“All right.”
To her surprise, he left the bed. “I have to leave you now, petite.”
“But I still have some questions.”
“Unfortunately, there are limits to my self-control.” His hand descended to her bare ankle and squeezed gently. “Let me go, Lysette, so that I can keep my promise not to ravish you. We’ll talk more later, I promise.”
“Can’t you stay just a little longer?” she asked, reaching out to touch his chest. She felt the play of muscles underneath his shirt, their tension betraying the desire he kept so sternly in check. The soft light of the veilleuses, the little lamps on the dresser and bedside table, flirted gently over the firm edges of his cheekbone and jaw.
Wincing visibly, Max removed her hand from his chest. “Not if you wish to remain a virgin tonight,” he said gruffly.
Suddenly Lysette was tempted to invite him to stay. However, she could not allow a single impulsive moment to interfere with her resolve. She could only allow him to make love to her when she was certain that he was truly in love with her… or at least that he felt something very close to it. And at the moment she knew that the attraction and liking between them had not yet matured into the deeper emotion that could only come with time.
“Then good night,” she said, and leaned forward to brush a quick kiss against his mouth.
Max shook his head ruefully. “You don’t make it easy to be trustworthy, chérie. You’re far too tempting, and I’m not accustomed to denying myself something I want.”
He picked up his coat, shrugged into it, and went to the door.
“Max?” Lysette was perturbed by his actions. He would not have put his coat on unless he was planning to go downstairs. But surely he would not return to mingle with the guests— that would be the height of bad taste. Was it possible that he intended to leave the plantation?
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“Are you going out this evening?”
A brief but maddening smile touched his lips, as if he knew exactly what she feared— that he might satisfy his desires with his placée tonight, since his wife was not available to him.
“Someday, ma petite, my whereabouts at night will be entirely your concern.” He added with wicked gleam in his eyes, “But not yet.”
And with that he left, closing the door gently behind him.
Lysette glared after him, aware for the first time in her life of the acrid taste of jealousy.
———
Max paused outside the bedroom door, finding it difficult to leave Lysette when every impulse demanded that he return to her. Without conceit, he knew that he had the ability to persuade her to yield to him, and that she would enjoy it as much as he did. However, her trust was too important for him to risk. He would wait as long as she wanted him to, though it was going to be difficult.
Had he wanted Corinne like this? The recollection of his first night with her was little more than a blur, but he did remember that Corinne— the first and only virgin he had ever bedded— had regarded him with resentment and reproach forever afterward. In spite of his efforts to be gentle, it had been a painful and mortifying experience for her. Corinne had been raised to dread any kind of intimacy with her husband, just as Max had been brought up to think that love for a wife was entirely different than love for a mistress.
Thank God that age and experience had taught him to believe otherwise.
———
The next day Bernard held a glass of rich red wine between his long fingers as he contemplated his older brother. This was their first opportunity to talk privately since he had returned from France. Max had been gone all day, superintending the repair of a faulty bridge on the property. He had come into the library without changing, intending to have a drink while his bath was being drawn. The filthy condition of Max’s clothes attested to his active involvement in the repair of the bridge.
Bernard could not help being amused by his brother’s appearance. “That isn’t the way I would have expected you to spend the day after your wedding,” Bernard said.
“Nor I,” Max replied wryly as he sat down and crossed his legs, heedless of the crusts of mud that fell from his boots to the fine Aubusson carpet.
“I see you have not changed in one regard: Nothing is right unless you do it yourself. There is no call for you to wallow in the mud and sweat like a field hand, is there?”
Max tightened his mouth with annoyance. Neither Bernard nor Alexandre wanted any of the responsibility of running the plantation. The only times they entered the library were to reach for the liquor decanters on the sideboard or to extend their palms for their monthly allowances.
However, both of them— Bernard in particular— criticized him freely when they did not agree with his decisions concerning the plantation. The irony was, Max didn’t even enjoy farming, and had inherited little of his father’s fierce love of the land. His interests were directed far more in the areas of business and politics.
Furthermore, his increasing political activities had changed his perspective on more than a few issues. Many of the politicians who visited from the northeast had made no secret of their abolitionist views, and as he debated with them, Max had found it difficult to defend the system of slavery that he had inherited. Many of their points had made him increasingly uncomfortable and even guilt-ridden.
He had heard that President Jefferson himself had mixed views on the issue of slavery, trying to balance questions of ethics with economic concerns. Max’s own moral dilemma, combined with his lack of interest in farming, had made the Vallerand plantation a burden that he sorely wished he could discard.
“Since I seem to be the only Vallerand available to run the plantation,” Max said sardonically, “I believe I’ll do it as I see fit. However, whenever you or Alexandre wish to assume some responsibility, I will yield gladly.”
“Our father decided long ago what roles we would assume,” Bernard said with a philosophical shrug. “You were to be the paragon, the choicest of all the aristocratic offspring in New Orleans… the head of the family. I was to be the prodigal, and Alexandre, the libertine. How dare we step outside the parts we were cast in?”
Max gave him a skeptical glance. “That is a convenient excuse, Bernard. The fact is, Father is gone, and you may do as you choose.”
“I suppose,” Bernard muttered, studying his boots.
In the uncomfortable silence that ensued, Max considered ways of broaching the subject that had to be discussed. “Were the Fontaine daughters truly that unappealing, Bernard?” he finally asked.
Bernard gave a weary sigh. “No, no… but how could I possibly consider marriage when I know that somewhere out there I have a woman and an illegitimate child who need my protection?”
“It’s been ten years,” Max said flatly. “By now she’s probably found a husband.”
“And that is supposed to comfort me? That some other man is raising my child? My God, every night for the past ten years I’ve wondered why she left without telling me or her family where she went!”
“I’m sorry, Bernard,” Max said quietly. “Back then I might have been able to do something about it, but instead…”
He fell silent. At the time he had been too involved in the turmoil of Corinne’s murder to give a damn about his younger brother’s unfortunate affair with Ryla Curran, the daughter of an American boatman. Bernard and the girl had known that marriage between a Catholic and a Protestant would have meant disaster for one or both of them. When Ryla discovered she was pregnant, she virtually disappeared. In spite of Bernard’s efforts to find her and the baby, ten years had gone by without a sign of them.
“Bernard,” Max said slowly, “you have searched long enough for them. Perhaps now you should let go of the past.”
“Is that what you’ve decided to do?” Bernard asked, changing the subject abruptly. “Is that the reason for this precipitous marriage?”
“I married her because I want her,” Max sa
id evenly.
“You did not stay the night with her— the entire household knows.”
“The household be damned. It’s my marriage, and I’ll conduct it however I wish.”
“I know you will,” Bernard said lightly. “But I think you’re a fool for ignoring tradition. Remember, you should spend at least a week alone with your new bride.” He smiled suggestively. “It is your duty as her husband to break her in properly.”
Max scowled. “Perhaps someday I’ll ask for your opinion. In the meanwhile—”
“Yes, I know.” Bernard’s dark eyes flickered with humor. “By the way, have you decided to give Mariame up?”
As Max parted his lips to answer, some instinct prompted him to glance toward the doorway. Lysette stood there frozen, having just come in search of him. It was clear from her expression that she had overheard Bernard’s question. Well, hell, Max thought in exasperation.
Lysette quickly adopted a bright, determined smile as she advanced into the room. “Forgive me for interrupting, mon mari,” she said lightly. Dressed in a light peach gown that molded her breasts together and draped gently over her slender figure, she looked fresh and vibrant. He wanted to seize her immediately, in spite of his sweat-soaked muddy clothes, and capture her mouth with a lusty kiss. “Your bath has been filled,” she told him. “I assume you will want to wash before supper.”
Max was at her side at once, feeling his mood lighten in her presence. She had a remarkable effect on him, reminding him of the time in his life when he had been young and idealistic, and had every expectation of happiness. “Most certainly. We will talk later, Bernard.”
His brother murmured an indistinguishable reply as they left.
“You are very dirty,” Lysette said. “What have you been doing today, Max?”
Max ignored the question, wondering if anyone else in the family had speculated on his possible whereabouts the previous evening. “Did my mother happen to make mention of my departure last night?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied with an ironic edge to her tone. “She counseled me to forgive you for neglecting me on our wedding night, and sought to reassure me that in time you will improve.”
He took her elbow as they walked. “Would you like to know where I went last night?”
“Not particularly,” Lysette said, and he grinned at the obvious lie. “However,” she added, “if you wish to tell me, go right ahead.”
“I went to see my former placée.” Max’s amusement persisted as Lysette jerked her elbow away from his grasp. “Shall I tell you what occurred between us?”
“No,” she snapped, and then stopped to stare at him warily. “Did you say ‘former’?”
“Yes, former. And nothing happened, other than that we agreed to end our arrangement for good.”
“Nothing?“ she asked suspiciously.
“Not even a good-bye kiss.”
“Oh.” Aware of an unexpected wash of relief, Lysette fought to conceal her pleasure. She let him take her arm again, and they walked into his bedroom, where a steaming bath awaited. A cake of expensive hard-milled soap and a pile of folded toweling had been placed on an overturned bucket beside the tub. Max made an appreciative sound at the sight, and stripped off his shirt.
Lysette stopped suddenly, unable to keep from glancing at his body. Max was muscular and sun-bronzed, a healthy male who was fully in his prime. Heavy black hair covered his chest and narrowed into a silkier pelt over the muscled tautness of his abdomen. His bare arms were corded and heavily developed from work on the plantation, not to mention years of fencing. Lysette stopped breathing as she watched him stride to the bed and sit on the edge of it.
Max stared at her with coffee-dark eyes. A smile tipped one corner of his mouth as he noticed her interest. He pulled off his muddy boots with a grunt of exertion, dropped the offending articles to the floor, and brushed the dried clay from his hands. With each movement, muscles flexed beneath his gleaming tanned skin. Lysette noticed a few marks on his torso, including a star-shaped scar on his shoulder.
“Where did those scars come from?” she asked.
“Dueling wounds. My honor, negligible as it may seem, has taken many contests of skill to defend.”
The musky, alluring smell of his skin drifted to Lysette’s nostrils. It made her want to draw closer and press her face into the salty heat of his neck. She approached him slowly, her gaze returning to the scars. “I suppose some of the young Creoles in town seek to prove their manhood by fighting you,” she said. “Like wolves challenging the leader of the pack. Have you ever wounded someone fatally?”
Max shook his head. “Usually honor is satisifed when first blood is drawn. I’ve always tried to avoid dueling, except for the one with Sagesse. I only fight when they make it impossible not to.”
“I understand,” Lysette said gently, reaching out to touch the scar on his shoulder. She hadn’t been aware of moving closer to his half-naked body, but she was right next to him, her breath stirring the hair on his chest. How many times had Max faced the point of a sword? How close to death had he come? The thought bothered her profoundly. Disconcerted, Lysette turned away from him. “You must be tired after so much exertion today. No doubt you are looking forward to your bath. I will leave you to—”
Lysette broke off as she heard a rustling sound behind her. He had removed his trousers, she realized. He was completely naked. She was immobilized with indecision, wanting to stay, wanting to go.
She heard the sound of his body plunging into the water. “Why don’t you help me bathe, petite?”
Lysette turned then, helplessly taking in the resplendent sight of gleaming male skin, the hard curves of his shoulders rising above the wooden rim of the tub. “Do you need help?” Her lungs felt hot and dilated, as if she had inhaled some of the abundant steam around him.
“You said that you wanted to become accustomed to me. I am giving you an opportunity to do that.”
“How kind of you.”
Max grinned and settled back in the tub, sighing as the scalding water engulfed his strained muscles. He slitted his eyes, looking like a lazy tomcat in the sunshine. “You could at least hand me the soap, ma petite.” A smile touched his lips as he added provokingly, “Be brave, will you?”
Lysette was not one to back down from a challenge. And her curiosity far outweighed her apprehension. “Certainly, mon mari.” She picked up the cake of soap and sniffed it, detecting the scent of lemongrass.
Max levered himself upward, exposing his broad sinewy back. Again she was reminded of a tomcat, silently demanding to be petted.
Lysette’s stomach tightened pleasurably. “Why not? I’ll scrub your back, mon mari. But you will have to do the rest yourself.” She pushed her sleeves above her elbows as she approached the tub. The water was clear beneath the ascending steam, affording her a view of the rampant erection beneath the water. Although she tried not to react to the startling sight, a flush spread upward to her hairline.
Max arched a brow, as if expecting a virginal scream of hysterical surprise. Lysette continued around the tub until she stood behind him. “That looks painful,” she commented.
He tilted his head back to look at her upside down. “For me, or for you?”
Lysette couldn’t help but smile at the provocative question, while the heat of her blush intensified. “For both of us, I would guess.”
Reserving comment, Max leaned forward once more. Lysette immersed her hands in the water and rubbed the soap between them, until the tart scent of lemongrass filled the air. Setting the soap aside, she began to spread the creamy substance over his back, her fingers molding over the hard indentations of muscle and the thick ridge of his spine. Rivulets of water and soap coursed down his tanned skin.
It seemed unspeakably intimate to wash his hair, but she did that as well, her soapy fingers working through the dark wet locks and scrubbing the scalp underneath. Max enjoyed her ministrations unabashedly. Lysette rose to her feet to tip the bucket of f
resh water over his head, rinsing the suds away.
Carefully she set the bucket down, while Max raked the wet locks back from his forehead. His water-spiked lashes lifted as he gazed at her. “Why don’t you join me in here?”
The suggestion surprised and aroused Lysette. A sweet ache blossomed in her chest, spreading to the tips of her breasts until they tightened into sensitive points. When she managed to speak, her throat felt thick and tingling, as if she had been drinking warm honey.
“There’s not enough room for two,” she said.
“There is if we sit close enough.” When Lysette remained still, Max leaned over to her. His mouth found a vulnerable spot on her throat, and he licked and nibbled gently. She drew in a quick breath, her throat moving against the masculine scrape of his jaw. The world seemed to topple slowly, as if she were inside some vast crystal bowl that rolled languidly on its side.
As Lysette reached out in a bid for balance, one of her hands came to rest on the furry surface of his chest. Her fingers sank into a mat of hot waterlogged curls. Her thumb rested on the silken edge of his nipple… She couldn’t stop herself from stroking until it contracted into a hard point. Max made a low sound and slid one hand around the back of her head. She let him pull her mouth to his, and he kissed her with lazy hunger.
Pleasure swirled over her, her skin alive to the slightest touch. She opened her mouth dreamily, letting him explore her with slow strokes of his tongue. She did not protest as he took her hand and guided it beneath the water. Hot as the bath was, it was nothing compared to the searing heat of his arousal.
Her fingers were pliable, obedient, curving around the heavy masculine length of him. He felt nothing like she had expected. His skin was like thin satin that had been stretched tightly over the hardness of his shaft. Her hand drifted over the shape of him, exploring delicately beneath the water. Max continued to kiss her, his breath striking hard against her cheek, and the awareness of his growing excitement made her feel dizzy and drunk.
Lysette leaned forward to press closer to him, until the front of her dress was soaked and the rim of the tub dug hard into her middle. It was only that burgeoning pain that recalled her to her senses. She winced and pulled back, panting heavily.