In My Wildest Dreams (17 page)

Celeste was unwillingly flattered. “If you are going to keep a man like Ellery interested, you have to play the game better than he does.” Celeste gave a Gallic shrug. “Count de Rosselin said a woman can keep a man in thrall forever if she knows when to tease and when to be generous.”

“Did the count say how to know that?”

“Listen to your instincts. Practice in the mirror. And make Ellery work to win your love.”

“But I . . . I already love him.” Hyacinth's eyes swam with tears.

Celeste hated to see the young girl so stricken. With a comforting hug, she said, “But he doesn't have to know that.”

“I've told him.”

“You are so very young, you could fall out of love with Ellery and into love with that handsome Lord Townshend without pause.”

“But I'm not so fickle!”

Celeste smiled. “Ellery doesn't have to know that.”

“Oh.” Hyacinth's brow wrinkled as she reflected.

“Tonight, arrange your dance card so that you dance with Ellery, then with Lord Townshend. When Ellery relinquishes you to Lord Townshend, turn to the lord, smile and say, ‘Where have you been all my life?' Not too loudly, just so that Ellery can hear.”

“What will Lord Townshend think of me?”

“He'll think you're flirting, and he is used to that. All men with a fortune and their own teeth are used to being courted.”

Hyacinth nodded. “He helped me push the swing.”

“So he likes you. Ellery will watch you then, and you can smile up at Lord Townshend as if he were the brightest star in the sky.”

“I don't know how.”

“Of course you do,” Celeste said. “That's the way you smile at Ellery. That's why he thinks he has you wrapped around his little finger.”

Hyacinth lowered her head and glared narrowly at Celeste. “He does think that, doesn't he?”

“Indeed he does. Now, dance a little too close to Lord Townshend and ask him about his dogs.”

“His dogs?”

“He breeds hunting spaniels. As long as he's talking about them you won't lack for conversation and he won't wonder what you're up to. When he returns you to Ellery, let your hand linger on Lord Townshend's arm for a moment too long.”

“What if Ellery doesn't notice?”

“He will, and I promise he'll draw the correct—or in this case, incorrect—conclusions.”

“And he'll love me again?”

“Yes . . . yes, he will.” The folly of what she was doing struck Celeste. Why was she telling her rival how to keep Ellery when
she
wanted him? She hadn't shared a few words of advice, as she'd originally intended. She had forgotten the contest and told everything she knew.

But surely it didn't matter. Telling Hyacinth what to do and having Hyacinth do it correctly were two different things. Hyacinth had had no practice in the feminine arts; she couldn't be good at it, even with the incentive of wanting Ellery as she did. And Ellery . . . Ellery wanted
her,
Celeste. He wouldn't be swayed by
Hyacinth's bids for attention. Just as she wouldn't be swayed by Throckmorton. By his conversation. His interest. His kisses.

She had only kissed Throckmorton because she had thought . . . that is, it had seemed . . . well, the kisses didn't matter. Just a meeting of lips, the scent of his breath, wetness and warmth . . . she shook herself. “Now I must go . . .”

“There's one other thing,” Hyacinth said quickly, so quickly the words tumbled over each other and embarrassment etched each syllable. “I can't ask anyone else. I just can't.”

Desperately, Celeste wished she had made her exit the first time she'd tried. Or the second. Or the third.

“Mama keeps hinting about my duty to my husband, and I don't know what she's talking about and she won't tell me.” Hyacinth stared earnestly into Celeste's eyes. “Please,
please
won't you tell me what she's hinting at?”

Not sure whether she had been insulted by a master or by an idiot, Celeste jerked her hand away. “I don't know what she means. I've never known a man!”

“Known
a man,” Hyacinth said in surprise. “As in the Biblical sense?”

“Exactly as in the Biblical sense.”

“Oh, dear, dear Celeste, I didn't mean . . . well, I didn't even realize that was what Mama meant. I know you have never been married, only I thought that everyone who went to Paris discovered all about the world, and you are older and so much more polished than I, the little country bumpkin.” Again Hyacinth took Celeste's hand, and Celeste let her have it. “I am so sorry if I offended you. It's just Ellery is slipping away from me,
and there's no one who I can talk to. No one who will listen to me!”

Celeste sighed. It was true. Hyacinth was young, ardent, obvious, like a large, clumsy puppy trying to impress her new master. Celeste had dismissed her as a rival. Everyone within the two families assumed Hyacinth would do as she was told without demur. Even the servants—loyal to Celeste—ignored Hyacinth when she spoke. Without a doubt, the girl needed assistance if she were to be Ellery's wife—or anyone's wife. And unfortunately, she reminded Celeste of herself in the early throes of her crush on Ellery. Surely a little moral support would not come amiss, nor would it spoil Celeste's own chances with Ellery.

“All right, I will tell you about what will happen on your wedding night,” Celeste said. “But you must promise not to scream or cry.”

Hyacinth's hand squeezed Celeste's. “It's worse than I feared.” She straightened her shoulders. “Very well, I will be brave.”

“Between a man and a woman, there is much”—Celeste paused, but could think of no delicate word to describe the condition—“nudity.”

Obviously shaken, Hyacinth asked, “Whose?”

“Both.”

Eyes large, Hyacinth swallowed.

“Your husband will touch you in . . . places.”

Hyacinth gasped and shuddered. “He won't want
me
to touch
him,
will he?”

Celeste considered the information she had been given. “I don't know. I never heard about that, but I know men always like women to serve them in every way.”

“Yes. Yes, you're right. Papa likes it when Mama . . .” Hyacinth paled. “Oh, I don't want to think about that!”

Remembering the sharp-eyed Lord Longshaw and the plump Lady Longshaw, Celeste said, “But your parents are so old!”

“In their forties.” Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “I fear for their health, if what you tell me is true.”

“You haven't heard the worst of it yet.” Celeste lowered her voice. “Your husband will want to service you, as a stallion does a mare.”

The news clearly shook Hyacinth. “You mean climb on me and—oh!” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Yes.” Celeste nodded.

“Put his . . . into my . . .”

“As I understand it.”

“But that's horrible!”

Celeste chewed her lip indecisively. Truth to tell, she thought it sounded horrible, too, but the facts didn't seem to bear that out. “That's the amazing part. Madame Ambassador always seemed rather giddy when Monsieur paid her attentions, and in the morning they both seemed very blissful! Also, Count de Rosselin told me that it is up to the man to make the woman happy, or he is no man at all.”

“Then Ellery must be a wonderful . . . wonderful . . .”

“Lover.”

“Yes! Lover!” An almost audible breaking of maidenly bonds accompanied Hyacinth's use of the word. “Ellery must be a wonderful lover, for that's the problem. All the women smile at him. All the women whisper to him.” She smacked her fist onto the arm of the sofa. “I am sick of it!”

Carried away by her enthusiasm, Celeste shook
Hyacinth's shoulder. “Then you must be better than they are. You can do it!”

“I'm off!” Hyacinth leaped to her feet, tossing the blanket aside like Boadicea throwing off Roman shackles. “I will do just as you advised me, Miss Milford, and thank you so much. You are a good, good person!”

No, I'm not.
“Don't forget. When Ellery realizes you are falling in love with Lord Townshend, he'll try to win you back with charm and compliments. You will not be swayed.”

“I won't?”

“No. It takes more than a few false smiles and easy compliments to buy your affections. You will be indifferent. He will be puzzled and intrigued.”

“And while I'm pretending I don't care, I brush his arm with my breast. Yes, I understand it all.” With a rustle of skirts, Hyacinth was gone.

Celeste collapsed back onto the sofa cushions, amazed at her own, and Hyacinth's, bravado.

But Celeste started when Throckmorton's drawl interrupted her thoughts. “I would say she doesn't quite understand it all.”

16

T
hrockmorton stepped out from behind a fluted marble column. Walking to the doors, he shut them. They clicked closed with the finality of a prison cell. Returning, he observed Celeste in a way that made her want to check her laces to see if they were open. “I'd have to say I don't understand, either. Was Lady Hyacinth too easy a rival before? You advised her because you wished for stronger competition?”

“I just thought that she . . . she deserves something more than . . . a lifetime with an indifferent husband.” Courageously, Celeste tacked on, “Whoever he might be.”

Throckmorton took no notice of her defiance. He just watched her, his freshly shaved cheek creased in a crooked smile that projected no warmth. “You know an awful lot about what goes on between a man and a woman.”

She caught her breath. Of course. He'd heard . . . How much . . . ?

But it didn't matter how much he'd heard. No matter what, she'd embarrassed herself, and a blush exploded onto her cheeks, heating them like fire.

“I heard enough to make me think you are a very astute young woman.” Walking toward her, he offered his hand.

She took it, because he was Garrick Throckmorton and always in control of himself and his reactions.

As he drew her up, she realized her mistake. He didn't step back to allow her room. He simply pulled her into himself. Releasing her hand, he caught her waist in his arms and, while she was off-balance, he swung her around to lean against the column.

“A move smooth enough to remind you of Ellery.” He sounded sarcastic, indignant, even angry, not at all the determinedly even-tempered man she had come to know.

“Yes. Yes, of course, it does.” She lifted her chin and stared him in the eyes. “But if it were Ellery, it would have been accompanied by a laugh.”

“Try this instead.” Angling his face, he kissed her.

The catch of breath, the press of lips, that was the same as before. But that was all. The gentleman Throckmorton had vanished. He left behind his well-considered kisses that had showcased his skills. He no longer displayed consideration for her lack of experience. No, this time he ravaged her mouth, opening her to his tongue without finesse or courtesy.

She responded because she didn't know how not to.

He pressed her against the column. Her starched petticoats crackled in protest. His weight seemed more
than it had on that blanket beneath the stars, for he hadn't a care for her comfort. His male scent filled her mind like a heady incense. His taste . . . ah, it wasn't urbane passion, nor was it starlight and velvet. Those impressions had been cloaks he had donned to hide the truth about him. No, now he tasted of dark passion and of hidden, fevered tempests of the soul.

Frightened by his ardor, by his strength, by her own response to the darkness within him, she whimpered and struggled.

Catching her wrists, he raised them over his head, lifting her onto her toes, holding her against him. He wore his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt and cravat and trousers, but he might as well have been nude. The layers of clothing couldn't hide the firmness of his muscles, the superiority of his strength. If he meant to make her feel helpless, to know how little she could do to save herself, he had succeeded admirably.

Lifting his head, he glared at her, his dark brown eyes fierce. “Unless I allow it, you will never be free.”

A threat. A threat that meant more than just the words could convey. She stared back at him. “Mr. Throckmorton, you're being a dolt, and I do not kiss dolts.”

“Does that stare and that tone of voice usually work for you?” He sounded interested and worse, intrigued.

She tried again. “You're acting like an impertinent school lad.”

“Very frightening. Do the lesser men wither and run away?”

They did. When faced with her governess stringency, lesser men always ran away.

She was a fool to think Throckmorton was a lesser man. “I don't know why you're upset, but really, it is
time to loose your grip before my arms snap off.”

Very slowly, he lowered her arms, allowing her to once again lean against the pillar. For a brief and marvelous moment, she was free of the potent authority of his torso against hers. Then he leaned forward, pressing his lower body into the full bell of her petticoats, holding her again with his body and his hands, showing her in no uncertain terms that she was helpless in his grasp. She swallowed and her gaze clung to his face, seeking tolerance, humor, even the intelligence she knew formed Mr. Throckmorton. But the dark shadow of his beard, the flare of his nostrils, the smile that looked so much like a snarl: all betrayed the primal savage that lurked in wait . . . for her.

In the brusque tone of the beast, he said, “I don't know if Hyacinth really believes you are a virgin, you who know so much—”

“Hearsay!”

“—But I do believe. If you were an experienced woman, you would know better than to wear your bodice laced up the front.”

Confused, she glanced down. She was decent, more than decent, with her pale green dimity gown and its dark green ribbons tied almost at her neck. “What do you mean?”

“No Englishwoman wears her bodice laced up the front. Doing so makes a man think of unlacing it.”

“Buttons up the back—”

“Aren't nearly so enticing.” With her wrists held in one hand, his other dropped to the lacing he taunted her about.

He touched right in the cleft between her breasts. She drew a quick, indrawn breath. Valiantly, she tried to
protest, but her voice failed her at the last syllable. “This is preposterous.”

“A woman's back can be a marvel of physical pulchritude, but nothing compares to a woman's breasts—”

“Mr. Throckmorton!” Weak. Weak response, but she was truly shocked. He had not only touched her, but he had used that word.
Breasts.
No one, not even in Paris, ever spoke so bluntly about the feminine form. Such language was taboo. It was vulgar. It was familiar. And because he spoke of her breasts as if he held every right over her body, her heart thumped in an uncomfortable, irregular beat. It was almost as if she'd been running from him, and he'd caught her, and would do with her as he pleased.

But she hadn't been running from him.

Had she?

And he certainly hadn't been giving chase.

Had he?

Without a shred of shame or decency, he untied the ribbon of her bodice. She had double knotted it, but he proved dexterous and speedy.

Celeste shuffled her feet to the side, trying madly to sneak away.

Slowly, as if he were unwrapping a long anticipated package, he pulled the lacing loose, one ribbon at a time.

She twisted, trying to liberate herself before he—

He tugged at her shift, baring her breasts. And he looked.

The cool air touched her bare skin, bringing her nipples to a tight pucker.

A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “See.” He smoothed a single finger over her. “You show your desire.”

“It's not desire.” She hated the smug comprehension lurking on his features. “I'm cold!”

His eyelids drooped over his brooding gaze. “I can warm you.”

A blush began at her waist—or maybe lower. Lower certainly felt odd, with a twisting in her belly, a fullness and moisture in her womb. “No. Just cover me.” She glanced toward the door. It remained thankfully shut, but she whispered furiously, “Please, Mr. Throckmorton!”

“You needn't speak so quietly or worry so much.” His own voice was deep and husky, rich with pleasure and, she feared, expectancy. “No one's going to look in on us. There's a party going on. No one cares where we are.”

“I do!” In a burst of inspired defiance, she added, “And . . . and Ellery does!”

At the mention of his brother's name, Throckmorton pounced on her. Pounced, kissed . . . she might have been a mouse in the grip of a lion, he held her so competently and kissed her so thoroughly. When she tried to struggle, he just . . . held her. Leaned against her, crushing her bare breasts to his waistcoat, holding her chin in his fingers. He moved his hips against hers in a leisurely, painstaking roll.

When she realized he'd released her hands, she grabbed his hair in a ferocious grip and tugged him away—and thought better of it when he lifted his head.

Who was this man? She'd thought him civilized; overcivilized, even. But his pupils had widened so his brown eyes looked black and demonic. He grinned, his teeth white in his tanned face. Leaning down, he took her lower lip between his teeth. He didn't bite down; the
friction might even be called erotic. But it was a threat, and this time when he lifted his head, he did it on his own accord.

She couldn't take her gaze from his. “I'm afraid of you.”

“No, you're not.” He slid his hand onto her breastbone. “It's not fear that makes your heart pound. It's this.” He cupped her breast, then pinched her nipple. Almost. Like the bite on her lip, it wasn't painful, but . . .

Her knees knocked together in fear and . . . oh, what was this mixture of embarrassment and excitement? He'd given her a taste of it before, but this was different. This time there was no tenderness, there was no control. There was only a madman who wore a familiar face. “Why are you threatening me?” she asked.

“Better to ask, what am I threatening you with?” He laughed, a gravelly sound that sent a chill up her spine. “You think you know, but you don't.”

“Know what?” she demanded. He was speaking in riddles and she hated everything about this. His attentions, her discomfort . . . her unwanted, illicit anticipation.

“I'm going to show you why the ambassador's wife was giddy when her husband paid her attentions.”

“You can't!” His threat—for such it was, for all his denials—sent her grappling toward freedom. “It's not fitting.”

“I'm weary of always doing what's right, and I promise you when I'm done, you'll be happy.” Through gritted teeth he added, “And I won't.”

He let her go, then used her escape momentum to whirl her around and tumble her onto the sofa and onto her back.

“Why are you angry at me?” She struggled to sit up.

He pushed her back down. “You let me think you were just the gardener's daughter. Just another girl who was in love with Ellery.” He wasn't rough, but he didn't permit rebellion. “You lied.”

“What's wrong with you? I am who I said. I never lied.”

“I'm not lying about this.” He sat on Celeste, trapped her between his thighs. “I'm going to take my revenge.”

“How dare you presume to pass judgment on me? I didn't perform any misdeed!” She twisted sideways. “I simply talked to Lady Hyacinth. I gave her sound advice.”

“I don't care about Lady Hyacinth. You're generous. You're sweet. You're kind, even to a rival. You're the most dangerous kind of woman there is. It's you who has laid my plans to ruin.” With scrupulous care, he tore her chemise from top to bottom.

The sound of ripping material shocked her. This was Mr. Throckmorton, the most normal, restrained, disciplined man of her acquaintance, and in a considered move, he had torn her chemise. The world had gone mad.
He
had gone mad.

Leaning down toward her breasts, he brushed one with his cheek. “I promised you a lesson. I will give it, Celeste.”

“This isn't a lesson you have the right to give.”

“Now, today, I take whatever right I choose.” His breath was a brush of air against her skin. “I choose to teach. Lesson one—your breasts are more than enticing, pale and capped with rose. They are also sensitive to touch.” His tongue encircled her nipple.

Gooseflesh rose. The blood rushed through her veins.

“Point proven.” His voice had thickened. “And for further proof . . .” His mouth clamped down and suckled.

She shoved at his shoulders, tugged at his hair. How could he do this? How could he make her burn with . . . with embarrassment and . . . and desire at the same time? The damp of his mouth, the roughness of his tongue, the sensation of suction on her nipple brought her arching into his arms. She didn't want to want this, and at the same time a passionate folly, quite outside her control, ruled her body.