Ryan's Bride (9 page)

Ryan’s glance was sharp. “I’ve no intention of taking anything away from Clarice, so don’t start getting any notion like that. Angele knows nothing about running a household. She’ll be busy enough just learning feminine graces—which I will expect her to do. Clarice can help.”

“Clarice might not want to,” Corbett was quick to point out. “She’s not going to like this. There could be problems.”

“Corbett, the mansion is large enough for two women. I think they can learn to get along with each other.” He tucked his shirt into his trousers. He didn’t mind them so much. They were ankle-length and fit loosely. Clarice had tried to persuade him to wear the style that was full at the top and tight from the knee downward, with buttons to fasten on each side, but he’d balked at that.

“What about your father?”

“What about him?”

“Do you think he’ll accept her just because she’s French when he hears about her background? How she was locked up for snatching an old lady’s reticule?”

Ryan was putting on the chestnut-colored waistcoat he had selected for the evening. He paused and turned to face Corbett as his eyes hooded with anger. “And just how would he hear about it?”

Corbett turned to pour himself another drink.

Ryan reached around him to snatch the decanter from his hand. “I think you’ve had enough. And I asked you a question.” If Corbett was going to make things difficult, it was best to know now.

“I don’t suppose he will find out. I certainly won’t say anything.”

Ryan looked him straight in the eye. “I’m going to count on that.”

“Well, he’s going to be suspicious. He’ll see right away that she isn’t our kind.”

“Maybe, but she seems intelligent. She’ll learn.”

“And how will you explain bringing a bride home?”

“By saying I fell in love with her. My father will just be happy that she’s French.”

“He’d hoped you’d marry Denise,” Corbett said, almost petulantly.

“He doesn’t really care, just so his precious French bloodline will continue.”

“I should think it would mean something to you, too.”

“Not really. I consider myself an American.”

Corbett, a panicked look on his face, suddenly cried, “Ryan, listen. You don’t have to do this. It doesn’t matter if your father leaves BelleRose to me instead of you. It will still be yours.”

“Yes, I know that, and I appreciate your feeling that way, but BelleRose is mine by rights, and I don’t want anyone to have to hand it to me in defiance of my father’s wishes. If it has to be earned, so be it.”

“But to marry that girl—”

“It’s what I want. Don’t you see? I think she’ll make a fine wife.”

“But so would Denise.”

Ryan laughed. “That’s debatable. You know as well as I do that she’s spoiled and willful and can be quite trying. We’ve had our arguments, believe, me. And I don’t want a wife that I have to constantly spar with. With a plantation as large as BelleRose to run, I won’t have time.”

“So you take a mistress.”

“I may well do that,” Ryan assured. “But that doesn’t mean I want to be miserable when I’m with my wife.”

“You’re being impulsive, because you’re angry and hurt with Denise for saying no, even though you won’t admit it,” Corbett argued. “I remember how you were on the crossing over here. You hardly said a word. You drank more than usual. And the first few days after we got to Paris, you didn’t want to go to the cabarets at night. All you wanted to do was brood. That means you care about her.”

“I thought so, too—at first. Now I realize I was just stunned that anyone could be so frivolous about something as serious as marriage.”

Corbett could not resist sniping, “As
you
are doing to even think about marrying Angele Benet?”

“I’m not being frivolous,” Ryan corrected. “I’m quite serious. And whether you believe me or not, I gave this a lot of thought before I decided to do it.”

“It’s only been a little over a week since she was arrested. That’s not enough time. But I did notice when we were in Touraine your mind wasn’t on buying horses.”

“That’s only partially true. The horses weren’t as good as we were told, and you know it. But we’re going to Blois tomorrow to look there.”

Corbett wasn’t concerned with buying horses, continuing to focus on Angele. “And how do you even know there’s room for her on the ship? We’re sailing in two weeks.”

“No,
you’re
leaving then, as planned, but Angele and I will be going a week later on the
James Munroe
. There were no cabins available on the
Victory
. I’ve already made our arrangements.”

Corbett sneered and shook his head. “Well, you can just make mine, too. You aren’t going to send me ahead to break the news to Denise and Clarice that you’re bringing a wife home. You’re going to be the one to do that.”

“You won’t like the accommodations on the
James Munroe
. I booked the last cabin.”

Corbett was adamant. “I don’t care. There is no way I will go back without you.”

Ryan thought it would have been nice if Corbett could have smoothed the way. Denise would get over it, but Clarice might take a while. After all, she might consider Angele a threat to her authority but would soon realize she had nothing to worry about. The last thing Angele was qualified to do was take over a household, see that the servants did their job, plan menus for dinner parties, teas, balls, and all the other things that went with the Tremayne social life. His father enjoyed entertaining so those were extensive.

“All right,” he conceded, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Anything is better than facing those women without you. Now, about dinner—”

Ryan had not intended to invite Corbett to join him and Angele but saw no way out. They had dined together every night they had been in Paris, and he didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And what difference did it make, anyway, now that he knew everything. “You can join us if you like, but you’ll need to freshen up a bit. I’m taking her to Au Petit Moulin. I’ve heard it’s very nice, and the food is good.”

“I saw the gown you bought her,” Corbett said, almost accusingly.

“Did she like it?”

“Oh, yes. She was going to take it with her when she was about to run away, but I talked her into staying.”

Ryan had been in the process of pouring himself a glass of wine but froze. “What do you mean she was about to run away?”

Corbett thought fast. “When I started asking questions about who she was and what she was doing in your room, she got upset and snatched up the box and ran out the door.” Seeing Ryan’s eyes flash with concern, Corbett embellished, “I ran after her and convinced her to come back so we could talk. That’s when she accused you of trying to trick her into working in your bordello.” Corbett pasted a concerned, worried look on his face. “Do you know what she meant by that, or is she just crazy?”

“No, she’s not crazy, and thank you for bringing her back.”

Corbett smiled, pleased with himself.

“As for the bit about the bordello, I thought we had settled all that.” He explained about the commandant’s immoral and unscrupulous dealings with the female prisoners. “But I took care of that. It won’t happen again to anyone else.”

“Then I can see why she was upset.”

“Yes, when she saw you and realized how late it was, she was probably afraid I wasn’t coming back—that it was a trick. Thanks again for keeping her here.”

Corbett turned toward the door so Ryan couldn’t see him scowl to think he probably should have let her go regardless of the consequences. “I’ll be glad to join you for dinner. I’ll go change.”

“Corbett…”

He turned.

“I’m going to trust you not to say anything to anyone—not even Clarice—about how I met Angele. I expect you to corroborate my story that she’s an orphan but her family was well respected and prominent in France. I plan to buy her a stylish wardrobe and some nice jewelry, because I want everyone to think her family had money.”

Corbett quirked a brow. “You’re going to that much trouble?”

“Yes. Because I know Clarice, and I know my father. If they find out the truth, they’ll judge her before they get to know her, and that’s not fair to her, them, or me. Now, do I have your word?”

With a curt nod, Corbett left to dress for dinner.

Ryan hoped he could trust him. Otherwise, there might be problems he did not need.

Just before seven o’clock, Corbett joined Ryan in the hotel’s smoking salon for a sherry. Angele was not mentioned. Instead, Ryan told about Francois DeNeux and how he had heard he was one of France’s best horse breeders. He did not confide that Angele was the one who had told him.

“We should be able to find some good stallions, as well as a few mares. And there’s time to get them to the dock before sailing date.”

Corbett chuckled. “Yes, it would be nice to return home with what you came to get instead of something you didn’t.”

Ryan let the remark pass. He was used to Corbett’s bent toward sarcasm and had learned to accept it…although he didn’t like it.

“
Monsieur
Tremayne?”

He glanced up to see the concierge. “Yes? What is it?”

“It’s the lady. She told the desk clerk she was to meet you. He didn’t think you wanted him to send her in here.”

“Of course not. Please tell her I’ll be right there.” Ryan was puzzled as to why he looked so shaken.

So was Corbett, who remarked as soon as the concierge walked away, “Did you see how nervous he was? What do you suppose is wrong? Maybe the gown didn’t fit, and she’s wearing that god-awful outfit she had on this afternoon.”

“I doubt that,” Ryan said tightly He tossed some money on the table and hurried out, annoyed that Corbett was right on his heels. He wished now he hadn’t invited him along even if it had hurt his feelings. He might make Angele more ill at ease than she probably already was.

Rounding the corner from the smoking salon, Ryan could see a woman standing at the desk but knew it could not be her…

But it was.

She turned, and his heart slammed into his chest.

She was, beyond doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Chapter Seven

In the near two weeks since Ryan had made his offer, Angele hadn’t seen him. He had gone to Blois, leaving Corbett behind to help her get ready for the voyage. She had been trying to slip away from him and finally succeeded the day Ryan was due to return. And now she knelt by her mother’s grave in the paupers’ section in the rear of the Père Lachaise cemetery.

In the distance, the great double towers of the Cathedral of Noire-Dame, tricolors flying in the blue sky of France, could be seen. They were a startling white, framed by green chestnuts and oaks, guarding Paris with their brotherly strength.

Looping north and west in great bends flowed the sleepy Seine River, spanned by bridges.

It was a portrait of serenity, and Angele thought it a peaceful place for her mother’s eternal rest. Her deepest regret, however, had been that there was no marker on the grave. She’d had no money to buy one, and the city did not provide anything. The mound of dirt would eventually level out beneath the summer rains, and grass and weeds would grow to hide any evidence of a grave. It would almost be as though her mother had never lived, and Angele felt that a real tragedy. Her mother
had
lived, indeed, and a wonderful life it had been. She and Angele’s father had adored each other, and…

Angele pressed her fingertips against her eyes, holding back tears.

She loved her parents so much. And though she would probably never again visit either of their graves, she had found a way to buy a simple marker for her mother—even though it was, in a way, stealing. Ryan had given her money to buy trunks in which to pack her lavish new wardrobe, but she had bought cheap ones and had money left over.

Actually, she felt little guilt. Ryan did not seem to care about money. He had not only bought her expensive clothes but jewelry as well. One pair of diamond earbobs, she knew, would probably have provided her with food and shelter for years.

She was glad he had gone away, because she wanted time to think about what lay ahead. She knew she would have to submit to him as his wife, and, remembering how it had been with her uncle, her hands trembled as she reached to pluck a dandelion from the grave.

After it happened, she and her mother had never talked about it. She would have liked to. She wanted, needed, reassurance that her uncle was different from other men. She couldn’t imagine her father being so brutal, but even if a man were gentle, would there still be pain? She didn’t know but would soon find out, and fear crept like the ivy twining about the trees that lined the path through the cemetery.

She hadn’t meant for her mother to find out what her uncle had done. Shamed, humiliated, and terrified, she had hidden in the cellar. A servant going down to get wine for dinner heard her crying and told her mother. When her mother came, she made her tell what had happened. And that night they had fled together in the dark with only the clothes on their backs.