“ ‘Ere, Celeste, ‘ave a scone.” Toothless old Travis, though he had been on the estate fifty years, hailed from the streets of London, held the plate below her nose.
Smiling at him, she took one. Then all the men passed Celeste dishes and, depending on their age, watched with affection or infatuation as she filled her bowl with oatmeal and cut strawberries over the top. When she had more than she could possibly eat, they pressed her with questions about her life.
“Is Paris as frolicsome as they say, Celeste?”
“Did ye dance every night, Celeste?”
“Tell us about those fereigners, Celeste. Did ye like them better than us?”
Holding her spoon above her oatmeal, Celeste smiled. “Yes, yes, and no.”
“Let the girl eat,” her father commanded. “She’s too thin already.”
“But so comely,” one of the gardening lads breathed.
Celeste grinned at him.
Digging into her oatmeal with an appetite she never dared expose above stairs, she satisfied the worst of her hunger and looked up to find Esther watching with her hands placed on her broad hips.
“Nothing like good cookin’, is there?” the cook said, her Scottish burr warm and friendly.
“The best I’ve had in years,” Celeste answered.
Herne, an inveterate gossip and a nosy parker, or so Milford called him, shifted from foot to foot. “If ye’re done eating, Celeste, tell us how’s it going with Mr. Ellery.”
Celeste flinched, and hoped her father hadn’t noticed. “He’s better. His rash is gone and the bruises are mostly healed.”
“Last night he tangled with a rose bush, and he’s sporting some new scratches.” Milford took a drink of ale.
Celeste avoided her father’s calm gaze.
“But you didn’t go to the musical evening last night.” Herne obviously took this as an offense. “Did he make improper advances?”
Esther landed another punch into the rising bread dough. “He’s a dear boy, but if he has, I’ll put castor oil in his whisky bottle.”
“No, no!” Celeste scrambled to correct matters before they got out of hand. Ellery was a favorite of all the servants, especially the female servants and most especially of Brunella, whom he often charmed out of a fresh baked loaf or a midnight feast. “Mr. Ellery’s been all that’s kind.” Except today, when he’d been drinking and making accusations about her and Mr. Throckmorton.
Mr. Throckmorton, who had sent for her. Mr. Throckmorton, whom she had defied. Mr. Throckmorton, whom she would not think about.
But considering the tangle she was caught up in, Ellery’s petty insinuations had meant nothing. “I didn’t go to the musical evening because I’m trying to . . . to be with the children, and . . . and you know I can’t sing or play the harp, at least, not well.”
Neville, who polished silver and acted as an extra footman during dinner parties, said, “I heard from Hod, who heard from Rawdon, who heard from Dinah who was dustin’ Mr. Garrick’s office, that ye was supposed to be workin’ for Mr. Garrick, doin’ some o’ his papers.”
“Really? What’s wrong wi’ Mr. Stanhope?” Arwydd had crept back out of the stillroom.
“Got a cob stuck sideways,” Herne said.
Brunella waited until the general snickers had died down before she asked, “So, Celeste, how ye like workin’ fer Mr. Garrick?”
“Fine.” Celeste no longer wanted to be here in the kitchen. That sensation of being home had vanished as soon as the servants had started gossiping about Garrick. Yet she’d never cared before; for her as the gardener’s daughter, for all the servants, the goings-on of the folks above stairs had been fair fodder. Now she felt torn in her loyalties, unsure how to answer, and she didn’t want to think about him anyway.
In a speculative tone, Esther said, “Mr. Garrick’s even richer than Mr. Ellery.”
“For God’s sake, ye’re not going to bring that up again!” Milford objected.
“Remember, Celeste, I’ve told ye many a time, it’s just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor one.” Esther patted Celeste on the arm and glared at Milford, who resolutely stared back.
They glowered at each other so fiercely Celeste released all thought of uniting them. “I’m not given to mad fancies, Papa, and I understand the difficulties better now, Esther. But—”
“But I don’t understand.” One of the village girls who had been brought in to help during the party stood listening, a frown on her broad face. “Are ye interested in Mr. Ellery, or Mr. Garrick?”
“Mr. Ellery,” Celeste answered promptly.
The girl continued as if Celeste had not spoken. “Because it seems t’ me either one o’ them would be a fair catch fer th’ gardener’s daughter—an’ th’ match as unlikely as th’ sea marryin’ th’ shore.”
Hot with embarrassment, Celeste retorted, “I am not interested in marrying Mr. Throckmorton. There isn’t enough gold in his coffers to make me want a man as cold and passionless as he is.”
She finished her fervid declaration. No one answered. Except for the rhythmic turning of the spit and the hiss of the fat as it struck the coals, silence struck deep. Esther’s eyes were wide and warning, and she watched Celeste as she bent her head toward the open door.
With a sense of impending doom, Celeste looked toward the tall, dark, still figure who stood in the entrance.
Garrick. His broad shoulders filled her vision, his hands flexed into fists, his feet were braced like a sailor on rough seas.
He had come for her. Of course. He would never accept a message such as she had sent to him. His gaze swept the kitchen, brisk as the slap of a winter wind.
The men sitting at the benches stood. The other servants looked away, or fidgeted. Herne coughed and tried to sidle back into the crowd.
Then Garrick looked at Celeste, and in a voice so even the servants around him relaxed, he said, “Miss Milford, if you would attend me please?”
But in his gaze she glimpsed a now-familiar fury . . . hot and filled with that passion she had denied he possessed.
As if no force could rouse her, she clutched the bench below her until her knuckles turned white.
When she didn’t rise, Garrick added, “Attend me at once.”
Esther nodded to her and smiled encouragingly.
Her father touched her shoulder. “Go on, then, girl.”
How could she refuse? She could tell no one here about that scene in the conservatory.
Uncurling her fingers, she let go of the bench. Sliding out, she stood. In the slow progress of a criminal facing execution, she trudged toward Garrick, face burning, looking not at him, but just past him.
He stepped to the side to allow her room to pass.
She walked through.
Shutting the door behind him, he grasped her arm just above the elbow as a governess would a recalcitrant child.
Celeste tried to jerk it out of his grip. “Would you please let go of my arm?”
“No.” He shoved her up the stairs ahead of him. “A man as cold and passionless as me is not given to kindness toward my gardener’s daughter, especially when she scorns my proposal of marriage.”
“You haven’t proposed marriage.”
“Yes.” He managed to sound both astonished and sarcastic. “I seem to remember that now.”
At the top of the stairs, Celeste wrestled herself free and turned on the mocking, rude, detestable lecher. “You dare to act indignant because I did not claim to worship at your shrine? After the way you treated me?” The man she viewed was the Mr. Throckmorton she had always known, but beneath the veneer of gentility she recognized the same savage who yesterday had claimed so large a part of her innocence in the conservatory.
Brutish, conquering swine.
She stalked down the empty corridor.
He followed close on her heels. “You were gossiping about me to the servants.”
“I was not. They were gossiping. I was retorting. Infernally uncomfortable it mad
e me, too.” Uncomfortable was the least of it. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m caught between two worlds, and all you’re interested in is your precious sublime character.”
Derision still reigned in him when he asked, “When you decided you would have Ellery by any means possible, did it not occur to you you would have to decide whether you would be upstairs or down, in the garden or in the house?”
Of course it hadn’t. In her dream, she moved smoothly between the ton and the servants. Being brought forcibly face-to-face with reality did not endear Garrick to her. “When I decided I would have Ellery, I didn’t think I would have his brother humiliating me in the conservatory.”
“There’s the crux of the matter. You’re angry because I . . . humiliated you.” He pushed her, resisting, backward into the same alcove she’d so recently occupied with Ellery.
She shoved at Garrick’s chest, a foolish gesture for one who knew so well the steadfastness of the man, as well as the strength of his frame. “Let me go. I am not doing this again with you.”
Paying no heed to her resistance, he placed his hands on the wall behind her. “Is that all it was? A humiliation?”
She wanted to stare sternly up at him. Instead she remembered her own discovery of ecstasy, and looked everywhere but at him. “You know what it was. It was a deliberate act of . . . you pleasured me with the sole intention of proving your command over me.”
“I admit that.” But he didn’t like admitting it.
“And don’t you dare tell me I incited you. Nothing that happened in the conservatory was my fault.”
“I take total responsibility.”
He didn’t like that, either. And it didn’t make her feel better.
“Why? I want to know why.”
“I lost my temper. It was a new experience for me. I didn’t handle it well. I beg your pardon for any distress I may have caused you.” He shot short, blunt sentences at her, using the right words of repentance, but a tone of such intense annoyance she might have been holding a gun to his head.
She did not appreciate the sentiment. “Temper is no excuse.”
“I know that! Do you think I don’t know that? I have never allowed anyone who works for me such a feeble defense. I would discharge any man who tried to excuse himself in such a manner.” He paced away from her, allowing her a brief breathing space. Then he paced right back to steal her air. “But I cannot discharge myself, I can only offer my sincerest apologies for any distress I may have caused you, and beg that you forgive me.”
Infuriated by that mockery of a repentance, she shook her finger at him. “That is not an apology, that is a command.”
Dull red climbed into his cheeks. “I am not in the habit of apologizing. I apologize if my apology was unrefined.”
“Oh, I feel so much better now.” She dipped every word in the acid of sarcasm. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand how you could carry out such a cold seduction.”
“Cold?” Fire leaped to life in his gaze. “You call that cold?”
“Yes, I do!” Now color rose in her cheeks as she remembered how she’d moaned and writhed under his masterful touch. “You were never affected.”
Leaning his face so close she saw every frown line and furious grimace, he asked, “Was I not, my dear Miss Milford? Then tell me why I spent the night—”
A door slammed upstairs. Voices called.
Garrick lowered his voice. “—Pacing the corridors, holding my—”
“Mind your language, Mr. Throckmorton!” But she was glad to hear he’d been awake and in agony.
“I’ll do as I please, Miss Milford.” Leaning over, he kissed her. “And as you please,” he muttered.
Gripping his cravat between her hands, she wished first to strangle him. He acted as if he could do anything he desired with her, as if an apology grudgingly given could soothe her vexation. She wanted to cherish her rancor, not be beguiled so easily he would think himself exceptionally gifted in seduction.
But he kissed like a man in the throes of desperation. He held her as if she were his last hope of happiness. He took her breath as if it were life to him. Each thrust of his tongue was slow and sweet, and yes, she should hold him off, but the steamy warmth built and her blood heated, she yielded, melted, wished she was back in the conservatory, gasping beneath him.
More voices called above, but she barely heard them. Instead, she thrust her hands into his hair, holding him prisoner to her desire.
When they broke apart, gasping for breath, she managed a reproach rendered ineffective by her pliant body against his. “You ought to be ashamed for deliberately mortifying me.”
“I’ve suffered,” he assured her feverishly.
Feet stampeded across the wooden floors above.
Taking her hand, he guided it to the front of his trousers.
Of course she knew how a man was built, for she had visited Rome, awash with decadent statues. Of course she understood the rudiments of mating, for she’d lived in the country for her first eighteen years. But to actually touch a man, to discover what desire could induce . . . she didn’t know if she should remain to explore or run shrieking to safety.
Exploration beckoned. She wrapped her fingers around his manhood, slid her palm up and down the length. And the length was so great . . . shrieking and running seemed like a good idea, too.
She verified her misgiving with another sweep of her hand, not believing he actually contained within him so much desire which he wished her to take into her self. Looking into his gaze, she whispered, “It’s impossible.”
“It’s not the span of the wand, it’s the magic contained within,” he whispered back.
“It would have to be magic.”
“I promise enchantment.” Closing his eyes, he pressed her hand hard against him.
“You promised you wouldn’t.”
“You can’t hold me to that. You can’t.” Pain or passion etched his features, made austere with an ardor she didn’t yet completely understand. “But you’re right. I will not . . . I shouldn’t . . . but we’ve got this.” Placing both her hands around his neck, he kissed her again. His hips rolled against her.
Footsteps ran down the stairs.
How did he do this? How could one kiss from this man induce anger, euphoria, and above all, desire? It wasn’t fair that when he pressed his lips to hers, she forgot his sins and remembered only the gratification of being held in his arms, titillated and cared for and taught. She wanted to be incensed. Instead she was desperate to lie down with him and discover the magic he promised.
A large woman ran past, calling in frantic tones, “Mr. Throckmorton. Where are ye, Mr. Throckmorton!”
All of him, all of his desire and his determination had been focused on Celeste.
Now his formidable attention snapped away from her. Without a gesture or a sign of regret, he stepped out of the alcove. “Mrs. Brown! What’s wrong?”
The plain, unshakable nursemaid sounded sick with anxiety. “Have ye seen th’ two little girls?”
Guilt and apprehension crowded out Celeste’s frustration. Joining Garrick, she demanded, “Why?”
“They’re gone.” Mrs. Brown held up a piece of crumpled paper with smooth, block lettering. “Miss Penelope left a note. She said Miss Kiki had run away, and she was going after her.”
20
“I told you not to come. Why did you come?”
Penelope slogged along after Kiki, answering her in English because while Kiki insisted on speaking in French, Penelope could be stubborn, too. “Because every time you get in trouble, you get all the attention, and I’m tired of it.” Which was true, Penelope told herself stoutly, except right now she was suffering a twinge, just the smallest twinge, of worry about Kiki.
She didn’t know why she should. For the past year, Kiki had made Penelope’s life miserable. She had come in all pretty and Frenchified, dancing and singing like a street performer, prancing about making trouble and in general being a tagalong
pest. But something about this petulant, head-tossing, foot-stomping tantrum seemed different.
Probably that Kiki had done all her head tossing and foot stomping after Penelope had caught up with her, and without the benefit of any other audience. “Where do you think you’re going to go?” Penelope asked.
Kiki stomped her foot in a puddle and tossed her head. “Chez moi.”
“Home’s back there.” Penelope pointed back at Blythe Hall. They were skirting the grove of oaks and poplars on the west lawn, heading at an angle toward the river. The rain had stopped, but water dropped in large blips off the branches and splashed on the girls, and from the approaching growl of thunder, Penelope thought it was likely that the heavens were going to open again, and soon.
“C’est chez toi—“
“It’s your house, too.”
“—Avec ton père et ta nursery et ta bonne d’enfant—“
“She’s not my nursemaid, she just came this week.”
“—Et tes livres et ton père . . .” Kiki’s voice had thickened.
“You can read the books and your papa is at Blythe Hall, too.” Penelope wasn’t sure, but she thought Kiki’s arm came up to swipe at her nose. “Didn’t you bring a handkerchief?”
“Non! I am not so English and distinguée as you. Everyone makes sure I know this.”
Penelope was really tired of hearing only French from Kiki. “I thought everyone made sure I knew I wasn’t as pretty as you.”
“Tu n’es pas aussi jolie que moi!”
“I am too as pretty!” Penelope shoved Kiki right in the middle of the back.
Kiki stumbled forward, then turned like the savage she was and shoved back. She was shorter and more slender than Penelope, but she packed a good wallop and Penelope found herself flailing backward. She would have gone down, but she smacked into a tree trunk.
“Crétin!”
“Noodle!” All the disgruntlements of the past year rose in Penelope, and she would have tackled Kiki and knocked her to the ground and made her go back to the house where they belonged and they’d be safe.
But Kiki gave up the fight, turned and ran. Ran like the wind, sobbing loudly all the way.
In My Wildest Dreams Page 19