Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“Apparently you didn’t lose all your appetites.”

“Thank the Lord, no,” Brent said, grinning at her. Byrony lathered her hair a second time as she watched Brent shrug out of his coat. He said over his shoulder, “It would appear that Laurel has softened a bit.”

“She’s very lovely,” Byrony said, willing to be fair, at least for the moment.

“Oh yes, she is indeed,” Brent agreed. He tossed his shirt on the floor and sat down in an ugly wing chair to pull off his boots. He paused a moment. “Drew has become a man. It’s disconcerting.”

“Makes you feel old, does it?”

Brent grinned at her and rose, his fingers on the buttons of his trousers. “You want to see how old this old man really is?”

“Brent, stop that. You’re getting water all over everything.”

Opulent, Byrony thought. The dining room could accommodate eighteen people. The walls were painted a soft green, and draperies were drawn back from the long windows with gold cords. The furnishings were obviously French, even to Byrony’s untutored eye. The dining table was covered with a pristine white linen cloth and white china edged in gold. “What is that?” she asked Brent in a near-whisper, pointing to a large hand-carved wooden bell-shaped adornment hanging down from the ceiling over the table.

“It’s a punkah—”

“A fan is a fan, Brent,” Drew said. “You’ll be grateful for it within the month, I promise you, Byrony. During the meal, a house slave pulls the fan back and forth with a long cord. It cools the face and the vegetables. In the South we’re all very proper. No sweating on the table.”

“That will be the day,” Brent said. “I can remember sweating like a pig here during the summer months. Byrony, you’ll feel as though you’ve been wrung out to dry, only you don’t—dry, that is.”

“How is the weather in San Francisco?” Drew asked.

“Blessedly cool,” Brent said. He slanted a look at Byrony and added, “Except at certain times, of course.”

Drew laughed. “He’s always been outrageous, Byrony—ignore him—even when he was no larger than a mite.”

“Tell me about Paris, Drew,” Brent said. “Did you keep yourself out of trouble and your gentlemanly dignity intact?”

“Most of the time. It’s as different as night is from day, Brent. Everything is so very old and established, despite all the political upheavals, and there is so much to experience, and to paint, naturally.”

“You miss it,” Byrony said, seeing the faraway look in Drew’s eyes.

“Yes, but—”

He paused at the sound of swishing skirts. The men and Byrony turned to see Laurel glide into the dining room, looking as delicious as any dessert, Byrony thought, in a gown of light pink silk that bared her white shoulders and the tops of her breasts. One would have imagined that pink with auburn hair would have been dreadful, but it wasn’t. Byrony suddenly felt complete dowdy, her own gown of dark blue silk—the color of Brent’s eyes, she’d told him—purchased in New Orleans, seeming like a schoolgirl’s next to Laurel’s.

And her hair was still damp. She felt like a scraggly dog in comparison to the vision smiling so sweetly at the assembled company.

Laurel never let her smile falter. Indeed, it grew wider as her gaze flitted dismissively over Byrony. However had Brent gotten himself trapped by that? As for Brent, she felt herself responding to the man as she had to the boy. He was so handsome, she thought, his black hair thick and shiny, his face so strong and chiseled, even the scar on his cheek romantic and dashing. She met his eyes, still so compelling and fathomless, but they were unreadable as they rested on her face.

“Frank won’t be joining us this evening—our overseer, Frank Paxton,” Laurel added. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Certainly,” Brent said. “Byrony, my dear,” he continued, a half-smile on his lips, “you will sit at the foot of the table. You are now, after all, the mistress of Wakehurst.”

Byrony had the sudden awful memory of the dinner party when Irene had taken her seat at the table. She wondered if Brent remembered too, and thus had ensured that it wouldn’t happen here. She smiled up at her husband as he pulled out her chair.

Laurel made no demur, motioning Drew to seat her. She said brightly, “Glasgow, you may serve now.”

Glasgow? Byrony stared at the tall black man who was wearing a livery of sorts, black wool trousers and a yellow shirt, and a ragged jest of a white wig on his head.

“Yes, missis,” he said, and clapped his hands.

Two other black men—boys, actually, Byrony realized—trooped into the dining room, each bearing a silver tray. They were wearing the same black wool trousers that ended well above their ankles, no shirts, and wool jackets. Byrony could practically feel their flesh itching.

“The usual fare in the South,” Brent said to her as he dipped creamed corn from a bowl held by one of the boys. “Chicken, black-eyed peas, corn, and our own special kind of bread, made from corn.”

“It all looks delicious,” Byrony said. Actually everything looked very heavy. However did Laurel remain so slender? “You were talking about your work,” Byrony said to Drew.