Stand-in Bride Read online

  Stand-in Bride

  By

  Carole Halston

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  "I Can See Only One Solution," he said, eyeing her speculatively. "You can take Angela's place."

  Nicole sprang to her feet, her dark eyes huge with disbelief. "I can't marry you!"

  "Why not?" he asked curtly. "Being my wife certainly offers certain advantages."

  "Of all the nerve!" she blazed at him, her hands pressed to her crimson cheeks. She burned with humiliation at the cold-bloodedness of his proposal.

  "Before you rush off in a blaze of righteous indignation," he said, "I suggest you consider the advantages of my proposal. You said last night you would do anything—I believe that was your exact word—to help your brother."

  CAROLE HALSTON is the wife of a sea captain, and writes her stories while her husband is out at sea. Her characters frequently share her own love of nature and enjoyment of active outdoor sports.

  Dear Reader:

  Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing venture. We will be presenting the very finest writers of contemporary romantic fiction as well as outstanding new talent in this field. It is our hope that our stories, our heroes and our heroines will give you, the reader, all you want from romantic fiction.

  Also, you play an important part in our future plans for Silhouette Romances. We welcome any suggestions or comments on our books and I invite you to write to us at the address below.

  So, enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. They're for you!

  Karen Solem

  Editor-in-Chief

  Silhouette Books

  P.O. Box 769

  New York, N.Y. 10019

  Copyright © 1981 by Silhouette Books,

  a Simon & Schuster Division of Gulf & Western Corporation

  Map copyright © 1981 by Tony Ferrara

  ISBN: 0-671-57062-5

  First Silhouette printing February, 1981

  Chapter One

  Nicole glanced nervously at the clock shaped like an old-fashioned iron skillet and then back to the young man slumped over at the kitchen table. Discouragement etched every line of his listless posture and dulled the fine dark eyes that were so like her own.

  "Andrew, dear, I know things look hopeless to you right now, but the important thing is—" Her voice broke traitorously. "You're alive."

  Tears filled her eyes at the painful memory of the funeral for her father just two weeks ago. Goodness knows, she couldn't afford to submit to the dull ache of misery. She felt like slumping down beside Andrew at the plain, white-painted table and wailing her anguished question: "Why? Why?"

  But she had to remain strong, and the clock reminded her of the wedding rehearsal that was to take place in just twenty minutes.

  "Sure, I'm alive," Andrew countered bitterly, "but I might as well be dead. Like Dad!" His composure failed him as his young face twisted in grief and his shoulders shook with deep, choking sobs. He had moved numbly, almost like a sleepwalker unaware of his surroundings, through those days following the violent storm that had snatched away the life of their father and destroyed their big wooden fishing trawler, leaving Andrew clinging to a piece of refuse for hours until he was finally rescued by another boat.

  "Andrew Baronne, don't say that!" Nicole protested sharply. "Don't ever say that. God may punish you—" Her voice broke at the blazing fire in her brother's tear-reddened eyes. She had spoken automatically, without thinking, the words welling up out of a background of religious teaching at parochial schools.

  "Seems to me He's already done a pretty good job of fouling things up," Andrew said angrily, brushing away the tears from his face with harsh movements of his callused young hands.

  Nicole's heart constricted unbearably as he continued. "You know as well as I do the insurance money's not enough to buy another boat, even an old wooden one like we had. What bank's going to lend that kind of money to a twenty-year-old?" He shook his head in despair at the truth of his own argument. "I'm looking at five to seven years of hard work on somebody else's boat, unless I can get my hands on some big money."

  The cold anger in his last words filled Nicole with foreboding. In Andrew's distraught condition, he might do something foolish, something to ruin his whole life. She felt so helpless, so terribly inadequate to alleviate his enormous problems. If only there was something she could do! Anything!

  Meanwhile, another quick look at the clock revealed she had only fifteen minutes to get over to the church for the rehearsal. Andrew intercepted her nervous glance and said with cutting irony, "Better not keep your rich friends waiting. Say, why couldn't you be the one marrying Louis Chauvin? That'd take care of all our problems."

  "Don't be silly," Nicole scolded gently. "I could never fit into that kind of life. Angela and Louis are meant for each other."

  "Maybe so, but she sure doesn't act like someone about to get married till death do us part," he said scathingly. "She's been running around all over the country with Lord What's-His-Name!"

  "That's just vicious gossip," defended Nicole automatically, glad Andrew's mind had been diverted somewhat from his bleak prospects. With a quick kiss on his smooth, tanned forehead, she hurried out to the battered old Chevrolet her father had bought when it was new.

  She tried to shrug aside a vague uneasiness aroused by Andrew's comment about Angela and Gregory Benton, the sophisticated Englishman she had seemed to consider a fascinating escort during the last few weeks. In spite of the nearness of his wedding date, Louis Chauvin had spent little time in Iberville, the old southern Louisiana town located in the heart of the sugarcane-growing region. Angela hadn't seemed to mind her fiancé's absence during the weeks preceding their wedding. She had merely shrugged and pouted prettily. "Louis is no fun anyway. All he ever thinks about is that dirty old sugar business."

  Such remarks had been very strange to Nicole, who harbored very old-fashioned notions about marriage. She had observed her former classmate very closely, trying to detect some underlying seriousness, some telltale sign of love for the man she planned to marry. But Angela had flitted blithely through the preparations for her wedding with the same lighthearted abandon she had shown the previous year when she was Mardi Gras queen of one of the prestigious old carnival clubs, called krewes, in New Orleans.

  Nicole parked the old white Chevrolet outside the Sacred Heart Church in the middle of Iberville, noticing ruefully how it contrasted with the other sleek automobiles. She didn't fit in at all with the other participants in Angela's wedding, but the headstrong Angela had been insistent: "You're the only person in the world who accepts me for what I really am. Besides, you're a perfect contrast to me with those huge dark eyes and your hair pulled straight back in that old-fashioned style!"

  She had circled Nicole's waist and pulled her over in front of a full-length mirror. "Look!" she commanded, her cheeks flushed with lovely color, her blue eyes sparkling with exhilaration.

  Angela was a storybook princess with satin blond hair curling loosely about her face, exquisite white skin, and wide blue eyes. In contrast, Nicole felt drab and plain with her heavy brown hair parted in the center and pulled back into a loose coil at the nape of her slender neck. She was unaware of the natural grace with which she held her head and the expressive movements of her hands when she spoke in her low, musical voice with its faint Cajun French accent. She would have been surprised if someone had told her she had an ethereal beauty that increased rather than di
minished on closer examination.

  As always, Angela had her own way, whatever her reasons. Nicole knew from past experience that her lovely, pampered friend couldn't bear to have her will opposed and could make life unpleasant for all around her when it was. It was simply easier to give in to Angela's wishes than to incur her displeasure. Against her better judgment, Nicole had reluctantly agreed to be Angela's maid of honor, her final hesitation swept away by Angela's insistence that she would provide all the necessary wardrobe for the teas and parties as well as for the ceremony itself.

  Angela had pulled Nicole over to her capacious walk-in closet. "Here! Take whatever you want. The rest will go to the Junior League, anyway." She gestured to a whole section of beautiful clothes she had set aside to be discarded.

  And so, for the next hour, Nicole had tried on evening gowns and dresses while Angela gave her critical opinions. In spite of her reluctance to accept the lovely garments, Nicole delighted in the beauty of the lustrous fabrics and the excellent styling. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure at the sight of herself in sleek clothes she could never have afforded to buy.

  For the final rehearsal and the dinner party afterward she was wearing a severely simple beige shirtwaist dress of silk jersey with long sleeves and a softly pleated skirt. Angela hadn't actually insisted Nicole wear this particular dress tonight, but she had suggested several times that it would be appropriate. Nicole thought it was extremely plain for the festivities following the rehearsal, but she instinctively bowed to Angela's taste in such matters.

  Hurrying into the vestibule of the church, she found everyone waiting for her and apologized breathlessly for being late. Her slight embarrassment at having all eyes fastened upon her was only heightened by Angela's exclamation: "Nicole, darling, that plain style fits you perfectly. It never did anything for me!"

  Nicole's cheeks burned with humiliation at the revealing remark. Now everyone present knew without a doubt she was wearing Angela's cast-off clothes.

  At that moment Nicole became aware of Louis Chauvin standing tall and detached over to one side. His unreadable blue eyes swept over her with a scrutiny that evoked a painful emotion blended of humiliation and resentment. She fought an overpowering urge to turn and flee those eyes that awakened in her a consciousness of her body that she had never before experienced.

  What was he thinking? she wondered. Did Louis Chauvin regard her as an intruder, an opportunist hanging on to favors from his beautiful and wealthy fiancée? Nicole cringed at the thought. Fortunately, Angela made some remark to pivot the attention back to herself, and Nicole's discomfiture eased as she found herself forgotten in the background.

  Her sense of propriety was jolted at the daring of Angela's dress, a luscious mint-green creation with a low-cut neckline that afforded a generous view of her rounded breasts. Nicole glanced down thoughtfully at the modest lines of her own dress, remembering Angela's remark about Nicole's being a perfect foil. Was that the reason Angela had insisted she be in the wedding, even though she obviously was out of her social depth? Angela's marriage was certain to get top-priority attention in the New Orleans society pages as well as in the local newspapers.

  Suddenly everyone was looking at Nicole again, and she realized she had been so engrossed in her own puzzled thoughts she was oblivious to what had just been said.

  "Nicole, you be the substitute bride," Angela was instructing. "Surely you know by now your routine for the real thing tomorrow," she said flippantly, anticipating Nicole's protest. The flash of temper in Angela's eyes and the slight tightening of her full lips made it evident to everyone that she would not be crossed; she would have things her own way regardless of what was customary.

  "Greggy, you be the bridegroom," she commanded the suave man who was the focus of the recent gossip to which Andrew had alluded earlier. Gregory Benton was of slight build, with sandy-colored hair and light blue eyes, now ablaze with mockery in response to the impish tone in Angela's voice that seemed to dare him to refuse.

  "My pleasure," he said smoothly, stepping forward to smile into Nicole's dark eyes. "My dear, you make a lovely bride," he said, placing his hand lightly on the small of her back.

  "Don't get any ideas about Nicole," Angela said sharply. "Her secret ambition is to be a nun."

  Nicole flushed in angry embarrassment at the titters of amusement following Angela's barbed comment. How dare she blurt out a confidence shared in a rare moment of schoolgirl intimacy!

  Nicole had been one of the few pupils at the exclusive St. Therese's School for Girls who did not come from a wealthy Louisiana family. Her tuition was paid out of a trust fund established by a rich parishioner of the church she attended. Her gratitude for the opportunity to attend the well-established, first-rate Catholic girls' school had instilled in Nicole an urge to do something generous in return, to perform some service for mankind.

  It was in that spirit that she had confided to Angela her admiration for the dedicated nuns. Nicole had been flattered to have the dazzling Angela Peltier seek her out for a friend and confidante. After a mutual baring of some of each girl's most private feelings, Nicole had dared to mention, hesitantly, her innermost ambition, inchoate though it was. Even then Angela's giggle of derision had made Nicole regret the fleeting confidence.

  Gregory Benton's hand pressed reassuringly against Nicole's back as he protested jokingly, "There are plenty of ugly girls to take the holy vows. Nicole is much too beautiful for that calling." The laughter following his irreverent witticism released the tension, and everyone concentrated on the matter at hand, the final rehearsal.

  A marked change had come over Angela at a few low words from the tall, imposing man she would meet at the altar tomorrow. The vague uneasiness Nicole had felt that afternoon driving to the church persisted. She sensed a disturbing restlessness and impatience in Angela, who made low comments to her fiancé while her eyes followed every movement made by Gregory Benton. What words of Louis Chauvin had caused that sharp little frown on Angela's pretty forehead and that stubborn set of her lips? Nicole wondered if he had intercepted the rumors about Angela and her titled escort. Was he censuring her for behavior not appropriate for the future Mrs. Louis Chauvin?

  Later that evening Nicole gave an inexplicable little shiver as she observed Louis Chauvin at the party held, contrary to custom because of special circumstances, at Angela's lovely home. He was a sternly handsome man with crisp black hair and probing blue eyes. Probably in his mid-thirties, he was at least twelve years older than Angela and Nicole. Maybe his age accounted for the aura of total mastery he exuded. It was common knowledge that he had assumed control of the family business interests after his parents had gone down in a disastrous airplane crash about five years ago. Those business interests included huge sugarcane farms and sugar refineries as well as other investments, all of which seemed to require a great deal of travel. Nicole knew he still maintained the gorgeous old antebellum home called Mimosa House and was guardian of his young sister, Elaine, who had been about seven or eight years old when their parents died.

  "And may I have this dance before you make any rash decisions to enter the convent?" a smooth voice cut into her reflections, and Gregory Benton led her out on the dance floor. "These Southern moneyed aristocrats certainly know how to do things up properly," he observed in his clipped accent, his amused glance taking in the splendor of chandeliers glittering overhead and the orchestra situated on a carpeted dais at the far end of the room.

  The man definitely had charm, Nicole had to admit as she relaxed in his arms and laughed at the witty comments he directed at various unsuspecting guests gorging themselves at the lace-draped refreshment tables. She could understand. Angela's enjoyment of his droll company, but in Nicole's opinion he paled considerably in comparison to Louis Chauvin. It was like placing a lightweight sponge beside a granite boulder.

  The music having ended, Nicole found herself and Greg standing next to Angela and the man Nicole had been comparing to a solid rock. Ang
ela looked cuttingly at Nicole and said petulantly, "Greg, darling, you've been dominating the maid of honor and ignoring the bride. Dance with me."

  The music resumed and for an awkward moment Nicole and the tall, stern man beside her watched Angela and Greg glide away in a close embrace. What had happened, Nicole wondered, to change Louis Chauvin from the urbanely charming man he had been a few short months ago at the engagement party to this sober, unsmiling person who didn't look at all the way a prospective bridegroom should look? Had he heard the snide rumors about Angela and Greg Benton? Was he having second thoughts about the marriage that would take place in less than twenty-four hours?

  Suddenly he appeared to become aware of his surroundings and of Nicole poised uncertainly beside him. The frown on his brow smoothed and he suggested politely, "Shall we?"

  Heart pounding with nervousness, Nicole moved stiffly into his arms. He held her carefully for a few seconds, then suddenly drew her closer, commanding in a low voice, "Relax."

  Surprisingly, she did relax, and gradually her body became perfectly attuned to his as they moved in unison to the slow music. Closing her eyes in an instinctive repudiation of her immediate surroundings, she sank deeper and deeper into a world where there was nothing but the hard closeness of his lean body, the aromatic sweetness of tobacco clinging to his clothing, the cleanly masculine scent of aftershave lotion—all intensified by the haunting melody of the old love song the orchestra was playing.

  Dancing had never been like that for her before, and she was too enslaved by her total sensory responses to marvel that this was happening to her, Nicole Baronne, in the arms of the man who would in a few short hours become Angela's husband. At the moment she could only wish that this blissful feeling wouldn't have to end.