Page 2 of Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies #3)

Stripping off his gloves, Jean tossed them onto a mahogany sideboard and continued in angry tones, "He apparently just stepped off a barge from Natchez this morning, and he informed me with that arrogant smile of his, damn his eyes! that this is to be no mere visit—he intends to take up residence here."

Slinging his high-crowned hat onto a nearby chair, he ran agitated fingers through his abundant black hair. "Mon Dieu! We will never be rid of him—he will hover unceasingly over our shoulders like a harbinger of doom, asking endless questions, insisting on answers I do not have. I am only glad that Renault and Christophe did not live to see this day!"

Micaela caught her breath. "He is here already ? But his letter telling Maman of this news only arrived a few days ago. He wrote that it would be months before he came to New Orleans. How can he be here today?"

"Letter? What letter?" Jean inquired sharply, his black eyes flashing as he glanced at Lisette. "And why was I not told of it?"

"You were out of the city," Francis said, "and we did not wish to spoil your trip with this unfortunate business."

"Spoil my trip?" Jean gave an ugly laugh. "Our lives are spoiled!"

Lisette motioned him to take a seat near her, and murmured, "Oh come, now, Jean, it is not that bad. You are putting too dramatic a face, as you usually do, on something which will not affect us that much. Here now, have some coffee, and I shall ring Antoine to bring you some freshly fried beignets from the kitchen."

Jean grimaced but did as his sister-in-law requested. They had known each other a long time and they were of an age—Jean had turned thirty-seven this past December. It was natural that they were used to each other's moods.

Unlike the punctilious politeness he showed Lisette, Jean had always been indulgent and generous to both Micaela and Francois—often more so than Renault. After their father had died, Jean had deftly stepped into Renault's shoes. Since he had not yet married and set up his own home, he had always lived with them at Riverbend, which was half his anyway, although he did have his own comfortable quarters a mile downriver from the big house. In town, on Bienville Street, he also kept his own suite of rooms, but he had run tame through their various households ever since Micaela could remember. The polite restraint between Lisette and Jean vaguely troubled Micaela although she knew that her mother relied upon Jean and trusted him—otherwise, she would not have left her affairs in his hands.

Antoine, their mulatto house servant, answered Lisette's ring almost immediately. "Some more of Marie's beignets for Monsieur Jean, s'il vous plait, Antoine. Oh, and we shall need some more hot milk and fresh chocolate and coffee."

As soon as the door shut behind Antoine, Jean looked at Lisette, and said sourly, "So, soeurette, tell me of this letter."

Lisette made a face. "On Monday, I received a letter from Monsieur Hugh, telling me that he planned on moving here."

"Why did he write to you?" Jean demanded moodily. "He should have written to me—not involved the women of my family."

With an edge to her voice, Lisette said, "It was a very polite letter, and since you usually look like you are suffering from a stomach ache whenever you are in his presence, I am not surprised that he wrote to me. I am at least pleasant to him!"

Jean's lip lifted in a sneer. "Pleasant? I think softheaded would be more like it—as usual, in the presence of a wealthy Américain."

Francois sprang to his feet, his hand instinctively going to the place where he would normally be wearing a small sword cane. " Sacrebleu! How dare you insult Maman so!" he declared hotly, his features flushed with quick anger.

Jean rolled his eyes. Settling back in his chair, he said wearily, "Oh, sit down, you young fool—I have no intention of meeting my own nephew on the field of honor, and I meant no insult to your maman. I am merely furious and out of sorts at this unexpected turn of events." Sending Lisette an apologetic smile, he asked, "Having vented most of my spleen, may I now, please, see the letter?"

Lisette nodded. "When Antoine returns with your beignets, I shall send him to my rooms for it."

There was desultory conversation among the four of them until Antoine arrived with a tray heaped high with sugary beignets, steaming milk, and a pot each of fresh chocolate and coffee. Hearing Lisette's request, he bowed and departed, returning shortly with Hugh's letter.

Sipping his coffee, Jean read the letter in silence. Laying it down near his untouched beignets, he muttered, "Mon Dieu ! It is true. He is here—and means to stay."

"What are we going to do about it?" Francois demanded, leaning forward, the light of battle in his expressive eyes.

Jean shrugged. "There is nothing that we can do, mon fils. The territory is now Américain, we cannot prevent him from moving here."

Uncertainly, Micaela asked, "But will it really be so very bad? He is one of the partners, and you have dealt with him for years. His living here in the city should not change things very much."

Francois curled a scornful lip. "It is easy for you to say—you do not have to meet him or even speak to him, but we"—he nodded toward Jean—"do not share that same happy state of affairs. We will have to face his arrogant ways every day."

Rising gracefully to her feet, Lisette said calmly, "I think that all of you are making far too much of this development. As Micaela said, you have been dealing with Hugh Lancaster for years; he is one of the partners, the partner with the largest share in the business, I might add, and his living here should not change a thing. Why do you not try working with him for once, instead of assuming that he is trying to discredit you or destroy the company?"

"Because he is trying to do just that," Jean said gloomily. "He is blaming us for the drop in profits, accusing me of not paying close enough attention to what is going on. He does not hesitate to tell me that I am a careless and inept businessman. Mon Dieu! The overweening conceit of the man!"

Lisette sent him a glance, and Jean moved restively under her look. Like most wealthy Creoles, the Duprees did not actually soil their hands in the day-today running of Galland, Lancaster and Dupree—they employed others to do that tiresome task. Instead, they mostly just cast an intelligent, if erratic, eye over the firm which bore their names and it was no wonder that Lisette looked at him so.

She said nothing to Jean, however, merely glanced at Micaela and murmured, "Come, petite, I thought that since it is a fairly pleasant day we should visit the dressmaker and see if she has some new materials which might interest us."

Silence fell after the two women left the room. Jean finished his cup of coffee before saying, "That damned Américain! I do not want him here. I wish to God that we had never formed this cursed partnership with John Lancaster."

"But it is not John Lancaster who is causing us so much trouble," Francois said fairly. "It is his stepson."

"Do not remind me," Jean muttered. "To think that we shall be tripping over Hugh Lancaster everywhere we go in the city. It is enough to make me bilious. And as for having him constantly underfoot at our place of business, always asking questions and demanding to know why such and such is done a certain way..." Jean shook his head, unable to complete the terrible thought.

* * *

Well aware of how Jean Dupree felt about him, Hugh Lancaster, with a rueful smile, had watched him stalk away down Chartres Street after their unexpected meeting. He had not intended to arrive in New Orleans so soon after his letter announcing his plans, but having made up his mind to move to the area, it had seemed useless to wait. By May, early June, most of Creole society would have departed the city for their plantations and when summer arrived, and with it the fever season, New Orleans would be deserted except for those poor souls who had to remain within the city. Consequently, after a brief consultation with his stepfather, and another attempt to convince the older man to join him, Hugh had wasted little time. Not three days after he had sent his letter to Lisette Dupree, he was stepping on a barge sailing for New Orleans. Beyond personal effects, Hugh had brought little with him—once he reached his destination and found suitable quarters he planned to buy any furnishings or household items he might need.

Strolling down the street in the direction opposite taken by Jean, Hugh decided that he wasn't sorry at the unexpected meeting. The Duprees had to learn of his presence in the city soon enough, and getting it out of the way in this fashion saved him from making a formal call on the family. A twinge of regret nudged him. He would have, he admitted, enjoyed watching Micaela Dupree's magnificent dark eyes sparkle with disdain when she learned who was actually in her home, but it seemed that pleasure was to be denied him. Ah well, there were bound to be other opportunities to bring that delightful expression of smelling offal to her pretty face.

Chuckling to himself, he walked into a coffee shop and looked around for a familiar face. The place was full of Creole gentlemen sitting around several tables leisurely drinking coffee and smoking long black cheroots, their canes and gloves lying on the polished tops of the tables. The rhythmic sounds of the French tongue came to his ears, as did the intoxicating odor of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of fine tobacco.

There was, he decided pleasurably, no place like a coffeehouse in New Orleans. Spotting a lively profile he knew very well, Hugh made his way in that direction, aware of the cessation in noise as he sauntered across the room and aware, too, that every eye was on him.

Hugh did not make it to his destination before his target, a tall elegant gentleman about his own age, glanced over to see what had caused the fluctuation in the various conversations and, spying him, sprang to his feet with a wide smile and a glad cry. "Mon ami!" Jasper De Marco exclaimed gaily. "You have arrived so soon! I did not expect you for months, yet. Tell me, all is well with your step -papa? It is not bad news that brings you to our fair city so early?"

Giving Hugh no chance to reply, Jasper grasped his shoulders and kissed him exuberantly on both cheeks. Well used to the affectionate French greeting, Hugh returned it and said with a twinkle in his gray eyes, " Bon-jour; mon ami. I see that you are, as usual, wasting away the time when you could be helping me toward our mutual goal."

Jasper managed to look mournful, despite the teasing gleam in his dark eyes. "Ah, mon ami, I must take you in hand and teach you that there is much more to life than work, work, work. You Americans, business is all you think about."

Allowing Jasper to urge him toward a seat, Hugh murmured, "And you Creoles, all you think about is pleasure!"

"Oui! And which one of us enjoys life more? Hmm?" Jasper retorted with a grin.

Hugh laughed and shook his head. "You will not catch me arguing with you on that one."

Hugh and Jasper had known each other for nearly ten years—ever since Hugh's first visit to New Orleans. They had gotten into a hot disagreement about the charms of a certain lovely quadroon and had retired, with their less-than-sober seconds, to the dueling field beneath the oaks. Fortunately, the two principals were both more than a little drunk themselves and were both equally expert with the sword. Despite the heat of the moment and the Madeira fumes in their brains, they were impressed with each other's skill and instead of killing each other, as they had sworn vehemently to do, they had left the field of honor as brothers under the skin and had ended the night in Jasper's town house. Even in the morning, when the Madeira fumes had faded, each discovered that he had not been mistaken in his estimation of the other, and their friendship was sealed that very morning over several cups of hot coffee.

Few Creoles would even acknowledge an American, much less befriend one, but Jasper De Marco, the only son of a great French heiress and a major Spanish official, cared nothing for a man's nationality. Hugh had proven himself to Jasper's satisfaction to be an honorable man. Besides, as he told his friends and family with a teasing sparkle in his dark eyes, he did not want to be enemies with a man who was nearly as good as he with a sword.

Once Hugh had been served his coffee and Jasper's cup had been refilled, the two men talked for a few minutes. Replying fluently in French to Jasper's questions, not for the first time, Hugh silently thanked his stepfather for insisting he learn the language. From the moment Hugh had first expressed an interest in joining Galland, Lancaster and Dupree when he had been a youth of sixteen, John had been adamant that he learn French—otherwise, his stepfather explained, he would be always at a disadvantage when dealing with the partners in New Orleans. And thinking of the many sharp exchanges he'd had with Jean Dupree, Hugh had to agree with his stepfather.

"Now what, mon ami, brings that look to your face?" Jasper asked.

Hugh grimaced. "I was merely thinking of our good friend, Jean Dupree."

"Ah, yes, our esteemed partner. I wonder how he is going to take the news that you are moving to New Orleans."

"Badly," Hugh said with a grin. "I met him on my way here and informed him that I intended to become a permanent resident. He was not pleased."

Jasper laughed. "If only I could have been there!"

The two men were vastly different in temperament; Hugh, thoughtful and carefully controlled; Jasper, hotheaded and reckless, but together they made an effective team. Less than a year in age separated them: Hugh would turn thirty-one in April, while Jasper had turned thirty-one the previous August. They both had black hair and were dark-complected, but any similarity ended there. Hugh was built like a powerful oak to Jasper's graceful beech, although their heights were nearly identical. Both had compelling eyes—Hugh's being a pale, striking gray; Jasper's a gleaming black with a sleepy cast to them which, like Hugh's deceptively lazy glances, masked an agile brain. They were a very handsome pair, but again very different; Hugh's features were far more craggy, his black brows heavier, his nose bolder, and his jaw more stubborn than Jasper's chiseled profile. But if they were very different in looks and personality, there were some things that they shared; each had lost his parents at a young age and had been raised by another relative—in Hugh's case, his stepfather, and in Jasper's, an uncle—it was a bond between them. They were both wealthy and used to arranging events to suit themselves, and they took delight in testing their wits against each other.

Pushing aside his coffee, Hugh asked, "Have you been able to discover anything?"

"No, mon ami, I have not," Jasper replied disgustedly. "Though I have wasted much time and charm in ingratiating myself with one of the bookkeepers, a young man by the name of Etienne Gras, it has done me little good." He grimaced. "The three percent that I won from old Christophe Galland just before he died does not give me much power—and Jean has given orders that while everyone is to be polite and helpful to me, they are not to answer my questions— he will answer them. The Duprees tend to think of the business as solely theirs. They forget it is only partly owned by them."

Hugh smiled grimly. "It will be interesting to see if Monsieur Jean will try to keep me from getting answers to my questions."

"Now that is one confrontation that I must insist you put off until I can be there to see the expression on his face."

"I shall try my best," Hugh replied. "But tell me, since I have arrived long before you expected me, can you recommend a place for me to stay until I can find permanent quarters?"

"You will, of course, stay with me," Jasper answered promptly. "Until you find a place that you wish to buy, it is nonsense for you to reside anywhere else—my home is yours, you know that, mon ami."

Hugh dipped his head in acknowledgment. "If you are certain it will not be an inconvenience, I will gladly accept your invitation."

"Inconvenient? I shall be happy of company—my home was built for a large family and there are only myself and my servants rattling around in it."

"So when, my friend, are you going to do your duty and find a wife and start producing the next generation of De Marcos to fill up your empty house?" Hugh asked, teasing.

"Ah, I am waiting for you to sample the waters first. I wish to see how you survive domestication before I attempt it."

Hugh looked thoughtful. "Then you should start counting your days of freedom."

"What? Do not tell me that you are getting married!" Jasper exclaimed, dismayed.

Hugh shrugged. "I am thinking of it. As my stepfather reminded me, I am his only heir, and he is not a young man any longer—he would like to see me settled and with children of my own before he dies."

"I do not believe my ears! Surely you are jesting?"

"No, I am not. I believe that it is time for me to find a wife and, God willing, beget some heirs for my stepfather."

With great trepidation, Jasper asked, "And have you decided upon your choice of a bride?"

The image of Micaela Dupree flashed unexpectedly across Hugh's brain, but he shook himself irritably and murmured, "There is a young American woman, Miss Alice Summerfield—I knew her and her family in Natchez, but she has recently moved to New Orleans. Her father is on Governor Claiborne's staff, and I think she would do well enough."

Jasper looked offended. "Do well enough!" he spat the words out. "Listen to yourself, mon ami! Do well enough. Non. Non!"

"Now why are you so upset?" Hugh asked with lazy amusement. "Do not you Creoles have arranged marriages? Is it not true that, in most cases, bride and groom have not laid eyes on each other a half a dozen times before they are wed? Do not tell me you expect to marry for love?"

"My parents had just such an arranged marriage of which you speak," Jasper admitted bitterly. "And they fought like a cat and a dog tied together in a sack. I was almost relieved when they died of the fever—at least I did not have to listen to their battles anymore."

"I am sorry," Hugh said quietly. "I had forgotten—I did not mean to make light of the situation."

Jasper flashed his ready smile. "It happened a long time ago, mon ami, but I would not like to see you married to this cold-blooded American girl."

"Now how do you know she is cold-blooded?" Hugh asked, nettled.

"She is American, is she not?" Jasper asked. At Hugh's wary nod, he said, "Then what more do you need to know? I am sure that she is very prim and proper, perhaps even lovely, but I would wager you my new stallion that ice water runs in her veins."

Thinking of Alice's cool, slim blond beauty and her politely aloof manner, Hugh decided not to take up Jasper's wager. Instead with an edge to his voice, he demanded, "Then what do you suggest I do? Marry one of your Creole beauties?"

Jasper beamed at him. "But of course, mon ami! You would have a charming and loyal companion, a loving mother for your children, and a soft, warm, yielding armful for your bed. What more could a man ask for in a wife?"

Hugh snorted. "Since I have not committed myself to Miss Summerfield, I shall take your suggestion under advisement—but I make no promises to you. In the meantime, I think I should get my things settled in your house. And after that, I think we should pay a visit to Galland, Lancaster and Dupree."

The two men made a commanding pair as they left the coffeehouse, and Hugh was again aware that there were many eyes upon him and that most were not friendly. Stepping outside onto the banquettes, he asked with a sigh, "Do you think your countrymen will ever get used to being American? Or to Americans?"

"Perhaps. In time. Many are still very resentful at the trick Napoleon played upon us."

The two men chatted amiably as they walked along the wooden banquettes, enjoying the unexpectedly fine weather. The morning was almost warm, and gentle golden sunlight danced on the uneven rooftops of the buildings, and dappled the wrought-iron grillwork adorning the galleries for which New Orleans was famous. Jasper's town house was on Dumaine Street, and they were about to leave Chartres and turn up Dumaine when Hugh spied a pair of feminine figures, discreetly followed by a black manservant, not a half block in front of him.

Despite the shawls covering their heads and partially obscuring their features, he recognized at once the spirited tilt of the younger woman's head. As they drew nearer, he was aware of a sudden leap in his pulse when Micaela Dupree's dark, startled eyes met his. Sweeping his hat from his head, Hugh bowed to the women.

"Bonjour, Madame Dupree, Mademoiselle Dupree," he said politely, his words and actions echoed by Jasper.

Micaela thought her heart would stop beating when she glanced up and saw that it was Hugh Lancaster standing in front of her. She had hoped that when they next met she would not find him so troublingly attractive, but looking into that dark face, snared by those too-knowing gray eyes, she realized that her hopes had come to naught. Wearing a dark blue coat which expertly fit his splendid physique and a pair of pale gray breeches which shamelessly clung to his long, muscled legs, he was, Micaela realized, appallingly attractive. Angry and ashamed of herself, she kept her gaze half-averted, as if by not looking at him she could convince herself that he was not quite the most fascinating man she had ever met.

There was a flurry of greetings and polite exchanges. Hugh's lips quirked in a sardonic smile at the air of reserve which overcame Micaela once she had recovered her surprise. Her nose was not exactly tilted as if she smelled something offensive, but very near. Unlike her mother, who was plainly pleased to see him.

Hugh was so busy covertly studying Micaela's charming profile that he was barely aware of the conversation going on between Lisette and Jasper. It wasn't until Lisette said with amusement, "So, Monsieur Lancaster, you and Monsieur De Marco will join us for dinner tomorrow night, oui ?" that he was recalled to himself.

Recovering himself quickly, he murmured, "Dinner? Tomorrow night? It shall be my pleasure."

"Bon!" Lisette said with a twinkle in her dark eyes. "We shall expect you at seven o'clock tomorrow evening."

Hugh and Jasper bowed again. "Indeed you shall," Hugh said. "But for now, may we escort you to your destination?"

Micaela, whose pulse had been acting erratically ever since she had first glanced up and met Hugh's glinting gray-eyed glance, said stiffly, "That will not be necessary, monsieur —we are almost there."

"Ah, but I would be gravely remiss if I did not see you safely to where you are going. Just consider, mademoiselle —you might be accosted by someone—ah—objectionable." Hugh drawled, enjoying the vexed flush which stained Micaela's cheek.

Micaela's bosom swelled with indignation. Dieu! The Américain was arrogant! A Creole would have graciously accepted the dismissal and would never have continued to insinuate himself where he was plainly not wanted. Smiling sweetly, she murmured, "But monsieur, you forget, this is still a city of Creoles, and Maman and I are not worried about being confronted by someone who would be so rude and overbearing as to force himself upon us." Her eyes sparkling with the light of battle, she added, "New Orleans is not like your rough Américain cities—our Creole gentlemen know how to take care of their own."

Hugh grinned. "Well, that certainly put me in my place, did it not?"

Micaela's eyes dropped, and she replied demurely, "One hopes so, monsieur, one sincerely hopes so."

"Micaela!" Lisette burst out, a thread of laughter in her voice. "Do not be rude!"

Micaela's gaze met Hugh's dancing gray eyes. "Oh," she asked, all innocence, "was I rude?"

Hugh shook his head, the expression in his eyes making Micaela breathless. "Rude?" he murmured as he caught her hand in his and dropped a chaste kiss on the soft skin. "Oh, no, never rude... provoking, perhaps?"

Her skin prickling as if she had grabbed a nettle, Micaela snatched her hand away and decided that the Américain was utterly detestable. Her emotions in turmoil, she was relieved to hear Lisette say, "We thank you for your offer of an escort, messieurs, but our destination is just a few more doors down the street. Good day to you both."

Conscious of the tall Américain' s amused look, Micaela was grateful when she and Lisette swept past the two gentlemen and continued on their way. It didn't help her frame of mind that it took until they reached Madame Hubert's shop for her heart to return to its normal beat. Unable to help herself, just as she was to enter the shop, she risked a glance over her shoulder in Hugh's direction. To her chagrin (and delight?) he was still staring at her. A flush stained her cheeks when he smiled knowingly and tipped his hat at her. Muttering under her breath, her nose went up in the air, and she sailed into the shop. Merci! But he was arrogant!

Jasper had watched the exchange with interest, and as he and Hugh resumed their journey, he said slyly, "Now if you were to marry a Creole... perhaps, even Micaela Dupree, it would be a good business decision, oui?"

Hugh looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "Micaela Dupree? Nonsense! I think you have stood in the sun too long, my friend, and it has fried your brains."

"Hmm, you think so? I do not, mon ami." Jasper went on imperturbably, "Think of it. She is lovely, unmarried... and she will control ten percent of the business when she marries, and will gain another five percent when the sad day comes and her charming mother has passed on. When she marries, her shares will no doubt be managed by her husband... what if she was to marry that lout Husson, hmm? Marriage to Micaela Dupree would be a great coup for you—you would control fifty-five percent of Galland, Lancaster and Dupree. No one could gainsay you."

"You forget," Hugh said softly, "that with my stepfather's remaining ten percent I already control the firm."

"Ah, yes, this is true... but suppose your wise step-papa were to remarry? He is not an old man, despite his protestations to the contrary—not yet fifty, did you not say? He could marry and leave his shares to a new wife—or even father a child."

Hugh shrugged. "The shares belong to him—what he does with them is his business."

"Oui, but if you were to marry Mademoiselle Dupree... it would not matter what your esteemed step-papa did with his shares, would it?"

Annoyed with this conversation, Hugh sent his friend a dark look. "I may or may not marry Miss Summerfield, but I can practically guarantee you that the last woman I would be likely to marry is Micaela Dupree. And her shares be damned!"