In My Wildest Dreams (29 page)

A woman . . . a woman was more. Children grew up and went away. Mother and brother had their own lives. But a woman who was truly a mate . . . what a danger she presented. He'd seen other men with their mates. They shared more than love. They shared their lives.

They promised to share eternity.

No. He could not love Celeste Milford.

Lady Philberta opened the napkin she held and handed him a scone. “It's edible,” she advised. “It came off my plate.”

Grateful for any nourishment, Throckmorton broke it into pieces and ate as they strolled along the portrait gallery. The sun shone through the windows, the gallery was the epitome of stylish good taste, and Throckmorton could see nothing that brought him pleasure. If he had any nerve, he would ask his mother why she had been walking with Celeste the day before and why she'd allowed Celeste to break his windows.

He knew the answer. Lady Philberta had a lofty sense of justice. He had offended it with his treatment of Celeste. “But I did propose marriage,” he muttered.

Lady Philberta ignored that. “Garrick, I've been worried about you in recent years.”

“Why?” He thought of Stanhope's betrayal. “Have I not fulfilled your expectations?”

Hooking her cane over her arm, she leaned on him and led him to the portrait of his father. “All of them, and more. That's the problem.”

Throckmorton found himself muttering again. “Women.” His mother. Hyacinth.
Celeste.
Who understood them?

He looked up at the elder Garrick Throckmorton, framed in gilt and looking stern. Certainly his father hadn't. He had warned Throckmorton of that. “A man who asks a woman what she means gets what's coming to him.”

Lady Philberta looked up at the portrait, too, but she dwelled on different memories. “You were such a bright boy, Garrick, so vivid, so interested in everything and everybody. In addition, you were our elder, and a son. Your father and I expected too much of you.”

“You had the right.”

“We might have spread our expectations around to our second son, I think.”

She sounded so ironic, Throckmorton smiled. “Ellery would have always confounded you.”

“He did. But you filled your own shoes, and his, too.” In a shrewd maneuver, she seated herself beneath the portrait, allying herself with his father, making Throckmorton answer to both his parents. “You worked so hard to make us happy, you vanquished emotion,
temper, all the parts of you that made you so alive.”

The discipline which he so cherished apparently caused her anguish. “You take too much credit on yourself, Mother. You may have started the process, but it was in India, where a gesture or a smile could be misinterpreted and lead to trouble, where I learned to hide my feelings.”

She shook her head. “In the last week, I've seen you come alive again.”

“Mother, I don't love Celeste! If I loved . . .” Throckmorton had the potential for such passion. He knew himself well, and he knew that within him lurked a primitive man, one who demanded, possessed, lusted. He wouldn't allow himself to indulge that man, or he would burn and want and take and give until he was only half a soul, joined forever with
her
. With Celeste. “Let's not even contemplate love.”

“If you loved . . . what?” Lady Philberta looked down as she stroked the smooth wood of the chair. “Celeste would be the center of your life? You would ache with desire?”

“Mama!” He didn't want to hear this from her.

“You would want always to be with Celeste and you'd worry about her when you were apart? You'd torment yourself with thoughts that she might need you and you're not there?”

“Yes. I suppose so,” he said reluctantly.

“You were too young, you don't remember, but your father didn't want to love me. He thought he was so much older, which he was, and he thought he was smarter, which he wasn't. When he finally admitted his love, he said . . . all that. About how I was the center of
his life and how he . . . ached for me. He never could quite say
I love you,
but that gruff, earthy, unsophisticated man was moved to poetry”—her voice wobbled—“for me.” She blinked, drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed at the tears.

Feeling like an intruder, Throckmorton looked out the window.

“I treasure the memory. I treasure all the memories I have of your father, even the ones when he behaved like an ignorant cad.” She smiled mistily at Throckmorton. “You've already created
those
memories for Celeste. I think you should find her and create the others.”

He nodded, moved by the emotional display from his usually prosaic mother.

“You're alive again, Garrick. You're living and suffering—and loving. Don't let that girl go.”

Loving. Loving. How dare his mother accuse him of loving?

“Mother, I appreciate your concern, but I don't love Celeste Milford.”

“She's going to Paris,” Lady Philberta said.

His hands clenched. “She took the ticket and the bank draft and left me a promissory note.”

“To be a courtesan,” Lady Philberta added.

“What?”

Lady Philberta rubbed her head. “For someone who doesn't shout often, you do it very well.”

That wild, capricious madness took possession of him again. He hurried toward the door that led to the gardens. He had to find Celeste. He had to convince her . . . a courtesan! She couldn't become a courtesan. She was too fastidious, too beautiful, too charming,
too . . . she'd be a wonderful courtesan, but he wouldn't permit . . . but he didn't have the right to permit her anything. He had given up that right when he failed to give her what she deserved.

A courtesan . . .

He didn't love. He didn't . . . but his father's admission to his mother echoed in his brain. Throckmorton's thoughts
did
circle around Celeste. He
did
desire her so much he ached. He wanted to make love to her until she no longer suffered from this baffling sense of betrayal. How could she hate him so much she broke his windows? That she threatened to go to Paris and become a courtesan? How could she, after the way he'd pleasured her?

He knew he wasn't the right husband for her. She was everything he was not: vivacious, smiling, social. But he would always treat her with the care and the respect she deserved, and she didn't have the right to demand more. She would be happy. She would never know there was more to him than the physical joy he gave her.

But . . . she would, because Celeste was intelligent, insightful, and . . . his.

Stopping by the window, Throckmorton grasped the curtain in his fist and stared blindly across the gardens. Ellery was right. Blast him, he was right. In this last week while Throckmorton had been scheming and maneuvering and managing Celeste so she didn't get in the way of Ellery's betrothal . . . she had crept into his heart. Sometime during his resourceful seduction, his artful banter, his adoring vows, his passionate kisses; at some point, they all became real.

Of course they had—for no other reason would he have so lost himself in her arms.

He would find her and convince her.

He loved her.

28

H
e loved her.

Resolve stiffened Throckmorton's spine. He strode toward the door. He would find Celeste, make her realize what they had, tell her—

Kinman rushed toward him with an expression of contrition on his bovine face and a shining bruise on his chin. “Sir, Stanhope has escaped!”

Throckmorton groaned. “Not now.”

“Sir?” Kinman was supposed to be in London, following Stanhope, seeing who he contacted, arresting him. Now here he stood, announcing the worst news possible at the worst time possible.

In clipped tones, Throckmorton demanded, “How did that occur?”

“Stanhope was at the docks, boarding a ship bound for India. We'd been trailing him. Now we moved to detain him, but before we could reach him another group of men
approached. We held back, wanting to identify them.” Kinman barely contained a grin. “They began to beat him.”

“Beat him?”

“If I understood them correctly, I believe they expressed their supreme dislike for being swindled out of their money for bogus information.”

Throckmorton stepped close to Kinman and lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “How did the Russians discover the information was bogus?”

Kinman shook his head. “I don't know, sir.”

“His valet?”

“Certainly possible, sir, but we never caught sight of him. To tell you the truth, sir, I scarcely remember what he looks like.”

“The best sort of spy. He fades into the background,” Throckmorton said. “What happened with Stanhope?”

“We thought they were going to kill him. Since we wanted to question him, we jumped into the fray.”

Throckmorton realized what had happened at once. “During the fight, Stanhope slipped away.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Throckmorton.” Kinman looked sheepish as only a man of his size and disposition could look. “He disappeared. We believe he boarded the ship and sailed. They'll put in at Cape Town. We'll send a swift ship, and with God's help, we'll have men there to meet him.”

Throckmorton didn't reprimand Kinman; Kinman hadn't reached his current position without comprehending how very badly he had mucked up. But Throckmorton said, “I would not be happy if Stanhope escaped again.”

“No, sir.”

Throckmorton considered. Right now, he could do nothing to bring Stanhope to justice. However, he
could
find Celeste and tell her the marvelous news. His love was the only piece missing from his marriage proposal. Celeste would be happy. She would accept him gladly. So he said, “I have urgent business, so—take care of everything. Keep me abreast of what's happening.” He strode on without waiting to hear Kinman's agreement.

When Throckmorton stepped out into the gardens, he saw the undergardeners gathered around Milford, who towered above them. Everyone turned in unison to look at Throckmorton. Then Milford started toward him.

Throckmorton met him on the stairs. “Milford, I'm looking for your daughter.”

In his slow, steady manner, Milford answered, “She's on her way to Paris, Mr. Throckmorton.”

Shock held Throckmorton immobile. “To Paris.
Now?”

“Yes, sir.” Milford lifted his ham-sized fist. “And you're on your way to the stars.”

Earlier in the week when Throckmorton had secured Celeste's travel itinerary, he had taken care when he'd picked the inn. She was a young, beautiful woman, thus the inn had to be clean, respectable, and located on the rural outskirts of London so she would not be bothered by the dandies and bullies who frequented London public houses.

Now Throckmorton squinted as his eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine of outside to the dim interior of the Ram's Horn Inn.

In the common room, the ceilings were low, the timbers heavy and dark. Rifles and shotguns of every kind
hung on hooks over the doors. A great ram's head hung over the fireplace, and the walls were thick with mounted ducks and pheasants. A very manly sort of inn, was the Ram's Horn, but the floors were swept, the windows sparkling, and a delicious smell emanated from the kitchen.

The innkeeper, a gregarious fellow of elderly years, hurried forward to greet Throckmorton. “I'm Mr. Jackman, sir. An honor t' have ye, Mr. Throckmorton, sir.” He checked at the sight of Throckmorton's face. “Been in a bit of a dust-up, then, sir?”

Throckmorton touched his bruised and swollen eye. “My gardener handed in his resignation.”

Mr. Jackman laughed uncertainly.

“I'm seeking Miss Milford,” Throckmorton said.

“She's back in th' private parlor, just as ye requested, sir. I've done everythin' ye requested, sir. Gave her th' best bedchamber in th' house, made sure th' parlor was free fer her, had me wife serve as her maid. Truth t' tell, I'm grateful fer th' business, sir. Summer is our slow time. Now, when ‘tis fall an' th' ducks are flyin', ah, then we're stuffed wi' hunters all seeking a shot at them.”

“If you could direct me to Miss Milford?”

Recalled to his duty, Mr. Jackman said, “I'll take ye, sir.” He led the way down the short corridor to the back of the inn. “A comely lady, an' so pleasant-like. Settled right in. Came down an' ate a good lunch. Then she sat down by th' window t' read. Said she sails tomorrow. Anxious t' get back t' Paris, she says, an' go t' work.”

Throckmorton's eyes narrowed as he considered the kind of work she would seek. “Is she?”

“Not many girls these days want t' work. Younger
generation, sir, all gone t' ruin. Here ye are, sir.” Mr. Jackman indicated the door, then waited with interest for Throckmorton to knock.

His curiosity would, Throckmorton was sure, carry him into the parlor to watch the reunion. So Throckmorton tipped him, thanked him, and watched until the innkeeper had regretfully bowed and backed out of the corridor altogether.

Satisfied he and Celeste would be alone, Throckmorton knocked decisively on the heavy wood timbers. For a long time, there was no answer, and he worried she had somehow found out who stood on the other side. He knocked again and in his sternest command voice, called, “Celeste, open this door at once.”

The latch clicked. The door opened, but very slowly and just a crack.

Celeste's reception of him was everything he feared. She stood dressed in a serviceable brown traveling gown, and she observed him with unwelcome dismay. Some might even call it horror. She blocked the doorway. With peculiar emphasis, she said, “No, I thank you, I don't want anything else to eat.”

He had already decided on his strategy. He would be firm, but honest, even if it hurt them both. So he answered, “I'm not offering you anything, I'm telling you what you're going to get.” Pushing the door back, he settled his hands on her waist, lifted her out of the way, and strode into the private parlor, a room of modest proportions, comfortable seats and a plethora of shotguns and antlers. “Celeste, we're going to get married. Not because I've compromised you, not because it's the proper thing to do, but because . . . I love you.”

She looked meaningfully toward the door. “No. Go away.”

“No? What do you mean, no?” He'd been expecting . . . well, he'd been expecting her to throw herself into his arms, or at the very least pretend to consider before throwing herself into his arms.

This was harder than he expected. “You have to hear me out. I love you, adore you, will do anything for you. You must come back with me and become my wife and save me from a life of lonely duty.”

“No, Throckmorton, listen to me—”

Going to her, he took her hands. “Why not? You said you loved me. Is that not still true?”

Seemingly of its own accord, the door creaked, then slammed shut.

Stanhope stood against the wall, a shotgun pointed at them.

Hatred, sharp and hot with betrayal of friendship, flared within Throckmorton.

In a mocking tone, Stanhope said, “She might still love you, although if she does I doubt her taste, but I believe she's trying to indicate that you're in danger.”

Shock held Throckmorton still for a moment. Then he unhurriedly stepped in front of Celeste, careful not to alarm Stanhope whose battered face and trembling hands bespoke a violent agitation. “Stanhope. You didn't get on the ship.”

“No, I didn't get on the ship.” Stanhope mimicked him savagely. “I wasn't climbing a gangplank in full view of all your men and those damnable Russians, too.” With the barrel of the rifle, he indicated the two of them. “A touching scene, Throckmorton. I'm grateful
love has addled your senses. You forgot the very precepts of caution you taught me.”

“So I did.” The window that opened onto the pasture and woods stood wide, a breach large enough for a man to get through. Throckmorton hadn't noticed.

“He wants money, Garrick.”

Celeste had eased herself out from behind him, Throckmorton realized. Blast the woman, she surely understood the danger she faced. He slowly but surely moved to stand in front of her again.

“He took the bank draft and the tickets from me. Give him your pocketbook and he can leave.”

Stanhope laughed, a harsh activity that made his split lip open and bleed. “Isn't she a sweet dreamer, Throckmorton? You would never let me go, and I would never let go of you. You ruined me. You
ruined
me, you and Celeste, with your translations and your lies.”

“My lies, not hers,” Throckmorton said, glib enough to exonerate Celeste. “I used her.”

“I knew!” Celeste protested. “I just didn't tell you, Garrick.”

Throckmorton turned on her. “Would you be quiet?”

She was sliding away from his protection again.

He glared and pointed to a spot behind him.

She flicked him a glance and kept moving.

Stanhope didn't seem to hear either of them. “You're not leaving here.”

Celeste drew an audible breath.

“Either of you,” Stanhope added. “You love each other so much, you can die together.”

Perhaps that threat would make Celeste realize the danger they faced. Or perhaps she already knew, and suffered from an excess of courage. Another reason to
love her; a good reason to shout at her. Instead, Throckmorton focused on Stanhope. “What about you? You won't escape.”

“Probably not. The English are after me. The Russians are after me. The money is gone, vanished, damn you.” Stanhope fingered the shotgun's trigger.

Bitterly, Throckmorton knew he had no assurances to offer Celeste. Stanhope was deadly because Stanhope knew Throckmorton. They'd fought together. They'd survived together. Stanhope knew every strategy. He knew that, even now, Throckmorton was plotting to vanquish him. The only advantage Throckmorton had was Stanhope's ongoing rage and the beating he'd already suffered, and that advantage was balanced by Celeste. When the fighting began, would she flee?

No, of course not. And he wanted her out of the range of that shotgun. This close, buckshot would kill a man—or a woman.

So with his most scornful edge, Throckmorton smiled at Stanhope. “You've ruined yourself, Stanhope. If you hadn't decided to sell your soul for a few pieces of silver, you would still be at my side.”

The bruises on Stanhope's forehead and around his eyes darkened in a rush of rage. He stepped forward, the swollen barrel of the gun quaking. “At your side? Nothing more than your secretary! Never given credit for my brilliance, never—”

Throckmorton raised his voice. “Credit for your brilliance, indeed! What brilliance is that? The brilliance to fail as barrister, to devastate my estate, to—” In mid-spate, he leaped forward, slapped the shotgun sideways, grabbed the stock.

Stanhope was prepared. He didn't release it, but
swung the barrel up into Throckmorton's face. The metal struck under his chin. Throckmorton's teeth snapped together. He staggered, losing his grip, falling backward, hitting the floor.

Off-balance, Stanhope staggered back, too.