“I was frightened to death of old Mr. Throckmorton, but you bravely confessed what you’d done and before Sunday next I had a new gown and my first—and only—infatuation.”
He liked that; his eyes crinkled and his dimple flashed. “You were infatuated with my father?” he teased.
“All Throckmorton men are irresistible,” she answered.
“But I am the most irresistible, aren’t I?”
She pretended to think.
He leaned closer. “Aren’t I?”
He was almost kissing her on the dance floor, and such an action would be ruinous. She knew people were already buzzing, wondering who she was. She wouldn’t give them any more ammunition than the truth. So she agreed. “You, Ellery, are by far the most irresistible.”
Gathering her close once more, he whirled her in a grand circle.
Over her shoulder, she glimpsed the one Throckmorton man who was quite resistible—Garrick Throckmorton, who stood watching them, holding a strawberry and talking to Lady Philberta.
Well, every dream worth having was worth fighting a few dragons for, and Garrick Throckmorton was a very worthy dragon.
He was the one who had arranged this wretched betrothal which had almost overset Celeste’s plans. Esther had confessed that Garrick Throckmorton had forced Ellery into the arms of little Lady Hyacinth, a girl whose only assets were a fortune and a title. A girl Celeste remembered as being awkward and spotted, and as infatuated with Ellery as Celeste herself.
Celeste had hated her for that.
At first Celeste had thought her dream of marrying Ellery had been crushed before it began. Then she remembered the words of the Count de Rosselin. “Celeste, a dream is worth having only if you are willing to fight for it.”
So she would fight. She would use every weapon at her disposal. This time the dream would not fade. She wouldn’t let it. Because of Paris, and Count de Rosselin, and the past four years of loneliness and growing up and learning how to be the most fascinating woman on the continent. No gentleman as staid and dull as Garrick Throckmorton would stand in her way.
Dancing on her toes to get closer to Ellery’s ear, she murmured, “I would relish some champagne. And I would like to drink it in the grand ballroom, while the moonlight glints on the gold leaf and we dance to the distant strains of music.”
Ellery drew back in amazement. “You little siren! Did you spy on me in there, too?”
For the grand ballroom, darkened on the night of the garden party, had been where Ellery took those other girls. There they had danced, and afterward he kissed them. Celeste had watched him through the window, wanting to be the girl in his arms.
“The ballroom.” She slipped out of his arms at the edge of the dance floor and drifted into the house, her feet scarcely touching the ground.
Lords and ladies moved through all the lighted rooms in the house. In the drawing rooms, the corridor, the library. Dancing, gossiping, eating and drinking. They smelled of perfume and talc, dressed in taffeta and lace, and laughed and cried and bled just like her. She knew most of them, although they didn’t know her. As a child, she had studied them, wanting to be like them so she could be with Ellery. Her father had said it was impossible. He said there were the aristocrats, the middle class, and the poor, and never would the lines blur. He said she created misery for herself, and it was true, she had. But in Paris she had transformed that misery into a possibility, and not even Father’s disapproval could change that.
People glanced her way, discussed her behind their fans, tried to place her among their acquaintances. She didn’t care. She could bear the gossip with Ellery’s love to support her.
She could almost hear her practical father’s voice saying, “He doesn’t love ye yet.”
But she had hardly begun to fight.
As she made her way and turned the corner toward the ballroom, the candelabras became few and far between. By use of illumination, the family deliberately encouraged the guests to stay near the veranda, and the dimly lit corridor wound before her.
It didn’t matter. She knew her way around every bit of Blythe Hall. During her childhood, she had learned each inch of the eighteenth-century house. It came into the Throckmorton family a mere forty years ago, but for her, this had always been home.
Pausing, she looked out a window onto the veranda. Ellery stood out there, trapped in an alcove. He couldn’t come to meet her, for he was cornered by Lord and Lady Longshaw, and by a girl . . . a rather handsome girl, tall and pretty, if a little awkward.
Celeste leaned her hands against the windowpanes.
Who was she? She had black hair, each strand shining in the torchlight. Her lips were shaped like a bow, waiting to be kissed. Not a spot was to be seen on her fair complexion. And her eyes . . . her eyes were violet and wide, and fixed on Ellery in slavish adoration.
Celeste snapped to attention.
It was Lady Hyacinth. Her rival. That pretty, soft, sweet-looking female was the girl Celeste would relieve of a husband.
Pressing her hand to her chest, Celeste took a breath.
She wished she hadn’t seen Hyacinth. It would have been better if she hadn’t. Then she wouldn’t be feeling this flood of . . . oh . . . call it what it was. Guilt. She felt guilty at the thought of hurting Hyacinth.
She didn’t know why she should. The girl had everything. A title, a fortune, two parents who adored her. She never had to work, she certainly didn’t have to stay up late remaking clothing she had accepted from the ambassador’s wife.
But there was something about the expression on her face as she looked at Ellery . . . as if she really loved him.
Celeste glared through the window. Well, too bad. If someone had to suffer, it might as well be her. Not Celeste. Not now. Not again.
Then someone joined the little group, and Celeste glared more fiercely. Garrick Throckmorton. The architect of this whole disaster. He was the one who deserved to suffer.
Of course, if one were to be fair, one might say Celeste wouldn’t be here now except for his offer of a position. But she didn’t feel like being fair.
He bowed, he spoke, he observed the little group solemnly. For as long as Celeste could remember, he had been the dark, cool, remote Mr. Throckmorton, cast in the shadows by the blazingly bright Ellery. He was equitable to a fault; none of the servants would hear a cross word about him, for he pensioned their elderly, cared for their sick and treated each of them with the respect due another human being.
Indeed, Celeste well knew what she owed Mr. Throckmorton. It was Mr. Throckmorton who had declared she should go to the Distinguished Academy of Governesses to further her education and learn a trade, and Mr. Throckmorton who had paid the initial cost. She had paid him back from her earliest earnings; Celeste couldn’t bear to think herself any further indebted to the Throckmorton family. So when the offer of a job as governess to Throckmorton’s daughters had arrived from Blythe Hall, she had been able to decide without feeling undue pressure.
Not that there had ever been any doubt. Ellery resided at Blythe Hall.
The little group outside the window appeared to be suffering an altercation, with Lord Longshaw speaking in a heated manner to Ellery while Lady Longshaw tugged at one arm. Lady Hyacinth tugged at the other while casting anxious glances at her betrothed. Ellery looked distracted, glancing at the house as if he wished to be elsewhere—and Celeste knew where that elsewhere was. She wanted him to be there almost as much as she wanted him to end his betrothal right now . . .
And with a bustle of skirts and an entourage of three footmen carrying covered silver trays, Frau Wieland arrived.
Celeste stared. Old Mr. Throckmorton had adored pastry and desserts and had begged Frau Wieland, famous for her strudel, to come from Vienna for a good salary and the promise of the best of the servants’ quarters. She had lorded it over the other servants ever since, and to a one they hated her. Now she waltzed into the middle of a ton party into the center of a lordly fight and demanded atte
ntion. And Mr. Garrick Throckmorton apparently thought she should have it. He gestured for quiet and indicated she should speak.
She did, so loudly that by leaning close to the window and by watching her lips, Celeste could catch a word or so.
“Magnificent new concoction . . . deserves attention . . . by invitation . . . Mr. Throckmorton said . . .”
Frustrated, Celeste put her ear right to the glass in time to hear her trumpet, “I present . . . la crème moka gateau.”
The footmen whisked the covers away and presented glasses filled with frothy brown, pink and white concoctions.
Mr. Throckmorton accepted the first one with an exclamation of pleasure. It appeared he had his father’s weakness for desserts.
By their expressions Lady Philberta, Lord and Lady Longshaw, Hyacinth and Ellery were as befuddled as Celeste, but they all took a spoon, tasted and nodded. Hyacinth nodded with a great deal of enthusiasm, Ellery with much less.
By his gestures Throckmorton urged him to eat more. Yielding, Ellery ate as rapidly as he could. Clapping Throckmorton on the shoulder, he tried to edge away.
Throckmorton smiled the kind of smile that raised goosebumps on Celeste’s arms, and glanced toward the window, his gray eyes wickedly amused.
She jumped back.
She didn’t know why. He surely couldn’t see her. The lights were bright outside. No candles glimmered in this part of the house. And she had no reason to hide from Mr. Throckmorton. None at all. But for some reason she didn’t want Mr. Throckmorton to think she spied on them.
He smiled toward the window, then moved Hyacinth to stand beside Ellery.
Celeste fled toward the ballroom.
5
Depending on her whim, the gardener’s wife, Aimee, had alternately cursed and praised the size and the age of the Blythe Hall kitchen. Yet Milford had always liked the room. You couldn’t call it cozy, not with the three worktables, or the huge fireplace with spit that took up one wall, or the ovens that were built into the brick. But when extra servants were brought in for a party and the place bustled with the business of cooking for a hundred guests and their servants, well, then it was a fine, loud, merry place filled with smells that reminded him of the days when his wife was in charge.
Except, of course, that above all the commotion, Esther’s voice rang out. Esther, who had taken Aimee’s place as head cook.
It wasn’t that Milford minded having another cook take over his wife’s domain. No, he was a sensible man who understood the need for food on a regular basis. It was Esther herself who had been the thorn in Milford’s side since the day she’d arrived, hired over from the Fairchild household, the third cook to arrive after Mrs. Milford’s death and the one who wouldn’t leave, no matter how fervently he wished it. And Scottish to boot—that is to say, stubborn, raw boned and sharp tongued. She had for the past eight years held the reins in the kitchen, and during that time he’d not had one peaceful meal. She didn’t care how loud the scullery maids got with their tales of which stable lad had asked them to Midsummer’s Night. Nor did she care if the laughter got too raucous or the jokes too salacious. All she cared about was whether the food got to the table warm and on time, and despite Milford’s worst expectations, that was always done. Always. No matter what calamity befell the kitchen—and he’d never sat in a kitchen uncursed with calamity—Esther always sailed through with flying colors.
But none of that vexed him. No, what truly vexed him was that she always dragged him into some spirited discussion. Dragged him in when all he wanted was to eat his meals in peace and quiet and then get back to his dirt and his flowers.
Right now the kitchen staff, temporary and permanent, struggled to produce the canapés that circulated with the footmen as well as the formal dinner that would be served at midnight. So it took the loud clang of a silver salver on the long kitchen table where Milford ate his supper to capture anyone’s attention. Herne stood there, eyes twinkling, belly heaving, and when he had everyone’s attention, he proclaimed, “Celeste is dancing with Mr. Ellery.”
As announcements went, this one provoked the desired effect. Brunella, the senior upstairs maid, froze with her fork in the air. Elva, the newest scullery maid, stood with her scrub brush upraised. Adair, the footman who had returned to reload his tray with a variety of canapés, stared at his superior with awestruck eyes.
Esther gave a great laugh that caught like contagion among the bustling kitchen staff. “Our little Celeste has gone to the ball at last!”
Every head turned toward Milford. The bench beneath his arse grew harder, the table before him jiggled, as close by his elbow, Arwydd mashed a kettle full of potatoes, and Milford’s head inched further toward his plate. Futilely, he wished he was in his greenhouse. Better to be coaxing the pinks to grow than to face this battery of interference and expectation. No one said anything for so long he had begun to hope they had given up on him.
Then Herne spoke. “Aren’t ye proud, Milford?”
Lifting his gaze, Milford realized that they watched him, bright-eyed with curiosity. No matter that he’d already made his thoughts clear to Celeste. No matter that his daughter and her goings-on were none of their concern. The servants had watched her grow up, most of them. A good number of them remembered his wife with affection. So, since they figured they had the right, they would badger him until he made a statement.
So he did. “Celeste should keep in her proper place,” he growled.
“But she’s beautiful,” Herne protested. “The lords are whisperin’ an’ guessin’ as t’ who she might be. I tell ye, she fits right in!”
Milford ignored the silly fool and went back to eating his plate of spinach dressed with vinegar and bacon.
“I vow, Milford, wearing that dour face ye’re like sheep droppings floating in the eggnog.” It was Esther who spoke. Of course it was Esther.
Driven to speech, he answered, “Stubborn.”
“I wonder where she got that from.”
“Don’t know.”
Alva stopped turning the coneys on the spit to ask, “Wouldn’t ye like fer yer daughter to marry Mr. Ellery?”
“Men like Mr. Ellery don’t marry the gardener’s daughter,” he answered.
“Celeste is as beautiful as any of those other, aristocratic girls,” Esther said, “and more sweetly mannered and smarter, too.”
He snapped, “I know my daughter’s value.”
“Ye’ve got a damned funny way of showing it.”
Milford’s temper seldom ignited. So seldom, in fact, he could count the times on his fingers and his toes. But something about this woman and her smug disdain and her good puddings brought a slow rise of color to his cheeks. Lifting his gaze, he stared at her levelly. “I guess that’s because, unlike everyone else here, I live in a world where the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and the rich marry the rich and the only time a gentleman looks on the gardener’s daughter is to give to her a bellyache that takes nine months to cure.”
Esther’s brown eyes flashed with yellow bits of flame. “And it’s people like you who shatter dreams that should come true.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so.” Sopping the last of his bread in the drippings, he wiped his face with his napkin and stood up. “But I don’t think it’s going to be me who shatters Celeste’s dreams.”
* * *
Moonlight shimmered through the open windows of the ballroom, gleaming on the waxed hardwood floors in long, faint trails, setting the carved gold leaf aglow, creating the fairyland Celeste recognized from her girlhood. On summer nights when the family was away, she had come here to pretend. Pretend she was waiting for Ellery, pretend he had arrived, pretend to dance in his arms, pretend to kiss his generous lips until she was breathless and swept by desire.
But tonight, pretend would yield to reality. Ellery would escape that trap Mr. Throckmorton had sprung. He would come and make all her dreams come true. He would, because otherwise Mr. Throckmorton would have won, and Ellery was t
he dashing one, the handsome one, the masterful one.
Well, perhaps not masterful, but he’d never had the chance to be. Not with Mr. Throckmorton always there being tall and dark and proper. But with the right encouragement, her encouragement, Ellery would be masterful from now on.
Gathering her skirts, she spun in a circle, letting happiness wash over her.
Yes, Ellery was a wizard at escaping the many snares set for him; she had seen him do it. Tonight he would escape into her arms, and nothing could destroy the happiness of being young, in love, and home after four long years in exile.
Finding herself standing in one of the long trails of moonlight, she glanced toward the doors. Ellery had yet to arrive, so she gave into the memories. Backing away, she took a running start and skated along the floor, her leather-soled slippers allowing a smooth glide all the way to the window. Laughing, she flung herself around and went back, running and sliding with hoydenish pleasure.
After all, if Ellery did happen to see her, she knew well how she looked. Youthful, carefree, charming. What crime to be caught enjoying a romp? The scent of beeswax rose from the floor and the sweet scent of night-blooming nicotiana rose from the garden outside and filled the room with its fragrance.
But when a large figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the corridor’s faint candlelight, she stopped in mid-glide. A glance showed him to be man-shaped, attired in a gentleman’s austere suit, and of approximately Ellery’s size and shape. She had imagined Ellery arriving with a laugh and a kiss. When the fellow cleared his throat, she knew it wasn’t Ellery. Ellery would never clear his throat at her in that tone.
Facing the door, she peered through the darkness.
Mr. Throckmorton stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, holding two glasses of champagne and wearing a quizzical smile. “I used to skate along these floors just like that,” he said. “Although I haven’t thought about it for years.”
Her sentiments warred between incredulity that Ellery had failed to appear and skepticism that Mr. Throckmorton had ever, in his whole somber life, ever slid along a beam of moonlight.