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of the liquor and told himself it was because of the blood he'd lost.
    His wound didn't give too much trouble as long as he wore the sling but he was awkward with his left hand. It helped little to see Nicolas swagger about as though he'd won the duel.
    Tea was served at seven, gambling and dancing followed. Guy skirted the card and dice tables, looking for Senalda.
    "Oh, mon pauvre Monsieur La Branche," she said when he found her. Her French was heavily accented but he thought it charming.
    "Are you in pain?" she asked.
    Senalda was dressed in pink, the color of a hibiscus bloom. Her gown had a high waist, just under her breasts, and the silken material fell in graceful folds to the floor. At her throat hung a pendant of rose amethyst. Her blue eyes were full of concern as she looked at him.
    "It's nothing," he said.
    "My heart aches to think how you've suffered." She touched her breast with her fingertips and lowered her eyes, blushing.
    It belatedly occurred to Guy that she thought the duel had been fought on her account. He swallowed. He could hardly tell her otherwise. He'd be a fool, though, not to take advantage of her error.
    "Since my dancing is unavoidably clumsy at the moment," he said, "can I persuade you to sit out a round or two with me? We might promenade in the courtyard."
    She smiled, showing even white teeth. Her lips were delectable — the same pink as her gown. He longed to taste them.
    He offered her his left arm and they descended the stairs into the courtyard. A marble statue of St. John brooded over a lily pool in a far corner and he steered her in that direction. Paper lanterns on the branches of a magnolia tree cast a soft glow.
    "Perhaps I should have put on my cape," Senalda said, letting him lead her past other strollers toward the deeper shadows.
    Something plopped into the water as they came up to the pool.
    "Ooh!" she exclaimed, pressing close to his side.
    "A frog," Guy assured her. "We've disturbed his serenade." He put his arm about her waist and she resisted only slightly. "You won't be cold next to me," he said. "I'll keep you warm." He touched his lips to her hair, breathing in the scent of gardenias.
     
    "I hope you'll stay in New Orleans," he murmured. "You brighten the city with your beauty."
    "Ah," she said, "sometimes New Orleans reminds me of Madrid. Other times . . ."
    "I'll make you forget those other times," he said, moving his lips to her temple. She half turned toward him and he kissed her mouth.
    Her lips were soft and sweet. They quivered beneath his and desire flared. He had to have her as his wife.
    Senalda pulled away. "I must go back inside," she said.
    "So soon?"
    Her laughter was like the tinkle of crystals on a chandelier when a river breeze blew. "Oh, but we've been here too long already." She slipped from his grasp and he cursed his useless arm. A one handed embrace was a poor imitation of the real thing.
    At the party the following evening, de Laussat made a point of steering Guy to a circle of men that included Governor Claiborne, then leaving him there. "How do you do, Governor?" Guy asked, pronouncing the English words carefully, hoping his accent wasn't too atrocious. He'd found Spanish much easier to learn.
    The governor brightened when he heard Guy's words. "You know English, monsieur!"
    Guy bowed. "Tanguy La Branche, Governor. I speak a little English, yes. I'm still learning."
    "I admire your industry."
    "Prefet de Laussat encouraged me."
    "I thought I recognized you. One of his aides, I believe." The governor examined Guy quite frankly.
    Guy looked back at him with interest. This was the closest he'd been to Governor Claiborne. They were much the same size. The Americain was older—near thirty, Guy thought—and wore his brown hair short. Though he wasn't fat, there was a hint of beginning plumpness under his chin. His eyes were shrewd.
    "You're a New Orleans resident?" Claiborne asked.
    "I was born here," Guy said proudly.
    The governor nodded. "I look