When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(81)

Victor and Diron had been good friends. Unfortunately, Diron’s warm feelings for Victor had never extended to Max. For one thing, their political beliefs were too sharply opposed. For another, Corinne’s death had widened the gulf between them, as Diron hated scandals.

Max glanced upstairs. “Jacques,” he said speculatively, “has your sister indicated that she feels any sort of affection for Alexandre?”

“Henriette is a little goose,” Jacques said. “She always has been. Tell your brother he could find another girl just like her for far less trouble.”

“Does that mean she would not welcome his suit?”

“She fancies herself madly in love with him. And this scenario of star-crossed love—”

“Only makes it worse,” Max finished for him. “How does your father regard the matter?”

“He disapproves, of course.”

“Truthfully, it wouldn’t be a bad match, Jacques.”

Jacques shrugged. “My friend, I know what Alexandre is like. You will never make me believe that he will stay faithful to Henriette. This so-called love will last a year at most, and then he will take a mistress, and Henriette will be devastated. Better for her to marry without the illusion of love. With a well-arranged match, she will know exactly what to expect.”

“On the other hand, perhaps a year of illusion is better than no love at all.”

Jacques laughed. “What an American notion. Love before marriage is their way— Creoles will never take to it. And I warn you, don’t try to convince that crusty old man upstairs otherwise, or he’ll have your head.”

“My thanks for the warning. I’ll go see him now.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Max shook his head. “I know the way.”

The Clement home was designed with simplicity and elegance. The red pine floors were polished to a ruby gleam, the rooms filled with dark oak and fine hand-knotted carpets. As Max walked up the staircase, he ran his fingers lightly over the balustrade, remembering sliding down it when he and Jacques were boys.

He stopped in the hallway upstairs, sensing someone’s gaze upon him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that one of the paneled doors was partially ajar. Henriette stared at him through the narrow crack, her eyes filled with pleading. Max guessed that some watchful tante was nearby, and Henriette did not dare say a word for fear of detection. He gave her a short, reassuring nod. Throwing aside caution, Henriette opened the door wider, and suddenly there was a burst of chatter from inside the room, a woman’s voice scolding the wayward girl. The door closed immediately.

Max grinned ruefully. He hated the feeling of being the distraught lovers’ last hope. He made his way to the breakfast room, hoping to hell that he’d know what to say to Clement.

Diron Clement greeted him with a glare. A ruff of white hair haloed the top of his head. When he spoke, the edge of a sharp jaw showed through his sagging jowls. Iron-gray eyes bore through Max’s, and he gestured to a chair.

“Sit down, boy. We have not talked for a long time.”

“The wedding, sir,” Max reminded him.

“Non. We exchanged four words, perhaps. You were too busy staring at your flamboyant little bride to pay me any attention.”

Max sternly held back a smile, remembering that most frustrating of evenings. He had not been able to tear his gaze from Lysette, dying to have her, but knowing it was too soon to have her. “I regret that, sir.”

“Do you?” Diron harrumphed. “Yes, I suppose you do, now that you desire my good favor. What about the marriage? Do you have regrets about that as well?”

“Not in the least,” Max replied without hesitation. “My wife pleases me very well.”

“And now you’ve come to plead your brother’s case, eh?”

“Actually, my own,” Max said. “Since that seems to be your main objection to Alexandre’s suit.”

“Untrue. Is that what he told you?”

“He has the impression, sir, that were it not for the damage I have wrought on the Vallerand name in the past, his intentions toward your daughter would be welcomed.”

“Ah. You are referring to that business about your first wife.”

Max met his piercing gaze and nodded briefly.

“That was bad,” Diron said emphatically. “But my objection to the match has to do with your brother’s character, not yours. Foppish, weak-willed, lazy— he is unsatisfactory in all respects.”

“Alexandre is no worse than any other young man his age. And he will be able to provide well for her.”

“How is that? I would wager he has run through most of his inheritance by now.”

“My father charged me with the responsibility of overseeing the family’s finances. I assure you, Alexandre has the means to support a family in a suitable manner.”

Diron was quiet, glaring at him from beneath massive gray brows.

“Monsieur Clement,” Max said slowly, “you know the Vallerands are a family of good blood. I believe your daughter would be content as Alexandre’s wife. Discarding all sentimental notions, the pairing is both practical and suitable.”

“But we cannot discard these sentimental notions, can we?” the old man shot back. “This entire situation reeks of mawkish sentiment. Is this the foundation for a good marriage? Non! These impetuous propositions, these demonstrations and histrionics, this gnashing of teeth and beating of br**sts— this is not love. I distrust all of it.”