“Oh my,” she said softly, and saw Jacqueline’s self-satisfied smile.
“You are being welcomed, petite.”
“So it seems.”
“My lady, this way please,” Jacqueline was told, and she and Caro were led by the servant down the long hall to another flight of stairs.
Jacqueline was given a room on the courtyard side of the house, right next to Carolyn’s bedchamber, but above Celia’s chamber. It didn’t escape Celia’s notice that they were separated by distance though still in the same house. Whose bedchamber lay just beyond hers? She’d wager a solid gold guinea it belonged to Northington!
By dinner that evening, Mrs. Pemberton and her niece had arrived, as well as Sir John. Footmen served dishes to the guests continental style, and Jacqueline remarked how civilized it was to find a host acquainted with the elegant nuances of hospitality.
“So many,” she said with a sigh, “simply place the food in the middle of the table or rely upon guests to pass it to one another. By the time it reaches one, it can be quite cold. It is so much more gracious to send footmen round with the dishes.”
Lord Northington, seated at the far end of the table behind a bank of flickering candle stands, cocked a dark brow, his smile somewhat mocking, Celia thought. She could barely see him down the length of the table, but was far too aware of his presence. He’d dominated the dining room since the moment he’d entered, with no apologies for his absence or tardiness.
“Dinner requires some formality,” he replied smoothly to Jacqueline on his left, “but here in the country I lean toward more simple customs. I rise early and may be gone by the time breakfast is served, so it will be informal, the sideboard set for your convenience. Renfroe will see to your needs.”
Aware of Sir John’s attention on her, Celia turned to her side. He had been seated next to her instead of beside Lord Northington—a surprise.
“It is very good to see you again, sir,” she said politely, and he grinned.
“Unexpected, I imagine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Indicating the others at the table with a careless wave of one hand, he explained, “I imagine you weren’t expecting a crowd.”
“I hardly think a half-dozen people qualify as a crowd, Sir John.”
“That depends on your perspective, I assume.” Harvey lifted his wineglass. He hadn’t touched his food, she noticed, but drank several glasses of port instead. “Have you ever considered how easily things come to some people?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Celia drew back. It was obvious Sir John had imbibed more wine than necessary and he seemed surly beneath his urbane facade.
Shrugging, he turned his attention to the half-empty glass, twirling it between his fingers. She regarded him closely as he seemed about to say something, then obviously decided against it. He glanced up at her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Light glinted on his blond hair and in his hazel eyes as he said softly, “I have never been comfortable with losing.”
“What have you lost, sir?” She took a sip of sherry to give the impression of nonchalance, even though Harvey was beginning to annoy her. It wasn’t only bad manners to be a surly drunk, it caused an uneasy suspicion to form.
“One cannot lose what one never possessed, I suppose. Yet I have managed it. ‘She’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d: She’s a woman, therefore to be won.’ As you may have guessed, I’m cup-shot and quite incoherent.”
“Shakespeare is rarely incoherent.”
“You are familiar with the play—”
“Henry VI, first act.” Celia paused. Harvey seemed more sad than drunk, but another emotion seethed beneath his surface that made her uneasy. She leaned forward to say softly, “May I suggest that you partake of your excellent meal? It should make you feel much better.”
“You mean, dilute the port.” His smile was a bit wry and self-mocking. “You’re right, of course. If I make an ass of myself Northington will not be pleased.”
“I’m certain he would forgive you.”
“He always does, curse him.”
Perplexed, Celia was relieved when the meal finally ended and Sir John maneuvered a path toward Miss Olivia Freestone. She was young, dark-haired and very sweet in an innocent way. And she seemed quite flattered by the attentions of Sir John, though intimidated by her aunt’s stern presence. Mrs. Pemberton kept a close eye on her niece, as if afraid she would be abducted.
No doubt, it was that protectiveness that enabled Miss Freestone to retain her air of virginal naivete.
Have I ever been so naive? Perhaps once, but that was so long ago. Oh, she felt so old at times, much older than even her cousin Carolyn, who was basking in the triumph of having been invited to Northington’s country home. It was a social coup of sorts, even though Caro had no particular need to expand her social reputation. Her wedding was to be in the summer, and her future was secured.
Celia wandered onto the terrace lit by flickering lanterns that cast wavering pools of light on trees, vines and pots of flowers. Jacqueline and Mrs. Pemberton were deep in conversation, no doubt plotting the demise of the viscount’s bachelor days, each with their own goal in mind, and Carolyn had gone upstairs to freshen up after the evening meal.
Lately she had noticed a difference in Carolyn, as if she had gained confidence in the past few weeks. What would it be like to feel as Caro must feel? To know that life was safely planned, that there would be no worries other than the proper gown to wear at social functions, or the more important need for an heir. To know that one’s life held no uncertainties save the everyday dilemmas that few escaped?
My life has been so different. To be so protected seems like a fiction, a far distant dream as vague as a shadow.
There were times she couldn’t even remember what her father had looked like, save for a blurry impression of a tall man with dark hair and brown eyes that were always filled with laughter. They had all been content then, and even when Maman had no more children, Papa had not seemed to mind. He’d said he had two beautiful women in his life and needed no more to make him happy. And it had been enough.
Yet it had ended so soon, their lives changed forever when he died aboard that American warship.
“Hello, cat-eyes,” the mocking drawl she’d been half expecting all evening said behind her. Celia turned to face Lord Northington.
Her heart beat a rapid thunder as she met his eyes, and a little shock rippled through her at the intensity of his dark blue gaze.
I’d forgotten how intimidating his stare can be.…
“Good evening, my lord,” she said in what she hoped was a cool tone.
“How very polite you are—no, don’t retreat now, the evening is still so new. We have time enough to explore all our possibilities later.”
He stepped in front of her, blocking her progress, and leaned one arm against the vine-covered wall behind her head. It was disconcerting; instead of evening clothes, he now wore a loose white shirt open at the throat and snug-fitting trousers with knee-high black boots.
He radiated masculine power and sensuality, the strong column of his throat a dark contrast to the white cotton shirt, his fitted trousers clinging to muscled legs. Celia averted her eyes from his penetrating gaze.
“What?” he murmured, and drew the backs of his fingers over her cheek in a light caress. “No cutting comments? I’m amazed. And a little disappointed. I had rather looked forward to our usual disagreement.”
“I’m sure you have, my lord. My restraint must be very upsetting for you.”
“Ah well, we have plenty of time to try again. There is to be music this evening. I expect you and your cousins will enjoy it.”
To her faint surprise, he did not try to kiss her, but pushed away from the wall and stepped back. Always the unexpected! She had been sure he meant to kiss her again, and braced herself to resist any response.
But as if he’d anticipated her reaction, he merely smiled that slow, sardonic
smile she was growing used to seeing, and left the terrace. He walks like a tiger, she thought distractedly, as quiet and lithe as one of the huge beasts at the Tower menagerie.
And as restless, with the same predatory stride.
She reminded herself how dangerous he could be, how easily he could upset her careful plans. Yes, she must be on her guard.
Oh, but he is maddening! Celia thought later as she perched primly on the cushions of a large settee and listened to Olivia Freestone play yet one more piece on the pianoforte, a mangled version of a lovely French tune. Northington arrived late, coming into the music room just before the butchered tune ended.
He’d had no intention of being present for such tame and irritating entertainment, of course, but certainly didn’t mind inflicting it on his guests, she fumed. She saw with some satisfaction that Sir John was as annoyed as she was, his voice tight when he spoke to Northington.
“You’ve missed some very nice melodies,” Harvey said with a glint in his eyes, “but I am certain Miss Freestone will be delighted to give you a private concert.”
“I wouldn’t dream of tiring her with such a request.” Northington’s smile betrayed nothing as he moved to the now flustered Olivia Freestone and took her hand to lift her from the seat. “She’s been very accommodating as it is. Refreshments are being served on the terrace.”
“Bloody bastard,” Harvey muttered under his breath, and looked startled when Celia leaned close and agreed.
“Yes. I suggest we tie him to a chair, then have Miss Freestone play the entire score of Beethoven’s Fifth.”
A grin squared Harvey’s mouth. “But who would stay to ensure she complied? No volunteers here.”
They both laughed softly, and she took Harvey’s arm as he escorted her to the torch-lit terrace. Linen-draped tables were laid with delicacies, but Harvey made straight for the decanters of port. “A good host would provide something stronger,” he said lightly. “A little Blue Ruin wouldn’t be taken amiss.”
“So it seems, Harvey,” Northington drawled softly.
Celia’s heart skipped a beat, and she was suddenly fully aware of him behind her, his presence as forceful as a blow. She turned slowly, but Northington’s eyes were on Sir John, his voice deceptively soft.
“I have stronger drink in my library, but ladies don’t usually swill gin.”
Harvey lifted a brimming glass, saluted Northington with a mocking bow. “Then port it shall be, so as not to offend the ladies or dilute the evening’s diversions.”
“I do have some more lively entertainment for the evening,” Northington said, and his eyes slid to Celia as he lifted a brow. “Ladies always enjoy dancing.”
“Dancing?” Harvey snorted. “Hardly what I’d call more lively, old boy.”
“You might change your mind before the night’s over.”
“That’s possible but hardly probable.” Harvey drained his glass in a single gulp, then poured another. “But I’m willing to be wrong.”
Celia didn’t resist when Northington took her arm. His touch was light, impersonal but commanding.
“I think you’ll enjoy this, too,” he said.
“Will I? A waltz by torchlight hardly seems exciting enough for Sir John.”
“I’m sure it’s not. However, I’ve engaged dancers for all of us to enjoy.”
She shot him a glance, then turned when she heard the light tinkling of tiny bells and a spate of rapid thrums from a fiddle. Into the middle of the terrace swarmed a group of brightly clad men and women. The women wore full skirts of polished cotton in red and blue and yellow, and bangles on slender arms that jingled with every movement. The men were clad in dark, fitted trousers, scarlet shirts and brilliant blue vests. Their music was loud, lively, and they immediately began to stamp their feet, the women tossing long black hair with obvious abandon and pleasure.
Celia forgot what she was about to say, captured by the primitive, earthy music and graceful abandon of the dancers. Never had she dreamed there could be such dancing as this! One of the women, bolder, younger and more supple than the others, whirled so fiercely that her skirts swung high above her knees, displaying long brown legs. Her hair was loose, save for a knot piled atop her crown and fastened with glittering combs. These she pulled out one by one, tossed them aside as she danced.
“Spanish gypsies,” Northington murmured in Celia’s ear, his warm breath on her neck summoning a shiver. “They camp on my land every year.”
“And you allow them to do so?” It was unnerving, him leaning so close to her, the steady beat of gypsy drums a pounding match to the thud of her heart as she tried to maintain composure.
“It’s a cordial agreement. They camp here without fear of persecution in return for helping Smythe train my horses. Santiago, the older one with the gray hair playing the fiddle, is a master with horses. It takes him no time to train them.”
“I see.” She ignored his hand on her arm, and the suggestive caress of his fingers. “I had no idea you were such a philanthropist, my lord.”
“Hardly. I require a fair return on my investment, whether it be with gypsies, or lovely ladies.”
She turned to meet his gaze. “So everything is only a business arrangement with you.”
“Not everything.” He drew his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Not everything, pretty lady.”
It was suddenly too warm, the air stifling as she met that dark blue gaze. He expected more of her than social conversation. But hadn’t she known that? Yes, she’d known all along that he wanted her, and she still wasn’t certain how she felt—a strange kind of excitement, anticipation—when she should feel only resentment for the son of the man who had killed her mother. Why didn’t she hate him as well as his father? She should. Oh yes, she should. But it was unsettling to realize her feelings for him were much different.
Someone pressed a glass of wine in her hands and she took it, looking up to see Harvey’s eyes on her with an expression of—sympathy? But why?
Defiantly she smiled at him, upset that he would see her distress. He was far too astute for a man who drank so much and seemed so shallow.
“There is more wine,” Harvey said mildly when she drained her glass. “Would you care for another glass?”
Aware of Northington’s attention on her, she held out her empty glass and smiled her thanks.
“Harvey seems to be rubbing off on you,” he drawled, but she shrugged off his comment. Let him think what he wanted!
The music was loud, crashing around her, a cascade of sound that meant little, so she was startled when suddenly one of the dark-haired gypsies presented herself in front of them, hands on her hips and her black eyes narrowed in a sultry challenge as she smiled at Northington.
“My lord, you want us to play yet you do not listen. Come, dance with me again.”
Again? Celia’s eyes jerked to the woman, who met her gaze with a lifted brow and knowing smile.
“He dances beautifully, does he not, señorita? Like a gypsy, though he swears he is not. Well, will you dance, my lord?”
“Teach the señorita to dance, Marita, for it is she who dances beautifully.”
“No!” Celia burst out. “I…I do not care to dance.”
“Do you not?” The girl he’d called Marita tossed back her long loose hair like a dark cloud, and lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug. “It is true that few can dance like a gypsy. We are more graceful, have more passion. I have never seen a clumsy Englishwoman who can compare.”
“I’m not English,” Celia said stiffly, and recognized the challenge in the girl’s black eyes. “Nor am I clumsy.”
“No?” Red lips parted in a grin. “Yet you stand there as stiff as an English oak, unyielding and with as little grace. No, I say, you do not care to try because you know you cannot learn our dances.”
All eyes were on them now, and Celia flushed when her cousin urged her to try. Jacqueline laughed gaily.
“Oh, do give it a try, Celia. I think it wo
uld be quite entertaining.”
Mrs. Pemberton snorted. “I daresay, a proper lady does not indulge in such…such heathen activities. My niece would never be so heedless of her position.”
“But, Aunt Agatha,” Olivia said softly, “I do not think it would be so terrible. And they do look so graceful and lovely, and the music is quite lively.”
“I’ll try it,” Celia said, “if Carolyn and Miss Freestone join me.”
Marita clapped her hands, and two of the young men joined them, hot-eyed and eager, with broad white grins on dark faces. She spoke to them in what sounded like Spanish but must be a different dialect, then one of the men took Celia’s hand and drew her out onto the cleared paving stones, while another young man escorted Carolyn and Miss Freestone.
Mrs. Pemberton looked disgruntled, but Jacqueline only smiled as the music began again.
Celia’s partner put an arm around her waist, and when she drew away, he shook his head and said something in his own language. She looked down at his feet when he pointed to them, and studied the brief steps he showed her. It was very simple, really, a combination of several dances. What made it seem so different was the movement of the body and the stamping of the feet.
Fascinated, she watched Marita, saw that she put her entire body into the dance, eyes half-closed, a teasing smile on her lips as she swayed, turned, then stamped her feet to the beat of the fiddle, guitar and drums. Bells attached to the many bracelets on her arms jangled as she lifted her arms over her head, whirled around, bare feet a blur and her body lithe. She shook her head, and her hair swung down her back to her waist in a silky mass.
Marita looked as if she danced for a man, a lover, her slender body moving in blatant seduction. Snapping fingers over her head, she danced toward Northington, lips half-parted, eyes glistening an invitation as her hips undulated provocatively, skirts whirling up above bare knees. Celia heard her partner make some kind of low sound in the back of his throat as Marita pressed her body against Northington briefly, then whirled away in a teasing summons for him to follow.
A Reckless Encounter Page 14
