When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(10)

Max had met many women, far more well bred and blue-blooded than she, who were virtually illiterate. A good portion of Creole society considered that too much education was bad for a woman. He half leaned, half sat against the desk, facing her. “You have been educated, then,” he commented.

“Yes, thanks to my father. He hired a governess for my sister Jacqueline and me. We were taught to read and write, and to speak English as well as French. We studied history, geography, mathematics… even a volume or two of science. But after my father died, the governess was dismissed.” She picked up an engraved silver pen holder, rolling it between her slender fingers. “There wasn’t much more she could teach us, anyway. A woman’s education is only allowed to go so far, much to my regret.”

“What use would you have for more education?”

She smiled and returned his provoking gaze without batting an eye. “Perhaps, monsieur, I have ambitions other than serving as a brood mare to some pompous aristocrat who is afraid of having a wife who is smarter than he is.”

“You have a high estimation of your own intelligence, Mademoiselle Kersaint.”

“Does that bother you?” Her voice was silky soft.

Max was completely fascinated by her, his mind thoroughly engaged, his blood stirring at the challenge she presented. Good Lord, how he wanted to bed her. “No, it doesn’t.”

She smiled and smoothed the sheet of parchment before her. “If you don’t mind, monsieur, I would prefer a few minutes of privacy, while I exercise my inadequate feminine brain to compose a few coherent lines. Perhaps you would be so kind as to check my spelling afterward?”

It wasn’t her spelling that he wished to examine. Max managed to produce a cool smile, when his entire body was urging him to flip up her skirts, pull her onto his lap, and ravish her for hours. “I take my leave with all confidence in your abilities,” he said with an answering smile, and left her while he was still able.

Max had barely managed to conquer his raging lust by the time he returned to the salon. Irénée greeted him with obvious relief. “I knew that you would not take advantage of her, after all,” she said warmly. “Thank heaven you have changed your mind.”

He gave her a blank look. “I haven’t changed my mind about anything.”

Irénée’s face fell. “But the letter you are allowing her to write to her cousin—”

“The letter will never be sent. If I’m going to compromise her, I don’t want a damned cousin interfering.”

She stared at him in surprised dismay. “How could you, Max? I would never have believed you could take advantage of a woman this way!”

“You believe me to be capable of quite worse, Maman,” he said in a voice edged with sudden bitterness. “Don’t you?”

She looked away from him, unable to reply, her face drawn with a helpless regret that filled him with fury.

———

The Medarts came to the plantation house far sooner than Max had anticipated. Apparently they and the Sagesses were visiting every residence on the bayou road in an effort to ferret out any information about the young woman that had supposedly become lost. When Max and Irénée confirmed Lysette’s presence in their household, the Medarts were filled with obvious relief.

Max’s already established contempt for Gaspard Medart doubled upon meeting him. Medart was short, muscular, and hard-faced, his eyes like chips of obsidian. The thought that this cold little bully had beaten Lysette filled Max with a hostility that he found difficult to conceal.

Medart was accompanied by a corpulent woman with hair that had been inexpertly darkened with coffee. A frantic look had congealed on her face. The tante, Max surmised, suspecting that she had offered little objection to Medart’s abuse of his stepdaughter.

“Where is she?” Medart demanded, perspiring profusely. His gaze darted greedily around the room, as if he half suspected she were hiding behind a chair. “Where is Lysette? Bring her to me at once.”

Max introduced his mother, and they all sat as the housekeeper, Noeline, brought in a tray of refreshments. It was the Creole tradition that nothing was ever done in a hurry. Visits were conducted at a lazy pace, and almost every conversation began with the ritual of explaining family histories and recounting long lines of ancestors. New Orleanians never trusted a stranger with whom they could not establish at least one common relative. In fact, they were all so familiar with their own pedigrees that at least ten generations of distant cousins and farremoved offspring could be examined meticulously until the desired link was finally established.

Gaspard Medart, however, was too impatient to adhere to tradition. “I want to see my stepdaughter at once,” he demanded. “I have no time for idle chatter. Give her to me now.”

Irénée gave Max a glance of amazement at the man’s rudeness. Max turned an expressionless face to Medart. “Unfortunately, monsieur, I must impart some distressing news.”

“She has run away again!” Medart exploded. “I knew it!”

“No, nothing like that. Do not be alarmed. It is only that she has succumbed to a touch of fever.”

“Fever!” the tante exclaimed, clearly aware of the deadly plagues that occasionally swept the city.

“It seems to be a mild case,” Max said reassuringly, “but of course I have summoned the family doctor to examine her. Until he arrives, it would be dangerous to disturb her. She is resting in a guest room upstairs.”