Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(63)

“Philippe,” she whispered, sitting on the bench beside him. Her small work-roughened hands came to his face, touching him tenderly. “Oh, Philippe, me love, when I heard ye weren’t dead…”

Before Justin could say a word, she pressed her mouth to his in a sweet, searching kiss.

Chapter 9

Astonished, Justin tried to take stock of the situation. Obviously the girl was a former lover of Philippe’s. But Philippe had not been the kind to trifle with servants. He had not even taken a quadroon mistress when he’d come of age. Philippe had always been attracted to girls of frail gentility, not robust wenches such as this.

While one part of his mind speculated on how closely Philippe and this girl had been acquainted, the other part noted how surprising it was that she moved him so little. Usually he would have taken great pleasure in the advances of a comely wench, and immediately have begun to teach her a few things she didn’t seem to know about kissing. But although her lips were soft and sweet, he took as little satisfaction from the kiss as if he were starving and had been offered merely a cup of weak tea. And it wasn’t the girl’s fault, it was his. There was only one woman he wanted.

“Puir darlin’,” she said in a low, passionate voice, feeling the bandages through his shirt. “When they told me ye were dead part o’ me died too. I know there’s nothin’ I can have o’ ye now. Yer wife is a good woman. I wouldna seek to take ye from her. But I can still love ye, Philippe, an’ I will fer the rest o’ me life. I just wanted one moment fer meself, one last kiss. In me heart ye’ll always be mine. I’ll nivver give meself to another man. I’ll wait forever, even if ye nivver want any part o’ me. Whatever ye care to take I’ll give gladly. ’Tis a sin to love another woman’s husband, but I don’t care. I canna tear me very heart out by denyin’ what I feel.” She kissed him again, but this time she sensed that something was wrong, and she pulled her head back to look at him. “Philippe? What is it?”

Her tear-streaked face went blank, and her trembling fingers touched his lips, chin, and cheek, exploring gently. Then her hand fell away. “Ye’re not Philippe,” she gasped. She swayed, and he took her by the shoulders. She regarded him with wide eyes. “Ye’re the brother. Justin.”

Justin was quiet, knowing there was no denial, no lie that would make her believe he was his brother.

Her throat worked as she tried to speak. She stared into his midnight-blue eyes and found her voice. “Philippe talked of ye often.”

“He did?” Justin questioned in surprise. He’d thought that Philippe had not spoken about him with anyone, not even Celia.

The girl’s shoulders quivered in his hands. “Where is Philippe?” she asked, her voice breaking. “He’s…dead, isn’t he?” Justin nodded slightly. She gave a grief-stricken moan and bit her lip.

“What is your name?” Justin asked bluntly, and she choked back her sobs.

“Briony. Miss Briony Doyle.”

“Miss Doyle,” he repeated. “Are you going to keep my secret?”

“Wh-why have ye taken his place?”

“There are men who seek to take my life. The same ones who killed Philippe. I can’t force you to hold your silence. All I can do is trust that you will do it out of respect for Philippe. I think he would have asked you to help me.”

Briony nodded slowly. “I’ll help ye.”

“Thank you,” Justin said, wondering if she could be trusted.

“Philippe loved ye,” she said softly. “He worried over ye every day of his life. I’ll keep yer secret, Mr. Valleyrand—if ye’ll keep mine.”

“Aye.” Justin let go of her, and she continued to sit there, her shoulders slumped. He pitied her, seeing that although she was just a girl, her grief was as deep as Celia’s had been. Perhaps even deeper, for he knew without asking that Briony and Philippe had been lovers, and that Philippe had been the center of this girl’s life.

“I lost him when he left fer France to marry Celia Verité,” Briony confessed, her voice hollow. “I knew he loved me. I made him happy, but I’d nivver be worthy of him. He dreamed of marryin’ a fine lady wi’ soft hands, one who understood the poems an’ such he liked. I nivver asked him fer anythin’…I knew he would leave me someday. I gave him all o’ meself an’ didna try to hold him to me. A Valleyrand an’ an Irish lass.” She shook her head with a wavering smile. “’Twas a daft notion.”

“Philippe was a fool,” Justin said gently. “I think you must have been good for him.”

Justin would have liked to have seen his brother with this impulsive girl, someone who would have jolted him from his dreams and his safe inner world. Someone who had loved him enough to follow her heart instead of conventions. Celia had loved Philippe, but she never would have challenged him.

“Puir Madame Valleyrand,” Briony murmured as if following his thoughts.

“Don’t worry about her. She’s a strong woman,” Justin said, and gestured for her to go to the house. “It’s best that you leave before you’re seen.” He paused. “You won’t tell anyone who I am?”

“No,” she said. “I wouldna betray Philippe’s brother.” Stiffening her spine, she stood and walked away, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve.