Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (2 page)

“You—you must see that it would not do for me to accept an invitation to dance with one gentleman in the face of another whom I had refused?”

“I am certain your cousin would understand.”

“I believe not, m’sieur. You see, he is also my fiancé.” She smiled as she spoke, certain that she had made him an unanswerable excuse.

There was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, then he turned to Jean-Claude. “This is so?”

She was aware of her cousin’s speculative glance at her before he made Justin a half bow from where he stood. “Yes, m’sieur,” he agreed.

“She wears no betrothal ring.”

“No, it has not been formally announced.”

“Then the wedding is not imminent?”

Once again, Jean-Claude was forced to concede this was so.

“You will not mind, I know, if your bride-to-be dances with me. It is such a small thing.”

There was an undercurrent in his voice that even Claire could not miss. She saw the corners of her cousin’s mouth tighten. She knew that in spite of what he had said, in spite of his respect for the other man’s reputation as a swordsman and his prowess on the dueling field, that he would defy Justin Leroux for her sake if he thought she really did not wish to stand up with him on the dance floor.

Jean-Claude spoke. “It is possibly a small thing to you Monsieur Leroux, but it is what
ma cousine
wishes that is important.”

“Well spoken,” Justin said, outwardly affable but with a trace of steel in his tone. “Then I take it I have your permission if I can but obtain the lady’s?”

“Oh, very well!” Claire exclaimed, as she saw her cousin’s face grow grim. Rising, she placed her hand on Justin’s arm and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor.

The
courante
was a graceful dance much like the stately minuet that had fallen from favor, though without the excess formality of the latter. It was possible to speak to one’s partner as one went down the room. However, having gained his object, Justin did not seem inclined to talk. They turned at the end of the room, and Claire, now on his left arm, slanted a glance at the side of his face. Seen at close range, the scar was not as startling as she had first thought. The sun-bronzed skin around it was smooth, the thin line of the scar itself was white and only faintly puckered just beneath his eye where the wound must have gone deeper. No, it was the contrast between that injured cheek and the perfection of the rest of his face that had caused that feeling of outrage and sadness, as though she had witnessed the results of wanton destruction.

The couple ahead of them looked back over their shoulders. The man nodded at Justin, but the woman sent Claire a look of such displeasure that she was reminded once again of his position, or lack of it, in their social circle. It was a reminder also of her fear, fear that had given him the ascendancy over her will.

“I believe it was mentioned that you have a plantation. Is it far from New Orleans?” she asked in a brittle voice, determined to behave in the correct manner.

“I expect you would think so,” he answered, gravely following her lead. “Sans Songe is nearly a day’s ride from the city.”

“Sans Songe; without illusions, a strange name.”

“It was called Fleur de la Pois, originally, which means the pick of the lot—the best. My father changed the name several years after his marriage.”

She flashed a look at him, caught by some unidentifiable emotion in his voice, then looked away again.

“Is it a large place?” It followed that it must be if it enabled him to keep a residence in the city also.

“Fairly. It takes a good bit of acreage to grow sugar cane. It is good land, bottom land, near the bayou La Beau.”

Claire shivered a little. Bayou country. Deep, dark forest, snakes, alligators, prowling animals, far from civilization. “You—you like it there, at Sans Songe?”

“Yes, of course, and so would you, once you knew it.”

“I very much doubt it,” she said fervently.

The music was slowing to an end, Claire noticed with relief. She swept her partner a deep curtsy, holding it as the last strains died, then started to turn away.

“Wait,” he commanded, touching her arm with the tips of his fingers. She raised her eyes to his, startled by his peremptory tone. He indicated one of the french windows that stood open to the cool night air. “Let us walk out onto the gallery for a few minutes.”

“I—I couldn’t.”

“I fail to see why. I am not, after all, such a dangerous character, despite what you have been told. And I would like to further our acquaintance.”

“I meant I couldn’t without my aunt’s permission. It isn’t done.”

He frowned with impatience, then swung around to stare at the line of dowagers sitting on the chaperon’s chairs against the wall on one side of the room.

“Your aunt is—”

“The lady in puce satin,” she replied, pointing out her aunt who was staring at them, a scowl on her plump features.

“She looks a veritable dragon,” he observed. “I don’t believe we will require her permission.”

“But I can’t—” Claire began, but did not finish for Justin grasped her wrist and swung her deftly out through the door. Short of causing an undignified scuffle or screaming for rescue, there was little she could do.

Retaining his grip on her wrist he walked along the gallery, or veranda, away from the open floor-to-ceiling windows, toward the end where only a dim light penetrated the darkness.

“You see? You did not need permission.”

“But she will be very angry.”

He snapped his fingers, shrugging slightly.

“That is all very well for you. You will not have to listen while she berates you with your lack of appreciation for her kindness, or be read a lecture on correct behavior,” she told him through compressed lips.

“Come, Claire, don’t be waspish,” was his only comment.

“I don’t believe I gave you the freedom of my name,” she informed him.

“No, I took it,” he said without concern.

“You—” She could not think of a word that adequately described him.

“Yes?” he asked politely.

“You—you are a barbarian!” she managed finally.

“Am I?”

“You forced me to dance with you—yes, you know you did! You dragged me out here under the very eyes of my chaperon. Why? Why me?”

“Because,” he answered, slowly moving closer and taking her forearms in a firm clasp. “Because you felt—how did you put it? ‘A terrible pity.’ Pity!”

For some reason the anger that she could feel rising in him by the tightening grasp on her arms calmed her own rage.

“Is that so bad? That I pitied you?”

“Pity is the last thing a man wants from a beautiful woman, the very last!”

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a thread of sound.

His fingers dug into her arms so savagely that she gasped and winced. He would not let her go, and she could feel his gaze burning on her lips, could sense some fierce conflict within him.

Suddenly behind them there were footsteps on the gallery floor.

“Claire! What are you doing out here without my consent? It is disgraceful, I am shocked at you. And you, sir? What have you to say?”

Justin dropped his hands to his sides and sketched a creditable bow. “Madame de Hauterive, I believe,” he said. “My pleasure. The circumstances are—unusual, and therefore you will perhaps allow me to introduce myself. Justin Leroux, at your service. As to what I was doing, why, Madame, I was persuading your niece to listen to a proposal of marriage.”

Jean-Claude’s mother made a strangled sound in her throat. She opened her mouth and then shut it. Watching her aunt, Claire did not immediately perceive Justin’s words.

“Proposal!” Madame de Hauterive cried.

“What?” Claire asked stupidly.

“Exactly,” Justin said, satisfaction in his voice.

“But—but you cannot do such a thing. You must not even think of it. Claire is betrothed to my own son. And in any case,” she went on, catching her breath, “it is not done in this manner. You should apply first to my husband, her guardian, through an intermediary. Not that my husband would dream of allowing your suit!”

“Would he not? I wonder why?” Justin said softly.

“Because of what I have just said. Claire is already betrothed, and becaus—because—” the older woman spluttered to a halt, not quite daring to bring out the reasons that burned on the tip of her tongue.

“I don’t believe I find that a satisfactory reason,” he insisted with dangerous quietness.

Claire’s aunt drew herself up, “I do not have to explain myself to you.”

“Come, Claire. You will return with me to the ballroom where you belong.”

It was odd, the reluctance that seized her as her aunt beckoned imperiously, staring down her broad nose.

“It is just as well,” Justin said, and Claire saw him nod, an abrupt movement in the dim light. “But you may tell your husband that I will wait upon him at eleven of the clock tomorrow morning.”

“You may be sure I will tell him, but I am not at all certain he will receive you.”

“It would be most unwise of him to refuse me.”

Madame de Hauterive stared at him, but she did not comment. “Well, Claire,” she said in a hard tone as she turned and marched away without a backward glance.

Catching up her skirts, Claire hurried after her aunt. At the french window she paused to look back at the man standing with his hands clenched at his sides. He gave her a slight bow that made a mockery of the polite gesture.

“Your servant—Claire.”

The words whispered across the space between them filled with a meaning she could not comprehend, and yet they touched a chord of response that made her afraid. Turning abruptly, she followed her aunt’s wide back.

Justin Leroux did not reenter the house, though Claire kept watch, surreptitiously, on the entrance from the gallery. It was possible that he had returned by a different way and wandered into the cardrooms, but when he did not appear for supper at midnight, she had to suppose that he had gone.

Though Jean-Claude wanted to stay on until the company broke up, it was a relief to Claire when her aunt decided to depart soon after supper.

Claire did not sleep well. She woke several times during the night, caught up in strange nightmares that she could not remember, but even as they receded she was left with a strange inclination to weep. Toward dawn she fell into a heavy sleep. The morning was far advanced when her maid woke her with the cheerful morning call of “
Ala cafe!
” and the rattling of the rings that held the mosquito
baire
, or netting, around the bed as she pushed it aside.

“Drink up your coffee, mam’zelle,” Zaza told her as she handed her the cup and placed an extra pillow at her back. “There is a man with your aunt in the salon. She asks that you dress quickly and come to her there.”

“A man?” she asked the quick-moving little maid.

“Yes, mam’zelle. A Monsieur Leroux. Do you know him?”

A tremor of unease ran over her. She had not expected Justin to carry out his preposterous threat. This morning the scene on the gallery seemed to lack reality.

“He—is he alone?”

“Yes, mam’zelle.”

“And with my aunt, not my uncle?”

“Yes, mam’zelle. Your uncle and Monsieur Jean-Claude went to the market this morning to purchase a brace of snipe for dinner. You know how particular Monsieur de Hauterive is about his game courses.”

Claire nodded, uncertain whether that was good or bad. But it was obvious that her aunt had not told her uncle to expect Justin to call, as he had warned her to do. Her uncle must, then, still be ignorant of what had taken place the night before. Contrary to Claire’s expectations, her aunt had not poured the tale into her husband’s ears on the way home. She had fallen into a thoughtful silence. She had not cared, Claire thought, for the rumors she had heard over the years about Justin Leroux, nor had she liked Claire’s explanation of how she had come to be dancing with such an unprincipled rake, especially as it had involved her son. Her aunt had waited until they were alone in Claire’s room before beginning the stricture on her conduct that had embroiled Jean-Claude in the contretemps.