“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!”
“Fifty?” Lysette repeated with a laugh, having just come into the room. “That will keep you very busy indeed, Justin.”
He dropped his sneer and gave her an angelic smile. “But if I find someone like you, petite Maman, I’ll have only one.”
She laughed at his outrageous charm, and her smiling gaze turned to Philippe. “Tonight, peut-être, you will catch sight of the girl you dream of. Are you leaving in the carriage with Bernard and Alexandre?” She did not mention Irénée, who was afflicted with a touch of rheumatism and would not attend the ball.
Philippe nodded. “Yes. Father made it clear you and he were going alone in the first carriage.”
“Alone?” Justin mused thoughtfully. “Why would Father want to be alone in the carriage with you, when he could have Philippe and me there? Well, I suppose
he might try to—”
“Justin!“ Philippe exploded, mortified at his brother’s impudence. He threw a pillow cushion at Justin’s head. Justin ducked it with a protest.
Lysette’s mouth twitched with amusement. “I will see you at the Leseur plantation,” she said gravely, and went back to the entrance hall, where Noeline waited with her bonnet and gloves.
———
Built facing one of the smaller bayous in the region, the Leseur home was large, simply designed, and stately. One side was bordered by a massive oak that was estimated to be at least three centuries old. Garlands of roses covered the house inside and out. The glitter from intricately prismed chandeliers danced in the most remote corners of the house. Guests filled the outside galleries, while servants moved among them with silver trays of refreshments.
Nearby was the garçonnière, separately constructed quarters for male guests or family bachelors who required privacy. Several gentlemen accompanied by personal attendants had been in the garçonnière since early afternoon, drinking, smoking, and discussing the latest events in the city. The ladies had been resting inside the house, and now were appearing in the ballroom in their most extravagant gowns. A special orchestra had been summoned from New Orleans to supply the music, and the lively strains of a quadrille filled the air.
“Lysette,” Max said as he helped her from the carriage, “a word of warning.”
“Yes?” She looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. Too innocent. “What is it, bien-aimé?”
“It hasn’t escaped me that Alexandre has been trying to persuade you to help him spend a few minutes alone with Henriette tonight. You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
She appeared to be surprised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Max gave her a warning glance. “If they manage to give a convincing show of indifference to each other, they’ll be married in a matter of months. If, however, they are discovered in a clandestine meeting, there will be nothing I can do to help them.”
“They won’t be caught together,” Lysette assured him.
“Alex could lose Henriette over such a trifling thing. You do not understand the extent of Diron’s pride.”
“I do, I understand perfectly.” Lysette tried to move away, but he kept his hands at her waist, staring down at her. “Max,” she protested, “I haven’t done anything!”
“Keep it that way,” he advised, and let go of her.
———
Max kept his gaze on Alexandre and Lysette for the next two hours, but neither of them made a move to leave the ballroom. He relaxed after a glass or two of the fine wine being served to all the guests. The vintage had been made from vineyards on the Leseur plantation.
Max congratulated Leseur, both on the excellent wine and on the match between Félicie and Paul Patrice, and the two of them engaged in a casual conversation as others joined them.
From a distance, Lysette stood with Alexandre and watched her husband with a rush of pride. Max was dressed in stark black and white, a wine glass poised between his long fingers as he conversed with the men around him. He was elegant, virile, and devilishly handsome… and he was hers.
Alexandre followed her gaze. “It’s not easy,” he remarked, “having Max as a brother.”
Lysette frowned at him, thinking of all the times she had seen Max smooth the way for his brothers, doing what he could to ensure they had whatever they desired, assuming their debts and responsibilities without one word of reproach. Alex’s statement struck her as being singularly ungrateful. “Max does many things for you, non?”
“He does, but for years Bernard and I had to contend with the standards Max set. Everything he did was perfect. And then, when he fell so utterly in disgrace— it was a disaster for all of us. The Vallerand name was blackened, and Bernard and I suffered, as well as Max.”
“And you resent him for that?”
“No, no. I might have, once, but not now. But Bernard…” Alexandre stopped, evidently thinking better of what he had been about to say.
“What?” Lysette prompted.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me, Alex, or I will not help you with Henriette.”
He scowled. “I was only going to say that Bernard seems to find it difficult to completely forgive Max. But then, Bernard is the next oldest son. He has always been compared to Max and found lacking.”
“That is hardly Max’s fault,” Lysette said coolly. “Vraiment, Alex… you and Bernard must stop using him as a convenient excuse. You must take responsibility for your own actions. Max has quite enough to contend with.”
“All right,” he said, holding up his hands in mock self-defense. “I won’t say any more. But why is it, ma soeur, that you are allowed to criticize Max, but you won’t let anyone else?”
She grinned suddenly. “Because I’m his wife.”
———
Max did not notice the exact moment when his wife disappeared. As he gradually became aware of her absence, he politely separated himself from the group in the ballroom and wandered past the open doors leading to the outside galleries. There was no sign of his wife.
“Dammit, Lysette, what are you doing?” he muttered softly. He went to the garden, knowing that if Lysette had engineered a meeting between Alexandre and Henriette, it would probably take place there.
The Leseur garden was large and intricately designed, filled with exotic trees, flowers, and plants from Europe and the Orient. Its artificial lagoons were stocked with fish and crossed by charming bridges. An indignant peacock scuttled out of the way as Max strode through the rose-covered arch that marked the entrance to the main path. The way became darker, the lanterns more infrequent, until he reached the corridor of tall yews. A fountain of cherubs and spouting fish marked the center of the garden, from which several paths branched off.
Max cursed softly. There was little chance of finding his wife, or her fellow companions. His only recourse was to return to the drawing room and wait.
Suddenly he heard footsteps on the graveled path. Withdrawing into the shadows, he watched the approaching figure.
It was Diron Clement. Evidently the old man had noticed his daughter’s absence. He tromped past Max without seeing him. Max grimaced, taking note of the belligerent set of Diron’s head. There would be hell to pay if he found Henriette with Alexandre. The old man headed to the left, on a path which— if Max’s memory served him— led to a tiny pagoda. An unwanted smile pulled at his lips. In his younger days he had made use of the pagoda himself. He still retained a fond memory or two of the place. No, Alexandre would not conduct his tryst there. It was too obvious.
Taking a chance, Max chose the opposite direction, a path which led to a hothouse filled with exotic fruit trees. Keeping to the shadows, he drew closer until he saw Lysette standing at the corner of the hothouse. An owl hooted in the distance, and she jumped, looking from side to side.
The sight of her there, after she had promised not to take part in any illicit meeting between Alex and Henriette, made him grin ruefully. He was going to have to teach her that she could not tweak his nose and dance away without fear of retribution.
———
Lysette sighed, wishing she were back in the ballroom. She wondered if Max had noticed yet that she was missing. A night owl gave a low cry, and she started a little.
Suddenly a hard arm snaked around her waist from behind. A large hand covered her mouth as she yelped with fright. She was dragged back against a surface as unyielding as a brick wall. As she pried frantically at the hand over her mouth, she heard a familiar voice in her ear.
“Had I known you desired a tour of the gardens, sweet, I would have offered to accompany you.”
Lysette sagged in relief, gasping as the hand was removed from her mouth. “Max…” She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You startled me!” She dropped her forehead against his chest.
“I intended to.”
L
ysette winced as she saw his ominous expression.
“Where are they?” he asked.
She bit her lip and looked at the hothouse. The door opened, and Alexandre stuck his head out. His hair was wildly mussed, and his lips were suspiciously moist. “Lysette? I thought I heard—” He froze as he saw Max. They were all silent.
Max was the first to speak. “You have one minute to say good-bye to Henriette. Make it meaningful. Your separation may be permanent.”
Alexandre disappeared inside the building.
Lysette decided to explain as quickly as possible. She spoke without pausing for breath. “Max, they only wanted five minutes together, and I had already promised them I would help, so I couldn’t go back on my word, and if you had only seen how happy they were when I brought Henriette here, you would have understood why I had to—”
“When we get home, I’m going to take you over my knee and ensure that you will not be able to sit comfortably for a long time.”
Lysette blanched. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’m going to enjoy it immensely,” he assured her.
Her arms dropped from around his neck. “Max, let’s discuss this….”
She paused as she realized that Max was not listening; he was gazing into the distance, his eyes alert. “What is it?” she asked.
Max yanked her against his body without warning, fitting his mouth over hers. Lysette squeaked and wriggled in surprise, but his arms were too tight, and his mouth absorbed all sound. He angled his head more deeply over hers, his tongue plunging into her mouth. His hand moved down to her bottom, cupping the soft flesh and pulling her high against the swelling bulge of his sex. Her vision blurred, and her struggles died away. Convulsively she swallowed and strained to press even closer to him. Suddenly he lifted his head, ignoring her soft protest.
“Ah… good evening, Monsieur Clement,” he said thickly.
Lysette’s head snapped around, and she saw Dion Clement’s craggy face not five feet away. His subdued glare seemed to bore right through her.
“I was told my daughter Henriette was with you, Madame Vallerand,” the old man barked. “Where is she?”