In My Wildest Dreams (8 page)

Of course. This was Mr. Throckmorton, and he was well known among the servants for his preparation, his knowledge and his patience . . . but Celeste had never heard anyone mention his ardor. Maybe they didn't talk about it. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe no one knew except her, because she was the only woman to incite him.

She tried to shake her head. That way lay madness.

He stopped the movement by catching her chin. He tipped it to the side, baring her throat. His lips slid down, drinking of her skin, raising her expectations and her heart rate. He did things she didn't know she would like until he did them. He nibbled at her earlobe. He caressed the pulse in her neck. He kissed her collarbone.

She began to utter little noises. Not words; words required thought and the ability to form coherent sound. These noises were more like hums and moans—pure sensation given voice.

He rested his lips over her windpipe as if he wished to feel the vibrations, to relish every sensation.

Finally, he lifted his head.

Opening her eyes in bewilderment, she could see only him. In the dim light, his gray eyes seemed black, but large and heart-rendingly solemn. He watched her with an intensity that kept her good sense at bay, for he appeared to see in her a precious sustenance—or his dearest love. With the greatest of care, he helped her stand flat and straight. He steadied her with his elbow under her arm and when she still wobbled, he helped her rest her spine against the wall.

“All right?” he asked.

“Yes.” She could barely enunciate, and cleared her throat. “Yes.” That was better. Louder. More normal.

“Good. I've arranged to have you placed in this bedchamber, but just for the first two nights. Your room near your students is not yet prepared.”

He had somehow metamorphosed from the impassioned gallant back to the Mr. Throckmorton she knew, and she didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Well, relieved, of course. She had no business kissing Mr. Throckmorton. Not because he was the master and she the governess, but because she loved Ellery and always had. She was not so flighty as to think that had changed simply because she enjoyed his brother's kisses. True, it had been intimate beyond her experience, but society treated a kiss as nothing more than a greeting. So would she.

A very exhilarating, in-depth greeting.

When she said nothing, he frowned in concern. “I hope you'll forgive the oversight.”

She slithered along the wall, anxious to get away before she did something stupid. “What oversight?” Kissing her was an oversight?

“That your room isn't . . .” He frowned yet more, responsible Mr. Throckmorton whose preparations had failed to materialize. “I do apologize. We didn't realize you would come so soon, and with the preparations for the betrothal party, I'm afraid your needs were delayed.”

“No. I mean, that's completely acceptable.” She groped for the doorknob behind her. “Understandable.”

“You'll come to my office in the morning?”

“Yes, Mr. . . .”

He placed his finger over her lips and stared at her in
reproval. “Foolish, to call me Mr. Throckmorton after what we've just shared. But perhaps you didn't enjoy . . . ?”

“No! Yes! It was very nice, very . . . um . . . I did like . . .”

He smiled at her, a luxurious wash of indulgence. “Good.”

“Goodnight.” She turned the door handle.

“I'll meet with you in the morning.”

“As you desire.” In her effort not to use his name, she had said just the wrong thing. She stood immobile, stunned at her madness, staring at him as he stared at her.

All trace of his smile disappeared. A lock of dark, disheveled hair fell over his forehead. He bowed, yet never took his gaze from her.

She fled into the bedchamber before she could make yet a bigger fool of herself.

7

“D
ear!” An hour later, Lady Philberta bustled into Throckmorton's study, the sounds of the still-boisterous party following her through the door. “I just heard the most amazing gossip.”

Cradling a hefty shot of whisky, Garrick turned from the dark window to face his mother. “What would that be?”

“That you were seen walking arm-in-arm through the darkened corridors with a beautiful, mysterious girl.”

Satisfaction soothed his stirring conscience. Mr. Monkhouse had spread the rumor with admirable speed. “How is Ellery?”

“Scratching.” She looked him over, reading him as she always did. “You felled him, didn't you?”

With false innocence, he asked, “Whatever are you talking about, Mother?”

Her mind leaped to the logical conclusion. “You hid
the strawberries in that pastry. What a mean trick!”

He admitted his guilt without remorse. “But effective. Would you rather he canoodled with Miss Milford all evening long while Lady Hyacinth weeps and Lord Longshaw makes plans to break the Throckmorton family?”

“No, but—” Lady Philberta scratched her neck in unconscious empathy, then hastily lowered her hand. “You're right, of course. Better Ellery hide in his bedchamber all evening than ruin our plans.” Moving to one of the straight-backed, hard-seated chairs in front of the desk, she seated herself. “If you'd pour me a ratafia, I would be grateful.”

Throckmorton twisted the cork out of one of the bottles on the liquor cabinet and filled a glass. “He doesn't suspect me, and won't. My shock and disappointment in Frau Wieland, who knows better, forced me to bribe her.” His lips twisted in a half-smile as he gave Lady Philberta her drink. “She had to go before she announced who ordered the strawberries in the pastries.”

“But you love pastries as much as your dear father.”

“Into every life a little rain must fall.”

“Now what do you have planned?”

He set his chin. “I'm going to seduce the girl.”

The silence that followed his pronouncement was prolonged and telling.

“Celeste,” he clarified.

Slowly, Lady Philberta rose to her feet. “You?”

“Who else would you suggest?”

“Then this Miss Milford
is
nothing but a gold-digger—”

“I assure you, Mother, she is not. That would be too easy.” If she was a fortune hunter, she would have seized on his attentions as an opportunity not to be missed. She
would have been interested when he offered her a house in Paris and an annual income. But even when he'd reproved her for leaving him on the dance floor, she had given her apology only grudgingly. The girl was genuine. The situation couldn't be any worse.

Lady Philberta seated herself in another wooden chair, grimaced, and stood again. “Then you can't just ruin the girl.”

“I will stop short of any serious seduction. I've already arranged for her tickets back to Paris and the payment at the end of our little affair. She will be grateful.”

“Why is she so interested in Ellery?”

“She fancies herself in love with him.”

“You can't believe that.”

“Moreover, I believe this infatuation is of long standing—although I'm sure at some point she has heard it's just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man.”

Lady Philberta clutched her throat. “Marriage? She can't truly expect marriage!”

“Anything is possible to a dewy young thing like Miss Milford.”

Leaning down, Lady Philberta pressed her hand onto the hard seat of the chair against the wall. “Ellery should have been thrashed when he was young.”

“It's a little late to come to that realization.” Although Throckmorton couldn't have agreed more. “To end this situation will require an act of—”

“Of sacrifice. On your part.”

“So I fear. If we could think of anyone else to take the role . . .” He noted how easily his mother moved to sacrifice
him.
She had come to expect that he would rescue Ellery, her, the Throckmorton honor, and anything else that needed rescuing. Restlessly, he moved back to
the window that looked out over the gardens. Yet the gardens were unlit, and all he could see was his own dim reflection in the darkened glass.

She settled into the chair behind his desk and leaned back experimentally. “Garrick, this is the only comfortable seat in this room!”

“Discomfort encourages productivity,” he answered.

“You are a most unsociable man.”

“Not unsociable, Mother—proficient. Which is why I'm too blasted old for this kind of nonsense.” Muttering to himself, he said, “Seduction of a young girl.”

“Too old? When were you young enough? By the time you were twelve, you had abandoned all spontaneity and made your plodding way through life.”

“You forget about India.”

“You never told me about India.”

He flicked a glance at her. She was an indomitable woman, absolutely trustworthy, intelligent and astute. But she was his mother. She loved him; he knew that just as surely as he knew she would not enjoy a recitation of the trials he'd undergone in India. “There was war,” he said curtly. “There was treachery. I killed when I had to. Is that enough?”

Her voice softened. “I suspected as much. You came back . . . changed. But we're not talking about violence here. We're talking about paying suit to a female for the good of the family.”

He remembered Miss Milford's glowing face. He knew how rare that kind of joy was in this world; he mourned the crushing of that happiness, that innocence. “How indifferent you sound.”

“I am sorry if Miss Milford gets hurt, but think on it, Garrick. We've another rebellion threatening in
India—will the Indians ever realize they are defeated and surrender?—and as always, the Russians do their best to encourage any conflict.” Lady Philberta swallowed a good mouthful of ratafia. “Jealous bastards. They already own an empire. Why do they want ours?”

“Because ours is so very, very wealthy.”

“Don't be vulgar, dear.”

He corrected her. “Practical, Mother. As practical as you.”

“Lord Longshaw will provide us with a base in the northern reaches of India.”

Throckmorton knew the situation in India even better than his mother. He had spent his time there in exploration, in protracted diplomacy among arrogant warlords and, when all else failed, in grueling battle. Now he no longer physically labored for the good of English—and Throckmorton—interests. Instead, he directed those men and women in the field who strove to secure British dominion over the riches of Central Asia.

“We can't give up those plantations,” Lady Philberta said.

“No, but I will be giving up a formidable governess.” Moving to the desk, he read from the letter he had been perusing earlier.

I was a widower with two children, and I had married a widow with two children of her own. When Miss Celeste arrived, our schoolroom was in a shambles,
my
children were aligned against
her
children, my wife and I were taking sides, and we had no happy home. Then, like an English fairy, she waved her wand over our family and healed every breach. I have offered her much money if she
would return with us to Russia, but she says, no, no. She wants to go back to England, and so we wave her a sad farewell and offer her to you, oh most privileged of recipients.

Throckmorton looked up at his mother.

She looked back helplessly. “She sounds perfect. To have peace reign on the third floor once again. She was a good choice, and I know how you hate it when your plans are botched. If only Celeste weren't so damnable pretty!” Her features drooped. “But she is, and we haven't mentioned the issue that is most important, for me at least. Ellery.”

“What about him?”

She fixed him with the level, steady gaze. His mother's gaze, which had such power to convey reproof, anxiety, love. “We haven't talked about it, but you know what I mean. I always thought he would get himself straightened out when he got a little older, but he's worse. He's gambling as if he hasn't a care in the world. He's drinking too much. People are starting to talk. He met Lady Hyacinth. I thought he liked her more than he admitted. I thought he might straighten himself out. Now we have the glamorous, forbidden Miss Milford.” Walking to him, Lady Philberta stared him right in the eyes. “Do you think you can deceive Miss Milford?”

“I've made a good start tonight.”

“Ellery's rash will last only two days at most.”

Taking her hand, he patted it reassuringly. “Then in two days, I will think of something else.”

Ellery wove slowly through the darkened corridors, bottle clutched tightly in his fist. It was four in the morning. He
couldn't sleep. He itched all over. The sounds of revelry had finally died. The last of the guests had disappeared from beneath his window and, deprived of entertainment, he went in search of someone to talk to him, to hold him, to tell him it was all right to be covered in red, scaly splotches that itched like the devil and burned when he scratched. He was sick to death of oatmeal baths; he wanted a gentle hand and a soft voice whispering in his ear.

So he sought Celeste. Sweet little Celeste, the gardener's daughter. Garrick had been sarcastic about that, about her being the gardener's daughter, but when he'd realized that Ellery really loved her, Garrick had done the right thing. Garrick could always be depended upon to do the right thing.

Made a person want to puke.

Not that Ellery didn't like Garrick. Stopping, he lifted a finger and waggled it at some invisible detractor. Good ol' Garrick was his brother, and maybe he was a dead bore and the kind of guy to whom dancing on the table was anathema, but Ellery considered Garrick one of the greatest men in the world. Why, when Ellery had broken out, Garrick had stepped right up and offered to take care of Celeste! Keeping her away from other men who would have paid court to her.

Yes, good ol' Garrick was the best brother in the world.

Celeste had grown up living beside the greenhouse in an apartment she shared with her father. Ellery knew better than to seek her there. Garrick had been anxiously waiting the arrival of this governess, and he'd prepared a suite on the third floor not far from the nursery.

But Ellery hadn't been up to the third floor since . . .
since before his daughter arrived. Grimacing, he hung on the banister and stared up the shadowed staircase.

His daughter. Kiki. He took a long drink of wine. Fiery, voluble, demanding. Just like her mother. Garrick would say—just like Ellery. Maybe so. Maybe she resembled him. He just didn't want to believe that that actress had taken seriously what he poked at her in fun. Having a child almost made him seem like . . . an adult.

Clinging to the banister, he made his cautious way up the stairs, missing only one—the top stair. He went down on his knee, right onto the hardwood. That would hurt tomorrow, but tonight he was fine. Just fine. Rising, he headed down the corridor toward the nursery and the governess's quarters.

Garrick had arranged for the governess to take care of the children, and that was as it should be. Garrick had a child. Garrick had been married. Garrick was an adult. A really, really old, wise, mature adult. But not Ellery. Ellery wasn't responsible. He couldn't get married. Asinine to think he could. And to Hyacinth, of all the women. She wasn't old enough to even know how to kiss. Once he'd pulled her behind an armoire and pressed his lips to hers, and she'd been so nervous her teeth were chattering.

He couldn't marry someone like her! She was a virgin. He might not do it right, and give her a disgust, and he'd be a worse screw-up than he was now.

No, he'd picked a bad time to think he could become responsible. Why should he ever be responsible? He didn't have anything to be responsible for. Maybe if he . . . he braced himself against the wall, tilted his head back and cackled. But no. Stupid.