Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.

  Copyright © 1974 and 2013 by Patricia Maxwell

  First Fawcett Gold Medal Mass Market Edition: 1974

  First E-Reads Publication: 1999

  First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

  1

  THE GALLOPING MUSIC of the contredanse swung to a halt, and Claire de Hauterive, breathless and flushed from exertion and the heat of the room, sank gratefully onto a satin-covered settee. Her partner seated himself beside her and, unfurling the tiny fan that hung on a ribbon from her wrist, began to fan her vigorously.

  “Idiot,” she said amiably, laughing at her cousin as she rescued the fragile ivory sticks threaded with pink ribbon.

  “You must be overheated,” Jean-Claude protested, “I am going up in flames. If you won’t use it, then fan me!”

  His face was red, his collar points, which had begun the evening in crisp white splendor reaching nearly to his eyes, were sadly wilted, and he did look unbearably hot in his black evening coat with its black satin collar. She took pity on him.

  “Not so hard! You will undo all my valet’s efforts,” he said, touching his heavy, intricately arranged cravat. “How do you like this hair style? It is called le cavalier.”

  “That is exactly what it looks like—as though you have been out horseback riding bareheaded. I don’t think anything I could do would harm it.”

  “Claire!”

  He relaxed, a grin slowly curving his mouth. “Wait until we are married. Then I will teach you to show a proper respect.”

  Claire gave him a warm smile before she turned away, her dark gold hair catching the gleam of two hundred candles. The prospect of marriage to Jean-Claude held no alarm for her. She had known for years that they were expected to wed. She was an orphan, the ward of her uncle, Jean-Claude’s father, and completely dependent upon him. She and Jean-Claude were of the same age. What could be more natural than that they should marry and live in a portion of the house on Royal Street? Among the Creoles of New Orleans, cousins often married. It would be an undemanding life. Jean-Claude’s mother would not allow her to worry herself about the running of the house. She and Jean-Claude liked each other, and if it was now only a brother and sister sort of affection, well, marriage would change that. After the second or third child Jean-Claude would, no doubt, install a quadroon mistress for himself, as most men did, and she would not object too strenuously because it would mean that she would not be as likely to have to bear a child every year. It was all very practical and convenient. The wonder was that they were not married already. Eighteen was very nearly an old maid for a girl, nearly time to throw her corset on top of the armoire, as the saying went. But Jean-Claude’s mother felt that eighteen was too young for a man to be tied down. She wanted him to make a grand tour first, but the war in Europe had, so far, made it impossible. Napoleon had been mewed up on St. Helena for several months, but Jean-Claude’s mother, remembering the little Corsican’s escape from Elba, refused to allow her son to set sail for France until she was sure that the English had him fast. Napoleon, she knew, was Jean-Claude’s hero of the moment, and she had a lively fear that if hostilities broke out again her son might feel compelled to join in the fray.

  If the prospect of marriage and her life afterward seemed flat and unexciting to Claire, she did not think of complaining. Too many of her friends had been affianced to strange men who carried them off to their homes far from New Orleans into the unknown and dangerous reaches of the bayou country, to plantations surrounded by primeval swamps, and virgin forests. Some had married widowers with several children whom they were expected to mother, or older or unattractive men whose only recommendation was the money that lined their pockets. Jean-Claude was at least familiar, young, and handsome in a boyish manner, with his chestnut curls, long-lashed brown eyes, and olive complexion.

  “Look!” Jean-Claude, leaning close, suddenly hissed in her ear.

  Following the direction of his slight nod, she swung her gaze toward the door.

  A man stood in the doorway, just relinquishing his hat and cane to the Negro butler behind him. He was tall and dark, and his tailor had not needed to resort to padding to achieve the superb fit of his evening coat across his shoulders. His white shirt and cravat were severely plain, in contrast to the dress of the other men in the room, many of whom wore rows of ruching on their shirt fronts while a few still clung to lace-edged sleeves and cravats.

  “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “You mean you don’t recognize—no, no, of course you don’t,” Jean-Claude answered himself. “Justin Leroux hasn’t made his bow in polite society in ten years at the least. He is the best swordsman and the worst rake in New Orleans. I daresay you have heard of him, at any rate? Saints! Our hostess will be on her head. What a thing to have happen to her carefully arranged soirée!”

  Claire cast her cousin a questioning glance, searching her mind for some memory of the man, but nothing came.

  Near her there came a whisper in the sudden hush that had fallen over the company.

  “As handsome as the Angel of Darkness—”

  It was a woman’s voice, and though it was not an expression Claire would have thought to use, the words found an echo in her mind as she stared at the averted face of the newcomer. His features seen in profile were perfectly formed: a strong chin, classically straight nose, deep-set eyes, and a broad forehead. But dissipation marked his face and his mouth was set in severe lines, almost like those of endured pain. It was difficult to say how old he was, but he must have been more than thirty if what Jean-Claude had said was true.

  As if the intensity of her gaze had drawn his attention, Justin Leroux looked directly at Claire as he turned. Staring into his hooded black eyes, whose thick lashes hid his thoughts like a veil, Claire did not at first see the other side of his face.

  A murmur ran around the room. Their hostess signaled frantically, and immediately the five musicians seated on a dais in one corner of the room struck up a quadrille.

  Claire felt the color draining from her face, but she could not force herself to look away, though she was aware of the furtive movement as an old lady—one of the chaperons seated on a chair near her—made the sign of the cross. It was as if she were under some form of compulsion, her body would not obey her will. Slowly a feeling of cold despair crept over her, and the mantle of an old guilt settled over her shoulders. Compassion held her in its grip. Though she had been enjoying them a moment before, the loud music and the people moving into their positions to dance now rasped at her nerves. Half of her mind recognized this feeling of pity, recognized the empathy that caused it, while the other half rejected it with a kind of horror. Then, slowly, the horror faded and she was left with desolation in her heart.

  “Claire—” The touch of Jean-Claude’s hand on her arm released her. She shuddered on a long breath and dropped her eyes. There was a tightness in her throat and the pressure of unshed tears against the back of her eyes.

  “The mark of Cain,” she murmured, without re
alizing she was speaking aloud.

  “For God’s sake, Claire. Keep quiet. Two men have died, another been crippled for life, and a half-dozen more bloodied for saying less than that. But I thought you must have heard of Justin. Few can forget a man who killed his own uncle in a duel, and a mighty smoky meeting at that.”

  “He can hardly issue a challenge to me,” Claire said, trying valiantly for a return of their light banter.

  “No,” Jean-Claude agreed in a troubled voice. “But Justin has always had the temper of the devil, and little respect for women. Also it must have been some time since he has associated with a jeune fille.”

  “Really, Jean-Claude! But is it true? Is that really a mark of Cain?” She spoke softly, for her cousin’s ear alone. And she could not keep her gaze from returning to the scar carved into the right side of Justin Leroux’s face. It began high on his cheek bone and curved down the lean side of his cheek to his chin, a white crescent very like the letter C.

  “Of course not. He has had the scar since he was a child. That is one thing everyone is agreed on. I don’t know him that well—above my touch, I’m afraid. I don’t fly with that group; haven’t the feathers, not to mention the years. Anyway, maman would fall into strong hysterics if she heard I was even seen with his set, much less—”

  “What is going to happen now?” Claire interrupted him abruptly. She had noticed several women turning their backs on the man in the doorway, their chins high with indignation.

  “Nothing will happen. Didn’t I tell you Justin is the best swordsman in the city? Not a man in this room would dare to give him the cut direct, including me! If our host is wise—yes, you see? He goes toward him. Good manners will do the rest, I think.”

  “Yes,” Claire said, slowly letting out the breath she was holding. What had she been afraid of? She was not sure, and yet there was something about the man that told her instinctively that the social barriers that insured good behavior held little meaning for him.

  “What troubles me,” Jean-Claude mused, “is why Justin is here. He has avoided all social contact for so long, one can only suppose him to be turning over a new leaf—or hanging out for a wife.”

  “A wife?”

  Her cousin shrugged. “Well, consider. Why else would he make the effort? What is there here in this gathering that cannot be had in much more comfort and with more gaiety at the quadroon balls on St. Ann Street. The answer? A respectable young lady, a suitable parti, for marriage. But enough. Would you like to dance again? This one is slower, a courante.”

  “No. I think not, mon cher. Ask someone else, if you like.”

  “I wasn’t anxious to take the floor,” he replied, inserting a finger into his cravat and tugging to loosen it. “Are you sure you feel well? Dancing is usually your greatest pleasure. And you had the oddest expression on your face just now, when Justin walked in.”

  She colored a little, but did not attempt to deny it. “I—I can’t explain it to you,” she said, her brown eyes thoughtful. “But as I looked at Justin Leroux, I felt this terrible pity rise up inside me. It was frightening.”

  Jean-Claude stared at her and she returned his look. She knew she sounded distraught, and yet she had only spoken the truth. It was too much to expect her level-headed cousin to understand.

  “Hrumph!”

  The sound, so close, startled both of them. They looked up to see their host standing before them, with Justin Leroux at his side.

  “A thousand pardons Mademoiselle de Hauterive,” he said, coughing apologetically, “but Monsieur Leroux desires to be presented to you and to your cousin. I beg leave to present to you Monsieur Justin Leroux of Sans Songe plantation and the city. Monsieur Leroux, I have the great honor of making you known to Mademoiselle Claire de Hauterive and Monsieur Jean-Claude de Hauterive.” Having completed the formal introductions, he bowed and, muttering something about his wife, departed with suspicious alacrity.

  There was a small silence. Justin Leroux studied Claire, a measuring look in his black eyes. Claire could feel a flush rising on her face, and she sensed the interest directed at them from all sides. Then he smiled, a chill movement of the lips that was without humor, and for the first time Claire saw the anger that flickered beneath the surface of his calm expression.

  Had he heard what she and Jean-Claude were saying? It did not seem possible above the noise of the crowd and the music, but she had no idea how long he had been standing there.

  “I believe it is now proper for me to request the privilege of this dance,” Justin said, then turned to the man beside her. “—that is, if you have no objections,” he added, one brow arched in mocking inquiry.

  “I had only just refused my cousin,” Claire said quickly, before Jean-Claude could speak, knowing that he could not deny the courteously phrased request without risking a disturbance.

  “Oh,” Justin asked smoothly, “what has that to do with my invitation?”

  “You—you must see that it would not do for me to accept an invitation to dance with one gentleman in the face of another whom I had refused?”

  “I am certain your cousin would understand.”

  “I believe not, m’sieur. You see, he is also my fiancé.” She smiled as she spoke, certain that she had made him an unanswerable excuse.

  There was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, then he turned to Jean-Claude. “This is so?”

  She was aware of her cousin’s speculative glance at her before he made Justin a half bow from where he stood. “Yes, m’sieur,” he agreed.

  “She wears no betrothal ring.”

  “No, it has not been formally announced.”

  “Then the wedding is not imminent?”

  Once again, Jean-Claude was forced to concede this was so.

  “You will not mind, I know, if your bride-to-be dances with me. It is such a small thing.”

  There was an undercurrent in his voice that even Claire could not miss. She saw the corners of her cousin’s mouth tighten. She knew that in spite of what he had said, in spite of his respect for the other man’s reputation as a swordsman and his prowess on the dueling field, that he would defy Justin Leroux for her sake if he thought she really did not wish to stand up with him on the dance floor.

  Jean-Claude spoke. “It is possibly a small thing to you Monsieur Leroux, but it is what ma cousine wishes that is important.”

  “Well spoken,” Justin said, outwardly affable but with a trace of steel in his tone. “Then I take it I have your permission if I can but obtain the lady’s?”

  “Oh, very well!” Claire exclaimed, as she saw her cousin’s face grow grim. Rising, she placed her hand on Justin’s arm and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor.

  The courante was a graceful dance much like the stately minuet that had fallen from favor, though without the excess formality of the latter. It was possible to speak to one’s partner as one went down the room. However, having gained his object, Justin did not seem inclined to talk. They turned at the end of the room, and Claire, now on his left arm, slanted a glance at the side of his face. Seen at close range, the scar was not as startling as she had first thought. The sun-bronzed skin around it was smooth, the thin line of the scar itself was white and only faintly puckered just beneath his eye where the wound must have gone deeper. No, it was the contrast between that injured cheek and the perfection of the rest of his face that had caused that feeling of outrage and sadness, as though she had witnessed the results of wanton destruction.

  The couple ahead of them looked back over their shoulders. The man nodded at Justin, but the woman sent Claire a look of such displeasure that she was reminded once again of his position, or lack of it, in their social circle. It was a reminder also of her fear, fear that had given him the ascendancy over her will.

  “I believe it was mentioned that you have a plantation. Is it far from New Orleans?” she asked in a brittle voice, determined to behave in the correct manner.

  “I expect you would think so,” he an
swered, gravely following her lead. “Sans Songe is nearly a day’s ride from the city.”

  “Sans Songe; without illusions, a strange name.”

  “It was called Fleur de la Pois, originally, which means the pick of the lot—the best. My father changed the name several years after his marriage.”

  She flashed a look at him, caught by some unidentifiable emotion in his voice, then looked away again.

  “Is it a large place?” It followed that it must be if it enabled him to keep a residence in the city also.

  “Fairly. It takes a good bit of acreage to grow sugar cane. It is good land, bottom land, near the bayou La Beau.”

  Claire shivered a little. Bayou country. Deep, dark forest, snakes, alligators, prowling animals, far from civilization. “You—you like it there, at Sans Songe?”

  “Yes, of course, and so would you, once you knew it.”

  “I very much doubt it,” she said fervently.

  The music was slowing to an end, Claire noticed with relief. She swept her partner a deep curtsy, holding it as the last strains died, then started to turn away.

  “Wait,” he commanded, touching her arm with the tips of his fingers. She raised her eyes to his, startled by his peremptory tone. He indicated one of the french windows that stood open to the cool night air. “Let us walk out onto the gallery for a few minutes.”

  “I—I couldn’t.”

  “I fail to see why. I am not, after all, such a dangerous character, despite what you have been told. And I would like to further our acquaintance.”

  “I meant I couldn’t without my aunt’s permission. It isn’t done.”

  He frowned with impatience, then swung around to stare at the line of dowagers sitting on the chaperon’s chairs against the wall on one side of the room.

  “Your aunt is—”

  “The lady in puce satin,” she replied, pointing out her aunt who was staring at them, a scowl on her plump features.

  “She looks a veritable dragon,” he observed. “I don’t believe we will require her permission.”