In My Wildest Dreams

  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, so
n!”

  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.

  A woman . . . a woman was more. Children grew up and went away. Mother and brother had their own lives. But a woman who was truly a mate . . . what a danger she presented. He’d seen other men with their mates. They shared more than love. They shared their lives.

  They promised to share eternity.

  No. He could not love Celeste Milford.

  Lady Philberta opened the napkin she held and handed him a scone. “It’s edible,” she advised. “It came off my plate.”

  Grateful for any nourishment, Throckmorton broke it into pieces and ate as they strolled along the portrait gallery. The sun shone through the windows, the gallery was the epitome of stylish good taste, and Throckmorton could see nothing that brought him pleasure. If he had any nerve, he would ask his mother why she had been walking with Celeste the day before and why she’d allowed Celeste to break his windows.

  He knew the answer. Lady Philberta had a lofty sense of justice. He had offended it with his treatment of Celeste. “But I did propose marriage,” he muttered.

  Lady Philberta ignored that. “Garrick, I’ve been worried about you in recent years.”

  “Why?” He thought of Stanhope’s betrayal. “Have I not fulfilled your expectations?”

  Hooking her cane over her arm, she leaned on him and led him to the portrait of his father. “All of them, and more. That’s the problem.”

  Throckmorton found himself muttering again. “Women.” His mother. Hyacinth. Celeste. Who understood them?

  He looked up at the elder Garrick Throckmorton, framed in gilt and looking stern. Certainly his father hadn’t. He had warned Throckmorton of that. “A man who asks a woman what she means gets what’s coming to him.”

  Lady Philberta looked up at the portrait, too, but she dwelled on different memories. “You were such a bright boy, Garrick, so vivid, so interested in everything and everybody. In addition, you were our elder, and a son. Your father and I expected too much of you.”

  “You had the right.”

  “We might have spread our expectations around to our second son, I think.”

  She sounded so ironic, Throckmorton smiled. “Ellery would have always confounded you.”

  “He did. But you filled your own shoes, and his, too.” In a shrewd maneuver, she seated herself beneath the portrait, allying herself with his father, making Throckmorton answer to both his parents. “You worked so hard to make us happy, you vanquished emotion, temper, all the parts of you that made you so alive.”

  The discipline which he so cherished apparently caused her anguish. “You take too much credit on yourself, Mother. You may have started the process, but it was in India, where a gesture or a smile could be misinterpreted and lead to trouble, where I learned to hide my feelings.”

  She shook her head. “In the last week, I’ve seen you come alive again.”

  “Mother, I don’t love Celeste! If I loved . . .” Throckmorton had the potential for such passion. He knew himself well, and he knew that within him lurked a primitive man, one who demanded, possessed, lusted. He wouldn’t allow himself to indulge that man, or he would burn and want and take and give until he was only half a soul, joined forever with her. With Celeste. “Let’s not even contemplate love.”

  “If you loved . . . what?” Lady Philberta looked down as she stroked the smooth wood of the chair. “Celeste would be the center of your life? You would ache with desire?”

  “Mama!” He didn’t want to hear this from her.

  “You would want always to be with Celeste and you’d worry about her when you were apart? You’d torment yourself with thoughts that she might need you and you’re not there?”

  “Yes. I suppose so,” he said reluctantly.

  “You were too young, you don’t remember, but your father didn’t want to love me. He thought he was so much older, which he was, and he thought he was smarter, which he wasn’t. When he finally admitted his love, he said . . . all that. About how I was the center of his life and how he . . . ached for me. He never could quite say I love you, but that gruff, earthy, unsophisticated man was moved to poetry”—her voice wobbled—“for me.” She blinked, drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed at the tears.

  Feeling like an intruder, Throckmorton looked out the window.

  “I treasure the memory. I treasure all the memories I have of your father, even the ones when he behaved like an ignorant cad.” She smiled mistily at Throckmorton. “You’ve already created those memories for Celeste. I think you should find her and create the others.”

  He nodded, moved by the emotional display from his usually prosaic mother.

  “You’re alive again, Garrick. You’re living and suffering—and loving. Don’t let that girl go.”

  Loving. Loving. How dare his mother accuse him of loving?

  “Mother, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t love Celeste Milford.”

  “She’s going to Paris,” Lady Philberta said.

  His hands clenched. “She took the ticket and the bank draft and left me a promissory note.”

  “To be a courtesan,” Lady Philberta added.

  “What?”

  Lady Philberta rubbed her head. “For someone who doesn’t shout often, you do it very well.”

  That wild, capricious madness took possession of him again. He hurried toward the door that led to the gardens. He had to find Celeste. He had to convince her . . . a courtesan! She couldn’t become a courtesan. She was too fastidious, too beautiful, too charming, too . . . she’d be a wonderful courtesan, but he wouldn’t permit . . . but he didn’t have the right to permit her anything. He had given up that right when he failed to give her what she deserved.

  A courtesan . . .

  He didn’t love. He didn’t . . . but his father’s admission to his mother echoed in his brain. Throckmorton’s thoughts did circle around Celeste. He did desire her so much he ached. He wanted to make love to her until she no longer suffered from this baffling sense of betrayal. How could she hate him so much she broke his windows? That she threatened to go to Paris and become a courtesan? How could she, after the way he’d pleasured
her?

  He knew he wasn’t the right husband for her. She was everything he was not: vivacious, smiling, social. But he would always treat her with the care and the respect she deserved, and she didn’t have the right to demand more. She would be happy. She would never know there was more to him than the physical joy he gave her.

  But . . . she would, because Celeste was intelligent, insightful, and . . . his.

  Stopping by the window, Throckmorton grasped the curtain in his fist and stared blindly across the gardens. Ellery was right. Blast him, he was right. In this last week while Throckmorton had been scheming and maneuvering and managing Celeste so she didn’t get in the way of Ellery’s betrothal . . . she had crept into his heart. Sometime during his resourceful seduction, his artful banter, his adoring vows, his passionate kisses; at some point, they all became real.

  Of course they had—for no other reason would he have so lost himself in her arms.

  He would find her and convince her.

  He loved her.

  28

  He loved her.

  Resolve stiffened Throckmorton’s spine. He strode toward the door. He would find Celeste, make her realize what they had, tell her—

  Kinman rushed toward him with an expression of contrition on his bovine face and a shining bruise on his chin. “Sir, Stanhope has escaped!”

  Throckmorton groaned. “Not now.”

  “Sir?” Kinman was supposed to be in London, following Stanhope, seeing who he contacted, arresting him. Now here he stood, announcing the worst news possible at the worst time possible.

  In clipped tones, Throckmorton demanded, “How did that occur?”

  “Stanhope was at the docks, boarding a ship bound for India. We’d been trailing him. Now we moved to detain him, but before we could reach him another group of men approached. We held back, wanting to identify them.” Kinman barely contained a grin. “They began to beat him.”

  “Beat him?”

  “If I understood them correctly, I believe they expressed their supreme dislike for being swindled out of their money for bogus information.”

  Throckmorton stepped close to Kinman and lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “How did the Russians discover the information was bogus?”