lady’s maid sent up. When she’d declined, Foster had told her that they would come back in the morning to escort them to the wedding breakfast, and she’d wondered if her new husband was capable of getting anywhere on his own.
A candle in a single candelabra threw shadows against the walls. She sat in the unfamiliar surroundings listening to this new husband of hers snore. Sorrow enveloped her the moment the servants exited the room. She had entered into a marriage with a stranger who according to law could treat her as chattel should he so choose. One glance at him assured her that she could not count on him for protection. More than likely she would have to look out for him.
She sighed and stood up, unaccustomed to the hushed whisper of silk that followed her every movement. Fingering the coral material as she walked toward the
galerie
for a breath of fresh air, she silently approved of Jemma O’Hurley’s choice of gown. Celine stepped out onto the wide balcony that ran the length of the upper story and felt the kiss of a gentle mist. The storm had subsided, the downpour now just a drizzle. Through the mist and foliage she could see torches burning near the river’s edge.
A horde of unanswered questions crowded her mind as Celine lingered outside and watched the torches flicker. But one question stood out from the rest: Why had Jean Perot killed Persa? What had the old woman done to incur his wrath?
Exhausted, she rubbed her eyes and then her temples. For a fleeting moment she thought of making an attempt to use the shadows of the night to creep out of the house and escape the web of deception she had spun, but the steady mist and the murky darkness, not to mention the threat of predators, human and animal, held her there.
When she turned to leave the
galerie
, she noticed two wine bottles, one standing, the other fallen beside it. She tried to imagine Cordero Moreau—her husband—tipping the wine bottles to his lips and draining them, one after another. What drove him to befuddle his mind with drink?
Celine walked back into the room and closed the jalousies behind her. The cypress floors were cool against her bare feet. The air was permeated with lingering dampness and the fecund scent of the fertile soil carried by the swollen river. She paused at the foot of the bed to stare at her unconscious groom.
Despite her past, she had dreamed that someday she might meet her heart’s desire and fill a hope chest for her wedding day. But she had never pined for just any husband. She had never doubted that she would know him on sight, just as he would know her. Theirs would be a love that would last forever.
For her mother, there had been no such thing as love, merely self-preservation. According to Jane Winters, her father had been a dark-eyed gypsy, a master with horses and women who had charmed his way into Jane’s bed for free and then, after almost a month of monogamy, had disappeared forever.
Cloistered in the shop, Celine had never had close dealings with men, except for Persa’s clients. In a way, Persa used men just as she did women—for profit. She told their fortunes, sold them her potions, played upon their insecurities and desires until they were addicted to the advice she dispensed like opium. They would return again and again, desperate men like Jean Perot, hoping to use the knowledge she gave them to alter fate.
What none of them had known was that most of Persa’s predictions came from her cunning knowledge of human nature and a very fertile imagination. Perhaps Jean Perot had suspected Persa of cheating him out of copious funds and then killed the old woman in a rage.
Celine stared at her new husband from the foot of the bed. Dead to the world, Cordero Moreau had not stirred. She was tempted to know more about him, and the only way to do that was to touch him. She hesitated, let her hand hover over him, but then drew it back. He was unconscious and would never know the difference, but she
A candle in a single candelabra threw shadows against the walls. She sat in the unfamiliar surroundings listening to this new husband of hers snore. Sorrow enveloped her the moment the servants exited the room. She had entered into a marriage with a stranger who according to law could treat her as chattel should he so choose. One glance at him assured her that she could not count on him for protection. More than likely she would have to look out for him.
She sighed and stood up, unaccustomed to the hushed whisper of silk that followed her every movement. Fingering the coral material as she walked toward the
galerie
for a breath of fresh air, she silently approved of Jemma O’Hurley’s choice of gown. Celine stepped out onto the wide balcony that ran the length of the upper story and felt the kiss of a gentle mist. The storm had subsided, the downpour now just a drizzle. Through the mist and foliage she could see torches burning near the river’s edge.
A horde of unanswered questions crowded her mind as Celine lingered outside and watched the torches flicker. But one question stood out from the rest: Why had Jean Perot killed Persa? What had the old woman done to incur his wrath?
Exhausted, she rubbed her eyes and then her temples. For a fleeting moment she thought of making an attempt to use the shadows of the night to creep out of the house and escape the web of deception she had spun, but the steady mist and the murky darkness, not to mention the threat of predators, human and animal, held her there.
When she turned to leave the
galerie
, she noticed two wine bottles, one standing, the other fallen beside it. She tried to imagine Cordero Moreau—her husband—tipping the wine bottles to his lips and draining them, one after another. What drove him to befuddle his mind with drink?
Celine walked back into the room and closed the jalousies behind her. The cypress floors were cool against her bare feet. The air was permeated with lingering dampness and the fecund scent of the fertile soil carried by the swollen river. She paused at the foot of the bed to stare at her unconscious groom.
Despite her past, she had dreamed that someday she might meet her heart’s desire and fill a hope chest for her wedding day. But she had never pined for just any husband. She had never doubted that she would know him on sight, just as he would know her. Theirs would be a love that would last forever.
For her mother, there had been no such thing as love, merely self-preservation. According to Jane Winters, her father had been a dark-eyed gypsy, a master with horses and women who had charmed his way into Jane’s bed for free and then, after almost a month of monogamy, had disappeared forever.
Cloistered in the shop, Celine had never had close dealings with men, except for Persa’s clients. In a way, Persa used men just as she did women—for profit. She told their fortunes, sold them her potions, played upon their insecurities and desires until they were addicted to the advice she dispensed like opium. They would return again and again, desperate men like Jean Perot, hoping to use the knowledge she gave them to alter fate.
What none of them had known was that most of Persa’s predictions came from her cunning knowledge of human nature and a very fertile imagination. Perhaps Jean Perot had suspected Persa of cheating him out of copious funds and then killed the old woman in a rage.
Celine stared at her new husband from the foot of the bed. Dead to the world, Cordero Moreau had not stirred. She was tempted to know more about him, and the only way to do that was to touch him. She hesitated, let her hand hover over him, but then drew it back. He was unconscious and would never know the difference, but she
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