In My Wildest Dreams (28 page)

“You didn't even try.”

He lowered his head back into the blanket and tried to think. This sounded promising. It sounded as if she wanted him to try to get in her chemise. But he sensed a trick. If he could just figure it out . . .

“I'll try now,” he suggested, and hoped the mattress would cushion any blow she aimed at his head.

Nothing happened, except that she released his arm. Tentatively, he raised his head.

She leaned against the snowy white pillows like Cleopatra waiting to be serviced. Lifting a brow, she indicated her full, luscious mouth. “I'm waiting.”

This was too good to be true.

When he still didn't move, she eased the covers off her waist, down her thighs. Kicking her feet completely free, she smoothed her nightgown over her long, tall, generous curves. “Don't you want me?”

“I do. Oh, I do.” He had to control his eagerness. Women loved a seducer, and Hyacinth deserved the best, because she was going to take pity on him and marry him. Slithering up the bed, he leaned over her as she reclined on the pillows. With a great deal more confidence than he'd had during the rest of this encounter, he said, “You're going to marry me.”

She didn't answer.

“Aren't you?”

Taking his hand in hers, she looked at it, looked down at herself, then placed his hand right on the soft mound of her breast.

In all his years of tempting and cajoling and outright begging, he had never seen, felt, experienced anything
so exciting. This girl, this virgin, had taken the lead and put his palm right on her . . . and her nipple was soft and supple, begging to be aroused. Without further thought, he groaned, “Hyacinth,” and gently took her lips.

She didn't know how to kiss worth a damn.

So he taught her. With his fingertips and his lips, he showed her the pleasure points on her face, her neck, her ear lobes. He caressed her breasts until the nipple poked up, and she shivered and made soft moaning sounds. He was a virtuoso playing the sweet instrument of her body.

He unbuttoned the top buttons of her nightgown. He was a captain sailing her into the harbor of his arms. He bared the curve of her breast and leaned down to suckle.

And found himself flying through the air and onto the floor. He landed with a bone-jarring thud that knocked the air out of his lungs and left him gasping—in more ways than one. When he finally got his breath back, he croaked, “Wha . . . ?”

She looked over the mattress. “That was very nice. And that was enough.”

Enough? She could spend ten minutes in his arms and decide that was enough? He must be losing his touch. Except . . . her nightgown still gaped over her chest, and every inch of flesh he could see was flushed with excitement. Her cheeks were cherry red, her lips were full, and she hid regret behind determination on her stubborn, beautiful face.

He tilted his head and tried to see her from a different angle. How had she suddenly become beautiful?

Because he loved her.

The revelation hit him so hard, the air was knocked from his lungs
again.

At his gasp, Hyacinth leaned further off the high bed and tried to touch his chest. “Ellery, are you all right?”

He caught her fingers and, lifting his head, he kissed them. “Scrumptious.”

“Did I hurt you when I kicked you off the bed?”

“Quite the opposite.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “I think the fall may have addled your brain.”

“Permanently.”

She freed her fingers and disappeared back onto the bed.

He shut his eyes and tried to adjust to the idea of being in love. With his wife.

“Ellery.”

He opened his eyes. Hyacinth leaned over the bed, her hair hanging about in long, magnificent waves. “Yes, my darling?”

“Do you care about Celeste?”

He sensed the need to tread carefully. “She's very lovely and she's very sweet, but I don't care about her. Not like I care about you.”

“That's good, because Throckmorton is in love with Celeste.”

Was Hyacinth dotty? He sighed deeply. No, of course she wasn't. She had seen what he should have seen if he hadn't been so intent on running from his fate. He smiled up at Hyacinth. His very pleasant, palatable, toothsome fate. “Throckmorton is in love with Celeste. Yes, that serves him bloody right.”

“Don't swear,” Hyacinth admonished. Again, she disappeared onto the bed.

Yet he still found the evening unsatisfactory. Content to remain at her bedside like the dog she said he was, he
lay back down. “Are you going to marry me?”

No answer.

“I need you, Hyacinth. I need your beauty, your wisdom, your kindness. I need you or I can never be the man I should be.”

She appeared above him, sitting high on the mattress, one leg folded beneath her. Hiking up her nightgown, she extended a long, muscled calf. Pointing her toe, she pressed it to his chest like an accusing finger. “I'm not interested in a man who can't be the man he should be without me. I want the man I thought you were. The person I know you are. Strong, clever, determined, honorable. So the question is—Ellery Throckmorton, will you swear to be that person so I can marry you?”

The ruffles on her hem rode high on her thigh. If it was a little higher, if she moved over him a little more, he would be able to see paradise. Wetting his lips, he said, “If you would just . . .”

She glared down at him. “Did you hear anything I said?”

“Barely.” He tried again. “I can be strong and clever and determined and honorable—was that the whole list?”

She nodded.

“You're sure? You don't want to add anything else?”

The pressure from her toe lessened and she began to withdraw.

Catching her foot, he placed it squarely on his chest again. Rapidly, he said, “Without you my life would have no meaning.”

She appeared to be thinking. Or perhaps she was enjoying the stroke of his thumb on her arch.

“So if you force me to, I will go away and prove that
I am all those things, but it would be so much more fun if we went away together.”

“Travel?”

He'd begun to know how her mind worked. “After the honeymoon, we could travel with Kiki.”

“Hm . . .”

“What do you think of Central Asia?”

“Interesting!”

Desperation drove him. “I love you.”

She considered him with far too much shrewdness. “I wager you say that to all the women.”

“Well . . . yes. But I mean it with you.”

“No more drinking,” she said.

“Never to excess.”

“No women other than me.”

“I swear.”

“Or you will never have another child.”

Did she mean she would never have marital relations with him? Or did she mean she would take a knife . . . Looking at her resolute expression, he laid his hand on his chest. “I will never look at another woman.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Ellery . . .”

“I will scarcely glance at another woman.”

Taking a breath, and with a great show of reluctance, she said, “All right. I'll marry you.”

He realized, by the buzzing in his head, he'd been holding his breath. He took a gulp of air. “Thank you. I'm honored.” He meant it, too. He'd always known this woman could tie him into knots. He hadn't known he would like it, or that the joy he felt in her presence could be more than mere desire. He admired her. He . . . he liked her!

Yet right now, something . . . more . . . held his
attention. He massaged her ankle, her calf, the back of her knee. “If you would just adjust your position . . . a little . . .”

“Like this?” She slid her foot to the far side of his chest, kept her other knee on the bed, and in the shadows above him . . .

Bold. Hyacinth was bold. Absolutely brazen. Absolutely delightful.

But she was still perched on the bed. Running his hand up the inside of her leg, almost to the top, made him break out in a sweat of anticipation. “A little closer,” he coaxed. “Just a little . . .”

“Can't you quite reach?” she asked.

“Not quite . . .” His fingers wiggled futilely in the air.

She leaped back onto the bed. “That's the way it's going to be until our wedding night.”

27

A
murmur of voices came from the breakfast room. No shouting, Throckmorton realized. Everyone was getting along.

He waited for relief to sweep him, but relief didn't materialize, probably because a scene between Ellery and Lord Longshaw, or Ellery and Hyacinth, or Mother and Lady Longshaw, or any combination of those people, would take the focus off of Throckmorton.

Instead, he knew, they would be talking about him and Celeste. They would be shocked by his cohabitation with an innocent girl. They might be speculating about his next move. They probably would pity him because she'd refused his suit, and Throckmorton could almost hear Lord Longshaw asking in biting tones if madness ran in the family.

“Good morning, Herne.” Throckmorton greeted the footman in the doorway.

“Good morning, Mr. Throckmorton.” Herne's tone left Throckmorton in no doubt as to his disdain.

Just as Throckmorton feared. The servants hated him.

“But I did propose marriage,” he muttered.

He stepped into the breakfast chamber. There they were. Lord Longshaw, looking feral as always. Lady Longshaw, plump and fluttering. Mother, the sublime hostess. Ellery, eyes bloodshot. Hyacinth, seated at his side, smiling and at ease . . . what had she to smile about?

But no time to wonder. All eyes turned toward Throckmorton. Conversation died.

So he took the bull by the horns and initiated a conversation that would challenge them to combat. “I suggest,” he said into the silence, “that we call off the merger between our families. An advertisement in the
Times
announcing the engagement is off between Ellery and Lady Hyacinth should do it. Then we'll watch the gossip fly.”

Satisfied by their stunned reaction, he seated himself at the head of the small table made festive with dahlias of an inappropriately happy shade of yellow.

The cook herself served him, placing before him his usual breakfast of eggs and bacon, scones and coffee. Esther's presence should have warned him of trouble, but his mind was elsewhere, and he took a forkful of eggs without thinking.

His mouth puckered so tight he could scarcely get the fork out.

“I added a little alum to the eggs.” Esther had rolled her hands into her apron as if to keep from smacking him. “I find it gives them a . . . flavor. Don't you think, Mr. Throckmorton?”

He stared at her with eyes bulging. The eggs were
awful.

Oblivious, Lord Longshaw demanded, “What the devil are you blathering about, Throckmorton?”

Throckmorton grabbed the coffee and took a swig—and the taste hit him. Sweet! He never took sugar!

“And I sweetened the coffee.” Esther smiled, a truly frightful baring of teeth. “A lot. Enjoy your breakfast,” she said, and left.

The message was clear; as long as Celeste was in exile, he would starve before Esther allowed him another palpable mouthful of food—and he liked his food. “But I did propose marriage,” he muttered. Then, to Lord Longshaw, “With all due respect, Ellery and Hyacinth don't want to be married.”

Ellery gave a crack of laughter. Taking Hyacinth's hand, he kissed her fingers. “But we do, and as soon as possible.”

Throckmorton gaped. When had that happened?

“Isn't that right, darling?” Ellery mooned over Hyacinth's hand like a love-sick bull.

Hyacinth accepted his homage as if it were her right. “As soon as possible for a proper wedding. I want my wedding to outshine even Her Majesty's and that, Ellery, will take time.”

“You're not going to make me wait?” Ellery gave a good imitation of frustrated desire.

Hyacinth lowered her eyes in flirtatious demand. “But you said you'll wait for me forever. Won't you?”

“I will wait for you until the end of time,” Ellery vowed.

Throckmorton sat in frozen amazement. The girl had managed to hook Ellery so thoroughly his brother hung
like a flounder on the line—and liked it! This couldn't be the result of Celeste's talk with her . . . could it? That nonsense about enticing a man didn't work . . . did it?

Lady Longshaw turned an artless face to Lady Philberta. “Isn't that sweet?”

“The coffee is,” Throckmorton muttered.

Lady Philberta smiled back, her smirk only a trifle sardonic. “I would call it incredible.”

Lord Longshaw leaned back in his chair, his mouth so broad with humor he looked as if he could swallow his own face. “So no more nonsense about a notice in the
Times
. We've done well bringing these two together, heh, Throckmorton?”

“Yes, I . . . yes, very well.” Picking up the scone from his plate, Throckmorton examined it. The golden crusty triangle looked like the other scones, but was it really? He broke off a corner of the scone. He sniffed it, then held it away from his nose.
Garlic.
He dropped it on his plate. “But Ellery, what about Celeste?”

Lady Longshaw's hands fluttered up, then down. “Celeste? Who's Celeste?”

“You know who she is.” Lord Longshaw's mustache drooped and quivered. “She's the girl that Throckmorton—”

Hyacinth interrupted, “Papa! Not at the breakfast table.”

Lady Longshaw pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.

And Throckmorton realized he had brought up the one subject he had maneuvered to avoid. Standing, he took his cup to the sidetable and exchanged it for an empty one.

“I don't know what this Celeste has to do with Ellery
and Hyacinth,” Lord Longshaw said crisply.

“Only that the girl tried to come between Ellery and me,” Hyacinth informed him.

Lord Longshaw's eyebrows shot high. “But it was Throckmorton who had her.”

“George!” Lady Longshaw choked.

“I apologize, m'dear, but everybody knows what happened.”

“Actually, no, my lord.” Throckmorton poured his coffee and tried hard not to give offense. “You have no idea what happened.”

“Exactly right, Throckmorton,” Ellery said. “It's best to give Lord and Lady Longshaw all the information. We would hate to have you discover our dirty little secret when we were unable to defend ourselves.” He lounged in his chair. “Celeste is our gardener's daughter.”

“Your gardener's daughter?” Lord Longshaw's brows bunched into black thunderheads above his eyes. “What was the gardener's daughter doing attending my daughter Hyacinth's betrothal party?”

Ellery smirked. “Celeste is pretty, she's young, she had just returned from Paris—and she was after
me.”

“I was suspicious of her right away,” Hyacinth informed her parents in a righteous tone.

Throckmorton poured cream into his coffee—he never took cream, either, but pouring kept his hands busy—and stirred the liquid around and around until the swirl blended into a soft brown. Still he stirred, unable to cease lest he fling the spoon across the table at Ellery, or Hyacinth, or . . . any of them.

“Throckmorton thought it best to allow her to attend the party.” Lady Philberta graced her eldest with an
approving smile. “He gave her enough rope to hang herself. And of course look what happened! She did.”

Throckmorton didn't know why Ellery and Lady Philberta were talking about Celeste in such a manner. He didn't know he could have been so mistaken about Hyacinth's character; her smug manner and easy betrayal of Celeste revealed a previously undetected corruption. And as he listened to Ellery, to his mother, to Hyacinth, wrath brewed in him. Celeste didn't deserve such shabby treatment. Only
he
was allowed to treat her so shabbily.

He put the spoon on the spoon rest so hard the porcelain chipped.

“Celeste disgraced herself as much as it is possible for a girl to do. But what did anyone expect?” Ellery tapped his nose and nodded wisely. “Blood will tell.”

Control slipped a notch. Throckmorton stepped forward. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said,” Ellery answered, then turned to Lord and Lady Longshaw. “Celeste is a little nobody commoner gold-digger who wanted me and when I wouldn't be tempted, she went after Garrick—or rather, the Throckmorton fortune. Garrick handled her just as she deserved.”

Throckmorton found himself moving on a tide of red rage.

Ellery didn't appear to notice. “So the gardener's daughter learned her lesson, and she's scampering back to Paris with her tail between—”

Jerking Ellery's chair out from underneath him, Throckmorton pulled him to his feet. With a single closed-fist blow, he sent him sliding across the table. Lady Longshaw screamed. Dishes flew, splattering
oatmeal everywhere. The tablecloth bunched. The vase toppled, spilling water and flowers.

Dimly, Throckmorton realized he was making a scene. But he couldn't stop. The bastard had maligned Celeste! Just as he prepared to launch himself at Ellery . . . Hyacinth laughed.

The sound recalled Throckmorton to some semblance of sanity. He teetered at the edge of the table. He glared at Hyacinth.

She covered her mouth with her hand and watched him, wide-eyed and giggling.

Throckmorton glared at his brother, who sat up and calmly wiped egg yolk off his cheek. He glared at his mother, who tranquilly continued eating her toast.

Only Lord and Lady Longshaw had the grace to look shocked and bewildered.

“Ellery, what in the hell do you think you're saying?” Throckmorton roared.

“You're swearing, Garrick,” Lady Philberta said.

“Damned right!”

“And yelling,” Ellery said.

“What in the devil . . .” Throckmorton was repeating himself. He slammed his fist on the table, making the dishes jump, then pointed at Ellery. “Get over here and explain yourself!”

Ellery crossed his legs and grinned. “You love her.”

The tie on Throckmorton's cravat must have slipped, for it suddenly tightened, and he choked, “What?”

“He said
you love her,”
Lady Philberta repeated helpfully.

“I do not!”

“It is so obvious, Garrick,” Hyacinth said in a patronizing tone. “You love Celeste Milford.”

“But . . . but she's the gardener's daughter.” Lady Longshaw was caught in a scene whose every nuance baffled her.

In a fury, Throckmorton turned on the poor woman. “Who gives a damn if she's the gardener's daughter? We Throckmortons are common people—”

Lady Philberta snorted. “I beg your pardon, son!”

He waved wildly toward his mother. “Half common, then. But certainly in no position to make disparaging comments about a lovely, accomplished young lady like Miss Celeste Milford.”

“I meant no harm,” Lady Longshaw said faintly.

Throckmorton bent his glower on Lord Longshaw. “If you or Lady Longshaw find the concept of marriage between me and Celeste Milford repugnant, you should say so now before the ceremony between Ellery and Hyacinth takes place.”

“They don't object,” Hyacinth said. “And stop yelling at my parents.”

“Actually—” Lord Longshaw began.

“We're getting married regardless of who objects.” Ellery scooted across to Hyacinth, knocking more dishes askew, and took her hand. “We love each other. The question is, Throckmorton, have you got the courage to marry your lady?”

“I already proposed.” Throckmorton looked at his fist, which didn't ache quite as it should. Was it possible Ellery had foreseen the blow and avoided most of its force? He certainly looked healthy enough. “She won't have me.”

“Because you didn't tell her you love her,” Hyacinth reminded him.

Why Throckmorton had ever thought Hyacinth a
meek, sweet girl, he couldn't comprehend. “That's because I don't . . . don't . . .” His cravat tightened again. Sliding his finger beneath it, he decided he would have to have a word with his valet.

Lady Philberta pushed back her chair. “Walk with me, Garrick.”

Throckmorton was more than glad to leave the breakfast room with its mess of dishes, its scowling servants, and his brother's incomprehensible conviction that he knew more about the state of Throckmorton's heart than Throckmorton did. Garrick Throckmorton didn't fall in love. Garrick Throckmorton had a duty to his business, his family and his country that precluded such messy emotions. He had a daughter he adored. A mother and a brother.