Only With Your Love Read online

  Philippe stared at her compassionately. He held her hand in a strong grasp. “Celia—”

  “I knew I would never take pleasure in anything again,” she continued. “I would never laugh or be happy. I was certain I would always be alone and I would never love again. And then…I reached an acceptance of your death, Philippe.”

  Philippe’s expression turned cold. “I wasn’t dead,” he said tightly. Leaning across the table, his hands closed over her forearms.

  “But I didn’t know that! And then Justin was brought here, so badly wounded that we all thought he might not make it through the first night. He was so different from you…so disillusioned and rough, so hot-tempered. At first I hated him. But as I helped to take care of him, it became more and more important that he live, and suddenly…” Celia paused and looked helplessly at him. His hands were uncomfortably tight on her arms. “Suddenly I wanted to be with him every minute of the day. When we were together I felt more alive than I ever had before. I suppose I knew he was falling in love with me. I could tell from the way he looked at me and spoke to me…a-and I knew he was fighting against it just as I was, but…” She drew a trembling breath. “…neither of us could stop it from happening.”

  Philippe let go of her and stood up violently, jarring the table so that the coffee sloshed over the rim of the cups. “Did you let him…”

  Celia bit her lip, wondering if it was his right to know, if it was even his right to ask. Legally Philippe was her husband. She had been unfaithful to him. But she hadn’t known he was alive…

  Reading the answer in her confused silence, Philippe struggled to contain his feelings of rage and betrayal.

  Celia sat rigidily in the chair, not looking at him.

  “I should have expected it,” Philippe finally said. “By the time Justin was sixteen he had already become an expert at seduction. He must have found an innocent like you easy prey.”

  Stung by his condescension, she stood and faced him. “I was entirely willing. I wanted to be with him because I love him.”

  “No,” he said with conviction. “You are too inexperienced to know the difference between love and passion.”

  “And was Briony Doyle as well?”

  Philippe looked as if she had struck him. “What?”

  Sorry for her impetuous remark, Celia spoke more softly. “I am aware of the relationship you have with Briony. I know that it began before you came to France to marry me, and that you chose me over her because you considered me more suitable.”

  “That is not—”

  “I saw you with her last night in the garden.” She watched as the color crept across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “You love her, Philippe. You could find such happiness with her, a happiness beyond anything we could ever find together.”

  Philippe strode to the window and stared out at the cloud-misted sky. He gripped the window-sill. “I chose between the two of you once,” he said. ‘I wanted you, Celia. For many reasons. One of the most important was that I loved you. I still love you.”

  “But you love her too.”

  “In a different way.”

  In spite of her tension, Celia smiled wryly. “Perhaps you could explain to me which way you love me and which way you love her.” She did not intend to sound sarcastic, but that was how Philippe heard it.

  “You never spoke like that before,” he said flatly. “Justin’s influence, I suppose.” He turned and leaned against the window frame, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and resting his weight on one leg. “Come here,” he said quietly.

  She complied, standing a foot or two away from him. He did not reach out to her, merely stared at her intently.

  “One of the many differences between my brother and me,” he said, “is the way we view duties and obligations.”

  “Are you saying you consider me a duty? An oblig—”

  “Let me speak,” he said firmly. “We are married, Celia. Nothing has changed that. You’re still legally my wife. Haven’t you considered that we have an obligation to honor the vows we took? For better or worse? Circumstances have altered the course of our lives, but the original reasons for marrying each other still exist. We are alike in many ways. We will be able to find contentment with each other.” He paused and added emotion-lessly, “And so…I am willing to forgive your…indiscretion. I want you to be my wife.”

  Celia regarded him with amazement. This was not proceeding at all as she had expected. “But don’t you want more than mere contentment?” she demanded. “I do!”

  “You think that this wild, passionate kind of love will last forever. But it burns out quicky, Celia. What you feel for my brother will not endure…It will seem magical, wondrous, for only a short time, and then it will dwindle to nothing.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Philippe’s face hardened, reminding her momentarily of Justin. “My father married my mother because she was an exciting woman he felt great passion for. But when the embers faded, there was no real foundation for their marriage…and the situation ended in adultery and tragedy. Justin and I both suffered the consequences of it for years.”

  “But…that is not the same as this at all!”

  “To me it is exactly the same. I love my brother, but I know exactly what he is, Celia. He’s never had a long-lasting relationship in his life.”

  Celia did not try to argue with him on that point—he was convinced he was right. But she believed in Justin and knew how desperately he loved her. She tried to turn away from Philippe. He caught her hands and kept her there, wanting her to face him. “Philippe,” she said warily, “you are brothers. It is only natural that you might feel some sense of competition with him—”

  “This isn’t about that,” he snapped. “This is about the fact that I care for you!”

  “And I care for you, Philippe.” She bent a determined stare on him. “But that is not an adequate reason to keep me as your wife! The truth is that you are madly in love with Briony Doyle, and you are too stubborn to admit it.”

  “I am trying to do what is best for all of us—”

  “Don’t!” Celia stared at him pleadingly. “Philippe, I know how important duties and obligations are to you. But what if there weren’t any to consider? What would you choose if you could have whatever you wanted?”

  “I’ve told you what I want.”

  “Choose for yourself only, Philippe. For once in your life be selfish. Pretend there are no rules, no responsibilities. Pretend there is no marriage between us. You are free to have your heart’s desire. What do you choose? Whom do you choose?”

  Philippe was silent, his face blank.

  “Why did you arrange to meet with Briony in the garden last night?” Celia asked. “Because you couldn’t help yourself. You long for her, you love her…and in your heart you want to believe it will last.”

  As it became clear that he was not going to answer, she pulled away from him. She would have to be patient. “I don’t think you are being honest with yourself,” she said softly. “I think the truth is that we both want the same thing, Philippe. So much has happened…neither of us can go back.”

  “No,” he replied. “But we could begin again.”

  Faced with his obstinacy, she shook her head helplessly and asked if they could continue the conversation later. They both needed time to think.

  Celia did not see Philippe for the rest of the day, although she stayed in the main house in case he wished to talk with her further. Surely persistence would wear him down. But he took his lunch in his room, and did not venture downstairs. He was either resting or thinking—she hoped it was the latter.

  Evening came and there was no word from Max, who must have met with the governor by now. Dejected, Celia curled up on the window seat in the library with Vesta. The orange cat settled in her lap with a loud purr, pawing the soft violet silk of Celia’s gown. Celia liked the elegant masculine atmosphere of the library, the heavy mahogany furniture and the rich yellows, scarle
ts, and blues of the wall coverings and upholstery.

  The cat licked a paw delicately and began to preen herself. “Tell me something, ma belle,” she murmured, smoothing Vesta’s fur over and over. “I have noticed your habit of going from one yowling tom to another, heartlessly discarding each suitor when you tire of him. How can your conscience bear it?”

  “Of all animals,” Philippe said from the doorway, “cats are the least likely to have a conscience.”

  Celia started at the sound of his voice. “Philippe,” she said, with a breathless laugh, “I do not remember your habit of sneaking up on me from before.”

  He caught at his lower lip with his teeth in his old, thoughtful expression, then smiled at her. “May I come in?” he asked, and she nodded, her gaze flickering over him. His dark hair was neatly brushed, and he was dressed in a navy coat, cinnamon-colored breeches, and buckled shoes. A starched linen cravat gleamed white against his jaw. He looked as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “Please sit down,” Celia invited, gesturing to the space beside her on the window seat. Annoyed at the presence of an intruder, Vesta leaped off her lap and wandered out of the room.

  “I apologize for my overbearing attitude this morning,” Philippe said. “You were nothing but honest with me. I realize it was not easy for you.”

  “No, it was not,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her steadily, and there was an openness in his gaze that had not been there before. “I felt…still feel…that something precious has been taken away from me. I don’t blame you, or Justin. All I know is that before I was captured by Legare and his men, you were mine and we had a future together. And I believe we would have been content, Celia.”

  “So do I,” she said sincerely. “But Philippe—”

  “Non,” he murmured, “let me speak my piece. Now I realize that not only have you changed, but so have I. The future I once envisioned is no longer possible.” He took her hand, and their fingers laced together tightly. She began to sniffle, and he searched in his pocket for a handkerchief, giving it to her with a wry smile. “Since that day we were separated,” he said, “I’ve been trapped in a nightmare. I have lived for so many months without hope, without any feeling…nothing is quite real to me anymore. But when I’m with Briony, the nightmare disappears and I begin to feel things intensely, and I can’t help but find it alarming. I’m not certain I want to feel anything yet—I just want safety and peace.”

  “I understand that, after what you have been through,” Celia said. “But you will be safe with Briony. I saw how happy you were with her.”

  Philippe looked down at their entwined hands. “I do love her,” he said.

  “I know that. And she loves you. Why must a husband and wife be exactly alike to find contentment with each other? Vraiment, I think the differences make life very interesting.” Her fingers tightened on his. “Go to Briony.”

  He glanced at her with his slow, charming smile. “So you’re giving orders now.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what should I tell her, madame?”

  “Tell her that you adore her, and that you are going to marry her as soon as you obtain an annulment.”

  His expression turned serious. “Celia, this is what you want?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But if you need my help, if you ever need me to take care of you, I will always—”

  “No, mon cher.” She laughed softly. “You are still concerned for my welfare, aren’t you? Do not worry about me, Philippe…I will not be abandoned or mistreated. Your brother will not tire of me for at least fifty years.”

  “You are sure about that,” he said rather than asked.

  “As sure as fate,” she whispered, giving him a brilliant smile that he could not help but return.

  His lashes lowered. On impulse he pressed a kiss on her lips. It was a dry, affectionate kiss, one a brother might bestow on a sister.

  Suddenly Celia felt a hot chill on the back of her neck, and she knew it had not been caused by Philippe but by another presence in the room. She looked up, and her heart stopped as she saw Justin standing there. He was clad in a loose white shirt that was open at the throat, narrow black trousers, and black shoes. He looked so virile and commanding that Celia caught her breath.

  She had never seen the twins in the same room together. It was overwhelming. She found it hard to believe that one could ever be mistaken for the other. Although their features were identical, it was easy to see which was the doctor and which was the reformed pirate. One was the kind of man all mothers would wish their daughters to marry, while the other was the kind mothers would beg their daughters to stay away from.

  Philippe let go of Celia’s hand and stood up. “So you’ve been pardoned, mon frère,” he said.

  Justin took his hard gaze from Celia and looked at his brother with a slight smile. “Yes. After all of this I’m afraid father’s political influence has been severely depleted. He hasn’t a single favor left to call in.”

  “Justin, what you did for me—” Philippe began, and stopped as if at a loss for words. He stepped forward and clasped Justin in a rough embrace. They held fast, and then Justin released him with a laugh.

  “The worst part of it was pretending to be you,” Justin said. “It wasn’t easy, affecting such gentility and kindness. And having to listen politely to accounts of all the maladies plaguing the elderly matrons of New Orleans.”

  Philippe chuckled. “I must admit, I can’t imagine you listening politely to anyone.”

  Justin surveyed his brother appraisingly. “You look well, Philippe. No one is more glad than I to have you alive, and back here safely.”

  “Thank you,” Philippe said. “It is all because of you.” Blue eyes met blue as the twins exchanged a glance of understanding. They had been separated for a long time, but nothing would ever break the bond between them.

  “When I heard you were dead,” Justin muttered, “I felt as if half of me were missing.”

  “I wanted to kill you myself when I realized you were exchanging yourself for me.”

  “I never thought twice about it,” Justin said simply. “I only wish I could make Legare pay ten times over for what he did to you.”

  “There are things I need to talk to you about, Justin.”

  “I know,” Justin said quietly. “Whenever you want, mon frère.”

  Celia stood up and took a step toward them. “Justin, I—”

  “I see that you have been reunited with your wife,” Justin said to Philippe, ignoring her. His voice turned cool and courteous, as if he were complimenting his brother on winning a card game. “My congratulations.”

  “Actually—”

  “Obviously I’ve interrupted a private moment,” Justin said. “I’ll leave the two of you to your…celebration. We’ll talk later, Philippe.” Before either of them could reply, he turned and strode from the library.

  “Justin!” Celia called after him, but there was no response. Wildly she spun around to Philippe. “H-he misinterpreted the kiss,” she said in a panic. “He does not understand—”

  “If I don’t miss my guess,” Philippe said thoughtfully, “Justin expects you to follow after him. It might be wise to do so immediately. And in the meanwhile…” He smiled, suddenly looking as eager as a boy. “I plan to pay a visit to Miss Briony Doyle.”

  “Good luck,” she said breathlessly.

  “Good luck to you.”

  Rushing down the hallway, Celia caught up to Justin just as he reached the octagonal entrance hall. “Justin, wait.” She touched his arm. He spun around to face her, towering over her. In contrast to his icy control of a few moments before, he was breathing fast and his blue eyes were simmering with fury. “Justin, Philippe and I were talking, and—”

  “Legare was right about one thing,” he said tersely. “You seem to do equally well with either one of the Vallerand brothers.”

  “What?” She gazed at him in astonishment. “Let
me explain—”

  “Don’t bother. It doesn’t interest me.”

  “You are the most unreasonable, thick-headed—”

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to keep Philippe on the line,” Justin sneered. “He’s safe, respectable—an exemplary husband. And when you find he doesn’t satisfy you in bed, you can always come visit me for a good hard—”

  She slapped his face. The crack of her hand echoed in the entrance hall. “After all I’ve endured, I will not be insulted by you!”

  “Oh, I’m not insulting you—”

  “You jealous—”

  “I quite admire your adroitness in getting what you want.”

  “I am trying to tell you that Philippe and I have decided on an annulment!”

  Maximilien’s deep voice boomed out from behind them in annoyance. “What is this uproar about?” He was standing with Lysette at the bottom of the staircase. “Is all this noise and commotion really necessary? I urge the two of you to settle your differences in a more circumspect manner.”

  Glaring at the two of them, Justin dragged Celia into the nearby parlor and slammed the door.

  Max began to chuckle. Lysette glanced at him bemusedly. “Bien-aimé, why are you smiling like that?”

  Max lifted her up the first two steps so that they were standing nose to nose. “I am thinking of the settee you had upholstered in that slick blue damask,” he said, drawing her arms around his neck. “And wondering if they will have more success with it than we did.”

  She turned pink, and then her hazel eyes widened. “Max, you don’t think they’re going to…”

  Max glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, and his amused gaze returned to hers. “It has become very quiet all of a sudden, hasn’t it?”

  Lysette gave him a mock frown. “Maximilien Vallerand,” she said, “your sons are turning out to be nearly as impossible as you are!”

  Max grinned arrogantly. “Little one, you would not have me any other way.”