In My Wildest Dreams

by Christina Dodd

  “I was packed and preparing to leave Paris anyway. Monsieur Ambassador was transferred to a post in the East Indies. Madame Ambassador begged me to go with her, and the dear children, but I could not. I wanted to come back. I missed Suffolk.”

  “And your father?” A less-than-subtle reminder of her background.

  Her smile broadened. “Definitely my father, and all the servants who helped raise me after my mother died.” She gestured about her, calling his attention to the usually unnoticed staff of Blythe Hall. “Especially Esther, who always welcomed me in the kitchen regardless of how busy she was.”

  So Celeste acknowledged her background, but claimed the right to move between classes. Beautiful, intelligent, charming . . . dangerous. This woman was dangerous.

  Stepping back, he viewed her again. The plain braided hairstyle revealed, without embellishment, the angular bones of her face. He wouldn’t proclaim her exquisite, as Ellery did, but he would call her unique. Her chin was broad, her lips full, her forehead clear. Her brows gave wing over eyes that were a clear, changeable hazel, amused with him and in control of the circumstances.

  Then her gaze moved beyond him, and all that control vanished. She became eager, animated, almost coltish in her excitement.

  He turned to see Ellery looking tense.

  “There you are!” Ellery extended his hand. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  With that generous smile that lit her face, she took his hand. “I’ve been waiting.”

  For too long, Throckmorton filled in. She wore an expression of unrequited love—long suppressed. And triumph—she had gotten Ellery’s attention at last.

  What a tangle, and it was up to Throckmorton to unsnarl it.

  3

  “Didn’t I tell you, Garrick?” Ellery grasped Throckmorton’s arm. “Isn’t she exquisite?”

  “Exquisite and more.” Throckmorton looked down at Ellery’s fingers. Ellery was creasing the ultrafine black cloth of Throckmorton’s conservatively tailored suit, and Throckmorton allowed him the familiarity. After all, Ellery was the handsome one, Throckmorton was the sensible one, and the constant turmoil around Ellery had long ago convinced Throckmorton of the luxury of being the sensible one.

  Yet he couldn’t resist toying with his brother. Ellery still didn’t recognize his exquisite creature for who and what she was. “Celeste was telling me that she worked for the ambassador’s family in Paris.”

  “Ah, yes. Worked. Paris.” Ellery’s brow knit as he tried to connect “work” with his mystery lady. “Celeste . . .”

  Throckmorton had begun the game, but Celeste joined in. “Imagine that, Ellery. Paris for three whole years! The boulevards, the music, the food, the dancing . . .”

  “I can’t imagine.” Ellery stared fixedly at her, closer to placing her but not yet able to imagine who she might be.

  “You’ve been there, haven’t you?” she asked him.

  “Paris? Briefly, on my tour.” His thin lips turned down. “A majestic city, if odiferous.”

  Paris had had nothing on Kashmir, not in majesty nor in odor, but Throckmorton never discussed his time in India. No one—certainly not Ellery—understood the fascination of the mountainous land and its mysterious people, and no one knew about the time he had spent living among the nomads, fighting their fights, trying to make a peace in a land where peace existed only as a long-ago legend.

  Stanhope knew, of course. Stanhope had been there at his side the whole time. The bond between them was different from the bond between the brothers. A bond not of blood, but of shared experiences. Yet Stanhope had been restless lately, edgy in a way Throckmorton didn’t understand. Perhaps his secretary needed a transfer within the organization. But not yet. Throckmorton needed him too much to transfer him yet.

  In a conversational tone much at odds with his dark ruminations, Throckmorton said, “I stayed in Paris for a few months on my way back to England. I enjoyed it, but surely nothing could compare to living there.”

  Celeste’s smile again blossomed, taking her from handsome to magnificent. “I loved it.”

  “You already knew the language.”

  “My mother taught me,” she concurred.

  Bewildered, Ellery asked, “Your mother was French?”

  “A charming woman,” Throckmorton said. “I’m surprised you don’t remember, Ellery.”

  Celeste allowed her eyes to twinkle at Throckmorton.

  The daughter had all the charisma of the mother. Mrs. Milford had had a bevy of admirers among the servants, and occasionally among the gentlemen visitors. Although she had been steadfast in her devotion to Milford, incidents had occurred . . .

  Was Celeste like her mother, unwavering in her fidelity? Like her father, dedicated to her work? Or was she nothing but a giddy girl, seeking only fun and a life of leisure? Testing her, he said, “The Paris art galleries are magnificent, truly the equal of any city in Europe.”

  Leaning toward him, she exclaimed, “Did you go to the Louvre? Most people love the Mona Lisa, but I adored the Egyptian antiquities. And the Greek marbles! Did you see the statues?”

  So she had a thought in her head. He didn’t know whether to be relieved she would be a capable teacher to the children, or disappointed that she would be all the more fascinating to Ellery. “I did enjoy the statues. I suppose you escorted your charges to the museums.”

  “Oh, yes. And sometimes went alone.”

  “What charges are those?” Ellery asked.

  Throckmorton ignored him. “For the most part, the work must have kept you chained to the schoolroom.”

  She turned to face him fully, but she retained Ellery’s fingers in her own. “Not at all. The society there is much freer, less structured—a result of the revolution, no doubt. Monsieur et Madame Ambassador encouraged me to join their parties, and I met so many people—Eugene Delacroix, the painter. Monsieur Rendor, the Hungarian revolutionary. Monsieur Charcot, who hypnotizes people and makes them act in amazing fashions.” She smiled fondly, enigmatically. “And dear, dear Count de Rosselin.”

  Like a dog snapping a dangled bone, Ellery asked, “Who’s Count de Rosebud?”

  “Rosselin,” she corrected placidly. “He is a gentleman of the old school, kind, generous, knowledgeable. He taught me so much—to enjoy life, to dress well, to cook, to laugh at myself.”

  “I hate him,” Ellery said.

  “He is eighty-six years old,” she finished.

  Ellery stared at her, then threw back his head and laughed aloud, a burst of enthusiastic merriment that drew all eyes. “You’re a minx.”

  Time to dash some cold water on Ellery’s ebullience before they attracted too much attention. In as dry a tone as he could manage, Throckmorton said, “Well put, Ellery. I was thinking the same thing. Our little Miss Milford has grown up to be a minx.”

  Ellery’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Miss . . . Milford.”

  Celeste waited placidly for Ellery to make the connection. When he did not, she stopped the elderly footman to take a glass of champagne and a single ripe strawberry from the bowl on his tray. “Herne, so good to see you.”

  The footman reddened and shot a nervous glance at the brothers. “Good t’ see ye, Miss Celeste, lookin’ so well.” Giving way to joy, he grinned. “Lookin’ pleasin’!”

  “I had a good visit with my father this afternoon.” She looked sideways at Ellery, then back at Herne. “I’ll be down in the kitchen first thing in the morning to see the rest of you—Esther, and Arwydd, and Brunella . . . is Frau Wieland still the pastry chef?”

  “Indeed she is.” Herne grimaced. “Bossy as ever.”

  “London and Paris were wonderful, but I’ve missed you all so much.”

  At last, light dawned over Ellery’s perfect features.

  “The gardener’s daughter,” Ellery exclaimed. “My God, you’re Celeste Milford!”

  Throckmorton had to admit Celeste handled Ellery’s dismay well, sipping her champagne while waiti
ng to hear her fate. Would she be accepted, or would she be hustled away to hide in the servants’ quarters?

  Surely even infatuated Ellery had to see she must go. Paris society be damned; in the English ton, one’s only association with the gardener’s daughter was to instruct her to pull a weed.

  With the intention of adding to Ellery’s dismay, Throckmorton drawled, “Very good, Ellery. Very democratic of you to invite the gardener’s daughter to your betrothal party. If one didn’t know better, one might mistake you for an American.”

  A tactical error, Throckmorton saw at once. Ellery must be truly infatuated—or truly rebellious, for he said, “A woman as beautiful as Celeste doesn’t need the deceitful approval of the ton.”

  Herne stood rooted in place, tray extended.

  “Champagne?” Throckmorton queried his brother. “Strawberry?”

  Ellery glared. “I hate champagne, and strawberries give me the mange.”

  “Do you still break out in those disgusting scaly patches?” Throckmorton asked. “The ones that make you itch?”

  “I hardly think this is the occasion to talk about it,” Ellery snapped. “Now, where’s the brandy? Where’s the cheese? Why are we serving this?”

  “Champagne and strawberries are Lady Hyacinth’s favorites.” As he spoke to Ellery, Throckmorton fixed Celeste with a meaningful gaze. “You remember Lady Hyacinth. She’s your betrothed.”

  “She should have remembered that Ellery is allergic to them. I did.” Celeste nibbled on the ripe red fruit. “The strawberries are wonderful, Mr. Throckmorton. Did they come from my father’s greenhouse?”

  For all the notice Ellery took, Throckmorton might not even have mentioned Hyacinth. No, all Ellery’s attention was fixed on the vision of Celeste with her rosy lips around the strawberry.

  With winsome coquettishness, she finished the fruit, placed the stem on Herne’s tray, and laid her hand on Ellery’s arm. “You’re very kind, Ellery. I’ve always worshipped you from afar, did you know that?”

  Know that? He didn’t even know you were alive. But Throckmorton had learned his lesson, and he clamped his mouth shut.

  Ellery lost all the starch in his spine as he gazed at the slip of a girl beside him. “Worshipped me? That’s a persuasive claim.”

  “From afar. I used to watch the parties from over there”—waving her tall champagne glass, she indicated a small marble alcove in the garden—“and you were always so charming, so handsome. I fell in love with you while watching you dance. The only gnat in the soup was—you weren’t dancing with me.”

  “I can make that up to you right now. Miss Milford, will you dance with me?” Ellery extended his gloved hand.

  Eager to assist her, Herne snatched away her champagne.

  She thanked him with a smile. Putting her hand into Ellery’s, she let him sweep her into a waltz.

  “Champagne, Mr. Throckmorton?” Herne asked.

  “Hm. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.” He accepted a glass, then stopped Herne when he would have hurried off. “Celeste is a lovely woman.”

  “Yes, sir,” Herne answered. “So sweet an’ kind, willing t’ help, an’ smart! Schooled by yer own instructor, sir, an’ that gennaman said he’d never seen a child as quick as her, lad or lass. We’re proud of her.” He bowed. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  By that little speech the footman warned him and informed him.

  Throckmorton took a strawberry and waved Herne away.

  Sipping his champagne, Throckmorton admired Celeste’s dancing, which unfortunately was as light and skilled as any English noblewoman’s.

  Lady Philberta’s chilly voice spoke from just behind him. “Who is she?”

  “Mother.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he brought her to his side. She was a tiny woman, and growing shorter as she left sixty behind. Her shoulders were stooped beneath the weight of her silk gown and wide petticoats, and she carried a cane. She had never been a beauty—beauty might have brought her a rich and titled husband—but she had an aristocrat’s arrogance and an Englishwoman’s pride. Kissing her powdered cheek, he said loudly, “The party is wonderful, as always.” He lowered his voice. “Smile, Mother, everyone will take their cue from us.”

  He felt the stiff indignation grip her before she let it go. Eternally pragmatic, she understood the necessity of behaving as if she enjoyed the sight of Ellery dancing with a ravishing girl who was not his fiancée.

  “She is Miss Milford,” Throckmorton informed her.

  In an absolutely agreeable tone, Lady Philberta asked, “The gardener’s daughter?”

  “Exactly.”

  It was a measure of his mother’s distress when she used his father’s favorite curse. “Hell and damnation.”

  Herne made his stately way toward them, offering champagne and strawberries.

  Lady Philberta accepted the champagne and waved off the strawberries. Like her younger son, she was allergic to them.

  She waited until Herne had moved on before she continued, “You’ve got to get rid of her. Immediately.”

  “How?”

  “Throw her out!”

  “She is the daughter of our faithful gardener and our deceased cook. I have hired her to be the girls’ governess.” He paused long enough to let her ingest that impalpable truth before adding, “Besides, if I were to toss her out, Ellery would follow.”

  “But if Lord Longshaw sees her!”

  “It’s too late for that.” With a tilt of his head, Throckmorton indicated the apoplectic Lord Longshaw standing in the open doorway.

  “The gardener’s daughter.” Lady Philberta sipped the champagne and watched the dancing with fixed enjoyment. “What can Ellery be thinking?”

  “The question would be—with what is Ellery thinking?” Throckmorton murmured.

  Lady Philberta whipped her head around to stare at him. “What?”

  “Nothing, Mother.”

  “You pick a poor time to show the first signs of a sense of humor.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He supposed he had best keep his observations to himself. “It isn’t as if I care whether the gardener’s daughter comes to the party. I have no aristocratic pretensions. My own antecedents don’t bear looking into”—he fixed her with a significant gaze—“on either side.”

  “You’re not going to mention the highwayman again? That was a hundred years ago, and at least he had the advantage of being romantic.”

  “If you consider hanging from your neck until you are dead to be romantic.”

  Without drawing breath, she continued, “My ancestors aren’t nearly as scandalous as your father’s, with his rebellious Scottish baron and Cromwell’s commander and those dreadful pirates.”

  It was an argument she had had often with his father. She had never won and his father was dead, but that didn’t stop her from fighting.

  “If anything, the family background makes this intrigue with Miss Milford all the more undesirable.” Lady Philberta pointed out what Throckmorton already knew. “The ton could easily be made to remember how precarious the Throckmorton toehold into society truly is, especially if, in a disgraceful spectacle, Ellery rejects his betrothed—one of our own—right before our eyes.”

  “I realize that, Mother.”

  In a quiet tone that barely reached his ears, she said, “Garrick, for the sake of Her Majesty’s realm, we need the Longshaw connection.”

  “The capital won’t hurt us, either.” If his family had a motto, it might be Money and Patriotism. “But we must move carefully. Right now, to Ellery, Miss Milford embodies the forbidden fruit.”

  “I do get tired of having you be so eternally right,” she murmured.

  “In the future, I will try to fail you, Mother.” He flashed a smile down at her. “But not this time.”

  “No. But what will you do?”

  His smile faded. “Miss Milford’s handling of Ellery has proved one thing. He can be handled.”

  All Throckmorton had to do w
as discover the method.

  4

  Celeste had dreamed of this moment every night of her life.

  “I have dreamed of this moment,” Ellery breathed in her ear.

  He’d said just the right thing. They were dancing just the right dance. He was holding her in his manly arms . . .

  His breath tickled her neck. “You waltz like a dream.”

  The music entwined them with magic. The air sparkled like the finest champagne. The stars popped out, one by one, brilliant with light, and each and every torch around the veranda burned brightly just for her. She was waltzing with Ellery. Ellery, the man she’d loved since the time . . .

  “I loved you since I first saw you,” he murmured.

  She drew back to look up at him, and she couldn’t help it. She laughed in his face. “The first time you saw me, I was probably a sniveling babe. The first time you noticed me, I was eleven years old.”

  “I meant . . .”

  “You meant you loved me since the first time you saw me today.” He looked uncomfortable, and the merriment in her crested. “You don’t remember me at eleven, do you?” Dear Ellery, he had lived a life of excitement, of glamour. Of course he didn’t remember. She didn’t care. Nothing could ruin this perfect evening. “You tripped me.”

  “No!” he protested. “I could not have been so unchivalrous.”

  “Indeed you could.” She kept her voice low pitched and soft, the way the Count de Rosselin had always instructed. “You were a boy! I was eleven and you were sixteen, and when I fell I tore my best Sunday dress.”

  She had Ellery Throckmorton, the most dashing rogue in England, puzzled and intrigued. She wasn’t ashamed of her past; she wouldn’t let him pretend she was someone she wasn’t. He would accept her as the gardener’s daughter, or not at all. If she’d learned one thing in Paris, it was that a beautiful young woman who held herself in high esteem could have anything she wanted—and Celeste wanted Ellery.

  “I cried, and you picked me up and hugged me, and carried me to your father’s study.”

  Their steps slowed as he listened.