Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection)

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of
Razzle Dazzle Design
.

Copyright ©
1974 and 2013
by Patricia Maxwell

First Fawcett Gold Medal Mass Market Edition: 1974

First E-Reads Publication:
1999

First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

THE GALLOPING MUSIC of the
contredanse
swung to a halt, and Claire de Hauterive, breathless and flushed from exertion and the heat of the room, sank gratefully onto a satin-covered settee. Her partner seated himself beside her and, unfurling the tiny fan that hung on a ribbon from her wrist, began to fan her vigorously.

“
Idiot
,” she said amiably, laughing at her cousin as she rescued the fragile ivory sticks threaded with pink ribbon.

“You must be overheated,” Jean-Claude protested, “I am going up in flames. If you won’t use it, then fan me!”

His face was red, his collar points, which had begun the evening in crisp white splendor reaching nearly to his eyes, were sadly wilted, and he did look unbearably hot in his black evening coat with its black satin collar. She took pity on him.

“Not so hard! You will undo all my valet’s efforts,” he said, touching his heavy, intricately arranged cravat. “How do you like this hair style? It is called
le cavalier
.”

“That is exactly what it looks like—as though you have been out horseback riding bareheaded. I don’t think anything I could do would harm it.”

“Claire!”

He relaxed, a grin slowly curving his mouth. “Wait until we are married. Then I will teach you to show a proper respect.”

Claire gave him a warm smile before she turned away, her dark gold hair catching the gleam of two hundred candles. The prospect of marriage to Jean-Claude held no alarm for her. She had known for years that they were expected to wed. She was an orphan, the ward of her uncle, Jean-Claude’s father, and completely dependent upon him. She and Jean-Claude were of the same age. What could be more natural than that they should marry and live in a portion of the house on Royal Street? Among the Creoles of New Orleans, cousins often married. It would be an undemanding life. Jean-Claude’s mother would not allow her to worry herself about the running of the house. She and Jean-Claude liked each other, and if it was now only a brother and sister sort of affection, well, marriage would change that. After the second or third child Jean-Claude would, no doubt, install a quadroon mistress for himself, as most men did, and she would not object too strenuously because it would mean that she would not be as likely to have to bear a child every year. It was all very practical and convenient. The wonder was that they were not married already. Eighteen was very nearly an old maid for a girl, nearly time to throw her corset on top of the armoire, as the saying went. But Jean-Claude’s mother felt that eighteen was too young for a man to be tied down. She wanted him to make a grand tour first, but the war in Europe had, so far, made it impossible. Napoleon had been mewed up on St. Helena for several months, but Jean-Claude’s mother, remembering the little Corsican’s escape from Elba, refused to allow her son to set sail for France until she was sure that the English had him fast. Napoleon, she knew, was Jean-Claude’s hero of the moment, and she had a lively fear that if hostilities broke out again her son might feel compelled to join in the fray.

If the prospect of marriage and her life afterward seemed flat and unexciting to Claire, she did not think of complaining. Too many of her friends had been affianced to strange men who carried them off to their homes far from New Orleans into the unknown and dangerous reaches of the bayou country, to plantations surrounded by primeval swamps, and virgin forests. Some had married widowers with several children whom they were expected to mother, or older or unattractive men whose only recommendation was the money that lined their pockets. Jean-Claude was at least familiar, young, and handsome in a boyish manner, with his chestnut curls, long-lashed brown eyes, and olive complexion.

“Look!” Jean-Claude, leaning close, suddenly hissed in her ear.

Following the direction of his slight nod, she swung her gaze toward the door.

A man stood in the doorway, just relinquishing his hat and cane to the Negro butler behind him. He was tall and dark, and his tailor had not needed to resort to padding to achieve the superb fit of his evening coat across his shoulders. His white shirt and cravat were severely plain, in contrast to the dress of the other men in the room, many of whom wore rows of ruching on their shirt fronts while a few still clung to lace-edged sleeves and cravats.

“Who is he?” she whispered.

“You mean you don’t recognize—no, no, of course you don’t,” Jean-Claude answered himself. “Justin Leroux hasn’t made his bow in polite society in ten years at the least. He is the best swordsman and the worst rake in New Orleans. I daresay you have heard of him, at any rate? Saints! Our hostess will be on her head. What a thing to have happen to her carefully arranged
soirée
!”

Claire cast her cousin a questioning glance, searching her mind for some memory of the man, but nothing came.

Near her there came a whisper in the sudden hush that had fallen over the company.

“As handsome as the Angel of Darkness—”

It was a woman’s voice, and though it was not an expression Claire would have thought to use, the words found an echo in her mind as she stared at the averted face of the newcomer. His features seen in profile were perfectly formed: a strong chin, classically straight nose, deep-set eyes, and a broad forehead. But dissipation marked his face and his mouth was set in severe lines, almost like those of endured pain. It was difficult to say how old he was, but he must have been more than thirty if what Jean-Claude had said was true.

As if the intensity of her gaze had drawn his attention, Justin Leroux looked directly at Claire as he turned. Staring into his hooded black eyes, whose thick lashes hid his thoughts like a veil, Claire did not at first see the other side of his face.

A murmur ran around the room. Their hostess signaled frantically, and immediately the five musicians seated on a dais in one corner of the room struck up a quadrille.

Claire felt the color draining from her face, but she could not force herself to look away, though she was aware of the furtive movement as an old lady—one of the chaperons seated on a chair near her—made the sign of the cross. It was as if she were under some form of compulsion, her body would not obey her will. Slowly a feeling of cold despair crept over her, and the mantle of an old guilt settled over her shoulders. Compassion held her in its grip. Though she had been enjoying them a moment before, the loud music and the people moving into their positions to dance now rasped at her nerves. Half of her mind recognized this feeling of pity, recognized the empathy that caused it, while the other half rejected it with a kind of horror. Then, slowly, the horror faded and she was left with desolation in her heart.

“Claire—” The touch of Jean-Claude’s hand on her arm released her. She shuddered on a long breath and dropped her eyes. There was a tightness in her throat and the pressure of unshed tears against the back of her eyes.

“The mark of Cain,” she murmured, without realizing she was speaking aloud.

“For God’s sake, Claire. Keep quiet. Two men have died, another been crippled for life, and a half-dozen more bloodied for saying less than that. But I thought you must have heard of Justin. Few can forget a man who killed his own uncle in a duel, and a mighty smoky meeting at that.”

“He can hardly issue a challenge to me,” Claire said, trying valiantly for a return of their light banter.

“No,” Jean-Claude agreed in a troubled voice. “But Justin has always had the temper of the devil, and little respect for women. Also it must have been some time since he has associated with a
jeune fille
.”

“Really, Jean-Claude! But is it true? Is that really a mark of Cain?” She spoke softly, for her cousin’s ear alone. And she could not keep her gaze from returning to the scar carved into the right side of Justin Leroux’s face. It began high on his cheek bone and curved down the lean side of his cheek to his chin, a white crescent very like the letter C.

“Of course not. He has had the scar since he was a child. That is one thing everyone is agreed on. I don’t know him that well—above my touch, I’m afraid. I don’t fly with that group; haven’t the feathers, not to mention the years. Anyway, maman would fall into strong hysterics if she heard I was even seen with his set, much less—”

“What is going to happen now?” Claire interrupted him abruptly. She had noticed several women turning their backs on the man in the doorway, their chins high with indignation.

“Nothing will happen. Didn’t I tell you Justin is the best swordsman in the city? Not a man in this room would dare to give him the cut direct, including me! If our host is wise—yes, you see? He goes toward him. Good manners will do the rest, I think.”

“Yes,” Claire said, slowly letting out the breath she was holding. What had she been afraid of? She was not sure, and yet there was something about the man that told her instinctively that the social barriers that insured good behavior held little meaning for him.

“What troubles me,” Jean-Claude mused, “is why Justin is here. He has avoided all social contact for so long, one can only suppose him to be turning over a new leaf—or hanging out for a wife.”

“A wife?”

Her cousin shrugged. “Well, consider. Why else would he make the effort? What is there here in this gathering that cannot be had in much more comfort and with more gaiety at the quadroon balls on St. Ann Street. The answer? A respectable young lady, a suitable
parti
, for marriage. But enough. Would you like to dance again? This one is slower, a
courante
.”

“No. I think not,
mon cher
. Ask someone else, if you like.”

“I wasn’t anxious to take the floor,” he replied, inserting a finger into his cravat and tugging to loosen it. “Are you sure you feel well? Dancing is usually your greatest pleasure. And you had the oddest expression on your face just now, when Justin walked in.”

She colored a little, but did not attempt to deny it. “I—I can’t explain it to you,” she said, her brown eyes thoughtful. “But as I looked at Justin Leroux, I felt this terrible pity rise up inside me. It was frightening.”

Jean-Claude stared at her and she returned his look. She knew she sounded distraught, and yet she had only spoken the truth. It was too much to expect her level-headed cousin to understand.

“Hrumph!”

The sound, so close, startled both of them. They looked up to see their host standing before them, with Justin Leroux at his side.

“A thousand pardons Mademoiselle de Hauterive,” he said, coughing apologetically, “but Monsieur Leroux desires to be presented to you and to your cousin. I beg leave to present to you Monsieur Justin Leroux of Sans Songe plantation and the city. Monsieur Leroux, I have the great honor of making you known to Mademoiselle Claire de Hauterive and Monsieur Jean-Claude de Hauterive.” Having completed the formal introductions, he bowed and, muttering something about his wife, departed with suspicious alacrity.

There was a small silence. Justin Leroux studied Claire, a measuring look in his black eyes. Claire could feel a flush rising on her face, and she sensed the interest directed at them from all sides. Then he smiled, a chill movement of the lips that was without humor, and for the first time Claire saw the anger that flickered beneath the surface of his calm expression.

Had he heard what she and Jean-Claude were saying? It did not seem possible above the noise of the crowd and the music, but she had no idea how long he had been standing there.

“I believe it is now proper for me to request the privilege of this dance,” Justin said, then turned to the man beside her. “—that is, if you have no objections,” he added, one brow arched in mocking inquiry.

“I had only just refused my cousin,” Claire said quickly, before Jean-Claude could speak, knowing that he could not deny the courteously phrased request without risking a disturbance.

“Oh,” Justin asked smoothly, “what has that to do with my invitation?”