When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(57)

“A kiss, to start with.” He smiled as Lysette twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his ardently. “Later,” he murmured, “I’ll tell you what you can do to earn the matching necklace.”

She blushed and laughed, and walked back with him to the entrance hall.

“Ah, let me see!” Irénée exclaimed, immediately catching sight of the finery. She took Lysette’s wrist and turned it from one side to the other, appraising the bracelet with the analytical expertise of a jeweler. “Quite exquisite, mon fils,” she said to Max. “The stones are of excellent quality.”

Alex cleared his throat noisily, alerting them to the fact that it was time to leave. “We don’t wish to be late, do we?”

Lysette took Max’s arm and murmured sotto voce, “Isn’t Bernard coming?”

Max shook his head, suddenly grim. “Bernard doesn’t usually care for these events. And he wants to avoid me this evening, as we had an argument earlier.”

“About what?”

“I’ll explain later.”

The ball was being hosted at Seraphiné, one of the plantations lining the river road. Lysette thought the main house was magnificent, with wide galleries and rows of dormer windows built out from the sloping green tile roof. The inside of the house was just as impressive, furnished with venetian chandeliers, richly colored rugs, and massive portraits of prominent Seraphiné ancestors.

Along the sides of the great dance hall, ladies fatigued by the dancing rested their feet, and the chaperones of eligible Creole girls sat to monitor their charges. Groups of young men positioned themselves nearby, most of them wearing colchemardes, small but deadly sword-canes. Hot-tempered youths were wont to quarrel at such affairs, and duels were the natural result of even insignificant disputes.

Alexandre amused Lysette by relating an account of the last ball he had attended, at which a duel had exploded in the middle of the room, instead of being conducted outside. Men had chosen sides, benches and chairs had been thrown, women had fainted, and the military guard had been forced to storm inside to quell the riot.

“What caused the duel?” Lysette asked.

Alexandre grinned. “One of the young men happened to tread on another’s toes. It was taken to be a deliberate insult, et ainsi de suite… a duel.”

“Creole men are dreadful,” Lysette said with a laugh, placing her hand on her husband’s arm. “Why do you not wear a colchemarde, Max? Don’t you intend to defend your toes if the need arises?”

“You defend them for me,” he replied, his gaze warm.

There was a ripple of murmurs and speculation as the Vallerands ventured farther into the ballroom.

Reminding herself that she had nothing to be afraid of, Lysette forced a smile to her lips. Suddenly a pair of intense, jet-black eyes stared into hers. They belonged to a small, delicate-featured man standing across the room, surrounded by a large entourage. He continued to stare at her steadily, causing a light blush to steal over her face.

“It appears,” she heard Max mutter, “that you’ve attracted Colonel Burr’s notice.”

“That is him?” Lysette exclaimed in a whisper. “But it can’t be. I expected him to be…”

“What?” Max asked, now sounding amused.

“Taller,” she blurted out, and he laughed quietly.

In the distance, Burr murmured to one of his companions. “And now,” Max said under his breath, “he is asking who you are. And if he pays too much attention to you, he’s going to have a duel on his hands. Let us hope one of his aides warns him that I’m a much better marksman than Alexander Hamilton.”

Lysette blanched, recalling that Colonel Burr had reportedly forced Hamilton, a patriot who had helped write the new constitution, into a duel that Burr had been certain to win. Many had called it cold-blooded murder, for it had been known by all that Burr’s dueling skills were far superior to Hamilton’s. It was rumored that Burr had shown not one sign of compassion or regret for Hamilton’s death.

“Let’s have no more talk of duels,” she said hastily.

Before Max could reply, the mayor of New Orleans, Mr. John Watkins, appeared at his elbow. After greeting them effusively, the mayor informed them that Colonel Burr desired to make their acquaintance.

“We are honored,” Max said perfunctorily, following the mayor with Lysette on his arm.

Colonel Burr was dressed with the exquisite care of a dandy. Lysette liked the fact that although he had lost much of his hair at the front and crown, he did not wear a wig. Max had told her that Burr was at least forty-eight, but the colonel appeared much younger. His face was deeply tanned, and his smile was quick and self-assured. And those jet-black eyes were even more remarkable up close, filled with snapping energy and vitality.

Although a man of Burr’s size was physically dwarfed by Max’s superior height, the former vice president had a magnetic presence that held its own. He made a great show of kissing Irénée’s and Lysette’s hands, then looked up at Max.

“Monsieur Vallerand,” Burr said in English, “at last we meet.” He regarded Lysette with twinkling eyes as he continued. “My congratulations on your marriage, sir. Now, having seen your lovely bride, I consider you the most fortunate of men.”