His eyes narrowed. “So you know about that?"
"Lottie told me this morning,” she said with a lift of her chin. Though she wanted to be bold and angry as she threw his deceit in his face, her voice came out flat.
Lucien raised one hand, running his fingers through his hair in a harassed movement. “Lottie."
His grim smile flicked Sherry on the raw. “I'm sure she didn't intend to ruin your plans. She's your friend, not mine."
"I thought so until today,” he replied.
"Did you expect to be able to keep it a secret then, this Cajun marriage? Wasn't that too much to expect if you intended to use it to be rid of me?” Why was she repeating that? Was it in the hope that he would deny it? He obviously had no such intention.
He stared at her a moment longer. “There will be plenty of time to discuss such things later. For now, we are expected at my home. If you will just look in the bag and tell me if you have everything. I will wait for you in the car."
It was all there—her underclothing, a pair of pants and a shirt, shoes, a species of raincoat, even a hairbrush and handful of pins. When Lucien had gone, Sherry spread them out on the bed. Now the first time she felt a stirring of curiosity about Paul's childhood sweetheart, the girl who had chosen the things for her. For a meek, gentle young thing, her choices were strange. The black silk pants matched to a black shirt slashed by a diagonal stripe, the spaghetti-strap sandals, the yellow nylon rain poncho complete with its own jaunty yellow hat hinted at a different personality altogether. Sherry began to look forward to meeting Aimee.
Removing the tangles from her hair, Sherry drew it back in a knot low on the nape of her neck, a style which seemed to suit her borrowed finery. The improvement in her appearance caused a corresponding improvement in her spirits. She did not know precisely what Lucien Villeré had in mind, but she felt more equal to it now than she had an hour ago.
As they left the marina behind them, the only sound was the powerful hum of the car's motor and the slapping of the windshield wipers. The rain had decreased to little more than a drizzle. Though the streets ran with water, there was little sign of wind damage. The tropical storm seemed to have passed by the city.
"Everything fit all right?” Lucien asked finally.
Sherry turned from her contemplation of the passing houses. “Surprisingly well except for the sandals. They are a bit large, but I'm grateful to Aimee for the loan, and to you for bringing them to me."
He glanced at her as if he suspected her of sarcasm, but made no reply. After a moment she went on. “Did you go back by Bayou's End this morning after you found me?"
"No. Why?"
"Marie and Jules will think you are still combing the bayous."
He shook his head. “I contacted them by Citizen's Band Radio. There is a base station installed in the outdoor kitchen. Marie likes to keep up with what's going on."
A base station in the kitchen. There might not have been a telephone, but the means of summoning help had been there. So close. Abruptly something fell into place for her. “Marie knew about the storm. There was no need for you to turn back."
"I knew there was that possibility, but I also knew she could not tell you what was happening. In any case, I never said the storm was the only reason I decided to return."
To question him further would betray her intense interest in the answer. She would not give him that satisfaction. A frown between her brows, she turned back to the window.
The Villeré town house was located near the edge of New Orleans on Lake Pontchartrain, one of a number of great houses set back from a wide, clean street like jewels on the green velvet of their lawns with the open expanse of the lake before them. A classic structure of red brick dating perhaps from the early years of the present century, its size, its columned portico and long, shuttered French windows were certainly imposing. To Sherry's eyes, however, it seemed to lack the mellow grace and symmetry of Bayou's End.
Inside, the impression was one of quiet elegance. Oystershell-white walls and polished wood floors provided a background for jewel-colored Persian carpets and deep cushioned couches in brilliant colors. The light of sparkling chandeliers fell on highly polished furniture. As she passed the main rooms, Sherry caught the gleam of copper ornaments, the sheen of silver bowls filled with flowers that distilled their scent upon the air, and the glitter of crystal pieces with time-smoothed facets.
Without pausing, Lucien led her to a small breakfast room done in shades of soft lemon and tangerine. With its glass-topped table and fern stands placed on either side of a pair of French doors giving access to the gardens, it reminded Sherry of the house she had left that morning. Stepping inside as Lucien continued to the kitchen to hurry their meal, she felt herself begin to relax in almost imperceptible degrees. The room had one other advantage also. It was unoccupied.
They were given seafood gumbo, crusty French bread, and honeydew melon for lunch. The housekeeper, a woman enough like Marie to be her sister except for a command of English, apologized for the scantiness of the fare. The kitchen was busy with preparations for the party for Mam'zelle Aimee, she said. The cook was having a temper tantrum because of the caterers who kept going in and out, getting in his way. Madame Villeré should be back at any moment. She had said plainly that she meant to rest herself an hour or so before the festivities started.
They had reached the coffee stage when they heard the approach of quick footsteps. A slim woman appeared in the doorway. Her hair was black except for a white streak that began at the widow's peak in the center of her forehead. Her face was slightly tanned and liberally etched with laugh lines about her fine dark eyes. Dressed in cool pink linen, she looked comfortable, casual, and undeniably chic.
"Lucien, my son!” she cried coming forward with a smile. “What have you been doing? I stopped next door just now and I never heard such a tale!"
Lucien got to his feet. “Mother,” he said quietly, “I would like you to meet Sherry Mason."
"My dear,” the older woman said as she turned to extend her hand, “I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you. I thought I would never see this day. My elder son, you see, has never had time for women. To him they have a proper but small place in the scheme of his life. They have never been allowed to interrupt more important things, such as his work. To hear of him taking a vacation and returning with a young woman, and then running around with a handful of her wet clothing—all she owns mind you—looking for someone to make them presentable—well, it defeats my imagination."
"Mother—Maman—” Lucien said.
Madame Villeré looked at her son, then turned back to Sherry. “Am I embarrassing you, my dear? I hope not, because I meant no harm. It is such an odd thing, having something to tease Lucien about. In any case, I am determined to hear all about it. I've been eaten alive with curiosity since the first of the week when our cousin Estelle dropped by and mentioned seeing the two of you together at Antoine's. She described you as a stunning blonde, Sherry, a girl Lucien was so besotted over that he failed to introduce her properly."
Sherry, about to sip her coffee, nearly choked. She could not resist a glance at the man beside her. To her surprise, a smile that might have been called reminiscent curved his mouth.
"You are not going to give up, are you?” he said to his mother. “If the whole story is what you want, that is what you will get."
For an answer, his mother pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, giving him her complete attention.
When Lucien had finished, she sat staring at him. Her smile had disappeared to be replaced by a troubled frown. She looked at Sherry, then back to her son. “This is more serious than I realized. There are still one or two points I don't understand."
"I am sure there are, Maman," Lucien said, “but you need not worry your head over them."
"I wouldn't, except I am not sure you understand yourself,” she replied, her tone tentative.
He arched a dark brow. “Are you saying you don'
t think much of my comprehension? Never mind. I assure you—"
The appearance of the housekeeper in the doorway cut his words short. "Pardon, M'sieur Lucien,” she said. “You are wanted on the telephone."
A small silence reigned when Lucien had followed the housekeeper from the room. It was his mother who broke it, startling Sherry from a hard study of the door through which he had passed.
"You are very quiet,” the older woman said. “Don't you agree with what my son said, or is your version of the story different?"
"He—he left out a few details,” Sherry agreed. Such as a mistaken idea of her character and her status with Paul, her initial escape attempt, and the scene their first night together when his ardor had only been deflected by the discovery of the betrothal ring.
"I felt sure of it,” Lucian's mother answered. “It must have been a frightening experience for you."
"At first,” Sherry admitted.
"Ah, but not later? That is good."
There seemed no reply to that. Sherry kept her eyelids lowered, tracing the pattern of the china of her coffee cup with one finger. After a moment the other woman went on.
"I feel inclined to apologize for my son. He would hate that, I'm sure; preferring to make his own amends. Let me instead encourage you to listen to what he may have to say. Lucien is—how can I say it?—a man of deep feelings, which he hides beneath a hard surface manner. He takes his responsibilities seriously, hence his protective attitude toward Paul. Because of the differences in their age and temperament, Lucien has stood more as a father than a brother to him. In addition, Lucien is a definite person. If he sees something happening he considers wrong, he takes action to stop it; if he sees something he wants, he goes after it."
Sherry lifted wide turquoise eyes to the other woman's face. “Mrs.—Madame Villeré, there is no need for you to be upset. I don't intend to press charges against your son. At this moment nothing could make me happier than to be able to forget this whole thing ever happened. As soon as I possibly can I will go back to St. Louis. I would leave today, except my handbag with my return ticket, my money, my checkbook, everything, was lost when my boat overturned. But as soon as I can get in touch with my bank and make a few arrangements for clothes and return funds, I will go."
Madame Villeré frowned. “There will be no need for that, I'm sure. I believe the least we can do, under the circumstances, is provide your return flight and replace your wardrobe. You will naturally want to see Paul, also. You must have much to say to each other. He will be here for dinner this evening, and for the party afterward. I don't know if Lucian mentioned it to you, but you will attend of course."
"Oh, I don't think so,” Sherry began.
"Nonsense. What would you do otherwise? I doubt you will be able to sleep for the noise, and we would all be uncomfortable knowing you were trying to rest upstairs. There is the problem of what you will wear; I must make a call to attend to that right away. If you will trust me to see to it, I will have a few things sent to the house for your approval. Shoes, underwear, night clothing, makeup, and, I think, an assortment of casual wear? Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
Sherry would have liked to protest further. It seemed however that Lucien and his mother had much in common; they both were quick to assume responsibility, both used to having their own way. For the moment she had little choice except to let them. “There is one thing,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I would love a bath."
14
Sherry soaked in the bathtub for what seemed like hours, enjoying the silken warmth of the water and the bath salts and soap scented with damask roses. In the process she discovered bruises and strained muscles she had not known she possessed. Too indolent and contented to search for her shampoo, she used the same rose soap to lather her hair again and again. When she finally rinsed the last vestiges of the foaming suds from her hair under the shower, she felt clean at last.
The housekeeper, when applied to, produced a hand-held hair dryer. With it and the aid of a brush, Sherry was able to see her hair hanging like a shining curtain about her face once more. This done, there was nothing to occupy her. She could dress in Aimee's clothes and return downstairs, but she was certain her hostess was rearing, and she had no wish to see Lucien alone. With a bath sheet wrapped around her, she wandered about the room.
The appointments in this guest room were aqua and white. The carpet was so thick she left her footprints in it like tracks in the snow. The velvet bedspread on the extra-wide bed had such a soft shimmer that she hated to touch it. In one end was a grouping of chairs, table, and bookcases, giving the room the feel of a suite. Even here, however, the antique satin of the upholstery appeared more ornamental than useful.
What was she doing here in this room? It was as alien to her as Lucien Villeré himself. She should never have let herself be talked into staying. How could she know what purpose he had in mind? Something had changed his attitude, had set him off on this odd course. A week before, this was the last thing he had wanted, to see her in his home, to have her meet his friends, his mother, Paul, even Aimee. He had gone to great and improbable lengths to prevent it. What had caused him to reverse himself?
Could it be the peculiar marriage ceremony they had gone through together? Was there some significance to it she did not see, or that Lottie had failed to mention? Could it, in fact be completely binding, to the point that Lucien was certain she was no longer a threat to Paul's happiness? Still, how could that be the case? If Lucien intended to introduce her into the family as his wife in some sense, and therefore out of Paul's reach, he could not have taken into account the feelings that Paul might well be expected to have at learning his fiancée had been stolen out from under his nose. If Lucien thought Paul would be disillusioned by her fickle and mercenary conduct, there was one thing he had left out of his calculations. He had left it out because it was something he did not know, the essential fact that there had never been an engagement at all between Paul and herself.
Sherry moved to the window, staring-down into the garden where Chinese lanterns had been turned on in the gathering gloom. Though the rain had stopped, the light glistened on the wet surface of the brick-paved terrace that led from the rooms on the ground floor at the rear of the home. She drew a sharp breath, holding it against a feeling inside like pain. With sudden passion she wished that, false or not, the arrangement with Paul had never taken place, that she had never seen Lucien, never heard of the jumping of the broom, and never, no never, fallen in love with a pirate.
This somber train of thought was interrupted by a tap on the bedroom door. Drawing her towel closer around her, Sherry moved to answer it. The housekeeper stood outside, her arms piled high with dress boxes and plastic bags emblazoned with the name of one of New Orleans's oldest and most famous department stores. At Sherry's bidding the woman entered and, with a flourish, placed her load on the foot of the bed.
"Here you are, Mam'zelle. Madame Villeré told me of the loss of your wardrobe. Such a temple thing—except that it calls for a new one, eh? Will you be needing any help with zippers and hooks?"
"No, thank you, I don't think so,” Sherry answered, her lips curving in response to the woman's droll friendliness. When the housekeeper had gone, she stood staring at the boxes and bags. It appeared Lucien's mother had ordered an entire store for her approval. At least in that array there should be something she could wear.
The only trouble was, there was too much. Nearly every garment she tried, from long evening dresses to a pair of jogging shorts fit perfectly. There were three long dresses she could choose from to wear for the party. Sternly putting everything else to one side, she considered them. There was a cherry-red knit, a soft brown voile, and pale-gray crepe with turquoise shadings. Red had never been her color; it was too vivid, too overpowering. The voile was attractive; but too similar, with its off-shoulder ruffle, to the dress she had worn on the night she and Lucien had met. Gray might not be a festive color, but the hi
nt of turquoise in the folds brought out the color of her eyes, and it seemed, all in all, the closest match to her disposition.
She was buckling the straps of a pair of silver evening sandals when she thought she heard the sound of a sports car on the drive below. It was early yet for guests to be arriving. Paul, however, could not be considered a guest, The thought was not an agreeable one. It was not long afterward that a knock came again on the door. It was Lucien who stood in the opening. In correctly formal evening wear, he seemed cold and withdrawn, a stranger once more. His dark eyes met hers for a tense moment. It might have been a trick of the light, but she thought there was a look of torment in their depths before he glanced away.
"We have time for a drink before dinner, if you are ready,” he said.
Nodding, she stepped from the room, closing the door behind her. Together they moved down the hail, their backs straight, their steps in perfect unison. It was almost as if they moved reluctantly toward some dreaded goal, Sherry thought. She was painfully aware of the man beside her, of the fight impassivity of his features, his air of controlled strength and purpose. She felt an odd need to put out her hand to stop him, to call a halt to their grim advance. She did no such thing, but walked on, her chin high and her eyes fixed straight ahead.
With his hand beneath her elbow, they descended the stairs. They crossed a wide, open foyer, passing beneath an enormous brass chandelier which hung from the height of the second story above them, and entered the living room, whose double doors stood open in welcome. Only a series of table lamps lighted the dimness of the long room. They were enough to reveal the look of a reception area left ready for guests with every cushion in its proper place, a supply of ashtrays and coasters ready to hand, and a tray of drinks sitting on a small antique sideboard.
The room was not empty. At their entrance a man turned from the sideboard with a drink in his hand and a welcoming smile on his face.
Bayou Bride Page 17