Deceive Not My Heart (51 page)

I don't know what else to tell you. Everything I have discovered appears to agree with what you wrote me. Certainly I haven't been able to find any facts to the contrary. Are you positive you
didn't
marry her? I was, of course, only jesting,
mon ami."

As for there being another man involved, other than my comments about Maurice de la Fontaine, I have discovered nothing. She seems to have lived an extremely secluded existence at Chateau Saint-Andre, venturing into New Orleans only once or twice a year, and no one that I spoke to ever heard of any man in her life... except for her husband. That doesn't mean that there isn't a man involved, only that I can find no hint of one. I might also mention that there are those people, a few, who seriously doubt she was ever married—who believe that the marriage to Morgan Slade was all fabricated to give her son a name and respectability. They thought it strange that her husband was never in residence and that Leonie and her husband had actually never been seen together or appeared to spend
any
time with each other. It
is
peculiar, I must admit.

Jason's letter didn't contain much more, just a few added odds and ends that he had discovered about Leonie and her background and thoughtfully Morgan laid it aside. He found himself disappointed and yet not surprised by what Jason had written. It wasn't likely that someone embarking on a scheme of this type would totally fabricate everything, but he had hoped that Jason would have been able to ferret out at least one discrepancy that would have given him something to go on.

The news that Jason could find no hint of another man pleased him and at the same time troubled him. He was so certain that there was another man, that Leonie was not doing this just on her own.
Because you want someone to blame for her actions?
he asked himself jeeringly.
Or because you really do feel that there is another man in her life?

Obviously at one time or another there
had
been a man in her life—Justin hadn't been found in a cane field!

Realizing that Litchfield was still in the room, Morgan said, "Jason has nothing new to impart; his letter confirms most of what Leonie claims."

"What do you intend to do now, sir? Pay her the money?"

"I've considered it," Morgan admitted, "if for no other reason than to discover the next step in the farce!"

"Mayhap you should pretend to fall in with the idea," Litchfield offered.

"Hmm. Perhaps, but somehow I doubt the little witch would believe me if I told her I was going to accede to her demands. I've expressed myself too forcibly in the past on that subject to now suddenly do a
volte-face."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. I'll be
damned
if I know what to do now. She's brought me to a standstill, I'm afraid... at least for the moment." Throwing Litchfield a crooked smile, he added, "At any rate nothing will be decided this evening, so you might as well seek out your own bed—I am quite competent, I'm certain, in preparing myself for bed."

For several moments Morgan stood in the center of his room staring at nothing, his brain busy mulling over Jason's letter and its effect on the current situation. Certainly it resolved nothing, and if anything he felt more helpless and confused than he had before.

With frustrated anger he stared at the letter. I
know
I didn't marry her—even if Jason hasn't been able to find anything wrong with her story.
I did not marry her!

And yet faced with mounting evidence to the contrary, Morgan actually began to doubt himself.
Had
he gotten blind drunk one night and married her? Was
she
telling the truth? Perhaps he couldn't remember what had happened because he had been too drunk to even know what he had been doing? It was the only explanation that came to him and he found it dissatisfying. He had never been
that
drunk in his life! Or had he?

Shaking the disconcerting thoughts from his mind, he shrugged out of the black velvet jacket.
I didn't marry her,
he told himself vehemently.
I would have remembered... I would have remembered
her.
I didn't sign that damn dowry agreement either! I wouldn't have—why the hell would I need her money? And as for any other agreement she might claim I signed I know damn well that I didn't.

Suddenly deciding that he wanted very much to see the other document which Leonie had mentioned on at least one occasion, he spun on his heels and strode into her rooms.

Leonie hadn't yet retired. She had been drowsy when Morgan had left her, but by the time Mercy had undressed her and had made her slip into a negligee of yellow silk and lace, she was wide awake. Her hair still had to be undone and brushed, and as Mercy wielded the tortoise-shell brush through the thick tawny mane, Leonie glanced around the room.

With a faint frown furrowing her forehead she noticed a pile of clothing heaped on one of the chairs. Recognizing her own yellow gown on top of the clothes, she asked, "What are you going to do with those?" indicating the pile of clothes with her hand.

Never missing a stroke, Mercy said, "They's goin' to be burnt. Monsieur's field hands is better dressed than you was, missy! Now you got all them new, fine things, ain't no reason to keep those."

For a second Leonie looked stubborn, and then realizing it was silly to continue to resist the situation, she hunched a shoulder and said grumpily, "I suppose you're right. Is that everything?"

"Oh, no, ma'am, I'll leave the lavender gown and rose one with the new things—they's still nice."

Leonie's aversion to her wedding gown was too deeply rooted to be easily overcome and her mouth tightened at the news that Mercy had kept it with the new clothes. Unable to explain it herself, but wanting the garment out of her life, she snapped, "Not the rose one—it goes with the others." And before Mercy could reply, Leonie jumped up and marched over to the big wardrobe and flinging open the doors, rummaged around until she found the offending garment. With a great deal of satisfaction, as if by destroying it she could obliterate the confusion within herself that her marriage to Morgan Slade caused, she threw it down on the other clothes and said, "Burn it too. I never want to see it again!"

It was at this point that Morgan strode into the room and hearing her words, he not unnaturally asked, "Burn what, and why don't you ever want to see it again?"

Leonie turned to look at him, her earlier charity with him vanishing as she reminded herself that he was not to be trusted—even if earlier he had seemed to want to make their marriage real. Lifting up the rose satin gown, a hard light in her eyes she demanded, "You don't recognize the gown, monsieur?" And at Morgan's mystified expression and the negative shake of his dark head, she said with soft irony, "Ah, but of course, you don't! You don't even remember our wedding at times, so how could I expect you to remember my wedding gown? How stupid of me!"

Morgan's eyes narrowed but glancing across at the open mouthed Mercy, he said, "You may leave, Mercy. Your mistress will have no further need of you tonight."

Leonie promptly countermanded the order.
"Non!
You will stay; I am not finished with you for the night."

Mercy shot a nervous look over at Morgan's unrevealing features and then back to Leonie's angry face. Deciding she would rather have to put up with a tantrum from Leonie than the unknown from Monsieur Slade, Mercy dropped a quick curtsy and scooted from the room.

Infuriated by Mercy's defection, Leonie rounded on Morgan. "How dare you order my servants about! I will tell them what I want them to do—not
you!"

"You'd rather she stay and be a witness to the argument I'm certain is about to take place?" Morgan retorted, walking further into the room.

Her hands tightening on the rose gown, Leonie felt a shaft of frustration surge through her veins. Was he never wrong? she wondered. Aloud, she said, "Bah! I'm surprised you show such restraint, monsieur. Or did you do it simply to humiliate me in front of her?"

His lean jaw clenching, refusing to be drawn, he replied evenly, "What an odd assessment of my character you've made. Someday you really must tell me what I have done to make you think I would enjoy humiliating you under any circumstances."

Leonie flushed; on the defensive and not liking it at all, she asked pointedly, "What do you want? Why are you here now?"

For just a second Morgan let his eyes roam appreciatively over her silk-clad body, the soft yellow negligee clinging revealingly to her slender form. "I could say that I came to make love to you..." he said and when Leonie stiffened and backed away from him, he sighed and added, "but that isn't the case. I wanted to see that agreement you claimed I signed. The one that supposedly waivers my rights to the marriage bed."

Disappointed and yet relieved that he hadn't come to subject her to his devastating lovemaking, Leonie dropped the rose satin gown and brushing past Morgan she walked stiffly over to a small table near her bed. Opening the drawer she extracted a paper and handed it to him, uncertain how she would feel if he said he intended to abide by the agreement.

A tense silence filled the room as Morgan read the document. It stated simply that the marriage between Leonie Saint-Andre and Morgan Slade entered into on July 26,1799 was to be a marriage of convenience. Morgan Slade agreed that the marriage was to be in name only, that he would not now or in the future make any attempt to exert his conjugal rights. For a long time, Morgan stared at the bold, scrawling signature. It was his—even he could recognize that—or rather an extremely clever forgery.

Glancing over at Leonie with hard eyes, he bit out, "I might have been able to convince myself that maybe I did get drunk one night and married you—but there is no way in hell that I would have signed such a document." Not giving Leonie time to reply, he walked over to where the rose satin gown lay in a bright heap on the floor. Picking it up, he ordered, "Put it on. I want to see how you looked. I want to see if seeing you as you were when you claimed we married jars my memory."

"Monsieur, this is ridiculous!" Leonie burst out. "I do not understand what you are saying. What do you mean that I
claim
we are married? We
are,
monsieur—I have all the documents to prove it!"

"So you've said all along, cat-eyes, but there's just one thing wrong," Morgan growled,
"I didn't marry you!
And I'm tired of this game we have been playing the past few weeks—it's time things were settled between us. Now put on the damned gown or I'll strip you and put it on you myself."

Leonie stood resolute for a moment, but seeing the determined glitter in Morgan's eyes, she stalked over to the gown and picked it up. Giving Morgan a scathing look, she said, "Will you leave so that I may dress in privacy? I do not want your lascivious eyes on me."

Morgan smiled grimly. "If you don't hurry, you're going to have more than just my eyes on you. It wouldn't take much for me to decide that making love to you is a more enjoyable way to pass the time."

Leonie's bosom swelled with indignation and fury, and throwing Morgan a look that would have annihilated a lesser man, she turned her back to him and struggled into the rose satin gown, not bothering to remove her negligee. It didn't matter, the negligee acted as a chemise and with the sea-green eyes spitting gold flecks of fury she spun around to face him.

"There, monsieur, does this satisfy you?" she snapped, angry with herself for obeying him.

He stared at her for several seconds, noting the way the rose satin gown fit her slender body, the small breasts pushing eagerly against the smooth material, the straight, narrow skirt falling neatly to her feet and the color enhancing her complexion and tawny hair.
I would have remembered her,
he thought slowly, painfully.
I wouldn't have forgotten her if I had ever seen her.
His eyes dropped to the document still in his hands, and he asked, "If I signed this damned thing, would you please tell me, how it comes about that I am the father of a son?"

Leonie hadn't been prepared for that question. She had feared that sooner or later he would ask it, but somehow she had thought she would be better prepared when he did ask. Caught by surprise, she blenched and the expression of mingled fright and guilt that flickered in the golden-green eyes was obvious even to Morgan.

Like a beast of prey leaping for the kill, he was across the room instantly and grasping one shoulder, he jerked her up next to him. "He's not my son, is he?" he ground out, all the pain and disillusionment, as well as the fury, he would have felt had she really been his wife and betrayed him coursing through his body.

Leonie's mouth and lips were dry with fear. Not fear for herself, but fear for what he might do to Justin. Almost beseechingly she began, "Monsieur, you must listen to me! I never meant to—"

Morgan shook her like a dog with a rat, and cut her off with, "You meant to what? Foster a bastard on me? Is that what you were going to say?"

At the word
bastard,
Leonie's fear fled, and with blind fury she lashed out at Morgan's dark face, her small hand catching him a stunning blow at the side of his head. "You will not call Justin names!" she spat. "You leave your filthy tongue off my son or I will kill you!"

His ears ringing from the force of her blow, Morgan shook his head as if to clear it, and aware that he had allowed his emotions to rule him, that he had no right or reason to feel as he did, he released her and stepped away from her. The blue eyes hard and unfriendly, he said stiffly, "I shouldn't have called the boy that. I apologize. The argument is between us, and he shouldn't be made a part of this ugliness."