When Strangers Marry (3 page)

“It would not be the first duel I have fought.”

“
Alors
, you intend to violate Lysette’s innocence, establish her in a residence where she will be scorned by all decent society, and duel with an aging father trying to avenge the honor of his ruined daughter—”

“Stepfather. Who beats her, I might add.”

“That doesn’t justify
your
behavior! How can I have raised such a wicked man as you?”

Max’s better nature—what little was left of it—stirred uncomfortably at her words. However the porspect of finally having revenge on the man who had ruined his life was too much to resist. He could not stop himself from seizing the oppurtunity any more than he could stop his own heart from beating.

“I warn you, Maman, don’t interfere. I’ve waited years for this chance. And your sympathy is wasted on the girl. I guarantee that she’ll be well compensated when it’s over.”

T
he gown Lysette had carried with her was irreparably stained by her journey through the swamp. The morning after her arrival, Irénée provided a pale blue gown that fit well, although the high-collared, intricately tucked style was rather matronly for a young woman of her age. Still, Lysette was grateful for the older woman’s kindness and generosity. It was a relief to wear clean garments and to be rid of the filth and stench of the bayou.

“You look much better,
ma chère
,” Irénée said kindly.

Lysette murmured her thanks, wondering how such a gentle woman had raised a son like Maximilien Vallerand. He must have been an aberration—surely the rest of the family could not be like him.

“Madame Vallerand,” she asked, “do you have other children?”

“
Oui
, I have two younger sons, Alexandre and Bernard, who will be returning soon from a journey to France.” Irénée leaned nearer and added conspiratorially, “I have a cousin there with five pretty daughters, all unmarried. I encouraged them to go for an extended visit, hoping that Alexandre or Bernard would take an interest in one of the girls and return with a wife.” She frowned. “However, either the girls are not as attractive as their mother claimed, or my stubborn sons are determined never to marry. They should return in two months.”

Seeming to read Lysette’s mind, Irénée added, “I can assure you, they are very different than their brother. But Maximilien was not always this way. It is only in the last few years that he has become so embittered. He has suffered much tragedy in the past.”

Lysette repressed a disbelieving snort. Suffered? That splendidly healthy, self-assured male she had met the previous day did not appear to have suffered unduly. Now, after a good night’s sleep, she was fully prepared to deal with him. Vallerand would not take advantage of her again. One thing was certain—no matter what she had to do, she would not be returned to Gaspard Medart’s guardianship and then passed along to Etienne Sagesse.

Her mother had often told her that it was a woman’s lot to suffer and endure whatever
le Bon Dieu
sent her way. And in the past Tante Delphine had said that even the worst of husbands was better than no husband at all. Well, that was fine for some girls, but not for her.

Lysette’s heart thumped faster as they entered the parlor, a small but airy room decorated in pink, brown, and cream-flowered brocade. A rich flemish finish covered the woodwork of white oak. Spotless floor-to-ceiling windows let in the hazy Louisiana sunlight. The moss-green chairs and small baroque sofas were grouped together to invite intimate conversation. Seeing that the room was empty, Lysette began to relax.

She heard Vallerand’s voice from the doorway behind her.

“Mademoiselle, we have some things to discuss—” he began, and broke off abruptly as Lysette turned to face him.

He stared at her with an arrested expression. Lysette returned his gaze coolly, wondering what he seemed to find so fascinating. Certainly her appearance had improved with a bath and some much-needed sleep. She had no illusions that he might find her beautiful, as even the most vigorous brushing could not tame her frizzy explosion of red curls, and the past two days spent out-of-doors had made her freckles proliferate to an alarming degree. Her figure was slim but unspectacular, with small breasts and nonexistent hips. Her features were pleasant, but her nose was too wide and her lips unfashionably full.

As the silence lengthened, Lysette gave Vallerand an insolent inspection of her own, a comprehensive gaze that no lady should ever give a gentleman. Vallerand was even more striking and virile than she had remembered…tanned and
muscular and tall, his hair black as pitch, his eyes dark and audacious. He made the young men she had known in Natchez seem immature and callow. Wryly she wondered if Vallerand was a typical example of the New Orleans Creole. God help her if there were more like him roaming through the city.

“Yes, we do have much to discuss,” Lysette said decisively. As Irénée seated herself on a brocade-covered settee, Lysette strode to a nearby chair, trying to look more relaxed than she felt. She sat and regarded Vallerand with a challenging gaze. “First, monsieur, I would like to know if you intend to send me to the Sagesse plantation.”

Her directness did not seem to offend Vallerand. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe in a casual posture, watching her intently. “Not if you don’t wish it, mademoiselle.”

“I do not.”

“Why do you object to the match?” Vallerand asked idly. “Many young women would be pleased to marry a Sagesse.”

“I object to everything about him. His character, his manners, his appearance, even his age.”

“His age?” A frown crossed his face.

“He is in his mid-thirties.” Lysette smiled provokingly as she added, “Quite old.”

Vallerand responded with an ironic glance, as it was obvious that he and Sagesse were contemporaries. “A man of thirty-five is hardly teetering on the edge of the grave,” he said dryly. “I would suspect that he has a few good years left in him.”

“Lysette, if you marry Sagesse, you would certainly
be well provided for,” Irénée broke in. The comment earned a warning glance from her son.

“That doesn’t matter,” Lysette said. “I would rather be poor than marry a man I despise. And I have made my objections clear to Monsieur Sagesse. What I don’t understand is why he offered for me in the first place. My dowry is negligible, and although I come from a family of good blood, we are hardly aristocratic. And obviously I am no great beauty.” She shrugged. “There are dozens of other women who would serve his purpose equally well.”

“What of this cousin in Beauvallet?” Max asked. “What did you hope to accomplish by reaching him?”

“Her,” Lysette corrected. “Marie Dufour, and her husband Claude.” The Dufours were a prosperous farming family. She remembered Marie as a kind and compassionate woman who had eloped with Claude for the sake of love. “Marie and I were fond of each other as children,” she said. “I had thought that the Dufours might support me in my refusal of my stepfather’s wishes, and perhaps allow me to live with them.”

Vallerand’s face was a calm mask. “I could buy some time for you,” he offered. “Two or three days, at least. You may write a letter to your cousin, explaining your dilemma, and stay here until she replies. If she wishes to help you, I will release you to the Dufours’ guardianship before Monsieur Medart can lay a finger on you.”

Lysette frowned thoughtfully. “It won’t be long before my stepfather and the Sagesses realize that I
am here. When they come for me, you won’t be able to stop them from taking me.”

“We can claim you have fallen ill after your journey through the swamp. The family physician will affirm that it is dangerous for you to be moved until your convalescence is complete.”

“But the doctor will know I am not ill.”

“He will say what I desire him to say.”

Lysette considered the proposal, while Vallerand’s keen gaze rested on her. “My mother’s presence will ensure that no harm will come to your reputation,” he said.

“Why do you want to help me?” she asked warily.

A subtle smile played at the corners of his lips. “Out of the goodness of my heart, of course.”

Lysette let out a disbelieving laugh. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. What is the real reason? I suppose it would please you to thwart Monsieur Sagesse from having something he desires?”

“Yes,” he said smoothly, “that is precisely the reason.”

She met his shadowed gaze, perfectly aware that he was hiding something from her. “What is the cause of the bad blood between you and Sagesse?”

“Nothing that I would care to explain.” When Lysette opened her mouth to question him further, he continued brusquely, “Will you write the letter or not, Miss Kersaint?”

“Yes, I will,” she said slowly, despite the suspicion that coiled inside her. She did not want to trust Vallerand, but she had no choice. “Thank you, monsieur.”

Satisfaction flickered in his dark eyes. “You are quite welcome.”

Max accompanied Lysette to the library and seated her at his own desk, setting out pen holders, parchment, and ink. Standing behind her chair, he stared at the top of her head, where her brilliant hair had been pinned in a braided coil. A garish color, many would say, the tightly curled locks containing almost purple lights in the depths of red. He was fascinated by the volatile shade, by the profligate mass of curls that appeared too heavy for her slim neck to support.

The mere notions he’d had yesterday had kindled into white-hot resolution the moment he had seen her this morning. It had been years since he had wanted someone this badly. She was unconventionally, irresistibly beautiful, her allure having nothing to do with something as banal as classical proportions. Her features were strong, the lines of her cheekbones and jaw and throat drawn with decisive purity. And he had never seen anything as inviting as the generous scattering of freckles…he wanted to follow their paths all over her body, and touch his tongue to every one of them.

The fact that Lysette was too young for him did not matter nearly as much as it should have. Her self-possession was remarkable for a girl of her tender years. Clearly she was not afraid of him—she treated him as if they were equals, regardless of the years that separated them.

His pulse quickened as sexual images drifted
through his mind, and he forced his attention to the task at hand. “Do you require assistance with the letter, Mademoiselle Kersaint?”

Her lush, deep-cornered mouth twitched with amusement. “I can write quite well, thank you.”

Max had met many women, far more well bred and blue-blooded than she, who were virtually illiterate. A good portion of Creole society considered that too much education was bad for a woman. He half leaned, half sat against the desk, facing her. “You have been educated, then,” he commented.

“Yes, thanks to my father. He hired a governess for my sister Jacqueline and me. We were taught to read and write, and to speak English as well as French. We studied history, geography, mathematics…even a volume or two of science. But after my father died, the governess was dismissed.” She picked up an engraved silver pen holder, rolling it between her slender fingers. “There wasn’t much more she could teach us, anyway. A woman’s education is only allowed to go so far, much to my regret.”

“What use would you have for more education?”

She smiled and returned his provoking gaze without batting an eye. “Perhaps, monsieur, I have ambitions other than serving as a brood mare to some pompous aristocrat who is afraid of having a wife who is smarter than he is.”

“You have a high estimation of your own intelligence, Mademoiselle Kersaint.”

“Does that bother you?” Her voice was silky soft.

Max was completely fascinated by her, his mind
thoroughly engaged, his blood stirring at the challenge she presented. Good Lord, how he wanted to bed her. “No, it doesn’t.”

She smiled and smoothed the sheet of parchment before her. “If you don’t mind, monsieur, I would prefer a few minutes of privacy, while I exercise my inadequate feminine brain to compose a few coherent lines. Perhaps you would be so kind as to check my spelling afterward?”

It wasn’t her spelling that he wished to examine. Max managed to produce a cool smile, when his entire body was urging him to flip up her skirts, pull her onto his lap, and ravish her for hours. “I take my leave with all confidence in your abilities,” he said with an answering smile, and left her while he was still able.

Max had barely managed to conquer his raging lust by the time he returned to the salon. Irénée greeted him with obvious relief. “I knew that you would not take advantage of her, after all,” she said warmly. “Thank heaven you have changed your mind.”

He gave her a blank look. “I haven’t changed my mind about anything.”

Irénée’s face fell. “But the letter you are allowing her to write to her cousin—”

“The letter will never be sent. If I’m going to compromise her, I don’t want a damned cousin interfering.”

She stared at him in surprised dismay. “How could you, Max? I would never have believed you could take advantage of a woman this way!”

“You believe me to be capable of quite worse, Maman,” he said in a voice edged with sudden bitterness. “Don’t you?”

She looked away from him, unable to reply, her face drawn with a helpless regret that filled him with fury.

The Medarts came to the plantation house far sooner than Max had anticipated. Apparently they and the Sagesses were visiting every residence on the bayou road in an effort to ferret out any information about the young woman that had supposedly become lost. When Max and Irénée confirmed Lysette’s presence in their household, the Medarts were filled with obvious relief.

Max’s already established contempt for Gaspard Medart doubled upon meeting him. Medart was short, muscular, and hard-faced, his eyes like chips of obsidian. The thought that this cold little bully had beaten Lysette filled Max with a hostility that he found difficult to conceal.

Medart was accompanied by a corpulent woman with hair that had been inexpertly darkened with coffee. A frantic look had congealed on her face. The
tante
, Max surmised, suspecting that she had offered little objection to Medart’s abuse of his stepdaughter.

“Where is she?” Medart demanded, perspiring profusely. His gaze darted greedily around the room, as if he half suspected she were hiding behind a chair. “Where is Lysette? Bring her to me at once.”

Max introduced his mother, and they all sat as the housekeeper, Noeline, brought in a tray of refreshments. It was the Creole tradition that nothing was ever done in a hurry. Visits were conducted at a lazy pace, and almost every conversation began with the ritual of explaining family histories and recounting long lines of ancestors. New Orleanians never trusted a stranger with whom they could not establish at least one common relative. In fact, they were all so familiar with their own pedigrees that at least ten generations of distant cousins and farremoved offspring could be examined meticulously until the desired link was finally established.