She loved Garrick Throckmorton. She loved Garrick Throckmorton. The very thought was alien to her, yet it nestled inside her like a babe. This explained the animosity and confusion of the last few days. She had come back from Paris confident in herself, comfortable with who she was, certain she could make the life she wanted for herself.
Instead she had been waylaid by Garrick, and what she wanted had changed. When Garrick had shown her that the dream of Ellery she’d cherished for so many years was nothing but a chimera, she had been left rudderless, tossing in an ocean of uncertainty.
Now she knew herself, and she knew the truth. She loved Garrick Throckmorton.
She couldn’t fool herself. Probably he didn’t return her love. He had made it clear that the lust he felt for her was uninvited and unwelcome. Yet that knowledge didn’t change her feelings.
How could she respond to this love? What should she do to show Garrick?
She knew without a doubt. Walking to the cupboard, she pulled out her loveliest ball gown, a rich gold velvet which brought out the honey highlights in her hair, turned her hazel eyes to green—and sported a low-cut bodice with large, easily opened buttons up the front.
Just how Celeste found him in the dark conservatory, Throckmorton would never know. He wouldn’t have thought she’d come for him. Not when the musicians played a waltz in the ballroom and Ellery performed his usual charming patter. But she had; Garrick heard her skirt rustle as she strolled in.
He sat, cup of coffee in hand, on the sofa where he had performed that intemperate seduction. Staring out of the windows and into the night, he pretended not to hear her. It seemed safer.
She carried a candlestick which she placed on a table against the wall, bringing light, although it wasn’t enough to illuminate the large room, thank heavens. He didn’t want to see her, beautiful and unattainable. So he didn’t move, didn’t speak, until she stopped right beside his shoulder.
“What do you want, Celeste?”
She gasped a little, as if the sound of his voice surprised her.
Her own voice sounded warm, rich, with that faintest of French accents she developed in emotional circumstances. “How did you know it was me?”
“The noise your heels make on the floor. Your perfume. The way I . . .” He hesitated.
She filled in. “The way your body reacts when I’m near?”
He glanced up at her. Her hair was dressed loosely atop her head. A few tendrils already straggled down. Instead of looking untidy, Celeste looked enticing, like a woman about to prepare for bed. “You have lived in romantic Paris too long.”
“I’m sorry if I’m wrong, but I thought that might be it.” She slipped onto the sofa beside him, bringing a hint of her perfume. “Because my body reacts to you.”
Citrus, cinnamon and ylang-ylang. He recalled the ingredients in her scent, but had forgotten all propriety. “Let’s not talk about that.” He laughed, a brief bark of bitter amusement. “You love Ellery, remember.”
“Well.” Turning toward him, she relaxed, placing one gloved arm in a graceful arch over the back of the sofa. “I fear I’ve had a revelation today.”
“A revelation.” He took a sip of his steaming drink and tried not to notice her dress. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It was. I try to avoid them when possible, but today I fear the naked truth slapped me in the face.”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Very.”
The gown was yellowish. The material shimmered in the faint light of the candle. The smallest of satin straps served as sleeves, leaving her shoulders bare . . . not to mention her bosoms, which, when she adjusted her skirt, moved with a gentle, mind-boggling quiver.
He tore his gaze away from her and looked back out the window. The reflection of the candle formed the single bright spot on the night-glazed glass. He could see himself. Today he had shot a stranger. He’d rescued his daughter. To no avail, he’d interrogated guests and servants as to the kidnapper’s identity. And he’d explained to Hyacinth’s satisfaction (he hoped) how Ellery came to have a child whom no one had yet mentioned. But in the glass Garrick appeared to be a man of no particular distinction, a man dressed formally except for his rumpled cravat hanging loose around his neck, a man quietly thinking his own thoughts. Not a man who drew beautiful young women to sit at his side when the last, the greatest ball of this fabulous house party went on nearby.
Yet Celeste was here, and no matter how he tried not to, he could still see her profile. She seemed pleased with something, for the dimples in her cheek appeared and disappeared for no discernible reason. Her little shell of an ear peeked out from one of those loose tendrils like some mischievous body part playing hide-and-seek—with him. Her neck rose in an elegant arch, and her lips, so full and red, puckered as if blowing him a kiss.
Obviously, libidinous frustration had destroyed what little intelligence he had left after this lousy week, this horrible day. More than ever, he wished to find relief and release with this woman. This woman only.
Turning her head suddenly, she looked into the window and caught him staring. She smiled; all the enchantment and allure she had first bent on Ellery, she now lavished on him.
He might wonder what game she was playing at, but this week had convinced him Celeste was one of those rarest of creatures—an honest and genuine person. So why was she smiling at him? The possibilities made him want to seize and possess. Curse her; she bombarded the impregnable structure of his discipline until the very foundations shook. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the ball?” he snapped.
“Aren’t you?”
“It’s the last ball. You had better attend.”
“If you will.”
She kept watching him in the window, her gaze steady and pleased. Her smile didn’t fade, but bathed him in a continuous warmth.
This afternoon, they had been caught up in a maelstrom of terror and pursuit. This morning they had shared moments of debate and passion. And yesterday he had pleasured her quite against her will. She should not look as if the sight of him gratified her.
“I’m avoiding the receiving line, and the official announcement of Ellery’s betrothal. I suspect Lady Hyacinth might object.”
“I would think you’d want to be there to handle the situation.”
“Mother can handle it. If Lord Longshaw takes a swing, let Ellery take the blow. It’s time.”
“More than time.”
She startled him with her cool verdict. So the bloom was truly off Ellery’s rose. Throckmorton straightened, and with military resolution, said, “You failed to comply with my orders this afternoon.”
“What orders were those?”
“You were not supposed to follow me when I went after Penelope.”
“I thought you might need help.”
“As you saw, I had the situation well in hand.”
She smiled and folded a tuck into her skirt. “I thought you were very glad to see me.”
He hated to admit it, but it was true. Out there in the rain and the mud, he’d felt inadequate to handle Penelope’s distress. His pragmatic daughter had sobbed and sobbed. He had petted her hair, but she’d clung to Celeste. He’d suffered a mixture of hurt because she’d turned to another in her misery, and relief that he didn’t have to handle it alone. A man who took care always to maintain control scarcely knew how to handle an outpouring of emotion. “She had never seen a man shot before,” he said.
“I would hope not.”
“Did you tuck her . . . the children into bed?”
Now her lovely smile failed, and she glanced down at her lap. “I did, and I wanted to talk to you about them.”
Dear God. He straightened, the coffee sloshing in his mug. “They are here? They are well?”
“Very well.” She placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. After this day’s harrowing ordeal, you must be all in a twitter.”
Irritated beyond all belief, he said, “My dear
Miss Milford, I am never all in a twitter.”
“Of course not.” She lowered her gaze, her long lashes sweeping downward. “I forgot that you are always unaffected.”
He felt it only fair to warn her. “I am one of the most unfeeling men in all of England.”
Her lashes rose. Her gaze peeked forth. Her dimples quivered. “I understand.”
He put ice into his tone. “I don’t think you do.”
“In truth, I feel responsible about what happened to the children today.”
Astonished, he looked directly at her. “You do?”
“I’m their governess. If I’d taken care of them as I should, Kiki wouldn’t have run away, and Penelope would have come to me instead of going after her.”
He flattered himself he understood human nature. Everyone, everyone, ducked when blame was apportioned. But once again Celeste had amazed him. She not only accepted responsibility, she took responsibility. A man scarcely knew what to do with a woman like her—or rather he did, but such madness was not acceptable.
“You were commanded by me to attend this week of festivities celebrating Ellery’s betrothal,” he said. “There can be no dispute.”
“I know what’s right.” Her chin jutted out. “I know what’s best. In the future, I’ll spend less time on frivolity and more time in the performance of my duty.”
“Everything that happens on my estate is my responsibility.”
She slid toward him. Her fingers trailed along his cheek. The silk of her gloves caught on the burr of his whiskers. “You have too much responsibility.” Her voice sounded husky and far, far too warm. “You should let me ease your . . . disquiet.”
Her big eyes spoke just as eloquently as her voice. For some reason which he could not discern, she wanted him.
But he was who he was, and so he bluntly declared, “I’m not the man for a girl like you.”
Her finger wandered over his lips, and lingered. “Really? Yet a girl like me recognizes a master of seduction.”
“Oh, that.” He tried to look bored, a difficult matter when the tent peg in his trousers was strong enough to support a royal pavilion. “Think nothing of it. I seduce so many woman that I—”
She laughed, a ripple of allure. “You seduce no one, Garrick. Except me. I well remember your habits, and if I did not, I have friends among the servants. They gossip, you know.”
He glared at her.
Her white lace gloves reached above her elbow, giving the illusion of modesty, but only the illusion; and when she unbuttoned her gloves, he found the presentation of the pale, delicate flesh of her inner elbow to be insupportably erotic.
She dropped one glove over the back of the sofa, the other over the front. Her arms were bare, her fingers slender and capable.
“Only this morning you took my hand and pressed it here.” Sliding her palm down his chest, she brought it to rest over his cock. “You promised me enchantment. I’ve come to collect.”
Somehow, he retained the sense to say, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
For a long moment, she stared at him in silence. “Do you mean I was wrong when I told Lady Hyacinth about the act being similar to horses mating?”
He couldn’t help it. He sputtered with laughter even as his groin ached with need. “No, you have that . . . that is correct. But you don’t realize the ramifications of relations between us.”
“It’s very simple, really.” She was smiling again, relaxed. “You’re Garrick Throckmorton. I’m the gardener’s daughter. I’m not expecting marriage, and I don’t plan to be your mistress. But I know that you know how to pleasure a woman, and I want my first time to be with you.”
“After what happened in here last time, why would you even want to come near me?”
She blessed him with her dimpled, full-of-joy smile. “Because I love you, Garrick Throckmorton.”
He jumped away from her, backing into the corner of the couch like some imperiled maiden. “I think not!” She couldn’t mean that. She didn’t know what she was saying.
“You can think as you like, but you don’t know my mind.” She leaned toward him, presenting a cleavage that fixed his attention. “You see, I’ve been familiar with you all my life, so you can’t say I’m deluded as to your character.”
“You are.” Of its own accord, his hand lifted and smoothed the surface of her breasts right along the neckline.
“Why?”
Her flesh was softer than that velvet of her gown, and it glowed with the radiance of the sun. Yet he retained enough sense to reply, “I can’t tell you.”
She took a breath that lifted her chest into his hand. “Then if I am, I have no one but myself to blame.”
Blast the woman. Love. How dare she announce her love for him? She had loved Ellery only a few days ago . . . but he believed that to be nothing more than infatuation. His belief had been how he had justified his decision to change her mind. Now it appeared he had succeeded only too well. She said she loved him. Such a statement from this woman at this time worked on him as a powerful seduction.
He had to make his current quandary more comprehensible. “If you don’t leave now, I will have to take you.”
She stared back at him, her eyes wide and clear.
“Do you understand?” he asked. “Probably, after the way I’ve treated you I deserve to be teased to the point of agony. But the chaotic events of the day ruined whatever small modicum of discipline I have left.”
She kicked off her shoes.
Intent as a wolf scrutinizing a tasty dove, Garrick watched each of them fly across the conservatory. If she wished to undermine his discipline, she was doing an excellent job.
Love. Dear heavens. She was beautiful, innocent, and ten years younger. Just because they shared experiences such as foreign travel, not to mention the common background of Blythe Hall, and just because she seemed mature—except for loving Ellery, a matter of rampant immaturity—and just because she had observed him in the past and claimed to know what she was getting into . . . none of those were reasons to suppose she actually understood the ramifications of declaring love to a man such as he.
He had to make himself more clear. “In an effort to bolster my prudence, I’ve eaten fortifying foods. I’ve been drinking coffee rather than liquor. But the food and the drink isn’t strengthening my resolution. So unless you want me to take your virginity, you should get up and walk to that door and leave me alone.”
She stood.
She comprehended. She took him at his word.
Disappointment ripped through him. Yet he had no right to feel regrets. He ought to be glad she had the good sense to run.
On bare feet, she padded to the door.
He ought to be glad she recognized him for what he was. Realized the irrevocability of a union with him. Saved him from the worse sin of all—the despoiling of an innocent, the daughter of his gardener, a woman of high morals and distant dreams.
The door clicked shut. The handle rattled.
Leaning his head against the back of the sofa, he closed his eyes and fought for mastery of himself. He’d always known he had a prodigious and passionate appetite. But he’d also assumed his will was greater than that appetite. Now he wanted nothing so much as to follow Celeste. To pick her up and carry her back here. To make her his own in the most direct and primitive way he could devise.
And she didn’t want that. She deserved better.
Silk rustled behind him. Every muscle in his body tensed. A scent tickled his nose. Citrus, cinnamon, and ylang-ylang. Vaguely he wondered if abstinence caused hallucinations or worse, madness.
Then Celeste’s hands settled on his shoulders. “Lie down with me.”
22
Celeste massaged the tense shoulders beneath her hands. She watched Garrick’s reflection in the window as he opened his eyes. He looked right at her; his mouth was set in a straight line, his eyebrows dipped low. As he stared at her in the glass, his chest rose and fell in harsh breath
s; she could almost see his struggle between the enlightened gentleman and the primal male.
But he’d admitted he was tired, and that his resistance was low. She could have him, and with the skillful application of feminine wiles, she would. Smiling, she said, “I admit, I have never done this before, but I suspect most men don’t look so grim when presented with a chance to fornicate.”
A shudder ran through his frame, and he shut his eyes again.
But just for a moment. When he opened them, the severity had vanished. His hands covered hers. He lifted first one, then the other, to his lips, and pressed a kiss on each palm. “I’m a grim man.”
But he smiled at her with such sensual intent she tried to take a startled step backward. She hadn’t expected that, that he would transform from the weary, wary gentleman to the purposeful amorist in the blink of an eye.
“Did you lock the door?” he asked.
“I did.”
“Good.” Retaining her hands, he stood and crossed her arms as he faced her. “You are my opposite. Darkness and light. Harshness and joy.” Crossing around the sofa, he stood so his gaze could sweep her from toe to crown. “Have you come to save me, Celeste? Will you drag and coerce me out of this sterility and forward into bliss?”
When he was at his severest, he exuded a dark sensuality. When he was inviting, his allure colored the light, scented the air, flavored her passions, and wrapped her in the earthy joy of being in his company. And when he was touching her . . . lifting their entwined hands . . . she curled their fingers together, taking pleasure in each sensuous stroke of fingertip and pad. “Is that what you feel when you look on me?” She placed his hands on her shoulders, then boldly walked her fingers up his chest and down his waistcoat. As each button slipped through its buttonhole, she smiled with the voluptuousness of the task. “Bliss, Garrick? Do you feel bliss?”
He looked down at his own white shirt, now visible after her ministrations, and when he spoke, she surmised his teeth were firmly clenched together. “Before you take such liberties, please remember who you are.”