Celine (12 page)

“What are we doing here?” Trevor asked. “Madame Olympée demands cold, hard coin.”

Cameron chuckled. “Your father had a necklace made for Celine for her birthday next week, and asked me to retrieve it for him. Thought I might find a pair of earrings to match.”

Trevor stood quietly against the jamb of the door with his arms crossed casually over his broad chest while Cameron spoke to the jeweler.

“One moment, monsieur
.
” The shop owner disappeared into the back of the establishment, and then quickly reappeared, carrying a small black velvet box. He set it on the counter before Cameron and opened the lid. “A perfect complement to the exquisite diamond-and-pearl necklace commissioned by your uncle.” The Frenchman rubbed his slender, well-manicured fingers together, anticipating Cameron's reaction.

Cameron lifted the earrings from the case and held them in the air against imaginary ears. At the sight of the pearl-drop earrings ablaze with diamonds, Trevor's jaw clenched. A strange, sardonic mood fell over him. He focused his attention on the shopgirl who'd been eyeing him covertly. She dropped her head and busied herself with a piece of jewelry. Her cheeks flushed when Trevor moved toward her end of the display case. Subtly, he flirted with her as he passed the time inspecting rare pieces of jewelry imported from exotic ports around the world.

One piece caught his eye. He removed the thin gold bracelet from the girl's outstretched hand. Turning it this way and that, he examined the unusual piece while the girl gave him an explanation of its mysterious origins. He stood in silence for a moment while a strange sense of satisfaction settled in. He purchased the item and placed the thin velvet box in his breast pocket.

He and Cameron left the premises and headed west from Royal, to the dressmaker where they were to check on an order of ball gowns that was to be shipped back to Carlton Oaks.

Madame Charmontès had been a friend of the family for decades. Many considered her to be the finest modiste in America. According to the petite Frenchwoman, she was actually the finest dressmaker in the entire world.

She claimed to be able to touch a piece of fabric with her eyes closed, and the vision of what it should become, and the kind of woman who should wear it, appeared in her mind's eye. Every item that left her shop, she considered a work of art. Trevor couldn't help wondering what she would come up with for Celine's ball gown.

Oh, what the hell did he care? He wouldn't be there.

He and Cameron sauntered into the shop, the little bell over the door announcing their arrival. Madame stepped from the back room. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Trevor chuckled.

“You are nearly a week early,” she gasped.

At once she came alive, scurrying about and wildly waving her arms around. “
Mais, non, mais non,
you naughty boys. You are not to be here for six more days. Go! Scat! Do not reappear until you are meant to.” She tried to scoot them out the door like puppies at the end of a broom. “Do you not hear me? Be gone!”

Trevor and Cameron laughed and sidestepped her flailing hands.

Heads poked every which way from behind the curtains leading to the back room. Those who recognized the two cousins pulled the others back to their work, and a buzz of gossip ensued. The idle chatter came to an abrupt halt when the two men ushered themselves through the curtained doorway.

“Get on with your work, ladies. We were simply making sure Madame Charmontès will complete her assignment on time.” Trevor winked at the reigning queen of couture.

She smiled back, somewhat reassured by his manner. She wiggled a finger at them. “At least you aren't expecting to carry anything away. Every aspect of the family's order must be perfect before so much as a stitch goes out the door.”

Trevor touched her shoulders and blew a kiss on each cheek. “We came to pay our respects and to let you know we've arrived.”

“Such a flirt you are,
chéri.
” She stretched up on her toes and pinched Trevor's cheek in return. “I will only allow you to carry my creations away hidden in boxes. Do I need to remind you that every item I create must be properly draped on its female wearer before a gentleman sets his eyes on it? Only then can you receive the full benefit of its loveliness.”

“Be damned, woman. One of the ladies is my sister.”

“And one is my stepmother,” Cameron added.

The seamstresses tittered and giggled, thoroughly enjoying the two cousins and their friendly diversion.

Madame chatted with them about her upcoming trip to France, and of the new clipper ships due to arrive that had everyone in New Orleans gossiping. Trevor offhandedly watched the seamstresses, and every now and then casually reached out to touch the fineness of a particular fabric. The sensation of the different textures between his fingertips did subtle things to his insides that he rather liked.

He caught sight of a filmy turquoise-colored garment already completed and folded in its box, the lid beside it. His senses sharpened. He reached over and touched the sheer fabric. Blood drained from his head and went straight to his groin. Slowly, he pulled the long, filmy nightgown from the container. As he held the translucent chiffon in his hands, something akin to pain and desire settled in his chest. Celine's eyes were this color when she was filled with passion. He'd seen as much just last night when he'd toyed with those firm breasts of hers.

Madame stepped forward, watching him, her spine rigid. He didn't care. She requested Cameron's assistance with a bookkeeping matter, and escorted him to the front of the shop. Just as Trevor returned the nightgown to the box and was fitting the lid on it, she reappeared.

She placed her hand over his.
“Non.”

“You can make another, madame.” Trevor's voice was low and measured. Something untamed and dangerous stirred within him.

“I do not duplicate.”

The drumming in his pulse quickened. “You will now.”

The two studied one another in a room that had grown silent as a cave, her hand still resting atop his.

“You have six days,” he murmured.

She lifted her chin. “The fabric for that particular gown has been in my possession for some time.” Her words sounded stilted, but were filled with an underlying heat. “I laid it aside, patiently waiting for the perfect woman whose depth of soul and passion matched its turquoise color. I finally found her.”

A fist in his gut clawed and twisted.

Her eyes narrowed and she studied him for a long moment. “There is only one way you could possibly know to whom this special garment belongs.”

“I beg you to make another, madame
.
” He nearly choked on his words.

By removing her hand from his, she gave him silent permission to take what he somehow desperately needed. He left quietly with the box under his arm.

 

 

Trevor never should have switched from drinking Sazer-acs, with their less potent mixture of cognac and absinthe, to straight absinthe.
La fée verte
—the green fairy—they called it. But whatever the name, the mind-altering properties that caused the walls to shift and faces to blur did nothing to make him believe that the woman he had pinned to the wall was anything other than what she was—a skilled professional.

The finest brothel in the city employed beautiful women who knew more tricks and offered more favors than any man could dream up. None of it did any good. Not the absinthe. Not Madame Olympée's elaborate establishment. Not this woman.

Her hair was nearly the same color, and her eyes were a similar hazel-green, but they didn't change color when she smiled, or when she pretended arousal. He drew a breath through his nose to quell his disgust. Even her scent was wrong. What the hell did he want? What was he doing?

He dropped the hands that caged her in and stepped back. “You're free to go.”

“Monsieur?”

He managed to shove his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. “I'll see that you receive extra compensation.”

She frowned and her dark eyebrows seemed to snake across her forehead. “But we have done nothing, monsieur. I must earn my wage or Madame—”

“We're finished here. At least I am.” The walls moved about, and the turquoise nightgown lying across the end of the bed undulated. He swiped his hand over his eyes and reached for the box he'd brought from Madame Charmontès's.

Her chin jutted out, and it did an odd, pointy little twist. “I keep whatever clothing men bring to me.” Was it the absinthe, or had her voice just gone from sweet to hard enough to crack glass? “That exquisite peignoir is mine, and I intend to lure many lovers with it.”

He wasn't about to leave something behind that was meant for Celine. But he couldn't return it when he'd told Madame Charmontès to duplicate it. What the devil had he been thinking?

“Give me the gown, monsieur.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I've doubled your money for nothing more than a few minutes' conversation. That's enough.”

She ran to the bedside commode, picked up a vase full of flowers, and held it in the air. “Give it to me or I shall scream and throw this and then scream again. I shall accuse you of horrid acts, and in the end, you will be carried off, and I will be left with this gown.”

“Like hell.” He tore the flimsy fabric in two.

“Bastard.” She flung the vase. It landed at his feet with a resounding crash, the water soaking his pant legs. Coldly, deliberately, she opened her mouth and screamed.

Christ! In seconds, two burly guards burst through the door. Trevor raised the flat of his hand to them. “No need, gentlemen. I was just leaving.” He leaned over and picked up the gown, nearly stumbling over himself. He shredded what was left of it and stuffed it into the box. He'd be damned if she'd use it for so much as a dusting rag.

He shoved the box under his arm, and using the soft glow in the corridor as his target, he headed for the exit.

Madame Olympée stood in the corridor across from the open door. She took a slow, long drag on the cigarillo she held between her fingers. “Mr. Andrews.”

“Madame.”

She plucked bits of tobacco from the end of her tongue with her scarlet nails. “A pity. It was a lovely work of art.”

He repositioned the box under his arm. “I'll see to it your employee is further compensated. Although I don't know why. She turned into quite a witch.”

Madame Olympée took another drag on her cigarillo. “Your cousin is waiting for you in the parlor.”

He nodded.

“Should you think to return, you will not be welcome.”

“I shan't be back, madame
.
You can count on it.” Only one woman would give him what he needed, and he wasn't about to find her here.

Chapter Nine

Celine crossed the small footbridge over the stream in front of the
garçonnière,
and headed down the crooked, nearly overgrown path through the woods toward the main house. She'd spent the better part of three days there in contemplation. Lord, but she missed Trevor. Actually, she missed both him
and
Cameron. There had definitely been a void in her life when she'd awoken to find them gone. But it was Trevor who caused her to toss and turn at night. She was convinced that he'd fully intended to leave her with a lusty memory of that last night together. And he'd done a crack job of it.

Something shifted inside her after that. She was a widow. Widows had more freedom than unmarried women. When she departed here, she would damn well have her own memories to take with her. And if he made no further overtures, well,
she
would seduce
him.
Her decision coursed through her like a slow, sweet poison, dissolving her fear and turning her longing into a hot, formless hunger.

She'd sent a letter off to Dianah, letting her know Celine would soon set sail for San Francisco. Would Dianah catch on when she read that Celine intended the same kind of departure Dianah had?

She smiled to herself. Yes, she was going to do it. She was going to give in to Trevor. She was not about to spend her winter years regretting that she had not known the pleasure of lying with him.

Zola stepped from the cookhouse and called out to Celine as she passed. “Got your favorite hot biscuits and honey inside.”

“Mmm. In a bit. I need to speak with Justin first.”

Not finding him in his office, Celine took a book from the shelf and headed for the window seat to wait for his return. She enjoyed their afternoon visits, especially his more frequent conversations regarding Trevor. And now, after she had decided to have an affair with Trevor, she was even more eager to hear Justin's tales.

Celine fairly jumped onto the window seat. She missed and crashed to the floor on her backside, the book and cushion landing on top of her. Despite the pain, she had to giggle. She stood, gathered the book, and went to replace the cushion.

She frowned at the hinged top to the window seat, which had been hidden by the velvet cushion. She lifted the lid and peered inside. With the top of the seat up against the window, the shadow it cast obscured her vision, so she reached in and fumbled around. Her hand came to rest on a large rolled scroll of paper.

Extracting it from the cubbyhole, she untied the ribbon and unrolled the large parchment only to find several detailed architectural renderings. The original plans to Carlton Oaks?

She pored over them, sheet by sheet, noting nothing out of the ordinary. When she came to the sheet marked
Second Level
, she discovered that none of the current occupants were in any of the rooms originally assigned to them. What was once the nursery, Felicité now claimed as hers. Justin's current room was marked
Additional Sleeping Quarters
.

Had he rearranged things after his wife died? Feeling like a snoop, she started to roll the sheets back up but stopped with a gasp. The room she resided in was marked
Mr. Andrews' Quarters
, while the room Trevor occupied was marked
Mrs. Andrews' Quarters
.

The rooms were mirror images of each other—and connecting them was a secret passage through the closets, operable by twisting a certain carved dado on the fireplace. So, that was how Trevor had been coming and going. Why, that sneaking—

Quickly, she rolled the parchment, returned it to its hiding place, settled the cushion back where it belonged, and raced up the stairs to her room, passing Justin halfway up. “Afternoon, Justin.”

He turned to her as she flew past like a whirlwind. “And a good afternoon to you, too, young lady.”

She locked the door to her room, made certain the key cover was over the lock, and then ran to the French doors and locked them as well. She drew the drapes with such haste she nearly yanked them from their moorings. Next, she rushed to the fireplace and twisted at one carving, then another, and another, until one gave way. Heart pounding, she sucked in her breath and stood silent for a moment before hurrying into the closet. Pushing past her clothes, she slipped through an open panel, and worked her way through a closet that mirrored hers.

Rich, masculine aromas of leather and suede, mixed with the faint scent of Trevor, left Celine light-headed. His shirts of silk, lawn, and chambray brushed her cheek as she moved forward. She pushed aside a woven jacket and touching the sleeve, recalled how it had felt on Trevor's arm the evening he walked with her in the garden. Taking in a deep breath for courage, she stepped into the silence of his room.

Blood thundered in her ears, and her arms and legs tingled with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. If she thought peeking at the drawings of the plantation house was snooping, this was positively wicked. She perched on the edge of the huge accoutrement bed—a near likeness to the one she slept in. She lay down for a moment, trying to imagine what had passed through Trevor's mind before he went to the fireplace and turned the dado to gain entrance to her room.

Mischief coursed through her veins. Her mind was already scheming of ways to repay him when she heard Marie's loud knocking and shrill voice echo through the closet. Quickly, she straightened the covers, ran back through the closet, and twisted the dado on the fireplace.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, hush your carrying on so, Marie. Whatever is the matter out there?” Celine pulled the drapes back and opened the French doors.

“What do you mean
out here,
mam'selle? What's the matter in here is what I be askin'. I knock on your locked door and when I don't get no response, I come all the way around and find the drapes pulled tight. Back again to your door and you still don't answer. I wondered if something terrible went wrong in here.”

She glanced sideways at Celine with a great exaggerated huff, one that would have created guilt in even the innocent, and Celine by no means felt guiltless. Marie held her expression for effect, and then surveyed the room as she entered. “You haven't been yourself lately, Miss Celine. Is anything wrong?”

“Please try to remember you are supposed to be here to help me, not to spy on me.”

“Aren't you in a mood?” Marie mumbled as she placed Celine's laundered linens in the wardrobe. “Zola says she'll be glad when the boys get back to make you normal again.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Miss Celine. I'm only doing my share of grumbling. I figure everybody is grumbling, so I might as well join in.”

Marie heaved a sigh and continued sorting the clean clothing. “I'm fatigued from trying to get everything fixed up for the ball and haven't been myself, neither. I'm terrible sorry, Miss Celine. I was looking for you because you never showed up for Zola's hot biscuits and honey, so we both figured somethin' was wrong.”

She picked up the bottle of laudanum still sitting on Celine's dressing table and opened her pocket to deposit it inside.

“Wait, Marie, give me that.” Celine snatched the opiate from Marie's hand and studied it, as a wicked thought settled in. She grinned and shoved it into her pocket.

Marie squared her shoulders. “I don't have anything to say about anything that ain't none of my business, Miss Celine, but I can surely think all I want.”

Throaty laughter escaped Celine's lips.

Marie stared at her as though she'd seen the devil.

“Oh, stop that, Marie. You look as though something dreadful is about to happen. It's not, I promise. There's just some ... squaring of accounts that needs doing. Nothing harmful, so put your eyes back in your head and come along. It's time for those biscuits and honey.”

 

 

Trevor stood on the bank of the levee, waiting for his cousin to disembark. He peered through the vaulted corridor of oaks to the columned mansion ahead.

Damn it, why had he returned? Telling himself he owed it to his father to see Celine's birthday ball through was a bloody thin excuse. Well, he'd sure as hell return to New Orleans as soon as it was over.

There appeared to be no one in sight. Perhaps it was nothing more than their late arrival on the last boat of the day, but the same vague gloom that had haunted him his entire time in New Orleans tugged at him again.

“Where the hell are you, Cameron?”

“Right here.” Cameron trotted down the gangplank and stepped into the carriage. “Ah, ever the lighthearted one, hey, Cousin?” Cameron chuckled as Trevor shot him an icy scowl.

As the carriage pulled up to the steps, the front doors of the plantation house swung open and Lindsey and Felicité jostled one another in their haste to reach the men. Trevor's mood rose and he chuckled at Felicité's theatrics when she lost out. The servants, faces brightened as much by the break in their routines as the return of the cousins, gathered to greet the men and unload the many boxes that had arrived with them.

There wasn't the excitement of his previous arrival, but Trevor nonetheless lifted Felicité up in the air and twirled her around. He stole a glance toward the upper gallery. Empty. His chest tightened. He put on an easy smile and headed for the front door.

He begged fatigue and ordered a bath. While he waited, he sat in his father's office, discussing business with him, Cameron, and Miles. He guessed Celine must be upstairs with his sister and Elizabeth, going through the boxes from Madame Charmontès.

When a servant notified him that his bath was ready, Trevor left the office and climbed the stairs. Glancing only momentarily at the closed door next to his, he strode purposefully toward his own room. The upper floor felt strangely hollow. He'd be damned if he'd inquire about her.

He disrobed and started for the bath, then stopped, and paced the room naked, eyeing the carved dado on the fireplace with a roiling in his gut. Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair. What the hell was the matter with him? He slammed his fist against the wall next to the fireplace, and fought the terrible urge to reach out and twist the carving.

He climbed into the tub and lay back with his eyes closed, his thoughts on the night at Madame Olympée's. He'd been extremely intoxicated. In fact, there were pieces of that awful night still missing. Damn the absinthe. But he did recall describing to Madame Olympée the kind of woman he wanted. She'd produced three of her finest, all with the same color hair and skin. As soon as he was alone with the one he'd chosen, he produced the nightgown and asked her to put it on. He couldn't bring himself to touch her, and what he'd done next still disgusted him.

His bath completed, he dressed and headed for the stables. A good ride around the plantation always worked to settle his mind.

Dinner went no better than had the afternoon, for Celine was nowhere in sight. He fought the urge to discover her whereabouts. He figured Cameron had, for he never mentioned her either. Damn it. Trevor grew even surlier as the evening wore on. Finally, he excused himself early, blaming his dark mood on the long days in New Orleans.

He retreated to his room, where he removed his jacket and stock tie, and unbuttoned the front of his pleated silk shirt before taking his usual glass of sherry at his bedside. He downed the amber liquid in a single gulp. Still fully clothed, he lay on the bed, crossed his arms behind his neck, and flung one leg carelessly across the bed. He eyed the dado on the fireplace. Damn it, he was here to attend the ball and fulfill a duty to his father, and then he would be gone. That was all, damn it.

He grew suddenly weary.

In minutes, any attempt to lift his head became such an effort that he didn't bother. A sense of detachment came over him. Soon, he didn't seem to know, or care, if he was awake or asleep.

His head fell limply to one side, directing his half-closed eyes toward the closet. It stood open. He hadn't opened it. Had he? Oh, well, nothing seemed to matter, nor make sense. The opening changed size, loomed large and distorted, then contracted and began to move about the wall, reminding him of the damnable absinthe he'd ingested while in New Orleans. He tried to still the movement by focusing intently on the door, but he could not make it stand still.

He tried to move and couldn't do that either.

A vision of Celine, beautiful and ethereal, appeared to float through the wall and move toward the bed.

She was dressed in the sheer turquoise nightgown he'd torn to shreds. Or had Madame Charmontès reconstructed it as he'd ordered her to? Celine's hair hung in soft, radiant curls about her shoulders. She smiled sweetly down at him, leaned over, and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Oh, Celine, how beautiful you are.
He thought the words, but try as he might, he could not vocalize them. What the devil was wrong with him?

The faint scent that was hers alone drifted over him, and his heart nearly burst. He must be dreaming. His thoughts swirled randomly, disjointed. He was helpless before this vision.

Gently, she stroked his brow, then ran a hand ever so lightly past his cheek and down his chest, tracing circles around his nipples with a fingertip. And then she parted his shirt and splayed her warm hand across his stomach.

His loins were on fire, and still he could not move. She lifted his hand to her shoulder, guided his fingers slowly, gently down the front of her gossamer gown. Her turquoise gaze never left his as the delicate fabric melded with silken skin and passed beneath his fingertips, filling every crevice of his being like water through smooth pebbles.

Her soft, gentle mouth, so cool and sweet, pressed down on his again, and he heard himself moan. Never had he wanted a woman so much. But why could he not move if he was awake? And if he was indeed asleep, why could he not awaken?