In My Wildest Dreams (20 page)

“What do you mean?” She edged out of the cubbyhole. “I adore you, Lady Hyacinth adores you, all the ladies adore you.”

“I have you trapped under the stairway, it's dark, we're alone, and
you're
in a hurry to leave. Hyacinth is drooling all over that tub Townshend. Even Lady Featherstonebaugh would rather hide in corners with a valet than talk to me.”

“Lady Hyacinth danced with Lord Townshend?”

He eyed her with blatant suspicion. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I just assumed when you said she was drooling on him that probably she'd done it in the dance.”

“Smiled at him, acted like a little fool over him when everyone knows all he wants to breed is his dogs.”

“Ellery!” She pretended to be shocked, but in reality she wanted to give a little cheer for Hyacinth. Smart girl, she had done just what she was told, and successfully, too.

“But it's no matter, if she's in love with that fop Townshend, that leaves the way clear for
us.”

“Us?” With a shock, she realized she wasn't supposed to want Hyacinth to succeed with Ellery.
Celeste
wanted Ellery . . . but yesterday, in the conservatory, she'd done an impressive imitation of a woman who wanted Throckmorton.

Confusion pressed her from all sides. She just wanted to go to the kitchen, to be with her friends. “We
can talk about us later.” She backed into the foyer while Ellery watched her with an expression her father would call mopey. “I simply must eat. I'm almost faint with hunger.”

“I suffer from the opinion you're avoiding me, too.” Now Ellery was definitely accusatory.

“Not at all.”

“Aren't I handsome enough for you? Rich enough? Powerful enough?”

She knew that Ellery had been drinking, but now she realized he was still drunk, and angry with it. “It's not that at all . . .”

“Maybe it's not playacting after all. Maybe you really would rather have Garrick. I've always gotten all the girls, but everything else is slipping away. Maybe along with all my brother's other talents, he's better with women than I am.”

Morose, angry, and lashing out at her. She hated scenes, hated this scene more than any other, for Ellery's accusations held more than a germ of truth and the guilt she suffered added an edge of desperation to her denials. “I don't want Mr. Throckmorton, I just want . . .”

“Me?” He snorted at her expression, and in a sarcastic drawl, said, “You want me. Then tell me, my little Cinderella, where is your bedchamber? Could it be, perhaps, close to Garrick's?”

She jerked back in shock. “It is not!”

“Then where is it? I've been searching for it for nights on end, and if you really loved me—”

The jackass! Oh, she knew he'd been seeking her bedchamber. But to demand the information crudely . . . Coolly, she told him, “It's in the North Tower. Third
door from the right. You can't miss it.” Whirling, she stalked away, leaving Ellery wordless at last.

This time she made it almost to the stairway leading down to the kitchen before she heard a masculine voice call, “Miss Milford!”

She staggered in a circle, leaned her hand against the wall, and stared with an accusing gaze at Mr. Kinman. “Yes, sir?”

He smiled amiably. “I just saw Throckmorton.”

Slowly she straightened her sagging shoulders. All of her other attempts to avoid conversation had been practice for this. This was the message she had dreaded.

“He wants you to come to his office.” Mr. Kinman scratched the back of his head as if puzzled. “Something about translating a letter.”

For one wild moment, she thought of saying
no
. No excuse, no pleasantries, just no. But good sense prevailed—she would, after all, have to see Throckmorton again someday, probably today, and undoubtedly accompanied by humiliating embarrassment. Just . . . not until she'd had her breakfast. Not until she'd been fortified by the support of her friends. “Mr. Kinman, are you going to see Mr. Throckmorton again?”

“I suspect I can.”

“Tell him I will come to his office after—no.” She had a better idea, one that would not only delay the inevitable but also put Throckmorton in his place. “Tell him to send the letter to my bedchamber, and I'll translate it there.”

The big man looked taken aback. “I don't think that's exactly the answer he'll be looking for.”

“That's all the answer he's getting.” Once more, she turned toward the kitchen.

In a tone quite at odds with his previous lack of confidence, Mr. Kinman said, “Miss Milford, surely it isn't
comme il faut
to refuse your employer when he calls.”

Coldly furious, she swung back on Mr. Kinman. “May I say that you seem to know more than you should. Has Mr. Throckmorton been confiding in you?”

He ducked his head. “No, miss, I've just been observing the situation.”

She remembered how many times she'd seen him lingering about in the past few days. He
had
been observing the situation, and now she wondered why. Because he was infatuated with her? He didn't appear to be the type. Nosy? Perhaps. For some more sinister reason . . . ?

And had Throckmorton brought her to such a pass she now questioned every sentence spoken, every gesture made?

“Just tell Mr. Throckmorton what I said.” She didn't look back as she ran down the stairs and pushed open the door to the kitchen.

19

A
cry of greeting went up when Celeste stepped inside the kitchen.

“Look oo's ‘ere!” Brunella had been the senior upstairs maid ever since Celeste could remember. “Our Frenchie girl, all dressed up glorious.”

Celeste's simmering indignation began a slow fade, bathed in this uncritical balm of admiration and affection.

She loved the kitchen. She'd grown up here under her mother's skirts, and after her mother's death Esther had encouraged her to continue as the beloved child. Celeste knew every scullery maid, had teased every footman, and here she could gossip and question without worry of censure. Here it didn't matter that she moved in circles above her station and that Mr. Throckmorton had involved her in some global scam of Mr. Stanhope's. Here it didn't matter that her life was a confusion of cherished love for one man and indecorous desire for another. Here she
could be herself. Here, she even knew who that was.

At a gesture from Brunella, she turned in a circle, lifting the black velveteen shawl away from her shoulders to show off her full-skirted gown of blue and white plaid madras.

“Ooh la la.” Brunella's gruff, Suffolk-accented voice made a hash of the French expression. “Very nice.” With barely a pause, she handed a tray to a gentleman's valet and sent him on his way upstairs.

Esther, the cook, dropped her spoon and hustled forward to hug Celeste. So did two of the older kitchen maids and Arwydd, the stillroom maid, who had made preserves and liquors for as long as Celeste could remember. They exclaimed over her and reminisced with her until Esther sent the kitchen maids back to work, told Arwydd she needed the raspberry jam for the afternoon's trifle, and gestured toward the long table that stood groaning under the weight of the servants' breakfast. “Celeste, sit ye down now and we'll give ye some real food,” she invited. “Nothing with snails in this kitchen!”

Celeste didn't mention that she'd actually consumed
escargots
, or that she had quite enjoyed them. Instead she said, “Thank you. Breakfast smells wonderful.”

Large mackerel pies dotted the boards. Bowls of oatmeal cast curls of steam into the air. Pale cream sat in colored pottery pitchers. Triangles of crusty brown scones were piled high on a platter while pats of butter melted on them, dribbling down to form a golden pool. And like a scarlet blot of disgrace, a large bowl of sliced strawberries sat right in the center, waiting to be spooned over the scones or the oatmeal.

Celeste averted her eyes. Out of loyalty to poor dear
Ellery, she shouldn't want any . . . but she did.

Mr. Throckmorton didn't get hives because of strawberries. Mr. Throckmorton was so tough, he probably didn't get a sting from a nettle.

All of the outdoor crew sat on benches at one of the laden tables—the stablehands and the under-gardeners, and at one end the head hostler and at the other Celeste's father, face damp from a scrubbing and hair slicked back with water. In the last four years, he'd lost a little more hair and what hair he had was a little grayer, but for the most part his long drooping features and rough frame looked much as they had for as long as she could remember. Yet he talked more slowly and less; Celeste thought he had been lonely in her absence, and her gaze roamed the kitchen while she tried to pick out one woman who had the good sense to want him and the ability to trap him.

Her gaze settled on Esther. Esther, who boxed the scullion's ear for turning the roast too slowly and punched down the rising bread dough at the same time. Esther should be the one, but would the memories of Celeste's mother ruling the kitchen get in the way?

“Good morning, Father.” Coming to his side, Celeste kissed his cheek.

“G'mornin', daughter.” Hand on her arm, he held her close for one moment. “I'm glad to have ye back.”

She kissed him again, then thanked the fellows as they shifted down to allow her a place by her father.

Seating herself, she watched the bustling kitchen with nostalgic appreciation. The Blythe Hall servants struggled to prepare trays for the aristocrats and feed the army of ladies' maids and valets who had arrived to serve them. At the same time, Esther still had to
supervise a breakfast for every Blythe Hall servant and plan for the coming meals throughout the day.

“ ‘Ere, Celeste, ‘ave a scone.” Toothless old Travis, though he had been on the estate fifty years, hailed from the streets of London, held the plate below her nose.

Smiling at him, she took one. Then all the men passed Celeste dishes and, depending on their age, watched with affection or infatuation as she filled her bowl with oatmeal and cut strawberries over the top. When she had more than she could possibly eat, they pressed her with questions about her life.

“Is Paris as frolicsome as they say, Celeste?”

“Did ye dance every night, Celeste?”

“Tell us about those fereigners, Celeste. Did ye like them better than us?”

Holding her spoon above her oatmeal, Celeste smiled. “Yes, yes, and no.”

“Let the girl eat,” her father commanded. “She's too thin already.”

“But so comely,” one of the gardening lads breathed.

Celeste grinned at him.

Digging into her oatmeal with an appetite she never dared expose above stairs, she satisfied the worst of her hunger and looked up to find Esther watching with her hands placed on her broad hips.

“Nothing like good cookin', is there?” the cook said, her Scottish burr warm and friendly.

“The best I've had in years,” Celeste answered.

Herne, an inveterate gossip and a nosy parker, or so Milford called him, shifted from foot to foot. “If ye're done eating, Celeste, tell us how's it going with Mr. Ellery.”

Celeste flinched, and hoped her father hadn't noticed.
“He's better. His rash is gone and the bruises are mostly healed.”

“Last night he tangled with a rose bush, and he's sporting some new scratches.” Milford took a drink of ale.

Celeste avoided her father's calm gaze.

“But you didn't go to the musical evening last night.” Herne obviously took this as an offense. “Did he make improper advances?”

Esther landed another punch into the rising bread dough. “He's a dear boy, but if he has, I'll put castor oil in his whisky bottle.”

“No, no!” Celeste scrambled to correct matters before they got out of hand. Ellery was a favorite of all the servants, especially the female servants and most especially of Brunella, whom he often charmed out of a fresh baked loaf or a midnight feast. “Mr. Ellery's been all that's kind.” Except today, when he'd been drinking and making accusations about her and Mr. Throckmorton.

Mr. Throckmorton, who had sent for her. Mr. Throckmorton, whom she had defied. Mr. Throckmorton, whom she would not think about.

But considering the tangle she was caught up in, Ellery's petty insinuations had meant nothing. “I didn't go to the musical evening because I'm trying to . . . to be with the children, and . . . and you know I can't sing or play the harp, at least, not well.”

Neville, who polished silver and acted as an extra footman during dinner parties, said, “I heard from Hod, who heard from Rawdon, who heard from Dinah who was dustin' Mr. Garrick's office, that ye was supposed to be workin' for Mr. Garrick, doin' some o' his papers.”

“Really? What's wrong wi' Mr. Stanhope?” Arwydd had crept back out of the stillroom.

“Got a cob stuck sideways,” Herne said.

Brunella waited until the general snickers had died down before she asked, “So, Celeste, how ye like workin' fer Mr. Garrick?”

“Fine.” Celeste no longer wanted to be here in the kitchen. That sensation of being home had vanished as soon as the servants had started gossiping about Garrick. Yet she'd never cared before; for her as the gardener's daughter, for all the servants, the goings-on of the folks above stairs had been fair fodder. Now she felt torn in her loyalties, unsure how to answer, and she didn't want to think about him anyway.

In a speculative tone, Esther said, “Mr. Garrick's even richer than Mr. Ellery.”

“For God's sake, ye're not going to bring that up again!” Milford objected.

“Remember, Celeste, I've told ye many a time, it's just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor one.” Esther patted Celeste on the arm and glared at Milford, who resolutely stared back.

They glowered at each other so fiercely Celeste released all thought of uniting them. “I'm not given to mad fancies, Papa, and I understand the difficulties better now, Esther. But—”

“But I don't understand.” One of the village girls who had been brought in to help during the party stood listening, a frown on her broad face. “Are ye interested in Mr. Ellery, or Mr. Garrick?”

“Mr. Ellery,” Celeste answered promptly.

The girl continued as if Celeste had not spoken. “Because it seems t' me either one o' them would be a fair
catch fer th' gardener's daughter—an' th' match as unlikely as th' sea marryin' th' shore.”

Hot with embarrassment, Celeste retorted, “I am not interested in marrying Mr. Throckmorton. There isn't enough gold in his coffers to make me want a man as cold and passionless as he is.”

She finished her fervid declaration. No one answered. Except for the rhythmic turning of the spit and the hiss of the fat as it struck the coals, silence struck deep. Esther's eyes were wide and warning, and she watched Celeste as she bent her head toward the open door.

With a sense of impending doom, Celeste looked toward the tall, dark, still figure who stood in the entrance.

Garrick. His broad shoulders filled her vision, his hands flexed into fists, his feet were braced like a sailor on rough seas.

He had come for her. Of course. He would never accept a message such as she had sent to him. His gaze swept the kitchen, brisk as the slap of a winter wind.

The men sitting at the benches stood. The other servants looked away, or fidgeted. Herne coughed and tried to sidle back into the crowd.

Then Garrick looked at Celeste, and in a voice so even the servants around him relaxed, he said, “Miss Milford, if you would attend me please?”

But in his gaze she glimpsed a now-familiar fury . . . hot and filled with that passion she had denied he possessed.

As if no force could rouse her, she clutched the bench below her until her knuckles turned white.

When she didn't rise, Garrick added, “Attend me
at once.”

Esther nodded to her and smiled encouragingly.

Her father touched her shoulder. “Go on, then, girl.”

How could she refuse? She could tell no one here about that scene in the conservatory.

Uncurling her fingers, she let go of the bench. Sliding out, she stood. In the slow progress of a criminal facing execution, she trudged toward Garrick, face burning, looking not at him, but just past him.

He stepped to the side to allow her room to pass.

She walked through.

Shutting the door behind him, he grasped her arm just above the elbow as a governess would a recalcitrant child.

Celeste tried to jerk it out of his grip. “Would you please let go of my arm?”

“No.” He shoved her up the stairs ahead of him. “A man as cold and passionless as me is not given to kindness toward my gardener's daughter, especially when she scorns my proposal of marriage.”

“You haven't proposed marriage.”

“Yes.” He managed to sound both astonished and sarcastic. “I seem to remember that now.”

At the top of the stairs, Celeste wrestled herself free and turned on the mocking, rude, detestable lecher. “You dare to act indignant because I did not claim to worship at your shrine? After the way you treated me?” The man she viewed was the Mr. Throckmorton she had always known, but beneath the veneer of gentility she recognized the same savage who yesterday had claimed so large a part of her innocence in the conservatory.

Brutish, conquering swine.