In My Wildest Dreams (27 page)

Lady Philberta didn't blame her. “What a healthful activity!” Lady Philberta said. “Back when I could, before I suffered with this lumbago, I used to love to pull weeds in the kitchen garden. Do you remember, Milford?”

Milford got to his feet. “Yes, ma'am, I remember.”

“The scents of the herbs clear the mind and the exercise strengthens the body. Don't you find it so, Celeste?”

Milford nudged his daughter with his foot. Celeste slowly stood and wiped the dirt from her hands. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Milford, may I borrow your daughter for a time?”

Milford considered Lady Philberta. They had known each other a very long time, and she clearly read his warning.
Don't hurt my daughter more.

She nodded at him, an unspoken promise that she would care for Celeste.

“Go on, then, girl. I'll finish up here.” He gave Celeste a gentle push in the back.

Celeste stumbled forward resentfully, then recovered to walk at Lady Philberta's side.

It was a lovely late afternoon, the kind only Suffolk could produce in the summer after a rain. The gravel paths had dried in the sunshine, the trees wafted in the lightest of breezes, and the flowers bloomed in exuberant celebration.

“That rain made my lumbago act up, so we'll walk toward the house,” Lady Philberta announced.

In sullen compliance, Celeste said, “As you wish, my lady.”

Lady Philberta wanted to laugh. Young people were so dramatic, so sure each twinge of love would result in
disaster. Wait until the girl had been married for a time. Then she'd find out the true depths and heights of being married to that most difficult of creatures—man.

They turned onto the broad straight path, lined with oaks, that led to Blythe Hall. “I simply want to tell you how grateful I am, Celeste. You care for my granddaughters. You weed my garden . . .” She waited until Celeste had cautiously turned to look at her before she added, “You are so industrious. You even sleep with my son.”

Celeste blushed furiously. “My lady . . .” she faltered.

“I can't tell you how happy I will be to have you join the family.” Lady Philberta folded Celeste into her arms. “We need some fresh ideas to liven us up.”

Celeste didn't jerk herself away—she'd been taught respect for the aristocratic and the elderly, and Lady Philberta wryly knew herself to be both—but she held herself perfectly rigid. “My lady, I am not going to marry your son.” She thought for a moment. “Either of them.”

“Well, not Ellery. He's taken. But Garrick, I think.”

Shock or dismay confined Celeste's answer to a brief, “No.”

Lady Philberta gestured toward the house, visible through the overhanging branches. “It's a beautiful home, and I'll hate to leave it, but of course you'll wish to run it as you see fit.”

“I'm not going to marry your son.” Celeste was thinking again, Lady Philberta could see, uncertain of Lady Philberta's plan, suspicious of her motives. “Although I appreciate the generosity of your welcome,” Celeste added at last.

There were damn few times when Lady Philberta relished being aristocratic and being elderly, but this was one of them, for she was able to say with devastating bluntness, “Why won't you marry my son? Garrick, I mean, not Ellery.”

“Thank you. You're very kind.” Celeste was gaining confidence in Lady Philberta's intentions. “With all due respect, my lady, Garrick is a manipulative liar.”

“A liar? Really?” That surprised Lady Philberta. “What did he lie about?”

“It was a lie of action. He made me think he liked and respected me when all the while he was maneuvering to send me back to Paris.”

Lady Philberta wisely kept quiet.

Celeste tossed her head. “I'm going.”

Surprised, Lady Philberta exclaimed, “Back to Paris? Now? After last night?”

Celeste looked away and swallowed. “What happened last night is of no concern to anyone.”

“It seems to be of great concern to Garrick. He's been sulking in his office all day. And it's of great concern to me if it should result in a babe.”

Celeste tripped and almost fell.

Lady Philberta staggered beside her, regained her balance, asked, “Goodness, dear, are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Celeste took a deep breath. “I just hadn't thought—”

“Well, you must, and there's no telling me it was only one time. Everyone gets their start with one time.”

“It was more than . . .” Celeste blushed again. “I assure you, if there should be issue, I will . . .”

“Will what?”

“I don't know, but I'll take care of the babe somehow.”

“Marry Garrick,” Lady Philberta advised. “I already have one chance granddaughter to manage a future for, and while I love her dearly, illegitimacy is a disadvantage for any child.”

They had reached the house. Celeste stood staring at the diamond-paned window of Garrick's office, her fists clenching and unclenching. Lady Philberta leaned on her cane and watched, seeing the angry color rise and retreat in the girl's face, observing the distress and the rage implicit in every line.

With a grunt of fury, Celeste dropped to the ground. She grabbed a handful of gravel, and lobbed the largest rock at Garrick's window. The glass shattered.

Lady Philberta gasped.

Celeste hurled another, and another, some thumping against the brick, some taking a pane of glass. She stopped to smear tears off her cheeks, and threw one more. Then, as if she realized what she was doing, she dropped the remaining rocks and looked curiously at her own hands.

Impressed with all that raw emotion, Lady Philberta handed Celeste a handkerchief.

Celeste accepted it with the dignity of the queen, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“If it makes you feel better,” Lady Philberta said, “Garrick is probably now peering out of one of the windows, pistol at ready, expecting to see an ambush awaiting him. Shall we wave instead?”

“The cab drivers use a gesture in Paris. A rather vulgar gesture.” Celeste turned her hot gaze on Lady
Philberta. “It is more suited to this situation than a mere wave.”

Lady Philberta laughed. Damn, she liked this girl! She took Celeste's arm and urged her on. “If Garrick is autocratic in this instance, it is quite your fault. Give a man an inch, and he thinks he's a ruler.”

Celeste smiled, but without grace.

“What would you do in Paris?” Lady Philberta asked.

“I haven't decided exactly how, but I will be independent. I will never rely on a man for my happiness again.”

“I've found it's never wise to rely on anyone else for your own happiness.”

“You're right, I'm sure. I can be a governess, of course, or I can set myself up as a teacher of languages. Or I can become a courtesan.”

Lady Philberta thought of the conversation she would have with Garrick, and mentally rubbed her hands. “You certainly have the looks and the charm, but you said you would never rely on a man again.”

“It would be nothing but a business exchange.” Celeste glanced sideways at Lady Philberta. “In Paris, I've seen the game played.”

Lady Philberta steered them toward the front door and the conversation where she wanted it to go. “But I suspect you would not enjoy the actual experience.”

Celeste lifted one lovely shoulder. “How bad could it be? One man who will set me up in an apartment, buy me lovely clothes, show me off and pad my bankroll, but who would have no control over me. Surely if I chose him, I wouldn't mind so much the—” Celeste took a quick breath as she considered the actual act. “Or
perhaps I would.
How
can I be so fussy about so basic a function?”

“Some women are. Most, I think, unless driven by desperation.”

“I suppose.” Celeste straightened her spine. “Very well. Instead, I will prepare young wives and new ambassadors to enter the world of diplomacy. You have to know who the players are, who you can trust, who will sell you for a brass coin . . . Diplomacy is not as easy as you might think, my lady.”

Lady Philberta was ecstatic that Celeste had captured Garrick's heart. She was pleased that, even though the girl was common, she was eminently presentable. But to know she comprehended the complex maneuvering of politics . . . ah, that made her a valuable asset to the family business, both legitimate and clandestine.

But Garrick had thoroughly botched his love affair. He needed help, and Lady Philberta could provide it. “You may have noticed that Garrick is the master of manipulation.”

“The worst kind of man.” They had reached the front door. The footman opened it.

Lady Philberta waved him away and spoke to Celeste. “Garrick thinks things through, he always says the right things, he would never perform an action without knowing all possible consequences. But with you he acted impulsively, behaved in the worst manner, and said everything all wrong.”

“He was insufferable.”

“I know what I think that means. What do you think it means?”

Celeste turned her large-eyed, tragic gaze on Lady Philberta.

“Think about it.”

“I'm going to Paris,” Celeste whispered.

Lady Philberta nodded. “While you're there, think about it.”

26

M
ilford stepped into his dark cottage, weary from the effort of helping Celeste pack and irate that she had to leave. As he trudged the stairs, he supposed he would leave, too. He wouldn't work for a man he didn't respect, and Garrick Throckmorton had lost Milford's respect with a single act.

In the loft, Milford shrugged out of his shirt, and tossed it on the laundry basket. Mr. Throckmorton had every right to take measure to assure Celeste did not marry Ellery. He had no right to seduce Milford's daughter, and so Milford would inform him.

He didn't light a candle; he'd lived here for so many years he knew exactly how many paces to the water basin, how many paces to the bed. He splashed water from the pitcher and washed his face and hands, then discarded his trousers. He hung them neatly over the chair, as he did every night, then walked to the bed and lifted the covers.

The bed was wide, meant for two people, and had sheltered only him since Aimee died. It was on nights like this that he missed her most, when he would have held his wife in his arms and listened to her rant about the harm done to their daughter and how someone would pay. Even
he
wanted to rant, and he had never ranted in his life.

As he slid between the sheets, he became aware of two things. The mattress sagged where it shouldn't. The familiar scent of woman was nearby.

He didn't know what to think.

Then he did. “What are ye doing here?” He didn't ask rough or mean, but he wanted an answer, so he asked firm.

Esther's voice came out of the darkness. “Ye don't take a hint well, so I thought I'd come right here and make matters clear.” Her hand touched his shoulder. “I want to sleep with ye.”

One thing at a time. “What hint?”

The bed shook as she chuckled. “I don't decorate everyone's tray with fancy-cut cheese and bread baked to look like a flower.”

“Oh.”

“And I don't flirt with other men, either.”

“Have ye been flirting with me?”

Her hand stroked down his arm, and his skin rose in gooseflesh. “Everyone knows it but ye.”

He caught her wrist and held it in the air. “All right. I believe ye.”

“Did I read ye wrong? Are ye not interested in me?” She sounded shocked and embarrassed.

He was sorry for that, but matters needed to be settled. “I might be,” he acknowledged. “But I have to know yer intentions.”

“I intend that we should enjoy each other.”

He didn't like that, and he made his opinion clear with his silence.

“I'm a widow. I miss the weight of a man in my bed. I'm old enough not to have to worry about havin' a babe, and I want some comfort on the cold nights.”

“ ‘Tisn't right.” He placed her hand back on her side of the bed. “Not without marriage.”

“Marriage!” She sat up.

The covers fell away, and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he could see a lush, bare outline.

He closed his eyes. He had a stand to make, and he doubted his ability to resist such blatant temptation. “ ‘Tis the vows taken between a man and woman when they wish to couple.”

“I've
been
married!” From her tone, it had obviously not been a success.

“If you wish to couple with me, you will be again.”

She sat silent and still for so long, he opened his eyes. Her face was turned toward him. She was staring at him as if she couldn't believe her ears. “So ye want me.”

“Aye.”

“But ye'll not take me without the vows.”

“Nay.”

“Ye're a damned odd man.”

He ran his fingertips, just his fingertips, down the curve of her spine.

She gasped and arched like a cat.

He took his hand away. “So I've been told.”

Her breath sighed heavily in the darkness. “If I agree . . . do we have to wait until the churching?”

“To couple, ye mean.” He pretended to think about it,
although under the covers a certain cockstand whispered the answer. “We could start the marriage sooner, as long as the wedding will be later.”

He saw the flash of her smile bright in the night, and he loved her for it.

“Well, then.” Slowly, she settled against him, and stretched her leg over his thighs. “We'd best get started.”

“Aye.” One hand settled on her buttock, the other caught her around the neck. “As long as we both know it's a promise.” Before she could retort, he brought her lips down to his. A kiss was the only way to handle a woman like this.

Ellery held the pitiful excuse for a bottle of wine—pitiful because it hadn't gotten him anything more than slightly tipsy—close against his chest and scrupulously counted the doors in the North Tower. One, two, three doors from the right. Stopping, he swayed and counted again, wishing more candles lit the corridor so he could be absolutely sure . . . but it was the wee hours of the morning, and the best he could do was strain his eyes and count just one more time. Yes, three doors from the right in the . . . he stared blearily around . . . in the North Tower. That was where Celeste had said her bedchamber was. That was where he wanted to be.

Sweet little Celeste. Good little gardener's daughter. Someone needed to talk to her, to tell her she should marry dear brother Garrick and make his life miserable. Somebody needed to make Throckmorton miserable. God knew Ellery wished he could; that might relieve this sense of anguish that roiled in his belly. This sense that he'd blundered. That he'd ruined his life. That he'd driven Hyacinth away forever.

So he'd go to Celeste and just by being there, ruin her even more than she was already ruined . . . and Ellery would have failed to do the right thing one more time.

A bitter smile curved his lips. But so what? He was famous for failure.

Turning the knob, he opened the door as quietly as he could, stepped into the dim room, shut the door with barely a click. He was good at this, sneaking into women's bedchambers. Didn't even need to be sober. Could do it with his eyes closed.

So he closed them for a moment, and when he opened them he could see the outlines of the room. A sitting room. He frowned. A sitting room with a bedchamber beyond. Damned marvelous quarters for the gardener's daughter.

He wove his way across the plush carpet and stepped inside the bedchamber. It was huge, filled with a fireplace where embers burned low, a curvy dressing table, comfortable chairs, and a bed. A big bed, set on a dais, draped with velvet curtains closed against the drafts and with a cluster of fat candles burning on the far side.

Goal in sight, Ellery set the bottle on the dressing table—in situations that required possible immediate action, it was best to have both hands free—and tiptoed toward the high bed. Parting the curtains, he leaned forward toward the unmistakably female form reclining in the middle of the mattress . . . and a hand shot out, grabbing his shirt front and pulled him off-balance. He flailed his arms before landing face first in an ignominious disorder among the covers.

“What are you doing in my room?”

He blinked and spit out a mouthful of wool blanket.

It
sounded
like Hyacinth.

Cautiously he lifted his head.

Hyacinth's cold, furious features leaned over him like an avenging Juno.

It
was
Hyacinth.

“Vixen,” he muttered, meaning Celeste, who had dared direct him to the wrong bedchamber.

Hyacinth misunderstood. “You call me a vixen? After what you've done?”

“Haven't done anything yet.” Wasn't likely to, from the expression on Hyacinth's face. Although, by God, he'd like to. She wore a fine, white, ruffled linen gown, and through it he could see the glow of her golden flesh.

“You courted me. You made me love you. You foisted a child on me without telling me.”

He groaned. “I told Throckmorton the kid was going to dish the deal.”

“Don't blame that dear, sweet little Kiki!”

He hadn't known Hyacinth's gentle violet eyes could flash like that.

“It's not her fault her father is a philanderer and a libertine.”

“Unfeeling.”

“Yes, you are!”

“I meant you.” But he mumbled into the covers for even in his inebriated state, he knew full well Hyacinth was right. “Didn't mean to make her.” Hyacinth's breasts thrust forward, creating shadows that teased his imagination, and he didn't even have to imagine the color of her nipples, for the soft circles were clearly defined in delicate, glorious pink.

Hyacinth crossed her arms. “She is still your responsibility.”

One nipple disappeared from his sight. He mourned it even as he answered, “I am a dog.”

“Yes, and not anything noble like a great Dane or an English pointer either.”

With other women, confessing guilt had always been good for a little sympathy. Hyacinth didn't know the script.

She continued, “You're more of sissified poodle or some little pug that piddles on the rug and runs away.”

“Hey!” She was brutal.

“When were you going to tell me about your daughter? On our wedding night?”

“I didn't plan to tell you. I just sort of hoped you would . . . find out. And pretend not to notice. If you don't like her, we could probably leave her here with—” Immediately, by her indrawn breath, he knew he'd made a mistake.

“You would leave your own child with relatives?” Clearly, Hyacinth found him the worst sort of father. “Don't you love the girl?”

“Kiki?” He, Ellery Throckmorton, had never found himself in a beautiful woman's bedchamber at this hour of the morning discussing anything but pleasure, and if this was what marriage was like, he didn't need any part of it.

He peeked at Hyacinth. Except the view was magnificent and he did love the kid. When he thought of her. When she wasn't making him feel old and derelict. When he thought to play tag with her or show her how to make mudpies. “Yes, I love her,” he said irritably. “I just don't know what to do with her.”

“You need guidance,” Hyacinth decided. “What did you like your father to do with you?”

He thought, which wasn't that easy, distracted as he was by her bosom and that wine. And the whisky earlier.
“I would have liked him to take me traveling as he did Garrick, but he died before he got around to it.”

“Well, then. You should take Kiki traveling. It seems to me, with her gift of French and her charm which is so like yours, she would be an asset anywhere.”

“Damme, but you're an innocent.” Using his elbows, he crawled a little further onto the bed. No reason to dangle with his legs half-off when he could be comfortable. “No one's going to welcome my illegitimate daughter.”

“I would.”

She would. He believed her. Her black hair was in tousled disarray, her neck rose like pale velvet above her gown. He could love this woman with her sharp tongue, her knowledge of right and wrong . . . her father's wealth. He could really love her, and right now he couldn't remember why he had ever drawn back. Moving with careless guile, he slid his hand through the blankets and ran it up her thigh. “You're not only an innocent, but you're beautiful and kind, too.”

Just when he would have reached the good parts, the female parts, she clamped her hand over his wrist. “How would you know? After I arrived here to celebrate our betrothal, you abandoned me in front of all the ton to chase after poor dear Celeste—when you knew better!”

He could have broken her hold. Of course he could, but a wrestling match would be tawdry. So instead he sulked. “Didn't do anything she didn't want.”

“Of course she wanted you. All the women want you, but
you
gave
your
pledge to
me.
Is your word worth nothing?”

Hyacinth wasn't buying the
it's not my fault
excuse. He scrambled for another. “Frustrated.”

“Frustrated? Why?”

“Couldn't have you.”