Bayou Bride Read online

  Without consulting Sherry, Lucien ordered glasses of dry wine as an apéritif, and they sat sipping these while studying the menu. Since they were printed in French, Sherry allowed Lucien to order for her while she amused herself by watching their black clad waiter memorize every detail of the long list of dishes without recourse to pad or pencil. When he went away, she sat back, watching the people around her. Some were obviously tourists, but others were just as plainly Creole French residents.

  Lucien leaned back in his chair and took up his wineglass, staring with moody intentness at the golden liquid it contained. “Sherry,” he said, flicking a sudden upward glance in her direction. “Is that your real name?"

  "It is,” she replied, nettled by his tone that was shaded with disbelief.

  "There is nothing wrong with assuming another name for the purpose of a career,” he said, running his eyes over her honeycolored hair and slender figure. “As a model, for instance."

  She gave him a direct look. “If you are inquiring as to my work experience, it should be easy enough for you to discover how long I have worked for the Villeré Shipping Lines. I took a secretarial course directly out of high school, and the job with the branch of your firm was my first. That accounts for my twenty-one-odd years. If you had wanted the story of my life, I am certain Paul could have told you."

  "To be perfectly frank Paul refuses to discuss you except in the most glowing of complimentary terms. The only time I remember Paul ever mentioning you, before this past weekend, was as an exceptionally beautiful girl he had met with an unusual name which had the sound of one of our endearments. You may know of it, Chérie ... dearest?"

  "Paul explained it to me,” she said. Aware of a faint warmth creeping to her hairline, she hurried on. “But surely he told you about our engagement?"

  "No more than he said the other night over the phone."

  "Don't you think he might have had more to say if you hadn't sent him out of town?” Sherry asked.

  He did not answer, though his heavily lashed eyes hardened as his gaze rested on her slim fingers clasping her wineglass. It was a moment before Sherry realized what had drawn his attention. He was searching for a ring, some positive proof to support the relationship she claimed between his brother and herself.

  She should have worn the betrothal ring, Sherry knew that. Of course, she could draw it from her bodice and place it on her finger before him, but some stubborn impulse prevented her. If he would not believe her given word, why should she demean herself by trying to convince him?

  "How long have you known Paul?” Lucien asked abruptly.

  "For the better part of a year."

  "Nevertheless, this—engagement seems rather sudden to me."

  "It may have been a bit rushed,” she conceded gently “because of the circumstances, but I feel sure the idea was in the back of Paul's mind all along."

  His mouth tightened, a sign that she had scored a point. “Doesn't it trouble you that my brother was not free from a past engagement?"

  "Oh, come—you can't be serious,” she said, affecting a light laugh. “The way I understand it, that was only a case of puppy love, over long ago. Surely no one expects Paul to stand by something he may have said when he was a teenager. It isn't reasonable."

  "No, not strictly speaking,” Lucien answered. “Paul did commit himself at the time however, and to a young girl of good family. You may consider my attitude outdated, but I believe he has a responsibility to be certain he is free before he becomes involved with another woman. Paul has not been overly nice in his relationships in the last few years, but this is one time when I intend to see that he does the right thing."

  This was so nearly in line with her own thinking that Sherry could not argue with it. She was saved from the necessity by the arrival of the waiter with their meal. The reference to herself as a woman with whom Paul had become involved, while Aimee was a young girl of good family, did not pass unnoticed. Though she flicked him an angry look across the table as her plate was placed in front of her, it was impossible to object.

  They began their meal with shrimp, plump, pink and firm, on a bed of lettuce topped by a sauce flavored with tomato and a dash of horseradish. This was followed by pompano en papillote, a dish for which Antoine's was famous, made of pompano baked in a white sauce containing shrimp and crab inside an oiled paper bag. The recipe had originally been concocted by one of the restaurant's most famous chefs in honor of the first balloon ascension in New Orleans. With this went asparagus in butter and soufflé potatoes, the latter also a specialty of the home, uniform strips of white potato fried in oil of different temperatures so that they puffed up to a delicious golden lightness.

  As one perfectly seasoned dish followed another, Sherry found her appetite equal to the occasion. Her feeling of constraint faded as she savored every bite. Once as she looked up, she found Lucien's eyes upon her with something like puzzlement in their depths.

  Catching her gaze, he said, “Well, and does Antoine's live up to your expectations?"

  Sherry looked around her, unable to subdue her instinctive smile of pleasure and appreciation. “Yes,” she said, “it does."

  At that moment the lights suddenly dimmed to darkness. The diners immediately stopped eating and began to look around them.

  "Don't worry,” Lucien said. “It isn't a blackout, only a little extra entertainment."

  Before he had finished speaking, Sherry saw dancing blue flames coming toward them. A waiter bearing a serving tray advanced into the room, stopping beside a table in the near corner. He placed his flaming dish on a serving table set up by a second waiter following behind him. Then, with a flourish, he began to stir the mixture in his dish. The blue flames with orange points leaped higher. At precisely the correct moment, the fire was smothered and the contents was ladled out on serving plates.

  Flaming crepes suzette, thin pancakes filled with an orange sauce and then flambéd in brandy. Sherry had seen them served before, but never with quite such drama. When the lights came up, she found Lucien studying her once more.

  "Would you like a flaming dessert?” he asked, though Sherry had the impression the suggestion was made at random, without reference to his true thoughts.

  "I would like it,” she confessed with a rueful smile, “but I couldn't possibly find room."

  "We will finish our wine then and go. There is still much of the Vieux Carré you have not seen."

  Lucien had ordered a bottle of white wine with their meal. It seemed that every time Sherry had sipped from her glass the waiter had appeared to raise the level to full once more. It was still brimming. She was not used to wine with her meals. All too aware of the warm glide of the pale liquid in her veins, she would have preferred to leave it, and would have if it had not been for the hint of challenge in the dark eyes of the man across the table.

  Abruptly his gaze moved past her shoulder. He seemed to stiffen, then he was smiling, reaching for his wineglass. His dark gaze compelling as he stared into her sea-blue eyes, he leaned to touch the rim of his glass to hers in a gesture of silent intimacy.

  Sherry blinked at the sudden warmth of his manner, returning the salute with a shade of awkwardness. She had just touched the wine in her glass to her lips when a man spoke behind her.

  "Lucien! We haven't seen you in months. Where have you been hiding yourself?"

  Lucien Villeré rose to shake hands with a man a bit shorter and older than himself but with the same general build and coloring. There was a similarity about their faces that told Sherry plainly that they were related. Beside the man stood a woman, obviously his wife and one of the family from the fond smile she leveled at Lucien and from her familiar, relaxed manner.

  "Étienne, so nice to see you again. And you also, Estelle. May I present you to ma Chérie? Don't frown, Estelle, that is her name, Sherry.” The introduction was made with a caressing smile that startled Sherry so she very nearly missed the offhand way in which she was dismissed with only her given na
me. Perhaps she would have overlooked it anyway if it had not been for the subtle alteration of the other woman's face and the abrupt withdrawal of her attention. Then color surged to Sherry's hairline as she realized that Lucien Villeré had deliberately avoided introducing her as Paul's fiancée, leading his relatives to the conclusion that she was little more than a playmate, and one of his at that!

  Short of forcing her way into the conversation, there was nothing Sherry could do to correct the wrong impression. She hated scenes and loud voices, moreover, there was in the back of her mind a niggling suspicion that she might have contributed to the situation. She was not precisely dressed like a debutante. She contented herself with sending Lucien a look of smouldering dislike. For the first time, she allowed herself to look forward to appearing in public as Paul's fiancée. After this, the announcement of the engagement would make Lucien appear either a fool or an ill-mannered boor.

  The woman called Estelle touched her husband on the arm, flicking an uneasy smile in Sherry's direction. At once, her husband began to ease out of the situation.

  "Nice to run into you like this, Lucien. We don't get to see you often enough. I understand there is to be a party for the little Dubois girl a week from tonight. I expect we will see you there."

  "Yes, of course,” Lucien said. He took his seat once more as with a nod and a smile in Sherry's general direction, the couple moved away.

  Sherry pushed her wineglass back. Taking up her napkin, she touched it to her lips. Most of the red lip gel she had used came away upon the linen cloth, but she hardly noticed. Placing the stained napkin beside her plate, she said, “They seemed like nice people, your relatives. It should be interesting to get to know them better."

  Lucien sent her a sharp glance, as if surprised at her quiet irony, but did not answer. He drained his wine and set the glass aside. “Shall we go?” he asked, and at her nod, signaled for the check.

  3

  They strolled in the warm, somnolent night air once more. Lucien offered to drive her about the city, mentioning the Garden District and the Superdome as points of interest, but Sherry declined. She was in no hurry. There was no need to see everything in one day. Besides, the evening had not been so enjoyable that she wished to prolong it.

  Lucien seemed in no hurry to return her to her hotel, however. He turned his footsteps in the opposite direction. In preoccupied silence they made their way down a street lined with antique shops. Drawn by the sound of music, they wandered into a lounge with its doors thrown wide. The band was playing Dixieland jazz, the mellow, melodious tunes blending perfectly with the night and the atmosphere. Where else but in New Orleans could it sound so right? Under its nostalgic spell, Sherry could not stay angry. It was a relief however that the volume of the music in that small room prevented Lucien and herself from exchanging anything more than a casual comment or two. It struck her once that Lucien was extremely abstracted, but she put it down to his familiarity with the type of entertainment she was enjoying.

  When they left at last, the evening was advanced and the crowds on the streets beginning to thin.

  "There is one more stop we must make,” Lucien said, before they had gone more than a block.

  "Oh?"

  "The Café du Monde, near the French Market. It is a tradition here to finish off an evening with café au lait there. In truth, the tradition is to have an early breakfast at one of the coffee houses catering to the farmers who display their wares in the French Market before wending your way home after staying out all night, during Mardi Gras for instance, but I believe we can stretch a point."

  Overcoming an odd reluctance, Sherry agreed. Café au lait, coffee with milk, sounded like a good way to round off the evening. Afterward, she would say goodnight and hope that for the rest of the week she would have Paul's support when she was in his brother's company.

  The Café du Monde was only a few steps from Jackson Square and no more than a few yards from the Mississippi, separated from the water by a high, screening wall. Along the wall had been built a scenic walkway which overlooked the river, a part of the program to renovate and preserve the character of the French Quarter. Promenading on the levee, as Lucien explained while they waited for service, was also an old New Orleans custom.

  The coffee was hot, strong, and rich with cream. Since she had had no dessert with dinner, Sherry was persuaded to accept an order of beignets, the crisp, golden fried French doughnuts drenched with powdered sugar for which the coffee houses were famous. The pastries, though delicious, were impossible to eat with dignity. Watching Lucien trying to keep the drifting white sugar from his black dinner jacket brought a smile to Sherry's mouth, one he answered with a rueful shake of his head. The plentiful paper napkins took the last of the gel from Sherry's lips, even as their roughness made her wince.

  As Lucien raised a brow in inquiry, she touched the back of one hand to her cheek. “Sunburn,” she said, and met his sudden frown with an expression clear and questioning.

  Lucien set his heavy coffee cup into its saucer and leaned back. “Tell me, Miss Mason,” he said deliberately. “Are you in love with my brother?"

  She looked up, caught off guard. “Why else would I marry him?"

  "I can think of several reasons—money, position, maybe an idea of joining him in a round of the international playgrounds."

  "What a strain it must be keeping up such a cynical attitude,” she murmured.

  "Call it a necessary means of protection."

  "Protection? Against what, or whom, assuming you are speaking of yourself."

  "Despite your efforts to change the subject, we were speaking of you."

  "Were we? What I feel for Paul is not a matter for discussion with anyone except the man I am to marry,” she told him, her turquoise eyes darkening with anger and something more, a weary distaste for the necessity of evasion.

  "What of money? Is that subject also off limits except with Paul? Has he told you, for instance, that though he has part ownership in the Villeré Shipping Lines, his income is derived solely from his salary as an employee of the company?"

  "No, he has not,” she answered, her voice cold. “But it would make little difference. What I feel for Paul would be the same whether he was penniless or a millionaire.” She could make that statement without a qualm. The sisterly affection she felt for the younger Villeré brother could not be affected by money or the lack of it.

  Lucien stared at her. “I am almost inclined to believe you mean that,” he said, a frown drawing his brows together. “But are you certain Paul feels as strongly about you?"

  "I think he does."

  "But you aren't sure? Has it occurred to you that your attachment to him is very useful to him at this time?"

  She gave him a hard look. “I don't believe you know your brother very well if you are suggesting that he would pretend to love me merely to cut his ties with another woman. In any case, what would he gain? He would only have another entanglement to get out of.” Paul might have mentioned some such scheme as Lucien had in mind, but it had been a wry joke, nothing more.

  "If the end result were to persuade you to meet him in New Orleans for a few weeks, that might be gain enough."

  "You—” Sherry began, then stopped. Hot words of defense for Paul and herself hovered on the tip of her tongue, along with a round condemnation of the type of interference in other people's lives which had driven Paul to this underhanded subterfuge. She would have given anything not to be involved, to be free to tell Lucien Villeré exactly what she thought. She could not. The best thing to do then was to get away from him before she said something she would regret.

  Jumping to her feet, she slipped quickly between the crowded tables and made her way out of the café. The walkway along the river levee loomed before her and she took it, drawing her blouse higher, and wrapping her shawl about her against a chill of the spirit and the cool night wind off the water. She scarcely glanced, at the wide, sweeping curve of the Mississippi or, the glittering
points of light on the far shore. Her mind seethed with indignation and a bitter remorse that she had ever gotten herself into this fix. The moment she saw Paul she would tell him she wanted out of it. He would have to muddle through the best he could, even though she would hate giving Lucien Villeré the satisfaction of thinking he had scared her away.

  The sound of footsteps alerted her to Lucien's slow approach. Since she had no desire to have him chasing after her or following like a shadow while she walked back to the hotel, she came to a halt. She leaned her forearms on the balustrade, her face averted.

  He stopped beside her, a tall, faintly threatening presence in the darkness lit only by distant mercury vapor street lamps. For long moments silence stretched between them. At last he spoke.

  "Sherry—Chérie—"

  She turned, her deep blue eyes wide with surprise at the soft, almost tentative sound of her name on his lips.

  He stared down at her, his gaze moving over the blowing tendrils of soft hair about her face, the guileless depths of her eyes, the pure lines of her mouth without its coating of color. With her neckline drawn high and the light material of her dress fluttering around her, she had a look of unconscious vulnerability.

  He shook his head as though to clear it. “If you are determined to go through with this, determined to see Paul,” he said, his voice harsh, “I can take you to him."

  "I—I thought you said he was out of town?"

  "He is. I have a place on the bayous that I use for a fishing and hunting camp and a retreat. I sent him out there to entertain a business client who was in town for a few days. I am certain I would have had more trouble persuading him to go if he had known you were coming today. Unfortunately, he didn't know. His secretary, as a matter of procedure, verified the making of your plane and hotel reservations through my office, and I instructed my secretary to handle the arrangements."