Stand-in Bride Page 4

  "I'm fond of her, too," Nicole replied. "So is Adrian. The three of us have a lot of fun together."

  "So I've noticed," he said with a coldness in his voice. "Which reminds me of something else I wanted to discuss with you in private. It's been four months now since our rather sensational marriage. The time has come for us to go out together socially—as Mr. and Mrs. Louis Chauvin. We'll begin by accepting the invitation to the Martins' dinner party this weekend. It'll be a big affair, I expect."

  His unexpected announcement brought stabbing fear to Nicole's breast at the alarming prospect of going out into Iberville's top society as Louis's wife. Didn't he realize she didn't belong? What if she made an utter spectacle of herself and brought shame on the Chauvin name? She didn't even have the wardrobe for that level of social life. Aside from tennis dresses, she hadn't bought any new clothes, in spite of the generous allowance she received from Louis each month. Somehow she hadn't felt that the money was really hers to spend. It was enough to live in luxury in his stately home.

  Unaware of the troubled expression shadowing her sensitive features, she sat immersed in her fearful thoughts. As if reading her mind, Louis spoke again, authoritatively. "You'll need appropriate clothes, of course. I won't have my wife wearing someone else's hand-me-downs." The last was spoken in a grating tone that brought a blush of mortification to her cheeks.

  He wanted to make sure she didn't wear any of Angela's clothes. Was he afraid of being reminded of the woman he'd wanted to marry, who had left him the night before the wedding? Was the memory of Angela's rejection still a raw place in his heart? Somehow the thought of his pain was unbearable to her.

  "I'll do my best not to embarrass you," she said in a stilted little voice to cover up her conflicting emotions.

  The man opposite her studied the proud set of her head, the graceful curve of neck and shoulder, the rich abundance of dark, silky hair. He opened his lips as if to speak and then checked the words, rising abruptly.

  "You'd better get to bed now. It's late."

  She rose quickly, chafed by the brusqueness of his tone. She picked up their two glasses and carried them to the sink, taking her time rinsing them with clear water, hoping he would be gone when she turned around. But he stood in the same place by the table, as if waiting for her.

  They left the kitchen together and made their way through the wide hall to the elegant staircase, climbing the seemingly endless steps side by side in the hushed night silence of the old house, as if headed for a common destination. She paused outside the door of her room, awkwardly aware that he had every right by law and custom to enter her bedroom, even though he had promised he would never force his way in without invitation.

  "Goodnight, la belle dame sans merci," he said in a low, mocking voice that made the blood pound in her ears with deafening loudness. After a tension-filled moment, he picked up a dark tress of lustrous hair and lifted it to his lips. "Elaine mentioned you are considering having your hair styled short. Don't." With those peremptory words, he turned abruptly to stride down the hall to his own room and disappeared inside.

  Why had he called her that? she mused wonderingly. The lovely lady without mercy was from one of Keats's incomparably beautiful poems. It had been one of her favorites in English Literature class at school. She'd felt so sorry for the young man who'd awakened as if from a dream to find himself alone, the beautiful girl he'd discovered having disappeared. The girl in the poem had had long, tangled hair, she remembered.

  Mind and senses in a turmoil, Nicole walked into her room with the distinct knowledge that she was not the same girl who had slipped down the stairs only a short time ago. For one thing, now she knew why she'd had trouble going to sleep earlier. She'd been fighting an honest confrontation with herself and her deep attraction to the man she had married.

  Never had she been so physically aware of a man before, so sensitive to touch and voice and glance. She knew now, with undeniable certainty, that she would never have the strength to enforce the marriage condition she had exacted from him if he chose not to abide by it. Even though he did not love her, she would be his if he decided to take her—and some alien part of her wished desperately he would!

  Chapter Five

  The next morning when Nicole went down to breakfast, Louis wasn't there. A hand-scrawled message announced that Andrew had called earlier. He would be docked at the marina for several days. She felt a little surge of happiness at her sudden resolve to get away from Mimosa House alone today and visit her brother on his prized new boat, High Hopes.

  Several times in the past four months she had managed to get him to Mimosa House, but he was very busy, especially during the shrimping seasons when he would go out for days at a time, anchoring out in the Gulf and returning only when his storage compartments were filled to capacity.

  Elaine was head-over-heels in love with him and always elated at the prospect of dropping by to visit at the marina, a world of fascination heretofore unknown to the young girl. So, even though Elaine had to go to school, anyway, it was with a small twinge of guilt that Nicole determined not to mention her intention of visiting her brother today.

  The young girl chattered in her usual exuberant manner about a whole range of topics. Nicole smiled absently and half listened until she realized that an answer was expected of her. "I'm sorry, dear, what was that?" she murmured in apology.

  "The mixed doubles tournament coming up at the club. Why don't you and Louis team up for that? He's pretty good. He and his partner won last year."

  "All the more reason he will want a good partner, not me," Nicole replied firmly, wondering fleetingly who his last year's partner had been. She fought a rising sense of panic at things moving too fast, carrying her along. First Louis last night announcing she had to step out as his wife into Iberville's top social life, and now Elaine pressing her to enter a tennis tournament at the country club when she hadn't even had nerve enough yet to go there, let alone play tennis in front of all those people who knew she hadn't been born with a tennis racquet in her hand. It was only in the last ten years that anyone outside the elite class played tennis in this area of south Louisiana.

  "You could play with Adrian," Elaine insisted doggedly. "He's a guest member. And he doesn't even need a partner he's so good!" She twitched with delight at her own cleverness.

  "The whole idea is nonsense, Elaine. Adrian wouldn't be seen on the court with the likes of me." Nicole wished fervently she could eradicate this whole idea from Elaine's head.

  "You underrate yourself and don't do justice to your instructor either," came an amused male voice from the doorway of the small breakfast room. Nicole flushed at the intent expression in Adrian's eyes as he smiled at her. Elaine was jumping up and down in her seat, nodding her head in elation at Adrian's words.

  "Tell this stubborn child, Adrian, that I'm not ready for play in a tournament. I'm just learning the basic strokes of the game," Nicole pleaded, pouring him a cup of coffee as he slid into the chair opposite her.

  "Actually, the brat may be right." He grinned disarmingly as her mouth opened in protest. "Sooner or later you have to get out on the court and get a taste of competition. It lets you see your strengths and weaknesses and gives you incentive to work harder." He sipped his coffee and drawled, "And I'd be honored to have you as my partner anywhere, any time."

  Nicole was startled by the undertone of seriousness in his voice. Was Adrian getting emotionally involved with her? She dismissed the disturbing thought as ridiculous, and the moment passed. Elaine and Adrian discussed plans for their practice session that afternoon after school, leaving Nicole to outline her own day's activities in her mind.

  First she would drop by the boat and visit with Andrew just like old times. Then she would drive to Lafayette and shop for a dress to wear to the Martins' dinner party. She guessed the other women would wear gowns purchased in Dallas or Atlanta or even New York, but for her Lafayette would have to do.

  Later that morning she parked
her silver-gray Mercedes convertible in a space between a mud-spattered red pickup truck and a dented olive-green Blazer. She remembered her shocked reaction the day the Mercedes was delivered to Mimosa House shortly after the wedding. That evening Louis had telephoned from Houston, and she had blurted clumsily, "I can't drive a car like that!"

  He had replied coldly, "My wife doesn't have to drive a secondhand Volkswagen." She had cringed in embarrassment as she regretted the tactlessness of her remark. He had then explained in more even tones that he preferred her to have a reliable car since she would be taking Elaine places with her; besides, he found it simpler to stick to one make of car.

  She loved everything about the car—its easy handling, the subdued luxury of the interior. The top was still down in October, even though the day was damp and cloudy, with the threat of rain in the air.

  Sniffing deeply of the familiar pungent odors— creosoted pilings, fishing nets thoroughly permeated with salt water, the distinctive fish odor of fresh seafood—she walked carefully along the uneven planks of the dock, noting with the practiced eye of the fisherman's daughter the purposeful activities going on. The business of running and maintaining a working boat required constant attention to the cleaning of the craft from top to bottom, the mending of nets, the repairing of engines and equipment. The older wooden boats like the one her father had owned also had to be scraped and painted regularly to protect the wood from the insidious threat of rot.

  She stopped and chatted briefly in Cajun French with old Mr. Perrin, who sat on the foredeck of Lady Godiva, a fishing net darkened with use and preservatives spread across his bony knees. A wizened old Frenchman with weather-stained and wrinkled skin, he spoke with a lisp because he didn't have a tooth in his head. Nicole had known him since she had been a child skipping along the docks to her father's boat.

  Mrs. Perrin, stout and kindly in her man's overalls and cotton shirt, emerged from the inside of the boat carrying a mug of steaming coffee for her husband and greeted Nicole with surprised welcome. She worked side by side with her husband, as did many of the fishermen's wives who accompanied their husbands out into the Gulf for days at a time, cooking for the crew as well as lending a hand with the actual manual work.

  Nicole knew that her own mother had never been strong enough for that kind of life—and, besides, her father had preferred to have his wife home, protected from the raw conditions and hardships of the fisherman's lot.

  Today the simplicity of these people's lives appealed strongly to her. They grappled daily with real challenges: the vicissitudes of the weather, the dependability of their fishing crafts and equipment, the caprices of the sea. Their lives had solidity and meaning.

  Still mulling over these thoughts, she arrived at the mooring slip where High Hopes was docked. All gleaming white fiber glass with smart black trim, her brother's boat was one of the most modern and well equipped in the marina. She could hear the vibrant hum of the boat's engines, but Andrew was not in sight.

  After a second's hesitation, she stepped aboard lightly and walked down the side deck to the open door of the pilothouse, where she stopped to look inside with an expectant smile on her face. The floor hatches covering the big twin diesel were open directly in front of her, and she could see Andrew kneeling at the edge, peering down at the motors throbbing with quiet precision.

  "Hello!" she shouted, joy rising within her at the light of welcome in his eyes as he looked up without surprise. She knew he had been aware the instant she had stepped aboard. Now he rose and walked over to the instrument panel, flipping a switch to still the hum of the engines. In the sudden stillness, her voice sounded loud and excessively dramatic to her own ears.

  "I've decided to abandon my life of idle luxury and move in with you, Andy. I'll become a boat woman!"

  Her younger brother looked startled and embarrassed at her words, causing her to taunt, half joking and half serious, "What's the matter? You don't want me, either?" She took a step inside the pilothouse and gasped with surprise as she realized that Andrew was not alone. Standing in the companionway leading down into the galley and sleeping quarters was Louis, looking at her with a wry twist to his mouth.

  She gasped. "I didn't know you were here."

  "Obviously," he said ironically. "I didn't realize things were so bad at Mimosa House that you wanted to leave."

  "That's just a game Nicole always played with Dad and me," Andrew said swiftly to fill in the awkward silence. He folded down the big hatches to cover the open engine compartment. "I've been showing Louis the boat," he explained to his sister with a young dignity that made her very proud of him.

  "I'd like to go out with you sometime," Louis said quietly. "I have to agree with your sister—this life does have an appeal."

  Andrew's face beamed with pleasure as he talked about his work. Although only twenty, he had worked with his father since he had been a small child. He knew the fishing business inside and out, and he loved it with a passionate devotion.

  Nicole listened with quiet contentment as Louis asked questions and Andrew answered them. She watched her husband covertly, noticing with a small stir of excitement how handsome he looked in the rugged clothes he wore. Tight-fitting denim jeans and a navy cotton knit turtleneck shirt molded his tall, muscular form. A light blue windbreaker had been tossed carelessly to one side. His black hair glinted in crisp waves, and his intense blue eyes jolted her with every glance in her direction.

  How she wished she hadn't blundered in that way, announcing her wish to move aboard the boat with Andrew. It sounded so ungrateful in view of the fact that there would be no boat if it weren't for her marriage to this disturbing man. Well, it was obvious that Louis had made a hit with Andrew. Her brother's feelings were clear in the way his mobile features lighted with friendliness.

  A glance at her watch told Nicole it was lunchtime. She'd better get on the move if she planned to shop in Lafayette, which was at least an hour and fifteen minutes' drive. At a lull in conversation, she stood up to leave, glad of the opportunity to get away by herself and reflect on this surprising new view of Louis she'd glimpsed. He was so natural and down to earth sitting with Andrew and talking about fishing. An observer would never guess he had been born into one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Louisiana.

  To her chagrin, he arose to leave at the same time she did, acting very much as if they were together. Further-more, his invitation to Andrew to join them made clear his assumption that she would eat lunch with him. Andrew declined, explaining he had an appointment with the director of the regional fishermen's co-op who was supposed to drop by the boat in the next hour or so.

  As Nicole stepped gracefully from the boat to the dock, Louis reached for her hand to assist her. She hesitated for a second, then took his hand out of courtesy. He kept hers in a firm clasp as he thanked Andrew for showing him the boat and giving such an interesting insight into the shrimping industry. Then he invited warmly, "I hope you'll take time often to visit Mimosa House. You're welcome any time."

  Part of Nicole longed desperately to pull her hand out of his as he strolled casually beside her along the dock, making comments about the bustle of activity going on all around them. But another part of her delighted in the touch of this man who was her husband.

  "Let's eat lunch here at Vera's instead of going back home," he suggested, leading her toward the small, unpretentious restaurant built up on pilings over the edge of the water. It had a screened porch on three sides where people ate at oilcloth-covered tables during most of the year, except for the coldest months of January and February when they might be driven inside by the cold and dampness. Today was so delightfully bright and crisp that Louis didn't even ask if she preferred eating inside. He led her toward a table overlooking the color and activity of the fleet of docked fishing boats.

  The specialty of the house was fresh seafood, whatever happened to be in season: hard-shelled crabs, shrimp, crawfish, speckled trout, catfish. Boiled seafood was extremely popul
ar with Vera's customers; hence the practicality of the oilcloth table coverings. The eating was messy but delicious.

  Louis and Nicole both ordered large bowls of seafood gumbo, a delicious concoction of shrimp and crabmeat in a dark, spicy gravy thickened by the addition of chopped okra and the extremely fine-ground spice the Louisiana Indians had first used called file. Gumbo was served on a mound of steamed rice, making it a hearty meal along with crusty hot French bread and butter.

  "Hm-m-m—delicious," she murmured appreciatively.

  "Can you cook gumbo?" he asked, eating his own lunch with undisguised gusto.

  "Can I cook gumbo!" she answered with mock asperity. "What self-respecting south Louisiana girl can't make gumbo, red beans and rice, and jambalaya, just to mention the more obvious!"

  "Do you miss cooking?" he asked after a companionable silence during which he seemed to be pondering her jocular statement.

  She considered her answer carefully, wanting to be truthful but at the same time not wanting to sound ungrateful for her present state of luxury.

  "Yes, I miss it in a way. It's not the cooking itself so much, but the mealtimes when Daddy and Andrew and I were all together—" Her voice quavered slightly at the poignancy of those memories. "For me cooking wasn't so much an art in itself as a way to please somebody special," she tried to explain, forgetting her usual self-consciousness in his presence. She wasn't aware that her accent had become more discernible in her earnestness.

  His blue eyes darkened with some emotion, and she remembered he, too, had suffered the loss of his parents. Was he thinking of them now? She tried to lighten the mood. "You should have seen Mrs. Holden's face when I offered to help her in the kitchen!" Nicole mimicked perfectly in the gruff tones of the housekeeper: " 'Mister Louis's mamma didn't know the difference between a rolling pin and a fry pan'."