"But if he abandoned you, if you misjudged him so badly, how can you believe that his stepson will make me such a wonderful husband?" At her mother's stunned look, Micaela asked gently, "Were you hoping that we would have the happy ending you did not?"
A stricken expression on her face, Lisette's gaze met Micaela's. "I do not know," she said in a low voice. "I do not know."
Some of the confidence that had been hers faded for Micaela. If her mother had been so very wrong about John Lancaster, what was not to say that she had also badly misjudged Hugh? Except, in the deepest recesses of her heart, Micaela did not believe it. She knew that her husband did not love her, but at least he had spared her the pain of seeing him pretend that he did. And yet, he had been so very kind, generous, and considerate toward her. Her throat grew tight as she remembered the nights they had lain together as man and wife. He had also been so very tender with her.
Giving herself a decided shake, she asked, "Are you not curious about Hugh's step-papa, Maman?" Her eyes twinkled. "Have you thought that he may be bald and fat? Or so dissipated with drink and wild living that you find him repulsive? Are you not the least curious about what the years have done to him?"
"Perhaps a little, but it will be very hard to see him again, knowing that in the end he did not want me."
"Bah! He was a fool then!"
Lisette stared at Micaela, uncertainty in her eyes. "There is much that you do not know, petite, but I think you may be right. He was a fool!"
"Bon! And now we will talk of something far more pleasant," Micaela said. Her voice taking on a teasing tone, she murmured, "Just what do you think we should wear to greet the gentlemen when they arrive? Something, perhaps, to make old Monsieur Lancaster's eyes pop out of his head, oui?"
Lisette laughed. "You are a wicked child! I must have raised you badly."
The two women smiled at each other and then went on to other topics. On Thursday morning, they arose early and spent a frantic morning, instructing Cook on the lavish and mouthwatering meal they wanted for the gentlemen and then retiring to their rooms, respectively to tear their wardrobes apart searching for the perfect gown in which to stun the gentlemen.
Both women were looking fetching in the extreme by midmorning, Lisette in a gown of pale plum muslin and Micaela dressed in a frock of butter yellow jaconet. Lisette's hair was confined in a sophisticated chignon, while Micaela had chosen to wear her hair in a pretty coronet of thick black braids wrapped intricately around her head. They were ready hours ahead of time and were seated under the shade of one of the many trees near the house, when the message that his trip would be delayed arrived from Hugh.
Micaela's face fell, and her pleasurable excitement faded as she read Hugh's brief note. Disappointment evident, she said, "They are not coming. My husband writes that they are 'delayed.' He is not certain when they will come—he thinks on Monday."
Some of the glow went out of Lisette's face. "Ah, I see," she said smoothly. "Does Hugh say why they are delayed?"
Micaela shook her head. "Non. Here, you may read it yourself."
Lisette read the note. Pasting a smile on her face, she rose determinedly to her feet. "I think we had better tell Cook that we are not having company today, after all," she said firmly. "And then we shall change our clothing and finish our list of items that we need for the house from New Orleans. We can send it off today with Hugh's servant when he leaves to return to the city, oui?"
They did exactly that, and if the day had not turned out as they expected, both felt pleased with their endeavors. The list, and it was a very long list, had been sent off as planned and they now had the happy prospect of the eventual arrival of wagonloads of new furnishings to contemplate. It was only that night as she lay alone in one of the big beds which had come with the house that Micaela admitted how very disappointed she had been by Hugh's unexpected postponement of his trip. She was mortified that she had been so excited by the simple prospect of seeing her husband again. She was also determined not to let him raise her hopes again. Completely forgetting the icy cordiality that had existed between them prior to the move to Amour, or the fact that Hugh had had no way of knowing that she would be crushed by his delay, she believed that his delay had been deliberate. He was clearly showing her just how very little she meant to him. Zut! She would not allow him to hurt her this way. What did she care whether or not he came? When he did finally put in an appearance, she would meet him with a charmingly indifferent smile. He would, she vowed, that night, never, ever suspect how hurt and wounded she had been by his delay.
Over the next few days mother and daughter had time to repair their damaged feelings, and when Hugh and John finally did arrive at Amour on Monday afternoon, they were greeted by two busy women wearing their oldest gowns, who had been industriously overseeing the cleaning of the enormous attics.
Both had studiously polite smiles on their faces and a cobweb or two clinging to the gaily colored tignons they had worn on their heads to protect their hair from the worst of the dust and debris.
"Oh! You are here," Micaela said with artless surprise as she walked into the second salon, the only one with any decent furnishings at the moment. "Did you have a pleasant journey?"
Her gaze barely touched her husband before she glanced shyly at the tall, older man standing beside Hugh. He was very handsome, this John Lancaster who had claimed her mother's heart and then abandoned her so long ago, she thought. Not at all bald and fat. To her surprise, she found the friendly glimmer in his dark eyes and the winsome smile on his dark, lean face vastly appealing. His features were full of character, and Micaela sensed an innate honesty about him—he certainly did not look like a man who would have deserted a woman he had claimed to love, and she wondered briefly if events had happened precisely as Lisette remembered them.
With a much friendlier smile than she had given her husband curving her mouth, she said, "And you must be my new papa-in-law! I am Hugh's wife, Micaela. Welcome to Amour, monsieur." And astonishing herself as much as it did everyone else, she crossed the room on light feet and warmly kissed John on both cheeks in the French manner of greeting. Her dark eyes shining, she murmured, "We hope that you will enjoy your stay with us."
"After a greeting like that, I can assure you that I certainly will!" John exclaimed, plainly enchanted by Hugh's bride. She looked, he thought with a sharp pang, very like her mother. And yet, as he gazed down into her lively features, he was aware that there was something disturbingly familiar about her that owed nothing to Lisette, something about the shape of that sturdy little chin and that finely molded nose. Renault? he speculated to himself, ignoring the tight ball of rage that bloomed in his stomach.
"And this," Hugh said dryly, breaking into the little silence that had fallen as John and Micaela studied each other, "is my maman-in-law, Lisette Dupree. I believe that you may have met her when the company was first founded."
With a jerk, John tore his gaze away from Micaela and his breath caught painfully as his eyes met Lisette's across the room. My God! he thought stunned. She has not changed a bit. She looks just as lovely as she did over twenty years ago.
Mindful of the estrangement and the gulf of the years between them, as well as the presence of the others, John bowed stiffly. "Madame. The years have been exceptionally kind to you."
"And you, monsieur," Lisette said with equal restraint despite the thunderous thudding of her heart. Dieu! But he was still a handsome devil. With his dark, almost swarthy skin, the silver wings at his temples only increased his attractiveness. Lisette was terribly conscious of the leap in her pulse when he reached out and kissed her hand with cool politeness.
Their eyes met and for a long moment, the world fell away, and there was just the two of them. Then Hugh coughed politely and Lisette started violently; John dropped her hand as if stung. Almost as one they sprang apart, putting the width of half a room between them.
Lisette gave a strained little laugh and babbled, "If you will excuse me, I mus
t go and see that Cook is—um—following instructions for our evening meal."
Under Micaela's bemused stare, Lisette bolted from the room. Monsieur Lancaster obviously still had the power to overset her usually so calm and collected maman. Consideringly she eyed him, noticing that he seemed almost as affected by the meeting with the woman he had deserted over twenty years ago as her mother. His color was high, and he appeared greatly disturbed. This was most interesting!
Micaela glanced at Hugh to see what he had made of the situation and it was then that she noticed for the first time the torn sleeve of his jacket and the dried bloodstains. Her face paled. "Merci! Merci! What has happened to you?" she cried. "Are you hurt?"
Amusement glittering in his gray eyes, Hugh looked down at his wounded arm. "Oh, that. It is just a little wound. Nothing to worry about."
"Nothing to worry about!" Micaela exclaimed as she skimmed across the room to see for herself the extent of the damage. Any notion of treating him with cool politeness vanished the instant she spied the bloodstained sleeve. "Please you must sit and let me see for myself. But first let me ring for a servant to bring us something to clean it with and some cloth for bandages."
As Hugh obediently sat, Micaela rang for a servant. Turning back to her husband, she fussed over him, helping him so gently out of his jacket that one would have thought he was near unto death. Once the jacket had been removed and his shirt partially undone, Micaela sank to her knees beside his chair, scrupulously ignoring the tantalizing expanse of his broad chest. The sight of the deep angry red furrow along his muscular upper arm brought a dismayed gasp from her. "How did this happen?" Her voice dropped. "Not another duel?"
Rather enjoying having his wife minister to him, Hugh shook his head and murmured, "No duel, sweetheart. Someone shot at me on the road this morning." His eyes met John's. "We think it might have been a bandit."
"A bandit. Dieu! But this is terrible." She swallowed and looking at the wound once more, said softly, "You might have been killed."
Hugh lifted her chin. Unable to help himself, he dropped a kiss on her tempting, trembling mouth. "And would that have bothered you, hmm? You would be a very rich widow."
Micaela scowled at him. Slapping his hand away, she replied crossly, "I do not want to be a widow! I have barely begun to be a wife."
Hugh grinned and settled back in the chair. Not for the world would he admit that he would suffer a hundred wounds, ten times worse than this, just to have her looking at him as she was right now. Perhaps she had begun to care, just a little, for him?
The servant, a slim, black man named Michel, entered the room and, after hearing Micaela's instructions, returned presently with the items she had requested. With John watching, she efficiently cleaned the wound, slathered on a cooling salve of herbs, then tenderly wrapped the area. Despite Hugh's protests, she convinced him that for a day or two at least, he should keep the arm in a sling.
"It will heal so much faster, you understand," she said earnestly.
"If it pleases you, sweetheart," Hugh replied meekly, beginning to think rather fondly of the gentleman who had shot him.
"Do you wish to lie down and rest? Shall I help you to your room? Or should I ring for Michel?" Micaela asked anxiously, when a square of black silk had been procured and fashioned into a sling for his arm.
Feeling as if spring had finally arrived after a long, cold winter, Hugh was not about to allow Micaela to revert to her previous manner. Taking full advantage of her tender concern, he sighed and murmured in a suitably weary tone of voice, "I am somewhat exhausted. If you will just let me lean on you a trifle, I should be able to make it to our rooms."
Ignoring the amusement in his stepfather's eyes, Hugh draped himself around Micaela and managed, with her help, to totter toward the door. The sensation of feeling her arms around him again, even if he'd had to practice guile and craft to accomplish it, was sheer delight. It was worth getting shot, he thought cheerfully, to have Micaela's slender shoulders tenderly supporting his drooping body and her arms locked securely around his waist.
Reveling in the sound of Micaela's soft, concerned voice washing sweetly over him, he had forgotten about John. It was only when they reached the door and John rather loudly cleared his throat that Hugh and Micaela were recalled to his presence.
"Oh, monsieur! Forgive me!" she cried in deeply mortified accents as she glanced back at him. "Would you like for me to ring for a servant to bring you some refreshment or to show you to your rooms? If you like, you may rest and refresh yourself before we dine at seven o'clock."
"Oh, that will not be necessary," John said. "You run along with Hugh." He sent Hugh a mocking look. "I completely understand that your husband's health is of the utmost importance to you at this moment. I think, however, if you have no objections, that I shall wait here for the return of Madame Dupree. Perhaps you could arrange it so that she could give me a brief tour of the place before I see my rooms and change for dinner?"
Micaela studied him for a moment, beguiled by his smile and the tiny twinkle in the depths of his handsome eyes. Dieu! Maman was going to kill her! She dimpled at him and said, "Of course, monsieur! I shall send a servant to find her immediately."
"Thank you. Thank you very much," John replied gravely.
* * *
Hugh managed to maintain his air of suffering all the way up the stairs and into their rooms. He had left the choice of their bedchambers to Micaela, and he was pleased with the suite she had selected. It consisted of two large rooms, each with its own separate entrance from the main, broad hallway and each with its own private sitting area. A pair of spacious dressing rooms separated the two bedrooms, and there was a wide interior hallway which gave private access to the sleeping chambers.
Beyond an enormous high-poster bed with a faded canopy of blue-and-white printed linen there was only one other piece of furniture in his bedroom—a huge rosewood armoire which sat against one wall. Curtains in the same faded blue-and-white linen draped the many windows, blocking out the hot sunlight, and the room was dim and cool. There was a pair of wide French doors which opened onto the upper gallery, and a faded painted canvas rug of various shades of blue lay upon the yellow-pine floor.
In anticipation of his arrival, Micaela had had the bed freshly made up that very morning, and, closing his eyes as he sank down onto the sunshine-scented sheets, Hugh sighed with bliss. He was, he realized with amusement and despair, precisely where he most wanted to be—in his own bed, in his home, and with his lovely wife hovering attentively nearby. What more could a man ask for? He carefully opened one eye a crack. Micaela's sweet face filled his gaze as she stood uncertainly by the door to the main hallway. His wife. That was what he wanted. His wife, in his bed, lying right by his side.
"Will you be all right if I leave for a little while?" Micaela asked softly. "I really should go and see that all is well in the kitchen and that Maman is entertaining your step-papa properly."
Hugh groaned with heartrending realism. "Must you?" he asked weakly.
Micaela sped to his side. "Merci! Are you all right? Where does it hurt? What can I do to make you more comfortable?"
A particularly vivid and explicitly erotic image floated across his mind. A rush of heat charged through his body, and he was conscious of the sweet biting ache of desire churning low in his belly. If Micaela's eyes happened to fall on a certain part of his anatomy, she would have no trouble, he thought ruefully, guessing what would make him comfortable.
Half propping himself up with his good arm, he murmured pathetically, "Perhaps you could help me out of my shirt and pull off my boots for me?"
It never occurred to her that a servant could do all that as well. "Oh, oui, of course!" Micaela replied as she set to work to accomplish his request.
His boots were easily discarded, but she seemed to have an inordinate amount of trouble getting his shirt off of him; his arms kept sliding around her, his hands, accidentally she was sure, kept brushing against her h
ips, the back of her neck, and the sides of her breasts. He seemed to have trouble controlling his head, too, his lips nuzzling her temples and hair. By the time his shirt was finally laid on the end of the bed, Micaela was flushed and flustered.
The occasional scrape of his warm face against her cheek as they struggled to remove the offending garment, the musky intoxicating scent of his body, and the accidental brush of his lips on her skin were stunningly arousing, and she was mortified by her response to his nearness. He was wounded. He had been shot! And she was determined to hold herself politely aloof from him, wasn't she? It was all well and good to remind herself of those things, but she was very conscious of the half-naked man on the bed, tinglingly aware of every muscle, every sinew that lay bare to her gaze. It seemed like an eternity since she had lain in his arms. She was embarrassingly conscious of the slow, sweet ache that was building between her thighs and the throbbing swell of her nipples.
Averting her gaze from his all-too-appealing charms, she said breathlessly, "I must go. I shall send a servant with some broth and some wine and bread for you."
His voice warm and husky, Hugh reached out a hand and caught one of hers. "Do not," he murmured. He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. "Stay with me... please?"
Their eyes met, and what she saw in the depths of those intent gray eyes made her knees go weak. He did not love her, she reminded herself. He had married her simply because of the business. And had abandoned her in the country, while he, no doubt, caroused and womanized in New Orleans. She was angry with him, hurt by him. It did no good. Her heart was not listening to her brain. Her body did not wish to listen to cold, hard reasoning either.
As she stood there hesitating, heart and body locked in a powerful struggle with what she was certain was clear-thinking logic, Hugh gave a tug to her hand. "Please?" he said again, so softly she almost did not hear him. But her heart did. Her body did.
Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3) Page 23
