Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion

by Janet Chapman

  “It’s not what you’ve done. It’s what you’ve not done.”

  “Margo,” he guessed.

  “Yes. She feels helpless here, out of place. Doing business is what she knows, and she tried to help you. We all did. Didn’t you ever hear about marriages being a partnership?”

  “Marriage! Who said anything about marriage?”

  “You better, if she stays here.”

  On the alert, he asked, “Has she talked about leaving?” “No, but anyone as bruised as she is won’t stick around for more abuse.”

  “I have never abused any woman, certainly not her.”

  “Laurent, you and Elizabeth loved each other, I suppose, but almost in a brother-sister kind of way. No, don’t interrupt. I might be six years younger than you, but I saw things. Now you’re being offered the kind of love you deserve. And passion. Yes, you idiot, I know what passion is. Are you going to throw it away?”

  Laurent stared at her departing back, not needing to look behind him to know that Ivory and Delilah had heard it all. But then he really thought about the words Lettie had hurled at him. She was right. Pride didn’t warm a man’s bed . . . or his life.

  Tossing his hammer down, he stomped down to the kitchen, where Margo was making more of that cheesecake slop of hers. She looked up, and looked again.

  “Wha-what?” she asked, no doubt noticing the expression on his face, which could be anger, frustration, lust, or . . . love.

  “Stand up, Margo.”

  “Huh?”

  Not waiting for her to comply, he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and walked away. He could smell the faint scent of her perfume, a luxury she’d been carrying in her purse when she arrived. He wished he could gift her with more. He would some day, he swore he would.

  But, for now, he’d just given every fool at Rosylyn . . . probably up and down the river . . . something to gossip about for the next year.

  When he got to the old gazebo, he set her squirming, squealing body down, and said, “We have to talk.”

  “There’s nothing you have to say that I want to hear.”

  He hoped that wasn’t true. He stared at her for a long moment, then opened a vein . . . or was it his heart?

  “I love you.”

  I went to a garden party . . .

  Margo floated on a cloud of happiness for the next week.

  He loves me, was the refrain that rang through her mind throughout the day, no matter what she was doing. And all night long, he told her and showed her.

  She couldn’t have been happier, except that she hadn’t yet told him about today’s Speed Dating Garden Party. Oh, he knew they were planning a garden party. “Have a good time, Lettie,” he’d said, patting her back. “You deserve a party.” He’d even watched as they cleared up the flower garden, exposing pretty flowers and bushes, and about a hundred snakes. “It’s a lot of time to waste . . . uh spend, for one day,” he’d complained, “but it does look nice.”

  Every chair in the place had been taken outside. Then, they’d dragged stumps from the woodshed that hadn’t yet been cut for firewood. They were being used for small tables, covered by miniature tablecloths, which Sophie, of all people, made for them out of old stained or ripped tablecloths. “Aren’t they cute?” he’d said.

  Oh, Lord! she’d thought. She’d tried repeatedly to broach the subject, but he kept putting her off, telling her that they needed to put the French Market incident behind them and not bring up any potential problems in the future. So, coward that she was, she’d put it off.

  You can always apologize later, the bad side of her brain said.

  If he’ll let you, the good side countered.

  Well, it was too late now. She and Lettie stood in their new dresses, wearing subtle makeup and lipstick, looking over the setting. Granny Belle was making the tea. Sophie had polished an old dented silver service that she’d found, and it was set out on the lower side loggia off the gardens. Sulee would be collecting money as people arrived, and Fleur would be taking any loose wraps inside. Delilah would be serving. Margo and Lettie would make the introductions and explain the rules.

  By three o’clock, the party was almost over, and it was a resounding success. Not one person complained about the fee, some connections were being made, and everyone was having a good time.

  “One more round, folks,” Margo announced, and forcibly pushed Lettie to sit down at a stump . . . uh, table with James Fontenot, the New Orleans banker with two children. Even Margo had to admit he was hot, knowing he had eyes for only Lettie.

  At first, Lettie resisted, but then she smiled and said, “Well, fiddle-dee-dee! All right.”

  “What did you say, Lettie?” James inquired.

  She just batted her eyelashes and smiled in a way Southern Belles must have been doing for ages.

  Everything was going to be all right, she told herself, as she gazed at everyone chatting, drinking tea, eating little sugar biscuits, and most of all finding a possible mate.

  That was before she got her first look at an incensed Laurent walking over to the flower garden. Someone must have told him.

  There wasn’t a speck of love in his stormy gray eyes now. Truthfully, it appeared more like hate.

  And for the first time Margo realized that this time things were not going to work out, not as planned. Not at all.

  Fool me once, you’re a fool; fool me twice . . .

  Laurent had gone by riverboat to Baton Rouge that morning and completed his business with his new sugar agent in record time. Under normal circumstances, he would have liked to stop for a meal with old friends, but today he was anxious to return home.

  The boat stopped about ten miles from Rosylyn to pick up a few passengers . . . acquaintances he’d known in the old days. The sneers they cast his way boded ill for any strengthening of those ties.

  “Bodine, Steven,” he said, nodding.

  “Laurent,” they both replied.

  Then Bodine spoke up, “So how come we didn’t get invited to your garden party?”

  “Probably because you didn’t have the five-dollar entrance fee,” Steven told Bodine.

  “And you weren’t in the market for a wife, seeing as how you already have one,” Bodine countered back with a snicker.

  “What the hell are you two talkin’ about?”

  Bodine pulled a piece of parchment from his jacket and handed it to him with a smirk. A garden party invitation.

  His eyes went wide at what he read. Then he walked away to lean against a far railing.

  Again, they had done it to him again, but this time they would make him the laughingstock of the entire state. How could they? How could she?

  He felt frozen by the time he got off the boat at his own wharf and saw that the party was just breaking up. He recognized many of the people who were leaving and waving gaily at him.

  “Too bad you missed a fine party, Laurent.”

  “It was so good seeing your sister again. You must come by soon.”

  “Your new friend is delightful.”

  “I haven’t had so much fun since before the war.”

  Near the side loggia, he saw Delilah stacking several piles of coins, then handing them to Lettie who put them into a small box.

  As one, Lettie and Margo realized he was back, and the guilt on their faces made it clear that they’d known how he would react, and had done it anyway.

  “Leave us,” he told Lettie.

  “Now, Laurent, be reasonable,” Lettie begged.

  “Not now, Lettie. Go.”

  She left reluctantly, leaving him to face Margo alone.

  “I won’t beg you to understand.”

  “I don’t want any explanations from you,” he spat out. “You knew how I felt after your antics at the French Market. I forgave you then, but—”

  “You forgave me? You forgave me?” Her voice dripped with disdain. “I did nothing to forgive, except keep you in the dark, and no wonder. You are the most stubborn, ill-tempere
d brute in the world.”

  “That makes it easier for me to tell you to leave Rosylyn, first thing in the morning. Keep your money,” he waved a hand at the money chest on the table behind her. “You’ll need it to get a hotel room in the city, or wherever the hell you want to go. In fact, if you want, I recalled while I was away that there’s a sugar planter up Houma way, on Bayou Black, with the name of Etienne Baptiste. Maybe he’s one of your relatives. You could go there.”

  She was no longer looking obstinate. In fact, she appeared wounded. “I love you, Laurent,” she said softly.

  His heart lurched, and his lungs felt crushed. “Too bad that’s not enough.” He walked away.

  Eight

  Had leaving Tara been as hard for Scarlett? . . .

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, Lettie,” Margo said early the next morning as she finished packing up her few possessions into a small canvas carpetbag. “Laurent needs you here.”

  “He’s a fool. Don’t go. He’ll change his mind, I know he will.”

  “No. I’ve pushed him too far this time. Oh, I’m not excusing him, honey. He never gave us a chance to explain. And, darn it, everyone had a good time, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, and if you go, I’m going to have more of those parties. I am. I don’t care if Laurent has a hissy fit.”

  “Be tolerant of him, Lettie.”

  “I hate him.”

  “No, you don’t, and I don’t, either. He’s a good man. He cares about all of you, and he’s done it alone for so long that he doesn’t know how to give up that control to accept a little help.”

  “If you feel that way, stay, and convince him to change.”

  “I can’t, Lettie. There is a famous expression in my time.”

  Lettie swiped at her eyes. “Another famous expression?”

  She smiled. “This expression is: if you love someone, you have to set them free.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that I love Laurent, but my love isn’t good for him. He needs to be free of me.”

  Lettie started to bawl.

  A short time later, Margo stood at the end of the wharf waiting for whatever water vessel passed by to hitch a ride to New Orleans, where it had started. She was alone, as she’d insisted to Lettie and all the teary-eyed servants that she wanted to be.

  As for Laurent, she hadn’t seen him last night after his tirade or this morning. For all she knew he was off somewhere blitzed on okra wine.

  She sighed deeply, waved at the approaching flatboat, and told herself, Tomorrow is another day. Dammit!

  Clueless men: the same throughout the ages . . .

  Lettie found Laurent in the barn where he was dunking his head in the horse trough. He must have slept here last night.

  She shoved him in the chest, almost knocking him over.

  “Hey, what was that for?”

  “I’ll tell you what that was for, you bloomin’ idiot. For losin’ the best thing you ever had.”

  “Margo?”

  “Yes, Margo. How could you, Laurie? How could you?”

  “A man needs—”

  “No! I doan wanna hear any blather about men and their pride.” Full-out bawling now, her words came between sobs, her nose running. She had a full steam on for all the things she’d stored up to lash at him.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Laurent, let me ask you something? Margo told me one day that if you had your druthers, if you didn’t have all of us here, that you would go off to the California gold fields to seek your fortune.”

  “She had no right to tell you that.”

  “She had every right. She loves you, and I’m your sister, who also loves you. But don’t you see what a burden that puts on all of us, to know we’re holding you back? We want to help, for our sakes, as well as yours.”

  He took her in his arms and held her until her crying died down. “What Margo failed to tell you is that, yes, I did feel that way at one time, but I haven’t for a long time. All of you here are my family, and Rosylyn is where I want to be, God-willing.”

  “And Margo?”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “That might be difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s gone.”

  Laurent went cold as ice. Yes, he’d told her to leave, but he hadn’t really meant it. Had he? Raising his chin, he told his sister, with not just promise, but determination in his voice, “Not for long.”

  She was dealing for her life . . .

  Margo was surprisingly calm.

  Between Rosylyn and New Orleans, she’d made some decisions. She was a fighter, not a quitter. But first she needed a plan.

  She’d arrived in New Orleans about ten A.M. and registered at the Vieux Carre Hotel. Talk about irony! Then she went to the French Market where she, thankfully, found her jeweler, Mr. Goldstein, and bargained hardy for the sale of her Cartier wristwatch, which was unique in her time, and really unique in 1870.

  “But I can’t afford that kind of money!”

  “I can’t afford to sell it for less. Keep in mind, there are three carats of diamonds in this thing, in a platinum setting, and the mechanism will probably last for hundreds of years. You’ll never find another like this, I guarantee it.”

  “Six thousand dollars.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Maybe there’s another jeweler who can afford it.”

  “Eight thousand.”

  “Really, don’t feel bad. Maybe I’ll travel north to New York City. Bet there are wealthy jewelers there.”

  He sighed heavily. “Ten thousand then. In paper?” he asked hopefully.

  “What do you think?”

  So, by two P.M., after a trip to the bank with Mr. Goldstein, she was back at her hotel, waiting for Laurent. Without a watch, she wasn’t sure of the time as she waited. But she knew he would come eventually. He had to.

  A hurricane was about to hit New Orleans, and it wasn’t Katrina . . .

  Laurent knocked on the door of Margo’s hotel room.

  He felt a bit silly, having donned a suit, the best he had, which wasn’t much. Widow-bait clothing, Lettie had teased as she sent him off. But he wanted to do this right.

  She opened the door almost immediately, and, damn, she looked as if she’d been expecting him. She was wearing a new dress and that intoxicating perfume.

  “You left.” Dumb, dumb, dumb. Where are all the charming words I’ve been practicing?

  “I did. You told me to.”

  Since when do you listen to what I tell you? “I didn’t mean it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Where were you all night?”

  “I tried to get drunk.”

  “On okra wine?”

  “No, I might have gone off half-cocked, but not that far. I tried to drink bourbon, but I couldn’t. I tried to sleep and kept having these awful dreams. As if it was me, but not me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I was crying in one of them, staring at a body of water where there was a sinking boat.”

  She nodded. “That would have been when Larry’s wife Bethany drowned. She was pregnant at the time, and he was devastated.”

  “I felt his devastation. In others, he . . . I mean I . . . was sitting in a tavern with men similarly dressed with almost-shaved heads. They were drinking and laughing, except me, or Larry, or whoever. There was just this overpowering sadness.”

  “I don’t think he ever got over his loss, even after five years.”

  “But why me?”

  “I don’t know. Just as I don’t know why this time-travel thing happened. I can only believe that it was a miracle, and that God used Larry to get me to you.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  There was a flash of emotion in her eyes before she went blank again, hiding her feelings. She was deliberately making this hard for him.

 
“And?” she prodded.

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Pfff! Did you think I would change overnight?”

  That pleased him, but he didn’t dare smile. Yet. “Stay, Margo, and marry me.”

  She closed her eyes for several seconds and seemed to be praying. In thanks, he hoped. Not for nerve to refuse him.

  “Sit down, Laurent. We need to talk.” She waved a hand to the small table with two chairs.

  He would much rather sit on that big bed over there with her. Or not sit.

  Like a good boy, he sat on one chair, and she sat on the other.

  She took his hand in hers. “Laurent, what do you really want?”

  “To marry you.”

  She smiled and squeezed his fingers, which he took for a good sign.

  “No, I mean about your life. If you had your choice and no financial worries, what would you do? Leave Rosylyn and go to the gold fields? Go abroad? Or stay at Rosylyn and bring it back to life?”

  He thought for several minutes, giving it the time it deserved. “I would stay, if I could.”

  The smile that lit her face then was almost miraculous, but what did it mean?

  “Here’s the deal, Laurent, and believe you me, I have learned this morning just what a good dealer I am. If I marry you, would you be willing to accept a dowry? Or would you go all postal again?”

  “Postal?”

  “Would your overinflated male pride accept a dowry?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. This was a trap, he knew it was. “How much?”

  “No matter how much money is involved, for me to marry you, it would have to be a partnership, each contributing something. Other than love, you own the physical property, that’s your contribution, and my contribution would be . . . a certain amount of money.”

  He weighed the two sides of her proposition, but really there was no question. Have her or not? “Yes, I would accept that.”

  She shocked him then by dropping down on her knees before him and asking, “Will you marry me, Laurent Duvall?” Then she laid her face on his knees and burst out crying.

  A short time later, a way too short a time later, they lay naked and sated on the bed, having pledged their betrothal in the age-old way.