The Pelican Bride by Beth White Read Free Book Online Page B

made.” La Salle’s face settled into the habitual frown that had plowed a permanent line between his graying eyebrows. “Bienville agreed that, my comfort being critical to the smooth flow of commodities in and out of the settlement, the appropriate female should be set aside for me before the Pélican left France.”
    “How very obliging of him.” Tristan hid his amusement by focusing on the dark crown of Geneviève Gaillain’s head, which towered above the other women. She had unsuccessfully tamed her hair for the occasion into a loose knot from which dark curls escaped in every direction. It occurred to him that she bore an uncanny resemblance to the mermaid he had carved at the bowsprit of his barque. He glanced at La Salle. “Which one is yours?” Poor woman, traveling for months across the ocean blue, only to find herself strapped for life to Sourpuss La Salle.
    “Her name is Jeanne de Berenhardt,” La Salle replied. “She was chosen for me from the convent at Notre Dame, by the Grand Duchess d’Orleans of Tuscany herself.”
    Tristan followed La Salle’s oddly pained gaze to the far corner of the crowded salon, where a statuesque young woman held court, dressed in a black silk skirt under a burnt orange coat-looking garment, belted with a black sash. Her boned corset was so stiff that when she dropped a dried plum on the floor, all she could do was stare at it in chagrin. Bending at the waist was clearly an impossible feat.
    When no less than three men lunged to retrieve the escaped fruit, Tristan smiled. If La Salle remained less than impressed, there would appear to be a long line waiting to take his place. “Have your sons met their proposed step-mama?” Less than a month after their arrival in Louisiane, La Salle’s first wife had died of a fever,leaving him with three young boys to rear alone. Tristan could only imagine the state of wildness poor Mademoiselle de Berenhardt would face when she took them in hand.
    “I did not think it wise to introduce them to the lady so soon.” A flash of fear—or perhaps guilt—humanized La Salle’s hawkish visage. “Time enough for that after the betrothal contract is signed.”
    “Your reputation for clear thinking is well-founded.” Grinning at La Salle’s humorless grunt, Tristan turned to watch his brother dancing a rather clumsy jig with Aimée Gaillain.
    If she had been lovely on the day of her arrival, pale-faced and limp with fever, today she was aglow, cheeks flushed from exertion and golden curls bouncing against her shoulders. She danced, hands fisted at her narrow waist to lift her skirts away from dainty flying feet.
    The violinist, master of the house Robert L’Anglois, fiddled with more enthusiasm than skill, while a circle of guests clapped time. Though a noticeable air of inebriation pervaded the company, Tristan suspected his brother’s giddy state could be attributed as much to his partner’s blue eyes and bouncing bosom as the liberal lacing of liquor in the punch.
    He stood against the wall and observed for a minute or so, reluctant to call attention to himself. Then he happened to catch the eye of Geneviève Gaillain, who had been watching her sister dance, her expression a mixture of pride and alarm. When he unthinkingly smiled, something he would almost call relief flooded her cheeks with color.
    Do not approach her, he told himself sternly, even as his feet took him in a circuitous route to the other side of the crowded room. The L’Anglois family’s house had been designed in typical box-shaped fashion, with one big front room and two small bedrooms behind, one of which doubled as the kitchen. It was one of the largest homes in the settlement, but the wedding crowd seemed about to burst the crooked knotty pine walls. Tristan compared it tohis own cottage, constructed Canadian-style from shingled cedar. His furniture, simple and homemade, was designed for comfort and durability rather than beauty, but he wouldn’t have