Bayou Bride Read online

  She showered, rinsing the chemicals of the pool water from her hair. Slipping on a pair of lounging pajamas in aqua silk, she combed the tangles from her long blonde tresses, and left the shining mass on her shoulders to dry. If the slight sunburn gave her an overdone look, as if she had been heavyhanded with the cheek blusher, it could not be helped. With an amused grimace, she creamed her face to prevent dryness and turned away from the mirror.

  At the airport, she had bought a paperback to read on the plane. Now she took it out and sat down, quickly becoming absorbed in the story. It was sometime later when a knock fell on the door. With her book in her hand, she moved to answer it.

  At the sight of the man who stood in the corridor, Sherry stiffened. Her smile of polite inquiry faded. He had the same dark coloring as Paul, the same crisp black waves and deepset eyes under heavy dark brows. There the resemblance ended. This man was tall, with the indefinable carriage of an athlete, though dressed in a gray business suit. His face was lean and hawklike, with a bold nose and a mouth so firm it had a chiseled look. For an instant, Sherry was reminded of a comment Paul had once made concerning his brother. Lucien, he had said, was a throwback in looks and personality to an 18th century ancestor who had founded the family fortunes by his exploits as a buccaneer upon the high seas. She had laughed then, now she felt no such inclination.

  "I am Lucien Villeré,” the man in the doorway said, his black gaze flicking over the comfortable lounging costume she wore. “I see you were expecting Paul. I'm sorry that I must disappoint you."

  A wave of color mounted to Sherry's face, half from embarrassment at his crude hint, half from anger at her schoolgirl reaction to it. She lifted her chin. “So am I,” she said.

  It was an instant before he spoke again. “Paul, unfortunately, has been called out of town. He asked me to see after you. I trust you have everything you need?"

  "Yes, I believe so.” The glib explanation he gave did not ring true, especially after the efforts of this man to force Paul back to the city not a week before. She could not call him a liar to his face, however, much as she might wish to. It crossed her mind to wonder if Paul had been sent out of town deliberately. She was prevented from following this line of thought to its logical conclusion as Lucien Villeré spoke again.

  "Have you seen anything of New Orleans, Miss Mason?"

  "Not yet,” Sherry said, on guard against a sudden persuasive note she heard in his voice.

  "If you will permit me, I would be honored to show you something of my city, and then we could have dinner. Paul would not like it if I left you alone on your first night here. Besides, if we are to be related, I suppose we should get to know each other better."

  For some reason he meant to be conciliatory; still he could not quite keep the distaste from his voice. If he found taking her out that much of a chore, it would surely be a suitable punishment for his arrogant attitude. “I suppose we should,” Sherry answered at last, her tone dry. “If you're certain it won't inconvenience you."

  "Not at all,” he answered, though his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “I will return for you, shall we say in an hour?"

  "I'll be ready,” she replied, stepping back to close the door.

  He stopped her with a gesture, his frown suddenly deepening. “Semiformal will do,” he said after a moment.

  "Thank you,” Sherry said, and closed the door on him.

  If she could have thought he was being sarcastic with his last remark, she would have been less angry. As it was, she was certain he honestly doubted that she had any idea of how to dress for dinner with someone of his social and economic standing. That was infuriating. Did he think Paul had never taken her out? Perhaps he thought his brother only carried her to quiet, out-of-the-way places!

  Knowing she could not afford to stay at the hotel, Sherry had not unpacked. Now she took the assortment of evening wear she had brought with her from the suitcase and shook out the folds. Her mouth set in a grim line, she surveyed them as they lay spread upon the bed. There was the peach knit, a long gown of white eyelet, and a skirt and blouse ensemble. The knit she was saving for the party, and the white eyelet, were entirely too virginal for her mood. It would have to be the skirt and blouse. There was certainly nothing subdued about it. The skirt of cotton voile was full and long with a deep ruffle around the hem and a pattern of vivid red and turquoise flowers splashed across a white background. With it went a white voile blouse with a ruffled neckline that could be worn off the shoulder. There was also a lightweight shawl of the same material as the skirt to be draped Spanish style about the arms. The costume could be worn for a romantic effect of flowers and ruffles or, with a few adjustments, could be given dramatic flair. A militant light in her eyes, Sherry opted for the latter. If she had wished to impress Paul's family with her finer qualities and her acceptability as a wife, she would never have dreamed of being less than circumspect; as it was, the less they approved of her, the happier they would be to see the supposed engagement ended in a few weeks’ time.

  She brushed her hair until it shone with gold highlights before drawing it back into a low chignon on the nape of her neck. She teased soft tendril curls around her temples and before her ears, then fastened a pair of large red silk flowers on the left side of her chignon. With dark brown liner, she elongated her eyes like those of a ballerina, adding a liberal amount of turquoise shadow, and applying mascara to her lashes until they curled and began to look blatantly false. The sheer gel she applied to her lips was a brilliant red, and after a moment's consideration, she did nothing to tone down the flushed look of her cheeks. Gold hooped earrings completed the picture.

  Fully dressed, Sherry stood before the mirror. She tugged the neckline of the blouse low on her arms, exposing more than a hint of the creamy curves of her breasts. She considered the addition of another silk flower on a white cord at her throat, then discarded the idea. Instead, she took up a long, gold chain from which was suspended the Villeré betrothal ring and slipped it over her head. The ring nestled between her breasts, hidden beneath her blouse. She felt such a fraud wearing the ring on her finger; she much preferred this method of keeping it safe. If the effect of the concealed piece of jewelry was provocative, then that was all to the good.

  Smiling a little, Sherry picked up the shawl that matched her skirt and draped it over her elbows. Turning back to the mirror, she struck a pose. Abruptly, she gave a soundless chuckle. She looked like an exotic dancer. She was not certain who would suffer more for her appearance, Lucien Villeré or herself. She adjusted the neckline of her blouse a trifle higher. It helped very little. With a resigned sigh, she reached up to remove the flowers from her hair. She was stopped by a knock on the door. She hesitated, catching her lips between her teeth, then she shrugged. Paul's brother was early. If he thought to put her at a disadvantage by such tactics he was in for a surprise—or perhaps a shock.

  Lucien had also changed for dinner, trading his business suit for evening wear with a white pleated shirt that made a startling contrast to his dark, sun-bronzed skin. The only perceptible sign that he was affected by her costume was a slight tightening of his jaw muscles. “You have your key?” he asked.

  "Oh, yes,” she said, turning to retrieve it from the top of the dressing table. She had opened her small evening bag of antique satin to drop the key into it when he held out his hand.

  "I'll take care of it for you,” he said.

  A strange reluctance gripped her before she shook it off. She handed the tagged key over, mentally chiding herself for that instant of primitive reaction. She knew who this man was, knew his standing in the city. There was not the least chance of danger from him.

  He pressed the lock on the door from the inside, waited for her to precede him from the room, then closed the panel behind them. As they moved down the corridor, he said, “I have made our reservation at Antoine's for dinner. I hope that is satisfactory."

  "Yes, very,” she answered. “I've always wanted to eat there, since
I read the book about the place by Frances Parkinson Keyes when I was in high school. It's one of the things I promised myself I was going to do this week.” She trailed off, aware that such a show of enthusiasm did not go well with her sophisticated image.

  He glanced at her. “I am glad you have a wrap then, the restaurant is only a few steps from the hotel, and there is a breeze off Lake Pontchartrain this evening. It may get chilly later."

  His stride was long. Sherry had to stretch her legs to keep up with him. The movement caused the light, flowing material of her skirt to brush against his trouser leg in a casual intimacy that she found disturbing.

  In the elevator she tried to draw her skirts more closely around her, only to find his attention focused on her once more, a brooding look in his dark eyes. Unconsciously, she lifted her hand to her low bodice.

  Lucien glanced away. “It is still early yet for dinner. I think a quick look at the Vieux Carré might be in order, if you have no objections?"

  "I would like that,” she said simply.

  The Vieux Carré, the Old Square. It was the Creole name for the area of New Orleans which had once been surrounded by a walled stockade when the city had been under the French flag. Then the Spanish had come, bringing with them their tiled roof, their wrought-iron like edgings of lace, their graceful arches and galleries. They were succeeded in turn by the Americans, who with their enterprise had turned the city into a bustling, modern metropolis, but had not entirely conquered the past.

  Sherry had always enjoyed history, especially in the form of historical novels. Since going to work for a firm with New Orleans offices, she had read a great deal about this uniquely foreign city on United States soil. It had assumed a fascination for her. Now it lay spread around her, filled with enchanting sights and sounds and aromas.

  As they left the hotel, Lucien started toward a black Mercedes drawn up at the curb. As he reached for the passenger door, Sherry said, “Oh, couldn't we walk?"

  "It may be a bit rough in those shoes,” he warned with a glance at the red, spaghetti-strap sandals she wore.

  "I don't mind."

  "I have a better idea.” He turned to hail one of the horse-drawn carriages from the stand across the street.

  Sherry thought money passed hands as he spoke to the driver, then Lucien handed her in. They proceeded at a slow, steady pace along the streets. Though one or two other tourists shouted at their driver, he paid no attention, and they retained sole possession of the open vehicle with its hard leather seats and swaying, fringed top.

  The driver, his flower-decked hat exactly matching the one on the head of his horse, began a running commentary on the points of interest they passed, until Lucien corrected him for the third time. Flinging a grin and a quick French phrase back at them, which made Lucien smile, he fell silent.

  Even as Sherry watched the byplay, a part of her mind was busy with an odd discovery. Paul was not the only Villeré brother who possessed charm. For an instant she had glimpsed a hint of laughter in Lucien's black eyes. It had lightened the somber cast of his face and given him a startling attraction. A moment later, it was gone.

  "What did he say?” Sherry asked, willing to be amused.

  "Are you certain you want to know?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "He said he would leave me to show off in front of my woman, that he did not blame me for wanting to win your admiration."

  Sherry gave him a cool stare, though she could not control the swift rise of color in her cheeks. “I don't see anything funny in that."

  "No, you wouldn't,” he answered, staring down at her with a peculiar expression at the back of his eyes. At that moment, the carriage rounded a corner. Sherry swayed on the seat, her bare forearm brushing the sleeve of his dinner jacket. A tiny shiver she could not suppress ran along her nerves and she drew away as if she had been stung. Although she directed her gaze elsewhere, pretending an intense interest in an ornate wrought-iron balcony, she was uncomfortably aware of the man at her side, and of the stern, unsmiling set of his mouth as he regarded her averted face.

  The area around Jackson Square had been closed off to traffic, making a pedestrian mall of the brick streets. They alighted from their carriage near one of the barricades, and strolled into the enclosure.

  Jackson Square faced the high levee of the Mississippi. Directly opposite the levee, with their backs turned to the rest of the Quarter, was the St. Louis Cathedral, and on either side, the Presbytere and the old Spanish government building called the Cabildo. Flanking these massive structures at right angles, forming the other two sides of the square, was the Pontalba buildings, erected in 1851 by Baroness Pontalba as the first apartment buildings in the New World. In the center of this square was the garden area surrounded by a tall black iron fence where stood the famous bronze statue of General Andrew Jackson, defender of New Orleans in the War of 1812.

  At this time of day the area was nearly deserted. The artists who hung their paintings on the cast-iron fence had packed up their canvases and gone home. The tourists had returned to their hotels to rest and contemplate their evening meal. The ice cream and popsicle wagons had called it a day, while the vendors of pralines and hot dogs had moved further over, to the vicinity of Bourbon Street. The lavender shadows of the soft Southern twilight were left to the iridescent gray pigeons that waddled here and there along the walks, and to the man and woman who stirred them into flight.

  Sherry stood in the center of the fenced enclosure and stared around her. The ancient gray spire of the St. Louis Cathedral jousted with the clouds. Beneath the arches on the lower floor of the massive stone Cabildo and Presbytere glowed the orange fire of lighted lanterns. The Pontalba buildings stretched in graceful symmetry on either side, their slender, elegant columns, gables, and chimneys speaking of times past, and their weathered red brick taking on a soft radiance in the afterglow. Nearer to hand, the light breeze rustled in the head-high oleanders and bamboo cane. Water trickled in an antique fountain close by, and the statue of General Jackson, green with verdigris, reared against the sky. Forgetful of the identity of Lucien Villeré and of the part she was playing, Sherry turned to him to share her wonder and enjoyment with a smile. He was watching her, the expression in his eyes so cynical that her pleasure vanished. She found herself wishing fervently that she could explore the city alone.

  Leaving the garden enclosure by the front gate, they walked along in front of the Presbytere and the Cathedral. Lucien, his tone masking polite boredom, explained the museums and exhibits housed in the collection of old buildings around them. They turned down a dim alley between the Cathedral and the Cabildo.

  "This short cut is known as Pirate's Alley,” Lucien said, “Don't ask me why. I don't know, unless it was because usually the area was quiet and deserted, a good place for muggings, two hundred years ago. The paving stones you are walking on came to New Orleans as ship ballast, since there is no natural rock in the alluvial soil of this part of Louisiana. Every bit of paving in the early days had to be imported. There on your right, directly behind the Cathedral, is St. Anthony's Garden. Before the Civil War, the garden was a favorite dueling ground."

  "A dueling ground, behind a church?” Sherry asked, glancing at the fence-enclosed garden with its shrubbery and old trees.

  Lucien inclined his head without looking at her, “It was convenient to the old quadroon ballroom directly across the street, over there where that hotel stands now."

  "You did say quadroon?"

  "The practice of keeping a mistress is of long standing among the young men of the city. Before the Civil War, the woman was sometimes white, but more often a quadroon, a girl of mixed white and mulatto blood. Quadroon balls were arranged so that the women could be presented for the selection of white men of means and social standing. Under the circumstances, it was not unusual for tempers to flare. The slightest insult could result in a challenge, and the usual method of deciding which of two men could have a particularly beautiful girl was by t
rial of arms, swords and pistols on the field of honor."

  "You sound as if you regret the passing of those days,” Sherry said, slanting him a glance from the corner of her eye.

  "Do I? I admit the method has a certain attractive simplicity."

  "It seems to me, that in the case of two men disagreeing over one woman, it would have been fairer to allow the woman to choose which of the two men she preferred."

  "Possibly, but then the prize would have gone to the man with the more money, and where is the fairness in that?"

  "I doubt money would have been the most important object every time, but it seems no more unfair to me than allowing strength or skill with weapons to become the deciding factor."

  "Granted, but the Code Duello also permitted room for courage and daring to play a part."

  Once more, Sherry was reminded of the blood of pirates which ran in this man's veins. Her lips twitched in a sudden smile. “Oh well,” she conceded. “I suppose there would have been few women able to resist that combination, especially in a man who was willing to risk his life for her."

  He made no reply, leaving Sherry with the disconcerting feeling that she had somehow missed a point but had scored one as well. Did the man still think, despite Paul's claiming her as his fiancée, that her relationship with his brother was considerably closer than she would admit, that of his mistress, in fact? Did his mention of duels over such women in the past have some purpose? If so, she could not see it.

  Antoine's Restaurant was neither large nor impressive, though the long line of people waiting outside on the uneven sidewalk was an indication of its lasting popularity. The bow-shaped front, with its triple mahogany doors, might have been confusing if it had not been for Lucien, who unhesitatingly chose the correct entrance. He was recognized at once, and whisked through the vestibule and main restaurant area to a smaller, less crowded dining room. Like the main area, this room was lined with mirrors to make it appear larger. There were ceiling fans overhead, and bentwood hat and coat racks beside the doors. With the black and white marble squares, the atmosphere was one of cleanliness and a Victorian dedication to the pleasures of fine dining.