In My Wildest Dreams (11 page)

Of course, he'd been right. She had loved London, loved being part of a crowd of girls just like herself, and loved adventure.

But now . . . well, now she was home and feeling out of place.

What should she do? How could she find herself?

They neared the landing where the grand stairway descended and the smaller stairway rose toward the third floor. It was there she discovered her answer. She announced, “It's time for me to meet the children.”

This time Throckmorton stumbled. “The children?”

“My charges. That
is
why I came to visit you this morning.”

“So it is.” He hesitated. “Yet I wish you to prepare for the garden tea.”

“The garden tea isn't for another four hours.”

Taking her arm, he guided her toward the ground floor. “Listening to you talk to Ellery, it reminded me again of the importance of a good impression at the garden tea. Take whatever maids you wish to help you ready yourself.”

She looked back at the staircase. “But the children!”

“It would be better if we don't introduce you just yet. Not until we discover what your true role will be.”

“But—”

“I can't lie to you. The tea today may be difficult, filled with the pitfalls society creates to distinguish those who belong with those who don't. When you appear today, I want you to be rested, freshened, bathed and fed.” At the corridor leading to her bedchamber, he bowed. “Your beauty, of course, accompanies you everywhere.”

He left her standing there, staring after him, unhappy and confused.

What oddness had gotten into usually urbane Mr. Throckmorton? Why didn't he let her meet the children?

“Father, do you think Throckmorton is deranged?”

Milford looked up from his planting to see his daughter, the light of his life, standing beside him with a fancy tray and an anxious expression.

So. It had started already.

“I brought you your dinner,” she added.

“Thank ye, daughter.” He placed the trowel to the right of the azalea—he always placed it there, for trowels had a way of disappearing—stripped his gloves from his hands, then stood and stretched the kinks out of his back. He was probably too old to be doing the shovel and weed work, but he liked to get his hands in the Suffolk rich peat. He knew Celeste understood.

Ah, she understood a lot of things about him. How he'd mourned her mother. How he worried about her. What she didn't understand was herself and her place in the world, and his heart ached when he thought of how hard she would fall when all was said and done. But no
one knew better than him that a young person had to learn their lessons on their own.

“Deranged, is it?” He accepted the tray. “Throckmorton, is it?”

“He told me to call him that,” she said defensively.

“No, I mean . . . thought you'd be talking about Mr. Ellery.”

“Oh.” Celeste twitched at her skirts. “Mr. Ellery has a rash from strawberries.”

“Does he?” Seating himself on the stone bench under the willow tree's drooping branches, Milford looked at the tray in his hands. Esther had sent him a round of bread, slices of Stilton cheese, dried apples baked in a pie, a crock of ale. Apparently the cook hadn't had time to send out her usual elaborately arranged supper, with its sliced bread and carved furbelows of cheese. Maybe the job was getting to be too much for her. “A silly sort of complaint.”

“He's itching!”

“Bet he won't let anyone see him, hm?” Milford nodded at her betraying huff. “Got a bit of conceit, does our Mr. Ellery.”

“With reason.”

The sunshine flickered through the leaves and onto Celeste as she stood there looking so much like her mother Milford cleared a catch in his throat. “Sit with me. Share my tray.”

She sat with a flounce of her skirts.

Aye, she acted like her mother, too. All female and indignation while a man had no idea what he'd done. Tearing off a chunk of bread, he offered it to her.

Taking it, she nibbled on the end. “I thought you'd be
helping arrange the garden.” She gestured across the lawn and toward the knoll where dozens of maids and footmen could be seen scrambling to prepare for the tea.

“Done my part. Flowers are in full glory.” He didn't have to look to see the zigzag of hedges, walks and walls that led up to the top of the hill. There, sometime in the last century, some fool with too much time and money had built a castle. Oh, not a real castle. Not even a useable building. It had been constructed to look like a ruin. The rich folks called that kind of castle a gothic trifle, and just thinking about it made Milford want to snort.

But seeing that it served as the centerpiece of the garden, he did what he could with it. Ivy grew over the stones. Here and there he'd planted a few wild roses to climb and provide color in spring, and yellow honeysuckle to give off a sweet scent. The rich folks liked it, climbing the steps and sitting on the benches to take in the prospect of the gardens all about and the countryside beyond.

It was the gardens below that made Milford's heart swell with sinful pride. Each little walled garden bloomed with a profusion of scents and colors. Each walk was a pleasure, with oaks to provide shade and plants to please the eye and nose. And in the large central garden where even now the workers set up tables . . . why, there his gift for placing the flowers where they could reach for the sun or snuggle into the earth truly shone. Aye, the rich folks would be all over his garden today, the men stomping about with their big cloddish feet, the women shredding the blossoms with swipes of their wide skirts. They would exclaim at the splendor, and that was what he lived for.

He took a bite and admitted it was as excellent as ever. Esther fixed a fine loaf, dark and dense, just the way he liked it. She knew it, too. That was the problem with that woman. She knew her worth all too well. No need for a man to praise a woman like that. Not with her always praising herself.

There was some who would say she was a fine figure of a woman: about his age, tall, raw-boned, with a generous flesh spread about in pleasing proportions. Her hair was red peppered with gray, and her hands showed the results of years of labor in a kitchen. She wasn't pretty; no, he'd have to argue with anyone who said she was. But when she smiled, she could make a man forget those features and want to bask in her gladness. Too bad she smiled so seldom at him.

He chewed slowly, swallowed, and decided he didn't care. Celeste's hand sneaked across to take a slice of cheese, and his mind returned to her opening question. “I think Mr. Throckmorton's as sharp a man as they come. What makes ye think him deranged?”

“Lots of things.” Her fingers threaded together. “He danced with me last night.”

Milford looked at her sideways. “Ye're a pretty girl.”

“Does he usually dance with pretty girls?”

“Usually talks business night and day.”

She nodded. “There you have it. He spoke to me of dancing and Paris. He took me on a tour of the house.”

“Wanted ye away from that party and Mr. Ellery.”

“No, he did it because of the rash, and because Ellery asked him to.”

Milford nodded again. “That's what I said.”

“So you think he somehow gave Ellery that rash? That's what I thought, too.” She swallowed.

He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know how. He'd already told her what he thought of this plan to catch Mr. Ellery. She'd heard him. She wouldn't want to hear it again, but he supposed that was why she was here now. To hear more sense from him. Different sense.

“I was supposed to meet the children this morning,” she said.

“Ye are the governess.”

“Instead, Throckmorton decided I should spend the time getting ready for the garden tea.”

Good ale. Esther couldn't lay claim to making the ale, and he'd wager that got her goat. “Ah, what are ye doing for the garden tea?”

“Oh.” Celeste arranged her skirts again. “He invited me.”

Milford stopped eating. “He? Mr. Throckmorton? He invited ye?”

“So you see, Papa, it's not so unlikely as you think, that I should dance and eat and be with Ellery.” She smiled at him saucily.

But he saw the uncertainty beneath her smile. “Mr. Ellery going to be there?”

Her face drooped.

Milford ate a bite of the pie. Apparently the rush in the kitchen hadn't disturbed Esther's hand with the crust. He hated to admit it, but she made the flakiest he'd ever eaten. Too bad her tongue was so sharp, and she was always honing it on him.

Celeste gazed out over the gardens. “Throckmorton seems much more pleasant than I remember.”

Milford paused, his hand halfway to his mouth. “Mr. Throckmorton?”

“He seems lonely, too, and rather wistful.”

“The elder brother?” Milford clarified.

“The only reason I can propose that he didn't want to introduce me to the children this morning is just what he said—that he is so concerned that I make a good impression at the tea, he wants me to take my time getting ready.”

Milford tried to interrupt, and never had his slow speech served him so poorly.

In full flight, she continued. “It's rather delightful, when you think about it, although not a bit flattering. I'm able to get ready in less than an hour. All I have to do is change gowns. In the meantime, I shall go meet the children on my own. He shall see what an efficient woman can accomplish.”

By the time Milford managed to form a protest, Celeste had kissed him on the cheek and hurried toward the house.

Shaking his head, he wished he could bear the pain he saw looming in her future. But there was no cure for it. She had hard truths to learn, and he couldn't learn them for her.

10

“B
y George, Throckmorton, there's that comely young woman with whom you've taken to traversing the corridors, and she's holding two moppets by the hand.”

Colonel Halton's comment pulled Throckmorton out of his enthusiastic discussion of the potential for aluminum in paint and jewelry—he owned part of the refinery—and right back to the garden where his mother's tea was taking place. The gravel on the walk crunched beneath his feet as he turned to see Celeste, framed in the arbor flagrant with white climbing roses—and as far away from him as it was possible to be in the sprawling main garden.

She held Penelope and Kiki by their hands.

By Jove. Not four hours before, he'd given instructions . . .

“The children are . . . yours?” Lord Ruskin asked.

Throckmorton ignored the implied query. He had
instructed the servants that Miss Celeste was to get ready for the tea. Nothing else, he'd said. The garden tea must take priority. The servants had glowed when he'd given his commands, imagining that he supported Celeste's foolish scheme to marry Ellery. He'd even felt guilt about raising himself in their eyes when he meant to trip her up.

But those servants believed Celeste could do no wrong. None of them would think anything of her taking the children to the garden tea.

Well. She'd done the children no harm, so perhaps she wasn't a spy.

Instead, she had brought Ellery's illegitimate child to the garden tea to parade before the
ton
in an obvious attempt to ruin his betrothal.

Throckmorton would not allow that to happen.

Turning back to the gentlemen, he smiled the kind of smile that frightened his servants. “Excuse me.” Although it gave him a chill to do it, he clapped his hovering secretary on the shoulder. “Stanhope can fill you in on the other wonders of aluminum, and my ideas to expand the plant.”

Stanhope bowed to the assembled gentlemen. He handled situations like this with aplomb, blending in with the lords of high society as well as the London businessmen with whom Throckmorton dealt. A great many people—oh, admit the truth—all people enjoyed Stanhope's company more than Throckmorton's.

People were a lot of silly cows.

Looking at that familiar, friendly face, Throckmorton could scarcely believe Stanhope was capable of any misdeed, much less . . . no, it didn't seem possible. “Stanhope is my right hand. Ask him anything you wish.” Sketching the briefest of bows, Throckmorton
threaded his way along the paths and through the chatting guests toward Celeste. He really must turn her back before too many people saw the children.

Too late. The youthful Viscount Blackthorne stepped into Celeste's path. Celeste dimpled and curtsied. She leaned down and spoke to the children.

They curtsied obediently, Kiki with a flourish that showed off her beruffled purple gown, Penelope neatly and efficiently.

The arrival of an illegitimate child did not require an announcement, so most of the guests must wonder about Kiki's identity. What was Celeste saying about the child?

He glanced toward Lord and Lady Longshaw and Hyacinth. They stood staring at Celeste and the children. Now was no time for them to discover Kiki's existence, not when they were feeling uncertain about Ellery's affections.

Unfortunately, everyone would speculate about both the children and the reason for their appearance. Children did not come to the garden tea. Tea was an adult activity, filled with adult conversation and adult cuisine.

He glanced toward his mother for help, but she sat in the midst of her cronies with her back to him.

Celeste and the children took a few steps, Lord Blackthorne speaking animatedly to them.

The twice-widowed Earl of Arrowood leaped like a gazelle across a low hedge to place himself in Celeste's path. The appropriate courtesies were exchanged. Kiki did a little dance of impatience, tugging at Celeste's hand. Penelope stood quietly, her practical dark blue gown and plain pinafore a reproach to all the gauze and lace of the assemblage.

The little group moved forward, Lord Arrowood now also trailing in Celeste's wake. With Celeste's beauty, her accent, her open smile, of course she would attract the gentlemen, especially in such an informal setting where they could take the liberty of introducing themselves.

Throckmorton, who traveled a path parallel to Celeste's yet had no intention of leaping hedges from one path to another, didn't stand a chance of catching Celeste and the children before they swept right through the middle of the party. But he had to reach them soon, before disaster struck.
What explanation was she giving for Kiki?

Celeste wore a vibrant rose-colored gown which brought the glow of sunrise to her complexion. A broad, old-fashioned lace collar swooped around her neckline and equally broad cuffs encircled her tiny wrists. The width of the skirt emphasized her trim waist, and the fit of the bodice emphasized her firm bosom . . .

Throckmorton broke off his thoughts. He should not be noticing Celeste's complexion, her waist or her bosom. He should be concentrating on what to do at this unusual turn of events, and he should be noting the obvious—that Celeste owned beautiful, expensive gowns far beyond the reach of a governess's wages. Surely that was a sign of complicity with the Russians.

“Mister . . . Throckmorton?”

He ignored the uncertain call from behind him, concentrating all his attention on Celeste and her ever-greater retinue.

Fingers tugged at his elbow. “Or . . . um . . . Garrick?”

“What?”
he snapped impatiently as he swung around—and found himself facing Hyacinth.

She leaped back at his tone, her eyes the same bruised violet color of a hyacinth blossom.

“Oh. Lady Hyacinth.”
Too fragile,
he thought.
Too easily hurt. I'm going to kill my brother.
“I'm sorry. I had something on my mind.”

“Yes, you were following that girl,” Hyacinth said in a rush. “I thought maybe I could come with you.”

Another complication in an already complicated state of affairs.
“Why?”

She looked taken aback. “Well, I thought I could join the other young people rather than stay with my parents.”

“Yes!” He didn't have time to talk her out of it. “Jolly good idea.” And she probably needed distraction from her worry over her betrothal. “Take my arm!”

With a shy smile, she did. “Thank you. I love my parents, but sometimes they are rather dull. But they trust me with you, because you are—” She stopped, her eyes wide and horrified.

He marched her forward at a great rate. “Almost as dull as they are,” he finished for her. For some reason, her assessment annoyed him, although why it should he didn't know. He prided himself on being pragmatic. He couldn't complain because a foolish young woman perceived him as tedious.

Ahead of them, Lord Featherstonebaugh tottered right in front of Celeste. Ellery's godfather fancied himself an elder roué, irresistible to girls, and the girls thought him harmless and even encouraged him while Lady Featherstonebaugh rolled her eyes and made comments about old fools.

Celeste listened while he spoke, then gestured to the children and gave some kind of explanation.

Lord Featherstonebaugh stepped back with a bow, a
rueful smile playing across his wrinkled lips.

Celeste had charmed another one even as she dismissed him.

“Stupid old gaffer,” Throckmorton muttered.

Hyacinth ignored him, her gaze fixed on Celeste. “She's so pretty. Who is she?”

“She is Miss Celeste Milford. She has but recently returned from Paris.”

“Of course. That explains her stylish air.” Hyacinth's voice was rife with admiration. “Her clothes are not quite the thing for England, but she sports an élan I've not seen in the other girls.” She hesitated. “If I could be so bold, brother . . . I heard that she has your favor.”

He almost sagged with relief. So he had done one thing right. Hyacinth did indeed believe that he, not Ellery, was involved with Celeste. “As you said, she is very pretty,” he said in a neutral tone.

They turned a corner so that at last they were following Celeste, but Throckmorton couldn't see her through the throng. They were headed up toward the knoll, toward the silly, tumbled-down castle which crowned his land. This was not the way he had planned Celeste's debut. This wasn't the way he'd intended it should proceed. He'd imagined she could stay by his side, cling to his arm, silent and uncertain in the new environment. Instead, with all the attention she attracted, she might have been a visiting dignitary. The tea might have been in celebration of her, a possible spy and certain seductress, rather than of poor little Hyacinth.

He glanced down at the girl on his arm. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Well, I . . . it's lovely, of course, everything as it should be, except Ellery . . .”

Dear Lord, her lower lip was quivering!

“Yes. Dreadful shame about the strawberries and the other accident.” He heard her gasp. No wonder her father was so protective. She was so open, so honest, so vulnerable. If she was going to survive in the cutthroat world of high society, she should learn to guard herself and her reactions.

“What other accident?”

His shoulders clenched, and he fumbled for his handkerchief just in case she took to sobbing. “He took a bit of a tumble, that's all.”

“Oh, dear.” She glanced backward. “I should go to him.”

“He won't talk to you. Only through the door. But . . . yes, later, you should go talk to him.” He didn't know what to do with a girl who loved Ellery and wanted to marry him. Well, he did, but he couldn't romance
Hyacinth
. “The dear boy's feeling neglected.” In fact, Throckmorton relished the thought of his brother dealing with a tearful girl. Let Ellery handle a little of his own mess.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He won't . . . he won't see me?”

“But he'll talk to you.”

“Then I will go to him,” she said, her voice alive with resolution.

“But after the tea,” Throckmorton said. “This is, after all, in honor of you.”

As they climbed, he lost sight of the little group surrounding Celeste. Turning a corner, he saw the path was clear, but off to the side he heard a squeal of glee.

“A swing!” Hyacinth sounded as excited as Kiki. “I love swings.”

She hadn't yet journeyed too far from childhood, Throckmorton realized. Detaching herself from him, she hurried forward.

Placed on a flat spot between two jumbles of rock, hung from the sturdy frame painted white, and overhung with trees, the board and rope swing was every child's dream. Throckmorton remembered it well from his youth. Now Kiki had already commandeered it. Kiki with her blonde curls and her big blue eyes, her olive skin and her flashing smile.
What explanation had Celeste given for her?

His eyes narrowed at the sight of Penelope standing off to the side, her hands folded before her, patiently waiting her turn. With her straight brown hair and her direct gaze from brown eyes, Penelope looked like him. But she looked like her mother, too, with her pale, creamy skin and slender grace. Joanna's death had shaken the foundation of their little family; Penelope had been lost and forlorn, and he'd worked to give her a sense of security. She had been growing up into a child poised beyond her years, and he rejoiced in her maturity.

Now Kiki had come, and their serenity had been shattered. Penelope was given to outbursts of unruly activity and mischief.

His gaze shifted to Celeste. She had seemed so perfectly suited to the task of restoring peace to the house. He hated to lose this opportunity; he hated to have his plans laid waste. But if she wasn't a spy, she was still a siren.

More young men and women appeared, brushing past him on their way to the heart of the celebration. Toward Celeste.

Celeste stepped behind Kiki and gave her a push. Kiki screamed with joy as she rose into the air, her skirts fluttering around her knees.