In My Wildest Dreams

  Celeste wasn’t shocked; in France, affairs between married partners were treated as normal. But she glanced behind her, then at Mr. Throckmorton. “How did you know who . . . ?”

  “I have excellent night vision.” In a reflective tone, he said, “As does Mr. Monkhouse, I believe.” He gestured around him. “Now in here, I wouldn’t allow Mother to change very much. She wanted to replace the chairs with those monstrosities with claw feet and lions’ head. I find the room pleasant and frequently read to Penelope here, and I refuse to have the child wake at night with nightmares of alligators and giant cats.”

  Celeste grinned. The man definitely disliked the disorder surrounding the renovations.

  “For one thing, if Penelope has a nightmare, Kiki has one twice as dreadful and we’re forced to endure days of histrionics. In French.”

  “In French?”

  “Kiki won’t speak English, although she’s a bright child and I know she understands us.” He grimaced. “You understand the language well, you know our home and how we expect her to behave, and I’m depending on you to return us to serenity.”

  If the situation was half what Mr. Throckmorton had described, she would have her work cut out for her. “I’ll do my best.”

  “However, I don’t want you to think you will be in slavery to the children. The children have a nursemaid, so your duties will be limited to the classroom. And because of Kiki’s great excitement at the houseparty, I believe it would be futile to expect you to take over your duties this week—if indeed you ever have to take over those duties to which I summoned you.”

  “I don’t want you to think I am unwilling, sir!”

  “Not at all.” With a gesture, he indicated she should proceed him down a short, narrow corridor with a set of double doors at the end. “I was not commenting on your eagerness, only on Ellery’s good luck in having two beautiful young women competing for his attentions.”

  “I am not competing for his attentions,” she answered with adamant indignation.

  “No, one can scarcely call it a competition. As soon as his rash has disappeared, I’m sure you’ll no longer have to settle for the poor substitute of his brother.”

  She shouldn’t have made known her disappointment at Mr. Throckmorton’s dancing attendance on her, nor voiced her suspicions of his motives. “I never—”

  “Nonsense, of course you did. I know exactly how I measure up to Ellery.” He pulled a wry face. “It’s not been easy growing up with the inevitable comparisons, but I have had the compensation of my work.”

  She had been rude. She hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings. Indeed, she’d never supposed Mr. Throckmorton capable of feelings. “Really, Mr. Throckmorton, I never meant you to think—”

  “Mr. Throckmorton?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You used to call me Garrick.”

  Oddly enough, his comment shocked her more than anything else that had happened in this very curious evening. “I . . . was a child. I didn’t know how improper my behavior was.”

  “I liked it. You were charming, with your big solemn eyes and your diffident smile.” He halted beside double doors. “You’re still charming, but in such a different way. Your smile, your confidence, your gaiety, your style . . . you’ve grown into the kind of lady any gentleman would be proud to have on his arm.”

  She glanced to the side, down to the floor, abashed at having him speak to her in such a manner. In such a tone.

  Leaning close, he sniffed. “Your perfume. It’s wonderful—a combination of citrus, cinnamon and, I think, ylang-ylang.”

  She gasped. How had he known?

  “I’m sorry. I’ve embarrassed you.” He began to step back.

  Impulsively, she caught his hand. She looked into his face. “No! It’s not that, it’s just I’ve never thought that you might . . . be . . .”

  “Interested in women?”

  He smiled, and the smile left her in no doubt that he was, in fact, very interested in women. Amazingly, interested in her. In a voice that caressed her skin like dark velvet, he said, “Dear little Celeste, when I look on you, I think of only one thing.” He moved closer.

  Wide-eyed, she backed to the wall.

  “I think that to kiss you would be one of the delights of my life.”

  Realization struck her; his marriage might have been a sensible union, but he had put his wife through her paces. Celeste pressed her spine hard against the wall, but the plaster didn’t yield. She didn’t disappear, only watched with a mixture of consternation and heart-thumping awareness as he leaned down. His lips touched hers. Her eyes fluttered shut. Then she was involved in the stunning sensation of being kissed. By Mr. Throckmorton. And . . . and it wasn’t repulsive.

  Indeed, quite the contrary.

  Twice before, once in England and once in France, stupid men had grabbed at her and kissed her. She had given each of them his chance, been impressed with neither, and had told herself that was because she loved Ellery. Only Ellery could give her the kiss that awakened her passion.

  But Mr. Throckmorton threatened to prove that myth wrong. For he provided her with unexpected pleasure. Very . . . unexpected . . . pleasure. His breath washed over her skin, warm, scented with whisky, redolent with sensuality. His lips, smooth and firm, pressed against hers with the utmost subtlety. He adjusted their union, reacting as if her response fascinated him.

  Disjointed thoughts flashed through her mind. She ought to slide down the wall and out of this kiss. He was broader than she’d realized. She was aghast at them both. She liked it when he pressed a little more firmly . . . at his gentle increase, her head fell back against the wall. Mon Dieu, he could read her thoughts! He knew everything—when goosebumps swept her skin, when her breathing quickened, when the unforeseen rush of blood in her veins brought certain body parts to tingling awareness.

  Still her hands dangled at her side, disengaged from the activity. The awkward freedom of her hands was the only way she kept her sanity in this demented moment of . . . of . . . well, not passion. It couldn’t be passion between her and the grave Mr. Throckmorton. It just couldn’t.

  He broke the kiss.

  She thought he had set her free. And she had not been completely swept away. Not as long as she’d kept her head enough to not touch him as she wished.

  Then he showed her the true feebleness of her pretext. He gripped her waist and pulled her up onto her toes. Catching her wrists, he brought her palms up and around to cup his neck. Now she embraced him as fully as he embraced her, and she couldn’t—didn’t—remove her hands. Instead she held him, fingers clutching the cloth of his formal coat. Pulling her away from the wall, he bent her over his arm. His chest crushed her breasts, his body enveloped hers with unfamiliar heat.

  He commanded, “Open your lips.”

  “Why?”

  “Very good.” His lips moved on hers as he murmured that praise.

  She could taste him. Because he . . . because he slid his tongue inside her mouth.

  He sampled her as if she were a pastry made especially for him. He acted as if she were cream and sugar, a delectable indulgence. He breathed with her, savored her, filled her with heat and damp and passion.

  She went limp, relying on him to support her, to guide her, to teach her. Because he did all of those things, and superbly.

  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.
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  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

  “Dear!” 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 aban
doned 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.