Celine (5 page)

“Ah,” Miles put in. “Don't tell me you speak of Mrs. Rogers?” Celine's heart lurched at the mere mention of her grandmother's name. “I do, Mr. Andrews.”

“Then you're the little Rogers girl.” His words were more a statement than a question. “I remember you.” His smile could not have been warmer. “And since there are six male members of the Andrews family in attendance, you may call me Miles.”

“You may call me Celine then.”

“Does that include all of us?” Cameron asked with a sultry grin.

Trevor leaned toward his father, changing the subject. “Do you know why Judge Morgan sold out and left the South?”

Celine stopped listening when the subject turned to the strained political climate. She observed Elizabeth, a painfully shy and decidedly plain woman. What did Miles see in her? Her mousy brown hair strained to break out of the tight little bun sitting at the nape of her neck. Her fingers shook slightly as they rested uncomfortably around the bowl of her wineglass. Her downcast eyes avoided everyone, and her cheeks bloomed whenever any attention was cast her way.

The poor dear was totally out of her element. Celine's chest tightened at Elizabeth's discomfiture. A sudden dawning struck. Why, Celine was likely not much different from Elizabeth. Probably they came from similarly modest circumstances. If it hadn't been for Celine's grandmother, so intent on sacrificing everything to train Celine in the manner of gentility, she could just as easily be sitting here as uncomfortable and awkward as Elizabeth.

A shudder ran down Celine's spine as the full realization of the unselfish gift her grandmother had bestowed upon her settled in. Her grandmother had studied the manners of the elite of New Orleans and brought them home to Celine, fashioned her clothing after theirs, even managed to save some of the finest leftover materials to sneak home. When the time came for Celine to step into society, the deed was accomplished with little effort—thanks to her grandmother—and Dianah Morgan's insistence that they become friends. Celine's heart squeezed with compassion for Elizabeth.

Out of the corner of her eye, Celine became painfully aware that Trevor studied her intently while he chatted with the others. Her heart lost its rhythm. If ever there was a dangerous man, here sat one. She'd be leaving soon. All the sooner if it wasn't for that blasted ball Justin had already planned. But Trevor would only remain here for a few days. Surely she could allow him to be her friend for Justin's sake. Couldn't she? Her breath caught at the intensity in Trevor's gaze before she forced a smile, willing herself to forget her wildly thumping heart.

He smiled back in the same easy fashion Celine had seen the first time she laid eyes on him. He raised his wineglass slightly in a toast to her and murmured, “That's two times your eyes have shifted color.”

“I beg your pardon, what did you say?”

Trevor leaned forward and responded in a hushed voice, his gaze never leaving hers. “I said touché.”

Puzzled, she turned away from him, suddenly uncomfortable. She signaled for another glass of wine. She held the glass to her lips and drank half its contents, nervously aware that Trevor's attention was still fixed on her, the din of conversation around her a dull roar. She stared into the glass as if she held a crystal ball.

Dear Lord, what an intense response he stirred deep in her belly. For a brief moment, she let herself wonder what it would be like to lie in his arms, to feel his naked body next to hers, to kiss those soft-looking lips. She was sure, somehow, that he slept naked and that his lovemaking would be gentle, his kisses sweet. Her cheeks flamed.

What foolishness. How could she know such intimate things? She had never lain naked next to a man. Throughout her marriage she and Stephen had worn nightclothes, each dressing in private. Married a full year, and she had never seen a man unclothed. For heaven's sake. Why, no man had ever seen her naked, either, and here she was, a widow
.
She giggled at the absurdity of it all.

The others turned to her. “Oh, my, I may have had a little too much to drink on an empty stomach.” Damnation, her nose was probably red, too. She touched the tip, only to find it numb. Cameron reached over and gave her hand a gentle, knowing squeeze.

Trevor leaned back in his chair, his visage unreadable.

Miles brought the conversation to a halt when he tapped his glass with a spoon. He announced to all that he had turned the leadership of the shipping business over to Trevor. “I am by no means too smug to admit when someone else is more adept than am I.”

“Well said,” Trevor announced with mock arrogance.

Miles raised his wineglass. “Trevor is the one who has been responsible for the great financial gains we have experienced these past two years. And I, quite frankly, admit to a strong desire to spend more time in England with Elizabeth.”

“Here, here,” Justin put in. All glasses were raised.

Miles patted Elizabeth's hand affectionately. She smiled sweetly at him.

There were more toasts, and Celine drank more wine. She hadn't been this relaxed since ... well ... never.

The men began swapping sea stories, each trying to top the other. Cameron's arm still rested lightly on the back of Celine's chair.

“Do you suppose there are actually such things as mermaids?” Celine asked.

“Indeed,” Trevor responded with Cameron and Miles heartily agreeing.

“Where might one find them?” she queried.

“Oh, you don't find them. They find you,” Cameron said, joining in the teasing. “And you don't usually sight them until you are well away from shore.”

“Aye, about a month out to sea, that is,” someone added.

Celine turned to Elizabeth, who mouthed the words
sea cow
. At first, Celine didn't understand, thinking Elizabeth had said
seek how
.

“Oh, sea cow,” Celine laughed, picturing lovesick sailors lined up at the ship's rails staring lovingly at some blubbery old mammal, all the while imagining it to be a graceful mermaid beckoning to them. She had definitely drunk too much wine.

Felicité stared at her plate and pouted, not understanding much of what was going on.

Celine started to explain the story to Felicité in French, but Trevor chided her.

“Now, Trevor,” she scolded lightly, the wine allowing her to drop her guard a bit. “Don't be so hard on your sister.”

He leaned back in his chair, raising its front legs. He hooked his thumbs in the top of his trousers, his fringed lashes failing to screen the intimacy of his gaze. His eyes crinkled at the corners. In the space between them, a current was building.

Like a fly in a spider's web, she was captured by strange sensations—the giddiness of the wine, Trevor's commanding presence—so caught up that an ache, deep in the soft, secret recesses of her being, throbbed. Using every ounce of willpower she could muster, she tore her gaze from his and peered into the safety of her wineglass. Again, she wondered what it would be like to lie with him. If only she had no pride, if only she didn't care that she would end up like his other lovers.

If only.

A storm gathered force deep within Trevor as he watched Celine's pulse beat lightly in the soft hollow of her throat. Her breasts rose and fell with every shallow, quick breath she took. Her lashes swept nearly closed as she smiled into her wineglass. Somewhere in that smile was the knowledge that he wanted her. And when he had her—and he would—it would be what she wanted, as well.

Christ, she did something to him. It was more than her beauty. He'd known plenty of beautiful women. Yet every one of them who'd ever succumbed to him paled in comparison. Even the way her body moved when she'd first walked into the room this evening had stirred his blood. Unable to control the embarrassing tug to his groin, he'd walked away. And remained on the terrace until he was composed enough to rejoin the group.

“What about Etienne Beaudrée, Father?” At the mention of his neighbor's name, Trevor's attention focused on the conversation at hand.

“I said, he passed on nearly six months ago. Heart failure, they say. He left his widow to run things on her own.”

“Widow? I wasn't aware he'd married.”

“He was only wed a little over two months. You wouldn't have had any reason to know. He married Giselle Beauvalet.”

Cameron whistled through his teeth. “I think we can guess what killed the old boy.”

Trevor chuckled. “So, it's the Widow Beaudrée now, is it? Here she is mourning away at the plantation right next door, and I haven't even had the courtesy to pay my respects. Perhaps I should do so on behalf of the family. Would tomorrow be too soon, Cousin?”

He watched for Celine's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Now why the hell had he gone and said that? What was he, an overzealous schoolboy?
Mon Dieu.

Cameron laughed derisively. “Not at all, Cousin, not at all.” He raised his glass in a toast to Trevor, wicked signals passing between them.

Celine visibly stiffened and turned to Cameron. “Do you recall your earlier offer to take me riding in the morning?”

“Why, yes, dear heart.”

Had Cameron just slurred his words? At any rate, he'd had more wine than was good for him. And was Trevor's cousin having trouble focusing on Celine, as well? He appeared as though he was about to plant a kiss on her mouth right then and there, but he pulled back as if checking the impulse.

Some dark emotion Trevor couldn't identify swept through him.

“How could I remember? I mean, not remember?” Cameron had composed himself and was smiling at her.

Celine laughed lightly.

Trevor could stand it no longer. He stood and pushed his chair back. “If you'll excuse me, I'm off for some fresh air before I retire. It's nearly midnight, and I've had a long day.”

Chapter Four

Celine fidgeted in the firelight while Marie undressed her and slipped a thin night rail over her head. The fabric brushed lightly against her breasts. A shaft of lightning skittered through her body. Her nipples hardened. She turned her back on the keen-eyed maid.

“Throw my things on the window seat until morning and take yourself to bed, it's late.”

“And wrinkle this pretty little thing?” Marie headed for the wardrobe with the gown in her hand. “I'll only be a minute, and then I'll see to your coiffure.”

Celine huffed, sat down at the dressing table, and pulled pins from her hair. “I can manage on my own tonight.” Oh, how she'd love to broach the subject of the Widow Beaudrée with Marie, who seemed to know everything that went on up and down the river. But not now, not after barely leaving the dinner table. Celine would bide her time until just the right moment.

“Things not go well at dinner, mam'selle?” Marie called out from the closet.

Blast it all, did nothing get past her? “Everything went well enough, thank you. Better than I expected, actually. I merely drank too much wine and ate little.”

“Now
that
I can fix for you. I'll see to—”

“No, please.” Celine stood. “I really want my bed. By morning I'll be fine.”

“You're sure?” Marie stepped from the wardrobe with a peach-colored peignoir in her hand and stepped over to the dressing table. She draped the satin dressing gown over Celine's shoulders.

“I am going to bed directly, so I hardly need a robe.” Celine pulled the brush through her hair.

“It'll keep you from taking any loose hair to bed.” Marie set the back of her hand to Celine's forehead.

She rolled her eyes. “Don't treat me as if I were a child.”

Marie smiled. “Even though you're acting like one? The wine will help you sleep. Good night then, mam'selle.” She closed the door gently behind her.

Celine laid the dressing gown across the foot of her bed and crawled in. She curled onto her side and watched the orange and yellow flames dance in the fireplace. Soon, it would be too warm for a fire, and then she would be forced to fall asleep in the dark—something she wasn't comfortable doing, not since the accident anyway. Not since she'd been trapped beneath the splintered wagon alongside her dead husband. Not since she'd spent the entire night chilled to the bone, her legs dangling in a swollen river thick with debris and water moccasins.

Her body gave an involuntary shudder. Well, she'd be gone to San Francisco before the muggy heat of summer settled in. According to the Morgans, the weather there was cool year-round.

Trevor invaded her thoughts. She grew restless. Damnation, but the man had a way about him.

She tossed and turned until the covers lay in a tangle. With a frustrated kick, she cast them aside, and rose. As she paced, a dull throbbing struck her temples. She flopped onto the bed for a while, then stood and paced again.

An aching, unfulfilled hollowness burned deep within. Hungry—she felt hungry. Digging the robe from the twisted pile of covers, she put it on, and slipped down the stairs and out the back door.

The house was as dark as the night, but as always, the cookhouse was lit. She worked her way along the stone path bathed in moonlight, stubbed her toe, and cursed softly.

Zola was sure to have a conniption about Celine's running around barefoot. But the cook wouldn't be a bit surprised to see Celine, who had spent many long, sleepless nights in front of one of the twin fireplaces that stood at each end of the room. Zola would bake and listen while Celine poured her heart out. Gradually, her nightmares lessened, and she was able to sleep some, however badly. While she'd learned to cope with the nightmares somewhat, she hadn't gotten used to thunderstorms. They still terrified her.

In the beginning, Marie used to curl up in a chair beside Celine's bed whenever lightning and thunder crashed. Lately, though, Celine had taken to riding out the storms in front of one of the fireplaces while Zola worked.

“Zola?” Celine called out softly. She stepped over the threshold. The warm, yeasty smell of baking bread filled the air. Fires blazed in both fireplaces. An empty chair sat in front of one of them. Zola couldn't have gone far.

Celine wandered to a table filled with fresh loaves of bread. She touched a top. That's what she wanted, hot bread slathered with butter and jam. One loaf stood on the table, an end missing, a knife lying beside it. A butter dish and jam pot stood next to the cutlery. She helped herself to a thick slice, spread the soft butter on top, and after the yellow blob melted into the bread, she lifted the jam jar's lid. Empty.

Blast it all.

“Zola, where are you?” Remembering the preserves were kept on the top shelf of the pantry, she went in search. Stretching on tiptoe, Celine felt around with both hands for a jar. A soft rustle told her someone else was in the room. Instinctively, she knew who it was.

Thought scattered.

She heard the whisper of clothing against skin, felt body heat engulf her, caught his scent. Strong, firm hands reached over her head and nudged a jar forward.

“This what you're looking for?” His words, barely above a husky whisper, wafted hot across her cheek.

She struggled for an answer, her arms still outstretched.

He picked up the jar, moved it one shelf lower, and then closed his hands around her wrists.
God, the wildfire heat of his touch—it coursed right through her.

Her breath hitched.

Still holding her by her wrists, he slowly turned her around to face him.

She tried to step back, but had no place to go and found the pantry shelves digging into her back. He was so close his entire body nearly touched the length of hers.

He still wore dark trousers, but no jacket. His shirt was open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. She caught a glimpse of his broad chest and a patch of dark curls. A wave of unexpected want swept through her. She stared into his shadowed face, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, could smell his clothes and skin.

“Leave me alone, Trevor.”

His eyes glittered like diamonds on black velvet. “Do you really want me to leave you alone, Celine? Or do you want me as I want you?” His gaze shifted to her mouth.

Slowly, he leaned forward, his thick lashes veiling his eyes, his intentions obvious when his lips parted.

She bit down on her lip so that all he encountered was a straight, tight, uninviting slit. Nonetheless, when his lips touched her skin and his breath mingled with hers, her mind altered.

His mouth grazed her cheek, traced a seductive path along her jaw—soft, warm, and tender.

“So that's the way it's going to be,” he whispered.

His teeth tugged at the lobe of her ear—gently, ever so gently, but the reaction he provoked was anything but gentle—his touch seared her like a branding iron.

Wild, primitive urges she didn't know she possessed pounded in her veins. Her body stiffened, then shook slightly.

A quiet force emanated from him, a power unlike anything she'd ever experienced as he held her. She knew it was useless to struggle. He could easily overwhelm her.

She closed her eyes to him.

To think.

But she couldn't seem to pull her thoughts together. Oh, she was definitely over her head here. This kind of seduction was clearly Trevor's territory. She must have been insane to think she could handle him.

Panic licked at her heels.

His lips caressed the curve of her shoulder, and then came to rest at the hollow of her neck. She needed to stop him, but she couldn't seem to move. Did she dare to embrace a bit of the rapture her erotic books had touched upon?

They stood together quietly, not moving. But his lips remained, soft and sweet on her neck, his breath a hot rush across her flesh. The air around her turned thick with passion, and her knees turned to liquid.

The battle was lost to her.

Trevor's mouth moved slowly along her neck, leaving a hot trail as he went. “You smell so good, so tempting.” He kissed her ear, and then moved up to press gentle kisses against her eyelids.

He clasped her wrists closer together, holding them easily over her head with one hand, leaving his other free to stroke her hair. He ran his thumb gently along her ear, then along her jaw, before sliding his fingers behind her neck.

She held still, trying one last time to find the strength to reject him. But her insides burned, and all she knew was that her desire for him was deepening.

Gently, he pushed her chin up with his thumb, tilted her face to his. His lips came down on hers, this time meeting no resistance. His mouth, warm against hers, engulfed her. For a moment all that existed was his supple lips on hers as he softly murmured her name.

His hand left her neck and moved down the front of her, loosening the sash of her robe. The top of his hand brushed against her ribcage—and God, she wanted more of his touch.

The tips of her breasts stiffened and tugged at her womb as though they were connected by a thin thread. Aching with desire, she fought a moan.

Her robe fell open.

The flat of his hand settled on the curve of her waist, his fingers splaying to her navel.

Hot—so hot it was as if the thin fabric of her night rail had all but disintegrated. She leaned her head back against the vertical panel holding the shelves, unaware she had exposed the column of her neck until his mouth grazed her skin.

His eyes were downcast as he regarded her. “You are so beautiful, Celine,” he whispered, as he drew her arms around his neck. He slid his hand under her robe to the small of her back, tilting her pelvis toward him. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned into her body, pressing his male hardness gently against her.

Celine gasped as his mouth came down on hers once again, his heated tongue exploring its depths.

She kissed him back, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her fingers curling into his hair. Liquid fire pumped wildly through her veins. She was in danger of losing herself to him, yet she was experiencing the sweetest, most loving moment she had ever known.

He lifted his mouth from hers.

And then he smiled.

Shocked disbelief ran through her like ice water. That was triumph she saw. Oh God, no. Why, this was nothing to him but idle sport. He was indeed a bastard.

She leaned forward as if to kiss him again, but when his mouth touched hers, she bit down, hard and quick.

He jumped back, grabbing his lip. The passion in his countenance faded to puzzlement. “What the hell was that about?”

“If you ever try to touch me again, I swear, I'll castrate you.” Celine wrapped her robe around herself and tied the ribbons together. “Get away from me.”

“What be all dis ruckus?” Zola stalked through the kitchen and set her fists on her wide hips, a deep scowl on her broad face. “And excuse me while I tend to my jam pot,” she said. Reaching around them, Zola grabbed the jar of preserves off the shelf with a grunt and stomped off.

“Here, now, both you sit down.” She dragged another chair to the fireplace. “If you two intend to be living in the same house, then you better be a gettin' along, you hear?”

She frowned at Trevor's rapidly swelling lip. Tossing a couple of plates on the table with a clatter, she sawed on the loaf of bread. “Only be one footstool here, so you best share it like the gentleman you are.”

She tossed the bread on the plates and grunted as she gave the lid on the jam jar a hard twist. “Lordy, but you two can't be living here fighting and scratching. Here, have some a dis bread I baked up.” She spread the hot bread liberally with butter and jam and plopped a plate onto each of their laps. Then she bent over and picked up their feet, plunking both pairs on the same footstool. “Tch, tch, tch. Don't you ever wear shoes, girl? You're gonna get bit by a big old cottonmouth one of these days.”

“I've already been bit,” Celine muttered.

Trevor gingerly touched his lip. “As have I.”

Zola leaned over and examined his lip with a scowl still painted on her face. “Likely serves you right. Humph.”

When the cook moved back to the table, Trevor eased back into his casual manner. “I know full well what you're up to, Zola. I got caught, and you're about to make me pay the piper.” He rested his head against the back of the chair.

Celine sat staring at the fire in stony silence, aware Trevor watched her. She turned to him, shot him the biggest frown she could muster, and then resumed her cool indifference.

Trevor laughed that same easy laughter she'd heard when she saw him twirl Felicité through the air.

“You have spunk, Celine, I'll hand you that.” He boldly studied her before his expression changed subtly. He turned his attention to the fire.

Celine went back to staring at the dancing flames as well, but she couldn't seem to get her mind off his powerful presence. Or what had just transpired. The flames blurred as her peripheral vision took over. His countenance drew her like a magnet. She fought an inner battle to keep from looking his way.

She lost.

Barely turning her head, she attempted to focus on the footstool they shared. But slowly, her gaze inched up his crossed ankles, then moved to his iron-hard thighs, and came to rest on the mound of maleness that just moments before had been hard and pressed against her stomach, turning her into a helpless wanton. Lord, she should find such a sight indecent, but her blood stirred and a ridiculous urge ran through her—what would it be like to lay her hand over the seductive mass? His body was a work of art.