Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (3 page)

Swallowing her coffee, Claire swung her feet out of bed with sudden resolution. “Lay out my blue muslin,” she instructed, glancing down at the bruises from Justin Leroux’s hands that stained her forearms, “the one with the long, straight sleeves. And hurry.”

She tapped on the door of the salon and, bidden to enter, stepped into the room.

Justin Leroux stood beside the cold fireplace, one booted foot resting on the brass fender that sat upon the hearth, and his arm along the mantle. As she entered, he looked up and straightened, staring at her across the room with a look of triumph in his black eyes.

Her aunt, seated on a velvet-covered settee before him with her hands clasped in her lap, rose to her feet and came toward her. She held out one plump beringed hand to Claire, her face gray and suddenly old under its dusting of rice powder.

When Claire placed her fingers in the older woman’s hand, her aunt led her forward, and with a ceremonious gesture, gave her hand into Justin’s keeping. His fingers closed, warm and firm around hers, tightening as she instinctively tried to withdraw from that intimate contact.

“Claire,” her aunt said in a voice that held a faint quaver, “this is your future husband.”

CLAIRE STOOD PERFECTLY still. She looked from Justin to her aunt.

“Well, girl. You needn’t stare so,” the other woman said looking away, deliberately turning her irritation on Claire to banish her own feeling of guilt.

“I—but I never expected—”

“Nor did I, but M’sieur Leroux has given me an ultimatum.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is simple. You may have heard the rumors of the affairs of the
maître d’armes
, the so excellent swordsmen who make their living teaching the young men of means to defend their honor with the rapier? They have superior skill with a blade, much superior to the average man. Because of this any woman they choose, even those of high birth, can be theirs if they are ruthless enough. They have only to threaten to call out the lady’s husband, or her father, or some other male relative for whom she cares. Most are very discreet. To have such things widely known would be bad for the
maître d’armes
’ livelihood. He need not fear his victims. No woman would speak of such an experience, and no man would admit to being afraid to meet the
maître d’armes
on the field of honor. Neat, you will agree.”

“Yes, but—” Claire tried to object, bewilderment in her voice.

“This man,” she waved toward Justin, speaking of him as if he were not there, “has taken a leaf from their book. He knows that he cannot approach your uncle in the usual way. His past deeds, the lack of esteem in which he is held, his manner of living, and his too obvious contempt for society would make it impossible for my husband to consider his suit if he should press it according to custom. But he is aware that few men in New Orleans can hope to defeat him in a duel, indeed few of the
maître d’armes
would care to cross swords with him. And so he threatens to force a meeting upon Jean-Claude, unless you are given to him.”

Jean-Claude. Young, even-tempered, with little interest in sword play beyond what was considered fashionable and necessary for a young man among the
beau monde
. He would not have a chance.

Claire felt a chill move over her body. Even her fingers, still in Justin’s clutch, grew cold. Slowly but firmly she withdrew them.

“He is clever, your future husband. He realized that if he approached Jean-Claude, my son would surely accept his challenge. And he suspected, quite rightly, that my husband, if applied to, might feel that it was a point of honor not to give in to his blackmail. But I, Jean-Claude’s mother—” She stopped, unable to continue for the rage and chagrin that choked her. It was obvious from the look of hate that she sent Justin that it was difficult for her to behave civilly toward him, despite her fear for her son.

“I—I can’t do it,” Claire said.

“Can’t? Of course you can!” her aunt exclaimed. “Would you rather Jean-Claude died at this man’s hands? He will kill him, Claire. He will kill my son!”

“But what of Jean-Claude and me? We are betrothed.”

“It is not yet official. There will be talk, yes, but it is unavoidable in any case with such an alliance.” The older woman gripped her hands together and began pacing back and forth in her agitation.

“But what could I say to him, and to my uncle? How could it be explained?” Claire recognized the desperation in her own voice and tried to control it. Her fingernails were cutting into the palms of her hands and slowly she forced herself to relax.

“We—we must say that it is a
grande passion
. You would be desolate if you were not allowed to marry your Justin. You must make it convincing. I am certain M’sieur Leroux will play his part.” Her aunt flung him a sarcastic glance. “As for your uncle, I will manage him. He always had a tender place in his heart for your dead father, his brother, and for you. He will wish you to be—happy.”

“Please,” Claire said, looking only at her aunt. “Surely there is some other way?”

“Would you rather see Jean-Claude spitted on this man’s sword like a capon? That is the only other alternative! Oh, no, my girl. You will stop this quibbling at once. You should be glad that it is marriage this man has proposed, for regardless of your maidenly shrinking you will do as he requests. You will be wed in the cathedral as soon as it may be arranged, before Lent, as M’sieur Leroux desires. And don’t give yourself any ‘die away’ airs in my presence. You are not the first girl to be married to a man who is personally distasteful to her, nor will you be the last.”

She shot a vicious look at the man beside Claire. Justin’s face was a mask of controlled rage, and the scar on his cheek stood out like a red brand.

“I think that will do,” he said, staring at her aunt through slitted eyes. “I wish to speak to Claire alone now, if you please.” He held up a hand as her aunt began to object. “I realize, though you might not believe it, that it is not done, but I find I am tiring of hearing of what is allowed and what is not. Surely the conventions no longer matter?”

“Apparently not!” the older woman answered. She looked at Claire for a long moment. Then her face hardened and she left the room, closing the door with a snap behind her.

“You should be glad it is marriage this man has proposed—”

The words lingered in Claire’s head. They, more than anything else her aunt had said, proved to her how hopeless it was to try to escape the trap that had been set for her. But they did not give her confidence for this moment. Staring down at her hands, examining her cuticles without seeing them, fretting the edge of her sleeve where it covered her wrist, she thought of the night before. She remembered her first sight of Justin across the shining floor of the ballroom, of their dance and their stiff conversation, both on the dance floor and on the gallery. What had there been in that brief meeting to warrant this elaborate scheme? Was it, as Jean-Claude had suggested, that Justin wanted a wife, one of respectable birth? Perhaps having found someone he considered suitable he did not intend to waste time on a long courtship, or trying to convince her guardian of his worthiness?

“Well, Claire?” Justin interrupted her thoughts. “I rather thought you would appreciate this opportunity to relieve your temper.”

“Why?” she asked, turning to him abruptly.

“Because I was certain you would be in a towering rage. You told me last evening that I was a barbarian. I suspected you were longing to assure me that I had lived up to the name. Aren’t you?”

“No—yes—I mean, what I intended to say was, why did you do it?” she explained, ignoring his comment. “And why did you ever mention marriage so suddenly last evening? Was it so important to pay me out for pitying you?”

He smiled, a brief quirk of the corner of his mouth. “My reason is much simpler than that. I wanted you—” he said, and watched the color that surged to her hairline before he added, “as my wife.”

“But to threaten murder,” she exclaimed in confusion.

“You seem to forget that my opponent would have a fair chance of killing me.”

“An equal chance?”

He did not answer for a moment, then he said, “We need not consider that, I think, since your aunt will see to it that Jean-Claude never comes to the point.”

“I can’t believe you would actually meet my cousin if I refused you.”

“You think not?” He stared at her, a frown drawing his brows together. Then the frown disappeared, his eyes grew cold and his face seemed to harden. “It scarcely matters what you believe. It is what Madame de Hauterive believes that is important. And she obviously is determined that I shall not be allowed to touch so much as a curl on her precious son’s head, no matter what it costs you.”

“Don’t. Please,” she whispered, pain at the truth in his words knifing through her.

“Claire—” he said quickly, then he caught her elbow and pulled her toward him without gentleness.

“It does no good to mope and repine,” he went on with a harsh note in his voice as he gave her a little shake. “Be angry. It is the best protection from the pain of what must be faced. Don’t let anyone beat you down—or make you cry.”

She wondered fleetingly how he had known she was so close to tears. She stared up at him, but though she blinked hard she could not keep them from filling her eyes and spilling over to tremble on her lashes.

“Perhaps this will rouse you to wrath,” he said, and drew her into his arms. His lips came down upon hers with a burning pressure, branding her with his seal of possession.

For one stunned moment she was still, then she pushed against his chest with her hands that were trapped against her. He stepped back a pace, but did not let her go. Critically he surveyed the indignation that glittered behind the tears in her eyes, and caused her breath to move quickly in and out between her parted lips.

“Much better,” he observed. “I have no liking for weeping willows.”

“Do you not?” she said tightly as she twisted her shoulders from his unresisting fingers. “Your likes and dislikes must, of course, be an object with me?”

“I believe it is usual when two people are to be wed.”

“Very true, if there is some degree of—of tenderness, or respect, between them. I do not foresee that there will ever be anything between us but resentment and—and hate.”

“What? No pity?” His voice mocked her attempt at reason.

She turned away abruptly, her face cold with dislike. She moved to the door and pulled it open, then with her hand on the knob, swung around.

“No,” she said in a hard voice. “No pity.”

She closed the door quietly behind her.

The wedding arrangements went forward with what seemed to Claire an indecent haste. In less than a week the engagement breakfast—the
dejeu-ner de fiançailles
—was held, and under the somewhat skeptical eyes of her aunt’s relatives and the friends of the family, the traditional betrothal ring of a ruby in a flat yellow gold setting surrounded by diamonds was placed upon her finger.

Following that happy event, Justin went into the country to his plantation to inform his family of his approaching marriage. His absence relieved Claire of the necessity of entertaining him of an evening and removed the possibility of the many parties that would have been given to celebrate their coming nuptials. He returned when two weeks had elapsed, and the morning after his return the
corbeille de noce
, a basket of gifts from the groom arrived. It contained a handkerchief edged in lace as fine as cobwebs, a fine hat veil of lace to screen her complexion from the sun and a fan of white silk edged in lace and marabou tufts and with sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There was a cashmere shawl in a delicate shade of blossom pink, so fine it could be pulled through a ring, two pairs of kid gloves with meticulously set-in fingers, a comb for her hair with gold and mother-of-pearl inlay, a cameo of Louis XVII, and a pair of earrings, pearls shaped like teardrops.

Madame de Hauterive helped Claire unpack the basket, exclaiming as each treasure was lifted from the tissue paper. And before she took the basket away to the salon to be placed on display she sent Claire a thoughtful look, her eyebrows raised. “He doesn’t appear to be a clench-fist,” she said.

Claire was forced to agree, but she had no enthusiasm for the gifts. The arrival of the
corbeille de noce
was a signal. Three days more to the wedding. Three days during which time she was not allowed to leave the confines of the house.

“Claire, wait!”

She turned back at the foot of the stairs to let Jean-Claude, leaving the salon behind her, catch up with her.

“I haven’t been able to talk to you,” he complained, “since this whole thing came up. You are always surrounded by women, seamstresses, milliners, mantua makers, and maids rushing around with armloads of trousseau linens. And if it’s not that, it’s my mother guarding you, or at least it seems so. I’m forever being told to take myself off.”