When Strangers Marry (27 page)

“I’m going to tell Noeline to bring you her special remedy.”

“
Bon Dieu
, no.”

“You’ll do it,” Max said evenly, “if you want Henriette. By tomorrow morning I want you looking like a fresh-faced boy.”

“I can do it,” Alex said after a moment’s painful thought.

“Good.” Max smiled and stood up. “You should have talked to me about this before, instead of drinking yourself into a stupor.”

“I didn’t think you could do anything.” Alex paused. “Still don’t, really.”

“People can be managed,” Max assured him.

Alex looked up at him quizzically. “Are you going to threaten a duel?”

“No,” Max said with a laugh. “I think the Vallerands have had enough of dueling.”

“Max…if you persuade Clement to say yes…I…I’ll kiss your feet.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Max said dryly.

Jacques Clement greeted Max in the hallway with wry amusement. “I expected you would be here today, Vallerand. Here on your brother’s behalf,
oui
? Father is having
café
in the breakfast room.”

Max leaned against one of the elaborately carved columns framing the wall. He was in no hurry to confront Jacques’ father, Diron Clement, who was a venerable lion of a man, and in a perpetually bad temper. Descended from the first French settlers in the Louisiana Territory, Creole in every drop of his blood, Diron had no tolerance for those who wished Louisiana to become part of the United States. Or for those who were on friendly terms with the American governor.

The old man was experienced and clever, and had proven himself to be a survivor. Along with Victor Vallerand, Diron had been richly rewarded by the Spaniards for using his influence to soothe the discontent in the city when they took possession of it from the French forty years earlier. Now Diron was wealthy and influential enough so that he never had to do anything he didn’t wish.

Victor and Diron had been good friends. Unfortunately, Diron’s warm feelings for Victor had never extended to Max. For one thing, their political beliefs were too sharply opposed. For another, Corinne’s
death had widened the gulf between them, as Diron hated scandals.

Max glanced upstairs. “Jacques,” he said speculatively, “has your sister indicated that she feels any sort of affection for Alexandre?”

“Henriette is a little goose,” Jacques said. “She always has been. Tell your brother he could find another girl just like her for far less trouble.”

“Does that mean she would not welcome his suit?”

“She fancies herself madly in love with him. And this scenario of star-crossed love—”

“Only makes it worse,” Max finished for him. “How does your father regard the matter?”

“He disapproves, of course.”

“Truthfully, it wouldn’t be a bad match, Jacques.”

Jacques shrugged. “My friend, I know what Alexandre is like. You will never make me believe that he will stay faithful to Henriette. This so-called love will last a year at most, and then he will take a mistress, and Henriette will be devastated. Better for her to marry without the illusion of love. With a well-arranged match, she will know exactly what to expect.”

“On the other hand, perhaps a year of illusion is better than no love at all.”

Jacques laughed. “What an American notion. Love before marriage is
their
way—Creoles will never take to it. And I warn you, don’t try to convince that crusty old man upstairs otherwise, or he’ll have your head.”

“My thanks for the warning. I’ll go see him now.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Max shook his head. “I know the way.”

The Clement home was designed with simplicity and elegance. The red pine floors were polished to a ruby gleam, the rooms filled with dark oak and fine hand-knotted carpets. As Max walked up the staircase, he ran his fingers lightly over the balustrade, remembering sliding down it when he and Jacques were boys.

He stopped in the hallway upstairs, sensing someone’s gaze upon him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that one of the paneled doors was partially ajar. Henriette stared at him through the narrow crack, her eyes filled with pleading. Max guessed that some watchful tante was nearby, and Henriette did not dare say a word for fear of detection. He gave her a short, reassuring nod. Throwing aside caution, Henriette opened the door wider, and suddenly there was a burst of chatter from inside the room, a woman’s voice scolding the wayward girl. The door closed immediately.

Max grinned ruefully. He hated the feeling of being the distraught lovers’ last hope. He made his way to the breakfast room, hoping to hell that he’d know what to say to Clement.

Diron Clement greeted him with a glare. A ruff of white hair haloed the top of his head. When he spoke, the edge of a sharp jaw showed through his sagging jowls. Iron-gray eyes bore through Max’s, and he gestured to a chair.

“Sit down, boy. We have not talked for a long time.”

“The wedding, sir,” Max reminded him.

“
Non
. We exchanged four words, perhaps. You were too busy staring at your flamboyant little bride to pay me any attention.”

Max sternly held back a smile, remembering that most frustrating of evenings. He had not been able to tear his gaze from Lysette, dying to have her, but knowing it was too soon to have her. “I regret that, sir.”

“Do you?” Diron harrumphed. “Yes, I suppose you do, now that you desire my good favor. What about the marriage? Do you have regrets about that as well?”

“Not in the least,” Max replied without hesitation. “My wife pleases me very well.”

“And now you’ve come to plead your brother’s case, eh?”

“Actually, my own,” Max said. “Since that seems to be your main objection to Alexandre’s suit.”

“Untrue. Is that what he told you?”

“He has the impression, sir, that were it not for the damage I have wrought on the Vallerand name in the past, his intentions toward your daughter would be welcomed.”

“Ah. You are referring to that business about your first wife.”

Max met his piercing gaze and nodded briefly.

“That was bad,” Diron said emphatically. “But my objection to the match has to do with your brother’s character, not yours. Foppish, weak-willed, lazy—he is unsatisfactory in all respects.”

“Alexandre is no worse than any other young
man his age. And he will be able to provide well for her.”

“How is that? I would wager he has run through most of his inheritance by now.”

“My father charged me with the responsibility of overseeing the family’s finances. I assure you, Alexandre has the means to support a family in a suitable manner.”

Diron was quiet, glaring at him from beneath massive gray brows.

“Monsieur Clement,” Max said slowly, “you know the Vallerands are a family of good blood. I believe your daughter would be content as Alexandre’s wife. Discarding all sentimental notions, the pairing is both practical and suitable.”

“But we
cannot
discard these sentimental notions, can we?” the old man shot back. “This entire situation
reeks
of mawkish sentiment. Is this the foundation for a good marriage?
Non!
These impetuous propositions, these demonstrations and histrionics, this gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts—this is not love. I distrust all of it.”

All at once Max understood what the old man’s objection truly was. It would damage Diron’s pride to allow his daughter to marry for love. It was not the continental way. People would make jest of the old man’s decision, and say his iron will was softening. Perhaps they might even dare to say he was influenced by the new American values that were infiltrating the territory. Quite simply, a love match would embarrass Diron.

“I agree,” Max said, thinking rapidly. “You realize
if we keep them apart, all this overwrought emotion will continue. So, that is why I favor the idea of a long courtship—with strict supervision,
naturellement
. We’ll allow them enough time to fall out of love.”

“Eh? What?”

“It will only take a little time, not even a year. You know how fickle the young are.”

Diron frowned. “Yes, indeed.”

“And then, when all this violent love has faded into indifference, we will marry them to each other. Henriette will probably object to the match by then. It would be a lesson for both of them. Then, through the years, Alexandre and Henriette will slowly develop the sensible kind of affection for each other that my parents did…as you and your wife did.”

“Hmmm.” Diron stroked his chin. Max nearly held his breath, waiting for the answer. “There is something to the idea.”

“It makes sense to me,” Max said blandly, sensing the old man was secretly relieved to be handed a solution to the dilemma. This way Henriette would have the husband she desired, and Diron’s pride would be preserved.

“Hmmm. Yes, that is what we will do.”

“
Bien.
” Max adopted a matter-of-fact expression. “Now, about the dowry—”

“We will discuss
that
at a more appropriate time,” Diron interrupted grumpily. “Already thinking of the dowry…how like a Vallerand.”

*   *   *

“Pretend
not
to love her?” Alex exclaimed. “I do not understand.”

“Trust me,” Max said, catching Lysette around the waist as she passed him. He pulled her onto his lap. “The sooner you and Henriette convince everyone that you are indifferent to each other, the sooner you can marry.”

“Only you could come up with such a convoluted scheme,” Alex said sourly.

“You want her,” Max said flatly. “That is how you can have her.”

Lysette cuddled against her husband, stroking his hair. “It was very clever of you, Max.”

“Not at all,” he said modestly, enjoying her praise.

Her voice lowered. “It will be a happy ending, all thanks to your romantic nature,” she said, and he exchanged a slow grin with her.

Alexandre made a sound of disgust and stood up to leave. “Imagine, Max having a romantic nature,” he muttered. “
I
must be having a nightmare.”

In the weeks to come, Alexandre’s romance with Henriette Clement continued on its precarious way. On countless evenings he sat with her in the parlor, the entire Clement family in attendance. When he took her on sedate carriage drives, her mother and aunt accompanied them. He never dared meet Henriette’s eyes in church or at the balls they attended. The nearness of Henriette, and the rigorously imposed distance between them, caused Alexandre’s feelings to ascend to new heights of longing.

The tiniest signs from Henriette were significant—the way her footsteps slowed when she had to leave him, the flash of her gaze when she allowed herself to look at him. It was any young man’s idea of a perfect hell.

To Alexandre’s own surprise, he found he had no desire for any other girl. It was with genuine indignation that he reacted to Max’s suggestion that he visit some of his former haunts with Bernard.

“Rumors of your new celibate ways are reaching Diron’s ears,” Max informed him calmly. “It is clear to him and everyone else that you’re smitten with Henriette. It’s time to give the appearance that you are losing interest in her.”

“And therefore you wish me to visit some harlot?”

“You’ve done it before,” Max pointed out.

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. At least two months!”

Max laughed and suggested that he find some other way of appearing bored with his pursuit of Henriette. Miserably Alexandre began to ration his visits to the Clement household, making them more and more infrequent, while Henriette strove to appear indifferent to the new flood of rumors that a betrothal would soon be announced.

Lysette pitied the lovelorn pair and told Max as much. “It seems so ridiculous to put them through such trials merely to preserve Monsieur Clement’s pride. It makes something very simple into something so complicated.”

“It isn’t so bad for Alexandre to want something
he cannot have immediately.” Max smiled and leaned down to kiss her. She was sitting at her dressing table, braiding her hair before they went to bed. “The best things are worth waiting for. Such as you.”

“As I recall, you did not have to wait long for me at all.”

“I waited my entire life for you.”

Touched, Lysette smiled and rubbed her cheek against his hand. “
Bien-aimé
,” she whispered. “You do have a way with words.” She began to unbutton the front of her dress and gestured to the dresser. “Will you bring me a nightgown, please?”

“Later,” he murmured, easing the dress from her shoulders.

One of the largest balls of the season was being held at the Leseur plantation to honor the betrothal of one of the three Leseur daughters to Paul Patrice, the last unmarried son of a well-to-do New Orleans physician. Usually a doctor’s son would not have been considered a suitable match for a planter’s daughter, but Paul was a handsome lad with exquisite manners and gentlemanly bearing. Only three years older than Justin and Philippe, he was perfectly willing to surrender his bachelorhood in exchange for marriage into a wealthy family.

“Eighteen years of freedom, and now Paul wishes to shackle himself!” Justin had commented sourly. “Next year, probably a baby…
Mon Dieu
, hasn’t he thought about what he is doing?”

“He could not do better than Félicie Leseur,”
Philippe replied, a touch dreamily. “Marriage is not as bad a fate as you seem to think, Justin.”

Justin looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Then his mouth curled in a ridiculing sneer. “I suppose
you’ll
be married before too long.”

“I hope so. I hope I will be able to find the right girl.”

“I know what kind of girl you’ll choose,” Justin continued. “Bookish and sensible, with spectacles pinching the end of her nose. You’ll discuss art and music, and all those boring Greek tragedies.”

Affronted, Philippe closed the Latin book before him. “She will be beautiful,” he said with dignity, “and gentle and quiet. And you will be jealous.”

Justin snorted. “I’m going to sail to the East and have my own harem. Fifty women!”