When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(44)

Eventually she brought herself to speak once more. “I am sorry,” she said with difficulty. “I did not mean to provoke you.”

He gave a single nod, but did not reply.

———

Max thought he had mastered his emotions by the time he reached the library, but the tightness in his chest refused to go away. He closed the door and downed a brandy, welcoming its fiery smoothness.

For years he had been able to keep himself protected, shutting the past behind doors he had thought would never have to be opened. Feelings, needs, vulnerabilities, all seething behind the barriers he had constructed. And if just one of those doors were unlocked, the rest would follow rapidly, and he would be decimated.

He would not let that happen. But even now he could feel the splintering within himself, impossible to hold back.

Love had cost him everything before. In a way, it had been as fatal to him as it had to Corinne. His old self had died ten years ago— permanently, he had hoped. But it seemed that after all this time there was still something left of his heart, and it ached every moment Lysette was near.

———

Max left the plantation before supper, without telling anyone where he was going. Confronted by the sight of the empty place where her husband should have been, Lysette was too angry and upset to eat. She pushed her food around her plate while the family talked with forced animation. Living in the same house, they could not help but know that some kind of argument had taken place between Max and his wife.

It was Lysette’s misfortune that she overheard the private conversation between Bernard and Alexandre as they enjoyed wine and cigars in one of the double parlors after dinner. Searching for the needlework she had left earlier, she heard their low voices through the half-closed door, and she hesitated as she heard her name.

“I can’t help but pity Lysette,” Alexandre was saying a trifle nonchalantly. “The problem is, she’s too young for Max, and she can’t do a damn thing about that.”

Bernard’s voice was quieter and more thoughtful. “I would not say that is the problem, Alex. For all her youth, she is intelligent and handles him quite well.”

“Since when,” Alex asked dryly, “is intelligence desirable in a woman? I know I never look for it!”

“Well, that explains a great deal about the kind of women I’ve seen you with.”

Alex chuckled. “Dites-moi, mon frère… what is your opinion of our sweet sister-in-law’s inability to keep Maximilien home at night?”

“Very simple. She is not Corinne.”

Alexandre sounded startled. “Are you implying that Max still loves Corinne? She was a harlot.”

“Yes,” Bernard said calmly. “But she was beautiful and charming and irresistible. No man could stop himself from wanting her or falling in love with her. And no woman could ever equal her. In Max’s eyes, that is.”

“Apparently not in yours, either,” Alexandre said slowly. “I never knew she had such an effect on you.”

“She did on every man she encountered, little brother. You were just too young to notice.”

“Perhaps,” came Alexandre’s doubtful reply. “But as to this one, do you think there’s a chance Max will ever come to love her?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

Lysette edged away, the color running high in her cheeks. Hurt feelings battled with anger. Unconsciously she reached a hand up to her hair— the unruly hair that had caused her such misery in her youth. Corinne must have had the smooth, dark hair that Creoles prized so greatly. Corinne must have flirted to perfection with the men who admired her, and hypnotized them with her beauty.

She felt a presence behind her. Whirling, she began to speak, but stuttered into silence when she saw nothing but empty space in the softly lit hall. A ghost, she thought whimsically, and sighed, wondering if some phantom had an eternal claim on Max that Lysette could never hope to break.

———

Max returned at midnight, ushering in a sheet of rain and a dull crack of thunder from outside as he entered the house. The heavy rain had started early in the evening, breaking the oppressive heat and spreading its cooling touch over the steaming Louisiana marsh and swamps. The downpour had turned the streets and roads into deep sticky mud, almost impossible for horses’ hooves to slog through, more difficult yet for carriage wheels.

Max strode through the quiet house, his mouth hardening as he thought of his wife sleeping peacefully upstairs. For him the nights brought no rest, only torment, restless tossing and turning. He made his way to the curving staircase with the overcautious movements of a man who had raised his cup far too many times that evening. He was drunk, having spent his evening at a local tavern swilling strong spirits, not the refined burgundies and ports that Creole gentlemen usually restricted themselves to. Unfortunately, he was not drunk enough.

Water streamed from his hair and clothes to the summer matting on the floor and the carpet on the stairs. It gave Max a petty sense of satisfaction, knowing Noeline would fume tomorrow when she saw the muddy boot marks, but wouldn’t dare utter a word. No one dared reprove him for anything he did when his temper was foul. The entire family, including the servants, stayed well out of his way, knowing from experience that it was unwise to cross his path.

“Max,” he heard a soft voice as he reached the top of the stairs.