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It required skillful maneuvering and the aid of Reva Kirkleigh to extricate Ceressa from the viscount and his mother. First, the young man had insisted on reciting a new poem—one he’d written just for her. Then his mother demanded that Ceressa tell her all about the aunt in Cornwall. If Reva hadn’t noticed her plight and declared there was an old friend to whom she must introduce Ceressa, Ceressa would still be standing there trapped.
“You must have a care, Ceressa.” Lady Kirkleigh propelled her into another room, this one arrayed in shades of royal purple, black, and silver, “Lest you be cornered by his lordship when neither I nor Geoffrey is about. Now, go mingle with some more interesting men. I noticed the son of Count du Plessen was watching you most intently. It would do no harm to speak with him. Now, I want to warn you—Latimer is here, and I know you once thought a great deal of him. I’ve always adored the lad, but I fear he only came tonight because he’s up to mischief, which will anger Geoffrey. His ship sails a little after midnight for the colonies, which is for the best. It seems of late that he wants nothing more than to wage battle with Geoffrey.”
“I know. I saw him. I’m sure he hasn’t time to give me a thought.” Ceressa changed the subject. “I see Lord and Lady Conover near the palms. Lady Conover is a good friend of Mother’s, and she would want to know about Aunt Lydia. Perhaps I’ll have a word with them.”
Reva frowned, and Ceressa knew the lady was displeased that she’d chosen to converse with a couple of middle age rather than the count’s son. In truth, Ceressa was shy at functions, much more like her introverted father than her outgoing mother, a true testament that opposites did attract. But in most matters her parents were in harmony. Her mother always supported Father’s decision that Ceressa be well educated even though the notion was considered foolish by many. But Ceressa was grateful to them for the opportunity, even when their love and overprotectiveness made her crave escape.
Summoned by another group, Lady Kirkleigh slipped away. Determined not to be trapped by Viscount Montvale, and having lost sight of her mother’s friends, Ceressa decided it was time to sample her godfather’s bounty. Making her way to a small table which groaned beneath the weight of trays bearing tempting treats, she took up a gilt-edged plate festooned with delicate leaves and flowers. Even at that moment, Sir Geoffrey’s discreet and efficient servants moved effortlessly about the tables replenishing the food. Selecting a square of toast with caviar, she took a bite, and was about to swallow when a man spoke.
“The caviar is good, but I prefer the raw oysters.”
Ceressa sucked in breath, whirling about to see Latimer Kirkleigh. A crumb of toast caught in her throat at that precise moment. Opening her mouth, no air would pass. The food lodged, refusing to budge. Desperate for air, hissing and wheezing as she choked, Ceressa let him take hold of her arm. Latimer dragged her across the room, and in her state of airless panic, she was aware that people were staring. Taking a cup of punch from a tray held by a servant, Latimer unceremoniously pushed her out the French doors and into the garden, still damp and misty from an earlier rain.
To her horror, Latimer proceeded to whack her on the back, and with the second firm slap, the troublesome bit of toast loosened and indelicately popped out. Ceressa found the crystal cup of punch thrust into her shaking hand, and she somehow managed to lift it to her lips. Taking a drink, the food washed down, and shutting her tearing eyes, Ceressa drew in a deep breath, the scent of blooming narcissus and primroses filling her nostrils. She continued to pull the heavenly air into her lungs until at last, sure she was no longer strangling, she opened her eyes. Latimer stood regarding her with a roguish grin. Removing the cup from her trembling fingers, he placed it on the ledge.
“What caused you to choke? Did I frighten you that badly, or was it my mention of raw oysters? They’re quite a delicacy where I come from.” All Ceressa could do was stare as she tried to make sense of his words. It dawned that this was his attempt at humor. Even so, no words would come, and she wondered if her near strangulation had left her vocal cords paralyzed.
“I take your silence as an indication you’ve nothing to say. I’ve spoken to many a lass, but I don’t think I’ve ever caused one to choke.” The teasing note flavored his voice, but Ceressa’s gaze was focused on his eyes, and the words still wouldn’t come. Golden-green they were, and they blazed boldly. Here was a man confident in manner and purpose, and certain of his effect on women. She knew she should break the hold his gaze had upon her, but a rebellious, determined part urged her not to. Latimer’s face was a fascinatingly attractive combination of strength and ruggedness accentuated by his bearded jaw and dominated by a strong nose that was just a fraction off center.
Tall and muscular, he was a man not easily forgotten. No wonder he’d lived in her dreams for so many years. The light spilling out the door created a copper halo about Latimer’s head. How absurd to think of a halo, for if Sir Geoffrey was to be believed, Latimer was anything but an angel. A fire-breathing dragon, perhaps, for she feared she might very well receive a blast as his dark brows lowered in displeasure.
“I…I…it…a piece of toast went down the wrong way. I’m quite well now, thank you. You were most helpful.” His jaw twitched, and Ceressa silently labeled herself as a dullard. Latimer certainly must find her a disappointment.
“So you do have a tongue. I was merely ‘helpful’? I’d like to think I was a bit more than that.”
“You were God’s instrument,” she quickly assured him. “Otherwise, I might have died or at the very least disgorged the contents of my stomach. Oh my, that wasn’t a very elegant choice of words, was it?” She brought hands up, pressing them to burning cheeks.
Latimer chuckled. “But most descriptive,” he replied. “And I am indeed most delighted you weren’t snatched and whisked up to Heaven, for it would be easy for you to be mistaken for an angel.” As his gaze softened, embarrassment spread lower than her face. Her stomacher was laced so tightly she feared she might indeed relieve herself of anything she’d previously eaten. Or did it seem too tight because she was incredibly nervous? Of one thing she was certain. Latimer didn’t recognize her or he would never be looking as he was. Perhaps it was time to let him know the little girl he’d taught to fence and ride a horse and swim was all grown up, though sadly lacking in the skills of harmless flirtation.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Ceressa hoped her tone was light and nonchalant, although her heart raced. Her voice was raspy and uneven—a side effect of her choking, she assured herself, though she suspected nerves had something to do with that.
“I had hoped you might remedy that situation. But where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself; in the event my uncle hasn’t already told you, I’m the black sheep of the Kirkleigh family. I’m Latimer, Sir Geoffrey’s…nephew.”
Ceressa noted that he’d paused before saying “nephew.” He then swept her an elaborate bow, and her heart fluttered. If she told him she was the child he’d last seen seven years ago, he would surely lose interest. Latimer had noticed because he believed her to be a stranger. And most likely wanted to add her to his list of conquests. Besides, he was to sail for Virginia that night. There wasn’t time to become reacquainted.
Ceressa was about to excuse herself when Reva Kirkleigh’s words echoed in her mind. Did she want her parents picking out the man she would marry, or did she want to have some say? Did Ceressa have the courage to make her own choice? She’d lived her life according to her parents’ rules, and though she didn’t regret having done so, a longing still persisted. Ceressa had no experience with men. Her knowledge of courtship was excruciatingly limited, and she’d discovered that a gentleman reading poetry to her was less than satisfactory. She’d never been kissed upon the lips or held in a man’s arms.
“I prefer to remain anonymous at the moment,” she said, hoping to cloak herself in an aura of mystery. Straightening from his bow, he once more towered, and his eyes darkened as
he frowned.
“At the moment? Does that mean you intend to tell me later? Perhaps at midnight? You’ll not scurry off and lose a shoe like that ridiculous girl in that odd fairy tale?”
“I believe the tale is The Hearth Cat and there is nothing odd about it,” she informed him with more fervor than she’d intended. The story was one of several in a fairy tale collection compiled by the Italian poet Giambattista Basile and presented to her by Sir Geoffrey on her seventh birthday. It was one of her most treasured books. “It is a timeless tale of goodness triumphing over all that is wrong and cruel.”
“Clearly unrealistic.”
“If you find the plot so implausible, how is it that you have familiarity with the story?” An unreadable expression flitted, then he sealed his emotions.
“I am deeply attached to a young child whose mother was inordinately fond of the tale.” His wife? Ceressa wondered frantically. And a child—was it his? “The child is my niece,” he added.
Relief swept Ceressa. The child was Constance’s. She was on the verge of asking about the child’s welfare until she realized doing so might reveal her identity.
“Now, as to your name?” It was obvious he would not be deterred.
“I have reasons for keeping my name to myself at the present. Thank you again for your assistance. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Gathering up her beaded skirt and stiff, embroidered petticoats, she took two steps before Latimer grasped her arm. His voice was husky when he spoke.
“I don’t play games.”
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Latimer’s ominous words dissuaded Ceressa from playing the coquette. A twinge of fear assailed while a strange warmth raced along her veins. His eyes were now a dark gold, and his grip was firm. As her gaze locked with his, she realized he was drawing her closer. Surely, he didn’t intend to kiss her? Gasping, Ceressa drew back, breaking his hold. He remained immobile while his brows lowered. “A woman has already made a fool of me today. I won’t tolerate it happening again. Seek your entertainment and kisses from one of those foppish youths who are prancing about my uncle’s ballroom. I believe I noticed you with one earlier, besotted and misguided though he is.”
“I assure you, I have no intention of doing any such thing.” Fiery anger exploded inside. How dare he tell her with whom she should seek companionship? Most unforgivable was the fact he must have spied when she was with the viscount and his mother. “I refuse to spend another second in your unacceptable presence.”
“By all means, take your leave.” Latimer stepped back, then swept her a mocking bow. Lifting her chin a notch, Ceressa moved gracefully away although her heart slammed hard against ribs, and it was difficult to breathe, unrelated to her near choking. Thankfully, the lout would be out of her life in a matter of hours. This Latimer Kirkleigh in no way resembled the gallant young man she’d so admired at the age of ten and four. At least now she could banish all romantic notions concerning him and move forward. She should thank the Lord that He had revealed Latimer’s faults and failings before she’d made a complete idiot of herself. Yet, she was saddened by the knowledge.
When she returned to the ballroom, the dancing had begun. Scanning those present, she hoped to see the viscount before he saw her, and thus avoid him. Fortunately, she spotted Sir Geoffrey holding out his hand. Ceressa gratefully took it. As he led her toward the formation, Sir Geoffrey smiled.
“How kind of you to take pity on an old man who cannot dance.”
Ceressa returned his smile. “You are much too critical of yourself,” she said as she easily executed the steps of the galliard, marveling at how Sir Geoffrey always made her feel special. It was one of his qualities that made her love him so.
“I can see the envying gazes of men not blessed with so lovely a partner.” His words were spoken seriously, and she blushed. Ceressa knew she was not a traditional English beauty with her disobedient wheat-colored curls and violet-brown eyes. Her parents claimed her eyes and hair were an inheritance from a Nordic ancestor, a Viking princess who’d washed up on the Cornish coast hundreds of years before. Ceressa could in no way be considered the loveliest female dancing in Sir Geoffrey’s ballroom.
“Do I detect a troubled look?” There was a note of concern in Sir Geoffrey’s voice. “Is my goddaughter not enjoying herself? Shall I order the musicians be hauled away and summon a more pleasing quartet?”
That brought laughter to Ceressa’s lips. “I wouldn’t want you to go to that trouble. Besides, I’m sure they are hoping to be compensated for their evening’s work.”
“Then I want a smile from my favorite goddaughter.”
“I’m your only goddaughter, Sir Geoffrey.” They made an intricate turn that required concentration. Ceressa wondered what it would be like to dance with Latimer.
“So you are.” Sir Geoffrey grinned. “What has become of the little tyke who used to sit in the library and listen to my stories? How many years ago was it that you spent the summer at Kirkleigh Hall?”
“Seven, to be exact.”
“You seemed to grow up so much that summer. You thought nothing of racing wildly across the meadow on the fastest of my steeds. And I’m not sure that Jon knows you learned to wield a sword as well as any man during that same visit.” Ceressa opened her mouth to remind Sir Geoffrey it was Latimer who’d taught her, but she quickly substituted different words.
“That has to remain our little secret, Sir Geoffrey, even though I do manage to practice occasionally with Father’s valet. However, Garren will keep that information to himself because I’ve promised to slice off a few of those long curls he so prizes, if he doesn’t.”
Sir Geoffrey laughed so loudly, the couple to their right looked and missed a step. Ceressa had to swallow her threatening giggle.
“May I never cross swords with you. You would be a most formidable opponent.”
“I take that as a compliment.” Their conversation lagged as they executed a step that was fast and tricky.
Once successfully mastered, Sir Geoffrey resumed their conversation. “Where have the years gone? Oft times I feel so old.”
“You’ll never be old. You’re quite popular with the ladies.”
“Only women who are either hoping to snag my purse by slipping the matrimonial noose about my neck or have designs on Latimer and hope I will put in a good word.” Sir Geoffrey’s normally twinkling eyes were filled with disgust.
“Is, ah, Latimer looking for a wife?”
Her godfather grunted. “So he tells me. When Constance died in that beastly wilderness called Virginia, she left behind a baby, conceived with the native man she married.” Ceressa remained silent. “Latimer has cared for the child since Constance’s passing but now feels the child requires a woman’s nurturing.”
“I see.” Ceressa was deeply disturbed by Sir Geoffrey’s words. Had Latimer’s search for a wife failed, given his odd comment earlier about being made a fool of by a woman?
“No need to trouble yourself, yet I know you will. It always touches me how you worry about others. Don’t waste your time on Latimer. He has made it very clear he can and will take care of his own affairs.”
“I can’t help but be troubled, Sir Geoffrey. I’ve always considered Latimer a dear friend.” The Latimer of seven years ago, she mentally added. Not the one I encountered a short while ago who was angry, and unkind, and insulting.
“You do enough in the service of our Lord without taking on Latimer. Look at the time and effort you’ve put into educating the servants’ children at the mews. Your parents are very proud.”
“I’m very proud of them.” Her heart brimmed with love and pride for the two people who had given her life and the faith in God to live it honorably.
“Jon has been more of a brother to me than Cameron ever was. As for Theressa, I’ve never known another woman like her except…” He stopped as they performed a switch, crossing under each other’s raised arms. Ceressa noted his expression, now one of remorse.
She wondered who the exception was—his wife, perhaps? She wanted to ask but thought better; his sad eyes conveyed such deep distress. Ceressa always wondered why he’d never remarried. She suspected the loss of his wife had broken his heart.
“We must play chess soon, Sir Geoffrey,” Ceressa said, hoping to lighten the mood. “It’s been ages.”
“I’d like nothing better. As soon as I’ve put the current unpleasantness,”—he was referring to Latimer, Ceressa suspected—“behind me, we’ll make plans. I intend to spoil you while I have you all to myself.”
“It’s a shame Latimer is leaving so soon. I’m sure Mother and Father would have invited him to dine.”
A fierce scowl ripped across Sir Geoffrey’s face, and his eyes narrowed piercingly. His look stunned Ceressa.
“Praise God, and I mean no disrespect, but by the time your parents return, he’ll be on his way to that ghastly place where an Indian would as soon put an arrow in his back as look at him. You would think he’d see reason, given the fate that befell Constance.”
“What do you mean?”
“She and her husband were murdered by his kind.”
Shock spread through Ceressa.
“Latimer can toil in his corn and tobacco fields from sunup to sunset and continue to defy me. If he chooses to do so, I shall dissolve our shipping arrangement. He needs ships to get crops to market, and he needs me to do that. I shall make him see how important it is that he pleases me. Whether he likes it or not.”
Ceressa had never heard her godfather speak that way. How tragic that his relationship with Latimer had deteriorated so badly. And how odd for Sir Geoffrey, one of the finest Christian men she knew, to completely forget the love, compassion, and forgiveness the Lord required. Although Constance’s husband had been a native man, he’d still been beloved of God. It was almost as though this disagreement between her godfather and Latimer had robbed Sir Geoffrey of reason. “Does it have to be that way between the two of you?” Ceressa asked softly.
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