In My Wildest Dreams (19 page)

“I like you best,” she said stoutly.

“No. Do you?” He pulled an amazed face.

She cradled his cheeks between her thin hands. “Of course, you're my papa.”

He'd dreamed of filling the nursery with his own children, but he had only Penelope. And Kiki was in residence, too, of course . . .

“Would you like me to read to you?” he asked.

“Robinson Crusoe!”
she answered.

“But you're reading it by yourself.” He carried her to the chair and settled in it, her in his lap.

“I don't know all the words.” She folded her hands and turned her dark, serious eyes on him. “I need to start taking lessons from Miss Milford, Papa. I know she would help me to read.”

He did
not
want to talk about Miss Milford. “You do wonderfully well.” She did. He thought her unusually bright for a child her age, and he wasn't at all prejudiced. “But I'll start where I left off.” He was conscious of Kiki, hiding in the closet. Kiki, who pretended not to understand the words but always managed to hang about when he read. Opening the green, worn leather binding, he found his place and began, loud and clear, to tell the tale of the lonely castaway.

In the closet, Kiki peered through the louvers and snuffled softly.

Her father didn't read to her. Her father couldn't bear to look at her. Her father didn't tell her she did wonderfully well. He didn't even speak to her. He just laughed when she jumped around and patted her on the head before he walked away from her.

Kiki blinked and swallowed the big lump in her throat. That man who worked in Uncle Garrick's office
had told her all that, and it was true. That man said no one cared for her here in England. He said she ought to go back to where she'd come from.

Back to France, where she understood everybody. Where the sun shone all the time. Where it was always warm.

Where
Maman
was.

But
Maman
wasn't there anymore. No one was there, and before
Maman
left her in this horrible England she told Kiki she couldn't stay in Paris because there was nowhere to sleep except in the streets.

Kiki looked through the louvers again. That ugly, selfish,
lucky
Penelope sat snuggled on her papa's lap, her head on his chest, his arm around her. He read slowly and loudly. He acted as if he wanted to be around his daughter. Something in Kiki's chest swelled until it hurt.

Lots of children slept in the streets of Paris, and they were strong and brave, and they would like her. So she resolved then and there she
would
go back to France. Back to her home.

Pressing her tattered rag doll to her lips, she stifled her sobs.

18

“C
eleste!”

Celeste wanted to just keep walking through the music room, through the long gallery, down the stairs and to the kitchen, there to eat her breakfast. This morning, she didn't want to talk to anyone noble or pretentious, only to people whom she understood—and who understood her. Most especially, she didn't want to talk to Mr. Stanhope, secretary to the powerful bully, Mr. Garrick Throckmorton.

More insistently, Mr. Stanhope called again, “Celeste!”

She lurched to a stop and wheeled to face him.

His tanned face beamed in a convivial smile. “So good to see you this beautiful morning.”

Suspicious, for she had never viewed his conviviality up close—a glance outside told her it was still raining—she took a step backward.

“I haven't had a chance to welcome you back since your return.”

Why was he being so charming? “Thank you.”
I think.

“It's been quite the triumphant return for you.”

She didn't like his height, his open, affable manner, his overripe conceit. Stanhope was completely different from Throckmorton, and although that should have worked in his favor, it did not. “Yes, sir.”

“Come, you're no longer a schoolgirl. You can call me Mr. Stanhope.”

“Thank you . . . Mr. Stanhope.”
And you can call me Miss Milford
. As Throckmorton did when he was displeased.

“You're on your way to . . . ?”

“The kitchen,” she said flatly.

“Ah.” Obviously, Stanhope didn't like being reminded of her background.

She found she liked reminding him. Maybe if she reminded Throckmorton . . . but no, he spoke easily with his servants, especially with her father, according him a respect he showed few aristocrats. No, she couldn't avoid Throckmorton in that manner.

“I'll walk with you,” Stanhope said.

As Throckmorton had predicted, Stanhope was interested in the information she'd learned from her translation. She considered just blurting it out, but somehow that seemed too easy, and Mr. Stanhope had always had everything too easy—or so her father had said. Actually, Celeste had heard Mr. Stanhope talk about how he'd soldiered in India, adventured through the towering mountains, fought for his life among treacherous natives. Such hardship wasn't so easy, but she understood what her father meant.

Mr. Stanhope was an aristocrat who had been given an education, a blueblood background, contacts among the finest people, and now, at Blythe Hall, Throckmorton had made him a trusted companion, ignoring his friend's idleness and incompetence because of some wayfaring brotherhood.

Which was odd, because she'd never thought of Throckmorton as a wayfarer or an adventurer, but he must have been, as much as Mr. Stanhope. Until two nights ago when Throckmorton had kissed her under the stars, she'd never thought of him as a traveler, but he had seen more of the world than she had.

And yesterday in the conservatory, he had proved he'd learned the art of pleasing a woman, even an unwilling one. Oh, she would never forgive him.
Never.

Obviously irked by her lack of response, Stanhope said, “I thought we could take the chance to catch up.”

“We haven't spoken before.” She stopped at the window overlooking the Roman fountain. Rain still fell in gray sheets, but off to the east the early morning sun lightened the hovering clouds. “How can we catch up?”

“Believe me, if not for my wretched ethics, we would have done more than spoken. From the first time I saw you, I recognized your beauty.” Turning, he leaned against the sill and looked earnestly at her. “But you were so young. It wouldn't have been fair to either of us to embroil you in . . . conversation.”

Like Throckmorton, Stanhope thought well of the effects of himself and his . . . conversation. She glanced at him sideways. She could assure him his . . . conversation . . . lacked even those skills Throckmorton sported.

“Obviously, Paris agreed with you,” Stanhope went on.

His gaze swept her, and she found he was one of those rare men who managed to compliment with a glance.

Mr. Throckmorton wasn't like that. When he looked at a woman, his dark gaze scorched each curve until she wanted to cover herself with her hands so he couldn't see those places meant to be hidden . . .

“You speak French very well, Throckmorton says. And Russian . . . do you have any other talents hidden beneath that comely veneer?” Stanhope charmed with a smile; he behaved as if he were impressed by her.

She'd met men like him on the Continent. They were patently insincere, but in most ways that made this encounter easier. “My talents wouldn't be hidden if I told you.”

He chuckled. “Very true, very true.” He glanced down at his feet, managing to appear manly and at the same time modest. “I imagine Throckmorton told you why you were doing his translations and I was not.”

“Yes.”

For a brief moment, his real annoyance peeked through his affable mask.
“What
did he tell you?”

She toyed with the thought of revealing the truth, that his incompetence had been found out, but that would be disloyal to Throckmorton, and besides . . . she didn't want to make Throckmorton angry again. Who knew what kind of outrage he would perpetrate if she provoked him on purpose? “Mr. Throckmorton said you'd been working too much and would take the week to recover.”

“You make it sound as if I'm an old man.”

She widened her eyes with false innocence. “Oh, not
so
old.”

She glimpsed the whip of his annoyance when he
snapped, “Of course I
am
much older than you. Almost ten years. Almost as old as Throckmorton, yet you seem to find him young enough for—”

She straightened. Stanhope had been gossiping about her? He had been listening to, encouraging the sniggering such gossip would invite? She wouldn't stand here and be insulted by this ingratiating, conceited lout. In her sharpest tone, she asked, “For what, Mr. Stanhope?”

But Stanhope realized his misstep, for he said hastily, “I'm grateful to Throckmorton for the furlough, and intend to take full advantage of my leisure, but I find myself curious about the business. You could keep me abreast of the news.”

“As you wish.” She watched him without smiling. She wouldn't soon forget his insolence. If Throckmorton knew, he would have him horsewhipped. Except . . . well, perhaps not, for Throckmorton had always supported Mr. Stanhope in every enterprise, and Throckmorton couldn't have made his contempt for her more clear.

Mon Dieu
, she wanted to press her hands to her eyes until she blotted out the memories.

“Have you translated any new letters?” Mr. Stanhope asked.

“Just the one that said there would be a big meeting south of Kabul.”

“Kabul.” His eyes narrowed.

“It's in Afghanistan,” she said helpfully.

“I know where it is.” He took a breath, then shrugged with studied, carefree modesty. “I've visited Kabul.”

“In Mr. Throckmorton's company?”

Mr. Stanhope smiled tightly. “Some would say he was in my company.”

Quite deliberately, she had annoyed him, and she enjoyed it more than was becoming. But she wanted to go to the kitchen, to be with Papa and Esther and the others who loved her. So she broke off the diverting activity and said, “A battalion of merchants will be assessing Kabul for investment opportunities. I suppose that many Englishmen will make a huge impact on the local economy.” She had her own opinion about the meaning of the letter and, after speaking with Mr. Stanhope, was beginning to suspect her role in this triangle of letter, Stanhope and herself.

Throckmorton had come up with the scheme. If she dared consider him, she might wonder what role Throckmorton played in the greater world beyond Blythe Hall.

But she wouldn't think of him, and besides, the scent of bacon seeped up from the kitchen and her stomach rumbled.

“A huge impact. Yes.” Stanhope had already forgotten her, focused on the task ahead. Turning, he hurried away. But something reminded him of her—the need to pump her again for information, she supposed—and he tossed over his shoulder a preoccupied thanks.

Relieved to be rid of him, she proceeded briskly in the direction of the kitchen, hoping that the appearance of being on a mission would protect her from further interruptions.

Futile hope!

Ellery leaped out from the cubbyhole beneath the stairs and snagged her hand. “Celeste!”

She jumped and half-screamed.

He laughed and tugged her into the dim hiding place. “Darling.” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he
smiled down into her face. “I've been hoping you'd pass by.”

He smelled strongly of ale. He sported scratches on his face. He had bags under his eyes and his nose was red. He was still more handsome than Throckmorton.

Yet she found herself wanting to back away, to ask why Ellery hid away so as not to be seen with her, to demand that he unhand her. But Ellery wasn't the problem; Throckmorton was. So instead she settled for a patently false smile, one like she'd advised Hyacinth to utilize, and a strained, “Ellery, you frightened me.”

“Do I frighten you with my ardor?” He leered outrageously.

Against her better judgment, she laughed and relaxed. This was Ellery, the Ellery she'd fallen in love with, the Ellery of charm and sophistication. She couldn't love Throckmorton with his solemn demeanor and unexpected depths. “What are you even doing up, Ellery? It's barely morning.”

And she'd thought she would be left alone with her morose thoughts. Foolish optimism.

“I haven't been to bed.”

“Of course not.” She touched the scratches. “What have you been doing to earn this?”

“You weren't at the musical evening last night, so I went looking for you and I . . . tangled with one of your father's rose bushes.”

“Pardon me, but I don't understand.” She had lain awake last night, listening to her neighbors, elderly ladies both, snore with all the finesse of steam locomotives, and wished she had Throckmorton there so she could tie him to the bedposts and torment him as he had tormented her.

Sadly, then her fantasies had taken a wrong turn. Last night, she had outraged even herself.

Oh, everything that was wrong was Throckmorton's fault!

“I had heard you were staying in your father's cottage.”

A vision of her home filled her mind, a stone cottage connected to the greenhouse covered with climbing roses, with rose hedges, with miniature roses bordering the walks and large bushes lifting toward the sky.

“I went there,” he said, “it was dark. I thought I remembered your bedchamber being in the loft.”

“Papa's bedchamber now,” she said faintly.

“I threw rocks at the window to wake you—”

She couldn't help it. She giggled, and when she saw his expression of chagrin, she leaned her head against his chest and giggled harder.

Not surprisingly, he released her and moved away to lean against an occasional table. “This is incredibly unflattering.”

She laughed, hiccuped, laughed again.

“I devote my evening to discovering where my love has vanished, and all she can do is snicker.”

But he sounded wry and self-deprecating, and when she looked at him she saw the puckered mouth and twinkling eyes. If Throckmorton had found himself in such a dilemma, he would never have laughed at himself. No, Ellery was most definitely not deep and complex with dark patches on his soul, and for that she was profoundly appreciative. Carried on a wave of thankfulness, she said, “You are really a dear man.”

“A dear man.” Where her laughter had not offended Ellery, her comment obviously did. “I'm a roué, a
sophisticate, a gallant . . . Garrick is a dear man, not me.”

You don't know him at all.
But she didn't say that. “I must away, I haven't had breakfast.”

Ellery thrust his hands into his pockets. “Apparently I'm not a very successful gallant.”