Josephine: Bride of Louisiana (American Mail-Order Bride 18) by Cindy Caldwell

taking flight in her stomach.
    The man talking to Jerome had turned by the time she looked up--up into piercing, blue eyes. Her breath hitched as he studied her silently and blinked hard, a flicker of something passing through his eyes. She’d never seen him before--she was sure she would have remembered such a handsome, tall man.
    “Forgive me,” he said as he shook his head. “I am Pierre Bernard.”
    “Your future husband,” Jerome said as he guided Josephine toward Pierre.
    Pierre shot a glance at his cousin, his eyes narrowing, then turned back to reach his hand out to Josephine. She put hers in his, and when he raised it to his lips, it felt entirely different from when Jerome had done so at the docks. Almost like a flutter of butterfly wings...on the outside along with the ones in her belly.
    She pulled her hand back and curtsied. “And I am Josephine Depardieu. It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur.”
    “Please, please, you must call him Pierre. You are to be married.” Now Josephine shot him a glance as he merrily clapped his hands.
    “You must excuse my cousin, Mademoiselle. He is--easily excited. But I must agree, please call me Pierre.”
    Heat crept into her cheeks as her eyes met his. Thank you, Mon...Pierre. Please, call me Josephine.”
    “Isn’t that lovely. You two make a very handsome couple, I must say,” Jerome gushed as he walked toward the door. “I’m starved and you two must be as well. I’m sure supper is ready and it smells delicious.”
    As he disappeared down through the foyer and toward the dining room next to the kitchen, Pierre offered her his arm, and she hesitated a moment then threaded hers through it and he led her into the dining room.
    Bernadette smiled from the corner as she stood by the buffet. Josephine winced as she recognized a couple of the things she’d made the day prior--she’d hoped they wouldn’t end up on anyone’s supper table, let alone Pierre’s.
    Pierre pulled out a chair for Josephine and she smiled up at him, wishing he were smiling back. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, more like observing, watching her every move as he went to his chair at the head of the table. She nodded at Jerome, seated across from her, and remembered to pick up the soft, linen napkin and drape it across her lap--just as her father had taught her.
    She set her fan beside her plate, her eyes growing wide at the assortment of silverware set before her. There were two forks to the left, a spoon and knife to the right and some other things across the top--more spoons? She looked up as Pierre poured some wine into the smaller of the three crystal glasses that sat in front of her--what could they all possibly be for?
    She blinked at all the sparkling cutlery and beautiful dishes and, although overwhelmed, tried to smile up at Bernadette as she set a bowl of soup in front of her. Josephine closed her eyes and leaned over the bowl, inhaling deeply. It hinted at beef, carrots, onions, spices--it smelled delicious, and a far cry from the boiled potatoes and cabbage she’d become so familiar with.
    She opened her eyes to find her hair had fallen into her soup. Why hadn’t she thought to put it all into a chignon, especially now? She removed her hair from the bowl, ran her napkin down the wet strands and set the napkin back on her lap. She looked up to find both Jerome and Pierre staring at her, Pierre’s fingers steepled as he leaned back in his chair. She looked from Pierre to Jerome and back to Pierre, then down at the confusing place setting, not even knowing where to start. This was going to be bad. Very bad.

Chapter Twelve
    P ierre paced in front of the fireplace in the parlor, his hands behind his back as he waited for his cousin. As the fire warmed him, he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.
    The evening had been an unmitigated disaster. From the very beginning, when her hair fell into her soup,