A slight bob of the regal Creole woman’s head acknowledged the compliment. “Merci.”
Had she been Jenny, Jo feared she would have resented the Texan-ization of her much more lyrical given name, Geneviève. The manager of the Dumont household accepted the nickname with the grace she seemed to accord everything else. Her refined features belied her middle years, and her sophisticated elegance would have been welcome among the loftiest circles of New Orleans society…if not for one detail. Instead of the delicate rose-cream complexion expected of a highborn Creole lady, Jenny’s skin bore the radiant duskiness of café au lait.
Jo liked her from the moment of their introduction. Jenny’s warmth and hospitality infused all of Dumont with a joie de vivre Jo had not expected to find so far from home.
“Edson…” Jenny tucked a tendril of silky hair into her elaborate coiffure. “Do you think the ranch could spare a couple of men tomorrow? Josephine and I would like to begin redecorating the suite she and Bennett will occupy.”
“I don’t see why not. We’ll ask Amon.” Snowy brows inched together above brilliant blue eyes. “Where is that boy?”
“Right here.” Boot steps whisked across the thick carpet and stopped opposite Jo. Amon’s gaze swept both her and Jenny before meeting Monsieur Collier’s. “Sorry I’m late.” Running a finger between his collar and his neck, he tucked into the chair across the table.
Jo hid her surprise behind a sip of chardonnay. Were all Texans so eccentric? In New Orleans, the household manager might dine with the family, but none would dare call the master of the manor by his given name. Outdoors servants seldom entered the house at all and never joined the family for supper. Yet this man, skin baked to a deep tan by long days in the sun, took a seat without the barest hint of invitation.
“Miss LaPierre, I believe you’ve met my second son.”
The Collier patriarch’s rolling rumble collided with the wine halfway down Jo’s throat. With a small cough, she set down the crystal goblet. “I believe I have.” Inclining her head, she pulled on a shallow smile. “Monsieur Collier, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Full lips curved to match a wicked glint in blue eyes. “Just Amon. And the pleasure is mine.” A servant removed the charger in front of him and slid a filled plate into its place. Dark brows rose toward the inky lock draping his forehead at a rakish angle. “Quail. That’s what smelled so good.”
He refocused his attention on his right leg. His hand followed. “I see the ferocious beast is adapting.”
“Napoleon!” A burn swept Jo’s cheeks. “Come here, you naughty boy.”
“He’s just saying hello.” Amon cut half the breast from the fowl on his plate. Gripping the chunk of meat between two fingertips and his thumb, he ferried the treat below the line of the tabletop, then jerked back his hand. Candlelight sparkled among the silent mirth in the gaze that snapped to Jo’s. “Poor little critter’s starving.”
Though his amusement was contagious, she did her best to reprimand the rogue. “You will spoil him.”
Amon chuckled. “Looks to me like somebody already has.”
At the head of the table, Monsieur Collier cleared his throat. “If I may interrupt.”
The scowl on Monsieur Collier’s face faded as Jenny claimed the entirety of his attention with a throaty laugh. “Have no fear, mon cher. The new emperor is much too tiny to claim Dumont’s throne.”
A warm flutter spiraled upward until it encountered the lacing on Jo’s corset. The way the two gazed at one another, as though important pieces of each resided within the other… They’re in love. Was such a thing accepted in Texas?
Chewing his lip, Amon lounged against the high back of his chair. His head swiveled as he contemplated first his father, and then Jenny. By the time he faced his father again, his expression bore an elegiac quality that, for reasons Jo couldn’t define, chipped at her heart. “Pa? You wanted to interrupt?”
Like a boy caught sneaking a treat he wasn’t supposed to have, Monsieur Collier shot guilty glances around the room before clearing his throat again. “Yes, I did.” He adjusted his cravat. “The Constitutional Unionists intend to meet in Galveston at the end of the month. I should like you to attend in my stead.”
A frown settled behind Amon’s rakish lock. “I thought you agreed to stay out of politics, at least for the time being.”
“I agreed not to engage Bennett in any more shouting matches. Your brother is free to embrace whatever foolishness he wishes, but the Collier name must stand behind Sam Houston.” The old gentleman rubbed his breastbone through the pleats on the front of his shirt.
Amon’s frown deepened. “You all right?”
“Perfectly fine.” A deep breath produced a wheezing cough.
Amon started up from his chair.
Monsieur Collier waved his son back into his seat. “We cannot allow the Democrats to overrun the state, or we shall be at war before the new year.”