Stand-in Bride Page 7

  Angela had spent several days at Mimosa House outlining the tour scheduled for the week of Thanksgiving when the graceful old homes would be festive in their fall decorations.

  "It's a good thing I know the house so well," Angela had grumbled ill-humoredly, obviously put out by Louis's absence. She and Nicole both knew that her only reason for spending time on the Historical Society event was to have an excuse to be in his home. "I need to talk to Louis about some of those old Civil War stories. I just halfway remember them," she said scornfully, not hesitating to reveal to Nicole her real attitude toward the reverence for history and tradition the Tour of Homes symbolized.

  What a blessed relief not to have Angela here today, Nicole reflected gratefully, delighting in the rare combination of circumstances that allowed her to have the whole estate to herself. Mrs. Holden had gone somewhere with her husband, Elaine was at school, and Adrian was spending much less time at the big house since that day Louis had discovered him holding her in his arms.

  She had decided to take the opportunity to practice her serve, using a wire caddy full of balls. When it was empty, she walked to the opposite end of the court and began collecting the balls by placing the caddy on top of each one and pressing it through the spaces between the wire framing. It wasn't even necessary to bend over with this ingeniously designed carrier.

  How easily she had adjusted to all this luxury. The newest acquisition was a ball machine that Elaine used for hours every afternoon. It could be set at varying speeds and angles for practicing any stroke, catapulting the balls across the net with unerring accuracy and eliminating the necessity for a second person. As a result, Adrian had to spend much less time at Mimosa House drilling with Elaine, although he still coached her on strategy and provided the competition she needed to improve.

  In spite of Elaine's insistence that she use the ball machine herself, Nicole didn't feel comfortable with a mechanism firing balls at her, preferring a person at the other end of the court. Besides, much of her time had been dominated by Angela before she became discouraged at Louis's absence and made her visits shorter and more infrequent.

  The tournament was only two weeks away now, Nicole reminded herself nervously. She and Adrian had practiced a few times against Elaine and Jimmy Martin, the teenaged son of Joe and Clare Martin. They'd beaten the teenagers, but not without a struggle. Adrian could easily have played the entire court with his speed and skill, but he had insisted that Nicole hold up her share of the game. "You'll never learn doubles by standing in the alley and watching your partner play," he'd said.

  She tossed the ball high into the air and forced herself to extend and reach for it with the racquet head the way Adrian had taught her.

  "Tough serve."

  She was startled at the low voice she had heard so rarely lately. Louis stood in the open gateway, dressed in white shorts and shirt that emphasized the muscular brownness of his legs and arms and made his black hair and blue eyes even more vivid by contrast. He dangled a tennis racquet in one lean brown hand. Where had he come from?

  "You continue to serve and I'll return," he instructed, walking to the opposite end of the court. "You need to get used to the ball coming back hard. Adrian's probably been taking it easy on you."

  After a second's nervous hesitation, she tossed up the ball in her hand and served to his forehand. He returned the ball with a sharp crack of the racquet strings, and it skidded so close to her feet that she jumped aside to keep from being hit.

  "I think you're right," she said lightly. "Not even Jimmy Martin hits the ball that hard at me."

  "So far you've just played against well-meaning friends," he said in a friendly voice that made her spirits soar. "In a tournament, there's no such thing as friendship or pity. You pick on the other team's weakness."

  "How brutal," she protested.

  She continued to serve to him, both to the deuce and ad sides of the court. After a while he suggested, "Would you like to try getting my returns back across the net?"

  "I guess that would be valuable practice," she agreed, somewhat skeptical of ever getting a racquet on the low, hard returns.

  "By the way, has Adrian mentioned to you that it's a good idea to mix up your serves and not serve consistently to either forehand or backhand?" he asked.

  "I'm afraid I don't have that much control yet," she admitted.

  "Sure you do. Just concentrate on where you want the ball to go and turn your shoulders in that direction as you follow through."

  She obeyed the clear instructions and to her amazement was able to direct the ball to his forehand or backhand according to her decision ahead of time. "It works!" she exclaimed elatedly.

  For the next half hour she concentrated with all her mental powers on serving and then returning the lightning-fast ball as it skimmed back at her. Her percentage of success improved until finally she had to admit that her arm was becoming fatigued from the serving motion.

  "Would you mind serving some to me?" she asked timidly.

  His serves crashed across the net with such speed she couldn't even touch them. She was beginning to realize what a powerful player he was. "I can't even see the ball," she said apologetically.

  "Stand farther back behind the baseline and watch the ball the whole time when I toss it up into the air and hit it. Don't be distracted by my motions."

  Following the impersonal directions, she found herself able to block back some of the serves, until finally she was too tired to concentrate any longer.

  "That's enough," he said, beginning to pick up the balls scattered all around the perimeter of the court.

  "It's good of you to help me," she said as he came over to set the caddy down and reached over to pick up his racquet cover.

  "I have to hand it to Adrian's teaching. He's done a good job with an apt student," he complimented, bringing a blush of pleasure to her cheeks.

  "You're really good," she praised.

  "I had a little trouble at first concentrating," he said, with a vibrant undertone that dissolved the impersonal camaraderie between them. His dark blue eyes roved over her body in an assessing gaze that lingered on the swell of her breasts under the soft fabric of her khaki-colored tennis dress and then slid down over her hips and long, shapely legs. She trembled at the impact of his survey.

  "Maybe I should try to capitalize on that during the tournament," she teased daringly.

  "If you're willing to take the consequences," he returned, an enigmatic smile softening the lines of his finely modeled mouth.

  Out of her depth now in this conversation, she turned away and walked along the bricked path leading through the rear patio with its rich profusion of plants and comfortably cushioned furniture. He followed close behind her, carrying the caddy of balls and both tennis racquets.

  "I'll give you fifteen minutes to change," he announced.

  She flung a startled look over her shoulder and met the disturbing blue of his gaze. "We're going to the club. I told Mrs. Holden not to bother to prepare lunch today," he said in a tone that clearly tolerated no objections to his plans. He had not bothered to consult her wishes at all.

  "But I'm perfectly capable of preparing lunch my-self," she proclaimed, torn between the unknown peril of being all alone with him in the house and the dread of facing people at the country club.

  "Have you forgotten already that I have no intention of avoiding other people? The only way to lay idle gossip to rest is to go out together like any ordinary married couple." His commanding manner had a chilling effect, and without another word she went to her room to change her clothes and resume her empty role of legal wife.

  Chapter Seven

  Nicole wore her new cranberry dress, which hugged her waist and hips and swirled gracefully around her calves. Its matching jacket had a mandarin collar and narrow cuffs buttoned at the wrists. The rich hue accentuated her brunet coloring, and she made a lovely picture beside Louis with her dark hair drawn back from a center part into a loose chignon at the
nape of the neck, the large gold hoops in her ears the only jewelry she wore besides the wide gold wedding band.

  She needed a boost to her self-confidence when she entered the country club dining room filled with people who all seemed to know Louis and be eager to attract his attention. Their progress was slow as he stopped to exchange greetings right and left.

  "Oh, hi, Mary Jane. I want you to meet my wife, Nicole… How's the golf game these days?… Good… No, she prefers tennis… Yes, I'm back in Iberville to stay now I have a good reason.."

  He greeted each person with such ease, seeming to know what to say to each of them, and he was careful to introduce Nicole, until her head was spinning with names she wouldn't be able to remember or to connect with the appropriate faces.

  Finally, they arrived at their own table, a choice location out on the glassed-in veranda overlooking the golf course. Expelling her breath in an audible little sigh, she sank into her chair and then colored charmingly at his keen look of understanding.

  "It wasn't that bad, now, was it?" he chided lightly. "They're all just people, like you and me."

  "Like you, but not like me."

  "Nonsense, you wear luxury well. No one seeing you at this moment would doubt you had been born with all that money can buy. As a matter of fact," he added with dry amusement, "you are getting some rapier glances with more than a hint of envy from some of the female company present here today."

  "That's due more to my being here with you than my appearance. You're easily the best-looking man here," she said with honest appraisal. He was not just tall and well built, but there was a grace and aura of mastery about him that drew the eyes of women like steel to a magnet.

  "An honest-to-God compliment from my wife! And I didn't think you'd noticed," he teased sardonically, a disturbing light in his dark blue eyes. "Now that we've established our mutual admiration, shall we decide on some more mundane matters such as what to order?"

  "What do you recommend?" She had been staring at the large menu without really deciphering the print.

  "The turtle soup here is excellent. So is the eggplant stuffed with shrimp and crabmeat dressing. But perhaps you would prefer steak?"

  "Oh, no, your recommendations sound perfect. I'm afraid I'm a real Cajun," she said, in the low, vibrant voice with its tantalizing hint of an accent.

  "You'll never be able to hide your Louisiana French background when you speak," he agreed.

  She was relieved when the waiter appeared to take their order, necessitating the transfer of Louis's attention away from her. Warmth suffused her entire body at the directness of his gaze, causing her to feel flustered, like an unsophisticated adolescent. Today was so wonderful, thanks to their newfound friendliness. She loved to be in his company, even though she knew deep down he couldn't possibly find her as fascinating as the women in his own social circle, women who had traveled and undergone experiences she had only read about in magazines. If only things were different, and they could meet on an equal footing. But that wasn't even a remote possibility.

  "Hey, remember me? The good-looking chap you were having lunch with?" The teasing question brought her back to the present. "That's better. What were you thinking about with such frowning concentration?"

  "I was thinking I should take advantage of this rare opportunity to talk to you alone—" Her voice faltered at the look he flashed her. "That is, I've wondered if you've ever considered letting Elaine play some of the sanctioned tournaments to get official ranking in the state. Possibly even in the South."

  His eyes caressed her lips and nose and smooth brow and then returned to her lips with such a distracting effect that she had to fight the temptation to place both hands on her cheeks to block the electric scrutiny. "Well?" she asked nervously.

  At that moment the first course was served, causing a momentary lull. When he spoke, she realized he had been listening to her hesitant suggestion. "I have considered the possibility, but she would have to be accompanied by an adult companion, someone with enough interest in her development to put up with the travel and tedium of sitting around whole weekends at courtside, staying in motels, eating meals in restaurants. It's hard to find that kind of devotion in anyone besides a parent."

  Her words came in a soft rush, the musical accent more pronounced than usual. "I'd welcome the opportunity, for more than one reason. Not just for Elaine, although she deserves the chance to prove herself. She works so hard on her tennis. I'd like to do something useful. Right now I'm pretty much of a freeloader, since Mrs. Holden seems to regard my efforts to help her as a threat to her position."

  Something unreadable in his expression set off the beat of a little pulse in the hollow of her throat, a detail that did not escape his attention. "You've earned your keep at Mimosa House—in more ways than setting my mind at ease about Elaine, and heaven knows she was on my mind at the time I proposed"—he gave the word an ironic inflection—"to you. At the time it seemed like a good thing to do."

  The nuance of regret in his voice as he spoke of his impulsive marriage twisted like a knife in her heart. What had seemed like a good idea must have backfired in his face when he returned to Iberville and saw Angela again and realized he still loved her. Now he didn't know what to do with the woman he had made his titular wife, Nicole reflected despondently.

  The only decent thing for her to do was to remove herself, but the thought was unbearable. Aside from her own misery at having to relinquish the right of seeing him, she knew Elaine would be deeply hurt by her leaving. The young girl had opened up her heart without reserve and would consider Nicole's departure a personal rejection, even though it certainly would not be.

  "And now you're sorry you married me?" The sumptuous turtle soup tasted like vinegar as she waited with a heavy heart for his reply to her half question, half statement.

  A slight disturbance in the main dining room worried at the fringes of her consciousness. She glanced up from her study of the ornate silver soup spoon to find Louis looking in the direction of the loud voices and laughter. She turned her own head and recognized Angela at the center of a small group of latecomers. Louis had an abstracted look on his face as he said reflectively, "I've experienced moments of regret."

  It took every ounce of control she possessed to conceal the raw torment washing over her at his open admission of what she had previously only surmised. Fortunately, she was spared the necessity of replying, as Angela turned in their direction, motioning her companions to follow.

  Nicole felt like an encumbrance to him, a reminder that he was not free like this carefree group of young single men and women. Was he sorry now he had insisted on bringing her to the club for lunch? She determined to excuse herself on some pretext and return to Mimosa House alone so that he could remain and enjoy Angela's company.

  "Louis! You didn't wait for me!" Angela wailed in a spoiled-little-girl voice. "I thought I told you last night I'd be a little late."

  Nicole's eyes betrayed her as they swung quickly in Louis's direction, comprehension clouding the brown depths as she realized Louis had obviously been with Angela when he had not appeared for dinner at Mimosa House. His blue eyes met hers steadily, his lips tightening as he replied, "You don't seem to be suffering for lunch companions today, Angela."

  "Why don't we have the waiter pull up another table, so we can join you?" Louis looked forbidding at Angela's suggestion, but she was already directing the waiter, who had arrived with Nicole's and Louis's main course. Looking like a petite temptress in a silvery green pantsuit which clung to voluptuous curves, Angela managed to place herself next to Louis.

  Nicole concentrated hard on eating the savory eggplant dish that she would ordinarily have attacked with relish, but the strain she felt in the present awkward situation constricted her throat muscles until she feared she wouldn't be able to get down a mouthful.

  She knew the other young people with Nicole, since they had all been involved in the wedding festivities. Craig Johnson was a heavyset young ma
n of about twenty-five who worked in his father's insurance business after having obtained his college degree in business administration at Louisiana State University. Larry Dupuis also worked for his father, who owned a tugboat and barge company. He was a wiry young man about Craig's age, with a wry drawl and heavy eyelids which drooped over his brown eyes, making him look perpetually sleepy or hungover. The two girls, Sally Robichaux and Michelle Hart, had both been bridesmaids in the wedding that had begun as Angela's and ended up Nicole's.

  It was a thoroughly embarrassing situation for Nicole, robbing her temporarily of the power of speech. It had been bad enough confronting social acquaintances of all ages at the Martins' dinner party, but the size of that gathering had made it less painful than this, where she had to face Angela's contemporaries who must have been stunned at Nicole's appearance on that unforgettable day, dressed in Angela's wedding gown.

  The whole notion of a bridesmaid substituting for the absent bride seemed too bizarre to be believed in the light of everyday reality as Nicole sat there miserably, pretending to eat. How could she ever have consented to such a farce? And now Louis admitted he was sorry they had gone through with it.

  The waiter brought cocktails for the four late arrivals, and they chatted easily about topics common to all except her. Louis seemed constrained in his manner, not joining in unless pressed by a direct question. Undoubtedly he was aware she didn't fit in and was probably sorry he had brought her. If only she could think of something to say to break what seemed to her own exaggerated perception a conspicuous silence.

  "Do you play bridge?" Craig, who was seated on her left, addressed the question directly to her in an obvious attempt to include her. They had been talking about a Friday night group which they all seemed to belong to, even Louis being an occasional participant.