Free Sweet Piracy by Jennifer Blake Page A

preoccupation with the one man in her life — and such a specimen — who had dared to kiss her must surely indicate something. Could M’sieur Delacroix be right? Could it be time she began seriously to consider marriage?
    The consideration in that eventuality was a husband. There were, naturally, so many to choose from! The French Creole gentleman desirous of finding a wife inquired first, always, for the amount of the prospective brides dot . Not only was she dowerless, she was English, a heinous crime; a governess, which was worse; and fully as tall as any Creole gentleman of her acquaintance. The Marquis overreached her, but he could not be classed as a Creole, having been born in France. Not that it mattered, of course.
    And then there was the burly American owner of Cypress Grove, Fletcher Masterson. Punctually every Sunday afternoon he came calling. Whether he was sincerely attracted to her or whether he came because she was the only lady within a reasonable distance who spoke his language as well as he did, she could not tell. His courtship, if it could be called that, had been going on since the family arrived at Beau Repos from New Orleans just after Easter. They had met at an evening party given at Bonne Chance, and Fletcher had lost no time in following up the meeting. Once or twice he had asked her to go for a drive with him, but something had always prevented it.
    A more inventive, less careful man would have found a way to achieve his aim, Caroline thought, but Fletcher was circumspect, careful, formidably well-mannered. Caroline could not feature him demanding a forfeit under any circumstances.
    Might that not be to the good, however? There was nothing dashing about sandy hair, blue eyes, and well-muscled shoulders, but wasn’t dependability a more valuable commodity?
    Disgusting to be weighing a man’s value like a barrel of flour or so many blocks of sugar. Such cold-blooded commerce was no basis for deciding to marry.
    “May one intrude?” M’sieur Philippe did not wait for an answer but stepped behind Caroline’s chair to take the one beside her. He crossed one knee over the other, then clasped his hands together across his not so flat stomach. For a long moment he said nothing, scanning the pale oval of her face in the fast-dimming light. At last he opened the conversation he had obviously sought.
    “What think you of our noble friend?”
    “You mean the Marquis de Rochefort?”
    “But of course,” he said, his clipped tone betraying his irritation.
    “I find him gracious and kind.”
    “Do you indeed? Are you quite sure you don’t mean condescending?”
    Caroline looked at the tutor. “Does he seem so to you? I hadn’t noticed it.”
    “How could you not? The man goes about making pronouncements with the aplomb of royalty. My ears ring with hearing from Theo: ‘The Marquis says this, Rochefort says that.’ It is not to be borne! And now Anatole, the boy I have raised with the kindness of a father, tells me that for gentleman lace is passé , M’sieur le Marquis says so!”
    Caroline sternly repressed a smile. “Do you intend to continue to wear it?”
    “ Naturellement ,” the tutor replied, though for an instant he appeared torn as he smoothed the lace over his hands.
    “That certainly shows great strength of character,” Caroline said in an encouraging tone.
    The tutor allowed himself a smile of gratification before his brows drew together once more. “Not every young woman has your powers of discernment. I fear for the gentle daughters of the house.”
    “Fear? What do you mean?”
    Delighted to have drawn a more decided reaction than before, M’sieur Philippe elaborated. “I speak of the unfortunate effect on Mam’zelle Amélie and Estelle of being daily in the company of such a man of the world as Rochefort. They are guileless innocents, unable to realize that half of what he says to them is the merest gallantry devoid of sincerity. He has no intention of the sort of