CHAPTER EIGHT
The soft sound of a door closing roused Simone. Lifting her head groggily, she looked around. She was alone in an unfamiliar room—Alain’s bedchamber.
She fell back onto the pillow, feeling weary, even after her rest. Her emotions had been in such turmoil last night that she had thought she would never sleep. But apparently she had, and well into the day. She listened for the early morning cries of the street vendors, but all she heard were muffled voices and the clatter of pans from the kitchen.
If Alain was ready to face the day, so was she, she thought determinedly, sitting up. But when she surveyed the room, she discovered the clothing she had worn was gone.
I gave my word I wouldn’t try to escape, she thought crossly. He didn’t have to take my clothes to be sure.
She was still frowning when there was a light tap on the door. Before she could respond, it opened and Alain’s large figure filled the doorway. He carried a valise in one hand, and in the other he balanced a saucer and a steaming cup of coffee.
“Bonjour,” he called cheerfully.
“Do not come in here until you tell me where my clothes are,” Simone ordered, tugging the covers up over her chest.
“I’ve brought you some.” Disregarding her command, he walked over to the bed. “And café au lait.”
“Merci.” She accepted the cup, watching as he set the valise at the foot of the bed. Rummaging in it, he pulled out one of her own gowns.
She regarded him incredulously. “Where did you get—”
“From your landlady. She saved a few of your possessions from the auctioneer, and when she learned I was your guardian, she gave them to me. These should keep you until I can buy some a bit more fitting.”
“More fitting for what?” she asked tautly.
Realizing he had hurt her pride, Alain said softly, “Simone, I’m your guardian. You need new clothes, and I want you to have them.”
“You want to dress me so I will attract a husband,” she charged, throwing back the blankets and jumping up to confront him. “If you think you’re going to marry me off to the first suitor who comes along, Alain de Vallière, you can forget it. I want to choose my own husband, a man who will love me forever.”
He stared down at her in stark silence. She had voiced the problem with which he had grappled during the long, sleepless night. It was his duty—and his dilemma—to see Nicholas’s daughter married. Simone was his ward, damn it, and still very young. But she was all woman, and he could not forget the taste of her lips or the feel of her body against his.
Stop, he commanded himself silently, knowing he should leave. With effort, he turned and walked toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “I assure you I will always strive to do what is best for you. I want to care for you, to keep you safe.”
“By keeping me locked away?” Simone demanded scorchingly. Oblivious to the scantiness of her attire, she followed.
“I don’t want you out and about until I’ve settled with Marcel,” he said, turning again to face her. It was a mistake. He felt the familiar stir in his loins as he tried without success to ignore the enticing view of her bare calves below his shirt.
“You promised you wouldn’t treat me like a prisoner,” she protested.
“I also promised to keep you safe,” he countered.
“I do not believe Marcel would kill me.”
“No, but he could kidnap you and make your life a living hell. Once we duel, he will understand you are in my care, or he will die.” Distracted by the defiant face lifted toward his, he said huskily, “I don’t want him ever to threaten or touch you again.”
Unable to stop himself, he laced his fingers in Simone’s short, tousled hair while his thumbs traced circles on the slim column of her neck where her pulse fluttered wildly. It was so tempting to lean forward to steal a kiss.
Suddenly remembering himself, he yanked his hands away. “For God’s sake, girl, cover yourself,” he groaned. “What are you trying to do to me?”
He knew by the way her face colored Simone had not remembered she was wearing nothing more than his shirt.
“I am not trying to do anything but talk to you,” she spat, throwing the door open. “If you’ll recall, you are the one who came into my room. And now you can leave.” Placing her small hands against his chest, she shoved him out onto the gallery.
Alain blinked in surprise as the door slammed in his face. His jaw working with anger, he swung around to stare out at the courtyard. He gripped the banister in white-knuckled hands, railing silently against the entire situation.
He wanted her so badly he ached. But in all his experience with women, he had never seduced a virgin, and he wasn’t going to start with his ward, he told himself harshly. He inhaled deeply, hoping to clear his head and rid himself of the fragrant scent of her, which seemed to linger in his nostrils. How he was going to live under the same roof with her, he did not know.
Deliberately, he turned his mind to business. Though he intended to win his duel with Marcel, Alain wanted to set up a trust for Simone. Arrangements must be made, in case his plans went awry: instructions to be left with Dominique Cuvillion, his attorney; Jean-Paul’s letter of resignation and an apology to be delivered to Serge; and a call to pay on Lisette. Slapping the rail decisively, he set out.
On the other side of the door, Simone fumed. How would she endure seeing Alain day in and day out? He always made her angry, and she never knew where she stood with him. One moment he looked as if he were going to kiss her, the next he acted as if he thought she was going to ravish him. She knew he thought of her as an obligation, yet when he had spoken to her, his voice had been vibrant with warmth and caring. He was highhanded, and he insisted on fighting her battles, but his touch had been gentle. How she hated the man and the confusion he caused her.
Her shoulders slumped dejectedly when she heard the clanking of the front gate. He had probably gone to interview potential husbands for her, she brooded, to find someone to take her off his hands. But her wrath had burned itself out, and all she felt now was sorrow at the thought.
Dispiritedly, she went to the washstand and found that the water in the pitcher was warm. So she had heard a door close earlier, she thought as she scrubbed the sleep from her eyes.
She unpacked the valise Alain had left for her, discovering the black dress she had worn to Nicholas’s funeral, as well as her undergarments and stockings and shoes. Rebelliously, she rejected the frock Alain had spread on the bed for her and donned instead the heavy black dress. As she drew a comb through her hair, she decided it stuck out as badly on Simone as it had on Jean-Paul.
Downstairs, she halted uncertainly under a massive fig tree in the courtyard. Through the doorway of the kitchen, she could see Batiste, the muscles of his powerful back rippling under his shirt as he kneaded bread dough. The servant was even brawnier than his muscular master. Though intent on his task, he must have sensed her presence, for he looked over his shoulder.
“Morning, miss,” he addressed her politely, his voice rumbling from deep in his massive chest.
“Bonjour.” She smiled tentatively.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Oui, merci.” She stepped nearer, encouraged by his amiable greeting.
“I’m Batiste Joseph,” he said, wiping his flour-dusted hands on a towel. “Alain asked me to look after you.”
“I know,” she answered shyly from the doorway. “I’m Simone Devereaux.”
Nodding at the cup she carried, he asked, “Would you like more coffee?”
“I can get it. I’m not really accustomed to being waited on.”
“Then I think you must become accustomed to it.” He smiled unexpectedly, his teeth flashing white in his ebony-skinned face. “‘Lain says I’m to take care of you. I’ll cook you an omelette while the dough rests.” Taking her cup, he refilled it and returned it to her. Then he began to prepare her breakfast.
Simone lingered, unwilling to be banished from
the familiar comfort of the kitchen. Batiste did not seem so bad after all, certainly not the surly warden she had expected.
Without turning, he suggested, “If you’re going to wait, perhaps you’d like to sit down.” He gestured toward a tall stool in the corner.
Simone perched on the seat while he cooked. For a time, the only sound in the kitchen was the sizzle of frying bacon. Then she asked, “Did you bring hot water to my room earlier?”
“Did I wake you? I think I’ll have to practice if I’m to become a good lady’s maid.” He grinned over his broad shoulder.
“Valet, cook, baker—I think you’re already a man of many talents.” She grinned back.
Shaking his head in private amusement, the big man returned his attention to his cooking. This Simone was lovely and spirited, just the way Alain liked them. No wonder he was in such a quandary, having her under his roof.
“How long has Monsieur de Vallière owned you?” Simone asked conversationally.
“He doesn’t own me,” Batiste replied.
“I... I’m sorry. I just assumed....”
“That’s all right. Everybody assumes. If they didn’t, I’d probably be sold right back into slavery by some bounty hunter, papers or no papers.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Simone agreed reluctantly, “but it’s sad to contemplate.”
“There are many sad things in the world, little one,” Batiste said gently. “My life was a lot sadder before Alain. He bought me when I was half dead, beaten by an overseer. Everyone, including ‘Lain’s own family, thought he was mad to buy me. But he hauled me home--”
“To Bois Blanc,” Simone supplied, dredging up the name of the de Vallière plantation from distant memory.
“That’s right,” Batiste confirmed as he set a tray for her. “He taught me to speak French and to read and write. When I was healed, he gave me my manumission papers and wished me bonne chance.”
“But you didn’t go?” She hopped nimbly from the stool.
“No, as a free man, I am Alain’s willing servant. And his friend.”
“It sounds as if you both benefit from this arrangement,” Simone observed.
“Indeed.” Batiste regarded her with approval. The girl was wise beyond her years.
“How did you come to have Joseph as your last name?” she asked, taking the tray from him.
“I chose ‘Lain’s middle name. It was my first act as a free man.”
“Alain Joseph de Vallière.” Simone smiled as if she had just learned a delightful secret.
Batiste watched her trim, graceful figure as she walked across the chilly courtyard to the dining room. Roused from his bed last night, he had seen how anxious Alain had been. He had observed his testy employer this morning. Now that he had seen the source of both moods, he understood. And he was overjoyed.
Perhaps the big Creole had finally met his match in this little thing who had masqueraded as a boy, stood up to her guardian, and ejected him from his own bedroom this morning. Batiste chuckled. Though he thought he knew how ‘Lain felt about the girl, he did not know yet how she felt. But something told him life was going to be very interesting in this house from now on.
“And her waist is only about this wide.” Alain’s big hands measured a narrow span in the air before he concluded sheepishly, “Well, you know.”
“Please, ‘Lain”—Lisette rolled her eyes--“I’ve been buying Simone’s clothes for her for months.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I just want everything to be right for her. But I want the wardrobe quickly,” he directed. “Price is no object. Did I mention that?”
“Several times.” She cocked an eyebrow in exasperation. “I told you, I’ll go to my dressmaker’s this very morning. In the meantime, I have a couple of Simone’s dresses here. Shall I send Jude over with them?”
“Oui, merci,” he agreed, preparing to leave.
“Alain”—the woman halted him earnestly--“you do know that if I had realized Simone was your missing ward, I never would have promised to keep her secret from you?”
“I know.”
“Why did she hide from you?” Lisette could not resist asking.
“Thanks to something she overheard me say at the salle, Simone has the idea that I want nothing more than to marry her off,” he confessed with a sigh.
“And you haven’t been able to make her understand that’s the last thing you want?”
He shook his head.
“You love her, don’t you, ‘Lain?”
“Oui, though how I fell in love with such an impossible female, I’ll never know.”
“Have you told her how you feel?” she asked.
“Non!” he shouted. Then, seeing her surprise at his vehemence, he explained in a more moderate tone, “This is a real dilemma. Lise. Even though I love her, I can’t do anything about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m her guardian. How would it look if I pressed my attentions on an innocent girl? I don’t want anyone, least of all Simone, to think I took advantage of her.”
“Don’t you think she knows her own mind?” Lisette argued.
“Any advances I made now would be inappropriate,” Alain maintained stubbornly.
“Having her in your home without a chaperon is inappropriate.”
“No one knows she’s there. I want to keep it that way until Marcel and I have had a chance . . . to talk.”
“So you are going to challenge Marcel?”
“Better me than Simone, don’t you think?”
“You think she would?” the woman asked, aghast.
“Of course, she would. That is another reason to keep her at home and out of trouble.”
“Then when you’ve settled with him?”
“Once she is safe, I’ll introduce my ward to les bonnes familles. No one need know about the salle; we’ll tell everyone she has been living in the country.”
“Do you know what you’re suggesting, ‘Lain?”
“That I introduce her to the most eligible bachelors in Louisiana,” he answered harshly. “Simone has the right to choose whom she will marry. She feels very strongly about that. And now that I know the woman she has become, I do too.”
“But--”
He cut her off with an impatient gesture. “She is young and inexperienced. I cannot ask her to marry me until she knows what she wants.” He did not add that the thought that it might be another man made his stomach roil.
Lisette eyed her friend sympathetically. “What if she wants you?”
“I am hers,” he said simply.
That night, in Alain’s bedchamber, Simone dressed for dinner in the dainty gown she had tried on at Lisette’s house. Had it been only last night? Her entire world had changed since then.
Alain’s immense copper bathtub stood on the hearth, the water it held now cold. After Jude brought her clothes and a promise from Lisette to call the next day, Simone had decided to concentrate on being a girl again. She was through hiding her feminine attributes.
She had spent a long time in the tub, washing her hair until it began to show traces of its original rich brown. Fluffing her short, glossy hair with her fingers, she allowed it to dry in curls around her face.
As she slipped into a gossamer chemise and stockings, Simone reveled in the slide of silk against her skin. Then she donned a stiff petticoat and the feminine dress. As she buttoned the long row of pearl buttons up the front of the gown, she examined her reflection in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Alain could not fail to notice she was a woman.
He noticed. A self-conscious blush stained Simone’s cheeks when she saw the admiration in his dark eyes.
“Bonsoir, chère,” he greeted her as she descended the staircase. “You look lovely.”
“Merci.” Her blush deepened when he kissed her work-roughened hand.
“Come, Batiste has prepared a feast for us.” Offering his arm, Alain escorted Simone to the elegant dining room, where the polished tab
le reflected the crystal chandelier overhead.
True to his word, dinner was indeed a feast, and Alain was a charming host. They laughed and chatted easily, as if the explosive scene between them that morning had never occurred. At last, he said seriously, “I never had a chance to tell you, Simone, how sorry I was when I heard of your father’s death.”
“Merci,” she whispered with a lump in her throat. Desperate not to cry, she quickly changed the subject. “When I was talking to Batiste today, I remembered the name of your family’s plantation. Bois Blanc, isn’t it?”
“White Wood,” he confirmed. “You have a good memory.” Fishing in his pocket, he added, “And so do I.” He laid a bag of lemon drops on the table. “Are these still your favorite?”
“Oh yes. Thank you.” Touched by his gesture, she beamed at him, and Alain’s heart stood still.
“Do you...” He cleared his throat, disturbed to find his voice unsteady. “Do you remember what you asked me when I left that first time?”
“Who would bring me candies,” she recalled with a smile.
“And teach you to fence,” he amended.
“It seems you’ve done both, m’sieur.” She surprised him by laughing. “And I confess I prefer the candies.”
“So do I, chère.” His deep chuckle mingled with hers. “And I greatly favor Simone over Jean-Paul.”
Smiling crookedly, he asked, “Since we’re going to be living under the same roof, can we declare a truce? I promise I will be an exemplary friend.”
After a moment, Simone smiled ruefully and said, “I am willing to declare a truce.” Privately she wondered if friendship meant Alain would never touch her, never kiss her again. Though she should not care, she did, but she could not let him know. She shrugged carelessly. “Perhaps friendship will come in time.”
So will love, ma petite, if I have anything to say about it, Alain thought with satisfaction. “Très bien,” he said heartily, rising to help her from her chair. “Tell me, do you still play the card games Nicholas and I taught you?”
“Perhaps if you refresh my memory,” she suggested innocently. “It’s been so long.”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 13