In My Wildest Dreams (13 page)

Throckmorton strode to the stairs and paused, then gave in to impulse. He allowed his steps to carry him upward, toward the nursery. He told himself that as long as he was awake, he might as well look in on Penelope. He told himself that his excessive worry was normal for a man involved in this desperate international game of conspiracy and counterconspiracy.

Yet he knew it was Celeste who drew him. She had shown him how well she worked with the children, and shown him, too, her determination to do the task for which she had been hired.

Yes, as soon as the house party was over, Celeste would be sent back to Paris, Stanhope arrested, and of course, because the Throckmortons were fair and wonderful people, they would settle a large sum on Celeste for her trouble and help.

Throckmorton's mouth twisted cynically, then smoothed.

He identified himself to the bodyguard as he approached the nursery. Through hard experience he had found such caution saved him a brutal blow to the head.

Mr. Kinman—large, quiet, innocuous—opened the door. “Sir.”

Throckmorton slipped inside. The playroom glowed in the light of a single candle. The children and Celeste slept in the bedchamber just off the playroom. He stepped gingerly, taking care to avoid the wooden train
strewn in pieces across the nursery room floor, the skipping rope snaking over the smooth boards.

He'd learned to move without noise while in India; it had proved to be an asset in his line of work, and he blessed that ability now. Lifting the candle, he carried it into the bedchamber and over to Penelope.

She slept restlessly, her braids tangled about her, her blankets twisted and thrown back, her nightgown-clad body curled into a tiny, shivering ball. He covered her. Smoothing the hair from her face, he experienced that tug of emotion only a father can understand as he looked on his sleeping child. He wanted to protect Penelope from all hurt. He wanted only good things for her. He wanted her to be happy.

She relaxed into the warmth of the blankets. That was all he could do tonight.

He moved to Kiki's bed. The rambunctious child slept peacefully, as if in sleep she found the contentment she fought so defiantly during the day. Poor girl. When he saw her like this, he wished he could give her what she sought. But she didn't seek it from him; she wanted affection and approval from her father, and Ellery was too selfish to know how to give. So the turmoil continued, unless . . .

Drawn by a need he couldn't explain, he went to the third bed. To Celeste.

She slept with her hand under her cheek, a frown on her face, as if during sleep she fought the demons he would loose on her unsuspecting head.

It wouldn't be so bad. She'd be safer here than anywhere in England or on the Continent, and she'd be helping her country.

Odd to see her without the animation of consciousness. She was so alive, so keen to the enjoyment of life, he could almost catch her youthful fever to know, to be, to go, to experience all that youth had to offer. She would have been a fit mate for Ellery; the two of them would have been a living proclamation for spirit and verve.

But even if she came out of this yarborough without harm, she would be hurt if she discovered that he had romanced her to detach her from Ellery.

Sighing, she flung out an arm. Her hand rested palm up on the blankets, her fingers slightly curled. The frown smoothed from her face, leaving only the contentment of slumber. His hand rose and hovered over her forehead. He wanted to stroke the hair back from her forehead as he had done for Penelope. Yet the tenderness he felt for Celeste contained nothing of fatherly affection. Rather, this need to touch Celeste had its roots in want and seduction. He had to wonder at himself; could it be he was stalking the girl? Was he motivated less by duty than by attraction?

He stared as her chest lifted and fell. She wore a plain white cotton gown with a modest neck. The sheet covered her, too. Yet without seeing—without ever having seen and never allowing himself to see—he knew what her breasts looked like. Smooth, creamy young skin lifting above her ribcage in two perfect curves, topped by round blossoms of color so soft they could scarcely be called rose. He didn't have to close his eyes to see the stretch of flesh above and below; his imagination took the delicacy of her features and the hint of skin showing above her neckline and filled in every detail. She was
like a portrait and he the artist—and he had even less talent at painting than he did at languages.

Except with Celeste.

What was happening to him?
Ellery
lusted.
Ellery
romanced.
Ellery
seduced. Not Throckmorton. Not after two days. Not without a foundation of common beliefs and interests. Not madly. Not passionately.

Not ever.

Yet . . . yet . . . what harm would he do? He could look and not touch.

Leaning over, he smoothed a lock of hair off her cheek.

He could want but not take. He would have to, for if he sent her away, he had no way to trap Stanhope, and as long as she stayed at Blythe Hall, Ellery would be in pursuit. So Throckmorton had to make the effort to keep her out of Ellery's grasp. If Throckmorton suffered the occasional odd flashes of conscience, as well as this ridiculous surge of tenderness and the inconvenient heat of desire—well, it was probably no more than he deserved.

12

A
whisk of wind lifted the tendrils of hair off Celeste's forehead. The cloudy afternoon smelled like rain. Targets stood in a row on the far back lawn.

“I'll wager you twenty pounds she strikes dead center.”

“Nice try, chap, but you're not the only one who's been watching her shoot all afternoon.”

Celeste overheard Colonel Halton and Lord Arrowood's exchange behind her with a mixture of satisfaction and triumph. Throckmorton had suggested that she find a way to keep her identity secret and so allow Ellery his position in society. She had done so, and the hunters had straggled in from the marsh to find a most unusual contest proceeding.

Celeste lifted the rifle to her shoulder and shot once more.

The bullet struck the bull's-eye.

Lord Townshend, her last competitor, dropped his own rifle in defeat.

A burst of applause followed, with a few hurrahs from the younger gentlemen who cared nothing for her prowess with a rifle and everything for her air of mystery and her physical attributes. That was fine. Count de Rosselin had told her to enjoy the blindness her beauty afforded, but to depend on her wits. She thought she had done so very well when she suggested a shooting competition.

Lady Philberta's eyebrows had raised. “Among whom, Miss Milford?”

“The gentlemen who don't care to hunt,” Celeste began.

“Capital!” Colonel Halton said.

“And those ladies who can shoot,” Celeste finished.

“Unfeminine,” Lord Arrowood had snorted.

She had unmanned him with a touch on his sleeve and a low-voiced plea for tolerance of youthful spirits. “Besides,” she had told him, “no lady has a chance of winning against an expert such as yourself.”

He'd imagined she spoke true.

To Lady Philberta's obvious gratification, Celeste eliminated him in the first round, then fluttered her eyelashes so winningly he'd actually laughed at himself, settled back to watch the fun, and collected a rather large bank of winnings from the weary hunters who returned in groups of two and three.

Now Celeste dimpled and dropped a curtsy first to her able opponent, then to the cheering crowd. They were really very nice people when you got to know them. She was an unknown, the underdog, and she had won, so they took her to their hearts.

“Brava!”
Hyacinth called to Celeste.

Celeste forgot herself enough to smile at the girl. Their brief acquaintance of the previous day had been unsettling for Celeste. She'd rather liked Hyacinth, when before she'd cherished a conjectural dislike to the girl. That was the trouble with getting to know people. The truth did not always support one's aversions.

Still clapping, Lady Philberta came to Celeste's side. “An amazing performance, Miss Milford. Tell us where you learned to shoot like that.”

“In Russia.” Celeste accepted Lady Philberta's embrace, and wondered at her easy acceptance of Celeste's intrusion. Celeste wouldn't have thought the aristocratic Lady Philberta would care to have the gardener's daughter pursuing her son, but she had been genial. Perhaps Celeste had braced for obstacles that never had been there. Projecting her voice to be heard all over the lawn, Celeste said, “When I traveled there in the company of the Russian ambassador and his wife, I discovered the country rife with wolves and other, more human, threats.” With a smile that downplayed the threats of highwaymen, of murderers, and of the occasional revolutionary whose eyes glowed with the strength of his convictions, she glanced about her.

A movement off to the side caught her attention. Newly returned from hunting, Throckmorton subjected her to a thorough scrutiny. Mud spattered him from boot to thigh. His damp, black hair stood at attention over his forehead. Tiredness ringed his eyes, and grimness bracketed his mouth.

She lifted her eyebrows at him, wondering what she had done to cause such intensive observation. She wanted to go to him, to ask what she'd done wrong, to
assure him she'd been all that was discreet. “Russia is a country of madmen,” she added.

Another man stepped out of the crowd. “Hear, hear!” he called. “Well said, Miss Milford, and well shot.”

It was, she realized with a shock, Ellery.

Ellery, whose blond hair was cut in a shorter style, but who appeared breathtakingly handsome next to his weary, dirty, older brother.

“You're . . . well!” she exclaimed.

“Limping a bit.” He directed at her a smile so bright each one of his teeth might have been a lit candle. Lifting his sling, he added, “And I wrenched my arm, but they're remodeling a bedchamber up by the nursery. One of the maids was up on the ladder hanging wallpaper, and I heard her scream, and . . . well . . . she would have been badly hurt if she'd fallen.”

The younger guests had swarmed around him, so no one noticed Celeste's start of skepticism.

“You rescued a maid?” Hyacinth asked, stars in her eyes.

He barely glanced at her. “Someone had to.”

“But you were hurt doing it,” one of the other debutantes exclaimed.

He lavished a smile on her, too. “Just a bit. One doesn't think in a situation like that, one just gallops to the rescue.” Turning toward the house, he walked, and such was his power everyone walked with him. “But enough about me. What excitement has been happening since I went into seclusion?”

Hyacinth trotted alongside him. “Nothing, Ellery. Without you, there was no excitement at all.”

* * *

“You look tired, sir.” Stanhope came to stand beside Throckmorton as he watched Celeste walk away with Ellery.

Throckmorton took three long breaths before he answered. “Absolutely. I was up half the night.”

Perking up like a setter going on point, Stanhope said, “Not because of your
special
business, I hope.” Glancing around, he ascertained that no one stood near, then in a lowered voice said, “You could have woken me at any time.”

Throckmorton turned to his secretary, his friend—his betrayer. Stanhope wore the marsh's mud like a badge of honor. The brown wool hunter's hat proclaimed him to be an English gentleman, and its rakish angle proclaimed him an adventurer. He had shot the most birds, and his back probably ached from the constant slap of congratulations from his fellow hunters. Complacency clung to him even more deeply than the mud.

But soon, Throckmorton would strip everything from him. Everything but the mud. “I don't think you could help me with this. I was with Miss Milford.”

There was nothing simulated about Stanhope's astonishment. “Sir?”

“She and I have discovered we have . . . a great deal in common.” Throckmorton had never before noticed how deliberately Stanhope cultivated the combination of polish and a hail-fellow-well-met manner. Stanhope had been riding on his reputation of a dashing explorer since they'd arrived back in England.

“In common? You and the gardener's daughter?” A nobleman's scorn filled Stanhope's voice.

It was time for Stanhope to grow beyond his youthful
exploits, and take responsibility for his activities. Throckmorton would make personally sure of that. “Come, Stanhope,” Throckmorton said, “you wouldn't be a man if you hadn't noticed that she's changed since she returned.”

“Damme, yes.” Stanhope took the opportunity to leer at Celeste's slender back.

Throckmorton wanted to smash his smug face into the grass.

Then Stanhope dismissed her with an aristocrat's sniff. “But she's still the gardener's daughter.”

“She'll always be that.”
And better than you
.

Colonel Halton strode past. “Capital entertainment, Throckmorton! That girl'll be the talk of London.”

“Thank you. Yes, won't she?” Throckmorton called after him. Almost every guest had passed, so he started toward the house. He wished for no one to hear this conversation, and he dawdled convincingly.

Stanhope looked ahead where Ellery and Celeste climbed the stairs to the veranda. “From the looks of it, she's still in love with Mr. Ellery.”

“Not at all.” Too emphatic, and sounding rather as if he doubted her fidelity. Throckmorton tried a friendly smile. “She came back for Mr. Ellery, and of course he's always ready to indulge in a little light flirtation.”

Although Ellery's head might have been stuck in that angle of looking toward Celeste, and his fatuous smirk never faltered.

Throckmorton lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “What can I tell you, Stanhope? You came from a noble background. I did not. It's only lucre that defines the difference between your station and mine.”

“Yes.” Stanhope thought himself so secure in his circumstances and his treachery he allowed bitterness to bleed into his tone. “I don't have any.”

Throckmorton kept his voice genial. “I pay you a fair salary, I would say.”

“Of course, sir. I meant no criticism.”

“Of course not.” Throckmorton rubbed at the mud on his jacket.

Apparently, Stanhope read something in Throckmorton's manner that warned him to return to the original subject. “You were telling me about Miss Milford.”

“Oh.” Throckmorton allowed a smile to cross his face. “My mother, of course, is from a great family, but my father's common as dirt, so there's no great difference between Miss Milford and me.”

“I would disagree, sir. She hasn't a ha'penny.”

Aristocrats arranged their marriages for monetary increase. Sometimes Throckmorton was proud to be common. “She has beauty beyond price. She is kind, good with the children, and she kisses . . . pardon me. You don't want to hear this.” Throckmorton let Stanhope wrestle with the tidings before saying reflectively, “Although I'm surprised you haven't heard the gossip.”

“Why . . . no, sir, I haven't heard a word.”

Lying, Throckmorton diagnosed, or distracted. Too enthralled in the dangerous game he played to pay attention to the rumors swirling around him. After Throckmorton's confession, he would seek out the scandal, and there existed just enough to convince him.

“It's sheer nonsense, of course,” Throckmorton said. “I would have swung on that swing even if she hadn't urged me.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Stanhope stumbled on the first step up to the house. “You swung on a . . . swing? As in—” Stanhope made a pendulant motion with his hand. A ruby set in gold glinted on that hand; a gift from Throckmorton for years of faithful service.

“Yes. What's so odd about that?” Throckmorton wrinkled his brow as though puzzled. Actually, he
was
puzzled. His mother had accosted him with his “bizarre behavior,” as she called it. Surely she realized he could kick over the traces occasionally. Although if he doubted she would call his early morning visit to the nursery “kicking over the traces.” More like—madness.

“And you kissed the gardener's daughter?” Stanhope clarified.

“There was a great deal more than . . .” Throckmorton caught himself again, smiled like a man with a secret, and climbed the stairs. “Beg pardon. I just haven't felt this way for years. Maybe ever.” That was true, at least. He had never felt like he wanted to throttle his secretary before.

Stanhope didn't bother to hide his astonishment.

“Your disbelief fails to flatter,” Throckmorton said dryly.

“Not at all, sir, but compared to . . .” Stanhope gestured feebly at Ellery as he walked ahead of them with Celeste.

“You're referring to the fact I'm not nearly as handsome as Mr. Ellery.” It had never mattered before. Throckmorton didn't know why it should now, but in fact he was getting dreadfully tired of having Ellery's comeliness thrown in his face. “But I freely admit it. I'm infatuated with Miss Milford, and I'm as ruthless in my courting as I am in my . . . business.”

Celeste, for no reason Throckmorton could see, curtsied to excuse herself from Ellery and his group, and hurried away.

Ellery watched her, but when she turned the corner he rejoined the merry group.