The Pelican Bride by Beth White

traded it for Madame’s fragile French furniture.
    He hung back for a moment, just outside Geneviève’s line of vision, watching her watch her sister. Her patent anxiety stirred something odd within him, something he could not name, but which drew him all the same. He had not seen her since handing her off his boat two days ago. She looked considerably more rested, the greenish eyes bright, her smile mischievous as he approached. He bowed, resisting the urge to kiss her hand.
    “One would think that a wedding would be the last place to find the most confirmed bachelor in the territory,” she said, laughing.
    “Mademoiselle, I brave the gravest of dangers on the mere promise of food.” He glanced at the refreshment table and gave an exaggerated grimace. “Though I confess, the reality doesn’t quite measure up to expectation.”
    “If you are referring to the croissants,” she leaned in to whisper, “I’m afraid I have to agree with you. Poor Madame L’Anglois is very kind, but she has no concept of the proper use of leavening.”
    “As do you?”
    She shrugged. “My papa was a renowned pastry chef. He allowed me to assist before he was—” she bit her lip—“before he died.”
    Tristan waited for her to elaborate, but apparently the confidence was at an end. In spite of himself, curiosity bloomed. “And what was the secret of the leavening?”
    She gave him another quick grin. “Ah, but if I told you, then it would no longer be a secret, eh?”
    “Touché, mademoiselle.” Amused, he laid a hand over his heart. “At least promise you’ll give me a taste of the product of this secret. I’ve just bought two barrels of flour, and I’ll pay you handsomely to turn some of it into real croissants.”
    “Now that is an intriguing offer. Unfortunately, my sister and Iare guests of the L’Anglois family at present. I don’t have access to my own kitchen.” She tipped her head, thinking. “But if Madame will allow me to use her oven, perhaps we might come to some arrangement.”
    Briefly, ridiculously, he thought she might be hinting at a more permanent agreement, one which would involve the exchange of vows they had both just witnessed. Then common sense returned. There was nothing about him—exiled, bitter, old before his time—to attract the favor of any woman, let alone one such as this.
    Then he realized that he had hesitated just a moment too long.
    Her bright expression clouded with embarrassment, the beautiful full lips pressed together. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean—”
    “No—I mean, yes, that’s what I meant!” Tristan wished wildly that he’d sailed with the morning tide; he’d be halfway home by now, instead of trading awkward half-sentences with this too-beautiful, secretive Pélican girl. “Please forgive me, I must speak to my brother!” With a jerky bow, he stalked toward Marc-Antoine and pulled him, protesting loudly, from the room. He could feel Geneviève Gaillain’s puzzled green eyes following him all the way.

    “Mademoiselle Gaillain, I would be honored if you would partner with me in the next dance.”
    Monsieur Dufresne gave Aimée an elegant bow, and she dipped a curtsey in return. She was pleased at his attention, though she must reserve judgment as to his prospects as a suitor until she had been introduced to the other eligible bachelors of the settlement. One could not be too careful.
    The aide-major offered his arm and a self-possessed smile just as Monsieur L’Anglois broke into an unsteady passepied. When she placed her gloved hand upon his blue coat sleeve, he whisked her into the patterns of the dance. She couldn’t resist a triumphant smile at Geneviève, who was fending off the awkward advances ofthree or four Canadian bumpkins. Monsieur Dufresne was a much better catch than any of them.
    Now that the dreadful ennui of the fever had passed, and the sensation of walking upon a heaving landscape was merely an unpleasant memory, she thought she could make