Celia swallowed hard. The enormity of her betrayal loomed before her eyes, Jacqueline’s kindness and love like a raw wound that wouldn’t heal. How could she keep it to herself, not confide in this woman who was so good to her? Oh God, it was so confusing, so…perilous.
She leaned forward, wanting to say so much yet not quite daring to say too much, the words coming out shaky and not sounding like herself.
“It is not always so easy to do. There are times—There are things that make people do what they wouldn’t ordinarily do, you know. I may fail you.”
“My child, failure is impossible. Whatever you choose to do, it will be right.” Jacqueline smiled. “I have faith in you.”
“Don’t—oh, don’t have faith in me!” Celia blurted, then stopped when her cousin just stared at her. Shaking her head, Celia managed a light laugh. “I’m afraid the champagne punch went to my head. You’re right, of course. I shall do what I must.”
“And now you must rest. It has been a long evening, and soon the sun will be up. I shall instruct Lily not to wake you. Rest, my dearest. You and Carolyn were the toast of the ton this evening. I am so fortunate to have two such lovely young ladies in my household!”
Once in bed, with only the glow from the coals in the grate to light the room, Celia was consumed by anguish. Hot tears wet her cheeks, grief for her parents and guilt for the treachery with which she returned her cousin’s affection. If only she dared confide in her, tell her what had happened so long ago. But she did not dare. And to learn that Jacqueline’s dearest friend was Lady Moreland—no, she would never understand or approve.
And I could not expect her to, Celia thought sadly. It was so unexpected that she would feel such affection for Jacqueline. It overshadowed everything.
Yet I cannot let it deter me from exacting justice on Moreland! she thought fiercely. Nor will I trust his son. Despite his invitation for an innocent ride in the park, Lord Northington was dangerous.
That was clear enough. She hadn’t expected him to be so determined, so forceful, on the terrace. Nor had she expected him to be aroused, but she had been well aware of his hard arousal pressing against her belly, the strength of it shocking. It had alarmed her, but even more alarming was her response to him. For a moment, just a brief instant, she had found herself kissing him back.
Dieu! But it had taken all her strength of will to walk away, to pretend a coolness and indifference she certainly had not felt at the moment. It was surprising he hadn’t seen through her effort, for she’d thought at any moment that her knees would buckle and she’d sink to the floor.
Yet she hadn’t.
And in a few days, she would be forced to spend time with him, to continue the deception. God, if only there was another way, but she saw none. What else could she do? It made her head hurt to even think of it anymore, to even try to form a cohesive plan. Putting her fingers to her temples, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
It was Northington’s father she wanted to ruin. If she had to use his son, she would. It might even be justice of a sort.
Why waste pity on a man who thought it appropriate to seduce young women on their very own terraces? If she had given him more encouragement, no doubt he would have lifted her skirts. No, she wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over either Northington, young or old.
Yet when she succumbed at last to sleep, it was a troubled slumber with vivid dreams and haunting images.
Jacqueline Leverton sat at her dressing table and frowned slightly at her reflection as the maid brushed out her hair. Celia seemed so…so grieved about something, but she could not learn what it might be. The poor child. Of course, with both her parents dead now she must feel terribly alone. At least when she and Léonie had fled France they’d had each other.
Now Celia was here, and she owed it to Léonie to do all she could for her daughter. They’d made a pact during those dark days, that they would always be there for each other. This was the only way she had now of keeping that pact with her cousin.
But even if she did not do it for any other reason, she would do it for Celia. There was a melancholy quality to her that exuded from every pore, sad lights in her eyes even when she laughed. Oh, to wipe away that sadness, to give Celia the happiness that Carolyn had, the same sense of safety and serenity she gave to her daughter.
Jules chose that moment to appear at her door, his brisk knock the usual signal.
Dismissing her maid with a wave of one hand, she turned with a smile as her husband entered the chamber and came straight to her.
“It was a brilliant success, my sweet, but then, your affairs always are.” He bent, his hand gentle on her shoulder as he pressed a kiss upon her cheek. He smelled faintly of tobacco and brandy. So familiar, so beloved. It was still a miracle to her that they were married, that he loved her after so many years.
“If they are a success,” she said lightly, “it is all due to you.”
“To me?” Jules feigned amazement, and they both laughed. “Why would you say that, my love?”
“Because it is due to your generosity and kindness that I am able to spend so lavishly.”
“My darling, I would give my entire fortune to make you happy, and would give dear Caro anything, as you well know.”
“Yes, and you are so generous to my beloved Léonie’s daughter, just as you are to our own. For that, I can never thank you enough.”
“My dearest wife, I would be generous to a dozen of your orphaned relatives if it pleased you, but I genuinely like Celia. She’s a lovely young woman, though very sad.”
“Oh, you see it, too!” Jacqueline stared up at him. Short and balding, with luxurious side whiskers that he thought made his face seem leaner, Jules Leverton seemed to some as a genial aristocrat, but in fact he was a shrewd judge of character and a canny businessman. He had rescued his family’s failing fortunes from calamity, and never failed to help those he could. He was, Jacqueline thought, the most wonderful man she had ever known.
“Of course I see it,” Jules said softly. “Celia bears a great weight on her young shoulders. There’s more than sadness in her eyes. There’s something akin to dread that I’ve glimpsed on occasion. Do what you can for her, my dearest.”
“I will,” Jacqueline promised. “I will.”
And she would. She would do her best to learn what lay in Celia’s past that could make her fear the future.
8
Hyde Park dipped in hills and greenswards that were still bright with fading summer flowers. Braving the capricious weather, open carriages took advantage of the sunny day to fill the park’s roads.
Celia St. Clair blinked against the press of light in her eyes, and tugged at the brim of her fashionable bonnet to shade her face. She wore a bonnet of green satin lined with white; a full plume of snowy ostrich feathers curled in graceful dips on the crown. As the gleaming curricle wheeled swiftly down the pathway, feathers fluttered as if about to take wing and fly.
Colter eyed them with a lifted brow. “Enjoy the sun’s warmth while you can,” he said to the lofty plumes that covered Celia’s head and part of her face. “It will disappear soon enough.”
Her chin tilted upward, the feathers bobbing. “Such an optimist. Are you always so cheerful, my lord?”
“Not always. On occasion I’m quite surly.” Handling the reins of the spirited horses, he slid a glance toward her and saw the faintest smile on her mouth.
“If that is indeed true, be so kind as not to inflict your presence upon me at those dismal moments of choler,” she replied with a coolness that belied her amusement. Colter smiled his appreciation of her retort.
“Your lack of tolerance is shocking, Miss St. Clair.”
“I doubt that. You don’t seem to be a man who is easily shocked.”
“I could tell you some tales—”
“I’m sure you could. Please spare me.”
She turned her head slightly, a glance from green eyes that could alter from warm to frigid in an instant. A
smile lingered at the corners of her mouth, a tempting curve that was inviting and rejecting at the same time.
Little baggage. He should kiss her again, if for no other reason than to prove to her how much she liked it. She may feign indifference but she hadn’t been indifferent the last time. And no damned ladies’ maid would keep him from it, so she needn’t have gone to the trouble of bringing one along.
The maid, a thin little thing with the look of a determined sparrow, clung to the sides of the curricle as if she feared being thrown out at any moment. He curbed a perverse impulse to increase his speed.
“Very well,” he said, handling the ribbons and horses with efficient ease as he deftly took a curve in the road. “Entertain me with lively tales of your own.”
“Really, I cannot imagine you would be interested in any tales I could tell, my lord.”
“I might surprise you. If you lack ideas, tell me about your home in Georgetown. You lived there for some time?”
“Yes.”
When she said nothing else, he glanced at her again. Her face was shadowed by the brim of her bonnet as she tilted her head downward, but her hands were tightly clenched around the velvet cords of the reticule she held in her lap. She vibrated with sudden tension.
“If you’d rather speak of something else, Miss St. Clair—”
Her head came up. “No. What would you like to know? And I was really born in Virginia. We moved to Georgetown when I was very small.”
“Then your parents are from Virginia, I presume.”
There was a brief hesitation before she said, “Yes. My father’s family owned land along the Chesapeake Bay.”
“So what brings you alone to England?”
She turned to stare at him, eyes boring into his face as if trying to decide what to say next. “How do you know I arrived alone, my lord? Because you saw me alone on the ship?”
“No, because your cousin hasn’t mentioned anyone else as a guest. A simple enough deduction, but I’m sure you’ll tell me if I’m wrong.”
“No, you aren’t wrong. My parents died some time ago, my father killed when his vessel was seized by a French warship. I’m the only member of my immediate family left.”
“I see.” There was no hint of emotion in her voice, only a calm recital of facts, yet her gaze on him was intent. He glanced back at the road. “And so you came to visit your mother’s relatives here. England has a lot to answer for, it seems, in colonizing America.”
When she shifted slightly, he caught a whiff of delicate scent. Verbena? He wasn’t certain. It was light, elusive, inviting—as alluring as her voice, a seductive blend of female innocence and wisdom borne in the husky, drawling tones of a Colonial. Enticing little chit.
“I bear no grudges. America won its independence in the end. A humiliating defeat for England, it seems.”
Amused, he said, “Perhaps just a concession instead of a victory. England has too many Colonies to waste far too much time on insurgents.”
“Yes, such as India, I presume. Yet oddly enough, it seems worth the expense, time and life to continue there.”
“India is proving to be more profitable and even less civilized, despite our best efforts.”
“Ah, the British are so aggressive.”
“Yes. You might keep that in mind should you ever plan a small revolution of your own.”
She gave him an arch look, eyes innocently wide.
“If memory serves, my lord, England didn’t do so well in the last great revolution with the American Colonies.”
“A slight case of miscalculation. We do learn from our mistakes, however.”
“Apparently there are lapses in memory, as it was not so very long ago that there was another war with America. It was in 1812 and didn’t end well for you then, either.”
“Touché, Miss St. Clair. I yield to the victorious Colonist.”
She laughed, a soft sound of amusement, genuine and contagious. “You yield so easily, my lord. I’m surprised. And a bit disappointed. I thought you a more worthy foe.”
“I am a worthy foe in more intimate matters, Miss St. Clair.” He smiled at her when she gave him a startled glance, and had the satisfaction of seeing color flood her cheeks.
It was only a matter of time. He’d give her today, by God, with her damned lady’s maid and chaperon sitting like a watchful cat in the boot of the curricle, but the next time he took her for a ride, it would be under his terms.
She was a mystery, an intrigue, a lovely, sensual female. He was developing a ferocious itch for her. It was damned inconvenient.
“America,” she said with a betraying tremor in her lovely lilting drawl, an obvious attempt to ease the tension between them, “is very different from England. It’s so vast. I think that’s what first strikes visitors. One can go afoot for months and not reach the distant shores. It’s so large, no road exists from one coast to the other. To reach Spanish California one must travel months by ship.”
Amused by her effort, he said, “I’ve been to Spanish California, but it was a long time ago, when I was barely out of Oxford. Now the United States and Spain have an ongoing quarrel with Mexico over the territory. It makes it inconvenient to visit.”
“Then describe it for me, since you’ve seen it.” Her glance at him was speculative. “I was told it’s a marvelous place with constant sunshine, soft winds and lush grass for miles and miles.”
“An apt description. A vast wilderness, but excellent for cattle and hermits.”
“That sounds a bit prejudicial.”
“It wasn’t what I expected but I wasn’t disappointed. I found California to be—a challenge. Wild. A place where a man’s past doesn’t matter, only his ability to survive.”
“You seem adept at survival.”
“So do you, Miss St. Clair.”
With a light shrug, she turned her head to gaze at the much tamer aspect of flower beds and tree-lined drive. He had the sense there was much she didn’t say.
Colter guided the horses more slowly along the curve of the path. It was more crowded in this part of the park, with curricles, landaus and horsemen exhibiting not only equestrian skill, but excellent horseflesh and lovely riding apparel. Nobility rubbed elbows with riffraff.
Madame Poirier, procurer of prostitutes, had several of her newest recruits decked out in all their finery and parading the park in a gleaming brougham with gilded harness and trappings. The ladybirds were near as lovely as the horses, and he recognized several of the men eyeing them appraisingly.
“Isn’t that Sir John?”
He followed Celia’s gaze and saw Harvey approach Madame Poirier’s carriage; sunlight gilded his hair with the same bright glints as the brass harness. An elegant horseman, the baronet rode a flashy bay from his father’s stables. Colter recognized it, remembered Baron Leawood at Tattersall’s purchasing the mare. He’d almost tried to outbid him, but decided against it. If Harvey was riding his father’s mounts, his own stable must be depleted. It was a matter of pride for a man to parade his own cattle through the park.
“Yes,” he said, “Harvey seems to be showing off his fine horsemanship.”
“And his fine horse as well as his diverse tastes.”
“Ah, do I detect jealousy?”
“Only of the horse, my lord. It’s a beautiful beast. I imagine such a lovely animal is quite costly.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. I was there when it was first shown at Tattersall’s. Do you ride, Miss St. Clair?”
There was a brief pause before she said, “Not well. I much prefer my riding to be done in a well-sprung landau.”
“Your riding instructors must be most distressed to hear it.”
She turned on her seat to face him. He felt the press of her knee against his thigh, a gentle nudge that sent a flash of fire through him. If it wasn’t for the watchful maid in the rear, he’d take Celia St. Clair to the nearest privacy he could find.
“What is it you want from me, my lord? A rec
itation of my qualities? My education? What I know and what I don’t know? Shall I confess all my secrets, or do you wish to continue trying to coax them out of me one by one?”
“Have you never heard of discretion?” He slanted her an amused glance, his brow lifted. Angry spots of color glowed on her high cheekbones, made her green eyes seem even brighter.
“Yes, I have, my lord. Have you?”
“Are you speaking of now, or of the night of your cousin’s ball? I seem to recall a lack of discretion on your part, as well.”
It was a telling reply. Her flush deepened and she looked away from him, staring at the tall sycamores that lined the drive. He focused on the horses, set their pace a bit slower as the well-oiled wheels of the curricle took a neat curve in the serpentine lane.
“Please be so good as to take me back to my cousin’s house, my lord.”
He’d been expecting the demand. “You’re not weary of my company already?”
“No. I—feel faint.”
“Ah. I see.”
He guided the curricle to a little-traveled lane that led around the lake the prince regent had insisted upon expanding. Swans floated serenely on the surface and ducks nested among reeds. Sunlight reflected on placid water as smooth as a mirror. A stone bench was screened by bushes.
It took just a moment to set the brake and climb down from the seat, another moment to move to the other side of the curricle and reach in for Celia. She made a sound of protest as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. He turned to the wide-eyed maid. “Stay here. If you thrash about, the horses might bolt.”
A muffled shriek was quickly swallowed as she gripped the side of the curricle with both hands and held tightly.
“Really, my lord,” Celia said coldly, “this is not at all necessary.”
“If you’re faint, you should lie down.” He ignored her resistance as he escorted her with an arm behind her back to the stone bench. She moved stiffly. The muscles beneath his hand contracted in a shudder as he slid his arm more securely around her waist.
“Here,” he said with a wicked smile. “Let me help you onto the bench since you’re so faint.”
A Reckless Encounter Page 8
