Gallant Match by Jennifer Blake Page A

woman’s existence?” she asked with deliberate acerbity.
    â€œIt’s usually seen as something to be desired.”
    â€œIt appears a trap to me.”
    He turned to look at her. “That’s how you see this match with Rouillard, as a trap?”
    â€œOne sprung by my own father.” Her smile was brief and without humor.
    â€œWhy is he so set on the match? He think maybe you and Rouillard have something in common because he was supposed to be on hand when your fiancé was killed?”
    â€œMy father’s thought processes are unfathomable. He has simply decreed it and expects obedience.”
    â€œCould be he’s still after that heir.”
    â€œA grandson, yes. His lament since Bernard died has been that I didn’t persuade him to marry me before he went off to Texas.”
    â€œMight have been better.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou could have avoided marrying Rouillard, not to mention this trip.”
    â€œThere is that.”
    â€œOf course, you’d have been young for it, I’d say.”
    â€œEighteen.” She gave him a dark look. “Young marriages are quite common here. Any number of my friends have been wed since they were fifteen or sixteen.”
    â€œToo young to know what they were getting into.”
    â€œThat’s the point of parents arranging matters,” shesaid with precision. “They are presumed to have the necessary age and experience to make the right choice.”
    His frown remained. “That can hardly be the case now. What I mean to say is, you’re old enough to know your own mind.”
    It could not be denied. What she could have told him, however, was that a French-Creole woman still unmarried at her age was considered a crone who might as well abandon hope, tossing her corset up on top of the armoire, as the saying went. She had refused so many proposals that her father had lost all patience. This alliance was his last chance, at least by his lights, to have her off his hands. To explain that aspect of the matter to the man at her side seemed an unnecessary humiliation, however.
    â€œI was…reluctant to accept a substitute for Bernard,” she said finally.
    â€œIt must have been hard for you, not knowing what had happened to him out there in Mexican territory, only learning of his death afterward.”
    â€œIt was surely the same for you and your family.”
    He tipped his head in acknowledgment, his face set as he turned his gaze out over the yellow-brown water that raced past in flood beyond the railing, spreading its smells of mud and decaying vegetation.
    After a moment, she spoke again on impulse. “The betrothal, mine and Bernard’s, was merely understood between our families. It was never official, never celebrated with the usual gifts and parties. I could not go into black for him as my father would not permit the two years of seclusion that went with it.”
    â€œTwo years of being out of the market for marriage, you mean.”
    She inclined her head by way of an answer since it seemed her voice might break. She had never mentioned that aspect of her grief to anyone else. It was peculiar that she had chosen to confide in this man. Or perhaps not. He was nothing to her. Their paths might never cross again after this day.
    Ahead of them, Monsieur Tremont and her aunt paused to glance back. “I am told the captain has taken on a seaman with a talent for the violin,” the sugar planter called, “one who may provide music for dining and dancing once we are at sea. Your aunt has agreed to do me the honor of a turn around the floor, Mademoiselle Bonneval. Perhaps you will do the same?”
    â€œI am betrothed, you understand, monsieur, ” she replied.
    â€œBut your fiancé is not here.” His eyes were bright with audacity and he kept one brow lifted in inquiry.
    â€œWe shall see.”
    Beside her, Kerr Wallace gave the other man a hard