Celine (3 page)

When she forced herself to look back into his eyes, she wasn't quite sure what she saw, but there was a curious edge to them now. And mischief?

“I thought I had better see for myself this fair maid I've been hearing about. Seems you've charmed my family so entirely, I've been ordered to keep my distance.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Mustn't sully your propriety with my presence, you know.”

Oh, Lord. His voice, rich and husky, vibrated right through her. She prayed her vocal cords worked. “I do not know what you mean, sir.” Glancing over Trevor's shoulder, she spied Marie standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

Trevor followed her gaze. “Nothing to fear, Marie, she's safe.”

The maid tapped her foot. “I came to see if you be needin' help with your things in the
other
room, Mister Andrews.”

Trevor's brows furrowed. “Oh, so now I am
mister
instead of
mischie?
”

He returned his attention to Celine. “Seems you have enough pull around here to get whatever you want, including my quarters, whilst I'm hustled off to the guest room by a sullen maid with whom I have quickly lost favor.”

His mouth eased into a slow, seductive grin. Celine's heart pounded out a nervous tattoo in her throat. His gaze settled on the small vee in her neck where her blood pulsated.
He sees.
Fainting dead away would work. She'd be out of her misery, at least.

He tilted his head. “On second thought, right next door in the guest room may not be so bad, after all. If you need anything. . .” He issued a throaty laugh, raising one eyebrow slightly as he reached for her hair. Long, tapered fingers gently flicked a thick curl resting on Celine's shoulder. His fringed lashes lowered, veiling his dark eyes.

She stood stoically before him, fascinated with what mischief he might be up to. Especially with Marie standing right there.
What a bold one he is
. No wonder the women were quite taken with him.

Trevor cocked his head slightly to one side, as if he heard her thoughts. He hooked one thumb in the top of his trousers and raised his chin a notch until he regarded her through half-closed lids. The corner of his mouth curled into a sardonic grin. “What's the matter? Don't you like what you see close up as well as when you were sneaking around on the gallery?”

She hadn't expected that. A bucket of cold river water tossed in her face couldn't have shocked her more. Well, she wasn't letting him get to her.

He regarded her from head to toe, mischief skirting his features. “Madam, if you were any more controlled, you'd become a statue.”

She stood still and reserved for a second longer, then turned abruptly and went to where one of her shoes lay. She slipped it on and then searched the room.

Trevor chuckled, walked over to the fireplace, and retrieved the other. He blew the ashes off and handed it to her. “My visit might prove to be rather interesting after all, Mrs. Kirkland.” He sauntered past Marie without a backward glance.

Marie stepped into the room. “Told you he could be a rascal.”

With a huff, Celine stuffed her foot into the shoe Trevor had handed her, turned on her heel, and without a word, exited the French doors and flew down the back stairs.

Chapter Two

Trevor sat in one of the two oversize brown leather wingback chairs in front of his father's desk, his back to the door. He'd spread himself casually over the chair while they reviewed shipping manifests.

He tapped a riding crop lightly against a booted leg crossed over his knee. “The wealthy Malones out of Boston signed a new contract while we were there. They've increased business with us twofold. And they aren't the only ones. I'm telling you, the mounting tension between the states isn't the only reason to move our New Orleans office to San Francisco. China trade is growing faster than we can have ships delivered.”

His father drummed his fingers on the top of his burl wood desk. “Simon won't leave New Orleans. Who will run our affairs way out there?”

“Cameron.”

His father's jaw dropped. “You mean to say your cousin, of all people, agreed to leave sophisticated England for a rugged town still in its infancy?”

“We drew straws.”

“Drew straws?”

“Yes, Father. Two pieces of hay from the stable.”

“Good God. For a vital business venture?”

“It was either that or draw swords.”

“Christ Almighty. What if you had lost? Cameron is capable, mind you, but he isn't seasoned like you, hasn't had time to acquire the business acumen you possess to run the entire company.”

Trevor grinned. “I cheated.”

“You did
what?
”

Trevor continued to idly tap the riding crop against his boot. “You'd have done the same had you been in my place.”

His father chuckled. “Most likely. You'll remain in England?”

“Not permanently. Uncle Miles will manage both the Liverpool and London offices. I'll travel every year between England and San Francisco to oversee everything. However, when our new clippers are delivered, I intend to be aboard when the first one makes her maiden voyage to China.”

He brushed a hand over his knee, smoothing the fabric of his suede riding breeches as an indecipherable niggling shot through him again. “I've grown somewhat restless of late.”

His father leaned back in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. “I can't fault your judgment thus far. Not with the way you've increased business fourfold since taking the reins.” A wistfulness gathered about his countenance. He turned his head and stared out the window. “I know I'm retired, Trevor, but giving up our office in town does yank at the old heartstrings. More business and good will went through there in my time than I can likely recall.”

“I think you should consider selling the plantation.”

His father's head snapped back toward Trevor. “Get rid of Carlton Oaks? Never!”

A familiar irritation raced through Trevor's blood. He took in a slow breath to settle himself. “From what I heard in the coffeehouses in Boston, there's bound to come a time when all hell breaks loose between the states. When that happens, you could wake up one morning and find every abolitionist from here to Canada swarming through the South and torching everything he can get his hands on.”

His father's mouth settled into a grim slit. “I'm no blasted slave owner. You know full well how vigorously I oppose the filthy practice. My employees are free and I give them—”

“The abolitionists won't know that, which is exactly my point.” Trevor stretched his legs out in front of him and settled lower in the chair. “They'll not stop to question you. I know you enjoy life here, but you really should consider selling and moving on or you may not get a dollar for the whole of the place in a few years.”

“Where the devil would I go?”

Trevor shrugged. “I don't know. Out West, since you're not inclined to return to your roots in England. All I know is I'm concerned about my family. I hope you aren't going to trust my instincts only when it pleases you.”

His father shot him a piercing glance before he went back to staring out the window. “I don't give a damn about political rumor in some Northern coffeehouse. Felicité and Lindsey shall remain in America. I will see to raising them on Carlton Oaks land, and that is final.”

Trevor despised bringing up such a dour subject, especially after arriving only a few hours earlier, but the opportunity might not present itself again. Besides, this would give his father time to ponder.

“Would you look at your sister,” his father murmured. “Isn't she the image of your mother?”

Trevor spied Felicité through the window as she strolled past on the gallery outside. She stopped short, waved to someone, and then stood still, as if waiting for their approach. Ebullience shone from her profiled face.

Mrs. Kirkland moved into view, the window framing her like a portrait. His full attention shifted to the two women. He watched, fascinated, as Felicité chattered soundlessly. The woman gazed intently into his sister's face, smiling warmly.

A pulse in Trevor's groin quickened. He couldn't take his eyes off her. What a strange charisma he found in her. The aloof haughtiness he'd encountered earlier had evaporated. Was her coldness intended for him alone? For all men? Or maybe for anyone she did not like, for the affection she showered on his sister appeared sincere enough. A muscle in his cheek hardened.

“There's Celine Kirkland,” his father said. “She's the young widow I told you about. Looks as though she's headed inside. I'll call her in so you can meet her.”

As if on cue, she floated in. “Oh, Justin, I've just been with Felicité. She is so excited about the ball we've been invited to, and . . .”

Her voice trailed off as Trevor casually rose from the high-back chair and turned to face her. For a moment, it looked as though she'd seen a ghost. But her recovery was so swift, his father most likely hadn't noticed.

Trevor ran one hand down his thigh, smoothing a crease in his tight breeches. To his surprise, her gaze followed his movement and then landed squarely at his crotch. For the scant seconds that she stared, her cheeks flushed.

She regained her composure, but not before the tip of her tongue traced over her lips. He'd bet her mouth had gone dry at being caught staring. Wouldn't he like to be the one to wet those lovely lips, though?

With a flick of her head, she all but dismissed him and approached his father's desk.

“Celine, I'd like you to meet my eldest son. Trevor, this is our Mrs. Kirkland.”

She extended a hand to shake his, but Trevor turned it over and pressed his lips lightly against her flesh.

She snatched her hand away and refused to look at him.

“I've heard so much about you, Mrs. Kirkland. You seem to have enchanted my family.”

Her eyes lit with fire—like the sun ricocheting off green bottle-glass. Was she one of those whose eyes tended to change color along with her moods or with whatever she wore? He stared back, sending a silent message—yes, he also intended to ignore his rude entry into her room earlier.

Belligerence flickered across her face as if to say two could play the same game
.
She smiled warmly.

Her magical eyes seemed to shift color again, returning to a green flecked with gold. They weren't quite hazel, those eyes, but they sure spoke a language of their own.

“Please sit, Celine,” his father urged.

“I mustn't. I've been at the river, and I need to change before dinner.” She sat, however.

Trevor glanced at her slippers peeking from beneath the hem of her skirts. The one he'd rescued from the fireplace still showed signs of soot while both were wet around the edges. As was the hem of her dress. He chuckled lightly. Celine drew her feet under her chair.

He swore the color of her eyes shifted once again. He moved to behind his father's desk, picked a book from the shelf, and turned back to face Celine, positioning himself slightly behind and to the left of his father. Nonchalantly, he sifted through the pages, not reading a word.

Celine turned her full attention on Justin. Trevor knew she meant to obliterate him from her peripheral vision, but he'd seen to it that would not happen. Not from where he stood.
Foolish woman, you are up against the master of game playing.

His father leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “I have more exciting news, Celine. My brother, Miles, and his son, Cameron, are here, as well. I thought they'd lag a week behind on their journey from England, but they arrived in New Orleans aboard the same clipper as Trevor. They had business to attend to in the city before they caught the next steamboat, which is due shortly. We have cause for celebration this evening. Miles, a widower for ten years, has taken a new wife.”

“How exciting.” Celine's eyes sparkled, and she looked into Trevor's father's face with the same unaffected quality Trevor had observed when she spoke with Felicité. His jaw twitched.

“My entire family will be here for your birthday next month, Celine.” Justin glanced back at Trevor. “I've arranged a formal ball on behalf of Mrs. Kirkland. It's time to ease her back into society now that her mourning period is over. I'll be expecting you to travel back up from New Orleans, of course. In the meantime, there is a soirée a couple evenings from now at the Verrette plantation.”

Trevor said nothing, only watched Celine's fascinating eyes.

She leaned forward. “Does Cameron have a wife I might meet, as well?”

“Not as yet,” Trevor's father responded, glancing Trevor's way again with a grin. “Apparently, the two cousins haven't been so inclined.”

Trevor shrugged one shoulder. Hell, had he known of Celine's existence, he would have made sure Cameron remained in New Orleans. The rutting stag had a penchant for young widows.

Not that Trevor's tastes ran much different.

His father turned back to Celine. “I shall arrange for Cameron to be your escort at these functions.”

Cameron? Why the hell Cameron?
Something odd pinched deep in Trevor's chest.

“Oh, please, there's no need. I am already spoken for,” Celine said.

Both men's heads shot up at her remark. Trevor quickly hooded his eyes and went back to pretending to read the book in his hand. Casually, he flipped the pages.

“Lindsey is to squire me about,” Celine laughed. “He's quite excited. Thinks he's a grown-up gentleman, he does.” Her skin glowed and her eyes danced.

Trevor shoved the book back on the shelf, no longer feigning interest. He leaned back, one shoulder against the bookcase, his arms crossed over his chest. A small, disturbing knot tightened in his stomach as he observed the warm, intimate scene before him.

Celine stood and made her excuses to leave. “Oh, and thank you for the perfume, Justin. I couldn't have chosen a more perfect scent. You do know me well, don't you?”

You know me well? He gives her perfume?
A chill ran through Trevor. What the hell was going on between these two?

Good God, was he reading things right? He'd never remotely considered the idea that his father might remarry, especially to someone so young. But Uncle Miles had—not to one as young as this, but certainly much younger than his first wife. No wonder Celine fussed over Lindsey and Felicité.
Mon Dieu,
if she hadn't wormed her way into their good graces. And here he'd entertained thoughts of . . . oh, hell.

“I'm going to dismiss myself, too,” he said. “Allow me to see you to your room, Mrs. Kirkland.” He walked past his father and lightly touched Celine's elbow, guiding her gently from the room and up the stairs in silence.

“Cozy little scene you were playing back there with my father,” he growled as they approached her bedchamber.

Celine whirled around, her back against the door. “What do you mean by that remark?”

“Perhaps I should be asking you that question. Just what do you have in mind, working your way into my family the way you have? Lindsey this, Felicité that, and, oh, Justin,” Trevor mocked her. “Are you in the market to become the next Mrs. Justin Andrews?”

She raised her hand to strike him. He caught her wrist. Emerald eyes blazed dangerously through narrow slits. “Why, you—”

“Bastard?” Trevor lifted an eyebrow. “Why don't you say it? Everyone else does.” His grip tightened on her thin wrist. Her rapid pulse coursed through him. Despite his anger, he couldn't seem to release her.

“Let me go,” she demanded in a wintry voice.

Trevor's grip tightened in response. He stared down at her, saying nothing and fighting a terrible urge to kiss her. What the hell was wrong with him? His gut churned at the idea of desiring someone his father was interested in.

“Apparently you do not know your father very well,” she retorted. “You have no idea what he has done for me. He has been gracious enough to allow me to live here during my mourning period, which is now over. He has arranged for several social functions this month, which will allow me to feel comfortable in society again. Also, he has arranged for the sale of my property, which will be final in one month and which will provide me the funds to live out my days in peace. Alone.”

Christ, he had things all wrong. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she cut him off.

“Your father knew my husband's parents before they were deceased. He took me in, a near stranger, because I had no one to turn to after I was widowed and in no position to run a small plantation alone. I will soon leave here, as has been my plan all along. Most likely I will never see your father again. He and I share a friendship that will last forever in our hearts, no matter how many miles separate us. But I doubt you would understand a simple camaraderie between two people of opposite genders. From what I hear, and have observed, all you are able to perceive in a woman is a night's shallow pleasure. I should feel sorry for you, but instead I find you despicable.”