Jo flicked open the blades of sandalwood dangling from her wrist and fanned herself and Napoleon in an unsuccessful attempt to dissipate the suffocating heat. “Have you worked for Monsieur Collier long?”
Rubbing knuckles along the line of a strong jaw, Amon stared over the bay horse’s ears. “All my life.”
His voice, quiet yet strong, soothed some of her unease. The man spoke at least a little French. Perhaps a modicum of civilization existed in the wilderness. “Tell me about him, s'il vous pla?t.”
“Not much to tell.” The gaze he swung from one horizon to the other caressed each tree, each blade of grass in its path. “Edson Collier owns everything we’ve driven through. All you can see, smell, taste, or touch. Every living thing on this property wears a Collier brand.”
“And the man I am to marry?”
“Bennett?” Amon shook his head on a wry huff. “Bennett Collier is educated to within an inch of his life. Smart, wealthy, ambitious. He’ll run this state in a few years.”
A man of such stature would take pride in protecting his wife, his children. Maman and Céline would have approved.
Maman and Céline. Of all the things Jo would miss about New Orleans, she would miss her mother and sister the most—and the tidy cottage in The Marigny.
But not the man inside. Lucien Bouchard. The Devil with an angel’s face…and enough money and influence to buy anything and anyone he wanted. She pressed fingertips to her lips to settle a familiar surge of bile.
“Mademoiselle? Are you ill?”
Jo glanced up. From beneath the brim of a slouch hat that ill matched his suit, Amon’s steady gaze bathed her with concern. “Not at all. I’m just a bit unsettled from the trip, I suppose. When my bridegroom did not meet the boat as I expected—”
“Bennett’s responsibilities sometimes get in the way.” Amon re-centered his gaze between the horse’s ears, releasing a long, tense breath as though wresting control from some unseen adversary. “Said he’d return as soon as possible. Two days, maybe three.”
Napoleon’s tiny paws dug through six layers of petticoats and into Jo’s legs when the buggy turned onto a long, tree-lined lane. Oaks. In vain, she searched their canopies for beards of moss.
The tiny dog stretched and yawned, shook himself, and then shoved his nose under her hand, begging for attention. She picked him up and cradled him against her cheek.
When he licked her nose, she could not suppress a girlish giggle. “I love you, too, mon petit,” she whispered.
“There she is.” The reverence in Amon’s tone accompanied a nod to the end of the lane. “Dumont.”
Jo peered around Napoleon. A silent gasp darted into her lungs and refused to leave.
Dumont. Whitewashed from the bottom of the sweeping veranda to the gables beneath a broad roof supported by six—no, eight—ionic columns, the three-story palace presented the most conspicuous display of wealth she’d ever seen. Her bridegroom, a man she knew only from the contents of a single, vague letter and Madame Espallier’s recommendation, enjoyed privilege beyond anything she had expected.
A bittersweet smile tipped her lips. Madame Espallier had indeed arranged an auspicious match. Maman and Céline would have been impressed…but they would never know.
And for everyone’s sake, she must ensure Monsieur Bennett Collier never came to know about Maman and Céline, either.
Chapter Two
Amon handed off the horse and buggy to a stable hand before slipping inside the foreman’s cabin. The sooner he got shed of this blasted suit, the better. Ben might enjoy wearing the accursed things, but as for himself, weddings and funerals presented the only justification for enduring such torture.
He stripped off the broadcloth and linen, slid into denim britches, and drew a butternut woolen shirt over his head. He buttoned the placket as he crossed the manicured yard and ducked inside the kitchen door at the big house. Jenny must have set the staff cooking something special to celebrate Mademoiselle LaPierre’s arrival. Enticing aromas followed him all the way to the front of the mansion. His stomach rumbled.
As he suspected, the main parlor sat empty. Amon grumbled under his breath and headed for the study. The man he sought pored over correspondence behind a massive desk carved from a single cypress knee. A cigar smoldered in a silver salver on the desktop, and a half-filled jigger of whiskey sat at Edson Collier’s left hand. Like everything else the old man didn’t want to admit, he chose to ignore his doctor’s orders. Thin as a willow whip and getting thinner by the day, he wouldn’t see the end of summer if he kept this up.
Amon smoothed the irritation from his voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
The lord of the manor also ignored direct questions he didn’t care to acknowledge. He spoke without looking up from his task. “How is our guest? I trust she was not exhausted by the journey.”