Free Arms of a Stranger by Danice Allen

we go, then? The carriage has been waiting this quarter-hour.”
    Anne slid her gloved hand into the crook of Reggie’s elbow. As he was about to lead her into the hall, she squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Uncle?”
    Reggie’s brow furrowed. “I’ve a gardenia for my lapel, my opera glasses, money, and a clean handkerchief. What could I have possibly forgotten?”
    “Ahem!”
    They turned at Katherine’s exaggerated imitation of Reggie’s habitual throat clearing. Her lips were pursed, her arms were crossed, one slipper-shod toe was tapping the Persian rug beneath her feet, and her gaze was directed at the ceiling. There could be no clearer message to Reggie of exactly what—or whom—he’d forgotten.
    Before any other vanity the modest man might own, Reggie prided himself on his gentleman’s manners. Turning the rosy shade that was fast becoming his usual complexion, Reggie offered Katherine his other arm. He cleared his throat, caught himself, then blushed more deeply. “Yes … er … Katherine, why don’t we … er … go?”
    Katherine’s teeth gleamed in a benign smile, much in the manner of a potentate forgiving an underling. She floated majestically across the short distance that separated them and rested her fingers lightly on Reggie’s forearm, holding her ever-present cane in the opposite hand. Anne squeezed his arm gratefully, and the three of them sashayed into the hall with a rustle of silk and satin, and the infinitesimal squeak of new patent-leather pumps.
    Lucien arrived late at the opera. Dandy Delacroix considered punctuality a fashion faux pas. He headed straight for his parents’ box, intending to stay through the first act, then slip away to an elegant little house on Rampart Street and into the voluptuous embrace of his mistress. After the news of Bodine’s most recent deplorable crimes, he was in no mood for the trivial gossip and smug self-importance of society’s “best.”
    Lucien’s four jeweled rings winked in the bright candlelight spilling from the large chandeliers in the hall as he strode to his parents’ box. Just outside the curtained entrance, he shook down the cuff of his white silk shirt and adjusted his cravat. A single white rose adorned the lapel of his black evening jacket. One last deep breath, and he was ready to face his family.
    He slipped inside and quietly took stock of the situation before making his presence known. Just his mother and father, his younger brother, Etienne, and one of his numerous sisters, Renee, were present. Renee, who had turned sixteen last month, was making her come-out. Just like all his other sisters, Renee was beautiful—tall, slender, and raven-haired.
    During first intermission, the box would be bombarded with would-be beaux, vying for her attention. Champagne would flow, and compliments would be thrown around like so much confetti. Within the fortnight, there would be offers for her hand. After weighing each competitor’s wealth and family genealogy, Jean-Luc Delacroix would make a choice for Renee. A betrothal would be announced, and she would be duly married after a decent interval of engagement. Unless Renee was very different from his other sisters, she would acquiesce to this method of courtship without the slightest complaint. It was the way things were done.
    Just then his mother turned and motioned to him. Lucien stepped forward, kissed his sister on the cheek, and bowed to Etienne—who returned the bow with a curt nod—before sitting down beside his mother in the front row. Etienne was highly critical of Lucien’s wastrel pastimes and, just like their father, he took every available opportunity to manifest his disapproval.
    Lucien’s father was scrutinizing the audience through a pair of opera glasses, paying not the least attention to the beautiful aria being performed or even bothering to acknowledge his son’s presence.
    “Maman, you look charming as