Only With Your Love Read online

  “Eavesdropping?” he asked. “How much did you hear?”

  “Nothing. But I saw her kissing you,” Celia said with suppressed rage. “I saw her hands wandering all over you, and the way you merely sat there, you randy goat!”

  He gestured to his cane. “I could hardly jump up and run away.”

  “Do not offer me any ridiculous excuses! Do you think anyone is going to believe you are Philippe when you behave in such a manner? Philippe would never have dallied with a servant girl, and—don’t you dare smirk at me!”

  “My, my, how shrewish you are tonight,” Justin said silkily. “Almost as if you were…ah, jealous?”

  She looked as though she’d swallowed a bug. The struggle to control herself was plain on her face. Finally, in an icy voice she said, “I never suspected your conceit was so immense.”

  He had never been as pleased by anything as he was by her jealousy. “You didn’t like to see her kissing me. Admit it.”

  “I admit to being surprised that you had the gall to try to seduce her when we are trying to convince everyone that you are Philippe.”

  “And Philippe would never flirt or dally with a poor Irish seamstress.”

  “No, he had more honor and decency in his little finger than you have in—”

  “He had honor,” Justin conceded. “He had decency. He also had an affair with the wench.”

  Celia’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Justin felt a tigerish enjoyment in telling her. “An affair. I don’t know when it began, but it lasted until the day he left for France to marry you. I was not trying to seduce her. She threw herself at me, thinking I was Philippe.”

  “I will not listen to such lies! Oh, how low and contemptible you are, you—”

  “I overestimated Philippe,” Justin mused. “It seems he wasn’t a saint after all, but a red-blooded man with flaws like everyone else.”

  Celia wanted to reach out and throttle him. “You are wrong, absolument! Don’t you think that if Philippe had done something like that Lysette and Maximilien would have known?”

  “Aye, that’s precisely what I think,” Justin said, becoming more serious. “Which is why you and I are going to find Lysette right now.”

  “I will not go anywhere with you!”

  “Then don’t,” he said indifferently. “If you’re afraid of the truth…” Shrugging, he reached for his cane and pulled himself to his feet. “But I intend to have some answers.”

  Muttering in French, Celia followed him to the main house, her spine rigid with outrage. Fleetingly, the worry crossed her mind that she was every bit as upset over seeing Justin in an embrace with Briony as she was with the suspicion that Philippe had had an affair with her.

  Celia had to be honest with herself. When she had seen the two dark heads together silhouetted against the violet sky, she had felt betrayed. No, it was wrong, she could not feel this way! She had no claim on Justin, nor did she want one. He was an outcast, an outlaw. In the past he had done things that were beneath contempt. If she allowed herself to feel anything for him, it could be nothing more than pity.

  They reached the house, Celia noticing that Justin’s uneven gait was becoming smoother with each day that passed. How quickly he healed. It would not be long before he was well enough to leave. And then what? Maximilien had refused to discuss any plans for Justin’s departure from New Orleans, or what explanations they would give after he was gone. “It is enough that you concern yourself with the day-to-day worries of the present,” he had said when Celia had persisted in questioning him. “Leave the future to me.” There was no way of arguing against such arrogant self-confidence.

  Brusquely Justin told Noeline to call Lysette to the parlor. He lowered himself onto the settee while Celia seated herself as far away from him as possible. Feeling his gaze on her, she glanced at him. Although he was not smiling, the dimple had appeared in his cheek, and there was a wicked glint in his eyes.

  “Why do you look so pleased?” she burst out. “You are hoping my husband was unfaithful to me. You would like to see me humiliated by his indiscretions, and you—”

  “Attends,” Justin drawled, holding up his hand in a silencing motion. “If Philippe did lay with the girl—and I’d bet my good leg that he did—it was before he married you. He wasn’t your husband, and therefore he wasn’t unfaithful to you.”

  “He made promises to me,” Celia said in a low, intense voice. “I waited for three years for him to come for me.”

  He gave her a mocking smile. “And you expected him to be celibate all that time?”

  “Naturellement! He loved me. He could have waited for me!”

  “You know less about men than I thought,” Justin said, shaking his head. “Philippe was a young man in his prime, not a priest. And for that matter, I would suppose that even priests have natural physical urges. A man—or woman—can’t deny certain basic needs—”

  “You are disgusting!”

  “Basic needs,” he continued, “that at times have little to do with love.” He stared at her with direct blue eyes. “As you well know.”

  Celia was pinned to the chair by his stare. A crimson tide washed slowly over her face. Raising her trembling hand to her chest, she tried to calm the panicked rhythm of her heart. “Oh,” she breathed. “How could you?”

  “You’d like for me to pretend that night never happened,” he said quietly. “But one thing I’ve never been is a hypocrite.”

  “No, just a thief, outlaw, despoiler of women—”

  “Pardon,” Lysette’s blithe voice came from the doorway. “I was in the nursery with Rafael. It took a minute or so for me to…” She frowned as she saw the wounded anger on Celia’s face, and Justin’s unreadable expression. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “We have a small mystery to be solved,” Justin replied, moving his gaze from Celia to his stepmother.

  “Oh?” Lysette suddenly looked far, far too innocent. “Perhaps we should wait until Max returns home and then—”

  “Nay, you’ll do very well,” Justin said. “You already know the answers to our mystery, don’t you Belle-mère? You can begin by explaining why Miss Briony Doyle threw herself into my arms a few minutes ago.”

  “Briony? She…Oh dear!” Dismay crossed Lysette’s delicate features. “I had asked Briony to keep her distance from you. I thought that what I told her would have kept her from…ah, mon Dieu…she knows, then?”

  “She knows,” Justin said flatly. “Belle-mère, tell me—and my charming wife—exactly what the relationship between Philippe and Miss Doyle was.”

  Lysette cast an apprehensive glance at Celia. “I do not think it is necessary to divulge something that should be kept private—”

  “Yes, it is necessary,” Celia said fiercely. “I am weary of all the secrets this family keeps! I wish to know what happened between Philippe and that girl. Did he love her? Did he make her his…” She found that she could not bring herself to say the words.

  Lysette looked at their determined faces and her brow wrinkled in concern. “Philippe would not have wanted you to know, Celia. He never intended for you to know—it had nothing to do with you. But he never could have anticipated these circumstances, or what you would be asked to do for the sake of the family. Before I explain you must understand that sometimes people cannot help the way they feel. Sometimes they find themselves in situations over which they have no control—”

  “She understands all that,” Justin interrupted. “Tell her.”

  Lysette nodded and took a deep breath. “Philippe and Briony were amoureux for more than a year,” she blurted out. “He very nearly married her.”

  Celia stared at her blankly. “Philippe?” she asked in a tiny voice.

  “He and Briony tried to ignore each other. For a long time they denied how they felt. But then…” Lysette cleared her throat awkwardly.

  “But I was waiting for him,” Celia half-whispered. She could not
imagine Philippe in love with another woman. He had told her he loved her. He had written her long letters describing his feelings for her. A wave of hurt swept over her. “I-I thought I was the only one.”

  Lysette regarded her compassionately. “You were the one he married, chérie. It took him a long time to choose between the two of you. After much soul-searching, he decided you were the one he truly wanted.”

  Celia did not find that comforting. “But if he loved Miss Doyle, why did he not marry her?”

  “Because he loved you too, dear, and he realized how much better suited you were to be his wife. You are educated and from a nice French family, a doctor’s daughter—”

  “I was the safe choice,” Celia interrupted, her confusion changing to stormy anger.

  Justin broke in. “Why are you upset? He chose you, didn’t he? You got what you wanted. That’s the only thing that matters.”

  “It is not! If Miss Doyle and I had been equal in name and position, I would have been the second choice!”

  He scowled in impatience. “You don’t know that.” Looking at Lysette, he lifted his brows questioningly. “How many people knew about their…ah, liaison?”

  “No one except the family. Philippe conferred with Max about what to do, and Max told him—”

  “You mean he married me because of his father’s advice?” Celia demanded, her voice rising with the fury of a scorned woman. “How long did it take him to make this decision? How much deliberation and conferring did it take before he finally came to France to marry me? I waited for three years! He wasn’t waiting for the war to end, he was taking his time about deciding which woman to marry!”

  Lysette winced and sent a look of appeal to Justin.

  Justin nodded slightly, his gaze flickering to the doorway and back to her in a silent command for her to leave. “Thank you for explaining things, Belle-mère.”

  “Do you think Briony will divulge what she knows?” Lysette asked.

  “No.”

  “I pray that she will not.” Lysette sighed and retired gratefully.

  The two of them were left alone. “Now,” Justin said. “Why this show of outrage?”

  Celia jumped up and strode to the window, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Isn’t it obvious? You know the reasons, you just want to gloat while I—”

  “I’m not gloating. Come here and sit down.”

  “I will not—”

  “Come here,” he repeated firmly, “and sit down.” For a moment he thought she was going to refuse.

  Reluctantly Celia sat a foot or two away from him. “What do you wish to say?” she asked sullenly.

  “That Philippe cared for you. Enough to marry you. The fact that he had to make a difficult choice shouldn’t bruise your vanity. You should find it flattering that you were the one he finally chose.”

  “My relationship with Philippe wasn’t what I thought it was. I thought he loved me completely, that there wasn’t room for another woman. There shouldn’t have been a choice. He shouldn’t have had to ask anyone for advice.” She said the word as if it were a profanity. “He should have known without question that the one he wanted was me.” Suddenly realizing how demanding and selfish she sounded, she hung her head, her hands twisting together in her lap. “After my mother died nothing was ever completely mine,” she muttered. “My father devoted himself to his practice, I spent my life taking care of the house and family. Then my sisters began attracting young men, they were called on and courted, a-and I was always overlooked, and one day I realized my youth was gone—”

  Justin laughed, unable to stop himself.

  Celia stiffened in outrage. “How dare you laugh. I knew I should not have told you any—”

  He reached out and tangled his fingers in the curls at the back of her head, forcing her to look at him. “Your youth is not gone,” he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. His gaze traveled over her small face, and his voice softened. “In some ways you’re still a little girl.”

  She decided he must be jeering at her. And yet she was paralyzed by his nearness, the warmth of his hand. “Do not mock me,” she managed to say.

  “You would have been courted by anyone you showed the slightest interest in. But you wanted something special.” His fingers played lightly in her hair. “Philippe almost understood, didn’t he? But he couldn’t see into that last part of you, the part you keep hidden from everyone. I know exactly what you wanted from Philippe, ma petite, but you would never have had him all to yourself. Philippe was as devoted to his practice as your father was to his. He was not the kind to ignore the needs of his patients just because his wife wanted him at home. You would have had to share, and share generously. And you would have hated it. You never let him know that you felt that way, did you? Philippe married you because he thought you would be the perfect wife for a man of his profession…when the truth is you would have resented every moment he spent away from you.”

  Celia lowered her head in shame, feeling exposed, as if all her sins and faults were there on her face for him to see. She thought of lying and telling him he was wrong, but she knew it would be useless. How had he been able to guess at her most private feelings? Was she that transparent to others or only to him? “That is a terrible thing to accuse me of,” she mumbled. “I would not have been so possessive and selfish…”

  “It’s not terrible. Some men dream of being loved that way.”

  “That girl did not love Philippe selfishly,” she said, and his hand dropped from her hair.

  “No. She would have been happy with whatever he chose to give her.”

  “What did she say to you when she thought you were Philippe?”

  “That,” Justin said dryly, “is between her and Philippe.”

  The discoveries about Philippe caused endless questions to turn through Celia’s mind that evening. She went to bed and fell into a troubled sleep, and the nightmare that sometimes haunted her came back. It was as vivid and terrifying as ever. She was leaning over the ship’s wooden rail, staring at corpses in the bloody water. Philippe was still alive, reaching up to her. But she could not help him—she could only watch in horror as he flailed and began to sink underneath the surface. Dominic Legare was behind her, his growling voice promising death, his hands reaching for her throat, choking off her screams. There was no one to help her, no place of safety, no chance of escape.

  Celia woke and sat up with a gasp, finding the sheets twisted around her body. Her bedroom was quiet, dappled with shadows and moonlight. Unsteadily she wiped her tear-streaked face and took several long breaths. She tried to reason with herself. Philippe was dead, and she was safe from Dominic Legare. It was ridiculous to be afraid. Why did her own mind torture her with such images? Her wild heartbeat began to slow, and she lay down again, her teeth chattering. She could not help thinking of the first time she’d had the nightmare, and the way Justin had held her afterward. He’d been so strong and soothing…No, she told herself, don’t think about it. But the memory returned insistently.

  She thought of how he had comforted her, and then had taken her in a fury of passion, possessing her body as if she had been created solely for his pleasure. Blushing with shame and arousal, she thought of his thighs straddling hers, his dark head bent over her breasts. “Mon Dieu,” she whispered, and buried her face in the pillow, trying to go back to sleep.

  The next day she stayed in the garçonnière. She occupied herself with her sketches and watercolors, but her artwork was not as calming as usual. In the middle of the cool, blustery afternoon she took a walk in the garden and encountered Justin, who was exercising his leg.

  “I wondered when you’d come out of hiding,” he remarked. His blue eyes traveled boldly over her close-fitting gown of gray muslin and ruby velvet. Although the gown was high-necked it displayed the fullness of her breasts, and it clung to her waist and hips as she walked.

  “Hiding?” Celia repeated coolly, ignoring his masculine inspection. “I was not hiding.”
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  “Then why did you have breakfast and lunch in the garçonnière?”

  “Because I wished to be alone.”

  “You were hiding from me.”

  “I was avoiding you. I do not happen to find your company enjoyable, much as that may surprise you! But I suppose you do not believe it.”

  He smiled slowly. “Not entirely.”

  “I suppose you think that when you leave I’ll throw myself into your arms and beg you to take me with you.”

  “Not at all. You’ll stay here and be a tante to Lysette’s children until you’re old and gray. You’ll be a model of propriety. They’ll find it impossible to believe you were ever young. After a few decades have passed your misadventures with me will be nothing but a distant memory. You’ll be quiet and contented, respected by everyone who knows you.”

  “It doesn’t sound like such a dreadful fate.”

  “For you it would be.”

  “Oh?” She gave him a haughty stare. “What kind of life do you think would be better for me?”

  “I offered it to you once.”

  He had offered to make her his mistress and take her around the world. He had thought she would jump at his promises of homes and jewels and fine clothes, as if she were nothing but an expensive whore. “Your offer was an insult!”

  “You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted such an arrangement with.”

  “Are you making the offer again?” she sneered.

  “As I recall, I never withdrew it.”

  “You are mad if you think I would consider—”

  “You’ll consider it,” he said. The amusement left his gaze, and his eyes flashed dark and blue. “Before I leave for good I’ll make certain of that.”

  She froze as he walked toward her with his faulty steps. “No,” she whispered. His hands clenched at her waist.

  “Little fool. You know there’s something between us that no one else would begin to understand. Something you never had with Philippe.”