Exhaling, I handed him the blindfold and spun around as I’d done the night before.
After the blindfold was in place, with Rett still behind me, his lips came to my exposed neck and his warm breath skirted over my skin. “Thank you, Emma.” A kiss and then another peppered my collarbone as chills and goose bumps scurried over my skin. “Submission given is sweeter than submission taken.”
Submission?
I wasn’t submissive nor did I want to be, and yet Rett’s gratitude, his warm breath, and his tender touch created an intoxicating concoction that covered my flesh in goose bumps and twisted my insides.
Rett reached again for my hand as he also wrapped another arm around my waist. “Come, we’ll dine.”
Being tucked against his side gave me a sense of security I hadn’t had with Ian.
Similar to what I’d done the night before, Rett and I traversed hallways and staircases. This time the staircases led down. A slight change of pressure and together we maneuvered long stretches of carpeted hallways. When my footing was unsure, his grip tightened. When I was more confident, he gave me space. The interesting component of our journey was that it all occurred without words. His guiding and my following were as if we were in tune with one another, and we moved in sync. The texture of the floor coverings changed until he helped me down what I would learn was the last step.
Without his explanation, I lifted my face to the breeze, knowing we were now outside—in the courtyard.
Rett’s touch moved and I felt the tug on the material before it fell away.
Blinking away the sensation of the blindfold over my eyes, I sucked in a breath as I took in the miraculous surroundings. Slowly, I spun, making certain I didn’t miss an inch of the world he’d brought me to. “Rett, this is simply magical.”
Emma
Rett had promised me dining under the stars.
He delivered, thousands and thousands of stars, artificial in nature, white twinkling lights over our heads. The exterior walls of his home reached up to the dark sky in all four directions. There were multiple openings, solid doors and French doors that I assumed led to rooms within his home. With the lights inside turned off, it was only the courtyard that I saw.
My eyes widened with each discovery.
Even the trees were decorated in shining pinpoints of light.
In the center of the courtyard was a large fountain, one I’d guess was easily ten feet high. The water changed colors from pink to blue, to green, to red, and back to pink. Near the fountain was a table, one singular table with two chairs. The table was covered with a white linen tablecloth and in the center, as there had been at the restaurant, was a silver vase with a long-stemmed red rose. There were also two place settings complete with goblets filled with ice water.
It was as I spun around that I saw the maze of pebblestone paths lined with flowers. In the air, New Orleans blues wafted through the courtyard, its melody adding to our own private oasis.
“From the second floor,” Rett said, “you can see that the paths form the Ramses family crest. The lights of the fountain illuminate the pebblestones. When all other lights are off, the crest changes color.” He reached for my hand. “Before electricity, my great-grandfather mandated that the courtyard remain lit. Servants took shifts, assuring that the torches never extinguished. After the French Opera House burned in 1919, there were ordinances about the use of outdoor flames, even those contained. Refusing to allow the crest to go without illumination, my great-grandfather had this courtyard wired with electricity before the house.”
I looked up at Rett with a smile as he spoke. It wasn’t his story that brought me pleasure but the pride with which he articulated it.
“New Orleans,” he went on, “was one of the first cities to have electricity, the Southwestern Brush Electric Light and Power Company, incorporated in 1881. However, getting that power to private residences took time. This home was one of the first private residences to secure its own electricity.”
“Your family has lived in New Orleans for a long time.”
“As has yours, Emma. The Boudreaux were here before the Louisiana Purchase. The history of your mother’s lineage is less documented. The name North can be traced to many cities in Louisiana. The Norths are respectable in Baton Rouge. The rumor was that Jezebel was second-generation New Orleans. Her mother was brought down from Shreveport to pay a family debt.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifted my hand and directed us toward the table. “It’s a story, Emma. New Orleans is filled with tales.”
“But how was she to pay a debt?” As the question left my lips, I knew the answer. “Are you talking an arranged marriage?”
“According to lore, she believed that was her destiny. However, upon her arrival, she learned it was less honorable.”
I wanted to know more. “What happened to her, my...?”
“According to legend, she would be your grandmother, Jezebel’s mother.” He took a deep breath. “She was forced to work in a brothel.”
“And her family was all right with that?”
“They didn’t have a choice. Her work kept her father from reneging on his debt.”