Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(77)

Justin would have replied, but his attention was caught by a hard, questioning stare from his father. His blue eyes met Maxmilien’s piercing golden ones. It was obvious Max either knew or suspected what was going on between them. Don’t make foolish mistakes, his father’s gaze said. Justin smiled slightly, sending his own silent warning: Don’t interfere.

The Duquesne plantation blazed with light and merriment. It was a typical Creole ball, the women delicately beautiful, the men hot-tempered and dangerous, the music vigorous, and the gaiety infused with volatile energy. For all their apparent frailty, the ladies were known to dance for hours without tiring, sometimes all night. Sometimes the young bucks would provoke each other into duels which would be held outside as they tested their honor and their masculine pride.

The guests had brought their own guests, for this was the time of year when relatives visited family homes and stayed for weeks on end. Strangers—of Creole or French descent—were always welcome. There was nothing Creoles loved more than delving into an unknown’s background and asking countless questions about his family and past. Even better was to discover a common ancestor, no matter how obscure. Creoles felt that a person was not quite acceptable unless he was related either to their family or to someone they knew.

The matrons, dressed in satin gowns and elaborate wigs, sat on small silk-upholstered chairs and busily kept each other en rapport with the latest gossip, for the details of the newest scandals must be scrutinized. To them, nothing that happened in the world at large was as important or as fascinating as what occurred in New Orleans.

The married men collected in their own groups, discussing politics, hunting, and other such masculine subjects, while the unmarried ones went through the intricacies of courting the favor of strictly chaperoned young women.

A startling hush fell over the gathering as the Vallerands entered the large cream and white colored ballroom. The Duquesnes hurried to greet them, and suddenly there was a multitude of welcoming cries. Celia braced herself as a crowd surrounded them.

“Dr. Vallerand,” an elderly woman exclaimed, “to finally see you with my own eyes—c’est merveilleux!”

“Philippe! I did not believe it until this moment—”

“They said you were wounded—”

“Is it true about the pirates—”

“It is a miracle, vraiment—”

Justin replied gravely to the inquiries and statements, suffering many impetuous embraces and hearty kisses. Creoles were never too abashed to display their feelings. Evidently Justin’s appearance was enough to quell any suspicions, for he could detect no signs of hesitancy or censure in any of the faces around him. After a while, the initial torrent began to slow, and his Uncle Alexandre appeared with his Aunt Henriette in tow.

Justin glanced at Maximilien, who had remained by his side. “Does Uncle Alex know who I am?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“He has not asked,” Maximilien replied matter-of-factly.

Of course not. Alexandre was Max’s younger brother, unquestionably loyal to the family. Whatever story they put forth Alex would support. Unfortunately his wife, Henriette, a lovely but featherbrained woman, was given to gossip. It would be necessary to maintain the pretense in front of her.

“Philippe.” Alexandre took his shoulders and embraced him briefly. Like the other Vallerand males, Alex was tall and dark-haired, with a temperament that could be as charming as it was volatile. His eyes met Justin’s. He nodded briefly as if he saw what he had expected. “It is good to see you again—though I never expected to.”

Justin grinned at him, knowing Alexandre was not deceived. “You always were my favorite uncle, Alex.”

Craving attention, Henriette stepped between them and lifted her face pertly. “Shame, shame, Philippe, refusing to see anyone all these weeks! I’ve had no news to give my friends during Thursday coffees!”

“Forgive me,” Justin said, and laughingly placed a kiss on either side of her face. Henriette seemed to believe he really was Philippe. “Truly, there’s been nothing of interest to tell. I’ve done nothing but rest and submit to the expert nursing of my devoted wife.” He grinned down at Celia. He would have liked to slide an arm around her waist, but Philippe would not have made such a familiar gesture in public.

“Philippe, when you walked in you seemed to limp,” Henriette observed tactlessly. “Is it permanent?”

There was a split-second of silence, and Celia answered before Justin could. “It may be,” she said, looking pointedly at Henriette. “But it gives him a rather dashing air, don’t you think?”

Henriette flushed. “Oh yes, of course.”

Justin smiled at Celia as Alexandre dragged his wife away. “Little heart, I don’t need protecting,” he said softly.

“Empty-headed, gossipy hen,” Celia grumbled. “She is no credit to the Vallerand family.”

“Neither am I,” Justin said dryly, pulling her to the side of the room underneath one of the many large columned arches. The Vallerands stood in a small group and watched the dancers negotiate their way through a quadrille, their feet moving airily over the shining maple floor. Lysette smiled and conversed lightly with those who sought her attention while Maximilien became involved in a conversation with their host, George Duquesne.

Innumerable people approached Justin, men who wanted to hear the story of his escape from the pirates, women who made attempts to flirt with him, elderly matrons who asked his advice on how to treat their ailments. Celia was able to help with the latter, explaining that her husband was not yet well enough to resume his practice. Occasionally she hinted at remedies for them to try. There were many things she had learned from being a doctor’s daughter, and she was thankful that her memory was excellent when it came to such matters.