In My Wildest Dreams (25 page)

Of course she did. She was a woman. Goaded into speech, he said, “India.”

“Ah.” She lowered her weight on him.

His balls ached with need. He wanted to thrust his way inside her body, take her quickly, spend himself violently.

But she'd been a virgin. Last night he'd proceeded deftly; he had still hurt her.

So now he allowed her to move about, pressing on the head of his penis, learning how to accept him into herself. He'd aroused her with his mouth; she was damp and ready. Nevertheless, the penetration proceeded inch by wary inch. Only her expressions of caution, then pleased surprise made the torment bearable. When finally,
finally
she slid all the way onto him, her look of triumph warmed him . . . when he was already about to go up in flames.

Tentatively, gingerly, she lifted herself, sliding up his shaft almost to the tip. With a little more confidence, she slid back down. The measured pace quickened. It was almost worth the agony of waiting to see her alive with delight.

He loved that about her, that she showed her emotions rather than conceal them. She was totally open, totally the opposite of him. She smiled, her lovely, carnal mouth alive with wonder. She held his shoulders for balance, leaned back and leaned forward, experimenting with the stroke. Her breasts, small and firm and round, swayed in unconscious licentiousness, and inside she wrapped him in the warm, rough silk of her body. He no longer remembered his other liaisons, but he knew he'd never craved any woman like this before.

Catching her around the waist, he lifted her long enough to catch her breast in his mouth. She gasped, paused, suspended and scandalized. He drew strongly, suckling for his pleasure and hers. Her nipples tightened. Her breath grew harsh, and she moved now with insistent urgency.

He kissed her shoulder. She arched her neck and he kissed that, sliding up to her ear, her cheek, giving her a brief buss on the lips. His heartbeat thundered as they moved toward completion. He fought the urge to grasp her hips and overrule her pace. Instead he moved as she commanded, so taut with pleasure he groaned with each stroke. She was going to kill him. She was going to kill him with sex.

At last, she cried out, her entire body convulsing as with earthy exhilaration she gave herself over to orgasm.

And he, fool that he was, held off and savored the sight and the sensation of her sheath constricting on his cock. Not until she collapsed on his chest did he allow himself to plunge, and plunge, and fill her with his seed.

For moments after, he could think of nothing. Nothing but the sweet, damp body in his arms, nothing but his absolute satisfaction.

Then, oh most horrible notion, he began to plot how to do it again.

This wasn't him. He couldn't be like this, lured by Celeste and her marvelous body—he smoothed his hand down her supple spine—to abandon discipline for the pleasures of fornication. He had his duty . . .

His duty.

“Celeste.” Her head rested on his shoulder. He whispered in her ear. “Celeste, listen to me.”

Slowly she turned to face him. She smiled, that trusting, open smile that flattered and charmed, warmed his loins and notified him he had better do his duty now, or he would never remember to do it at all.

From the first, he hadn't enjoyed involving Celeste in the business of espionage, but he had always ruthlessly used the tools at hand. With her knowledge of Russian, she had been a very useful tool indeed. Later, he'd realized how dangerous she was to his control, and he had wished to be rid of her regardless of her value. Now conscience spoke. A man didn't exploit the woman with whom he made love.

Darting a kiss to his cheek, she asked, “What, darling?”

“We have to get dressed.” Throckmorton didn't have a choice. He had to employ her. Stanhope had already taken the first message to London and given it over to another man, an English merchant of good standing who had left the country at once. Stanhope had returned, had enlarged the stash under his bedchamber floorboards, and no doubt eager to hear the contents of another letter. He would return to Celeste for those contents. “We must leave here.”

She groaned like a child deprived of a treat. “Must we?”

He kissed her as reward, a kiss that started as nothing more than a peck and ended with a long, slow, deep provocation, the kind that made his cock, which should have known better, twitch and try to rise. But no. He subdued it sternly.

Stroking Celeste's hair, he said, “The morning is advanced. We'll be lucky if we are not met and conclusions drawn.”

She showed none of the appropriate dismay. “The right conclusions?”

“No doubt the right conclusions. We both missed the closing ball. I fear we are already the objects of speculation.”

She groaned again, but this time she gradually sat up in his lap.

Surely it wasn't so bad, to utilize her knowing this was the last time, that after this, communication would be routed through another agent and deciphered, and the messages which would come to Stanhope would lead the Russians into disaster. She was a reasonable girl. Probably, if she knew her role, she would agree to it avidly. “I beg your forgiveness for abandoning you after such a night, but I have to ride out.” He was trifling with the truth, but he needed to be away from the house while Stanhope interrogated her. “I received letters yesterday—”

“That's right, I forgot.” After all their activities of the night before, she looked guilty over a task left undone. “Do you want me to translate them now? Or rather, after I've bathed and changed into a morning gown?”

“No need. They came from London already partially translated, and by comparing them to your previous work, I managed a fair approximation of the contents.”
A fair approximation? He glanced at her sideways. He knew exactly what the letters said. He'd written them in English and sent them to London to be translated into Russian, then received them back. Only she had refused to come to his office, and then all hell had broken loose.

“See?” she said encouragingly. “Translation isn't so difficult. It's just a matter of applying what you know and interpreting the rest.”

If it were only that simple. He eased out of her, carried her to the cushions, and laid her down. Standing, he stared down at her and thought himself a dunce. A wise man would stand her up and shake her until his seed spilled from her. Throckmorton wanted Celeste on her back, his seed safe within her womb. He was far gone; a man who had lost all judgment. Only professional ethics remained to him, and by this afternoon he would have satisfied those ethics. Then he would set matters right with Celeste, and all would be well.

Having formulated an acceptable plan, he nodded and loosened her stockings from atop a rose bush.

Still lounging on the cushions, she giggled like a girl as he dropped them atop her. “You look even more complacent than normal.”

He had leaned down to gather her petticoats off the floor, but he halted as he straightened. “What do you mean,
more
complacent than normal?”

“You always look as if you know exactly the right thing to do, and are doing it.” Kicking up her feet, she pulled on the stockings and eased herself to her feet. “For those of us who aren't quite so certain, it can be an intense source of irritation.”

“You're not certain of yourself?”

“Not always. Sometimes I do the wrong thing.” She
saw the expression on his face, and stepping close, she stroked his cheek. “Oh, I didn't mean last night. That is the one action I've taken since my return of which I am absolutely confident.”

Catching her hand, he kissed her palm.

Digging her chemise out from among the covers, she donned it. “Mostly you irritate Ellery.”

“Ellery?” He didn't want to talk about Ellery
now.
With
Celeste.
“What has he got to be irritated about?”

“He's not as perfect as you are.”

“Perfectly handsome,” Throckmorton said in exasperation. “What else could he want?”

“I don't know. I think he's restless.” Taking the petticoats from Throckmorton, she pulled them on.

“Restless? He could try reporting for work.”

“Be realistic. He'll never work in an office. I think he needs adventure as you had in India.” Her gown lay in a wad on the floor. She shook it out and said sadly, “These wrinkles aren't going to come out.”

He didn't appreciate her advice; he didn't appreciate it at all. “He's going to get married. That should be adventure enough for him.”

She wrestled the gown over her head and while she was hidden, she said, “He should be a spy or something.” Her arms reached into the sleeves. Her head appeared.

She didn't look any different, but she should have. She had just reawakened every one of Throckmorton's suspicions. What did she
know?
“A spy.” He tried to sound neutral. He succeeded in sounding guarded.

“Or something like that.” Blithely, she fastened her buttons, shutting herself away from his touch, changing herself from his lover to . . . who? “You never
answered. Do you want me to check your translations?”

She couldn't know anything. She couldn't. She was artless, generous, kind. She had given him her virginity. Her comment about a spy had to be merely coincidental. And if it weren't—well, she had been well-guarded during her time here. He would ensure she would continue to be watched. “The translations . . . yes. I would have asked Stanhope to help me, but he was busy charming the ladies.”

Without expression, she said, “He does that very well.”

Throckmorton didn't like that. “Has he been flirting with you?”

“Stanhope would flirt with a swine if he thought he could get any use from the bacon,” she said acidly.

Jolted by her uncanny reading of Stanhope's character, Throckmorton gathered his own clothing. Celeste really was too clever by half. But it didn't matter; even if she were a spy, even if she had turned to the enemy, he would not allow her to be imprisoned and hung. No, no matter that he believed in justice for all, he couldn't bear for that justice to overtake Celeste. He would hide her duplicity from his associates, make sure she never again had an opportunity to operate, and never, ever let her out of his sight.

She misread his silence. “I'm sorry. He's your friend. You're fond of him. I had no right—”

Having made his decision, he felt well enough to say, “No, don't apologize. I fear you're right.” In India, he had learned to dress quickly if the occasion warranted, and he believed this occasion did. His drawers, his trousers, his shirt went on without hindrance. “Nevertheless, I find I can't easily dismiss him or the service he has rendered. I know it's asking a great deal, but should
you see him, could you convey the contents of the latest letter?”

“Why don't
you
tell him?”

“Male pride forbids that he ask me. I'm going to ride out. I . . . well, I would rather you read the letters and confirmed my opinion of their contents.”

“Ah.” She donned her gown.

She seemed to have nothing more to say, and that made him uncomfortable. It was almost as if she realized his deception and judged him by its villainy. But she couldn't have; probably the enormity of her own actions last night had just begun to weigh on her. Or she was somehow in league with the Russians.

Impossible
. “The letters are in my bottom left desk drawer. It's locked. Here's the key.”

She took the key he provided and looked at it, then gravely up at him. “After I have bathed and dressed.”

“Yes, of course.” Sitting on the couch, he began the difficult process of pulling on his boots. “I think they speak of a meeting in the Crimea between the French, the Turks and the English.” Let the Russians worry about a threat to their precious Crimea while the English troops in Afghanistan moved where they would.

“I'll look at the letters and tell Stanhope when he asks.” Searching, she found her slippers and donned them, then went to the drapes that covered the windows. She took hold of the edges.

He half-rose from his seat. “What are you . . . ?”

“After so many rainy days, Papa would want sunshine on the plants.”

“Wait!” But it was too late.

24

“T
hank you, Celeste.” Stanhope lounged behind Garrick's desk, fitting perfectly in the elegance of his surroundings, yet a usurper on the king's throne. “You've made my task ever so much easier.”

He had discarded the winning ways with which he earlier treated her. Now he grinned, a coxcomb grin that made Celeste want to slap it off his face. She thought she knew what his attitude meant; she would convey her conviction to Garrick as soon as possible. Meanwhile, she stood before the desk and presented Stanhope with a cool smile. “I'm always happy to help you and Mr. Throckmorton.”

Stanhope laughed, a whoop of condescending amusement. “Yes, you've got your uses. To me, and to Throckmorton.”

To him? Yes, she now thoroughly understood her role in this play. She listened when Garrick told her what was
in the letters, she checked the contents of the letters, she presented the contents to Stanhope. Very clean, very easy, and not worth angst even when Stanhope rifled through Garrick's unlocked drawers like some petty thief. She could have given him the key to that one locked drawer; she held it fast within her pocket.

But her uses to Throckmorton? She didn't make the mistake of thinking Stanhope was talking about her position as governess. Not after that dreadful moment when she'd opened the drapes of the conservatory and saw old Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh waiting while the servants loaded the baggage onto the Featherstonebaugh carriage—and all of them saw her, clad in her ball gown, and Garrick pulling on his boots.

Celeste and Garrick had broken the first rule of the English affair—discretion above all else. Nothing happened unless you were caught.

They had been caught. And she was not going to listen to any smarmy remarks about their affair from Stanhope. She gave the briefest of polite curtsies. “I must attend the children. If you'll excuse me—”

“Don't worry,” Stanhope announced, “you've got Throckmorton by the short hairs.”

She stood stock still, stunned by his impudence. “You . . . vulgarian!”

“He is enamored with you.”

Her fickle, foolish heart gave a musical little trill. “He . . . who . . . Throckmorton told you that?”

Stanhope actually put one of his boots on the shiny surface of Throckmorton's immaculately carved desk. “Oh, yes. But he thinks you're stupid.”

“He doesn't think I'm stupid,” she flashed.

“A birdbrain.” Stanhope apparently relished the
phrase. “If he respected you, he wouldn't have treated you as he did in the conservatory.”

She blushed a mortifying crimson. So Stanhope
had
surmised what they were doing last night. She shouldn't have opened those drapes, but as she had told Throckmorton, who would have thought any English aristocrat would be awake and ready to leave at the unprecedented hour of eight o'the clock?

Throckmorton had looked grave, but told her not to worry. He would fix things, he said, as soon as he got back from his ride.

Stanhope suffered no compunction about humiliating her. “Throckmorton stuck his hand under your skirts. He trained you to lust, softening you up for the kill. Men have been doing that with their governesses for eons, Miss Milford.”

The color died from her cheeks. It wasn't last night Stanhope spoke of; he knew about that mortifying scene two days ago. Not about the night of passion, but that afternoon in the conservatory when Garrick Throckmorton had proved how well and easily he could manipulate her.

No one
knew. “How . . . how did you discover that?”

Stanhope cocked a jaunty eyebrow. “Men talk, Miss Milford.”

Her stomach tightened. Garrick had told Stanhope . . . but no. Stanhope was a liar and a traitor, and Garrick would never be so crass as to gossip. Not about her. Not about that. “I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you like.” Standing, Stanhope strolled toward her. “But I
do
know about that, and I predict the next thing that will happen is he'll put his prick where his hand was.”

She hated Stanhope. How dared he speak to her in such a manner?

How dared he be right?

“If you were part of the
ton
, he would have never treated you with such familiarity. If you were part of the ton, your father would kill him. But your father is the gardener, and he can't do anything for his daughter's honor or he'll lose his position.”

“I don't need to listen to this.” She turned to walk away.

Stanhope grabbed her arm in a cruel grasp. “Don't you walk away from me, you little . . . peasant. You're not worthy to lick my boots.”

She tried to tug free, but his fingers bit into her, bruising her. “Let go,” she said softly, “or I will tell Garrick what you're doing.”

“Garrick?” Like a bulldog, Stanhope held on and shook her arm as if it were a hunk of meat. “You call him
Garrick
? The nerve of you. You're the gardener's daughter. He's descended from a line of peers that goes back to William the Conqueror.”

His contempt slapped her in the face. She had been living in a dream world, cushioned by Ellery's infatuation, her experiences in Paris, and Garrick's tolerance. Stanhope's was the attitude her father had warned her about. Birth mattered in England; nothing else could compensate for an aristocratic pedigree. She looked down at Stanhope's hand. “Mr. Throckmorton's father was a commoner.”

Stanhope's eyes blazed with a nobleman's disdain; the disdain that would greet her at every turn of society should she dare to raise herself above her station. “Diluting a fine old bloodline once was more than enough.”
He didn't so much release her arm as toss it from him. “But he has no real plans to wed you, of course. He's already got your return tickets purchased.”

She found herself taking careful, shallow breaths. “My return tickets to where?”

“To Paris.” He smiled, a slight, gracious curve of the lips. Going to Garrick's desk, Stanhope fumbled in the top drawer and drew out a red velvet drawstring purse. Opening it, he dumped the contents onto the desk. “Look. He purchased them the day after you arrived.”

Her fingertips grew cold, and colored specks dotted her vision. She sat down hard in one of Garrick's uncomfortable chairs. “I don't believe you.”

Holding up a sheaf of papers, he itemized them. “Train ticket to London. Ticket on the packet across the Channel. Train ticket to Paris. Throckmorton has incredible contacts to get these so quickly.” He held up a key. “A house in Paris.” He shook out a letter and extended it so she could see the heading. “A note authorizing a bank draft for the amount of one thousand pounds per annum.”

On the first night she had returned, Garrick had mentioned a bribe. A house in Paris and a thousand pounds per annum. Now she realized he hadn't been offering that bribe; he had been telling her what she would have. A red mist passed before her eyes and she couldn't get enough air into her lungs.

“Throckmorton's paid more to get rid of Ellery's liaisons. You shouldn't sell yourself so cheaply.” Stanhope's voice changed from slyly malicious to sharply uneasy. “You're not going to faint, are you? For God's sake, you didn't really think you could reel in Ellery, did you?”

“No. No. I never really thought I could reel in Ellery.” The dream was truly dead.

“And you couldn't have imagined Garrick would have you.”

She flinched.

“You can't
love
him.” Stanhope observed her expression. “You
do.”

Her soul shriveled at his amusement, horror and pity.

“Look, girl, Throckmorton's an unconventional man in a lot of ways, but his family comes first. There's enough doubt in the
ton
about the Throckmorton heritage without bringing
you
into the line.”

She wanted to vomit. She wanted to call Stanhope a traitor. She wanted to reveal what she knew, but not even for that satisfaction would she betray her country . . . or Garrick.

God save her from principles, but she wouldn't sink to Garrick's level.

Shaking off her queasiness, she lifted her chin. “I'm a governess—and you're just a secretary. You work for a living, too.”

His pity evaporated under the heat of her derision. “You don't have to worry about sullying yourself with this irresponsible, churlish adventurer again. I'm shaking the Blythe Hall dust off my boots for good. I've always known it was possible to have too much of a good thing, and that it would all have to end someday.” He strode to the door, then turned. “It's a lesson you should learn, too. Save you from embarrassing yourself again.”

Light-headed with shock, she stared at the empty door, then leaned forward and put her head on her knees.

* * *

Celeste sat, her feet placed side by side, her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. Her back did not rest on the back of the chair, but remained stiffly upright, and she found when she remained in this position, the discomfort of her body negated the discomfort of Throckmorton's chair. Her bottom hurt from the hard seat, yes, but worse was the ache within her loins, the stretched feeling in her thighs, the sensitivity of her breasts.

The bruising of her heart.

Her teeth did not chatter from the shock, but remained clenched tightly together. She heard the guests leaving, but couldn't decipher their words. She stared ahead with a direct gaze, but didn't really see.

She couldn't bear to. If she did; if she looked around, saw Blythe Hall, this home, this place from which she would be exiled in the most dire and humiliating of circumstances . . . if she really saw what she would miss, she'd be forced to pick up those antique Ming Chinese vases that decorated Garrick's office, and throw them until they were all shattered into tiny, expensive, worthless shards.

“Celeste!”

She flinched. It was him. Garrick. That Man.

She had waited here for hours, anticipating this confrontation, but now that it was upon her, her fingernails bit into her palms and her mouth dried. Well enough to cherish rage, but this was Garrick, the man she thought epitomized honor. The man who manipulated, organized, directed lives from the loftiness of his tower of superiority. And she loved him.

“Celeste, darling, I must talk to you.”

Her neck, held stiffly erect for uncounted minutes, creaked as she turned it to see him stride in, clad in riding gear, disheveled, solemn, grim again although what he had to be grim about, she did not know. He had, after all, achieved his every goal—even her ultimate betrayal. Especially her ultimate betrayal.

Standing over her, he asked, “Did you . . . speak to Stanhope?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Yes, that's one task out of the way,” she said.

He paused in the act of sitting in a chair opposite her, and eyed her oddly. “Are you . . . well?”

“Perfectly.”

He must have been willing to take her at her word, for he seated himself and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in some dreadful parody of supplication. “This morning, we never settled anything.”

She found it was possible to speak when her lips would scarcely move. “Everything is settled.”

“No. No, it isn't, for I've been thinking about the night and what occurred and . . .” Color rose in his cheeks. It was obvious just which part of the night he was remembering; even more obvious when he leaned back and stretched out one leg to ease the pressure.

She stared at him, not helping, just staring. She hoped he was suffering. If she could have moved from this frozen, painful position, she would have made him hurt more.

“Ever since we parted, I've been thinking about my role in this. My responsibilities.” As if he were a real
human rather than a machine of smooth, cold, steel parts, a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. “I admit I'm at fault here.”

He was handsome. Why hadn't she seen it right from the start? How could she have been so blind to the satin of his lips, the width of his brow and the boxy strength of his jaw? She had compared him to Ellery and dismissed him. Foolish, foolish Celeste. As bright and charming as Ellery was, so Garrick was dark and dangerous, a man to whom it was wise to give wide berth. Instead she had imagined the light would overcome the night. Now she sat here in toe-curling agony and waited to be sent away.