Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(109)

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, scarlets, 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.