Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(73)

“Bien-aimé, what time does the ball begin tomorrow?” Lysette asked Max.

It was at that moment that Justin entered the room, stopping just inside the doorway. He sniffed the air appreciatively. “Mmm…I’m starved. I hope you’ve left enough for me.”

Max leaped up from his chair. “Were I not so relieved to see you,” he said, “I would probably be inflicting significant damage on you, my foolhardy son.”

Justin grinned and put a protective hand over his side. “You’ll have to take your turn, Father.”

Max pinned him with a searching gaze. “I assume your interests have been secured and there will be no more unexpected disappearances?”

“Aye.”

“How is the situation?”

An unpleasant hardness crossed Justin’s face. “In the past few weeks Legare has marked Isle au Corneille as his and appropriated everything in sight. Ships, ammunition, property…No one dares to cross him.”

“And neither will you,” Max said. “Your days as Captain Griffin are over. This little jaunt of yours might have ruined even the slightest possibility of a pardon from the governor.”

“Pardon?” Justin laughed shortly. “If you were the closest friend of President Monroe himself you couldn’t manage that. In any event, I don’t need a pardon. Soon I’ll be leaving for good.”

Max scowled and began to argue, but Lysette interrupted adroitly, hoping to prevent a full-blown quarrel. “Thank God you have arrived in time, Justin.”

“In time for what?”

Max proceeded to explain about the Duquesne ball.

Celia set down her fork, aware that her hand was trembling visibly. She let her gaze travel over Justin hungrily. He was dirty and unshaven, the beginnings of a sunburn crossing his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. His vital presence affected her senses like an invigorating drug. She wanted to throw herself at him, smooth her hands over his tangled brown-black hair, hug herself to his body. But not once did he look at her. It was as if she were not there.

“…there must be some way to avoid it,” Justin was saying to Max, who shook his head.

“Rumors will fly if you don’t appear.”

Justin swore and shook his head. “So be it. I’ve already thrown in my lot—no chance of retreat now. I’ll go to the ball and play the gentleman. And I’ll do it so well no one will dare suggest I’m not Philippe.” He turned his attention to Lysette. “Belle-mére, would you have Noeline send up some supper for me?” He plucked at his sweat-stained shirt ruefully. “I believe a bath and a change of clothes are in order.”

“Yes, of course,” Lysette looked at him in concern. “How is your leg? You have not injured it again, have you?”

“Not at all.” Justin smiled slightly. “I’m fine, Belle-mère.”

He left without having acknowledged Celia with so much as a flicker of an eye.

Celia felt as if all the breath had been stolen from her body. There was a sickening sensation inside her. Why had Justin ignored her? Perhaps that scene before he had left had been a game to him. Perhaps it had amused him to reduce her to such a state. Confused and miserable, she tried to appear as if nothing were troubling her. She toyed with the food on her plate and even managed to take a bite now and then. After downing an extra glass of wine, she lingered with Max and Lysette in the parlor after supper. Sitting near the fire, she warmed her slipper-clad feet. There had been no sound from Justin upstairs. They surmised he was exhausted after his three-day absence and had gone to bed.

“You seem tired, Celia,” Lysette said.

“Oui,” Celia murmured, staring moodily into the fire. She was not tired, she was filled with anxiety and hurt. Justin Vallerand was a monster, and she despised him. She had nothing but contempt for a man so facile with lies and empty promises! She bade the Vallerands good-night and trudged out of the main house to the garçonnière. Not wanting to face the housemaid, she went through the house by herself and entered her bedroom. The darkness made her skittish and uneasy, and she fumbled with the tiny candle of the veilleuse lamp on the bureau.

She saw the shape of a man in the corner of the room. Catching her breath, she froze in terror. He stepped forward, and the gleam of his eyes became apparent. Her heart beat against her ribs. She stared at him as if hypnotized. “Justin?”

He was freshly shaven, clad in a loose white shirt and dark breeches. His hair was damp and tousled, wet strands clinging to his neck. He didn’t move, but she felt crowded by the sheer size of his long, lean body. “I couldn’t look at you,” he said hoarsely. “I knew if I did I would snatch you up and drag you to the nearest bed.”

The shadow-filled room was suddenly unreal, a place that existed only in a dream. Anticipation unfurled in the pit of her stomach. Knowing she did not have the will to turn him away, she managed a shaking whisper. “Justin, please go. Please.”

“No.”

He took both her hands in his, felt how cold they were, and slipped them inside his shirt to warm them against his chest. His heart pounded heavily against her palms. With infinite care he slid his arms around her back and pulled her trembling body into his.

Celia dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “We cannot. This is wrong, wrong—”

“Tais-toi, mon coeur,” he whispered, and pulled out the comb that fastened her hair. The silken blond locks unraveled, falling softly down her back. His hand searched through the fine strands, his fingers curving to her skull, and he tilted her head back. He pressed his mouth to the base of her throat, then slid it up to the hollow underneath her jaw.