In My Wildest Dreams (16 page)

Throckmorton tapped the pen more quickly.

That hadn't been how he'd planned it. Oh, he'd commanded her, but he hadn't meant it. He'd wanted her to hide in her bedchamber, the bedchamber between deaf Lady Francis and hard-of-hearing Mrs. Landor, the bedchamber he thought an advantage should Ellery come to pound on Celeste's door. Last night he had realized that bedchamber would be an advantage to him, Throckmorton, too. If he were to slip inside, the old ladies on either side would never know of his presence as he schooled Celeste in the luxury of love.

He had better move her into the now finished bedchamber beside the nursery, for thoughts like that could prove dangerous for his sanity . . . and for Celeste's chastity.

How could she have gone to the ball? Throckmorton had wanted Celeste to dream of him and his kisses. Kisses he had found disturbing, intimate . . . almost uncontrollable.

His only objective, of course, was to save Ellery from her clutches,
of course,
and to preserve the very profitable union between Lord Longshaw and the Throckmortons.

“Throckmorton?” Celeste gazed directly at him through those hazel eyes. “The spelling on this document is rather erratic. I need to concentrate. Would you please stop tapping?”

“What?” He looked down at his constantly moving hand. “Oh. Yes.” He stopped.

She had the nerve to calmly go back to work.

Didn't she comprehend how irked he was? Entire countries trembled at his command. She seemed not to care that she distracted him from his work, nor did she note how desperately he wished to rise, circle the desk, tilt her chin back and kiss her until she no longer remembered any other man's name.

Kiss her.

He laughed harshly.

She paused in her writing and looked at him with the faintly alarmed expression of a woman confronted with a lunatic.

Which, perhaps, he had become. For when had he ever hungered for a woman like this? He currently had no mistress, and no taste for finding one when the only thought on his mind was Celeste, and Celeste, and Celeste.

The truth was, he wanted to do more than kiss her. He wanted to unfasten her bodice, the bodice which laced up from her tiny waist, over the curve of her breasts and just to the narrow V of her collar. That lacing challenged any man worth his salt, leading him into the kind of temptation forbidden in every precept of proper and Christian society.

Yet Throckmorton did not give in to temptation. He wasn't that kind of man.

No, but he did imagine things. Things like loosening the tie on her lace chemise to view her breasts, with their silken textured skin and their pale, soft nipples. He dreamed of how they would taste, how they would pucker when he suckled on them.

If he were not the man he was, if he were irresponsible and lacked discipline, he would show her that his kisses were but a prelude to other delights which he alone could teach her. When he ran his hands up the silk-stockinged avenue of her legs, he would note each soft secret curve of flesh. At the top, he would open the slit in her pantaloons. At first he would touch her delicately, giving her time to get used to his fingers brushing the tight curls which hid her inner sanctum.

But when she looked up at him with those beautiful, changeable eyes and begged him for more . . . ah, then he would open the folds and find that most precious nub of feminine sensuality. And when he had caressed her until she was sighing and twisting, her marvelous sweet voice begging him for release then, and only then, would he enter her with his finger.

That, too, would be a prelude. He would linger over her like a musician over a fine instrument, and he would prove his competence extended beyond business and espionage. If he allowed himself the pleasure of pleasuring her, he would wipe her mind clear of any name but his. His was the name she would call in her ecstasy. He would teach her that. He would teach her everything.

If he allowed himself.

Which he would not.

He had to remember who he was. He had to
remember who she was. He had to remember that her father was his faithful gardener, that he planned to send her back to Paris, that she was a virgin and he would never, ever dishonor a virtuous girl. Not even a girl whose smile brought him a pleasure he hadn't experienced for too many long, lonely years.

“Mr. Throckmorton, please!” Celeste was glaring at him.

Had she read his thoughts?

No. She was glowering at the pen in his hand, which tapped and tapped and tapped.

“I cannot work any more quickly, and you are distracting me.” She sighed in aggravation. “Why don't you walk out and consult with Esther on what she's making for tonight's entertainment? I understand it's a musical evening, and I'm sure you'll enjoy hearing the ladies display their gifts.”

His gaze dropped to her bosom, but he knew she didn't mean those gifts.

Unaware, she continued, “When you get back, I promise I'll be done.”

Carefully, he placed the pen on the desk. “I'll stay.”

Because under no circumstances would he stand and display himself in this aching, aroused, desperate condition.

15

A
burst of laughter from the conservatory stopped Celeste in her tracks. The rainy morning had turned into a rainy afternoon, and the youthful group who surrounded Ellery had taken up residence among the marble columns, the half dozen soft sofas, and the blaze of Milford's cherished flowers.

Ellery's smooth, practiced voice said, “You're witty as well as handsome, Lady Napier.”

Lady Napier.
Celeste allowed herself a private sneer. That smiling, flirtatious, covetous beauty. Last night she had dared raise questions about Celeste's sudden appearance and mysterious antecedents.

If Celeste was still the Celeste who had arrived from Paris, she would march right into the conservatory and snatch Ellery out from underneath Lady Napier's thin, aristocratic nose. But that Celeste had danced until three in the morning, eaten too much rich food, drunk too much
champagne. Some intermediate Celeste had spent the morning translating documents from unintelligible Russian into pristine English for an ominous, snarling Throckmorton. Now the Celeste who stood here found retrieving Ellery to be too much of an effort.

So when he shouted, “Let's go gamble away our ill-gotten inheritances,” Celeste pressed herself against the wall behind a miniature potted orange tree and watched as the whole, silly bunch of them fluttered and stomped out on their way toward another afternoon spent doing . . . nothing.

The scent of citrus faintly wafted from the white blossoms. A few fledgling green oranges hung with the promise of fruit. Celeste stared at the waxy, emerald-veined leaves and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. She really had to get over this onslaught of fastidiousness. She had wanted Ellery forever, and she didn't understand her own confusion, her appalled attraction to stodgy old Garrick.

And when had she begun to think of him as Garrick?

She didn't think him more attractive than Ellery, so she hadn't gone completely mad. But Garrick interested her; he was an enigma, a puzzle of darkling glares, fascinating insights and bone-melting kisses.

His kisses had driven her to the ball last night. She had needed the music, the dancing, the sight of Ellery to drive the sound, the feel, the sight of Garrick from her senses.

She had succeeded. If only she had not agreed to work with Garrick . . . not that he'd given her a choice.

She peered around the orange tree. Ellery and his crowd had rounded the corner. When the noise had died and she was sure the corridor was empty, she stepped
out and prepared to go in the opposite direction—when the stifled sound of a sob within the conservatory stopped her. Somehow she knew she shouldn't go to see who was crying. Some higher power warned her she would be sorry.

But whoever it was followed the first sob with a second, and a third, and the most long, pathetic sniff Celeste had ever heard. So with no more intention than to offer her handkerchief, she stepped into the conservatory.

Windows covered the outer wall and looked out onto the garden and the circle drive where carriages assembled to discharge their passengers. Potted blue clematis climbed up trellises between the windows. In the winter when the winds blew cold, and during the hottest days of summer, the velvet drapes of royal blue could be drawn, but even then the conservatory exuded the warmth of a much-loved chamber. Huge blue vases of yellow roses stood on tables and in corners, and in the center of the long room, two orange trees grew in huge pots, scenting the air with their delicate, spicy fragrance. The slender branches met overhead to form a dense green tangle, and like a flood of gold, alyssum frothed from the base of the trunks and down the sides of the pots.

The rustle of her skirts must have given her away, for the sobbing came to an abrupt halt and someone—a woman, Celeste deduced from the soft patter of leather slippers and the rustle of petticoats—hid herself.

Celeste wanted to bang her head on the white marble column beside her. Only one of the refined thoroughbreds at this house party was so unsure of herself that she would hide to cry, and she was the one girl Celeste
should leave utterly to her own devices. Instead, she found herself calling softly, “Lady Hyacinth? Is that you?”

“Y . . . yes.” The girl sounded soggy and pathetic.

“What's wrong?”

“N . . . nothing.”

Celeste looked down at the floor, decided to believe her and escape while she could. “All right. If you're sure.”

“Y . . . yes. I'm . . . I'm fine.” The last, blatantly obvious lie was followed by a burst of crying desperate enough to melt even Throckmorton's heart.

“Oh, my dear.” Celeste went to the column where Hyacinth was hiding and wrapped the humiliated girl in an embrace. An awkward embrace, for Hyacinth towered a good six inches over her, but Celeste cradled her as she would any wounded creature. “What's wrong?”

Hyacinth didn't flatten Celeste with a box to the ears. A good sign, considering that last night Celeste had spent from eleven to three making Ellery laugh and say things like,
You're witty as well as handsome, Miss Milford.

Ellery really ought to come up with some different way to reprise that old chorus.

“It's . . . Ellery,” Hyacinth said.

Of
course
it was Ellery. Celeste had first heard him spout the “witty/handsome” chestnut to Lady Agatha Bilicliffe outside the walled garden. Celeste had been fourteen. Ellery had been sent down from Eton. And Celeste had dreamed of the day Ellery would compliment her with such splendid eloquence.

Hyacinth stared into space and twisted her damp handkerchief. “He isn't paying attention to me.”

None of Celeste's dreams were turning out as splendidly as she had hoped. Certainly she had never imagined she would be caught giving comfort to Ellery's fiancée. “Why do you say that?”

“You saw him. He hasn't spoken to me in two days. He ignores me as if he can't bear the sight of me. Today, he didn't notice I remained behind.” Hyacinth turned tear-filled eyes toward Celeste. “Why, last night, he even flirted with you!”

“Well. Yes, he did.” Abashed, Celeste looked everywhere but at Hyacinth. “He flirts as easily as he breathes. It doesn't mean anything.” Except it did mean something when he flirted with her. It
did.

“But he's not doing it with
me.”
Hyacinth started to cry again, and this time she bawled like a baby, without control, wheezing with great, gasping sobs.

Wishing she were anywhere but here, Celeste led Hyacinth to the sofa.

“Big . . . tall . . . gangly,” Hyacinth sobbed.

Celeste inferred Hyacinth was talking about herself. Going to an exotic teak chest, she opened it and removed one of the woven blankets from its interior.

“Clumsy . . . couldn't learn to dance . . .”

Returning to Hyacinth, Celeste wrapped the throw around the girl's shoulders.

Hyacinth huddled and shivered. “Never learned conversation . . . embarrassed . . . spots on my face . . . dreadful.”

Alarmed at the blue tinge to Hyacinth's complexion, Celeste instructed, “Take a breath.”

Hyacinth obeyed with a long, quivering gasp, and managed to articulate, “Father bought me the most handsome man in England, and I love Ellery
desperately,
and I can't . . . make him . . . interested.” The last word came out on a wail.

Stuffing her handkerchief into Hyacinth's hand, Celeste said, “I'm sure that's not true.”

“You know very well it is.” Hyacinth mopped her eyes. “Look at me. Overgrown. All arms and legs. Ellery probably wonders if I can beat him in a fair fight.”

“Well, of course you can, given a good rifle and a chance to aim.” Celeste essayed a smile at the startled Hyacinth.

“That's another thing! You can shoot, and everyone thinks you're still ladylike, but if I try to talk about my Greek studies, they all act as if I've developed a dread disease.” Hyacinth viewed Celeste with damp resentment. “Why can you evade censure, and I can't?”

“Because most men believe in their secret heart of hearts that, if necessary, I would falter if required to use a gun in defense or attack.” Celeste invited Hyacinth to share her grin. “They have a bit more trouble believing themselves the better of a woman whose mind is equal or, heaven forbid, superior to theirs.”

“Oh.” Hyacinth returned the grin, but with a pained edge. “But I do get tired of pretending to be stupid. Will I never again be able to discuss the Greek classics in Greek?”

“You can with me, but I'm afraid you'll be amused by my accent and bored by my opinions, for I was instructed with the other serv—” Celeste caught herself. She had almost said too much. She had almost revealed her background, and last night she'd trod her way through the interrogation too successfully to give up her secrets now. “I doubt my education was the equal of yours.”

“But that's wonderful!” Hyacinth's eyes glowed with pleasure. “I think we will be wonderful friends, if not sisters.”

Celeste jerked back.

Eyes wide, Hyacinth covered her mouth with her hand. “I'm sorry. That was premature and tactless. Only I saw Throckmorton watching you last night, and I could tell he . . . admires you greatly.”

Throckmorton had been watching her this morning, too, and hid his admiration behind a scowl and a constantly tapping pen. “I should leave now—”

“Wait!”

The panic in Hyacinth's voice stopped Celeste as she tried to retreat.

Hyacinth's head was bent. She picked at the stitching on the handkerchief. The rain sluiced across the large south-facing windows, and the room was drear and dim and silent.

Celeste prayed for rescue.

Instead, Hyacinth said in the rapid tone of someone who anticipates rejection, “Please. Everyone admires you. Ellery admires you. Won't you teach me how to win him back?”

Celeste's father would say she had found herself with her rump in a vise, and inform her she deserved it, too. As it was, she could only stare at the red-eyed, swollen-faced, miserable Hyacinth and stammer, “I just . . . I don't know . . .”

“Yes. Yes, you do!” Hyacinth took Celeste's hands. “You are from Paris. You have an air about you. Everyone admires you or envies you, especially that snake Lady Napier. What can I do to be like you?”

“Um, well . . . you have to act happy.”

“Act happy.” Hyacinth started patting at the cushions on the oversized sofa as if she were looking for something.

“What are you doing?” Celeste asked.

“I'm looking for my pocketbook. I have paper in there and I can take notes—”

Celeste put her hands over Hyacinth's. “You don't need to take notes. You can remember this. Smile.”

“I don't really feel like—”

“It doesn't matter. Smile.”

Hyacinth stretched her lips over her teeth.

“That's right. A false smile is better than a real scowl. If you smile, everyone will want to be with you because you're happy, and then you really are happy because you have friends who feel good when they're around you.”

“It's so insincere.”

“And society is not?”

Hyacinth laughed and for the first time since Celeste had entered, she relaxed. “That's your secret?”

“Think about it. Have I done anything else to make myself attractive?”

Hyacinth's smile disappeared. “But you are attractive.”

“So are you.” Once again, Celeste tried to stand. “Now, go back to the party—”

“Wait.” Hyacinth caught Celeste's hand and Celeste sank back down. “There must be more you can tell me. Tell me how to make him notice me
today.”

Details. Hyacinth wanted details. Very well. Celeste would give her details. “You smile at him and turn away. You watch him through your lashes. You move with womanly grace, then trip and let him catch you. You
accidentally brush his arm with your breast.”

“That's devious. That's”—Hyacinth took a shaking breath—“genius.”