If so, he’d have his work cut out for him.
Why in God’s name couldn’t she have been dowdy and meek, with a flat chest and a squint in one eye? He could have dealt with such a female.
He should have known better. A man like Jean Pierre Rouillard would have nothing to do with a plain bride. He’d have the most beautiful, most refined to be found; his pride would demand it if not his conceit.
Monsieur Bonneval, his host, was also on his feet, though a frown sat on his face like disapproval carved in marble. “Sonia, ma chère, you interrupt a matter of business. Leave us, if you please.”
It was an order; Kerr recognized that easily enough. The lady seemed unimpressed. Coming forward, she held out her hand. “But we have a guest, Papa,” she said with only the briefest of glances over her shoulder. “He must be made welcome. Will you not present me?”
“Sonia!”
She paled a little under the hectic color that flushed her cheeks, Kerr noticed. He was sorry to be the cause, saw no reason that it should continue. Besides, he rather resented the implication that he was not a person to be introduced to Bonneval’s daughter until well and truly hired for the post under discussion.
“Kerr Wallace, at your service, mademoiselle.” He bowed over her hand, holding it with light and rather awkward pressure since hers was bare and he had left his own gloves with the butler who had admitted him.
“Enchanted, Monsieur Wallace, and I am Sonia Blanche Amalie Bonneval. I believe you and my father, between you, are arranging my wedding voyage, yes?”
“That’s so.”
Her fingers were cool and not quite steady in his, as if she held to composure by a thread. He kept his gaze impassive but couldn’t help wondering at the cause of it, yes, and at the strain between father and daughter as well. Not that it was any of his affair. He was here for one purpose only. The people involved mattered not at all. No, not even if the lady’s touch did send a numbing flash up his arm like a bolt of lightning.
He would have released her but she would not allow it. She clung to his hand while searching his face with wide eyes fringed by lashes that glinted auburn near her eyelids but were oddly black at the tips. They were the blue-gray of a storm sky, he saw, veiled with an illusive tint of periwinkle like the mountain asters of autumn. And like a storm sky, they promised sore problems ahead.
“I am afraid it may be a perilous passage with this terrible threat of war hanging over us,” she went on, her hand sliding deeper into his, her skin warming against his callused palm. “You do not shrink from it?”
“Nonsense,” Monsieur Bonneval said with the rasp of irritation in his voice. “A few border skirmishes do not make a war. There is nothing whatever to fear.”
The lady paid scant attention to her father, which led Kerr to discount much of the man’s sternness as bombast. Her concentration was on him. “What of it, monsieur? You are in agreement?”
It was all Kerr could do to concentrate on the words falling from her lips with their tender curves and lush, berry-stain surfaces. He could feel his mouth water with the need to taste their sweetness. Staring at them was not the most intelligent thing he’d ever done, but seemed better than allowing his gaze to settle upon the enticing décolletage such a short distance below. Amazingly, he could feel his body responding, stirring as hot blood surged in his veins.
He was also aware of a prickling at the back of his neck, a warning he had learned not to ignore these past few years. It came, he thought, from the tension in her grasp, the intent appraisal he saw in the depths of her eyes.
“Oh, there’ll be war,” he allowed, his tone even, though a little gruffer than he had intended.
“A dangerous situation then.”
“Could be.”
“Papa thinks it will not matter, that civilians, particularly females, will be safe enough regardless of what may happen. What think you? Will I be safe?”
Kerr’s private opinion was that Bonneval was over-confident about Mexican gallantry. Either that or he had no particular care for his daughter’s safety. Such details were no more his business than the discord between the pair. All he required from Bonneval was the job of escorting the future bride. He needed that as his ticket to Mexico and entrée into Rouillard’s household, and that was all he needed.
“I doubt your father would deliberately put you at risk,” he answered with self-conscious diplomacy.
“You are certain you wish to venture the journey yourself?”
“Always planned on making it. This seems as good a way as any.” Plain words, those. Kerr winced away from them in his mind. A lady like this one would be accustomed to more polished phrases, to graceful compliments and assurances of her safety tacked onto every reply like lace around the edges of a Valentine. They weren’t in him. He said what he meant and meant what he said. Most of the time, he never gave it a second thought.
“It’s unlikely Monsieur Wallace will feel concern, my dear Sonia,” her father said with a trace of derision. “He is a maître d’armes, after all.”
The lady snatched her hand away as if she touched hot coals. “What?”
“A teacher of fencing with his salon on the Passage de la Bourse which runs from rue Saint Louis to—”
“I know where it is! But you can’t mean this.”
“Come, ma chère, you didn’t think I would trust your protection to just anyone. You should be delighted to know you will have an expert at swordplay accompanying you, a gentleman intimately acquainted with danger, since you are so certain it awaits you.”
“Don’t mock me, Papa! How can you think such a one will be acceptable? But you did not think it. You know he will not do.”
The lady appeared rigid with distress, her hands clenched into fists at her sides and her color so high her cheeks seemed to flame with it. Her eyes were hot enough to shoot blue lightning and her red lips compressed into a firm line. It was quite a show, particularly the way her breasts strained at the silk that confined them, barely, at her bodice.
Kerr stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest as he waited to see how matters would settle out. If he was pained by her rejection, and he was in some peculiar fashion, he refused to allow it to matter.
Her father leaned over his desk, resting his fingertips on the polished surface. “He is a gentleman who comes with references of the most impeccable, including the personal recommendation of the Condé de Lérida.”
“Who was once a sword master himself so has sympathy for their kind. No, and no again! Monsieur Wallace is obviously a boorish Kaintuck without proper manners or deportment. An hour spent in his company would be insupportable, much less days on end.”
“Control yourself, Sonia. The gentleman is a guest in this house.”
“Not of my choosing. I did not invite him, cannot bear the thought of having such a one near me on the voyage to Vera Cruz. Jean Pierre would be as aghast as I am.”
“And this war you prattle about, what of it? Think you a mere dandy who waltzes well and sings praises to your fair face will be of use if it comes to pass? We must be practical, your fiancé and I, where you cannot be.”
“Surely there is someone of more address, more grace, or at least less gawky, muscle-bound clumsiness.”
“I repeat, the looks and manners of your escort are not of importance. I need not remind you, I feel sure, that he is not accompanying you for your pleasure.”
There was more, but Kerr barely heard it. Her pleasure. The images conjured up in his mind by the thought—soft sighs and moans, pale, open thighs, reaching arms—should be banned by the church, and probably were. They made his collar feel tight and his brain hot in his skull. He drew a deep breath in an attempt to regain command of what were undoubtedly improper reactions to the woman and the situation.
“But his French, Papa! C’est atroce! Truly terrible! I should go mad if I had to listen to it for so long. And what of the embarrassment of having him at my side, obviously attached to me as escort? I ca
nnot tell you how uncomfortable it would be.”
For a moment, there at the beginning, Kerr had almost felt sorry for the lady. Being married off to a man like Rouillard and sent away from her family to a strange country couldn’t be easy. As far as he could tell, the match had been arranged by her father who expected her to go along with it. But maybe there was a reason she was still unwed. Could be such a virago was a fine match for a lowlife like Rouillard.
“Then do not tell me. In fact, tell me nothing more.” Monsieur Bonneval frowned upon his daughter while leaning over his desk, his face red with anger. “Since you cannot conduct yourself in a becoming manner, you will leave us at once.”
“But, Papa!”
“Now, Sonia.”
It was an outright command. The lady pressed her lips together while her chest heaved with angry breaths. She divided a last glance of fulminating wrath between her father and Kerr, then whirled in a silken whisper of skirts and swept from the study. The door banged shut behind her.
The silence she left behind her lasted long seconds. Bonneval pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, looking suddenly a decade older. Then he shook his head with a dismissive gesture.
“You must forgive my daughter, Monsieur Wallace. She has been without the calming hand of a mother these fifteen years and more. I fear she has been allowed too much her own way by her aunt who took the place of my dear wife as her chaperone. Marriage to Monsieur Rouillard will cure this ridiculous self-will, yet another reason for proceeding without delay.”
The remedy was excessive in Kerr’s view, and in spite of his slighted feelings. Not that it was any of his business. “She does seem set against me as her escort.”
“She has been set against every man who might be suitable. Pay no attention. Your job will be to see her delivered safely to her future husband. That is all.”
“I’d not thought differently.”
Bonneval pursed his lips. “My daughter’s comments may have led you to believe there could be a social aspect to the position. It’s good to see you are aware of the limitations.”
In other words, Kerr thought somewhat sourly, he was not to get too cozy with Mademoiselle Sonia Bonneval while aboard the ship. Her father need have no fear. He’d as soon start a flirtation with a she-bear. “Does that mean I’m offered the job?”
“If you care for it,” Monsieur Bonneval answered with a grave dip of his head.
“I’ll take it.” Kerr got to his feet, reaching across the mahogany desk that separated him from his host for the handshake that would seal the agreement.
“Excellent.” Bonneval followed suit, though after an instant of hesitation, as if unused to such a gesture or perhaps the instant decision. These aristocratic Creoles, Kerr had discovered, liked to take their time about things.
“When do I start?”
“At once, if you please. The Lime Rock out of Vera Cruz docked at the levee this morning. You will make whatever preparation you require then hold yourself ready to depart on its return run.”
The time allowed him was limited, only the few days necessary to off-load cargo and take on more. Kerr would make certain it sufficed since another such opportunity was unlikely to come his way. He’d spent years kicking his heels in New Orleans with no word of Rouillard. It had come at last, falling into his lap like a ripe plum in the form of this deal as escort for the man’s bride. He had feared he would be too late with his application for the post. Seemed the lady’s contrariness had kept it open for him. He was much obliged to her, no matter how she cut up about it. Nothing was going to keep him from boarding that steamer with Mademoiselle Bonneval.
Kerr took his leave with the formality that so gladdened the hearts of these Frenchmen he’d been living among for four years. The majordomo returned his belongings, including his sword cane, and let him out of the wicket gate set into the larger wrought-iron gate of the carriageway. Kerr strode away into the wet night, a frown between his eyes as he gave thought to the arrangements he’d need to make, from checking that he had adequate linen for the sea voyage to shutting down his fencing salon. He had almost reached the corner where the gaslight of a streetlamp on an ornate bracket wavered behind thick glass, when he heard the scuff of footsteps behind him.
He spun with the lithe contraction of hard muscles and wide swing of his unbuttoned greatcoat. The sword hidden in his cane hissed as he drew it in the same swift movement.
“Monsieur!”
Angry astonishment held Kerr transfixed for an interminable instant. He eased from his instinctive swordsman’s crouch then. Snapping his sword cane together again, he removed his beaver hat and held the two together against the long skirt of his coat.
“That’s a dangerous trick, Mademoiselle Bonneval, coming up behind a man this time of night. You could get yourself killed.”
“So I see.”
She was pale, her eyes wide in the piquant, diamond shape of her face. She didn’t shrink from him, however. She’d thrown a cape over her gown, drawing the hood up to shield her face from the falling rain and view of passersby, but made no real attempt to hide within it. A valiant lady, Mademoiselle Sonia Bonneval, if not a particularly cautious one.
“You wanted a word? Best make it quick, since it can’t do your good name any good to be seen on the street with me.”
“I am aware.” Her voice dropped a degree or two closer to freezing at the irony in his tone. “I wanted…that is, I would ask that you refuse the position offered by my father. I’m sure it’s a great inconvenience to you, this journey, and truly, Mexico is not a place for Americans just now.”
“Kaintucks, you mean.”
“I apologize for the insult of calling you so, and will a thousand times if it may persuade you to what I ask.”
He allowed himself a sardonic smile, even as the raindrops landing on his hair began to slide down his temples. “No insult taken as I happen to be from Kentucky. But this request of yours must be mighty important to you.”
“You have no idea. My every hope depends upon it. Please, I beg you, decline this position.”
“Tell me why I should.”
She searched his face for a long moment, her eyes shadowed with doubt even as the streetlamp picked up flashes of blue-violet fire from their depths. For an instant, Kerr was painfully aware of the rain that pattered around them, the creaking of a shoemaker’s sign above a shop down the street, the moist night air that swirled past with its smells of mud, freshly brewed coffee and rain-wet sweet olive blossoms. Her scent was in his nostrils, too, a powdery essence of fine-milled soap, violets and warm, damp woman. His stomach muscles contracted, pulling at his groin with a force that made his eyes water at the corners.
Finally she spoke, as if the words were being dragged from her. “I don’t care to be wed. I especially have no desire to become the wife of Monsieur Rouillard.”
“You know him, maybe.” Kerr refused to be sympathetic, would not allow it to make a difference.
“We were children together. He had spots on his face and bad breath, was the kind of young man who tormented kittens and snapped off the tails from chameleons just to see them break.”
“A telling bill of indictment,” he said dryly. “Could be he’s changed.”
“Unlikely.” She closed her lips tightly on the word in apparent token of her unwillingness to say more. Her gaze appeared to track the raindrops that trickled along his jawline, plopping onto the wilted collar of his shirt inside his greatcoat.
“But you don’t know.”
“I know he failed to address himself to me concerning the proposal that I become his wife. He simply told my father he wished it and set a date for my arrival.”
“High-handed.” Kerr clenched his gloved hand on his sword cane as memories slid through his mind of acts by the gentleman that were even more arrogantly self-serving. Things like lying, cheating, stealing and leaving his friends to die.
“Overconfidence personified, not that I a
m surprised. He always—” She stopped, drew a deep breath, met Kerr’s gaze an instant before looking away again. “But that’s not what I meant to say. I won’t go to Mexico, won’t marry him, so will have no need of an escort, protector, guardian or whatever you may call yourself. There will be no position to be filled. You may as well save yourself the trouble of making ready only to learn your services aren’t required.”
“Your father seems to believe otherwise.”
“He is mistaken.”
Kerr was silent a moment while the rain beat down harder upon them, splattering in the gutter, then ran beside the banquette, falling from a balcony into the street, pelting out of the night sky in endless barrage. It dampened the front of her cape so it draped over her breasts in soft fidelity, chilling her so that their tips made small, hard beads beneath the rich purple silk. It would be ruined, that fine cloth, though she seemed not to care.
At least he supposed it was the cold and wet that caused the reaction. It seemed unlikely to be anything that could be chalked up to his presence.
Voice reflective yet a little strained, he said, “Most daughters among your kind have little say in these arrangements, so I’ve noticed.”
“My kind?” She lifted her chin as she stared at him.
“The French, the high-class Creoles of this fair city, the—What is it you call yourselves? Oh, yes. The crème de la crème. Or maybe that other description, sorti de la cuisse de Jupiter, those taken from the thigh of old Jupiter himself so descended from the gods.”
“You despise us. You think, in your ignorance, that you are better.”
“Equal, at any rate.”
She flung back her head, a movement that dislodged the hood of her cape so it fell to her shoulders, allowing the rain to bejewel her hair. “It’s as well that you won’t be traveling anywhere with me.”
She was magnificent in her disdain, glorious in her contempt. He wanted nothing in that moment so much as to take her in his arms and wipe both from her mouth, her eyes, her heart. He ached to reach for her, feel her melt against him, to respond to him as she might, and no doubt would, respond to the gentleman she was to marry. He wanted to be worthy, to be seen as valiant in her eyes, to be raised up to reside among the gods and goddesses himself.
Gallant Match Page 2