Celine (2 page)

Marie flung the French doors wide. A balmy breeze floated in, rustling the lace curtains hanging at the doors' sides until they floated like the lacy wings of a butterfly. The heady fragrance of roses wafted in and mixed with the mélange of robust smells drifting in from the cookhouse.

“I love this time of year, don't you? The spring flowers are in bloom. Everything looks so clean and fresh, and with nights still cool enough to curl up in front of a cozy fire. I'm so glad to be alive. How different things are from a year ago.” Celine hummed to herself.

Marie pulled a chair behind the tub and brushed Celine's thick tresses. “Your hair looked half-dead those first few months with us. Like a string mop dipped in mud.”

“That's because I
was
half-dead.”

“Now the color reminds me of rich coffee. And so shiny. Like it's been shot through with gold. Lovely to look at. Same as you, mam'selle
.
” Marie ceased her chatter and continued to brush in slow, even strokes.

Celine slipped deeper into the tub and closed her eyes, immersed in the busy sounds and smells of plantation life. A sharp clang of three bells jolted her out of her reverie. They sounded again, a signal that the captain of a sternwheeler had stopped to unload passengers.

Marie jumped. “Lordy, three bells, not two—passengers, not goods. Don't tell me Mischie Trevor got here so soon?”

The steady pounding of feet down the hallway caught both women's attention. “Trevor's home!” Lindsey shouted with a quick rap on the door. The sound of his footsteps disappeared down the stairs along with his whoops and hollers.

Celine sat up, her heart pounding. “I thought you said he wasn't due until the last steamboat?”

Marie leapt to her feet and waved the brush about as she paced. “Oh, Miss Celine, how can I ever manage to get you dressed and your hair done up before he gets to the house?”

“For heaven's sake, such a state you're working yourself into. Settle down and hand me a towel.” Celine stood amidst a cascade of water, wrapped the towel around herself, and stepped from the tub. “I have no intention of greeting your
Mischie Trevor
with the others. Introductions can be made over . . .” She gave a flip of her hand. “Over his favorite gumbo and jambalaya.”

She dried herself, and then held her new lavender-sprigged muslin dress to her body. Relieved wasn't an adequate word to describe what it felt like to shed the oppressive black she'd worn for the past year. “What do you think?”

Marie stood at one corner of the bed, fidgeting and watching Celine twirl naked around the room.

She ignored the maid and picked up a purple sash and matching kid slippers. “Perfect. Help me into everything, and you can be off. No need to bother with my hair until evening.”

Chemise and corset in hand, Marie frowned. “You'd best not be running around here nekkid and with the balcony doors open now that Mischie Trevor's arrived.”

“This corner of the house is private,” Celine said while Marie helped her into her clothing. “He'd have no need to wander around the gallery outside my door, would he? Besides, as you said,
he doan bother no woman what doan want no botherin' wif.
”

Marie laughed at Celine's exaggerated impression of her and slipped into Louisiana Cajun. “Yessah, but Mischie Trevor? Well, he's got him a way what makes the ladies
want
to be bothered wif, beggin' your pardon.” She gave a small curtsy, giggled, and hurried off.

Celine made her way over to the cheval mirror and scrutinized her appearance. Satisfied, she patted a light fragrance of lily of the valley behind her ears and at the hollow of her neck. Then she slipped onto the gallery and headed toward the front of the mansion in hopes of surreptitiously observing Trevor's arrival.

She made her way to the front of the gallery and stood, hidden behind one of the ponderous Doric columns surrounding the two-story mansion. The open carriage ready to transport Trevor stood some two hundred yards away in front of
La Belle Créole
, the queen of the Mississippi.

The sight of the regal two-deck paddleboat gliding past Carlton Oaks during its regular runs between New Orleans and Baton Rouge never failed to stir Celine. What wasn't decorated with ornate iron scrollwork gleamed with fresh white paint. Her elegant twin stacks rose high in the air, billowing thick, white steam into the afternoon sky, her paddles at the stern churning the dark waters around her into white froth. Fashionably turned out passengers lined the upper deck, hoping to catch sight of the parade of ostentatious plantations up and down the river.

A man Celine assumed to be Trevor strolled down the gangplank and climbed into the carriage. She couldn't quite tell from this distance, but he appeared tall, like his father and brothers, but with dark hair like his sister, whose excited chatter from below gained cadence.

The gangplank behind him disappeared into the boat. A tender closed the gate and with three clangs of the bell, the paddles reversed, waters churned, and the sternwheeler floated gracefully upriver.

The carriage slowly approached, looming larger as the driver made his way along the shaded drive. Majestic oaks lined both sides of the narrow road, their boughs forming a vaulted corridor leading to the mansion. Celine backed away from the rail, hoping the colorful Brasilia vines clinging to the railing and column she stood behind hid the lavender of her wide skirt. Blasted hoops.

Lindsey scrambled down a tree, and ran and skipped behind the carriage, calling excited greetings. Trevor turned, situating himself with his back to the house and toward his brother. Lindsey picked up his pace.

The carriage drew closer, and Trevor turned back to the small crowd of family and servants gathered in front of the grand plantation house. Celine caught a faltering breath. Good Lord! If that wasn't the most attractive man she had ever seen.

The driver pulled to a stop in front of the gathering. Trevor swung one long, muscular leg down from the carriage and twisted to reach for his valise. The muscles in his wide shoulders rippled beneath his dark blue broadcloth jacket. In one swift motion, he lifted the bag, sprang from the carriage, and set the baggage to the ground. He ran his hand down one thigh, smoothing his tight fawn-colored breeches tucked into shiny black boots that rose to his knees.

Celine's gaze roved the length of his body in hypnotized fascination. She stepped closer to the edge of the balcony for a better view of this enigma, who now leaned casually against the carriage as if he'd leisurely strolled in. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and his full mouth displayed a set of even white teeth against golden skin. Dark eyes flashed merriment.

Lindsey reached his brother first. Trevor swung him easily in the air. He set the boy down and tousled his hair. Michel, the second oldest son, and Justin, gathered around Trevor. Finally Felicité, his sister, waiting on the sidelines, could stand still no longer. She pushed through the men and threw her arms around her brother.

“
Je t'aime, je t'aime,
” she cried, smothering her brother with affectionate kisses. Her dark curls bounced gaily about a petite and lovely face. “I missed you so much,
mon frère.
”

An easy grin settled about Trevor's startlingly handsome face as he held court with the family. He and Felicité shared similar features, both of them bearing a striking resemblance to the painting of their beautiful French mother hanging in the parlor.

Suddenly confused, Celine leaned into the pillar and pressed her hot cheek against the cool column. He wasn't anything like she had imagined. He was tall and wide in the shoulders like Justin, but any resemblance ended there. He had neither the Andrews hawk nose of his father and brothers, nor the hard edge about him she had anticipated. Oh, she'd expected him to be handsome enough—the men in the family were—but she'd thought he would mirror those wealthy dandies she used to sidestep at the parties she'd attended before her marriage. No matter how suave they appeared, something usually lurked beneath their façades that repelled her. She'd been curious as to why the other young ladies failed to notice, until she figured out why—they didn't want to, not where wealth was concerned. Trevor's demeanor held not a speck of the deceitful dandy.

Felicité stood on tiptoe, one arm hooked in Trevor's, and whispered something in his ear. He chuckled deeply, lifted her at the waist, and twirled her around in circles. Her dress danced about her ankles, the hems of her petticoats fluttering.

“Put me down!” Felicité squealed merrily, not meaning a word. Trevor laughed and tossed his head back. His gaze caught Celine's. He ceased swinging his sister in midair and set her down gently, never once taking his eyes off Celine. His lips parted and he stood as if transfixed.

Her breath caught in her throat. A vague fire smoldered in her belly. What a sensual man. He carried an aura of personal magnetism so powerful, a sensation close to fright swept through her. She stood still and aloof, masking her emotions. His intense gaze seemed almost a physical touch. She held her head at a proud, haughty angle, not flinching from his bold scrutiny.

In seconds, Trevor regained his cool, casual air. A lusty grin caught at the corners of his mouth, and fire danced in his eyes as he bent ever so slightly at the waist, tipped an imaginary hat, and strode casually into the house.

Damnation!
Celine hurried along the gallery back to her room.

Slamming the French doors behind her, she kicked off her slippers in a fury, sending one crashing against the door across the room, the other falling squarely in the fireplace. She sat on the cushions in the window seat, still in a frazzle over being caught spying. Her face heated at the embarrassing thought. She wrapped her arms around her legs, set her chin to knees, and stared blankly out the window, her emotions in a whirl.

Being caught lurking on the gallery wasn't all that bothered her.

Puzzlement washed through her. Why be so upset because a man returned home? An aqueous haze clouded her vision. She swiped at one corner of her eye. How in heaven's name could there be any tears left? Hadn't she cried them all out two weeks ago over Stephen's grave? Here she thought she'd healed in mind and body, but she'd only managed to fool herself into thinking so.

It suddenly dawned on her that in the year she'd lived with the Andrews family, she'd never stepped off the land but to visit the cemetery. Life at bucolic Carlton Oaks was busy, but predictable as the setting sun. And safe. Had this predictability given her a false sense of how to face the world again once she ventured beyond the plantation's borders? So, she wasn't angry at Trevor's return after all. She was frightened of venturing forward in life; that's what all the unwanted emotion was about.

Trevor's returning to Carlton Oaks had upset the plantation's daily routine—including hers. Worse though was what the mere sight of him did to her insides. Good Lord, from where had those volcanic feelings erupted? Such unrealistic yearnings had been buried so deep before her marriage, she had all but forgotten them.

There had been a time when she and her best friend, Dianah Morgan, had sat under a tree reading erotic books they'd clandestinely transported in their closed parasols. She'd often awaken at night covered in a sheen of perspiration after one of her sensuous dreams. But when she married, she sadly decided the authors had played a cruel trick on her. Reality proved to be little more than a few minutes of fumbling around in the dark under bunched up nightclothes.

Mere fantasy—that's what Trevor Andrews represented. Any debonair man stepping off a jewel of a sternwheeler, and making his way along a lovely tree-shrouded path to one of the most beautiful plantations in all of Louisiana, was bound to stir romantic notions. Especially in a woman spying on him who'd spent her idle hours as a youth tasting forbidden fruit in the form of unmentionable books.

She reached into a pocket hidden in the seam of her dress and pulled out a letter from Dianah, one she'd carried around far too long. The Morgan family, having recently relocated to San Francisco, had invited Celine to live with them in their new luxury hotel.

A shaft of pain shot through her heart at the idea of leaving a place—and people—she had grown to love. But there was no family left, nothing to tie her to Louisiana any longer. Tonight she would cease her procrastinations and accept Dianah's invitation.

Celine sat in the window seat for nearly an hour, sorting through her thoughts and fitting all the past year's events into a jigsaw puzzle in her mind, Trevor's coming home being the final piece. She convinced herself that with all the confidence she had gained over this past year she could handle him in proper perspective, not like some schoolgirl sitting under a tree reading romantic fantasies—she was a grown woman, nearly twenty-one.

And a widow, for heaven's sake.

She smiled to herself, still staring intently out the window at nothing in particular when something startled her attention back to the moment. She turned and looked straight up into the beguiling face of Trevor Brandon Andrews.

The man stood before her, his booted feet planted slightly apart, fists on hips. “Lost in thought?”

Celine's mouth turned to cotton. She swallowed hard. Whether she was widowed or not, how dare he enter her quarters without permission? She stood and faced him, aloof and unswayed. Oh, God, they stood so close. He smelled of sandalwood and musk. And ... and of a delicious body heat that nearly dizzied her. She gazed into midnight eyes framed with thick black lashes.

Something flickered in them, some knowing or realization that set her heart reeling. She tore her gaze from his only to survey his full, lush mouth. The strange smoldering that had nearly burst into flames on the balcony swept through her once again. Surreptitiously, she clasped her hands in front of her to prevent their trembling and diverted her prurient thoughts.