by Martha Hix
“Paul, eh? Don’t take me for a fool, Emmie. Your slip of the tongue speaks for itself.”
Well, he had her on that. Now was the moment she had been waiting for. For weeks she had wanted her uncle’s counsel about Paul. But why did the opportunity to get it arrive on the heels of losing her virginity? She blanched at the mere thought of Uncle Rankin knowing all.
“I’ve no wish to deny it—I know him. But don’t try to imply anything beyond that.” Emma confessed she had called on Paul in an attempt to thwart the match between him and Marian. “With you out of town, I was trying to protect the Oliver interests.”
“I can see ye had your heart in the right place, but I don’t condone your methods. Got in thicker than ye supposed, eh?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “Cleopatra tells me ye spent the night in Rousseau’s room.”
“I’ll strangle her!”
“Now, now, girl. Don’t let your Gaelic temper get the better of ye. Though I know ye mean Cleopatra no harm,” he tacked on, then steepled his fingers in front of his face, resting his chin on his thumbs. “I’m in a bit of a predicament, Emmie my girl. You tell me how should I handle the situation. I’ve got a dear niece who I love as if she were my own daughter, and she’s slept with the man who torched my factor house. Do I call him out and avenge my loss and her fallen honor, thus taking the chance of her bringing a fatherless babe into the family . . . or do I turn the other cheek and prevail upon Étienne Rousseau’s son to do right by my beloved niece?”
“He’s the product of Angélique Rousseau, too,” Emma reminded him, shaken. “And d-don’t worry about unwanted babies.” Oh, saints above, why hadn’t she thought about that?
“I warned you not to take me for a fool, girl. Last night ye were caught in his embrace—right in Howard O’Reilly’s drawing room, remember? And ye did share a night with Rousseau—the night before the fire.” Rankin’s gaze was speculative. “Or wasn’t he man enough to perform in bed?”
Flying to Paul’s defense and shocked at the bold question, she said, “Of course he was man enough!”
“Just as I thought. Well then, shall I call Paul Rousseau out?”
“Absolutely not! Don’t make me a part of this lunacy you practice here in New Orleans. The courts will decide how to rectify the fire, and the . . . and what’s between me and Paul is personal. I’ll not allow a life to be lost over either issue!”
The door creaked open. “Which life concerns you the most, Emma?”
She whipped around. Cambric shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Paul cocked his arm against the door frame. Her heart pounded, with both love and embarrassment at being caught discussing him. “Why, you—”
“Thank you. Now I know where your loyalties lie.”
“Why you sneak, that’s what I meant!” You’re right. You are more important to me. She yearned to rush into his arms and declare her feelings. But here in this office, in the presence of the man Paul had done evil, she wouldn’t do it. “Don’t place yourself too high in what you believe are my sentiments. You’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“I doubt it.” Pushing away from his stance, he said, “Remember early this morning, just before I left? You’re the one who must be, mm, sore.”
He was laying their whole affair open! “Drat you—you slimy, slithering snake!”
“Snake? Ah well. You, ma bien-aimée, should know.”
“That’s enough!” Rankin cut in, the slap of his palm against the desktop interlacing his demand. “What do ye want, Rousseau?”
Paul clipped a mock salute at Emma and then turned back to her uncle. “Work started today on your factory, so I’m here to lend a hand.”
“The criminal returns to the scene of the crime, eh?” Rankin hunched forward, flattening his palms on the desk as he sneered at Paul.
“The innocent bystander returns to . . .” Paul straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t without a certain amount of guilt over the fire, and he wanted to make inroads with Emma, to show sincerity. “I’m not spoiling for a quarrel,” he explained. “You ought to consider granting me a few moments of your time before I join the workers outside. It could be to your benefit.”
Watching her uncle’s reaction, Emma held her breath. He was scowling, but as the moments ticked away his sharp frown eased.
Rankin nodded. “I’ll grant you a few minutes. Sit down—both of you, sit down.”
Emma took one of the two armchairs fronting the desk, Paul the other. She had to hand him one thing—it took courage for the accused to face his accusers. She respected that.
Not looking Emma’s way, he crossed his arms over his chest. “My attorney’s advised against it, but I want to clear the air about the fire. No pun intended. Secondly, there seems to be some doubt as to my former intentions toward your widowed daughter-in-law. Wait! Don’t say a word till I’m finished. . . . Thank you.”
Emma listened as he gave his version of the fire. His story hadn’t changed appreciably, and she watched her uncle’s expression change from skeptical to questioning.
“And ye only went in the building to tamp out the flames?”
“I went in with only one thought in mind: doing justice to you. For too long the feud between our families has gone on. I want to have a free heart . . . after all these years,” Paul said. “As for Marian, well, I’m prone to the charms of women, but I meant and did her no harm. And Emma can attest that I can perform in the bedroom. Isn’t that right, chérie?”
Obviously he had overheard quite a lot of her conversation with her uncle, and she realized something else. Paul had made no idle threat about using fair means or foul. Well, two could play at that. “You lie!”
“Do I?” Paul reached for her fingers. “Can you say with all honesty that I’m impotent?”
“Rousseau!” Rankin exclaimed.
In any other situation, Emma would have throttled her lover. There was no end to the torment he inflicted on her.
“I am going to marry your niece.” Paul eased himself from the chair. Standing tall, he said, “She may very well be enceinte, and she’ll have the protection of my name.”
“You’ve said nothing about love,” Rankin prompted.
Paul swallowed hard. “Many marriages have started with less than what we share.”
A dull throbbing began at her temples, and Emma’s spirits sank. Had she been a fool to think he loved her? Had he proposed marriage only in the name of decency and honor? “Forget it. Your name and so-called protection mean nothing to me.”
“Ah, ma bien-aimée, that’s just what I expected you to say. Perhaps I should restate my words. I will give my child the protection of my name. Don’t try to stop me.”
She shuddered at her possible predicament, yet the thought of bearing his child wasn’t repulsive. “Don’t do this.”
“Give it up, Rousseau. She says she didn’t sleep with ye, and I believe her,” Rankin said emphatically. “I may tend to agree with your story on the fire, but ye’ll never receive my blessings to a union between an Oliver and a Rousseau.”
“Your blessings are not what I’m after. I’m just stating facts. I’m going to make Mademoiselle Emma Oliver my wife; and if you don’t like it, you can stew in your own juice.”
“Ye bastard!” Spoiling for battle, Rankin grew white with rage. “I’ve had enough! Choose the weapons—because I’m challenging ye!”
Emma couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart. Her anxiety over what might transpire was terrible.
“I accept your call to arms. St. Anthony’s Garden it is. Rapiers at dawn.”
Horrified, Emma begged them to be reasonable, but it was fruitless.
“Until tomorrow,” Paul said as he departed. “And today I help build a factor house. Au revoir, my future wife.”
The rest of that day and night, Emma prayed that something—anything—would happen to stop the upcoming duel. Emotionally she was in turmoil. She was dedicated to preserving life, yet a life might be lost—because of her!
&
nbsp; And what if the life lost was Paul’s? She could very well be pregnant, and then would be without his protection. Her future was at stake. She didn’t want to risk bringing a fatherless child into the world.
Just before dawn she went to her uncle’s room to beg him to cease this madness. He denied her request, however, and forbade her to witness the duel.
But she was not to be denied. The landau carrying Emma drew up to St. Anthony’s Garden, and she got out as the sun peeked through the clouds, ribboning the sky with muted orange and pink. Dew moistened the ground. A steam whistle sounded from the Mississippi River, nearly drowning out the bells of St. Louis Cathedral. The contest had not yet begun. Both men wore form-fitting white, Paul’s dark coloring a contrast to the material.
“I told ye to stay home,” Rankin shouted, as he stomped toward her.
Paul, confident and arrogant, held his ground while gripping a triangular foil. His wrist flicked, and sunlight reflected from the steel blade as he eyed Emma. A half-smile pulling at one cheek, he nodded recognition.
She lifted her eyes to her uncle, who now blocked her view. “What he said is true. I’ve been intimate with him. And I’m going to take him as husband.”
Rankin’s blond brows drew together. “Why did ye lie, Emmie?”
“Pride, I guess. I didn’t want you to think ill of me.”
“’Twould take more than weakness of the flesh for that.”
His gloved hand gripping the handle, Paul held the point of his rapier downward and strode over to them. “Ready, Oliver?”
“Call off the challenge,” she pleaded.
“No,” Rankin said. “I will not.”
She grabbed his arm. “Only yesterday you put the decision in my hands. Now I’m telling you I’ve made it—I want the protection of Paul’s name!”
Displaying a gleeful smirk at her words, Paul said, “You needn’t fear, chérie. I shall be victorious.”
“Take your womanly whinings back to Magnolia Hall.” Rankin pulled back from her grip and thrust the tip of his foil toward the arena. “And you, Rousseau, take your mark.”
Confession had been useless, but Emma wouldn’t run from the duel. She knew that swift medical attention might save a life.
Forcing herself not to hide her face behind shaking hands, she watched the pair square off. Her eyes were on Paul. His right foot angled toward her uncle, his knees bent slightly, he tipped the blade skyward with one hand. His left hand was held high, in balance. There was no stiffness to his pose; he was ready for instant execution.
“En garde, Oliver!”
Swords twanged as they thrust and parried—Emma lost count of the times. Paul withdrew his blade just far enough to clear the tip of the other foil. With lightning swiftness, he flexed his arm and wrist, cutting over and lunging forward to strike at the other man’s chest. Rankin’s right foot retreated, then the other. To her, they sparred for what seemed like hours, but it must have been mere minutes. Her uncle made an attempt to feint, but Paul was too swift.
In one direct motion he executed a sharp, forward-striking action to the weak point of his opponent’s blade, disarming the older man, and he lunged forward. Emma screamed, “No!” just as the tip of his foil thrust against Rankin’s chest.
Paul stopped short of a mortal wound.
Panting and humiliated, Rankin bit out, “Finish what you started, Rousseau.”
“I’ve no wish to kill you.” Paul dropped the point of his blade and rubbed the bell guard of his victorious sword.
“Don’t dishonor me.”
“I have.” He cast a meaningful glance at Emma. “But I’ll not have my bride wearing mourning garb to our wedding.”
He strutted to her, took something from his vest, and captured her hand. “With my grandmother’s ring”—he slipped a delicate band of gold, one enhanced by emeralds and diamonds, onto her left ring finger—“I will thee wed.”
Aunt Tillie had an attack of the vapors upon hearing of the match, yet she made a remarkable recovery in order to supervise the wedding preparations.
And the bells of St. Louis Cathedral tolled for the marriage three days later. Emma wore a white lace and satin gown that had been hastily, but beautifully, stitched by New Orleans’s best dressmaker. Isn’t white supposed to be indicative of purity? she asked herself, feeling hypocritical as the priest recited the ancient rites of matrimony.
But that feeling of hypocracy didn’t spoil Emma’s frame of mind. She was resigned to the marriage, she loved Paul, and she felt certain he’d grow to love her.
The wedding party then descended on Magnolia Hall for the reception, at which champagne, and edible delicacies were served to the accompaniment of music.
“I believe it’s traditional for the bride and groom to have the first dance,” Paul said, pulling Emma into his arms.
She smiled up into his face. “And I thought you didn’t believe in conventions.”
“Don’t hold me to words once spoken.” He whirled her in step with the music. “Matter of fact, I’m thinking we should leave for the hotel right now. A glass of champagne and an armful of my naked wife, that’s what I’m wanting and needing.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed. But—”
Wordlessly, Rankin tapped Paul on the shoulder and pulled Emma away. Paul winked at her, then stepped back.
“I don’t trust him,” her uncle said, easing into step with the tune. “Leaving here after Throckmorton’s funeral was a mistake on my part.” He shot an angry glare Paul’s way. “I should’ve protected you against that bas—”
“Don’t call my husband foul names.” Emma exerted pressure on his hand. “It’s too late for might-have-been’s. Paul and I are married now, and we should all make the best of it.”
Her uncle grimaced. “Would that I could. Rousseau blood runs cold in his veins. Beware of his intentions.”
“That’s unfair. His intentions seem honorable enough. No one forced him to marry me, you know.”
Rankin wasn’t to be swayed. “What about the fire?”
“Paul says he isn’t guilty, and I . . .” She disliked being selfish, but her present situation had to take precedence. There was no changing the past; she had to look out for the future. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
“He’ll hurt you, Emmie, and—”
“I believe I’m next,” Howard cut in. “Must dance with the bride, you know.”
Boulogne followed suit. “Pardon, but I wish you to know, I’m sorry you married another. I always thought that you and I might—”
“Doctor! I never thought such a thing.” She smiled at her husband, who was patting Aunt Tillie’s hand. “This is my wedding day, and you shouldn’t spoil it.”
“Forgive me. Out of line, I was.”
Relieved, she said, “Now that you’ve signed my certification, I’m going to set up practice in St. Martinsville. My husband’s allowed me to be very generous with my personal funds, so I’ve bought medical supplies rather than a trousseau to honor our marriage.”
“A strange man he is. I would have bought you both the supplies and the trousseau.”
The incessant tapping on his shoulder brought Boulogne to a halt. Emma turned into another man’s arms. Over her shoulder, she saw Cleopatra laughing with Paul.
The mammy was exuberant with her own happiness; Cleopatra had found an old love, a man called Ben, and Emma was pleased for the two of them.
There was a tap on her partner’s shoulder, and one by one, the other gentlemen took their turns at dancing with the bride. Emma smiled and laughed, and occasionally cast longing-filled glances at her husband. Uncle Rankin’s prediction was filed into the back of her mind.
Dinner went smoothly, but lasted forever. She was aching to be in Paul’s arms again. At least he sat beside her, his leg finding ways to twine with hers. As his hand canvassed her thigh, her heart beat wildly.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered in her ear, his breath drawing from her a delighted shiver.
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br /> “The cake. We’ll leave as soon as we cut it.”
He rose to his feet. “My wife and I thank you for this pleasant reception,” he announced to the others at the table, “but surely you can appreciate that we need to get that cake divided up. Emma here has been begging me to take her to the bridal chamber, and—ouch!” He moved his injured foot aside. “Pardon me. I meant my bride grows weary from the festivities.”
A round of laughter filled the air. Yet Uncle Rankin didn’t join in; his face was set in a scowl.
Aunt Tillie rose to her feet, fluttering her hands. “Dear me, it is getting late. It’s back to the ballroom for all of us. Come along, Rankin darling.”
“Us too,” Paul murmured in his wife’s ear. “By the way, have I ever told you how much I like the way you shiver when I blow in your ear?”
“No.”
“It pleases me, as I know it does you.” His hand on the small of her back, he herded her into the ballroom.
The wedding cake, a fruited concoction with white icing, was tiered into five layers. Paul’s big palm, warm and powerful, covered Emma’s small hand as they drew a silver knife through the bottom layer. As she fed him a bite, his teeth nipped at her fingers. Thinking about his lips on her bare flesh, she tingled with anticipation.
Cleopatra adjusted the many-feathered hat that dwarfed her petite body. “You gonna stand there all night, or is you gonna let an expert do the cake-cutting?”
Emma handed over the knife and leaned to place a quick kiss on her mammy’s cheek. “Sometimes I think you’re in collusion with my husband.”
“Tee-hee.” Cleopatra jabbed Paul’s stomach with her elbow, as if they shared a private joke. “Why’d you think I told the master about what you and Frenchie done that night in his hotel room?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I think—”
“If he be mine, I’d be getting my clothes changed so’s I could get him alone in that fancy room of his. Now don’t you go to looking at me like that, missy. You be tired, remember?”
“Remember?” Paul put in, winking at Cleopatra.
“Heretics!”
