Deceive Not My Heart (4 page)

Leonie stiffened and the green eyes narrowed. "To whom?" she demanded in a tone of voice that made Claude distinctly uneasy.

Airily waving one hand, Claude replied, with more confidence than he felt, "I have not yet decided, you understand. It is merely that I thought I should tell you first... that is, before I looked about for a suitable husband for you."

Leonie settled back on her haunches and gave her grandfather a long, assessing look. With studied indifference she replied, "I do not wish to marry,
grand-pere."
When Claude started to protest, she added flatly, "I will not marry. You cannot force me."

Claude was instantly infuriated. His lips thinned with rage and his voice shook with anger as he threatened, "You will either marry the gentleman of my choice, or that precious bastard of an octoroon whore you secretly dare to call
sister,
will find herself in the meanest brothel in New Orleans!"

Her great sea-green eyes glittered with golden flecks of sheer temper; the expression of mingled fear and fury that flickered across the triangular-shaped face caused Claude to wince. It had to be done, he reminded himself sadly; Leonie's future
must
be made secure whether
she
wanted it or not.

Leonie, leaping up in one furious bound and springing catlike to the floor, approached her grandfather and spat, "You would
dare?"

Stonily he returned, "I would."

Her small bosom heaving with the force of the furious emotions that tore through her, she stared disbelievingly at him for a moment. She knew her grandfather well, they fought and made truces and then fought again, but this was one battle she was terrified he would win. She was wise enough to know that she could not protect Yvette at all times, as her grandfather was incredibly crafty when he chose to be. If he said Yvette would find herself in a brothel he wasn't making idle conversation. Realizing that for the present there was no escape, she stared at his fixed features and said in a tight, little voice,
"Eh bien.
I will do it."

Claude nodded and said coolly,
"Bon!
We will return to New Orleans shortly to find you a husband."

Leonie looked at him and with a surprisingly docile expression on her small face, she picked up the china coffee pot and asked sweetly, "More coffee,
grand-pere?"
Before Claude guessed her intent or could react, she swiftly proceeded to pour the entire pot of hot liquid right over her grandfather's very elegant, white linen nightshirt.

Spluttering with rage, Claude called down a string of curses on her head, but Leonie was gone, a mocking smile curving her mouth as she ran from the room.

Chapter 2

Even to the most casual observer it would be obvious that Bonheur, situated some distance from Natchez in the Mississippi Territory, was the estate of a wealthy gentleman. The tree-lined drive that led to the residence was indeed impressive. The branches of the old oaks nearly touched as they soared towards the brilliant blue sky ; the red dirt road was smooth and unrutted, revealing that time and money had been spent to make it so. In between the trunks of the massive oaks, with their gray-green beards of Spanish moss, neatly manicured stretches of green lawns could be glimpsed, the vast open expanses broken only by majestic oak and magnolia trees.

The drive ended in a sweeping circular carriageway; beyond the drive and the spreading magnolia trees rose the mansion itself. The house towered three stories in the air; tall stuccoed columns, topped by wooden colonnettes surrounded it on all four sides, and the extended roof line created wide, cool verandas. Soft green outer walls contrasted pleasingly with the dark green shutters that hung at the many long windows, and from the upper story, huge purple masses of wisteria cascaded to the ground near one corner of the house. Bonheur was all grace and elegance from the steeply pitched roof to the broad, white steps that stretched entirely across the front of the building.

Inside it was much the same; each room evidenced wealth and good taste. Axminster and Oriental carpets covered the floors; giltwood furniture upholstered in Gobelin's tapestry graced the main salon; an exceedingly fine mahogany set of dining room furniture dominated the spacious chamber. Yet Morgan Slade, the heir to all this wealth, paid it little heed—after all, he had been born at Bonheur and had lived here off and on for his entire twenty-seven years.

While finishing a last cup of coffee he was reading, on this particular sunny morning in June of 1799, a letter from his uncle in England. The beginning of a frown marred his otherwise smooth forehead. Seated across from him, his younger brother Dominic noted the frown and inquired, "Trouble, Morgan? Is the war against France going badly for England?"

Morgan's lean face cleared, and sending Dominic a slight smile, he murmured, "No worse than can be expected. Admiral Nelson is beating them on the sea, but the land war is not going well. Napoleon certainly knows how to surprise the English! Uncle seems to hope, though, that it will not go too badly for England, and he writes that they no longer fear an immediate invasion from France."

"Then why are you frowning?"

Morgan sighed, knowing that until Dominic was entirely satisfied the questions wouldn't abate. Flicking aside the letter he said carelessly, "It seems our esteemed cousin Ashley is, as usual, causing his father a bit of trouble."

Robert, the brother some two years younger than Morgan, looked up quickly. He, as well as Morgan, had been educated at Harrow in England and knew from close experience exactly what kind of trouble Ashley naturally gravitated toward. In his quiet manner he asked, "Women, drink, money... or all three?"

Morgan laughed, his even white teeth flashing in a dark face and the vivid blue eyes dancing under heavy, black brows. "All three! And what is worse, it appears that dear cousin Ashley is not only
not
in England but upon our own fair shores."

"Good Lord! He's not coming
here?"
Robert asked with a startled expression, remembering uncomfortably the scandals and unpleasantness that followed Ashley wherever he went. His face disapproving, he said slowly, "I would have thought that the trouncing you gave him—after he forged your signature to his gambling vowels and impersonated you to seduce a tavern wench—would have given him the good sense to keep an ocean between you. I seem to recall that you threatened to blow his brains out if he crossed your path again. A prudent man would have heeded your warning."

Morgan shrugged. "Prudence is the last thing that Ashley possesses! But don't worry, Rob—Ashley is going to find himself on the first ship back to England. I'll see to it, rest assured!" His features taking on a wry expression he added, "Which is precisely what our uncle has written asking me to do. It seems they argued over Ashley's debts and rakehell living, as usual, and uncle disowned him... again. Cooler thought has now prevailed, and he wants me to find Ashley and convince him to return home."

The trio of young men exchanged a knowing glance, all three thinking with a certain amount of sympathy of their uncle, the Baron of Trevelyan, whose heir was their abominable cousin Ashley. Looking at the trio as they sat at the round oak table, it was obvious they were brothers. All three had the same dark hair, black as a raven's wing, which they had inherited from their Creole mother; each had the Trevelyan chin, determined and very masculine, that had come to them from their father, as well as Matthew Slade's rather lowering black eyebrows and deep-set eyes. The two older brothers had the same piercing blue eyes as did their father, but Dominic's eyes were a cool beautiful gray.

Morgan was by far the most striking: his eyes seemed brighter, more vivid than his younger brothers'; his skin darker; his cheekbones higher and more pronounced; his nose stronger; and his mouth fuller. Robert was the truly handsome one, his features so symmetrical that one adoring young lady had likened him to a Greek god—much to his intense embarrassment, for Robert was somewhat shy and retiring despite his stunning handsomeness. Dominic was every bit as good looking as his older brothers, but his face still showed a youthful prettiness, and he would never be quite as handsome as Robert. Yet, there was a mischievous curve to Dominic's mouth and a teasing sparkle in the gray eyes that made him particularly appealing to the opposite sex.

The Slade family was a large one. In addition to the three brothers there were still at home the lively, rambunctious ten-year-old twins, Alexandre and Cassandre. A married sister, Alicia, lived in Tennessee with her planter husband and growing family.

It would seem on the surface that the Slade family had been untouched by tragedy of any kind, but that would be untrue. Nineteen-year-old Andre had been killed three years ago in a senseless duel, and there had been an even younger sister, Maria, who had died of malaria at the age of twelve, only the past year. And then there had been Morgan's tragic, ill-fated marriage....

Noelle, their petite, pretty mother entered the room and the three gentlemen all rose and greeted her as she was seated by the white-garbed Negro butler. At forty-five years of age, Noelle Slade was still a beautiful woman, a bit plump it was true, but then eight children were bound to have left their mark upon her. Her face was that of a true Creole beauty from New Orleans—smooth, magnolia skin and dark, sparkling eyes with an abundance of shining black hair arranged in soft curls about her smiling face. And like most Creole women, her family was everything; she would have cheerfully slaughtered
anyone
who caused her husband or one of her children a moment's pain. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was a trait that had been passed on to her children. The Slades were intensely protective and loyal to one another—the man who had shot Andre had discovered this trait, to his regret, when he found himself face to face with a narrowed-eyed Morgan on the same dueling field where young Andre had died not twenty-four hours before. The man, a braggart and a bully who had forced the duel with Andre, had not left the field alive.

Noelle had just been served her coffee and toast by a servant when the head of the family wandered in. Matthew Slade, his rich chestnut hair liberally sprinkled with gray, was still an imposing figure of a man despite having turned fifty-four some months ago. He was tall, and it was from him that his sons, Morgan in particular, got their long, lithe bodies.

Greetings were once again exchanged and then the conversation became general for several moments, as Matthew decided on breakfast and busied himself with pouring cream into his coffee. It was Dominic, ever eager to be the first with any news, who brought up the subject of Ashley.

"Ashley's in America, father! And Morgan is going to put him on a ship for England after he blows his brains out—uncle wrote and asked him to do it!" Dominic stopped abruptly, looking a bit sheepish, and then added, "I mean uncle wants him put on a ship for England. It's Morgan who wants to blow out his brains!"

At the mention of Ashley's name, Noelle's dark eyes flashed and with surprising violence she said, "That swine! I almost wish Ashley
would
get his brains blown out... at least then his brother could inherit!"

Morgan smiled grimly. "If you wish it done, I am at your service."

Uncertainly Noelle looked at him.
"Mon fils,
let it be," she said at last, her own volatile temper evaporating as quickly as it had surfaced.

Morgan sent her a cool, mocking smile. "Of course, if it is what you wish." His reply was polite enough but there was a note in his voice that caused her to glance at him sharply. Morgan had always tended to be headstrong; even as a child he had been aloof, going his own way, but there was a difference these days. Once she had known his every thought, had shared his youthful dreams, and despite his iron-willed personality, there had been a sweetness in him—especially with women... but no longer. Not since the terrible end of his marriage barely two years ago....

The conversation switched to other subjects and the meal continued in leisurely harmony, but an hour later, as she sat in a small room which looked out towards the cotton field behind Bonheur, Noelle's troubled thoughts were on her eldest son.

He is so wary and hard, so far away from us,
she mused unhappily.
It is almost as if he has erected a barrier to protect himself from women, even from me.
Her small face tightened and for a moment she looked quite ferocious.
That Stephanie! I could kill her, if she were not dead already! To treat my good Morgan so, to break his heart, to shame him, to take away his child, and to destroy his trust in women!
Mon Dieu!
I would like to cut her heart in little ribbons!