Gallant Match by Jennifer Blake

in his mind as he leaned against the plastered storefront across from the Bonneval town house. He’d got the wind up while talking to Christien, and that was a fact. He’d been so certain Mademoiselle Bonneval meant to leave him holding the bag. Sure as God made little green apples, she’d be packing her traps and sneaking out to hide with some friend or relative. Or so he’d thought.
    Now he wasn’t so sure. The night was almost gone, and he was still holding up the wall with one shoulder, loitering like a lovesick fool and watching her window. Hell, all he needed was a guitar and a song to yodel and he’d look as if he was courting the lady, Creole style. Not that there was any hope of that since he couldn’t carry a tune in a sack. Maybe he should have found himself a Jew’s harp or fiddle, something as an excuse for being still at his post next time the gendarmes made their rounds.
    If he had a lick of sense, he’d slope off to his rooms over the salon, get himself some sleep. Another hour and he’d do just that. Dawn would be breaking by then. Chances of her making off in daylight seemed doubtful.
    Could be she’d never intended such a thing. Where would she go, after all? Who would take her in when they knew they’d have to face Papa Bonneval?
    What an old stick he was, her father. Marrying her off to a man she hardly knew was bad enough, but to send her away to a foreign country in the middle of a war? Anything could happen. Armies weren’t known for being too polite when civilians got in their way, particularly enemy civilians. Being tied to Rouillard was downright chancy, too. Who knew how he might treat a woman? His wife would have nowhere to go, nobody to turn to for help if he cut up rough.
    Not that it was likely to come to that. The marriage would be over before it began if he had his way. And he intended to have it.
    Too bad he couldn’t just tell her she needn’t worry, that she’d be a widow before her wedding night. Problem was, he couldn’t guarantee it; Rouillard might be the one to come out of this alive. For another, women were unaccountable. She might simply be miffed because her husband-to-be hadn’t bothered to court her in proper style. If she learned of the threat to him, she could feel duty-bound to shout it out the instant she clapped eyes on him. Then where would they be?
    At least she wasn’t making the voyage alone. She’d have the support and comfort of her tante Lily. He had no idea if she meant to stay with her niece or return to New Orleans, but it still made him feel less guilty.
    A shadow moved across the jalousie blinds that covered the French door of the second-floor bedchamberacross the way. He knew it belonged to Sonia because he’d seen her earlier as she stepped to the French doors to pull the draperies across them. She’d had on a wrapper over her nightgown, and her hair had trailed down her back in a long braid that swung thick and heavy against her hips. Though he’d had only the briefest of glimpses, he thought the vision had scarred his eyeballs. Right now, just thinking about it, he felt such heat in his groin that he shifted uncomfortably against the plaster behind him.
    What kind of nightgown would she wear? Something thin, lacy and easy to remove, like the handful of silk he’d taken off an accommodating actress from the Saint Charles Theater? Not much hope. It would be serviceable cotton lawn, he suspected, and buttoned up to the throat with the kind of pearl bits that made men cuss, plus scratchy with white embroidered stuff around the neck and wrists that was done by nuns. That would be it exactly.
    So why in hell did the idea of it make his heart clang like a hammer striking an anvil?
    As he watched, the lamplight faded away behind the blinds. She was going to bed at last. It had taken her long enough. The delay was the main reason he still stood there in the shadows. He