When Strangers Marry (4 page)

Gaspard Medart, however, was too impatient to adhere to tradition. “I want to see my stepdaughter at once,” he demanded. “I have no time for idle chatter. Give her to me now.”

Irénée gave Max a glance of amazement at the man’s rudeness. Max turned an expressionless face to Medart. “Unfortunately, monsieur, I must impart some distressing news.”

“She has run away again!” Medart exploded. “I knew it!”

“No, nothing like that. Do not be alarmed. It is only that she has succumbed to a touch of fever.”

“Fever!” the
tante
exclaimed, clearly aware of the deadly plagues that occasionally swept the city.

“It seems to be a mild case,” Max said reassuringly, “but of course I have summoned the family doctor to examine her. Until he arrives, it would be dangerous to disturb her. She is resting in a guest room upstairs.”

“I insist on seeing her now,” Medart said.

“Certainly.” Max began to rise, then questioned, “I assume you have had the fever before?”

“
Non
.”

“You had better not visit her, then. If your exposure results in fever, it could be life-threatening to a man of your age.”

“Perhaps,” the
tante
interceded hastily, “we should return tomorrow after the doctor has seen her, Gaspard.”

Irénée lent her persuasive voice. “I assure you, Monsieur Medart, we will take excellent care of her.”

“But the imposition…” Delphine said, her large frame jiggling as she made a helpless gesture.

“It is not an imposition,” Irénée replied firmly. “Not at all. All that matters is Lysette’s welfare.”

“I have no proof that she is even here!” Medart cried.

“She is here,” Max assured him.

Medart scowled. “I am aware of your reputation, monsieur. And I know that you are the enemy of Lysette’s betrothed. If you are hatching some kind of plot, I will make you pay!”

Irénée leaned forward and said with conviction, “I promise you, Monsieur Medart, that your stepdaughter will be safe with us. No harm will come to her.” She glanced at Max and added with a steely edge to her tone, “I will make certain of that.”

After further persuasion, the Medarts left, seeming to realize that they had no other choice. Max let
out a hearty sigh of relief at the sound of their carriage wheels on the drive outside. “Despicable people,” he muttered.

Irénée pursed her lips in displeasure. “They know that we are lying, Max.”

He shrugged. “They can’t do anything about it.”

“I would have given Lysette over to them gladly if it weren’t for the bruises on her back. I have no wish to abandon her to more of Monsieur Medart’s discipline.”

“Now the rumors will begin,” Max muttered with dark satisfaction. “I would give a fortune to see Sagesse’s face when Medart tells him that I have her.”

“Lysette would be safer with Etienne than she is with you,” Irénée accused. “At least
he
has marriage in mind for her!”

“She’ll find a liaison with me far more agreeable than marriage to him.”

“What a bitter, cruel man you have become,” Irénée said in wonder. “And how disappointed your father would be to see it.”

Stung, Max sent her a sullen glare. “If he had gone through what I have, he would probably react the same way.”

“That shows how little you knew him,” Irénée shot back, and left the room with her spine stiff.

Although Irénée was disgusted with her eldest son, she had not yet given up on the possibility of his redemption. While she had breakfast in her room, she discussed the situation with the housekeeper, Noeline.
A slim, attractive woman who possessed innate practicality and a penchant for speaking her mind, Noeline had been the housekeeper at the plantation for the past fifteen years. As Irénée had expected, no detail of their houseguest, or Max’s intentions toward her, had escaped Noeline’s observant gaze.

“I can’t believe that he truly means to ruin her,” Irénée said, lifting the china cup to her lips. “She is a decent young woman, and she hardly deserves to be caught in the middle of my son’s feud with Etienne Sagesse.”

Noeline’s coffee-colored features were expressionless, but a rueful gleam entered her eyes. “Monsieur Vallerand wants revenge against Sagesse too much to think about anyone else.”

“I suppose so,” Irénée said reluctantly. “But Noeline, I can’t believe that Max would be so wicked as to deliberately seduce an innocent girl.”

“He’s not wicked,” Noeline replied, moving to the dressing table and straightening the tiny flasks and brushes into neat rows. “He’s just a man, madame. And you can’t keep a man from a pretty girl like that, any more than you could tie up a hound with a string of sausages.”

“Do you think Lysette is pretty?” Irénée frowned thoughtfully. “I must admit, at first I didn’t think so. But it seems that the longer I know her, the more attractive she becomes.”

“She’s got
something
Monsieur likes,” Noeline observed dryly. “He sizzles like a pan of cracklings every time she comes in the room.”

“Noeline,” Irénée chided, laughing into her teacup.

The housekeeper smiled as well. “It’s true, madame,” she insisted. “And when he looks at her, he’s got more on his mind than revenge. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

When Lysette was assured that her stepfather had left the estate, she went to find Vallerand. He had just finished a cigar and a drink on the front porch, a wisp of smoke rising lazily from a crystal dish. His attention was focused on a magnificent thoroughbred that a stableboy was bringing from the stables. It appeared that Vallerand was going to ride to town.

Hearing Lysette’s light footstep on the porch, Vallerand turned toward her. His gaze was heavy-lidded, his mouth holding an almost surly curve that did something very odd to her insides. He made her want to shock him, catch him off guard…. She wondered crazily what he might do if she simply walked over and kissed his hard, tempting mouth, and tugged the crisp white cravat from his neck. No man had ever affected her this way before. She wanted to feel the shaven scrape of his cheeks, and genty rub her lips over his, and feel his hot breath against her skin. He seemed to take himself a bit too seriously, as if he badly needed something—or someone—to tease and disarm him. If she were his wife, she would do something about that.

The startling thought made her wonder how
long he had been a widower, and how his wife had died. Clearly it was a forbidden subject in the Vallerand household. Even the talkative Irénée was disinclined to respond to Lysette’s questions on the subject.

Lysette offered Vallerand a tentative smile. “I suppose my stepfather was very angry when you would not let him see me.”

“Very.”

“Good.” She came to stand near him, and his height forced her to tilt her head back. Good lord, the man was huge. “Did he believe you when you told him that I was ill?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And he left anyway?” She chewed on her lower lip and frowned. “I would have expected him to challenge you.”

“Your stepfather is trying to avoid a scandal,” Vallerand replied. “He won’t challenge me. And as long as you are in my house, no one can forcibly remove you.”

“Not even the local authorities?”

He shook his head. “I am closely acquainted with Governor Claiborne.”

She laughed briefly. “Clearly I am fortunate to have made friends with such an influential man.” Pulling the letter to Marie from her sleeve, Lysette handed the wax-sealed square to him. “My letter. Please have it delivered as soon as possible. It’s important.”

“I am aware of the letter’s importance, mademoiselle.”

Lysette regarded him quizzically, wondering why she seemed to make him uncomfortable. Perhaps he did not like her straightforward manner. She supposed he must be accustomed to the refined ladies of New Orleans, who most likely did not rampage through swamps and defy their families. “Monsieur Vallerand,” she said gently, “I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused you. In return for your hospitality, I promise to be gone as soon as possible. If my cousin Marie will not take me, I will join the Ursuline convent. You will not have to endure me much longer.”

He smiled suddenly, seeming entertained by the notion. “A nun with red witch-curls.” An odd, almost caressing note had entered his voice.

Lysette smiled self-consciously, raising a hand to her chaotic pinned-up hair. “No doubt they would insist on shaving off this appalling mess.”

“No,” he said swiftly. “It’s beautiful.”

Lysette almost took offense, thinking that he was mocking her. But as he continued to stare at her with that steady dark gaze, she realized that he was sincere. And that led to another, more startling realization…that Maximilien Vallerand was every bit as attracted to her as she was to him.

Nothing could or would come of it, of course. However, she found it interesting, all the same. A touch of heat rose in her face, and she averted her gaze hastily. “Good evening, monsieur,” she muttered, and strode away so quickly that her skirts nearly tangled around her ankles.

*   *   *

“Back again this evening?” Mariame purred, opening the door wider and welcoming Max into her white one-story house, located in the quadroon quarter of the Vieux Carré, near Rampart. Her thick lashes lowered as she concentrated on loosening Max’s starched necktie. “I thought I had satisfied all your desires last night.”

Eight years ago Mariame’s first protector had broken off their arrangement callously, leaving her and their illegitimate child with no money or home. In despair, she had been packing her belongings to move back in with her mother. When Max heard of her lover’s desertion, he did not hesitate to come to her. She was one of the most beautiful women in New Orleans, and he had long admired her.

Mariame had been openly astonished by his offer to become her protector. “Most men want virgins,” she had said. In New Orleans, there were countless beautiful young girls, most of them of mixed blood, who were trained to become mistresses of the wealthy Creole planters and businessmen who could afford to keep them.
Placées
, the highly sought-after girls were called, and most of them were kept in great luxury.

Max had laughed at her comment. “I don’t give a damn about virginity,” he had told her. “I want the companionship of a beautiful, intelligent woman. Name your terms, Mariame—I want you too badly to quibble over details.”

His admiration had soothed Mariame’s grief and wounded pride immeasurably. She had heard the ugly rumors about Vallerand, and had long wondered
about their truth. However, as she had seen the loneliness in Max’s dark eyes and the gentleness in his manner, she had decided to trust him.

In the eight years since then, Mariame had never regretted her choice. Max was a tender lover, a generous provider, and a caring friend. Although he had taken care never to sire any children by her, he had paid for her son to be educated in Paris. The jewels and clothes he had given her through the years would be enough to keep her in luxury for the rest of her life, and she had no doubt that when he ended their relationship, he would give her an extravagant settlement.

Because Max had been kind to Mariame, she had resolved never to stand in the way of anything he wanted. When he decided to break things off between them, she would let him go without protest. She had no wish to chain him to her, and she had wisely avoided falling in love with him.

Mariame’s face lit with a smile as she wrapped her arms around Max’s shoulders. Lean-bodied and tall, she found it an easy task to rise on her toes and brush her lips against his. However, tonight Max did not respond as she had expected. He was unusually preoccupied, troubled about something.

“I didn’t come here for that,” Max said, disentangling himself from her grasp.

Mariame went to pour him a drink. “Then what are you here for, Max?”

“I don’t know.” He walked around the room restlessly.

“Sit, please,
ma cher
. It makes me nervous to see you pace like a hungry tiger.”

Max complied, sitting on the settee with a brooding, unfocused stare.

Mariame settled comfortably on the sofa beside him, her long, sleek legs dangling carelessly over one of his thighs. She handed him a snifter of brandy. “Perhaps this will help to relax you.”

He took the glass and drank deeply, barely noticing the fine vintage.

Mariame’s fingers walked up his thigh on a path they had often frequented before. “Are you sure you do not want to—”

“No,” he muttered, brushing her hand away.

Mariame shrugged. “
D’accord
.” A sly, interested smile touched her lips. “
Alors
, you might tell me more about this woman staying at the house.”

Max gave her a sardonic glance, realizing that the rumors had spread even more quickly than he had expected. “The twins encountered Mademoiselle Kersaint as she was trying to flee from an undesired marriage.”

“Ah.” Mariame’s sleek brows lifted expressively. “Not many women would dare to do such a thing. Who is her intended,
bien-aimée?
”

“Etienne Sagesse.”

Her playful fingers stilled on the edge of his shoulder. “Sagesse…
bon Dieu
. How odd that the girl should come to you, of all people, for refuge. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take advantage of the situation, naturally.”

Her smooth forehead creased with concern. “Be careful, Max. I know that you would stop at nothing to repay Sagesse for what he did all those years ago. But you would come to regret it if you resorted to abusing an innocent in your care.” A fond smile touched her lips. “You do have a conscience,
cher
, though you try to pretend otherwise.”

A reluctant grin crossed Max’s face. “I’m glad you think so.” He leaned his head back and stared at the cypress-paneled ceiling above. “Mariame,” he said, abruptly changing the subject, “you know that I would never end our relationship without providing for you.”

“I have never feared that you would leave me destitute,” Mariame replied calmly. Was this, perhaps, the first sign that his interest in her was waning? “Someday,” she continued, “I would like to run my own boardinghouse. I would be quite successful at it.”