Bayou Bride Page 2

  "That is a bit more damaging,” Sherry admitted.

  "Especially when you consider that her grandmother refused to pass the silver down to her son because he married an American girl instead of a Creole."

  Sherry stared at him. “You mean Aimee has gained her grandmother's approval then with her choice? I begin to see why you're nervous."

  "Nervous,” Paul said, “is not the word. Let me tell you the other subtle hint I was given of what is expected of me. Last evening, Lucien called me into the study and solemnly handed over the Villeré betrothal ring. Here, let me show you."

  Paul drew a ring box of ancient, worn green velvet from his shirt pocket. Releasing the catch, he passed it across the table to Sherry. Inside was a ring set in gold so pure it had a soft rose tint. The setting was in the shape of a flower, a blue forget-me-not formed of enameled petals outlined in sapphires and dewed with diamonds.

  Sherry caught her breath. “It is beautiful, so—so exquisite."

  "There's a bracelet that also goes with it. The Villeré brides receive the bracelet on the day of the official announcement of the engagement. They wear both it and the ring until their wedding day, when they are replaced by something a little more modern."

  "I'm not sure I would want anything more modern,” Sherry said with a bemused shake of her head. She glanced up quickly. “That is, of course, if I were a Villeré bride, which I am not, nor am I going to pretend to be!"

  "You are a hard woman, Sherry Mason. What would it hurt if you scheduled your vacation next week, came down to New Orleans, and let me introduce you to everyone as my bride-to-be? You could have a relaxing vacation. I would take you wherever you wanted to go, show you anything and everything you wanted to see. We could feast on seafood at some of the most famous restaurants in the world, dance, listen to jazz, take a riverboat cruise—"

  "You can't be serious,” Sherry interrupted. “What would I tell my boss and the people I work with? It's certain to become known that I visited New Orleans pretending to be your fiancée. I couldn't just come back and say nothing. Everybody would think—they would think we—"

  "Dear Sherry, what they would think is that you came down for fun and games with me. I hadn't thought of that. What you would have to do is keep the betrothal ring, show it around at the office. Later, when it's all over, you can give it back and tell everybody it didn't work out, you couldn't take my philandering ways or something. It's not a big thing."

  "It looks big to me,” she told him, her eyes level. “Too big, as a matter of fact. I just couldn't go through with it, I'm no good at lying, and worse at acting a part."

  Paul stared at her a long moment, then he sighed. “I was afraid of that."

  "I think what you should do is call Lucien and tell him you're on your way back home. Go to this party, see Aimee, and tell her candidly that you think the two of you should start all over. If something develops, fine; if not—well, that's fine too."

  "I would hate to hurt her."

  "If Aimee is the kind of person you say she is, she would prefer to be hurt now, when it can be mended, instead of later, after you were married, when it would be much harder."

  The ring of the telephone cut across her words. Sherry slipped from her seat to answer it. As she lifted the receiver she glanced at the kitchen clock and was surprised to find it was nearly midnight.

  "Miss Mason?"

  The deep, clipped tones were unmistakable. “Yes, Mr. Villeré?” Sherry said, flicking a quick look at Paul.

  "I trust I did not disturb your rest?"

  "No,” Sherry answered. If it had not been for the thread of purest irony in his voice she would have told him at once that Paul was with her. As it was, she waited perversely for him to ask for his brother.

  "May I speak to Paul?"

  The man could have at least had the diplomacy to ask whether his brother was there. His calm assumption that he was, at that time of night, was infuriating. She took a deep breath. “Your brother is here now, Mr. Villeré, but before you talk to him, I would like to clear up a misunderstanding. First of all, he arrived less than an hour ago, and second, he is not staying."

  There was a small silence at the other end of the line. Finally Lucien Villeré replied, “My dear Miss Mason. Your morals are no concern of mine, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss them. Would you please let me speak to Paul?"

  What Lucien Villeré had said was probably no more than the exact truth. Knowing that did not help Sherry's exacerbated feelings. Not trusting herself to speak, she thrust the phone at Paul, her eyes sea-green with anger and her lovely lips pressed together.

  Paul shot her a worried look before he turned his attention to the instrument in his hand. He spoke into it, then stood listening for several seconds. Sherry walked away into the living room to give him privacy and to collect herself. Behind her, she could hear Paul speaking.

  "Yes, I understand the problem, but I thought she was supposed to arrive next week. All right, but I don't see why you can't pick her up, or her grandmother, for that matter. What? Why would she ask for me? Well, you can suppose what you please, I can't help that. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't believe my fiancée would approve of me meeting a young woman, even a childhood friend, at the airport. She is the jealous type. Who? Why, Sherry Mason, of course; why else do you think I made a beeline for St. Louis as soon as I saw the way the wind was blowing—? Yes, well, sudden it may be, but that's what happens when you start putting pressure on people. You might try to remember that, Lucien."

  Sherry swung around, staring at Paul. He grinned at her, unrepentant, holding out a hand to ward her off as she started toward him. Abruptly his grin faded. “What do you mean by that remark? Sherry is no particular type. She is warm and beautiful, and I'll be lucky if she consents to come anywhere near New Orleans and my family after talking to you, big brother."

  The conspiratorial wink Paul threw Sherry barely registered. She stood still as Paul went on. “If you really want to know what I think, I'll tell you. I think you had better get ready to escort Aimee Dubois around for the next few weeks. Maybe she will accept a substitute. Remember you are still available in that department, old man, and I don't doubt her grandmother would be just as happy to settle for the elder son as a husband for her darling. Yes, I know you are a good twelve years her senior. Look at it this way; some girls like older men—Now, now, don't get touchy. Don't you like that trapped feeling? Despite the jokes, I am perfectly serious about one thing, Lucien. The only girl I am taking to Aimee's welcome home party is Sherry, so you had better get used to the idea!"

  Sherry took a step forward. “Paul, no,” she whispered, but it was a feeble denial. She could not call a halt now, could not expose the trick to Lucien Villeré's brand of cold sarcasm, or give him more reason to hold her in contempt. Every particle of pride she possessed rebelled at the idea. There was also, only partially acknowledged in a corner of her mind, a human need to repay Paul's brother in some small way for his scathing assessment of her.

  Paul reached out, drawing her into the curve of his arm to give her a grateful hug. Sherry met his eyes with a wry smile, allowing him to take her silence for acquiescence, though she knew with a fearful certainty that she was going to regret it.

  2

  Sherry leaned back on the soft seat of the air-conditioned limousine. She had never ridden in such a luxurious automobile before in her life. It was an effort to resist the impulse to smooth her fingertips over the velvet upholstery. If Paul was trying to impress her, he was succeeding. Not that he had any need for such measures; theirs was not that kind of relationship. Sending a chauffeured limousine to pick her up at the airport when he was unable to meet her plane was probably no more than a convenience to him. As pleasant as the experience was, however, she would much have preferred to see Paul himself.

  It had been a hectic week. At Sherry's urging, Paul had returned to New Orleans. She had even suggested that he meet Aimee when she arrived from
Switzerland, as the girl wanted, in the cowardly hope that he would discover the subterfuge they had worked out was unnecessary. It did not work. Sherry had waited until half the week went by for a message telling her she need not come to New Orleans. Instead, she had received a plane ticket and the confirmation of a reservation in her name at one of the Crescent City's finest hotels.

  The last thing Sherry had told Paul as he walked out the door was that she would make her own arrangements. He had laughed. His secretary would see to it, he said, and the Villeré Shipping Lines could pick up the tab. Sherry had insisted. She was due a vacation with pay. Not only could she afford to pay her own way, she preferred it. Her arguments made no difference, it appeared. It was easier to keep to the schedule set out for her than to cancel the reservations and make her own, but she was determined to have the matter out with Paul when she saw him. It might be a losing battle, trying to retain her integrity in this ridiculous situation; still, she would fight it to the end.

  The prospect of asking for the time off from her job had been a daunting one. She was especially needed at this particular time, with her boss laid up in bed with a broken ankle. The invalid was inclined to be difficult until he received a telephone call from New Orleans. The result was magical. A replacement was found within hours. Sherry had spent the last two days of the week showing the young man who took the job the small details of the position.

  By that time there were some odd rumors floating about the office. Sherry had hated to wear the valuable Villeré betrothal ring, and yet it seemed preferable to allowing her reputation to be blackened, entirely due to the attention being paid to her by the head of the firm and his brother. The sight of this symbol of the mock engagement satisfied the rampant curiosity. There had been one or two spiteful comments, notably from Sarah, the receptionist who had helped start the fiasco, but most of her fellow workers were happy for her. One or two went so far as to say they had predicted the outcome weeks before.

  Packing was a chore. Since she had little idea of the type of entertainments she would be expected to attend, or how formal they would be, she could not decide what to take. She had a crepe knit in a soft peach color with a chiffon drape about the shoulders that would be acceptable for the party to be given in Aimee's honor in a week's time, but other than that, she was lost. At last she opted for another long gown, a long skirt and blouse, and a collection of mixed separates. As an afterthought, she threw in jeans and a shirt. If she did not have enough, she thought her budget would stretch to one or two additions.

  With that out of the way, the only thing left to be done was stop the milk delivery, clean out the refrigerator, and notify her landlady of when she would return. There was no one else to consider. Her father had been killed in an automobile accident while she was still in high school; her mother had become ill not long afterward. The diagnosis had been terminal cancer, but Sherry was not certain it should not have been grief.

  The limousine left the expressway for the busy, traffic-filled streets of downtown New Orleans. With mounting excitement, Sherry recognized the broad expanse and the green-painted antique lanterns of Canal Boulevard. There was shrubbery and bright flowering annuals planted in the median, and here and there towered the shaggy heads of palm trees, a positive sign that she was in the deep south.

  The car turned, entering an area of extremely narrow streets. Overhead appeared the famous wrought-iron balconies of the French Quarter, balconies that, with their supporting posts, formed an arcade above the sidewalks. Tourists strolled everywhere, most dressed in shorts, sandals, and sleeveless shirts to combat the sultry heat. They moved in and out of fascinating shops which sold everything from valuable antiques to printed T-shirts.

  The limousine turned a corner. Ahead of them was an open, horse-drawn carriage decorated with flowers calmly rattling along, while closing in behind them was an enormous chartered bus with a growling engine and hissing air brakes. The contrast brought a smile to Sherry's lips. It was something of a disappointment when the limousine turned once more and pulled into the curb before the hotel.

  The car door was opened not by the chauffeur, but by the hotel doorman in gold livery. As Sherry stepped out onto the sidewalk, she was assailed by the smell of seafood cooking somewhere, of coffee and the taint of horses from the carriage stand across the street from the hotel. She thanked the doorman and stood looking about her. The hotel was fronted by a series of antique brass lanterns. Its facade was constructed of white marble, inset at intervals by tall, round-arched, fanlighted windows. The effect was one of modern elegance combined with old, romantic charm.

  The inside was much the same, with long stretches of gleaming marble floors overhung by enormous chandeliers glittering with crystal. Fresh flowers were here and there, calling attention to antique pieces massive enough to be in correct scale to the enormous hotel lobby. Sherry, following behind her luggage being pushed along on a cart by a bellhop, gave a slight shake of her head. The hotel was fabulous, but well beyond the pocketbook of a mere secretary. If Paul expected to find her installed here she would have to stay at least one night, but after that she would have to find other accommodation.

  The clerk at the registration desk took her name. Excusing himself, he turned to the telephone, pressed a button and spoke briefly into the mouthpiece. By the time she had filled out the necessary forms, received her key, and turned to make her way to her room, a man stood beside her.

  "Miss Sherry Mason? I am Jonathan Travers, the manager here,” he said, giving the name of the hotel. “We are delighted to welcome you to New Orleans."

  "Thank you,” she replied, surprise making her tone tentative.

  The manager smiled. “Lucien Villeré called to ask me to meet you. As I am sure you are aware, he would have been here to greet you himself if he could. Something came up at the last moment, but he will be with you as soon as possible."

  The man had made a mistake, Sherry thought. No doubt it was Paul, not Lucien, who had called him. She saw no reason to embarrass him by correcting the wrong impression, however. “I see,” she said. “I appreciate your taking the trouble to tell me."

  "No trouble at all. I've known Lucien for some time. He's a great guy, a good friend. We often host business conferences, meetings, dinner parties and the like for his firm."

  A small frown appeared between Sherry's eyes. If Jonathan Travers knew Lucien that well, it was unlikely that he had failed to recognize his voice on the phone. And yet she could think of no reason why Paul's older brother should concern himself with her welfare.

  The manager turned away. “If you will come with me, I'll see you to your room,” he said pleasantly, and led her toward a bank of elevators as the bellhop trundled her luggage behind them.

  The room she had been given was done in shades of turquoise and salmon. Cool, quiet, and comfortable, it opened out onto a small roof garden enclosed on all sides by the towering walls of the hotel. As Sherry moved to the sliding glass door to inspect this secluded court with its orange trees set in boxes and its profusion of bright-colored flowers, Jonathan Travers spoke behind her.

  "Is everything satisfactory?"

  Sherry turned, smiling. “Oh, yes."

  "I'm glad you like it. If you would care for a swim, we have a pool on the roof of the main building. There is an open air restaurant up there also. They serve a pretty fair selection of salads for lunch, if your appetite runs in that direction. Let us know where you will be if you decide to look around. We can have you paged if you have any calls."

  Sherry thanked him warmly. The manager gave her a pleasant nod and left her. Sherry tipped the bellhop, who had placed her bags on the luggage racks, and he went out, closing the door behind him.

  Tossing her handbag onto the bed, Sherry dropped down beside it. She was depressed. She wished fervently that she had never listened to Paul, had never abandoned her own usual good sense. What had made her do it? For the past week she had been trying to understand. She could not blame it all on
overwrought nerves from her exasperating day, nor could she explain it entirely to her satisfaction as an overreaction to Lucien Villeré's negative attitude. It went further than that. She was almost convinced there had been something in the man's voice that raised her hackles, awakening an instinctive, unreasoning dislike. She wondered what it would be like when she finally met the man face to face. She had better hope, for her own peace of mind and the success of her act as Paul's fiancée, that he was just as annoying in person as he was over the phone. If he was very nice to her, she might find herself confessing the whole thing and taking the next flight back to St. Louis.

  If Sherry had followed her own inclinations, she would have rested a bit, then gone out to stroll up and down the streets. That was impossible until after she had heard from Paul and discovered what his plans were. She decided at last to take the manager's suggestion. A dip in the pool and a salad for lunch it would be.

  The hotel was taller than most of the older buildings around it. From the pool terrace on the top floor, she could see far out over the tiled roofs of the French Quarter. Here and there could be seen the luxuriant growth of vines climbing up the old crumbling brick walls. Pigeons wheeled overhead, landing on the rooftrees of buildings or dropping into the open squares of hidden courtyards. Beyond the houses, the Mississippi wound in a large curve, the crescent which gave the city its familiar name. As Sherry watched, a freighter slid around the bend, moving with dispatch toward its anchorage further up the river. From that distance she could not quite read the name, but she thought it was a ship of the Villeré line.

  Splashing in the pool, swimming up and down, was refreshing despite the sparkle of the sun on the water. The fruit salad with cottage cheese with which she followed her exercise suited her mood and appetite to perfection. She sat for a time at one of the glass-topped metal tables, sipping the lemonade she had ordered. Only the hint of a sunburn beginning on the tops of her shoulders and across her cheekbones sent her down to her room again.