‘Lady Busselton, why am I not surprised to find you here?’
‘Indeed, why should you be surprised over anything after my cleverness in setting up yesterday’s little Vauxhall tryst?’ Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she twisted her head. ‘But, Perry, there are a few matters you’d do well to bear in mind if we’re to ensure the outcome is as satisfactory as required.’
‘As satisfactory as required …’ He repeated her words in a thoughtful tone as he took a seat beside her after a perfunctory bow. ‘What exactly do you consider satisfactory, Xenia? I’m curious, for reflection has me wondering if there might be greater depths to your interest in all this.’
She looked indignant. ‘I am a dear friend of Charlotte’s. Indeed, your sister is like the sister I never had, so of course I want to see her avenged.’
Peregrine nodded slowly. ‘A thousand pardons if I have insulted you, but Xenia, there is usually some ulterior motive—deeper than would appear—behind everything you do.’
Xenia fluttered her fan with even greater enthusiasm. ‘Have I not been transparent, Perry? I want Miss Rosington exposed … I want to see her reputation in tatters as part payment of the terrible cruelty she’s imposed on your good sister. And then I want you.’ Her smile was more a simper, and for the first time Peregrine wasn’t felled by a spear of lust at the mere thought of Xenia’s naked body writhing beneath his own. Rather, his mind was occupied by the conundrum occasioned by the mixed responses he had to Miss Rosington and the consequences of … exposing her.
Harlot and husband-stealer? She’d certainly been responsive to Peregrine’s overtures, but not in the way that suggested either epithet applied. And Peregrine was certainly speared by lust at the very thought of having her naked body writhing beneath his. Yet ruining her publicly was another matter.
He took up the dish of tea Xenia offered him and smiled at her pique over the rim. Yes, it was true that the last time anyone had seen his sister’s betrothed was in a tumble of Miss Rosington’s petticoats. It was also true that the last four letters of Miss Rosington’s name were written on a note found concealed in the locket Charlotte had ripped from Harry Carstairs’ neck that fateful night.
Certainly, if Miss Rosington needed to be called to account, Peregrine was very happy to be just the man to do that. But he would not do so without conclusive evidence.
Xenia raised one finely arched and darkened eyebrow as she patted the seat beside her. ‘I have it all planned. Won’t Miss Rosington’s heart be aflutter when she’s introduced to the handsome stranger who whisked her into his arms at Vauxhall the other night? What a surprise that you both find yourselves house guests of Lord and Lady Cowdril?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Well, I will confess to a little meddling, but you will be the one to discover everything you need to know about the circumstances surrounding Harry Carstairs’ flight into the night.’ She held out a languid hand in invitation for Perry to come closer.
In other circumstances Peregrine would have caged the dainty little ring-encrusted hand she placed upon his thigh as he obeyed her summons, but today he felt a very real disinclination for contact.
Xenia raised an eyebrow, as if she sensed his reserve. ‘Just remember, my dear Perry,’ she said softly, ‘that it’s not worth falling in love with the little baggage.’
One glance at her hard, beautiful face reminded Peregrine that Xenia was not one to cross.
***
Celeste was relieved at the opportunity her Aunt Branwell offered to be away from the stifling scrutiny of her betrothed for a couple of days.
Her aunt and her mother had been childhood friends of their hostess, Lady Cowdril, who had surprisingly, at the last minute, extended her invitation, saying how delightful it would be to include ‘little Celeste’ in the small house party at their riverfront estate.
Celeste was now enjoying her couple of days’ respite from Raphael’s unrelenting pressure, her mind occupied by handsome dark-eyed strangers as she sat beside her aunt, both in heavy, straight-backed chairs that had been hauled outside by the servants and set up on the grassy bank. Several other guests lounged nearby, drinking tea, while her aunt dispensed advice.
‘So you might not be as overwhelmingly enamoured of your husband-to-be as we would all wish, but it is mayhap a blessing in disguise.’ Lady Branwell had correctly surmised the reason for her niece’s lack of spirits and was pursuing a topic Celeste would rather have left alone. Her marriage was inevitable; discussing it was akin to worrying a wound with a thorn.
Aunt Branwell fluttered her sandy lashes over thoughtful hazel eyes. She’d always been kind to Celeste. ‘I had much for which to be grateful in my marriage to poor Joshua, so recently carried away by that terrible fever. I never loved him—nor wished to, as you appear to deem important—but as a husband he offered me freedom I could not have enjoyed as a spinster.’ She gazed a moment at a family of ducks breaking the surface of the smooth water, then directed Celeste a candid stare. ‘Now, as a widow, I’ve secured all the freedom I could wish for. I can think of no better husband than Raphael for one of your flightiness, Celeste.’
Celeste merely raised an eyebrow. If her aunt considered her flighty there was nothing to be gained by objecting. Aunt Branwell did not like to be contradicted. Her aunt had never been a beauty, but she’d been clever at cementing a position of relative power and influence within her own household. Celeste suspected her late uncle Joshua was enjoying a lot more freedom six feet under than he had when he was living.
‘It’s time to take a turn about the gardens. Come, Celeste.’ With an imperious nod of her head the older woman rose and put her hand on her niece’s forearm. ‘You are young and beautiful with the world at your feet, if you only knew how to engineer matters to your own pleasing. Do not make too much of your objections to Raphael. If he’s formed other interests, disregard them. It’s a wife’s duty to turn a blind eye, but do not forget that it also bolsters your own position when can follow your own interests after the line is secured.’
Celeste cast a horrified look at her aunt but was prevented from responding by the arrival of Lady Cowdril, who had left her indoor guests.
‘The weather is smiling on us, ladies. Come, let us walk. Cowdril is with the gentlemen, no doubt settling up after last night. I’ve been assured the damage is not too dire, though my husband declares he’s determined to win back what he lost at the whist table. Not that I have any great hopes on the matter, especially with the arrival of our new guest. Lord Peregrine is a notable player.’
Celeste froze. Lord Peregrine. The brother of the woman Harry Carstairs was to marry? Here? Her heart began to hammer and her throat closed up. She’d never met the gentleman who was considered a prize catch and a notable philanderer, and she never wanted to. Especially not now, for what if his sister had indeed recognised Celeste as the woman who’d rushed into the night with her betrothed, Harry Carstairs?
‘My dear, you look pale,’ remarked Lady Cowdril with furrowed brow. ‘Perhaps you’re not up to a walk.’
Celeste shook her head. ‘I think a walk is just what I need,’ she replied faintly. She certainly didn’t want to be indoors, where the gentlemen would be on hand to greet their anticipated guest. Perhaps she could find some excuse to miss dinner. Though surely if the viscount had been made aware of Celeste’s role in his sister’s predicament, he’d have called her to account by now.
It was all she could take comfort from.
***
Lord Cowdril’s family seat dated back to Elizabethan times, with neat gravelled paths and formal gardens providing a charming venue for gentle exercise. Lady Cowdril, who was easily exerted, never went beyond the second tier of rose bushes, she declared, due to her palpitating heart. The opening lines of her sentence, suggesting a return to the house, however, was truncated by clear delight and a volte-face.
‘Perry will give me his arm,’ she declared in robust tones, and they all turned to observe a figure issue from the front portico and dow
n the steps, advancing towards them.
Perry? Celeste raised her eyebrows in a silent question regarding the identity of their new visitor, but as he was nearly upon them she followed the cue of the rest of her party: curtseying as she inclined her head in greeting of the arrival whose tall frame was coming into focus. Though to be sure, no one’s heart could be pounding as fiercely as hers, even Lady Cowdril’s in the midst of one of her palpitations.
She ventured a glance from beneath lowered lashes. He was impressive, even from a distance. Unusually, he wore his dark hair naturally, tied in a queue at the back, with informal country attire: knee breeches and knee boots with a dark wool coat. Yes, even from a distance she saw his eyes were very piercing.
Swallowing with difficulty, she was alarmed to observe, as he approached, that they were focused on her. Could it be that this gentleman, whose features were gaining greater distinction with every step, did indeed know her for her role in his sister’s distress?
She frowned as she noticed his full lips were curved in a smile; a smile that seemed only for her; and her heart did a skittering dance at the clear interest of this inimitable Viscount Peregrine as he rounded the rose bushes and finally came to stand in full view before them.
Dear Lord. Cognisance was like a stone dropping to the pit of her stomach. Those lips had covered hers not two nights before in a secluded arbour at Vauxhall Gardens. Those arms had held her against him in a lust-filled moment of abandonment. Sweet mercy, but Perry—whoever he really was to Lady Cowdril—was Celeste’s handsome stranger.
She stood aside in rigid panic as the formalities were conducted. It only grew worse. This was Viscount Peregrine? Her heart rate ratcheted up several more notches. What would he say? How would he respond? Would he reveal her for the bold strumpet he no doubt thought her? Would she still be able to hold her head high by the end of the house party?
When, by some strange rearrangement of pairings, she found herself walking by his side, having no choice but to rest her hand on the forearm he offered her, she had completely lost the power of speech.
Lady Cowdril had managed one more turn around the rose bushes before seating herself with Celeste’s Aunt Branwell. However the viscount, or Perry as everyone called him, had evinced a strong desire to admire the roses, calling upon Celeste’s recently lauded expertise.
The kindling look he sent her as they paused by the blooming bushes brought a surely far more vibrant bloom to her cheeks.
Lowering his head, as if to elicit some opinion on a deep red, velvet rose, he murmured, ‘Ah, the Apothecary’s Rose.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Now I have you all to myself.’
She wasn’t sure what to make of his words. Should she start with an abject apology for her behaviour? A declaration she was not in the habit of consorting with strange men? Neither seemed appropriate when his eyes were twinkling with suppressed humour. Bending to smell the rose, she managed, ‘I prefer to call it by its less pedestrian name, the Red Rose of Lancaster.’ Self-consciously, she brushed an escaped strand of hair from her cheek. Then, summoning up all her courage, she whispered as she cast him an appealing look, ‘Should I be afraid?’
The look he levelled upon her was one of singular calculation. He chuckled. ‘Woe betide The House of Lancaster, for they did not prevail, did they? Hmm, Miss Rosington, your question depends on your assessment of our unexpected little encounter the other night. Was it pleasing, or were you never more relieved than when I melted into the dark? I must say, it really is the most extraordinary coincidence to find you here, when I’d thought never to lay eyes on you again.’ Plucking the rose, he handed it to her with a bow. ‘Perhaps the Rose of Lancaster will one day be an emblem of victory, but for my purposes right now, please accept it as a token of peace.’ He straightened, that wicked, difficult-to-interpret smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Nevertheless, to return to the subject of our little encounter … As I’d planned to rectify that little matter and ensure I was in a position to lay more than my eyes upon you again, Miss Rosington, perhaps you could say that fate has played into my hands most unexpectedly. You are even more ravishing in the harsh light of day than you were when last we met.’
Celeste shot him a startled look, mixed emotions roiling within her as she found him smiling down at her with both amusement and calculation.
‘You are too kind, my lord,’ she murmured, dropping her eyes as she took the rose, stepping forward to resume their walk. His words were both shocking but curiously exciting. She glanced at the ladies to ensure she was not likely to become the latest subject of their gossip, but they were well occupied with their own gossiping, and half obscured by the rose bushes.
‘A very pretty blush for a maiden who must be accustomed to having praise lavished upon her. So you are a friend of Lady Cowdril? Or your aunt is?’
‘I’ve known Lady Cowdril since I was a child. I did not know who you were, my lord. I don’t know what you must think of my—’
He stayed her rush to lay bare her shame with a finger upon her lips. His lips quirked and his dark eyes seemed to smoulder with everything that swirled between them. Again she felt the sharp rush of sensation spear her belly; the sensation that was familiar to her only in the presence of this gentleman.
‘Your behaviour came from the heart, Miss Rosington, for if you did not know who I was, then I can only be delighted that you found my attentions so pleasing based purely on your honest reaction to me as an ordinary man. You have no idea how delightful that is to a gentleman such as myself, who is constantly fielding off advances.’
His smile, warmer now, more sincere, made Celeste’s heart hammer even harder. So he didn’t condemn her? Nor, it seemed, had he drawn any association between her and his sister.
Thank the good Lord.
He also seemed to misconstrue the extent of her relief for something else, together with her apparent willingness to pursue that which began by a hanging lantern on a plane tree in Vauxhall. For now he had taken her hand, a gesture concealed by the lush greenery, and one that was doing extraordinary things to Celeste’s equilibrium.
He put his head close to hers and she closed her eyes and inhaled with excitement the fragrant breeze bearing the scent of roses. ‘I can’t tell you how much I anticipate the following two days,’ he murmured, ‘now that we have been thrown together in this singular way.’
Celeste opened her eyes to see him straighten, a regretful smile tugging at the corner of his oh so kissable mouth. ‘Now, your aunt is signalling to you, but before you go to her …’ He hesitated, bending slightly to take her hands. ‘I’d like you to know that I shall be admiring the daffodils beneath the mulberry tree by the lake just before dinner. Ten minutes before we are due into the dining room, in fact.’ He straightened, dropping her hands, and for one thrilling moment Celeste imagined he was about to brush her cheek with his fingertips.
‘Until later, Miss Rosington …’
Celeste blinked stupidly as he offered her an elegant bow before turning on his heel as Lady Branwell came to claim her.
She was still in a daze when her aunt began describing the details of some titillating on-dit to which she’d just been made privy, no doubt intended as a salutary warning on the need for becoming chasteness in her niece.
Celeste was not in the mood to heed any kind of moral guidance right now. Clearly, there could be no misinterpreting the viscount’s single-minded interest. If she had half a brain, or at least any consideration for her reputation, she knew she should nip this in the bud. She should certainly not for a moment consider meeting Lord Peregrine alone, anywhere, under any circumstances.
But her heart hammered nevertheless at the interest this handsome, raven-haired scion of elegance and refinement showed in her; and she felt the tug of something deeper than superficial desire, although that on its own was compelling enough to throw caution to the winds.
‘Celeste, are you chasing after fairies or are you coming indoors with us?’
Celes
te raised her head to attend to her aunt. Was she chasing fairies, she wondered as she trailed after the two older women?
Or was Celeste chasing after the first very real prospect of something that might flourish from her barren heart and offer her a happiness she would never know with Raphael?
Chapter Four
Celeste paced her bedchamber in an agony of indecision. There was nothing to be gained other than exposure and ruin should she indulge in this wicked, clandestine meeting just before dinner.
Unless it was to make clear to him that under no circumstances would she risk her good name by indulging in wicked, clandestine meetings with the presumptuous said viscount, now or in the future. Obviously she’d overstepped all notions of proper behaviour at Vauxhall Gardens, and she needed to ensure he understood she would on no account be up for such adventures again.
It was that which determined her, for the truth was she was too restless to remain in her dressing room and hope that her failure to materialise would send the required message. No, far better to see the viscount in person and make it clear she was betrothed, she deeply regretted her shameful impropriety, but she could never find herself alone with Lord Peregrine again.
The trouble was that ten minutes later, beneath the mulberry tree, at the requisite moment, midway through spouting her rehearsed little speech, the deeply interested, smouldering look of that gentleman almost completely undid her. His close proximity made the constriction of her stays almost unbearable, while her throat thickened so much she could barely push out the words, though she tried valiantly enough.
As she floundered while trying to explain that she could never see him alone again, he considered her words thoughtfully, his long shadow easier for Celeste to focus on than his face, which she now thought the handsomest of any she’d gazed upon.
‘What you’re saying, Miss Rosington, is you allowed your heart to rule your head. That while you are pledged to your cousin, you were swayed by your physical impulses, which is your excuse for kissing me.’
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