In My Wildest Dreams

by Christina Dodd

  Having formulated an acceptable plan, he nodded and loosened her stockings from atop a rose bush.

  Still lounging on the cushions, she giggled like a girl as he dropped them atop her. “You look even more complacent than normal.”

  He had leaned down to gather her petticoats off the floor, but he halted as he straightened. “What do you mean, more complacent than normal?”

  “You always look as if you know exactly the right thing to do, and are doing it.” Kicking up her feet, she pulled on the stockings and eased herself to her feet. “For those of us who aren’t quite so certain, it can be an intense source of irritation.”

  “You’re not certain of yourself?”

  “Not always. Sometimes I do the wrong thing.” She saw the expression on his face, and stepping close, she stroked his cheek. “Oh, I didn’t mean last night. That is the one action I’ve taken since my return of which I am absolutely confident.”

  Catching her hand, he kissed her palm.

  Digging her chemise out from among the covers, she donned it. “Mostly you irritate Ellery.”

  “Ellery?” He didn’t want to talk about Ellery now. With Celeste. “What has he got to be irritated about?”

  “He’s not as perfect as you are.”

  “Perfectly handsome,” Throckmorton said in exasperation. “What else could he want?”

  “I don’t know. I think he’s restless.” Taking the petticoats from Throckmorton, she pulled them on.

  “Restless? He could try reporting for work.”

  “Be realistic. He’ll never work in an office. I think he needs adventure as you had in India.” Her gown lay in a wad on the floor. She shook it out and said sadly, “These wrinkles aren’t going to come out.”

  He didn’t appreciate her advice; he didn’t appreciate it at all. “He’s going to get married. That should be adventure enough for him.”

  She wrestled the gown over her head and while she was hidden, she said, “He should be a spy or something.” Her arms reached into the sleeves. Her head appeared.

  She didn’t look any different, but she should have. She had just reawakened every one of Throckmorton’s suspicions. What did she know? “A spy.” He tried to sound neutral. He succeeded in sounding guarded.

  “Or something like that.” Blithely, she fastened her buttons, shutting herself away from his touch, changing herself from his lover to . . . who? “You never answered. Do you want me to check your translations?”

  She couldn’t know anything. She couldn’t. She was artless, generous, kind. She had given him her virginity. Her comment about a spy had to be merely coincidental. And if it weren’t—well, she had been well-guarded during her time here. He would ensure she would continue to be watched. “The translations . . . yes. I would have asked Stanhope to help me, but he was busy charming the ladies.”

  Without expression, she said, “He does that very well.”

  Throckmorton didn’t like that. “Has he been flirting with you?”

  “Stanhope would flirt with a swine if he thought he could get any use from the bacon,” she said acidly.

  Jolted by her uncanny reading of Stanhope’s character, Throckmorton gathered his own clothing. Celeste really was too clever by half. But it didn’t matter; even if she were a spy, even if she had turned to the enemy, he would not allow her to be imprisoned and hung. No, no matter that he believed in justice for all, he couldn’t bear for that justice to overtake Celeste. He would hide her duplicity from his associates, make sure she never again had an opportunity to operate, and never, ever let her out of his sight.

  She misread his silence. “I’m sorry. He’s your friend. You’re fond of him. I had no right—”

  Having made his decision, he felt well enough to say, “No, don’t apologize. I fear you’re right.” In India, he had learned to dress quickly if the occasion warranted, and he believed this occasion did. His drawers, his trousers, his shirt went on without hindrance. “Nevertheless, I find I can’t easily dismiss him or the service he has rendered. I know it’s asking a great deal, but should you see him, could you convey the contents of the latest letter?”

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  “Male pride forbids that he ask me. I’m going to ride out. I . . . well, I would rather you read the letters and confirmed my opinion of their contents.”

  “Ah.” She donned her gown.

  She seemed to have nothing more to say, and that made him uncomfortable. It was almost as if she realized his deception and judged him by its villainy. But she couldn’t have; probably the enormity of her own actions last night had just begun to weigh on her. Or she was somehow in league with the Russians.

  Impossible. “The letters are in my bottom left desk drawer. It’s locked. Here’s the key.”

  She took the key he provided and looked at it, then gravely up at him. “After I have bathed and dressed.”

  “Yes, of course.” Sitting on the couch, he began the difficult process of pulling on his boots. “I think they speak of a meeting in the Crimea between the French, the Turks and the English.” Let the Russians worry about a threat to their precious Crimea while the English troops in Afghanistan moved where they would.

  “I’ll look at the letters and tell Stanhope when he asks.” Searching, she found her slippers and donned them, then went to the drapes that covered the windows. She took hold of the edges.

  He half-rose from his seat. “What are you . . . ?”

  “After so many rainy days, Papa would want sunshine on the plants.”

  “Wait!” But it was too late.

  24

  “Thank you, Celeste.” Stanhope lounged behind Garrick’s desk, fitting perfectly in the elegance of his surroundings, yet a usurper on the king’s throne. “You’ve made my task ever so much easier.”

  He had discarded the winning ways with which he earlier treated her. Now he grinned, a coxcomb grin that made Celeste want to slap it off his face. She thought she knew what his attitude meant; she would convey her conviction to Garrick as soon as possible. Meanwhile, she stood before the desk and presented Stanhope with a cool smile. “I’m always happy to help you and Mr. Throckmorton.”

  Stanhope laughed, a whoop of condescending amusement. “Yes, you’ve got your uses. To me, and to Throckmorton.”

  To him? Yes, she now thoroughly understood her role in this play. She listened when Garrick told her what was in the letters, she checked the contents of the letters, she presented the contents to Stanhope. Very clean, very easy, and not worth angst even when Stanhope rifled through Garrick’s unlocked drawers like some petty thief. She could have given him the key to that one locked drawer; she held it fast within her pocket.

  But her uses to Throckmorton? She didn’t make the mistake of thinking Stanhope was talking about her position as governess. Not after that dreadful moment when she’d opened the drapes of the conservatory and saw old Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh waiting while the servants loaded the baggage onto the Featherstonebaugh carriage—and all of them saw her, clad in her ball gown, and Garrick pulling on his boots.

  Celeste and Garrick had broken the first rule of the English affair—discretion above all else. Nothing happened unless you were caught.

  They had been caught. And she was not going to listen to any smarmy remarks about their affair from Stanhope. She gave the briefest of polite curtsies. “I must attend the children. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Don’t worry,” Stanhope announced, “you’ve got Throckmorton by the short hairs.”

  She stood stock still, stunned by his impudence. “You . . . vulgarian!”

  “He is enamored with you.”

  Her fickle, foolish heart gave a musical little trill. “He . . . who . . . Throckmorton told you that?”

  Stanhope actually put one of his boots on the shiny surface of Throckmorton’s immaculately carved desk. “Oh, yes. But he thinks you’re stupid.”

  “He doesn’t think I’m stupid,” she flashed.

>   “A birdbrain.” Stanhope apparently relished the phrase. “If he respected you, he wouldn’t have treated you as he did in the conservatory.”

  She blushed a mortifying crimson. So Stanhope had surmised what they were doing last night. She shouldn’t have opened those drapes, but as she had told Throckmorton, who would have thought any English aristocrat would be awake and ready to leave at the unprecedented hour of eight o’the clock?

  Throckmorton had looked grave, but told her not to worry. He would fix things, he said, as soon as he got back from his ride.

  Stanhope suffered no compunction about humiliating her. “Throckmorton stuck his hand under your skirts. He trained you to lust, softening you up for the kill. Men have been doing that with their governesses for eons, Miss Milford.”

  The color died from her cheeks. It wasn’t last night Stanhope spoke of; he knew about that mortifying scene two days ago. Not about the night of passion, but that afternoon in the conservatory when Garrick Throckmorton had proved how well and easily he could manipulate her.

  No one knew. “How . . . how did you discover that?”

  Stanhope cocked a jaunty eyebrow. “Men talk, Miss Milford.”

  Her stomach tightened. Garrick had told Stanhope . . . but no. Stanhope was a liar and a traitor, and Garrick would never be so crass as to gossip. Not about her. Not about that. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you like.” Standing, Stanhope strolled toward her. “But I do know about that, and I predict the next thing that will happen is he’ll put his prick where his hand was.”

  She hated Stanhope. How dared he speak to her in such a manner?

  How dared he be right?

  “If you were part of the ton, he would have never treated you with such familiarity. If you were part of the ton, your father would kill him. But your father is the gardener, and he can’t do anything for his daughter’s honor or he’ll lose his position.”

  “I don’t need to listen to this.” She turned to walk away.

  Stanhope grabbed her arm in a cruel grasp. “Don’t you walk away from me, you little . . . peasant. You’re not worthy to lick my boots.”

  She tried to tug free, but his fingers bit into her, bruising her. “Let go,” she said softly, “or I will tell Garrick what you’re doing.”

  “Garrick?” Like a bulldog, Stanhope held on and shook her arm as if it were a hunk of meat. “You call him Garrick? The nerve of you. You’re the gardener’s daughter. He’s descended from a line of peers that goes back to William the Conqueror.”

  His contempt slapped her in the face. She had been living in a dream world, cushioned by Ellery’s infatuation, her experiences in Paris, and Garrick’s tolerance. Stanhope’s was the attitude her father had warned her about. Birth mattered in England; nothing else could compensate for an aristocratic pedigree. She looked down at Stanhope’s hand. “Mr. Throckmorton’s father was a commoner.”

  Stanhope’s eyes blazed with a nobleman’s disdain; the disdain that would greet her at every turn of society should she dare to raise herself above her station. “Diluting a fine old bloodline once was more than enough.” He didn’t so much release her arm as toss it from him. “But he has no real plans to wed you, of course. He’s already got your return tickets purchased.”

  She found herself taking careful, shallow breaths. “My return tickets to where?”

  “To Paris.” He smiled, a slight, gracious curve of the lips. Going to Garrick’s desk, Stanhope fumbled in the top drawer and drew out a red velvet drawstring purse. Opening it, he dumped the contents onto the desk. “Look. He purchased them the day after you arrived.”

  Her fingertips grew cold, and colored specks dotted her vision. She sat down hard in one of Garrick’s uncomfortable chairs. “I don’t believe you.”

  Holding up a sheaf of papers, he itemized them. “Train ticket to London. Ticket on the packet across the Channel. Train ticket to Paris. Throckmorton has incredible contacts to get these so quickly.” He held up a key. “A house in Paris.” He shook out a letter and extended it so she could see the heading. “A note authorizing a bank draft for the amount of one thousand pounds per annum.”

  On the first night she had returned, Garrick had mentioned a bribe. A house in Paris and a thousand pounds per annum. Now she realized he hadn’t been offering that bribe; he had been telling her what she would have. A red mist passed before her eyes and she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  “Throckmorton’s paid more to get rid of Ellery’s liaisons. You shouldn’t sell yourself so cheaply.” Stanhope’s voice changed from slyly malicious to sharply uneasy. “You’re not going to faint, are you? For God’s sake, you didn’t really think you could reel in Ellery, did you?”

  “No. No. I never really thought I could reel in Ellery.” The dream was truly dead.

  “And you couldn’t have imagined Garrick would have you.”

  She flinched.

  “You can’t love him.” Stanhope observed her expression. “You do.”

  Her soul shriveled at his amusement, horror and pity.

  “Look, girl, Throckmorton’s an unconventional man in a lot of ways, but his family comes first. There’s enough doubt in the ton about the Throckmorton heritage without bringing you into the line.”

  She wanted to vomit. She wanted to call Stanhope a traitor. She wanted to reveal what she knew, but not even for that satisfaction would she betray her country . . . or Garrick.

  God save her from principles, but she wouldn’t sink to Garrick’s level.

  Shaking off her queasiness, she lifted her chin. “I’m a governess—and you’re just a secretary. You work for a living, too.”

  His pity evaporated under the heat of her derision. “You don’t have to worry about sullying yourself with this irresponsible, churlish adventurer again. I’m shaking the Blythe Hall dust off my boots for good. I’ve always known it was possible to have too much of a good thing, and that it would all have to end someday.” He strode to the door, then turned. “It’s a lesson you should learn, too. Save you from embarrassing yourself again.”

  Light-headed with shock, she stared at the empty door, then leaned forward and put her head on her knees.

  * * *

  Celeste sat, her feet placed side by side, her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. Her back did not rest on the back of the chair, but remained stiffly upright, and she found when she remained in this position, the discomfort of her body negated the discomfort of Throckmorton’s chair. Her bottom hurt from the hard seat, yes, but worse was the ache within her loins, the stretched feeling in her thighs, the sensitivity of her breasts.

  The bruising of her heart.

  Her teeth did not chatter from the shock, but remained clenched tightly together. She heard the guests leaving, but couldn’t decipher their words. She stared ahead with a direct gaze, but didn’t really see.

  She couldn’t bear to. If she did; if she looked around, saw Blythe Hall, this home, this place from which she would be exiled in the most dire and humiliating of circumstances . . . if she really saw what she would miss, she’d be forced to pick up those antique Ming Chinese vases that decorated Garrick’s office, and throw them until they were all shattered into tiny, expensive, worthless shards.

  “Celeste!”

  She flinched. It was him. Garrick. That Man.

  She had waited here for hours, anticipating this confrontation, but now that it was upon her, her fingernails bit into her palms and her mouth dried. Well enough to cherish rage, but this was Garrick, the man she thought epitomized honor. The man who manipulated, organized, directed lives from the loftiness of his tower of superiority. And she loved him.

  “Celeste, darling, I must talk to you.”

  Her neck, held stiffly erect for uncounted minutes, creaked as she turned it to see him stride in, clad in riding gear, disheveled, solemn, grim again although what he had to be grim about, she did not know. He had, after all, achieved his every goal—even
her ultimate betrayal. Especially her ultimate betrayal.

  Standing over her, he asked, “Did you . . . speak to Stanhope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, that’s one task out of the way,” she said.

  He paused in the act of sitting in a chair opposite her, and eyed her oddly. “Are you . . . well?”

  “Perfectly.”

  He must have been willing to take her at her word, for he seated himself and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in some dreadful parody of supplication. “This morning, we never settled anything.”

  She found it was possible to speak when her lips would scarcely move. “Everything is settled.”

  “No. No, it isn’t, for I’ve been thinking about the night and what occurred and . . .” Color rose in his cheeks. It was obvious just which part of the night he was remembering; even more obvious when he leaned back and stretched out one leg to ease the pressure.

  She stared at him, not helping, just staring. She hoped he was suffering. If she could have moved from this frozen, painful position, she would have made him hurt more.

  “Ever since we parted, I’ve been thinking about my role in this. My responsibilities.” As if he were a real human rather than a machine of smooth, cold, steel parts, a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. “I admit I’m at fault here.”

  He was handsome. Why hadn’t she seen it right from the start? How could she have been so blind to the satin of his lips, the width of his brow and the boxy strength of his jaw? She had compared him to Ellery and dismissed him. Foolish, foolish Celeste. As bright and charming as Ellery was, so Garrick was dark and dangerous, a man to whom it was wise to give wide berth. Instead she had imagined the light would overcome the night. Now she sat here in toe-curling agony and waited to be sent away.