Steamy Southern Nights by Nancy Warren

Author:Nancy Warren [Warren, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Ambleside Publishing
Published: 2013-11-21T18:30:00+00:00

5

It was like dressing a panther in a tux, she thought, seeing Claude in his finery on the night of the ball. If anything, the elegant evening dress only made him appear more predatory.

Not having brought anything appropriate with her for a society gala, and not wishing to wear one of her cousin Beatrice’s ‘vintage’ gowns, she hadn’t minded at all having an excuse to splurge in one of the amazing boutiques on Magazine Street. Her dress was a sea-green silk-chiffon number with a low cut bodice featuring tiny crystal beads, and a long wrap in the same breezy fabric, complete with its own scattering of bling.

Finding pretty, strappy shoes in the same color had consumed an entire afternoon, but the results, she decided, as she swung in front of the mirror in her room, were worth it.

“I do love a party,” said Beatrice, sparkling with excitement. She wore a long skirt and jacket in gold brocade and looked regal. Since she was wearing the fat pearls and the diamond and pearl drops in her ears, Lucy had to assume they were real.

But it was Claude who took her breath away. The sight of him in evening dress was like seeing Clive Owen at the Oscars. The tux only emphasized the animal qualities of the man inside it. Her breathlessness at the sight of him irritated her so much she could barely manage to be civil. The fact that his eyes glowed with admiration when they rested on her, only mildly relieved her annoyance.

Claude drove them in his convertible – the roof up in deference to their carefully styled hair – to an antebellum mansion outside of town. Gas lamps lit the way up an avenue of ancient oaks leading to the manor house that sat on acres of sloping land.

They headed into the lavishly decorated ballroom and Lucy took a moment simply to enjoy the spectacle. Even though she didn’t know a soul she could have guessed what Beatrice had told her — that anyone who was anyone would be here. An air of money and entitlement about these people suggested they knew their worth and, based on some of the gems and fashions on display, they knew how to flaunt their wealth.

Beatrice pointed out a few of the people she thought Lucy might be interested in. There was a famous writer, there a prominent historian. That woman had lost a son at Pearl Harbor. Over there was the mayor. She had a few anecdotes to share about some of the more colorful people, most of them good natured.

“Oh, I should have known they’d be here,” Beatrice said, with unaccustomed animosity in her tone. She motioned to where a man in a toupee that seemed to be channeling Donald Trump stood with a woman so thin it hurt Lucy’s bones to look at her. “She boasted to a friend of mine that she has to have her clothes custom made. Even a size two has to be taken in.”

“Ouch.” The form-fitting black sheath dress the woman wore certainly fit where it touched.

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