“The Godwins have launched her on a Season,” said Won Tel. “That is the primary reason for their being in London.”
“You just told me they aren’t in London.”
“They will be. The girl and her companion were sent on ahead.”
Either his glass lied or the chit was considerably more pleasing to the eye than he had been led to believe.
Won Tel settled a hand on James’s shoulder. This gesture was the only sign of familiarity that ever passed between the two. The first time Won Tel used the calming signal, James had been a boy of not more than twelve and Won Tel barely nineteen. In the almost twenty years since that day there had been many occasions tense enough to warrant a restraining hand upon James.
“Word also has it that the Godwins may be in need of funds.”
James stiffened. He did not waver in his scrutiny of the tall, golden-haired creature whose sea-green silk gown—if his eyes didn’t deceive him—was completely lacking in any ornament and somewhat ill-fitting.
“I’m told they hope to use Miss Celine’s marriage to deepen their shrinking pockets. Oddly, there seems to have already been an offer for her from a very wealthy man. Wouldn’t you say that should make the expense of a Season unnecessary?”
“I would say so, yes.” James smiled grimly. “Doubtless you will soon find out what is behind all this.” Won Tel’s mysterious facility for extracting excellent intelligence was equaled in usefulness by his insight, a fact well known only to James and to beautiful Liam, the one other human he trusted implicitly. Since the death of Francis St. Giles, Won Tel had spoken scarcely more than a few words to anyone but James and the Chinese girl.
The first act of the play was drawing to a close amid a crescendo of animallike hoots and screams of laughter. James sat back in his chair and trailed an arm over its back. “So, the girl is to become the means of keeping the Godwins in a manner to which they never had any right.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Would you say that might make her their most prized possession?”
“There would appear to be no doubt that the girl holds much value for the parents.”
Hooking a thumb beneath a lapel on his perfectly tailored black coat, James expanded his chest. “Quite. Much value indeed. Come. The evening may yet prove to my advantage.” Magnificent chandeliers suspended from the circular domed ceiling burst to their full brilliance, signaling an intermission, and James swiftly left the box with Won Tel at his heels. “It is time for the first move toward my goal. We both know that I intend to ensure that Mr. and Mrs. Darius Godwin are left with nothing they value. Nothing.”
Celine clapped until the stage was bare of all but the lovely temple drop scene dedicated, so appropriately, to Mr. Shakespeare.
“What a pity Mama and Papa can’t be here to see something so wonderful,” Celine told dear Lettie Fisher. “I must be certain to tell them how grateful I am for everything they’re doing for me.”
“You must indeed.”
Celine knew, without checking Lettie’s face, that her companion would be hiding a knowing smile. “You probably think me very bad, don’t you, Lettie?”
“I think you are delightful. You have always been delightful and I thank God they haven’t managed…I thank God your spirit has remained unbroken.” Lettie’s Dorset brogue flattened the vowels in her speech.
Lowering her lashes, Celine affected a demure expression. “Is that not another way of saying I am an accomplished actress and manipulator?” She and Lettie had a pact: during conversations touching on the more bizarre elements of her upbringing, they never mentioned Celine’s parents by name.
“You are a survivor, my child. Praise be for that.”
Lettie had been Celine’s nanny, her sole champion throughout childhood, before Mama and Papa appointed her companion and maid to Celine when she turned fourteen.
Celine returned to watching the antics of the dandies parading before the orchestra pit. “Why would it be desirable to appear so foolish?”
“The dandies?” Lettie leaned to see more clearly.
“Yes. See how they pose. It’s a wonder the height and stiffness of their ridiculous neckcloths don’t cause them to choke.” She sighed. “Are there no worthy men in London who are as yet unmarried?”
Lettie chuckled. “I’m inclined to doubt that a man exists who’ll live up to your lofty standards.”
“Is it so lofty to want to marry a truly good and kind man, and to marry him for love?” Celine flipped open the fan of stiffened green lace which she’d been fortunate to gain with the purchase of her dress and for no extra expense. “Oh, Lettie, if only that odious Bertram Letchwith would decide the obvious.”
“And what would the obvious be?”
“Why, that I’m too tall, too ugly, and too dull. Then he would change his mind and cry off.”
“If trying to make the man believe such rubbish is the only way out of this match, then you’ll undoubtedly be Mrs. Letchwith within the year.”
Lettie sounded as desperately unhappy as Celine felt at the prospect of her marriage to the fat, middle-aged merchant her parents were determined to welcome as a son-in-law. Why, Letchwith was at least as old as Papa and had an unmarried son many years older than Celine. Percival, who was even less well-favored than Bertram Letchwith himself, continued to live with his father and appeared to accompany him everywhere.
“There has to be a way out,” Celine murmured. “There has to be. David has told me how it should feel when one is confronted with someone with whom one can hope to build a relationship based on the deepest affection.”
“David Talbot is a good man,” Lettie said of the young clergyman assigned to Little Puddle, the village close to Knighthead, the Godwins’ Dorset home. “Just as he was good when he was a boy.” David was the son of Little Puddle’s previous vicar and had grown up in the village.
“You don’t agree with David’s opinions on the subject of love?”
“I think he is as much of a dreamer as you are and, despite his habit of meddling in nasty matters that don’t concern him, I still think it’s too bad the pair of you don’t—”
“Hush, Lettie! I’ve told you before that David and I are the dearest of friends—nothing more. I shall know the man I want to marry, if and when I meet him. Now, do not spoil a perfectly lovely evening with this depressing prattle.”
“You began what you call this depressing prattle. You always do—at least a dozen times a day. I really would like to know what kind of man we’re looking for, Celine. How shall I know him?”
“Fie!” Crossly, Celine raised her shoulders, remembered how any such movement drew the bodice of her dress perilously tight across her breasts, and immediately rearranged herself. “I shall know and that is enough. Yes. I shall know the man.”
“Miss Godwin?”
Celine jumped, swung around in her chair, and blushed wildly. A tall man—a very, very tall man—stood inside the box, only feet from her. He must have entered most quietly…quietly enough for him to have been there while she’d talked to Lettie about…Botheration, surely he had not overheard.
The man bowed. His hair was black and slightly curly in a way Celine found quite irresistible. And his shoulders were remarkably broad inside a beautifully tailored black jacket that showed off his snowy, understatedly elegant neckcloth and the whiteness of his shirtfront and cuffs.
He straightened again. His face was clever, with a high-bridged nose, distinct cheekbones, and a wide, firm mouth. He smiled, very slightly, showing strong teeth. At that smile, Celine noted his eyes and drew a quick breath. A chill passed up her spine. She had never seen eyes quite like them; irises of steely gray, flecked and ringed with black, and with an unblinking quality that made them appear to see into her very mind.
“Have I shocked you, Miss Godwin?”
“I…no, oh, dear me, no.” She sounded exactly like the silly twitterpated pusses present in such irritating numbers at every London gathering she’d
attended. “It’s just that you surprised me, sir.”
“Are you acquainted with Miss Godwin?” Lettie exhibited no sign of being overly impressed with their visitor. “I am Lettie Fisher, Miss Godwin’s companion. I don’t believe I remember you.”
He smiled, really smiled this time, driving deep, dimpled grooves into his cheeks. “No, madam, and I really must apologize for my impulsive decision to approach you both.” Now his attention centered on Lettie, and Celine studied the entire man, from his exceedingly handsome, tanned face to his broad shoulders and chest—no buckram padding needed there—to a flat stomach, lean hips, and impressively powerful legs that filled tight-fitting pantaloons and silk stockings so smoothly that Celine was loath to look away. How the pigeon-bellied, chicken-legged Bertram Letchwiths of the world must detest such magnificent specimens.
When Celine did draw her gaze upward it was to meet once more that disturbing, steely-silver stare. She did not allow herself to blush again, or to lower her eyes in the expected falsely demure fashion. “Why did you decide to approach us?” she asked him in a cold voice she hardly recognized as her own. She did recognize the shifting sensation in her breast and the warmth flooding other parts of her. These must be the sensations David had warned her against, the sensations responsible for the downfall of previously respectable women.
“May I, Miss Godwin?”
Celine listened to his deep, resonant tones, then started as she realized he had offered her a large, bronzed hand. She hesitated before placing her own fingers lightly on his—and pressed her other hand to her throat as he bent to brush his lips across her very sensitive skin. Celine glanced at Lettie, who merely smiled. He lingered altogether too long over what should have been the merest of touches.
Celine withdrew her hand sharply. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I had not expected you to be so…That is to say…Please forgive my gaucheness.” He bowed again and appeared at a loss for words.
He had not expected her to be so—what? Celine settled her mouth severely. Wait until David heard of her admirable reaction in the most difficult of circumstances.
“Oh, I am entirely remiss,” the man said abruptly. “I am James Eagleton, most recently of Paipan, a small island in the South China Sea. I am barely returned to England from those parts and I fear I am still adjusting to the ways of—shall we say the civilized world?”
His smile quite disarmed Celine, and she allowed her own lips to soften—but only slightly. “Were you in the Orient long?” She shouldn’t ask questions of a stranger, of course, but he did make her so very curious, and just the mention of such foreign and exotic places sent a thrill of excitement through her. His being mostly a foreigner explained his rather unusual manner, and probably the tanned appearance of his skin.
“I’ve lived abroad since I was a small boy, except for the periods I spent at school in England, of course. But you must wonder why I have taken the liberty of approaching you.”
Hadn’t she been saying as much ever since he arrived?
“My box is opposite.” He gestured vaguely. “Someone who stopped to introduce himself noticed you and mentioned your name.”
Celine glanced across the theater. “I’m surprised either of you could see me. I suppose you have one of those opera glasses I’ve heard about.”
For an instant she thought his look became speculative. “Exactly. But that is of no importance. I understand that you live in Dorset.”
“I do.” Why would so evidently successful and handsome a man bother with her?
“Capital. I’ve just bought property there myself.”
She suppressed a retort that Dorset was not a small county and that many people lived there.
“Imagine my surprise when I learned that you are, in fact, residing at Knighthead!”
Celine became quite still. “You know my home?”
“I know of it. It is somewhat north, but close to the village of Little Puddle.”
“Yes.” Beneath his severely cut white silk waistcoat, Mr. Eagleton’s chest was indeed remarkably solid-looking. “Yes, close to Little Puddle.”
“A delightful Jacobean house of moderate but pleasing proportion. Some of the most enviably beautiful stained-glass windows in any private house…so I’m told. And the gardens are…I’m told the gardens are charming, the result of much effort expended by…” A muscle twitched in his cheek, but then he smiled, a little stiffly, Celine thought. “Perhaps I’m muddled, but I thought it was said that a lady who used to live there was responsible for the rose garden and the general design of the rest of the grounds. She liked sweeping expanses of lawn and employed a most unusually informal manner of random massing of rhododendrons and the like. Am I right?”
Celine frowned. The man disconcerted her. “You describe the grounds well, sir. As for the design, well, there I fear you are wrong. My own mother has often told me what an arduous task it was to turn the estate into its present form. Evidently it was much in need of work when my father bought it.”
Mr. Eagleton raised his angular jaw and stared over Celine’s head as if seeing something new—something that made him angry? She remained silent. Beside her, Lettie had faced the theater also and was busily reading the performance program.
Celine found she could not look away from this still man, this man so visibly powerful that his presence seemed too large for the confines of the box. The panicky little waves that rode into her stomach were unfamiliar, but they were not totally unpleasant. In fact, what she felt bore the closest resemblance to that emotion David had mentioned as being important to avoid at all costs: Pleasure! Pleasure that was purely physical with only the most tenuous attachment to any involvement of the mind. This sort of Pleasure, David had warned her, could lead to an insidious fleshly thrill that was almost impossible to contain before it precipitated…Passion.
A shudder racked Celine. She knew, only too well, the fate of women who gave in to Passion. Enough of this foolishness. “Thank you for paying us a visit, Mr. Eagleton. I do hope you’ll enjoy Dorset.”
It was with difficulty that James calmed himself enough to look once more upon the girl who sat before him. Not that she was less than delightful to the eye. “I’m sure I shall enjoy it very much,” he told her, careful to keep from his voice the wild rage that throbbed in his brain. The Godwin woman had dared to take credit for his own gentle mother’s creations in the treasured gardens she’d been forced to leave. And Darius Godwin had lied to his daughter. After so long, the lie had doubtless become accepted as fact by everyone. By everyone but Augustus St. Giles, Third Marquess of Casterbridge and James. James was the marquess’s nephew and sole heir. Upon James’s recent arrival in England, the childless marquess had joyously welcomed the only son of his dead younger brother, Francis, to the family’s magnificent estate, Morsham Hall on the Dorset coast. James was, in the old man’s own words, “the answer to a fervent prayer. The promise of a future for an ancient family threatened with extinction.”
The second act of the play commenced, but Celine Godwin continued to face James, and he felt sealed to the spot by the yawning evils of old treachery and by the potential tool this luscious girl could become.
“When do you return to Knighthead?” he heard himself ask.
The instant upward arch of a fine brow let him know she was aware of the impertinence of his question.
“Forgive me if my curiosity offends you. I have been too long away from society and I still forget that propriety is more rigid here.” He lied, but she was unlikely ever to know as much. “Blackburn Manor is…is the first English home I have owned. I am like a child with a new plaything.” The fleeting thought came that he was long overdue for a plaything of quite another kind. James had always easily conquered women, but he found himself bored by the thought of another such conquest. The female before him might be anything but boring…exactly, in fact, what he needed.
“Blackburn Manor?” She leaned closer, and James noted,
with a tightening between his legs, that the fullness of her high breasts caused the apparent poor fit of an otherwise flattering dress. “If it is the Blackburn Manor I know, the house that belonged to old Squire Loder before he died, then it is scarce three miles from Knighthead.”
James’s mouth dried. “The very place,” he told her. By God, she was a succulent piece. The small, filmy sleeves supposedly holding the gown in place at her milky, gently rounded shoulders were inadequate and presently in the process of sliding further down her arms with every unconscious move. “I take it you’ve been to Blackburn.”
“Not actually inside. The squire was quite a hermit, or so I’m told. But I ride a great deal because…” She hesitated. “Riding is a great boon to me and I ride past the manor several times a week.” She averted her face and drew in a deep breath. The movement all but freed a thrusting, pale pink nipple.
James swallowed and pressed his teeth hard into his bottom lip. The swell of her breasts made him long to touch skin that resembled ivory satin, to pull the bodice down until he could fill his hands with her, to push her onto sweet-smelling grass, or soft sheets, or this very floor, and taste her full lips, her throat, that enticing nipple that would become a hard bud between his teeth. And when she whimpered and writhed beneath him, begging for all he would take such pleasure in teaching her, then he would take his time with the rest…
He tensed his thighs and gave thanks that the lights had lowered enough to conceal the bodily evidence of the pictures his mind so vividly painted.
“I wish you joy with your plaything,” Celine said suddenly.
The impression that she saw his thoughts almost made him gasp. But she referred to the manor. “Yes. Thank you.” Ah, yes, there was potential for joy here—or, more likely, intense gratification while he extracted from certain others a dear recompense for their greed.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Eagleton?”
“Nothing.” She must see some hint of his turmoil—and his excitement. “I do hope you will permit me to call upon you.” He hadn’t forgotten quite everything about the rituals of polite society.
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