When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(80)



———

Early in the morning, Max strode down the long curved staircase, having been sent out of the bedroom with Lysette’s adamant refusal to ride around the plantation with him. After the previous night’s vigorous lovemaking, she had decided that it would be too uncomfortable for her to manage the highspirited Arabian he had recently purchased for her.

As he headed to the front door, his attention was caught by the sound of a groan from one of the double parlors. Investigating the sound, he saw Alexandre’s long body stretched out on the parlor settee, one booted foot braced on the gilded rococo arm, the other resting on the floor. His hair was wild, his face unshaven, and his clothes were disheveled. There was a sour alcoholic smell in the air.

“What a pretty sight,” Max remarked sardonically. “A Vallerand after a night of self-indulgence.” He jerked the drapes away from the windows, letting in a flood of brilliant sunshine.

Alex groaned as if he had just been stabbed. “Oh, you evil bastard.”

“Fourth night this week?” Max said casually. “Even for you, that is an excess.”

Alex tried to burrow into the settee, like a wounded animal seeking refuge. “Go to hell.”

“Not until I find out what is bothering you. At this rate you’ll kill yourself by the end of the week.”

Alex made a smacking noise and caught the scent of his own breath. His face crumpled in disgust. He squinted at Max and raised an unsteady finger to point at him. “You…” he said heavily, “tipped your wife this morning, didn’t you?”

Max smiled pleasantly.

“I can always tell by the disgusting smirk on your face. Tell me… married life suit you? Good. Too bad you ruined it for the rest of us.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Did you ever think I might like to have a wife… a woman to cover whenever I felt like it… maybe even have children someday?”

“Why don’t you?”

“Why?“ Alex wobbled to a sitting position, holding his head as if he feared it would topple from his shoulders. “After you ruined the Vallerand name, do you think a decent family would give their daughter to a brother of yours? All fine and good for you now… you’ve got Lysette… but me…”

“Alex, tais-toi,” Max said, his amusement replaced by compassion. He sat in a nearby chair. “Hush.” He had never seen his youngest brother so miserable. “I should wait until you’re sober before attempting this, but we’re going to try talking about it anyway.”

“All right,” Alexandre said gamely.

“Now, this is about Henriette Clement, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in love with her? You desire permission to court her?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t believe her father will give his consent?”

“I know he won’t. I’ve already tried.”

Max frowned. “You’ve asked for Clement’s leave to court Henriette, and he refused?”

“Yes!” Alexandre began to nod, and stopped with a wince. “And she loves me… I think.”

Leaning forward, Max spoke slowly. “I will take care of it. For your part, I want you to— Alexandre, are you listening? Stay here and rest today. And tonight. No more drinking, do you understand?”

“No more,” Alex repeated obediently.

“I’m going to tell Noeline to bring you her special remedy.”

“Bon Dieu, no.”

“You’ll do it,” Max said evenly, “if you want Henriette. By tomorrow morning I want you looking like a fresh-faced boy.”

“I can do it,” Alex said after a moment’s painful thought.

“Good.” Max smiled and stood up. “You should have talked to me about this before, instead of drinking yourself into a stupor.”

“I didn’t think you could do anything.” Alex paused. “Still don’t, really.”

“People can be managed,” Max assured him.

Alex looked up at him quizzically. “Are you going to threaten a duel?”

“No,” Max said with a laugh. “I think the Vallerands have had enough of dueling.”

“Max… if you persuade Clement to say yes… I… I’ll kiss your feet.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Max said dryly.

———

Jacques Clement greeted Max in the hallway with wry amusement. “I expected you would be here today, Vallerand. Here on your brother’s behalf, oui? Father is having café in the breakfast room.”

Max leaned against one of the elaborately carved columns framing the wall. He was in no hurry to confront Jacques’ father, Diron Clement, who was a venerable lion of a man, and in a perpetually bad temper. Descended from the first French settlers in the Louisiana Territory, Creole in every drop of his blood, Diron had no tolerance for those who wished Louisiana to become part of the United States. Or for those who were on friendly terms with the American governor.

The old man was experienced and clever, and had proven himself to be a survivor. Along with Victor Vallerand, Diron had been richly rewarded by the Spaniards for using his influence to soothe the discontent in the city when they took possession of it from the French forty years earlier. Now Diron was wealthy and influential enough so that he never had to do anything he didn’t wish.

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