"I did not like the Américains it is true—"
"Did not like? Do my ears deceive me? Has the so staid and stolid Monsieur Hugh Lancaster won you over to his side? Was it not just a few days ago that you were outraged at his decision to pay Etienne's family a generous settlement from company funds? I do not remember you thinking so kindly of him then—or of your feeling such remorse over Etienne's death."
"Damn your eyes! Can a man not have second thoughts? I had not had time to think about it when Hugh sprang it on us! To my shame I must admit that I was angry at his actions—I viewed it as another example of his high-handedness—but after I thought about it for a while, I realized that he was right and I was wrong. We should have done something for Etienne's family—it was our responsibility. Even more so," he ended bitterly, "since I contributed to his death...."
Alain set down his cup and saucer with a clatter. "Do you know that you are growing boring, mon am—. Ah, forgive me, I am not to call you that anymore, am I?"
François drew himself up. "Non," he snapped, "you are not to call me 'friend' anymore. I am not your friend. But I am a fool. I have acted unwisely, and I have let my temper, my pride and, yes, my prejudices blind me to reality. It is you I should have vented my rage against, not the Américains. Because of you and my own reckless foolishness, I allowed myself to become involved in something that is dishonest and dishonorable. I have ruined myself. And all because I wanted to show everyone—Maman, mon once, Micaela, you and all my friends that I was a grown man, capable of running my own affairs. All I have done," he said heavily, "is show the world, what a spoiled, immature, and arrogant fool I am."
"Oh my," drawled Alain, spite gleaming in his black eyes, "do I see before me a reformed sinner? A penitent ready to flay himself raw in the name of redemption? Are you wearing a hair shirt beneath your fine clothes today? Do you intend to devote yourself to good works now? Embrace the Américains? Work diligently in the family firm? Perhaps you will even lick your brother-in-law's boots, too?"
"Non." François answered tiredly, sinking down into his chair once more, ignoring Alain's insults. "I regret, bitterly and deeply, what has transpired, and I hope fervently that I can find a way to redeem myself, if only in my own eyes. I have been a fool, but I do not have to continue to be a fool."
Alain yawned delicately. "As I said, you have become a bore. I liked you much better when you were spitting fury and venom at the Américains and railing at the unfairness of fate."
"I blamed everyone, but myself," François said, with a note of astonishment, "when no one was at fault but myself—"
"Oh, please! Do spare me this drivel! Once Hugh is dead and I am married to your sister, you can join a monastery if you like and spend the rest of your life making amends for your sins, but for now..." Alain's eyes narrowed and grew hard. "For now you are going to do exactly what I tell you to do."
"And if I do not?"
"If you do not, you will regret it for the rest of your life," Alain threatened. "Remember, I can arrange it so that your part in the systematic robbing of your own family's company is made public. I think," Alain went on, "that I can even arrange it so that you are implicated in Etienne's murder."
"And what about your part in all of this?" François asked grimly. "If you expose me, you expose yourself."
"I think not. If you will remember, I have been careful to remain in the background." He smiled at François. "Granted it was my hand behind much of what was done, but it was you who first came to me with the idea. Few people, and none that count, I might add, know that I was involved. Certainly the people who work for me will not speak in your defense." His smile broadened at François's expression of dismayed, dawning comprehension. "If you are foolish enough to attempt to lay the blame at my feet, why, I think most people would see it for what it was—an unscrupulous, spoiled boy's attempt to escape punishment. The fact that you owe me a large sum of money could even be viewed as the reason you were trying to involve me in your schemes. Yes, I think it can be arranged so that I appear an innocent victim of your shocking manipulations—you do not want to pay me what is rightfully mine, so you try to lay the blame for your own misdeeds at my door. I do believe that it can be done." He smiled at François. "Would you like to make a wager on it?"
François shook his head. What Alain said was all too true. Worse, the thought of his mother, of his family having to bear the shame of his disgrace—even if he could expose Alain as the devious devil that he was and bring him to justice—was too painful to contemplate. His mother would be devastated and blame herself for his misdeeds. His uncle would despise him. His sister would scorn him, and as for Hugh... He shuddered, imagining the contempt he would find in his brother-in-law's face. He had been a fool. A stubborn, proud, arrogant young fool! With dignity, he said, "Non, I will not make a wager with you. I have learned that a wise man does not gamble with you."
"It is too bad that you did not learn it earlier!" Alain retorted viciously, enraged by François's remorse. "You were such an easy pigeon to pluck that I enjoyed watching you fall deeper into debt to me."
"What do you want me to do?" François asked, ignoring the jibe.
More furious than he had thought possible by François's defection, Alain regarded him silently for a moment, fighting to bring his temper under control. The fool! How had he thought this would end? And how dare he discover his conscience at this late date! Alain smiled in grim amusement. His own conscience allowed nothing to stand in the way of what he wanted. He had thought that François was of the same mold and he felt betrayed by François's unexpected attack of conscience. Once Hugh was dead and Micaela was his, he might just have to do something about François.
François shifted in his seat. "You have not answered me, Alain. What is it you want me to do?"
Cheered by thoughts of the future, Alain laughed. "Oh, come now, mon ami—and I am your friend, even if you do not believe it—things are not so bad. What I want you to do for me is very simple. I want you to invite me to come with you when you go to visit Par Amour."
"Why?"
Alain's jaw clenched. "Because I asked you to!"
François regarded him for a long time. "And if I do not?"
"If you do not," Alain said with cold menace, "I shall see to it that your schemes to rob your own company, your stealing from your own family are common knowledge." He smiled. "By the time I am finished with you, just the mention of the name 'François Dupree' will bring a scandalous gasp to the lips of any respectable person who hears it."
François did not doubt him. For weeks now, he had been becoming more and more aware that Alain was not what he appeared to be, that behind his smile and polite manners lay something vicious and unprincipled. Alain knew people: not people François would ever introduce to his family: people who made Francis distinctly nervous. Alain seemed to have tentacles everywhere in the city, from the homes of the most rigid society matrons to the proprietors of the most despicable dens of sin, and François knew from things that he had learned in the heady days when he had been flattered by Alain's friendship that Alain arranged for unpleasant and shocking things to happen to anyone who displeased him.
Wearily François rested his dark head on the high back of the chair, his eyes closed. There seemed to be no way out. "I go to Amour on Thursday. Jean and I are traveling down together in the morning," he said. He opened his eyes and glanced at Alain. "I cannot simply bring you with me, I would have to ask Micaela if she minded if I invited you to visit with me a few days while I am there. She may not comply with my request, you know, and I cannot insist that you be allowed to come."
"Then it will be up to you," Alain said, "to ensure that your sister does agree to my presence, will it not?"
François nodded. "Oui. And not only Micaela—Hugh also must be convinced to allow you to stay. He is not going to be happy about your inclusion."
* * *
At that moment, Hugh was very happy. Micaela had given herself to him with a
delightful abandon that had not been present in their previous lovemaking, and for the first time in their marriage he had the sweet and complete satisfaction of knowing that their lovemaking had given her pleasure. The signs and sounds of her enjoyment had been unmistakable, and he felt inordinately pleased with himself. Any doubts he had harbored about his skills in bed or his ability to bring his wife physical satisfaction had fled. And if he'd had to be shot and wounded to accomplish this, it seemed like a more than fair trade to him.
With Micaela's soft form lying next to his, her head nestled on his shoulder, his own body feeling as sated and replete as it had ever felt, Hugh did not want to think about the problems that still lay between them, but he was aware that he still had much to accomplish—such as making his wife fall in love with him. He also, despite the fact that he would admit that he was deeply and irrevocably in love with her, had not forgotten the events surrounding their marriage, nor that it was his fortune which held the greatest allure for her. That damning conversation he had overheard between her and François was still an acidic trickle running through his happiness and Alice's words were additional drops of poison.
He frowned. He didn't want to think about the reasons for their marriage, not right now, but like persistent, irritating mosquitoes, they kept buzzing around in his head.
Micaela's thoughts were equally unpleasant. She was ashamed of her lascivious behavior in her husband's arms, and she was braced for him to express his disapproval of her wanton ways. That he did not worried her. Was he too disgusted to speak of it? Had she repelled him? Was Hugh going to, as that long-ago Creole gentleman had, request a divorce because his wife had so boldly responded to him?
And then there was the unresolved situation between them. Nothing had been settled. The problems that had confronted them before they had made love still confronted them. Micaela would have been a fool, however, if she had thought after the afternoon they had just spent in each other's arms that she could retreat behind the polite facade she had shown him these past weeks. Only a fool would try to pretend this afternoon had never happened. And she did not think she was a fool.
Lying beside him on the bed, listening to the even beating of his heart beneath her ear, she admitted that this was precisely where she wanted to be. She did not want the coolness between them to continue. But neither did she want to go back to the admittedly pleasant weeks they had enjoyed in the early days of their marriage. She and perhaps, Hugh, too, had been pretending that all was well in their marriage and ignoring reality. They had, she realized with embarrassment, been too busy enjoying each other's bodies and the novelty of being married and setting up their own household to think deeply about the true state of their marriage.
But what was the true state of their marriage? Was their situation so very different from the majority of Creole unions? Many were straight business arrangements; the bride acquired a husband who took care of providing her basic needs—shelter, food, status and respectability—and the husband acquired a charming hostess who ran his household efficiently and with astonishing regularity presented him with handsome sons and lovely daughters. She knew of several marriages that had been arranged because it was prudent for the families to join forces, whether to consolidate fortunes, save plantations, or expand others. Or businesses, she thought with a grimace.
Unable to sleep, Micaela sat up cautiously. When Hugh gave no sign of being disturbed, she slid from the bed and searched for her clothing. With a wary eye on her napping husband, she dressed hastily.
Staring at him as he lay there on the bed, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, his long lashes shadowing the cheekbones of his face, her heart clutched in her breast. He was so dear. She loved him so much. She could not imagine life without him. Her gaze fell on his wound. And someone, she thought sickly, had tried to murder him. The terrifying knowledge of how easily, how swiftly he could have been taken from her, made her realize that it was petty to hold against him the manner in which he had brought about their marriage. Her gaze softened. No matter why he had married her, he had proven himself to be a kind and generous husband, and for that she would give him the respect and esteem he deserved. She would learn not to harbor doubts. He was much too precious to her to waste time wondering about his motives. She loved him, and that was all there was to it. She loved him.
Hugh's eyes suddenly opened, meeting hers. He quirked a brow at the tender expression on her face. "What?" he asked. "Why are you looking at me that way?"
She smiled, an achingly lovely smile. "I was just thinking that I am very fortunate to have you as my husband."
Hugh's breath stopped at the sight of that dazzling smile, pleasure at her words spreading warmly through him. Then he scowled, suspicion sliding like a serpent through his mind. What was she up to? What did she want? She'd been treating him like a pariah up until a few hours ago, and while he had not expected her to instantly retreat behind the indifference she had shown him lately, he was not prepared to accept either her words or her damnably enchanting smile. There had to be a reason, other than the gloriously satisfying time they had just spent in each other's arms, to bring about such a change in her manner toward him.
He was immediately appalled at his suspicions. Aghast at how swiftly he had gone from contentment to being full of doubts and mistrust. In that split second, it became blindingly clear to him that until there was some plain speaking between them, until they were both honest with each other, that there would be no lasting happiness for them. Ugly suspicion and mistrust would be their constant companions, and he was determined that such was not going to be the case.
He started to rise up, but his wounded arm reminded him forcibly, painfully, of the reason he was in bed in the first place. With a smothered curse, he fell back against the pillows.
When Micaela rushed forward and would have helped him, he held up a restraining hand. "No. We need to talk, and I will be the first to admit that when you are near me, talking is the last thing on my mind!"
Micaela blushed at the implication, her heart melting with love for him. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked shyly.
Hugh shot her an irritated glance, fighting against the powerful urge to forget the whole thing. Did she have to look so appealing, just when he was ready to have a very uncomfortable conversation with her? Did she have to speak to him in that beguiling tone, making his sudden determination waver?
Having struggled up into a sitting position, he eyed her grimly. "You may drop the facade, my dear," he said bluntly, before he could change his mind about the wisdom of what he was doing. "I overheard your revealing conversation that day at the gazebo. And I know precisely why you went to such lengths to marry me."
Chapter 17
"What!" Micaela asked in obvious astonishment, her lovely smile fading as she stared at Hugh.
Hugh grimaced. She was going to pretend she didn't know what he was talking about, was she? He found that deeply disappointing. From what he had overheard of their conversation, he knew that François and perhaps even Jean had put enormous pressure on her to marry him. When she had given into their pleas, she had done so more for their sakes than her own. It stung him to remember that she had admitted to François that she did not like him very much and that not even his fortune had tempted her. Obviously, she had changed her mind, but he wished she would be honest with him. Marrying a man one did not love in order to save one's family was not an ignoble act. Which did not mean he was happy about being married because of what he could do for her family. The idea that Micaela considered marriage to him a sacrifice for the Dupree family's continued well-being left a distinctly nasty taste in his mouth.
"I said," he repeated coolly, "that I know why you married me. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard that revealing conversation you had with François at the gazebo at Riverbend."
When Micaela still looked puzzled, he went on harshly, "The one where your brother pleaded with you to marry me—I believe he referred to me as '
young and handsome and a man who would someday be one of the wealthiest, most influential citizens in New Orleans'—or something of that nature." He smiled grimly. "And then there is the matter of that sharp tongue of yours. Who else felt its lash as I did?"
Micaela's eyes widened in dawning comprehension. A bitter laugh was startled from her. "You thought that François was referring to you?"
Hugh winced at the scorn in her voice. "Considering what happened, I think it was an honest assumption," he replied levelly.
Her eyes flashed, and she was suddenly, blazingly furious at him. To think such a thing of her! "You think that I married you for my family? That I connived and trapped you into marriage so I could get my hands on your money?"
She looked like an angry young tigress , her hair in wild disarray around her shoulders, her cheeks blooming with angry roses and those dark eyes full of fire. Her hands were on her hips and her temptingly shaped mouth was tight with fury.
Her wrath gave him pause, and somewhat warily, he answered, "It seemed likely, after overhearing that conversation and your subsequent actions. You did put us in a compromising situation. A situation which forced our marriage—and gave you access to my fortune."
Micaela's dainty nostrils flared with suppressed fury.
"You arrogant, conceited, snooping snake ! Do you really think that François wanted me to marry you!" She laughed angrily. "Your belief, monsieur, in your own charms and wealth is far superior to reality. It was Alain Husson whom François wanted me to marry. François is deeply in debt to him, and if I had married Alain, the debt would have been paid. You, I am sorry to say, would have been the last person François would have wanted me to marry!"
Hugh's brow snapped together in a ferocious frown. Her anger was real, and he realized with a sickening lurch in the region of his belly that what she said made sense. Perfect sense. Of course, François would not have wanted her to marry him. Of course, Alain Husson would have been the logical choice. With chagrin, Hugh recalled again that he had even heard gossip that Alain was courting her. And he had known about François's debt to Alain. What a block-headed buffoon he had been to leap to the, no use pretending otherwise, conceited conclusion that it was himself François had been urging her to marry. There were, he admitted wryly, other young men who also fit François's description—only he had been too arrogant to realize it. Or perhaps, he had not wanted to realize it. He had, it seemed, completely misunderstood the situation.
Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3) Page 25