In My Wildest Dreams Page 5

  He strolled toward her and stopped at arm’s length.

  She stood, chin up, spine rigid with disbelief. “Where’s Ellery?”

  “Ellery sent me in his place.” Mr. Throckmorton extended the glass. “He’s battling a bit of a rash.”

  Uncertainly, Celeste took the champagne. “A rash?”

  “Apparently he ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

  “Something he ate?” Suspicion bloomed in her mind, and her eyes narrowed as she contemplated Mr. Throckmorton. “Ellery ate a strawberry?”

  “Usually he’s more careful. But tonight he seemed to be in a hurry.”

  In a hurry. Of course. To see her. “Was it in that—” Abruptly she remembered she shouldn’t know about Frau Wieland’s silly dessert, and changed the subject. “Poor Ellery! Is he going to be all right?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Throckmorton smiled into his glass. “Yes, I think he really is.”

  She took a step toward the door. “Does he need—”

  Mr. Throckmorton blocked her path. “No. He doesn’t need anything. Right now, he is well tended and unwilling to have anyone see him in this condition.”

  She wavered. She didn’t know how to get around Mr. Throckmorton, and she suspected he told the truth about Ellery’s reluctance to have her view him covered with unsightly blotches. And yet . . . and yet she didn’t wish to be trapped in the middle of her long-cherished fantasy . . . with the wrong man.

  “Ellery did tell me to dance with you in the moonlight to the distant strains of music.” Taking a sip of his champagne, Mr. Throckmorton watched her closely. “Did I get that right?”

  “Yes,” she said, numb with frustration. “You got it right.” Mr. Throckmorton had quoted her exact words back to her. Only Ellery could have told him, so Ellery had truly sent his brother in his place. She glanced around the glimmering ballroom where, only a few moments ago, dreams had been adrift. Now the music sounded off key, the gold leaf seemed dull and overdone, and the moonlight did no more than reflect the light of the sun—as Mr. Throckmorton reflected the light of Ellery.

  Mr. Throckmorton took her glass and placed both his and hers on a table by the wall. Coming back to her, he extended his arms.

  She didn’t walk into them. It was too odd to think of dancing with, of all people, Mr. Throckmorton. He was too old, too solemn, too responsible. Everything Ellery was not.

  But neither was he indecisive, for when she hesitated, he gathered her to him. His arm wrapped around her waist, his hand caught her hand, and without giving her a moment to adjust to the sensation of being in his arms, he swept her away. He shouldn’t have been able to waltz. Businessmen shouldn’t be able to make the music come alive with motion. But while Mr. Throckmorton danced without flourishes or extravagance, his motions were elegant, his gait smooth. He led like a man used to leading—in every situation.

  She didn’t know what to do with her free hand. To touch his shoulder seemed an act of insolence, almost of intimacy. But although she battled the thought and scolded herself as silly, she still couldn’t bring herself to lift her palm up so far and hold him as comportment demanded he be held. Instead, she rested her hand against his upper arm . . . and discovered how his muscles flexed beneath her fingers.

  “This is quite lovely.” His voice sounded smooth, rich, content, when she knew he must want to be back at the party, greeting the guests, supervising the arrangements, aware that every person he made happy was one more person who might someday do business with him. “My brother will be devastated to know he missed this.”

  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

  Stunned, 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.”