In My Wildest Dreams (7 page)

She stared fixedly over his shoulder as the walls came closer, then whirled away.

He dipped his head a bit to catch her gaze and asked in an incredulous tone, “You're not angry at me for Ellery's mishap?”

She only glanced at him. “I can't help but suspect . . .” She shouldn't say anything, but what difference did it make? Mr. Throckmorton thought her a minx. And he
had
asked. “I can't help but suspect that you managed to manipulate this convenient rash so Ellery wouldn't be able to meet me here.”

Laughter rumbled through him, and she felt it everywhere they touched—in the arm he had wrapped around her waist, beneath the fingertips she rested on his arm and oddly enough, in the pit of her stomach.

“I appreciate your faith in me. But tell me, why would I disable my brother at his own betrothal party? Even if I wished to remove him from your sphere, it makes no sense to take him out of the reach of his fiancée—and he is out of reach of Lady Hyacinth. He fled to his room at the first onset of rash and is right now undoubtedly soaking in a tub of water and oatmeal.”

Did he mean to give her such an unappealing vision? Dripping Ellery covered with tan lumps.

“No,” Mr. Throckmorton continued, “if I wished to get rid of you, I could do so with much less finesse.”

“You could, mayhap, toss me out on the street.”

He appeared to give her plan due consideration. “I could. That's the ultimate in lack of finesse.” He shook
his head. “Ellery would tell you it's more my style to bribe you. I could offer you a thousand pounds per annum and your own house in Paris.”

He was serious. She was sure he was! “A thousand pounds! You would have to wish to be rid of me very much to offer so much.”

He shrugged.

The muscles rippled beneath her palm again. In an effort to distance herself from the part of him that was so mobile, she slid her hand up to his shoulder.

He seemed to take that as a signal of some kind of acquiescence and pulled her closer yet. He held her in his dominion; she couldn't break away. Not unless he allowed her, and she wasn't at all certain he would.

Their circling slowed. He looked down at her rather than where they were going, his face shadowed by night. Yet her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, the moon provided its frail illumination, and she could see his features and gain an impression of his mien—which was far more than she wanted.

Amazement etched his features. “A thousand pounds is not so much. I've paid more to Ellery's liaisons to be rid of them.”

“I am not one of Ellery's liaisons.” It was an insult to be described as one. “And I won't be bribed!” And she didn't like dancing so closely that his legs tangled in her skirts and his chest loomed so near to her nose she could smell the faint scent of soap, whisky and beneath it all, clean masculinity. She wondered how the scent of himself had so escaped Mr. Throckmorton's control; he didn't seem the sort of man who would allow the gardener's daughter such an intimate acquaintance.

“No, of course you're not.” Mr. Throckmorton
managed to sound surprised. “I wasn't offering
you
a thousand pounds per annum and a house in Paris. I was saying that my brother has cost the family a great deal over the years. That's why we had such hopes for this betrothal.”

“But if he won't wed Lady Hyacinth, he won't. He's a grown man, and you can scarcely force him to the altar.” So she had told herself, and her father, all through her preparations for the ball.

“Too true.”

It
was
true, although the aura of power Mr. Throckmorton gave off seemed almost indomitable. Strange, she'd never thought of him like that before. She'd always known that he was the heir, of course, but she scarcely remembered when he had returned from his travels. She had been so much in love with Ellery that that man who had walked the grounds had been almost a ghost to her.

Now he was the same: quiet, observant, very much in control of himself. But different: attractive, masculine, and that control . . . it was almost a challenge. Celeste was surprised that in the impressionable years of her adolescence she had never noticed him.

“I was sorry to hear of your wife's death,” she blurted, then cringed at her clumsy change of subject.

“Thank you.” He didn't loosen his hold on her, or seem stricken with uncomfortable memories. “It was a tragedy.”

“I imagine you miss her.” Celeste didn't know why she pursued this line of conversation.

“I do. She was sensible, a good mate to me, and a wonderful mother.”

The kind of praise every woman scorned! Celeste
had a vision of their marriage—arid, uninspiring, and most of all, sensible. But the vision worked well to dissipate the impression of virility which made her so uncomfortably aware of him. “How long has it been?”

“Three years. Penelope is—was—doing well.”

Penelope! His daughter. Her charge. Celeste seized the topic of conversation. “I remember Penelope. She was four when I left, but even then she seemed very much your daughter.”

What had made her say that?

A faint smile flirted with his lips. “Boring?”

“Not at all!” What had caused
him
to say
that?
“Only very tranquil and composed for a child so young. What has happened to cause her further grief?”

“One word. Kiki.”

“Kiki? What is that?”

“Not a what. A who.”

They stood in the middle of the floor now, not dancing, just swaying.

“Kiki is your other charge.”

“My other charge?” Startled, she said, “I thought . . . that is, you said I would be teaching two girls, and I thought that the other child—”

“Must be mine? No, Kiki is not mine. Kiki is a force of nature, like a cyclone in the Pacific Ocean or a volcano in the East Indies. I look to you, Celeste, to tame her.”

“Forces of nature are impossible to tame.”

“I have great faith in you. Lady Bucknell claims you are a miracle with unruly children, and the Russian ambassador and his wife wrote glowing recommendations.” Mr. Throckmorton glanced around. “The music has stopped. Shall we walk while I explain the situation?”

“Yes!” Dear heavens, yes. Walking along lighted corridors and discussing her position had to be less intimate than this darkness, this touching, this whirl of music in a chamber filled with dreams. Dreams of Ellery, she told herself, delayed only by a hapless event. Spinning out of Mr. Throckmorton's arms, she walked toward the door.

He caught her before she had taken two steps. His arm circled her waist and he used her momentum to swing her back into his embrace—closer this time than last; he pressed her chest to his. Outraged, embarrassed and uneasily aware of danger, she leaned back as far as she could. “Mr. . . . Throckmorton!”

“Do you always leave your partner on the dance floor?” He sounded stern. “Because I don't remember it being done that way in Paris, and I can assure you it isn't done at all in England.”

Color rose in her face. He was right, and his rebuke had made her seem surly and ungrateful. She, who had worked so hard to vanquish all trace of rough manners from her demeanor. Yet the Count de Rosselin had made it clear that when a lady was caught in an indiscretion, her behavior did not descend into the depths, but rose to the occasion. “You're right.” She could scarcely form the words, she hated them so much. “Forgive me for my lack of manners, and thank you for the waltz.”

The shadows could not hide his stare, nor his grave examination. Lifting his hand to her chin, he cupped it, and he seemed to speak only to himself. “You are the most beautiful and gracious woman I have met in a very, very long time.”

His voice reverberated through her, and his ardent manner made her want to flee this room. Flee Blythe
Hall. How had he turned her from resentment to . . . to this kind of appalled appreciation of him and his compliments? Why was she suddenly noticing his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck and the plain strength of his face?

Then he smiled, and in a tone so light it belied his previous fervor, he said, “Thank you, Celeste. I can't remember a dance I've enjoyed more.”

He released her, but she dared not turn her back on him. He had taught her a lesson: never lose sight of Mr. Throckmorton. One never knew what he might do.

He only extended his arm. She laid her hand on it, and together they strolled toward the dim corridor.

“In England, the waltz is still quite scandalous, you know,” he said. “If someone other than the host—in this case Ellery or myself asks you to dance, they mean you a disrespect.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling me. In France—”

He chuckled. “Yes, in France the waltz is the least of the improprieties.”

She couldn't restrain her smile. It was true. In France, she had been the beautiful girl who was the ambassador's governess. In England, she was still the gardener's daughter. If not for her longing for Father, and Blythe Hall, and Ellery, she might never have returned. But she had, and she would conquer . . . everything.

But not tonight. Tonight she walked with Mr. Throckmorton to learn the details of her position.

She tried to turn toward the brighter lights and the sounds of the party.

He rather firmly directed her further into the quiet
depths of the house. “I thought you'd like to see the changes made since you left.”

With another man, she might have been dismayed, but she would not be with Mr. Throckmorton. He had done nothing more alarming than waltz with her, then warn her of its ignominy. Besides, he hadn't wanted to dance; he had done so only on Ellery's request. Any misgiving she felt had been the result of the darkness, the location, and her expectations. Briskly, she ignored the squirmy sense of discomfort and the suspicions that still lingered in her mind, and in the efficient tone she found engendered trust among her employers, she said, “Tell me about Penelope and Kiki.”

“Kiki is Ellery's daughter.”

6

S
tunned, Celeste squeezed Mr. Throckmorton's arm.

He didn't seem to find her agitation surprising. “Ellery's daughter from a beautiful French actress who five months ago decided she no longer wishes to raise his six-year-old child.”

Ellery had fathered a child? And left the child to be raised by her mother while he . . . Celeste felt rather ill.

But of course he had his reasons. He couldn't marry the woman. An actress was even less proper than . . . than the gardener's daughter. “Oh . . . dear,” Celeste whispered.

“Yes. So she brought Kiki here and left her.” He walked Celeste slowly through the great dining hall and stopped to point out the changes. “As you can see, Mother had the walls replastered and wallpaper put up for the feast at the end of the celebrations.” Slanting a quick smile at her, he said, “But if the celebrations end in a
different manner than we expected, you're not to worry. I'm sure the chamber needed renovating anyway.”

She stifled a pang of guilt.

“The table is new, and I don't know if you can see”—he picked up the small candelabra on the sideboard and waved it toward the ceiling rife with cherubs and goddesses in chariots—“I had the paintings retouched. I've always been rather fond of that eighteenth century exuberance.”

Pretending ease, she halted her slow perambulation and stared upward. “Exquisite exuberance.” He didn't answer, and she looked down to see him observing her, specifically her throat. Unbidden, her hand rose to protect her neck, although she didn't know from what. Mr. Throckmorton wouldn't really throttle her, not even for causing such a huge disruption in his plans. Nor would he place his mouth there . . . “What happened to Kiki's mother?” she asked.

He looked faintly startled, then placed the candelabra back and led her toward the picture gallery. “The mother went off to marry, of all people, an Italian opera singer.”

“Opera singers are romantic.”

“If you like large men who bellow out songs while pretending to be dying.” From the curl of his lip, it was clear he found nothing about the opera romantic.

“You have no
amour
in your soul.”

“Not a drop.”

Which she might have taken as a warning, but she still struggled with the concept of Ellery as a father.

“At any rate, Kiki was left on our doorstep, and nothing has been the same since.” He pointed along the extensive length of floor toward the other door. “A new carpet from Persia. Mother assures me it is much in style.”

Celeste nodded. “In Paris, also.”

“If it is in style in Paris, we must of course have it.”

He sounded faintly sarcastic, and Celeste recognized the sound of a man pushed beyond patience by his mother's tenacious redecorating. “The child?” she prompted.

“Oh. Kiki.” He seemed more to want to take Celeste on an extended tour than to inform her of her duties. “Kiki is a hellion with no upbringing and no manners. She laughs too loudly, she sings at the table, she acts a tragedy once an hour and a comedy everyday. Nursemaids flee in the other direction as quickly as they can.”

Celeste wanted to laugh at his aggrieved tone. “She sounds charming.”

“She is
very
charming. Unhappily, the child is illegitimate and foreign. To live in England, she needs to behave with the utmost propriety. She cannot continue in this fashion lest she ruin her life before it has begun.”

He was right, but Celeste at once felt a camaraderie with Kiki. “She must miss her mother.”

“Perhaps, but while she's making the rest of us miserable, she's also making Penelope's life miserable.” In a clipped tone, he said, “I won't allow that.”

“No, of course not.” She hesitated, then asked delicately, “Does she find comfort with her father?”

Now Mr. Throckmorton hesitated. “Ellery laughs when she climbs on the table and jumps off the chair. He ruffles her hair when she sings. I find that his attentions make the situation worse.”

Ellery
would
notice a child who was rebellious; heaven knew he hadn't noticed quiet Celeste. But in the
case of his own daughter, he might realize the harm he was doing . . . and Celeste at once felt ashamed for thinking so.

As she and Mr. Throckmorton entered the foyer, they heard a rustle of silk and a man's murmur to their left. It seemed to be coming from the alcove beneath the sweeping curve of stairs, and Mr. Throckmorton indicated his wish for quiet and hurried Celeste past. When they had entered the library, he said softly, “The liaison between Mr. Monkhouse and Lady Nowell seems to be proceeding apace.”

Celeste wasn't shocked; in France, affairs between married partners were treated as normal. But she glanced behind her, then at Mr. Throckmorton. “How did you know who . . . ?”

“I have excellent night vision.” In a reflective tone, he said, “As does Mr. Monkhouse, I believe.” He gestured around him. “Now in here, I wouldn't allow Mother to change very much. She wanted to replace the chairs with those monstrosities with claw feet and lions' head. I find the room pleasant and frequently read to Penelope here, and I refuse to have the child wake at night with nightmares of alligators and giant cats.”

Celeste grinned. The man definitely disliked the disorder surrounding the renovations.

“For one thing, if Penelope has a nightmare, Kiki has one twice as dreadful and we're forced to endure days of histrionics. In French.”

“In French?”

“Kiki won't speak English, although she's a bright child and I know she understands us.” He grimaced. “You understand the language well, you know our home
and how we expect her to behave, and I'm depending on you to return us to serenity.”

If the situation was half what Mr. Throckmorton had described, she would have her work cut out for her. “I'll do my best.”

“However, I don't want you to think you will be in slavery to the children. The children have a nursemaid, so your duties will be limited to the classroom. And because of Kiki's great excitement at the houseparty, I believe it would be futile to expect you to take over your duties this week—if indeed you ever have to take over those duties to which I summoned you.”

“I don't want you to think I am unwilling, sir!”

“Not at all.” With a gesture, he indicated she should proceed him down a short, narrow corridor with a set of double doors at the end. “I was not commenting on your eagerness, only on Ellery's good luck in having two beautiful young women competing for his attentions.”

“I am not competing for his attentions,” she answered with adamant indignation.

“No, one can scarcely call it a competition. As soon as his rash has disappeared, I'm sure you'll no longer have to settle for the poor substitute of his brother.”

She shouldn't have made known her disappointment at Mr. Throckmorton's dancing attendance on her, nor voiced her suspicions of his motives. “I never—”

“Nonsense, of course you did. I know exactly how I measure up to Ellery.” He pulled a wry face. “It's not been easy growing up with the inevitable comparisons, but I have had the compensation of my work.”

She had been rude. She hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings. Indeed, she'd never supposed Mr. Throckmorton
capable of feelings. “Really, Mr. Throckmorton, I never meant you to think—”

“Mr. Throckmorton?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You used to call me Garrick.”

Oddly enough, his comment shocked her more than anything else that had happened in this very curious evening. “I . . . was a child. I didn't know how improper my behavior was.”

“I liked it. You were charming, with your big solemn eyes and your diffident smile.” He halted beside double doors. “You're still charming, but in such a different way. Your smile, your confidence, your gaiety, your style . . . you've grown into the kind of lady any gentleman would be proud to have on his arm.”

She glanced to the side, down to the floor, abashed at having him speak to her in such a manner. In such a tone.

Leaning close, he sniffed. “Your perfume. It's wonderful—a combination of citrus, cinnamon and, I think, ylang-ylang.”

She gasped. How had he known?

“I'm sorry. I've embarrassed you.” He began to step back.

Impulsively, she caught his hand. She looked into his face. “No! It's not that, it's just I've never thought that you might . . . be . . .”

“Interested in women?”

He smiled, and the smile left her in no doubt that he was, in fact, very interested in women. Amazingly, interested in her. In a voice that caressed her skin like dark velvet, he said, “Dear little Celeste, when I look on you, I think of only one thing.” He moved closer.

Wide-eyed, she backed to the wall.

“I think that to kiss you would be one of the delights of my life.”

Realization struck her; his marriage might have been a sensible union, but he had put his wife through her paces. Celeste pressed her spine hard against the wall, but the plaster didn't yield. She didn't disappear, only watched with a mixture of consternation and heart-thumping awareness as he leaned down. His lips touched hers. Her eyes fluttered shut. Then she was involved in the stunning sensation of being kissed. By Mr. Throckmorton. And . . . and it wasn't repulsive.

Indeed, quite the contrary.

Twice before, once in England and once in France, stupid men had grabbed at her and kissed her. She had given each of them his chance, been impressed with neither, and had told herself that was because she loved Ellery. Only Ellery could give her the kiss that awakened her passion.

But Mr. Throckmorton threatened to prove that myth wrong. For he provided her with unexpected pleasure. Very . . . unexpected . . . pleasure. His breath washed over her skin, warm, scented with whisky, redolent with sensuality. His lips, smooth and firm, pressed against hers with the utmost subtlety. He adjusted their union, reacting as if her response fascinated him.

Disjointed thoughts flashed through her mind. She ought to slide down the wall and out of this kiss. He was broader than she'd realized. She was aghast at them both. She liked it when he pressed a little more firmly . . . at his gentle increase, her head fell back against the wall.
Mon Dieu,
he could read her thoughts! He knew everything—when goosebumps swept her
skin, when her breathing quickened, when the unforeseen rush of blood in her veins brought certain body parts to tingling awareness.

Still her hands dangled at her side, disengaged from the activity. The awkward freedom of her hands was the only way she kept her sanity in this demented moment of . . . of . . . well, not passion. It couldn't be passion between her and the grave Mr. Throckmorton. It just couldn't.

He broke the kiss.

She thought he had set her free. And she had not been completely swept away. Not as long as she'd kept her head enough to not touch him as she wished.

Then he showed her the true feebleness of her pretext. He gripped her waist and pulled her up onto her toes. Catching her wrists, he brought her palms up and around to cup his neck. Now she embraced him as fully as he embraced her, and she couldn't—didn't—remove her hands. Instead she held him, fingers clutching the cloth of his formal coat. Pulling her away from the wall, he bent her over his arm. His chest crushed her breasts, his body enveloped hers with unfamiliar heat.

He commanded, “Open your lips.”

“Why?”

“Very good.” His lips moved on hers as he murmured that praise.

She could taste him. Because he . . . because he slid his tongue inside her mouth.

He sampled her as if she were a pastry made especially for him. He acted as if she were cream and sugar, a delectable indulgence. He breathed with her, savored her, filled her with heat and damp and passion.

She went limp, relying on him to support her, to
guide her, to teach her. Because he did all of those things, and superbly.