so he’s nearly standing in front of me.
Loras regards Livingston, his gaze cool and distant. “Don’t believe we have.”
“Livingston, this is Loras Breymas, Rea’s younger brother.”
Livingston, however, is undaunted by Loras and solemnly dips his head in Loras’s direction. “Livingston Lacroix.”
“Lacroix.” Loras wags his finger at Livingston. “You must be part of Mrs. Claiborne’s family.”
“Yes, I am. And I’m also one of Miss Pleasonton’s close friends.”
Loras arches a single brow. I shake my head at Livingston. He isn’t a possessive person, but he’s certainly acting that way.
Loras turns his attention to me and smiles. “I hope we meet again.”
I dip my head, my lips curling up at the sides. “Me too, Mr. Breymas.”
I watch him go, and the entire time, I can feel Livingston’s eyes burning a hole into my profile.
“May I speak with you?” Livingston whispers into my ear.
Before I have the chance to reply, his hand curls around my elbow. He steers us out of the room, somberly dipping his head at strangers who have come to pay their respects. Once we’re in the foyer, I expect him to say his truth and go on his way, but he continues walking until we’re at the back of the house, nestled in a small corner where no one can see us. My back becomes pressed against the wall as Livingston stands incredibly close to me.
“What has gotten into you?” Livingston demands, his eyes serious.
I cross my arms. “What are you talkin’ about?”
Livingston gestures toward the hallway. “Do you make it a pastime of yours to bat your eyes at every man durin’ a funeral?”
“No. Loras happened to be one man, not every man, and I did not bat my eyes at him. He spoke to me.”
“Don’t tease me, Rainey.” Now that I’m standing this close to him, I can see the prominent dark circles beneath his eyes.
Provoking aside, I furrow my brows. “What’s the matter?”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I didn’t sleep well either!” Excitedly, I lean in, and whisper-shout. “It’s this house, right? I swear I heard footsteps outside my room! I’m startin’ to believe it’s haunted.”
“Every plantation in the South is rumored to be haunted, but no, that’s not why.” His hands settle on his hips, pulling his jacket away from his body and revealing the gray vest that fits his lean body perfectly. He stares at me for a moment longer, before he lowers his voice. A lock of dark hair falls across his forehead. “Can I see you tonight?”
Our nightly visits has become a dangerous routine as we both become increasingly comfortable with this ritual.
Livingston stares at me intently, waiting for my reply. When he wants to, his presence can be far more foreboding than one expects.
My eyes drift toward the hallway, thinking over my reply when Livingston’s hand gently curls around my wrist. When my eyes meet his, he has the look of desperation almost as though he’s afraid I’m going to leave. He wears this expression far too often. Where can I possibly go? Where have I ever gone? I’ve never known a world without Livingston Lacroix. I blink, and the look is wiped clean from his face.
Briefly, I nod. “Yes.”
It’s hard for me to decide if there’s relief in Livingston’s eyes or casual indifference. He nods once and lets go of my hand only to wrap his arms around me. My hands slide around his shoulders as though we’ve done this for years. I nearly sigh at how complete this one touch makes me feel.
I think we both know that our covert time spent at night can’t continue, and to prolong our rendezvous won’t help either of us. What else am I to do?
I love him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rainey
After every mourner has left, I wait. After the sun begins its descent into the sky, I wait and continue to wait even when every light has been turned off in the house.
The silence in Brignac House tonight borders on eerie. Dinner was a light array of foods graciously given by neighbors or mourners. Nat and Matilda were noticeably absent during dinner. It left Momma, Livingston, and me to sit in the dimly lit dining room. Livingston and I stole glances across the table like two love-stricken adolescents. To an extent, it wasn’t an incorrect portrayal of me. One moment, I was at war with Livingston, and the next, I was here, loving him and under the spell he cast over me. Could he love me back? There have been times I’ve caught him staring at me, his eyes unreadable, and I think maybe the possibility isn’t so far out of reach.
Think you could love me?
Those hushed spoken words flit through my mind. It’s been years, but I still think of them. Still think of what could have happened. It was absurd. He didn’t remember, and neither should I. It’s pathetic really, when you think about it, how this one memory can still control me.