Throckmorton, who traveled a path parallel to Celeste’s yet had no intention of leaping hedges from one path to another, didn’t stand a chance of catching Celeste and the children before they swept right through the middle of the party. But he had to reach them soon, before disaster struck. What explanation was she giving for Kiki?
Celeste wore a vibrant rose-colored gown which brought the glow of sunrise to her complexion. A broad, old-fashioned lace collar swooped around her neckline and equally broad cuffs encircled her tiny wrists. The width of the skirt emphasized her trim waist, and the fit of the bodice emphasized her firm bosom . . .
Throckmorton broke off his thoughts. He should not be noticing Celeste’s complexion, her waist or her bosom. He should be concentrating on what to do at this unusual turn of events, and he should be noting the obvious—that Celeste owned beautiful, expensive gowns far beyond the reach of a governess’s wages. Surely that was a sign of complicity with the Russians.
“Mister . . . Throckmorton?”
He ignored the uncertain call from behind him, concentrating all his attention on Celeste and her ever-greater retinue.
Fingers tugged at his elbow. “Or . . . um . . . Garrick?”
“What?” he snapped impatiently as he swung around—and found himself facing Hyacinth.
She leaped back at his tone, her eyes the same bruised violet color of a hyacinth blossom.
“Oh. Lady Hyacinth.” Too fragile, he thought. Too easily hurt. I’m going to kill my brother. “I’m sorry. I had something on my mind.”
“Yes, you were following that girl,” Hyacinth said in a rush. “I thought maybe I could come with you.”
Another complication in an already complicated state of affairs. “Why?”
She looked taken aback. “Well, I thought I could join the other young people rather than stay with my parents.”
“Yes!” He didn’t have time to talk her out of it. “Jolly good idea.” And she probably needed distraction from her worry over her betrothal. “Take my arm!”
With a shy smile, she did. “Thank you. I love my parents, but sometimes they are rather dull. But they trust me with you, because you are—” She stopped, her eyes wide and horrified.
He marched her forward at a great rate. “Almost as dull as they are,” he finished for her. For some reason, her assessment annoyed him, although why it should he didn’t know. He prided himself on being pragmatic. He couldn’t complain because a foolish young woman perceived him as tedious.
Ahead of them, Lord Featherstonebaugh tottered right in front of Celeste. Ellery’s godfather fancied himself an elder roué, irresistible to girls, and the girls thought him harmless and even encouraged him while Lady Featherstonebaugh rolled her eyes and made comments about old fools.
Celeste listened while he spoke, then gestured to the children and gave some kind of explanation.
Lord Featherstonebaugh stepped back with a bow, a rueful smile playing across his wrinkled lips.
Celeste had charmed another one even as she dismissed him.
“Stupid old gaffer,” Throckmorton muttered.
Hyacinth ignored him, her gaze fixed on Celeste. “She’s so pretty. Who is she?”
“She is Miss Celeste Milford. She has but recently returned from Paris.”
“Of course. That explains her stylish air.” Hyacinth’s voice was rife with admiration. “Her clothes are not quite the thing for England, but she sports an élan I’ve not seen in the other girls.” She hesitated. “If I could be so bold, brother . . . I heard that she has your favor.”
He almost sagged with relief. So he had done one thing right. Hyacinth did indeed believe that he, not Ellery, was involved with Celeste. “As you said, she is very pretty,” he said in a neutral tone.
They turned a corner so that at last they were following Celeste, but Throckmorton couldn’t see her through the throng. They were headed up toward the knoll, toward the silly, tumbled-down castle which crowned his land. This was not the way he had planned Celeste’s debut. This wasn’t the way he’d intended it should proceed. He’d imagined she could stay by his side, cling to his arm, silent and uncertain in the new environment. Instead, with all the attention she attracted, she might have been a visiting dignitary. The tea might have been in celebration of her, a possible spy and certain seductress, rather than of poor little Hyacinth.
He glanced down at the girl on his arm. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“Well, I . . . it’s lovely, of course, everything as it should be, except Ellery . . .”
Dear Lord, her lower lip was quivering!
“Yes. Dreadful shame about the strawberries and the other accident.” He heard her gasp. No wonder her father was so protective. She was so open, so honest, so vulnerable. If she was going to survive in the cutthroat world of high society, she should learn to guard herself and her reactions.
“What other accident?”
His shoulders clenched, and he fumbled for his handkerchief just in case she took to sobbing. “He took a bit of a tumble, that’s all.”
“Oh, dear.” She glanced backward. “I should go to him.”
“He won’t talk to you. Only through the door. But . . . yes, later, you should go talk to him.” He didn’t know what to do with a girl who loved Ellery and wanted to marry him. Well, he did, but he couldn’t romance Hyacinth. “The dear boy’s feeling neglected.” In fact, Throckmorton relished the thought of his brother dealing with a tearful girl. Let Ellery handle a little of his own mess.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He won’t . . . he won’t see me?”
“But he’ll talk to you.”
“Then I will go to him,” she said, her voice alive with resolution.
“But after the tea,” Throckmorton said. “This is, after all, in honor of you.”
As they climbed, he lost sight of the little group surrounding Celeste. Turning a corner, he saw the path was clear, but off to the side he heard a squeal of glee.
“A swing!” Hyacinth sounded as excited as Kiki. “I love swings.”
She hadn’t yet journeyed too far from childhood, Throckmorton realized. Detaching herself from him, she hurried forward.
Placed on a flat spot between two jumbles of rock, hung from the sturdy frame painted white, and overhung with trees, the board and rope swing was every child’s dream. Throckmorton remembered it well from his youth. Now Kiki had already commandeered it. Kiki with her blonde curls and her big blue eyes, her olive skin and her flashing smile. What explanation had Celeste given for her?
His eyes narrowed at the sight of Penelope standing off to the side, her hands folded before her, patiently waiting her turn. With her straight brown hair and her direct gaze from brown eyes, Penelope looked like him. But she looked like her mother, too, with her pale, creamy skin and slender grace. Joanna’s death had shaken the foundation of their little family; Penelope had been lost and forlorn, and he’d worked to give her a sense of security. She had been growing up into a child poised beyond her years, and he rejoiced in her maturity.
Now Kiki had come, and their serenity had been shattered. Penelope was given to outbursts of unruly activity and mischief.
His gaze shifted to Celeste. She had seemed so perfectly suited to the task of restoring peace to the house. He hated to lose this opportunity; he hated to have his plans laid waste. But if she wasn’t a spy, she was still a siren.
More young men and women appeared, brushing past him on their way to the heart of the celebration. Toward Celeste.
Celeste stepped behind Kiki and gave her a push. Kiki screamed with joy as she rose into the air, her skirts fluttering around her knees.
“That will never do,” Celeste announced, and stopped the girl. She tucked the material tight around Kiki. Hyacinth hurried to help, and Throckmorton saw Celeste say something to Hyacinth, and saw Hyacinth laugh. Celeste had charmed another unsuspecting soul. But not Hyacinth. This would never do. What was she telling Hyacinth about Kiki?
r /> He started toward the swing.
Hyacinth gave Kiki a push. Ellery’s daughter shrieked again.
Celeste watched for a moment, then took Penelope by the hand, and walked . . . toward him. Her eyes met his. She smiled.
But he hadn’t realized Celeste knew he was anywhere near. He was dressed like the other men in a dark jacket and trousers. He had followed far behind the throng. And she had never seemed to see him. Now she acted as if she had known all along.
Celeste noted everything that went on around her, either through a natural, bright awareness, or through training by a master of intelligence, or both. If she weren’t already working for the Russians, he would like to hire her himself.
He would like to do a lot of things to her himself.
“Papa!” Penelope smiled with pleasure at the sight of him and caught his hand.
His interrogation of Celeste could wait a few moments. He smiled back at his daughter and squeezed her fingers. “Child.” Looking at her was like looking into a mirror.
In a bright, cheery tone, meant to head off his wrath, Celeste said, “You mean to scold me, I suppose, for meeting the children when you had instructed I should not. I slipped away from the other servants. They didn’t even know what I was doing, so you’ll confine your reprimand to me.” She beamed at him, dimples flashing, as she acknowledged her duplicity.
She would indeed make a fine spy, for it would be a cold-hearted hangman who placed the rope around her neck.
As luck would have it, he had many times been described as cold-hearted. “Why did you bring Kiki?” he demanded.
“I couldn’t bring Penelope without Kiki.”
Prevarication. He narrowed his gaze at Celeste. “Why did you bring Penelope?”
“That’s a long story.” She slid a caressing finger along Penelope’s cheek. “It seems I got to the nursery in the nick of time. I’m afraid, Mr. Throckmorton, you’re going to have to hire a new nursemaid.”
He stared at Celeste. She didn’t look like a spy and a wrecker of betrothals. He glanced down at his daughter. She stood quietly, composed, waiting for her story to be heard. “A new . . . nursemaid,” he said.
“When I got to the nursery, she was tied to her chair while the girls skipped rope in the corners.”
“Tied to her chair.” He feared his secretary was a traitor, his brother wanted to break his engagement, and his daughter tied her nursemaid to a chair. And Celeste . . . Celeste was too beautiful, too well dressed, and too smart. “Penelope, you let Kiki tie your nursemaid to her chair?”
“Actually, it was my idea,” she confessed without shame. “Kiki is useless with knots.”
Looking down at her, Throckmorton saw a flash of something . . . what was it his mother used to say? “If you’re looking for a rogue, it’s Ellery. If you want mischief done right, it’s Garrick every time.”
But Penelope had never been like that before. Tugging at his trousers, he knelt beside his daughter. “Penelope Ann, you must never tie up your nursemaids ever again.”
“But, Papa, she wouldn’t let us go outside because she said we’d be in the way of the tea preparations, and she wouldn’t let us jump inside because she said we gave her a headache.” Penelope seemed to believe herself to be the voice of logic. “You must admit, those are poor reasons for not allowing us to skip rope.”
He held up his hand. “Tying up anyone because they don’t let you play as you wish is not a good enough reason.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Then why did you teach me how to do it?”
He heard a muffled laugh from Celeste, but he kept his attention on his daughter. “In case bad people come and try to take you away. But only then, Penelope.” Standing, he nodded to Celeste. “There. That should take care of matters.”
Celeste looked at Penelope. Then she looked at him. “You taught your daughter to tie people up?”
“I don’t know how to teach embroidery,” he answered, deadpan. “Didn’t your father teach you how to tie people up?”
“No, he taught me how to tie roses to an espalier.”
“Hm. Odd.” He squinted at the swing. “Isn’t it someone else’s turn?”
“Come on, Penelope.” Celeste hurried toward the swing. “You’re next.”
Throckmorton braced himself for an explosion of wrath from Kiki, but Celeste spoke to her, and without incident, she slid off the swing. Penelope jumped up and Hyacinth gave her a push.
Then Celeste brought Kiki back to him.
The child was babbling in French, as always, and as always she ignored his English greeting. If she would just reply once . . . but he had to be patient. She had lost her mother, just as Penelope had. She responded by refusing to face the facts of her new life. He could understand, but he couldn’t countenance her making his child miserable, or teaching her sedition—or ignoring him so steadfastly.
Kiki bobbed about, waved her hands expressively, and babbled in French.
“Tell her she is not to tie anyone else up,” he instructed Celeste.
“I did.”
“Does she understand?”
“She does.” Celeste didn’t have to say it—but she doesn’t care. “She wants you to teach her to tie up people, too.” Celeste seemed to be having difficulty retaining her gravity.
His gaze narrowed on her.
“Apparently she was very impressed with Penelope’s efficiency,” Celeste said brightly.
He wavered. He wanted to snap that no, he most definitely would not teach Kiki to tie knots. But this was such a good opportunity . . . “I don’t teach knots in French.” He was watching the child; he saw the flash of understanding. She comprehended him perfectly, and he and Celeste waited while she struggled between her desires and her rebellion.
In the end, her rebellion won. “Je ne parle pas l’anglais,” she said to Celeste.
Celeste turned to him. “She says she doesn’t speak English.”
“Well, I don’t speak French.”
Kiki stomped her foot. “Trés stupide.”
“She understood that fast enough,” Throckmorton observed.
“No one here is quite as ignorant as they pretend.” Celeste dropped a little curtsy toward him, then toward the glowering Kiki.
Nothing about his interrogation had gone as it should. He caught Celeste’s arm and pulled her away from Kiki. “What are you saying about this child?”
“About Kiki?” She had the gall to look surprised. “To whom?”
He gestured about him. “To anyone.”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” he snapped. “You have to have told them something about the child!”
She understood him now, for she sobered. “I have given no explanation about Kiki. She could be a friend of Penelope’s, come to visit for the day. She could be the child of one of your guests. She could be a cousin—your father’s side of the family is an enigma to the ton. Your guests don’t care who she is, Mr. Throckmorton. Only you know there is a mystery.”
She managed to do something only a few had ever managed to do. She made him feel foolish.
“I assure you, Mr. Throckmorton, I wouldn’t use a child as a weapon.”
He now felt defamatory and suspicious. “I appreciate the assurance,” he said stiffly. Then he realized—he still had a seduction to perform, and now Celeste eyed him with considerably less partiality than she had last night. So he added, “I apologize for my unwarranted misgivings.”
She accepted his apology with grave appreciation. “Thank you. Now is as good a time to tell you as any—I’m going to spend the evening in the nursery, and sleep there, too.”
He hadn’t planned it that way, and he was tired of being thwarted. “You will attend the dinner tonight.”
“Such an imperious pronouncement! Tea today is sufficient for my first outing.” She gave him the impression she had handled everything with deliberation, bringing the children as a diversion, creating a youthful, informal atmospher
e that discouraged in-depth conversation.
She irked him. This was her first official social event here at Blythe Hall; she shouldn’t be so poised. She shouldn’t tell him what to do. She shouldn’t make the plans.
“I’ll choose some women from among the servants to be with the girls until I’ve found two new, experienced nursemaids.”
“Certainly, but I think the new nursemaids will want some kind of guarantee of safety. I can safely promise them Penelope and Kiki will be better supervised by me.” Kiki starting babbling, pointing toward the swing. “You have to share,” Celeste answered. Then, to Throckmorton, “Why don’t you just build two swings?”
Throckmorton’s jaw dropped. “Two?” He’d never thought of such a thing.
“No one should have to share a swing,” Celeste said seriously. “It colors the whole experience, gives a sour taste to the joy, to know your pleasure is finite and controlled by someone else.”
He stared at her. She stood, framed by willow branches, a rose-clad, practical dreamer. Her hair, braided and upswept, bared her neck where little tendrils dusted the skin. Her hazel eyes slanted up, dressed with lavish lashes that flirted without design. Her ears were tiny and delicate, her nose a tilted button, her lips . . . he’d kissed her last night. He’d done a good job of it, just as he did a good job of every task he performed. But he hadn’t admitted to himself how much he enjoyed it.
For a seductress, she kissed with a remarkable lack of skill. She’d sagged against the wall, and her hands had dangled by her side as if she didn’t know what to do with them. She kissed with her lips closed and when he’d used his tongue she’d jumped—and moaned. He’d kissed her neck, mostly to see if he could startle more of the little sounds out of her. He had. Untutored sounds of pleasure, most flattering to a man. And while most beautiful women tasted like caked powder and acrid perfume, she tasted like sweet clean flesh and a lover’s dreams. For a moment, just a moment, he’d wanted to take further liberties, kiss the curve of her breast, slide down her arm to press his lips against the pulse of her wrist.