“Sweet Celesta,” he murmured, sounding as incoherent as he was beginning to feel. “Take me now. Take all of me, honey.”
She arched against him, allowing him to reach the depths of her body and soul before he led her to a mind-shattering release that left her gasping beneath him. For a few moments she didn’t know where she was or who she was. There was only his heart drumming against hers, and the light film of moisture between their sated bodies, and his warm breath tickling her neck, answering her own respiration.
Damon raised up to look at her, wishing her Valentine of a face didn’t have such an angelic glow in the lamplight. “Damn you, Celesta,” he muttered, sorry as he said it. “Why’d you have to be so good? So perfect this first time?”
Too new at lovemaking to know whether he’d paid her a compliment or called her a slut, she lowered her eyes. “I...I think I’d better go upstairs,” she whimpered.
“Run along,” he grunted as he rolled onto the other side of his bed. “And by God, don’t ever ask me for any more rides to paradise. I’ll never take you there again.”
Chapter 10
Celesta stumbled up the last few steps to the third floor, retreating like a whipped pup. Discovering that Frye’s “all or nothing” speech was all for nothing stung like no humiliation she’d ever known. Despite the little room’s stale heat, she shrugged into her wrapper, shuddering at how foolish she’d been to fall for his lies.
Why hadn’t she bolted up the cellar stairs? He’d been spinning his silken lines, knowing—like the spider awaiting the fly—that she’d get caught in his web, doomed to be devoured. Damon had admitted straight out that he had no heart, and she’d been too entranced to heed his warnings. He was probably lying in bed laughing at her this very moment.
And now that she’d succumbed, now that his vampirish nature had claimed another victim, how could she ever face him again? It would take him weeks to complete the redecorating he’d promised Justine and Katherine. She couldn’t return to the Perkins household . . . dreaded collecting her clothes and Mama’s things, but it had to be done.
So she was trapped here, with two aunts who might’ve killed her mother and a demonic man determined to ruin her for his own questionable reasons. And she’d never felt more frightened or alone.
Celesta dropped onto the straight-backed chair at Grandfather’s writing desk, wishing he were here—wishing Sally Sharpe could undo the mischief she’d caused. Surely Aunt Katherine would know at a glance that Damon had claimed her, and Justine would be showing her the door before breakfast. Her bun would quiver with her indignation as she pointed a bony finger toward the back exit, condemning her to a life of shame and drudgery even more degrading than Mama’s had been.
Her nose crinkled at the scent of ... Celesta stared toward the ventilation grate in the floor, appalled. How long had Justine’s lamp been lit? How long had the ghostly threads of cigarette smoke been curling up into the alcove? Justine knew! She was fortifying herself with a smoke, preparing a stinging lecture before she came up here to—
Or was she too restless to sleep? Too bothered by her conscience, after killing her little sister?
Holding her breath, Celesta listened intently. Nothing. Not a sound or a movement, except when Justine shifted or turned a page.
Suddenly consumed by curiosity, she lowered herself onto the plank floor and slid on her stomach until she could peer through the metal grating. There, just below her, sat Justine Ransom, turning the last page of a dime novel. Her silvery hair fell straight down the back of her plain muslin nightgown. The hand resting on the arm of her rocking chair held a cigarette, which sent a thin thread of smoke spiraling upward to where Celesta lay spying on her. And lo and behold, as her aunt turned the dimer over to read its back cover, Celesta recognized it as one of her own Sally Sharpe stories! The rocker creaked slightly, and Justine let out a soft, satisfied chuckle as she read the final paragraph.
“Thatta way, Sally!” she declared under her breath, and with a contented sigh she doused the lamp, leaving the red glow of her cigarette as the only evidence she was awake.
Was this the picture of a murderer? Or was Aunt Justine a poor old insomniac who just happened to fit into the scenario Damon had sketched out?
At breakfast, Celesta still didn’t know. Her maiden aunt appeared at the table in a starched shirtwaist of striped broadcloth, looking unusually pert. She raised an eyebrow at their three plates. “Mr. Frye’s not joining us?”
“He left a note,” Katherine replied as she lifted ham slices from the cast-iron skillet. “Said he wanted to be on site early to line up the day’s assignments for his men so he could return here and start our papering while there’s still some daylight.”
“A practical man. Moreso than I’d imagined.” Justine’s brown eyes focused on Celesta as she spread her napkin over her lap. “And what are your plans for the day?”
“I—I’m clearing out my room at Eula’s. Bringing everything here,” Celesta mumbled.
“You look flushed. I hope you’re not coming down with something, because I’m sure Mr. Frye could use your assistance with the papering,” she commented matter-of-factly. “Since you’re the only one of us spry enough to climb a ladder or fetch his tools, that would be a worthwhile contribution to our project.”
After Justine left to do her marketing, a glance at the hallway mirror confirmed her aunt’s assessment: her face was rosier than usual, as though she’d been permanently branded by the heat of Damon’s passion. The young woman gazing back at her was familiar yet foreign; her shoulders sagged slightly and her red-rimmed eyes appeared sadder and older. Celesta hoped she looked the part of the sleepless, grieving daughter today, because she felt certain everyone on the street would know at a glance how far she’d fallen last night.
Damon had avoided her this morning, thank God. Surviving Eula’s inquisition and her son’s plans for matrimony would require what little emotional reserve she had left. She had no idea how she’d survive this evening, when she was expected to work so closely with Frye while not letting on that anything had changed between them.
Checking to see that no one was watching her from the counter, Celesta slid the envelope containing “The Case of the Purloined Papers” into the slot marked OUTGOING MAIL. Then she checked the post office box in the far wall and slipped the envelope addressed to Lester Montgomery into her skirt pocket. There was rarely anything else in the box, since all of her family and friends lived here, and today was no exception.
“Good to see you out and about,” a familiar voice hailed her.
Smiling, Celesta approached the counter and the stout, bearded gentleman behind it. “Good morning, Bill. How are you?”
He peered intently through his spectacles at her, his smile tempered with tenderness. “Well, I was right sorry to hear about your ma, Celesta,” he replied in a concerned voice. “And I hear you’ve moved in with the Ransoms. Katherine bearing up all right? I worry about her since the shock of Ambrose’s passing, you know.”
Bill Thompkins had performed the gruesome task of reporting her uncle’s death to the family; he’d been the captain of the Phantom for years before the boiler exploded, and had accepted a job as a postal clerk because of an injury he’d sustained in the accident. He always patted his sandy hair back from its center part when he mentioned the Ransom widow. Celesta suspected he was sweet on her, but too polite or timid to do anything about it.
“She’s fine, thank you. Excited about the redecorating Justine finally agreed to.”
Bill’s eyes widened, and his laugh came out as a hoot. “Plenty of tongues waggin’ about that, now. You ladies better watch out for that Frye fellow. He gives you any trouble, I’ll be happy to check on you now and again.”
Too late for that, she thought ruefully, but she maintained her smile. “That’s thoughtful of you, Bill.”
After an awkward moment of silence, Thompkins cleared his throat. “Will you be keeping the box you and your mother had, or
shall I just put your mail in with Justine’s?”
“I’ll keep my own, thank you.”
Bill nodded with a conspiratorial smile. “Wouldn’t want her nosing through my letters, either. Might get the notion those payments from your New York uncle should be put toward your board, tight as she is.”
Celesta smiled but was glad to be on her way. Bill knew what everyone in Hannibal got for mail and was inclined to chat about it, so when her Sally Sharpe stories started selling, she and Mama had created the New York uncle: he was supposedly her father’s older brother, rich enough to compensate for the years Ian Montgomery had forced them to fend for themselves, and feeble-minded enough to think she was a nephew named Lester. As fibs went, it seemed awfully thin to Celesta, but as long as the Beadle and Adams payroll clerk honored her request to send cash in plain envelopes, addressed last name first, Bill couldn’t expose her as dime novelist Montgomery C. Lester, and she’d have no trouble at the bank with endorsing checks.
Telling Patrick Perkins a convincing tale would be another matter, though. As she walked slowly toward the opulent house on North Fifth, Celesta prepared herself for what she might encounter there. Ordinarily Eula met with other board members who supported the Home for the Friendless on Mondays. Would she have stayed home today, thinking her silver might leave the house in her former maid’s suitcase? Patrick’s schedule at the lumber company was flexible, and it was he who would ask the most pressing questions . . . would he guess that Damon had claimed her right to be a blushing bride?
These anxious thoughts made sweat trickle down her back, adding to the oppressive mid-morning heat. Celesta paused before the mint green Queen Anne with its ornately carved white railings, a lump in her throat. She hadn’t expected such a welling up of emotion—wanted to pack quickly and leave, before things got sticky. But this had been her home for nearly twenty-one years, and now that Mama was gone, this visit felt like a final goodbye to the only life she’d ever known.
Holding her breath, she turned the knob and entered the back door, only inches from where Damon Frye had first kissed her. The interior of the house rang with silence. The rooms, shuttered against the summer sun, welcomed her with their cool dimness. No one was home. She could take her time and cry a little, if she needed to.
The stairway creaked in all the right places, the glossy newel posts on the landings had a special shine, and the warmer air as she ascended past the second floor smelled of Eula’s rich perfume. Celesta paused in the doorway of the large dormer room she and Mama had shared, drinking in the cleanness of the white enameled woodwork and the way the sunlight glowed behind the pink floral curtains. Better to gather their clothing quickly and be gone, rather than be caught up in the wave of sorrow she felt washing over her.
As Celesta walked to the simple white armoire, it occurred to her that she should’ve borrowed a valise or two from Katherine: she didn’t own one, because she’d never stayed overnight anywhere until this week. But when she swung open the wooden doors, the air rushed from her lungs. The armoire was empty!
She hurriedly checked the storage boxes under the beds, and her desk drawers, and the vanity where they’d kept their underthings, her panic rising. Not a single item that belonged to her or Mama remained! Eula must’ve cleared the room, preparing for new help, and given her few possessions to charity when she learned Celesta was so ungrateful as not to return!
A low chuckle from the doorway made her jump and whirl around. “Patrick! You scared me half to—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head good-naturedly. “I couldn’t resist startling you, like I did when we were little.”
“Well, you did that, all right! And just what the hell did you do with—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he teased as he braced his hands on either side of the door jamb. “Only a few days with Frye under your roof and you’re swearing like a stevedore. Sounds like another good reason to come home, doesn’t it?”
Could he tell that his rival had affected much more than her vocabulary? Patrick’s blue trousers and striped shirt showed him off to perfection—accented blue eyes that were twinkling at her beneath his strawberry-blond waves. Compared to Damon’s darkness, he was pure, golden sunshine, a man whose teasing had always made her laugh ... a lifelong friend.
“I—I’m sorry. I got carried away when I saw the armoire was empty.”
“I should’ve warned you when I heard you on the stairs, but I thought you’d want a few minutes alone,” he replied quietly.” Mother and I knew how difficult this would be for you, so we boxed everything up ourselves. It’s waiting in the carriage—unless you’ve decided to stay.”
Celesta glanced toward the window so that he wouldn’t see her tears. He and his mother had done the thoughtful, practical thing, considering she hadn’t any means to convey her possessions to the Manor. They knew she’d be too proud to borrow Justine’s wagon and too wistful to want Katherine’s help with this heart-wrenching chore. ‘‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
What was it about her that looked different this morning? Her glossy black hair was upswept as always, with those endearing tendrils that escaped on sultry days. He’d seen her olive green skirt and checked blouse dozens of times and thought they became her despite their simplicity. Her eyes were puffy—perfectly understandable, in her situation.
No, it was her stance . . . her attitude. Celesta always looked at him straight on, challenging his every white lie, yet now she stood with her hands clasped before her like she had when they’d been caught misbehaving as children. Perhaps she had second thoughts—was realizing how much she’d miss this place, after all. Whatever the reason for her downheartedness, he couldn’t let the moment pass.
“It’s as though she’s still here, isn’t it?” he whispered. He remained in the doorway, watching her, so as not to startle her into her usual belligerence. “Your mother made this house a home for me, too, Celesta. She made us cocoa on cold mornings, and read us bedtime stories, and gave us her special smiles when we were sick. Mother’s always been happiest playing the socialite—wasn’t terribly tolerant when our milk got spilled or when our pet toads got loose in the house. I sometimes wonder if she wouldn’t have been happier without children around.”
Celesta’s eyes widened. This was quite a revelation from the sole heir to Perkins Lumber, a confession showing insight and sensitivity she hadn’t thought Patrick capable of. He smiled wistfully and stepped toward her, as though he was about to confide something even more startling.
“It was also Rachel who counseled me as I got older, warning me about where I ... sowed my wild oats,” he said in an intimate tone. “She said Hannibal was teeming with young ladies eager to catch a husband with my looks and inheritance, who might go to great lengths to secure the lavish life the Perkins name carried with it. And she was right.”
Celesta allowed him to clasp her hands between his, wondering what this story had to do with her. His grip was firm as his thumbs traced warm circles on the tops of her hands.
“I think that’s why I’ve always liked you, Celesta,” he continued. “You’ve seen me at my worst, yet we’ve always been friends. You had no designs on my money, like the girls I used to take around. Since my father died, I’ve become extremely tired of their wiles, and now that the future of Perkins Lumber rests on my shoulders, I must choose a wife carefully.”
“Patrick, we’ve discussed this,” she said with a sigh.
His grip tightened. “And I rushed headlong into my own plans without considering yours—a mistake I hope you’ll forgive,” he said earnestly. “You need time. And you deserve to be courted and escorted to dances and parties, so you can decide for yourself if we’d make a good team. I want a love match, Celesta. I want a woman who shares my dreams yet has her own aspirations, too.”
This was a marked change in his attitude, and even though she suspected Patrick’s motives were no different than before, Celesta heard his plea more patiently. The handsome blond h
olding her hands represented the comfort of a home she’d always loved, a chance to live as a wife and partner rather than as a beholden niece. But most of all, Patrick might clue her in about why Mama died—and he provided the quickest, most satisfying escape from Damon Frye. “What are you suggesting?” she asked demurely.
Patrick grinned. “I thought we’d start by attending the Fourth of July celebration in the park next week. After the concert, there’ll be the picnic and games and fireworks . . . perhaps a stroll along the river, so we can get better acquainted. It’ll be a fine evening, Celesta.”
And it would be a safe one, with everyone in town watching them. A smile twitched at Celesta’s lips. “All right. It sounds like fun.”
“You’ll go with me?” Patrick almost grabbed her up to whirl her around. She would never know what a lifeline she’d just tossed him, and he vowed that the new Mrs. Perkins would suspect his reasons for this match no more than his mother did. “Thank you, honey. You won’t regret this, I promise. You deserve to be treated like the special woman you are, and the timetable about getting more serious will be totally up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Patrick,” Celesta replied slyly.
“And I’ll hold you, my love,” he murmured in a husky voice. He longed to seal the bargain with a kiss, but instead he gave her a smoldering look that parted her full lips with expectation, and then he added, “I’d better take you back to the Manor before I forget myself, Celesta. You’ve made me a very happy man.”
She walked to the door and then turned to look at him. “I haven’t agreed to marry you, Patrick. I still see obstacles—”
“And we’ll overcome them, one by one. Together.” He ushered her down the stairs and out to the carriage house, lightly grasping her elbow as he savored her surrender. A woman of Celesta’s charm and family background would make any man a splendid wife, and the beauty of it was that she didn’t understand why.
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