In My Wildest Dreams

by Christina Dodd

  Ellery held the pitiful excuse for a bottle of wine—pitiful because it hadn’t gotten him anything more than slightly tipsy—close against his chest and scrupulously counted the doors in the North Tower. One, two, three doors from the right. Stopping, he swayed and counted again, wishing more candles lit the corridor so he could be absolutely sure . . . but it was the wee hours of the morning, and the best he could do was strain his eyes and count just one more time. Yes, three doors from the right in the . . . he stared blearily around . . . in the North Tower. That was where Celeste had said her bedchamber was. That was where he wanted to be.

  Sweet little Celeste. Good little gardener’s daughter. Someone needed to talk to her, to tell her she should marry dear brother Garrick and make his life miserable. Somebody needed to make Throckmorton miserable. God knew Ellery wished he could; that might relieve this sense of anguish that roiled in his belly. This sense that he’d blundered. That he’d ruined his life. That he’d driven Hyacinth away forever.

  So he’d go to Celeste and just by being there, ruin her even more than she was already ruined . . . and Ellery would have failed to do the right thing one more time.

  A bitter smile curved his lips. But so what? He was famous for failure.

  Turning the knob, he opened the door as quietly as he could, stepped into the dim room, shut the door with barely a click. He was good at this, sneaking into women’s bedchambers. Didn’t even need to be sober. Could do it with his eyes closed.

  So he closed them for a moment, and when he opened them he could see the outlines of the room. A sitting room. He frowned. A sitting room with a bedchamber beyond. Damned marvelous quarters for the gardener’s daughter.

  He wove his way across the plush carpet and stepped inside the bedchamber. It was huge, filled with a fireplace where embers burned low, a curvy dressing table, comfortable chairs, and a bed. A big bed, set on a dais, draped with velvet curtains closed against the drafts and with a cluster of fat candles burning on the far side.

  Goal in sight, Ellery set the bottle on the dressing table—in situations that required possible immediate action, it was best to have both hands free—and tiptoed toward the high bed. Parting the curtains, he leaned forward toward the unmistakably female form reclining in the middle of the mattress . . . and a hand shot out, grabbing his shirt front and pulled him off-balance. He flailed his arms before landing face first in an ignominious disorder among the covers.

  “What are you doing in my room?”

  He blinked and spit out a mouthful of wool blanket.

  It sounded like Hyacinth.

  Cautiously he lifted his head.

  Hyacinth’s cold, furious features leaned over him like an avenging Juno.

  It was Hyacinth.

  “Vixen,” he muttered, meaning Celeste, who had dared direct him to the wrong bedchamber.

  Hyacinth misunderstood. “You call me a vixen? After what you’ve done?”

  “Haven’t done anything yet.” Wasn’t likely to, from the expression on Hyacinth’s face. Although, by God, he’d like to. She wore a fine, white, ruffled linen gown, and through it he could see the glow of her golden flesh.

  “You courted me. You made me love you. You foisted a child on me without telling me.”

  He groaned. “I told Throckmorton the kid was going to dish the deal.”

  “Don’t blame that dear, sweet little Kiki!”

  He hadn’t known Hyacinth’s gentle violet eyes could flash like that.

  “It’s not her fault her father is a philanderer and a libertine.”

  “Unfeeling.”

  “Yes, you are!”

  “I meant you.” But he mumbled into the covers for even in his inebriated state, he knew full well Hyacinth was right. “Didn’t mean to make her.” Hyacinth’s breasts thrust forward, creating shadows that teased his imagination, and he didn’t even have to imagine the color of her nipples, for the soft circles were clearly defined in delicate, glorious pink.

  Hyacinth crossed her arms. “She is still your responsibility.”

  One nipple disappeared from his sight. He mourned it even as he answered, “I am a dog.”

  “Yes, and not anything noble like a great Dane or an English pointer either.”

  With other women, confessing guilt had always been good for a little sympathy. Hyacinth didn’t know the script.

  She continued, “You’re more of sissified poodle or some little pug that piddles on the rug and runs away.”

  “Hey!” She was brutal.

  “When were you going to tell me about your daughter? On our wedding night?”

  “I didn’t plan to tell you. I just sort of hoped you would . . . find out. And pretend not to notice. If you don’t like her, we could probably leave her here with—” Immediately, by her indrawn breath, he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “You would leave your own child with relatives?” Clearly, Hyacinth found him the worst sort of father. “Don’t you love the girl?”

  “Kiki?” He, Ellery Throckmorton, had never found himself in a beautiful woman’s bedchamber at this hour of the morning discussing anything but pleasure, and if this was what marriage was like, he didn’t need any part of it.

  He peeked at Hyacinth. Except the view was magnificent and he did love the kid. When he thought of her. When she wasn’t making him feel old and derelict. When he thought to play tag with her or show her how to make mudpies. “Yes, I love her,” he said irritably. “I just don’t know what to do with her.”

  “You need guidance,” Hyacinth decided. “What did you like your father to do with you?”

  He thought, which wasn’t that easy, distracted as he was by her bosom and that wine. And the whisky earlier. “I would have liked him to take me traveling as he did Garrick, but he died before he got around to it.”

  “Well, then. You should take Kiki traveling. It seems to me, with her gift of French and her charm which is so like yours, she would be an asset anywhere.”

  “Damme, but you’re an innocent.” Using his elbows, he crawled a little further onto the bed. No reason to dangle with his legs half-off when he could be comfortable. “No one’s going to welcome my illegitimate daughter.”

  “I would.”

  She would. He believed her. Her black hair was in tousled disarray, her neck rose like pale velvet above her gown. He could love this woman with her sharp tongue, her knowledge of right and wrong . . . her father’s wealth. He could really love her, and right now he couldn’t remember why he had ever drawn back. Moving with careless guile, he slid his hand through the blankets and ran it up her thigh. “You’re not only an innocent, but you’re beautiful and kind, too.”

  Just when he would have reached the good parts, the female parts, she clamped her hand over his wrist. “How would you know? After I arrived here to celebrate our betrothal, you abandoned me in front of all the ton to chase after poor dear Celeste—when you knew better!”

  He could have broken her hold. Of course he could, but a wrestling match would be tawdry. So instead he sulked. “Didn’t do anything she didn’t want.”

  “Of course she wanted you. All the women want you, but you gave your pledge to me. Is your word worth nothing?”

  Hyacinth wasn’t buying the it’s not my fault excuse. He scrambled for another. “Frustrated.”

  “Frustrated? Why?”

  “Couldn’t have you.”

  “You didn’t even try.”

  He lowered his head back into the blanket and tried to think. This sounded promising. It sounded as if she wanted him to try to get in her chemise. But he sensed a trick. If he could just figure it out . . .

  “I’ll try now,” he suggested, and hoped the mattress would cushion any blow she aimed at his head.

  Nothing happened, except that she released his arm. Tentatively, he raised his head.

  She leaned against the snowy white pillows like Cleopatra waiting to be serviced. Lifting a brow, she indicated her full, luscious mouth. “I’m waiting.”


  This was too good to be true.

  When he still didn’t move, she eased the covers off her waist, down her thighs. Kicking her feet completely free, she smoothed her nightgown over her long, tall, generous curves. “Don’t you want me?”

  “I do. Oh, I do.” He had to control his eagerness. Women loved a seducer, and Hyacinth deserved the best, because she was going to take pity on him and marry him. Slithering up the bed, he leaned over her as she reclined on the pillows. With a great deal more confidence than he’d had during the rest of this encounter, he said, “You’re going to marry me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Taking his hand in hers, she looked at it, looked down at herself, then placed his hand right on the soft mound of her breast.

  In all his years of tempting and cajoling and outright begging, he had never seen, felt, experienced anything so exciting. This girl, this virgin, had taken the lead and put his palm right on her . . . and her nipple was soft and supple, begging to be aroused. Without further thought, he groaned, “Hyacinth,” and gently took her lips.

  She didn’t know how to kiss worth a damn.

  So he taught her. With his fingertips and his lips, he showed her the pleasure points on her face, her neck, her ear lobes. He caressed her breasts until the nipple poked up, and she shivered and made soft moaning sounds. He was a virtuoso playing the sweet instrument of her body.

  He unbuttoned the top buttons of her nightgown. He was a captain sailing her into the harbor of his arms. He bared the curve of her breast and leaned down to suckle.

  And found himself flying through the air and onto the floor. He landed with a bone-jarring thud that knocked the air out of his lungs and left him gasping—in more ways than one. When he finally got his breath back, he croaked, “Wha . . . ?”

  She looked over the mattress. “That was very nice. And that was enough.”

  Enough? She could spend ten minutes in his arms and decide that was enough? He must be losing his touch. Except . . . her nightgown still gaped over her chest, and every inch of flesh he could see was flushed with excitement. Her cheeks were cherry red, her lips were full, and she hid regret behind determination on her stubborn, beautiful face.

  He tilted his head and tried to see her from a different angle. How had she suddenly become beautiful?

  Because he loved her.

  The revelation hit him so hard, the air was knocked from his lungs again.

  At his gasp, Hyacinth leaned further off the high bed and tried to touch his chest. “Ellery, are you all right?”

  He caught her fingers and, lifting his head, he kissed them. “Scrumptious.”

  “Did I hurt you when I kicked you off the bed?”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “I think the fall may have addled your brain.”

  “Permanently.”

  She freed her fingers and disappeared back onto the bed.

  He shut his eyes and tried to adjust to the idea of being in love. With his wife.

  “Ellery.”

  He opened his eyes. Hyacinth leaned over the bed, her hair hanging about in long, magnificent waves. “Yes, my darling?”

  “Do you care about Celeste?”

  He sensed the need to tread carefully. “She’s very lovely and she’s very sweet, but I don’t care about her. Not like I care about you.”

  “That’s good, because Throckmorton is in love with Celeste.”

  Was Hyacinth dotty? He sighed deeply. No, of course she wasn’t. She had seen what he should have seen if he hadn’t been so intent on running from his fate. He smiled up at Hyacinth. His very pleasant, palatable, toothsome fate. “Throckmorton is in love with Celeste. Yes, that serves him bloody right.”

  “Don’t swear,” Hyacinth admonished. Again, she disappeared onto the bed.

  Yet he still found the evening unsatisfactory. Content to remain at her bedside like the dog she said he was, he lay back down. “Are you going to marry me?”

  No answer.

  “I need you, Hyacinth. I need your beauty, your wisdom, your kindness. I need you or I can never be the man I should be.”

  She appeared above him, sitting high on the mattress, one leg folded beneath her. Hiking up her nightgown, she extended a long, muscled calf. Pointing her toe, she pressed it to his chest like an accusing finger. “I’m not interested in a man who can’t be the man he should be without me. I want the man I thought you were. The person I know you are. Strong, clever, determined, honorable. So the question is—Ellery Throckmorton, will you swear to be that person so I can marry you?”

  The ruffles on her hem rode high on her thigh. If it was a little higher, if she moved over him a little more, he would be able to see paradise. Wetting his lips, he said, “If you would just . . .”

  She glared down at him. “Did you hear anything I said?”

  “Barely.” He tried again. “I can be strong and clever and determined and honorable—was that the whole list?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re sure? You don’t want to add anything else?”

  The pressure from her toe lessened and she began to withdraw.

  Catching her foot, he placed it squarely on his chest again. Rapidly, he said, “Without you my life would have no meaning.”

  She appeared to be thinking. Or perhaps she was enjoying the stroke of his thumb on her arch.

  “So if you force me to, I will go away and prove that I am all those things, but it would be so much more fun if we went away together.”

  “Travel?”

  He’d begun to know how her mind worked. “After the honeymoon, we could travel with Kiki.”

  “Hm . . .”

  “What do you think of Central Asia?”

  “Interesting!”

  Desperation drove him. “I love you.”

  She considered him with far too much shrewdness. “I wager you say that to all the women.”

  “Well . . . yes. But I mean it with you.”

  “No more drinking,” she said.

  “Never to excess.”

  “No women other than me.”

  “I swear.”

  “Or you will never have another child.”

  Did she mean she would never have marital relations with him? Or did she mean she would take a knife . . . Looking at her resolute expression, he laid his hand on his chest. “I will never look at another woman.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Ellery . . .”

  “I will scarcely glance at another woman.”

  Taking a breath, and with a great show of reluctance, she said, “All right. I’ll marry you.”

  He realized, by the buzzing in his head, he’d been holding his breath. He took a gulp of air. “Thank you. I’m honored.” He meant it, too. He’d always known this woman could tie him into knots. He hadn’t known he would like it, or that the joy he felt in her presence could be more than mere desire. He admired her. He . . . he liked her!

  Yet right now, something . . . more . . . held his attention. He massaged her ankle, her calf, the back of her knee. “If you would just adjust your position . . . a little . . .”

  “Like this?” She slid her foot to the far side of his chest, kept her other knee on the bed, and in the shadows above him . . .

  Bold. Hyacinth was bold. Absolutely brazen. Absolutely delightful.

  But she was still perched on the bed. Running his hand up the inside of her leg, almost to the top, made him break out in a sweat of anticipation. “A little closer,” he coaxed. “Just a little . . .”

  “Can’t you quite reach?” she asked.

  “Not quite . . .” His fingers wiggled futilely in the air.

  She leaped back onto the bed. “That’s the way it’s going to be until our wedding night.”

  27

  A murmur of voices came from the breakfast room. No shouting, Throckmorton realized. Everyone was getting along.

  He waited for relief to sw
eep him, but relief didn’t materialize, probably because a scene between Ellery and Lord Longshaw, or Ellery and Hyacinth, or Mother and Lady Longshaw, or any combination of those people, would take the focus off of Throckmorton.

  Instead, he knew, they would be talking about him and Celeste. They would be shocked by his cohabitation with an innocent girl. They might be speculating about his next move. They probably would pity him because she’d refused his suit, and Throckmorton could almost hear Lord Longshaw asking in biting tones if madness ran in the family.

  “Good morning, Herne.” Throckmorton greeted the footman in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Mr. Throckmorton.” Herne’s tone left Throckmorton in no doubt as to his disdain.

  Just as Throckmorton feared. The servants hated him.

  “But I did propose marriage,” he muttered.

  He stepped into the breakfast chamber. There they were. Lord Longshaw, looking feral as always. Lady Longshaw, plump and fluttering. Mother, the sublime hostess. Ellery, eyes bloodshot. Hyacinth, seated at his side, smiling and at ease . . . what had she to smile about?

  But no time to wonder. All eyes turned toward Throckmorton. Conversation died.

  So he took the bull by the horns and initiated a conversation that would challenge them to combat. “I suggest,” he said into the silence, “that we call off the merger between our families. An advertisement in the Times announcing the engagement is off between Ellery and Lady Hyacinth should do it. Then we’ll watch the gossip fly.”

  Satisfied by their stunned reaction, he seated himself at the head of the small table made festive with dahlias of an inappropriately happy shade of yellow.

  The cook herself served him, placing before him his usual breakfast of eggs and bacon, scones and coffee. Esther’s presence should have warned him of trouble, but his mind was elsewhere, and he took a forkful of eggs without thinking.

  His mouth puckered so tight he could scarcely get the fork out.

  “I added a little alum to the eggs.” Esther had rolled her hands into her apron as if to keep from smacking him. “I find it gives them a . . . flavor. Don’t you think, Mr. Throckmorton?”

  He stared at her with eyes bulging. The eggs were awful.