She waded towards him. ‘I think I have most of your brother’s lake in my hair.’
‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘Oh—so, so much.’ Celeste beamed at him. ‘I had forgotten how swimming— It makes you forget everything.’ Her smile faded. ‘Is that why you...?’
‘Yes. And for this.’ Jack indicated his arm.
Celeste touched the puckered skin gently. ‘Does it still hurt?’
‘Not really.’
Sunlight danced on the water and in her eyes. Droplets of lake water clung to the rough smattering of hair on Jack’s chest. Her camisole was plastered to her body like a second skin, making it completely transparent. Her nipples were hard and puckered with the cold, and clearly visible. Jack’s eyes were riveted on them. She did not feel embarrassed. In fact she felt emboldened. Desire twisted inside her. Jack’s eyes met hers. She stepped towards him. His arms went around her waist. His chest was surprisingly warm. It was not like before. No flare of anger to propel them towards each other. This time it was slow, a different kind of heat. She tilted her head. Sunlight dazzled her eyes until Jack’s head blocked it, and his lips met hers.
Different. He tasted of lake. Cool. Tentative. Like a first kiss. A gentle tasting, the sweetest of touches. Slow. A kiss with no purpose but to kiss. And to kiss. And then to kiss again. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her closer. Kissing. Only kissing. Her arousal was languid, melting, none of the fierce flames of before. She could kiss him for ever. This was the kind of kiss that would never end. Lips and tongues in a slow dance. Hands smoothing, stroking. Skin clinging, damp, heating.
Jack traced the line of her throat with butterfly kisses. He kissed the damp valley between her breasts. His mouth sought hers again, and their lips clung, still slowly, but deeper now. She kissed the pucker of his musket wound. She flattened her palms over the swell of his chest. His hands covered her breasts, making her nipples ache. The sweetest of aches, the gentlest but most insistent tugging of desire, making her sigh, and then making her moan.
She’d thought it was too much before. But this was too different. The dazed look in his eyes, his lack of resistance when she disentangled herself, told her he felt it too.
‘Thank you,’ she said gently, ‘for the swim.’ She began to wade ashore. She had hauled her gown over her wet undergarments and was wrapping the rest of her clothing into a bundle when Jack re-joined her. They walked slowly back to the Manor together in silence, words for once superfluous.
Chapter Seven
‘A very proper, very English young lady.’ Celeste repeated, looking blankly at Jack. They were in the studio, where she had been laying out her preliminary drawings to allow Lady Eleanor and Sir Charles to make their final selections, before she began the task of painting the actual canvases. ‘You think that my mother was of genteel stock?’
Jack nodded. He had taken a seat across from her at the table. In the two days which had passed since their early-morning swim, they had both been careful not to mention it or the kiss which had followed. Though as far as Celeste was concerned, it hung in the air, almost palpably, every time she looked at him.
She shuffled a bundle of rejected sketches, quite unnecessarily. ‘What makes you come to this conclusion?’
Jack tapped his pencil on the notebook in front of him. ‘A number of little things. Hasn’t it ever struck you as odd, for example, that the wife of a school teacher would employ a cook?’
‘I’ve never given it much thought. It’s just how things were.’
‘Then there’s this school you attended in Paris. It sounds as if it was a good one.’
Celeste frowned. ‘The girls were from good families. Titled, mostly, or very wealthy. Or both. That was one of the problems I had to deal with, being neither.’
‘You mean you were bullied?’ Jack’s hand tightened on his pencil. ‘I don’t know why, but I assumed that sort of thing was confined to boys.’
‘If you mean fighting, then it most likely is. Girls are more subtle,’ Celeste said grimly. ‘It doesn’t matter, I learned to hold my own. Besides, I cannot believe it was really so grand a school,’ she rushed on, having no desire to recall how effective the bullying had been. ‘We were not permitted a fire except in the dead of winter and then never in the dormitory. And the bed sheets were almost threadbare. It was hardly luxurious.’
‘Which confirms my point,’ Jack said with a tight smile. ‘My so-called exclusive prep school had dormitories that would have delighted a Spartan. Such privations don’t come cheap. Then there is her knowledge of dinner-party etiquette. And the comment about—what was it—a woman’s reputation. Your mother could draw and paint, but she couldn’t cook. Could she sew?’
‘She taught me to embroider.’
‘Precisely.’
Jack looked pleased. Celeste was unconvinced. ‘I never thought much about my mother’s origins. Why should I, when Maman was so determined that she had none? She would have preferred me to believe she had been baked like dough in an oven.’ Blind baked, Celeste added to herself, a brittle pastry with a hard crust.
She pushed back her chair and went over to her favourite spot at the window. Was she being unfair? Maman had been cold, distant, aloof. Certainly stern, and yet at other times she had looked...
Just as Jack had done that first morning at the lake.
Despair? Anguish? Whatever label one put on it, it was obvious now that her mother had indeed suffered. And she, Celeste, had been oblivious to it. All the signs had been right in front of her nose, and she had not noticed them. She shook her head in disgust at herself. ‘I have been an idiot! For an artist, quite the blind woman. Thinking I was the poor little schoolgirl, when really it was a case of all the other little schoolgirls being so very rich.’
Her fingers went to the locket around her neck. ‘That’s another thing,’ Jack said almost apologetically. ‘I doubt very much that your locket is a trinket. In fact I think you’ll find it’s made of diamonds and sapphire, not glass. There’s a maker’s mark. I’ll show you.’
Celeste took the locket off obediently. There it was. She looked at the portraits inside, painted in such a way that her mother gazed across at her. Lovingly? Her mother, who had claimed in her last letter, that she had always loved her. Was this locket proof as Jack said? Celeste found this almost impossible to believe.
Almost? She touched the miniature of her mother with the tip of her finger, an echo of Jack’s gesture with his own mother’s picture in the portrait gallery, she realised. But his had been one of unmistakable affection and love. Was hers?
She looked up, smiling faintly at Jack. ‘You have given me a great deal to think about,’ she said, snapping the locket shut.
A rap on the door heralded the arrival of her patrons. Celeste quickly made the final touches to her arrangement of sketches, ensuring the ones she favoured were most prominent, but when the door opened, it was to reveal Lady Eleanor alone.
* * *
‘My husband sends his apologies, Mademoiselle, he will be unable to join us this morning, but he desired me to make some preliminary selections from your work. I trust this is satisfactory?’
Without waiting for an answer, her ladyship made straight for the table where the sketches were laid out and began sifting through them. Jack cast Celeste an eloquent glance, and began unobtrusively to push the preferred drawings towards his brother’s wife.
‘Of course, these are just very rudimentary sketches to give you an idea of what the finished work would look like,’ Celeste said, ‘but I hope they are sufficient to allow you to make some decisions on the sequence in which you would like me to paint the formal gardens.’
Lady Eleanor examined the sketches carefully. It had always amused Celeste to witness her patrons’ reactions at this stage. Seeing their estates spread out before them on paper
almost always made them view their properties afresh, made them somehow grander, more magnificent, which in turn added to their own sense of consequence.
Lady Eleanor was no different. ‘I must say, I had not appreciated the epic sweep of the estate. You have managed to cover a great deal of ground in a very short time.’
‘Thank you. Monsieur Trestain has been most helpful. He has an excellent eye for the most pleasing views.’
‘Well, it is comforting to know that he has managed to occupy himself gainfully,’ Lady Eleanor said pointedly. ‘I expect you, Mademoiselle, being a—a woman of the world are rather more equipped to deal with Jack’s outbursts than a child. Robert,’ she continued, addressing Jack directly, ‘was sobbing his little heart out the other day after his encounter with you.’
Jack blanched. Celeste felt her fists curl. ‘If you do not mind me saying,’ she said, ‘when Jack refused Robert’s request in a perfectly reasonable manner, it was the child who threw the tantrum, not Jack.’
‘Celeste.’ Jack held up his hand to quiet her. ‘I am very sorry if I upset Robert, Eleanor.’
‘My son, like all small boys, is obsessed with all things military,’ her ladyship replied, her stiff manner giving way to a plaintive one. ‘He would hang on your every word for a first-hand account of Waterloo. Your brother tells me I must try to stop him bothering you, but Robert is such a naturally inquisitive little chap.’
‘He reminds me very much of Charlie at that age,’ Jack said. ‘Mad keen on fishing.’
‘And equally eager to hear his uncle’s account of what is our nation’s greatest victory. No disrespect intended, Mademoiselle. Really, Jack, is that too much to ask? Frankly, I’m at a loss to fathom you these days. I remember a time when you were more than happy to sit up until dawn, regaling Charles with your exploits. I know you are still recovering from your wounds, and that we must all make allowances for your—your— For the anguish you are suffering at having witnessed the deaths of so many of your comrades, but...’
‘Is that what Charlie thinks it is?’ Jack shook his head when Lady Eleanor made to answer. ‘No matter. I am sorry to have upset him, but I cannot— The days of my boasting of my army exploits are over, Eleanor, but I am more than happy to take Robert fishing instead.’
‘But I do not see...’ Making an obvious effort, Lady Eleanor bit back her remonstration. ‘That is kind of you, Jack.’
‘It is nothing. I do care for the boy, you know, regardless of how it may appear.’ Jack picked up some of Celeste’s sketches. ‘In the meantime, let us concentrate on your selections. Look at this study of the Topiary Garden. Do you not think that it is a great shame to have it cut down? When you see it afresh like this, through Mademoiselle’s clever eye, it really is quite lovely and wants only a little tidying up to bring it back to its former glory.’
‘Rather more than a little tidying up,’ Lady Eleanor replied, ‘and it is so very gloomy.’
Jack picked up another view of the Topiary Garden. ‘Look at this, though. Mademoiselle Marmion was telling me that though she’s painted some of the grandest estates in France, the Trestain Manor Topiary Garden is one of the finest examples she has ever seen.’
Lady Eleanor looked doubtfully at the sketch. ‘Really? I had no idea. Is this true, Mademoiselle?’
‘Why, yes,’ Celeste replied, intensely relieved that Jack had managed to turn the subject. ‘In France, the art of topiary is much admired. The best examples attract admirers from all over the country. I think that your garden, with only a few changes, could do the same.’
‘You would be leading the way for England,’ Jack said. ‘Your good sense in preserving the garden will be appreciated by generations of Trestains to come. Think about that, Eleanor.’
Her ladyship did, rewarding Celeste with a tight smile. ‘I wonder, Mademoiselle, if it is not too much trouble, if you could perhaps give me the benefit of your artistic eye and suggest a few enhancements. I can then discuss them with Sir Charles and our landscaper. Awarding you full credit for your contribution of course.’
Celeste nodded, slanting Jack a complicit smile. Lady Eleanor continued to sift through the drawings, laying a small selection to one side which, Celeste was pleased to note, contained most of her own favourites.
‘These are really very good, Mademoiselle,’ she said, sounding as if she meant it. ‘I am most pleased. Sir Charles will make the final selection tomorrow. You will excuse me now, I must go and speak to cook. Your Aunt Christina’s long-awaited annual gift of a haunch of prime Highland venison has finally arrived, Jack. Something of a family tradition, Mademoiselle,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘Every year we have a special banquet when it arrives. We will be celebrating the occasion tonight.’
Jack shifted uncomfortably, looking not at all enamoured by the prospect.
‘Your brother,’ Lady Eleanor said, ‘will be very much gratified by your presence. I believe that your aunt, in the accompanying letter, was most eager for you to partake of the beast, and particularly requested that Charles give her an account of the dinner—for it seems she has no hope of a letter from you.’
‘I have had my arm in a splint these past two months, Eleanor, in case it has escaped your attention.’
Her ladyship turned to Celeste, ignoring this remark. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion, I will entreat you to use any influence you have with Jack. Is it really so much to ask that he joins us en famille for a special dinner sent all the way from Scotland by his favourite relative?’
Celeste, taken aback by Lady Eleanor’s consulting her on any subject save art, found herself shaking her head.
‘You see? Mademoiselle Marmion agrees,’ her ladyship said, turning back to Jack.
‘I don’t think...’
But Celeste’s role had, it seemed, been played. ‘It is not as if we are even holding the usual grand banquet,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Not a single guest. Not even our closest neighbours. I told Charles that they would be most offended, but he said he cared nothing for any guest save you. So I take it you will not be letting him down?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eleanor, what a damned—dashed fuss over a bite of dinner. Yes,’ Jack said, ‘I’ll be there. Satisfied?’
‘Your brother will be, and that is what matters to me. You too are cordially invited of course, Mademoiselle Marmion. Until tonight, then.’
Lady Eleanor swept from the studio. Jack stared at the door, his jaw working. ‘It is just dinner,’ Celeste said tentatively. ‘Though I am surprised Lady Eleanor thinks me worthy of your aunt’s precious venison.’
Jack grimaced. ‘Obviously, she assumes that your presence makes the chances of my attendance more likely.’
Celeste coloured. ‘Have we been indiscreet?’ Her colour deepened. ‘You do not think that someone saw us at the lake the other morning?’ It was the first time either of them had mentioned it. She wished immediately she had not. Unlike those other kisses, the memory of this one was not inflammatory, but bittersweet.
‘No,’ Jack said, ‘I’m sure no one saw us. It’s one of the things I like about that place, it’s completely private.’
‘Unless someone hides behind a hawthorn tree.’
Jack’s smile was twisted. ‘As with so many things, you are the exception that proves the rule.’
Their eyes met and held. He reached out to touch her cheek. She turned her head. Her lips brushed his palm.
‘Celeste.’ His voice was filled with the same longing she felt. He took a step towards her, then halted. ‘You must be keen to get to work, now Eleanor has made some decisions. I will see you at this blasted dinner.’
Confused, frustrated, as much by her own reaction as Jack’s, Celeste turned her back on the closed door and set about stretching some canvases.
* * *
Jack put the final touches to his cravat. It was not
perfect, but it would do. At times like this, he missed his faithful army batman, but Alfred was happily ensconced many hundreds of miles away as the landlord of the Bricklayer’s Arms in Leeds, and besides, the last thing Jack really wanted was proximity to any of his former comrades. Still, no one could tie a cravat like Alfred.
He pulled on his waistcoat. Grey satin stripes, and one of his best. Quite wasted in the country, but Eleanor would appreciate the effort he was making. As she’d appreciate the formality of his cutaway black coat and silk breeches. They were considerably looser on him than the last time he’d worn them to the now-infamous ball held by Lady Richmond on the eve of Waterloo. He closed his eyes, but it seemed a set of evening clothes, even one with such associations, did not trigger anything other than a vague discomfort, and that was coming from his shoes, which had always pinched.
Perhaps he was on the mend, mentally as well as physically? Perhaps this thing, this nostalgia, whatever the hell it was, would heal, as his shoulder was doing, and his arm.
‘Nostalgia,’ Jack said viciously as he shrugged himself into his coat. Such a soft, comfortable little word to describe what he felt. Was it all in his head? But the pain, the tearing blackness, the white heat of his uncontrollable fury, the terror that made him run from himself, the sweats and the shakes, and the dull ache in his head, they were all too real.
‘I am not mad.’ He jumped as the porcelain dish containing his cuff-links clattered to the floor. It was not broken, thank the Lord. He picked up the scattered links, replacing the dish carefully. If he was insane he wouldn’t recognise or understand what it was that made him feel the way he did. And that, he understood only too well. How could he fail too when he lived through it again and again, almost every night without fail?
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