Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) Page 2

  “But I can’t—” Claire began, but did not finish for Justin grasped her wrist and swung her deftly out through the door. Short of causing an undignified scuffle or screaming for rescue, there was little she could do.

  Retaining his grip on her wrist he walked along the gallery, or veranda, away from the open floor-to-ceiling windows, toward the end where only a dim light penetrated the darkness.

  “You see? You did not need permission.”

  “But she will be very angry.”

  He snapped his fingers, shrugging slightly.

  “That is all very well for you. You will not have to listen while she berates you with your lack of appreciation for her kindness, or be read a lecture on correct behavior,” she told him through compressed lips.

  “Come, Claire, don’t be waspish,” was his only comment.

  “I don’t believe I gave you the freedom of my name,” she informed him.

  “No, I took it,” he said without concern.

  “You—” She could not think of a word that adequately described him.

  “Yes?” he asked politely.

  “You—you are a barbarian!” she managed finally.

  “Am I?”

  “You forced me to dance with you—yes, you know you did! You dragged me out here under the very eyes of my chaperon. Why? Why me?”

  “Because,” he answered, slowly moving closer and taking her forearms in a firm clasp. “Because you felt—how did you put it? ‘A terrible pity.’ Pity!”

  For some reason the anger that she could feel rising in him by the tightening grasp on her arms calmed her own rage.

  “Is that so bad? That I pitied you?”

  “Pity is the last thing a man wants from a beautiful woman, the very last!”

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a thread of sound.

  His fingers dug into her arms so savagely that she gasped and winced. He would not let her go, and she could feel his gaze burning on her lips, could sense some fierce conflict within him.

  Suddenly behind them there were footsteps on the gallery floor.

  “Claire! What are you doing out here without my consent? It is disgraceful, I am shocked at you. And you, sir? What have you to say?”

  Justin dropped his hands to his sides and sketched a creditable bow. “Madame de Hauterive, I believe,” he said. “My pleasure. The circumstances are—unusual, and therefore you will perhaps allow me to introduce myself. Justin Leroux, at your service. As to what I was doing, why, Madame, I was persuading your niece to listen to a proposal of marriage.”

  Jean-Claude’s mother made a strangled sound in her throat. She opened her mouth and then shut it. Watching her aunt, Claire did not immediately perceive Justin’s words.

  “Proposal!” Madame de Hauterive cried.

  “What?” Claire asked stupidly.

  “Exactly,” Justin said, satisfaction in his voice.

  “But—but you cannot do such a thing. You must not even think of it. Claire is betrothed to my own son. And in any case,” she went on, catching her breath, “it is not done in this manner. You should apply first to my husband, her guardian, through an intermediary. Not that my husband would dream of allowing your suit!”

  “Would he not? I wonder why?” Justin said softly.

  “Because of what I have just said. Claire is already betrothed, and becaus—because—” the older woman spluttered to a halt, not quite daring to bring out the reasons that burned on the tip of her tongue.

  “I don’t believe I find that a satisfactory reason,” he insisted with dangerous quietness.

  Claire’s aunt drew herself up, “I do not have to explain myself to you.”

  “Come, Claire. You will return with me to the ballroom where you belong.”

  It was odd, the reluctance that seized her as her aunt beckoned imperiously, staring down her broad nose.

  “It is just as well,” Justin said, and Claire saw him nod, an abrupt movement in the dim light. “But you may tell your husband that I will wait upon him at eleven of the clock tomorrow morning.”

  “You may be sure I will tell him, but I am not at all certain he will receive you.”

  “It would be most unwise of him to refuse me.”

  Madame de Hauterive stared at him, but she did not comment. “Well, Claire,” she said in a hard tone as she turned and marched away without a backward glance.

  Catching up her skirts, Claire hurried after her aunt. At the french window she paused to look back at the man standing with his hands clenched at his sides. He gave her a slight bow that made a mockery of the polite gesture.

  “Your servant—Claire.”

  The words whispered across the space between them filled with a meaning she could not comprehend, and yet they touched a chord of response that made her afraid. Turning abruptly, she followed her aunt’s wide back.

  Justin Leroux did not reenter the house, though Claire kept watch, surreptitiously, on the entrance from the gallery. It was possible that he had returned by a different way and wandered into the cardrooms, but when he did not appear for supper at midnight, she had to suppose that he had gone.

  Though Jean-Claude wanted to stay on until the company broke up, it was a relief to Claire when her aunt decided to depart soon after supper.

  Claire did not sleep well. She woke several times during the night, caught up in strange nightmares that she could not remember, but even as they receded she was left with a strange inclination to weep. Toward dawn she fell into a heavy sleep. The morning was far advanced when her maid woke her with the cheerful morning call of “Ala cafe!” and the rattling of the rings that held the mosquito baire, or netting, around the bed as she pushed it aside.

  “Drink up your coffee, mam’zelle,” Zaza told her as she handed her the cup and placed an extra pillow at her back. “There is a man with your aunt in the salon. She asks that you dress quickly and come to her there.”

  “A man?” she asked the quick-moving little maid.

  “Yes, mam’zelle. A Monsieur Leroux. Do you know him?”

  A tremor of unease ran over her. She had not expected Justin to carry out his preposterous threat. This morning the scene on the gallery seemed to lack reality.

  “He—is he alone?”

  “Yes, mam’zelle.”

  “And with my aunt, not my uncle?”

  “Yes, mam’zelle. Your uncle and Monsieur Jean-Claude went to the market this morning to purchase a brace of snipe for dinner. You know how particular Monsieur de Hauterive is about his game courses.”

  Claire nodded, uncertain whether that was good or bad. But it was obvious that her aunt had not told her uncle to expect Justin to call, as he had warned her to do. Her uncle must, then, still be ignorant of what had taken place the night before. Contrary to Claire’s expectations, her aunt had not poured the tale into her husband’s ears on the way home. She had fallen into a thoughtful silence. She had not cared, Claire thought, for the rumors she had heard over the years about Justin Leroux, nor had she liked Claire’s explanation of how she had come to be dancing with such an unprincipled rake, especially as it had involved her son. Her aunt had waited until they were alone in Claire’s room before beginning the stricture on her conduct that had embroiled Jean-Claude in the contretemps.

  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 tow
ard 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.”

  2

  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.