Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(62)

He came across a sketch that caused him to stare intently. It was of Lysette nursing her baby, her slender arms cradling his small body, her long curls falling in a curtain around the head at her breast. The scene was disarming in its intimacy and tenderness, a glimpse into the private feminine world men were seldom permitted to see.

“Please…you must put that away,” Celia said in a low voice. Her cheeks were flushed. “It would embarrass her if she knew you had seen it.”

Obligingly he set it aside and walked to her. “Have you done any of Philippe?” The question seemed to bring a brighter flush to her face.

Celia was still, her velvety brown eyes raised to his. For once Justin could not read her thoughts. Seeming to make a decision, she turned and went to a nearby table, leafing through a book of sketches. She brought one back to him, the parchment trembling a little. He took it from her, anticipating the ache of recognition as he saw his brother’s face. But his eyes widened in surprise. The sketch was not what he had expected. The portrait was of a man with a derisive smile on his lips, an insolent expression lurking in his gaze, and features just a little too lean to be Philippe’s.

“It’s me,” Justin said. He threw her a questioning glance.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It seems to happen whenever I try to draw Philippe. It is never just right. The more I work on it the more it resembles you.”

They spoke in hushed tones, as if they were in danger of being overheard.

“Why?” he asked.

“I…don’t know.”

“When was this done?”

“A few days ago. I was thinking of him.”

“And of me.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He was silent, staring at her, feeling his heart beat heavily, feeling himself being dragged toward a discovery he did not want to make.

“Perhaps you should leave,” Celia said with an effort, taking the sketch from him. “Lysette will be here soon. An Irish girl is bringing over gowns from the dressmaker. We thought it would be convenient to have the last fittings done here.”

Celia was both relieved and affronted as Justin left almost immediately. She busied herself with straightening her supplies, and gradually the inner turmoil caused by his visit subsided. Lysette swept into the garçconnière with a cheerful smile, followed by the Irish girl, Briony, and footmen burdened with towering stacks of boxes and supplies.

“You must tell Monsieur Deneux that we are very pleased with the gowns,” Lysette said as Briony finished the last alterations for a lovely sea-green silk, high-waisted and cut very low across the bosom. The color was entrancing against her white skin and red hair, and Lysette took an obvious guilty pleasure in the new gown. “How wonderful it is to be out of mourning.”

“’Tis wonderful that Mr. Valleyrand is back home,” Briony replied in a subdued voice.

Celia watched the seamstress adjust one of the short, full sleeves of the gown. They had ordered several ensembles from the dressmaker for both Celia and Lysette, beautiful gowns in rose, blue, green, and lavender. Privately Celia thought that she had never seen the Irish girl in such a distraught mood. Briony was usually cheerful and animated, her brown curls dancing, her small form never at rest. But now she looked pale, and her green eyes were feverishly bright in her white face. Had Briony and Lysette been involved in some kind of dispute? There was an obvious tension between the two in spite of their efforts to behave as usual.

“Well now, that’s the last o’ them,” Briony said, unfastening the back of Lysette’s gown. “I’ll take them back to the shop an’ we’ll have them done by Thursday.”

“Thank you.” Lysette stepped out of the gown and handed it to her. “I will finish dressing here. Go to the main house and tell them to have the carriage brought around.”

Celia stared at the Irish girl, then glanced at Lysette. “She seems rather troubled about something, n’est-ce pas?”

Lysette shrugged a little too nonchalantly. “Ah, girls that age have such changeable moods. Celia, will you tell Noeline to have the maids take the gowns to the carriage? I believe she is in the kitchen with Berté.”

“Certainly.” Celia took the path from the garçonnière to the main house, enjoying the cool breeze that stirred the leaves and brought with it the scent of lemon trees. Dusk had settled over the plantation, the horizon tinged with the last traces of red from the sunset. She paused as she saw Briony disappear behind the hedge of the garden. Perplexed, she followed the girl, wondering why she had not gone directly to the main house.

Justin sat in the garden on the stone bench by the fountain. The rustle of light feet walking across the grass caught his attention, and he looked toward the sound. It was a girl he had never seen before, a pretty Irish girl with freckles and curly brown hair. Her small figure was clad in a modest blue gown of worsted fabric, and a long white apron. Bits of thread clung to her sleeves and bodice. She must have brought Celia’s gowns from the dressmaker.

Justin’s eyes narrowed inquiringly as she approached him. She was staring at him oddly, her eyes huge, her face stark white. With alarm he saw that tears were ready to fall down her softly rounded cheeks. Bon Dieu, he hated to be confronted with crying females! Why the hell was she crying, and why was she looking at him as if—