Seeking Celeste

by Solomon, Hayley Ann

  Sir Archibald listened for breathing. Hearing none, he eyed the lump on the bed again. Was it Lord Robert? He thought so, but must take nothing for granted, nonetheless. There was a cupboard on the far side of the room. If there were footsteps down the corridor, he could bolt into it, though he fervently hoped that such a cramped fate was not to be his. Especially not in the sapphire brocade. The creasing would be horrendous.

  Cautiously, he sidled up to the dressing table. A marble bust exactly matching the inlay stared down at him from a pedestal. He shuddered, then moved the frock coat out of the way. It glimmered, slightly, in his hand, and he could not but envy the rich quality of the materials used. This did not stop him from unceremoniously dropping the garment to the floor, along with the velvet-lined bea-. ver and the discarded neckerchief. His hands alighted, for a moment, on the chitterlings, before reaching their final goal: the waistcoat. He could hear his heart hammering heavily in his chest and wondered whether he was in danger of revealing himself to the sleeping form. Surely Lord Robert would not sleep through the heavy pounding? Apparently he would, for he did not move an inch, and Sir Archibald breathed a little easier. He eased the waistcoat toward him and smiled as he felt the revealing bulge. Excellent! The night’s work was achieved. He placed his fingers along the satin lining and drew out the pocket. Nothing but a snuff box and a discarded piece of flint! He half cursed before remembering the other side.

  Feverishly, in the half darkness, he fumbled with the garment, pulling relentlessly at the lining until the second pocket was exposed. There was something hard! A moment more of furtive fury and the diamonds were his again. He breathed a sigh of sheer relief and was surprised to find beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. He wiped them carelessly with his nightcap. The necklace felt delightfully heavy in his hand. He watched the diamonds twinkle a little in the soft candlelight, before taking up his taper and creeping to the door.

  Miss Derringer’s pulses were racing. It had been a close shave, she knew. If the earl had seen her in his private quarters, he might have jumped, quite wrongly, to certain conclusions... .

  She did not allow herself to dwell on the thought. Suf fice it to say, she had been admirably self restrained and slipped gently into an alcove, waiting a good many moments—it seemed like an hour—before daring to so much as breathe again. Somehow, she knew that if she encountered the earl that evening, she would be lost.

  All her admirable resolve would melt away to nothing, and she would drown in his caresses and sweet words as if there were no turning back, no harsh tomorrows, no impending ruination to have to deal with.

  Part of her—an impish, quirkish, impossibly daring part—told her that just one such night spent in his lordship’s bedchamber would be worth all the recriminations that would undoubtedly follow.

  The other part—the sober, sensible, governess part—told her that she was behaving like an addlepated greenhorn and that if she kept her head, it did not matter at all that she had lost her heart.

  Keep her head she did. She strained to hear noises in the bedchamber, imagining my lord doing his ablutions, preparing for bed... but look! The door handle was slowly turning once more. She sank back into the alcove, puzzled.

  The man emerging seemed slighter than the earl, and though it was dark, the corridor was sufficiently lit to see that dark hair rather than entrancing blond was creeping from the nightcap. Anne gasped. This was not the earl; this was her almost husband, the Honourable—if such an appellation could be loosely applied—Sir Archibald Dalrymple. And looking very pleased with himself, too, the way, catlike, he smoothed his moustaches and stepped quietly, with unshod feet, along the plush line of Axminsters.

  Anne became more aware than ever that she was clad, negligently, in little more than a shift with a warm wrap draped firmly across her slender frame. For a man of Sir Archibald’s roving eye, this was tantamount to nakedness, for he would make out the full detail of her form with no trouble at all.

  Oh, why, oh why, had she not dressed to make this particular excursion? Surely her last nocturnal encounter should have taught her the wisdom of a great deal of petticoats, an uncompromisingly high bodice and perhaps, even, a betsy ruff top to complete the ensemble? As for flibbertygibbet slippers that were more revealing than the unclad state... she bit her lip in panic. She only hoped Sir Archibald would be too engrossed in what he was doing to notice her shadowy figure flattening itself frantically against Lord Carmichael’s elegant panelled walls.

  And what was he doing? The flash of diamonds made her catch her breath. By God, if she were not Anne Amaryllis Derringer, the man was stealing the necklace! The selfsame necklace, she warranted, as Lord Carmichael had purchased for Lady Caroline. She bit her lip at the thought and watched as he placed it stealthily in his pocket.

  “Thief!” The words were out before she could stop them. She was outraged that the man could take advantage of his host. Sir Archibald was so startled that he stubbed his toe on a particularly valuable hall stand of marble before cursing and advancing toward Anne with a great deal of ill intent twisting his dark, altogether sinister lips.

  “Hush, my dear Miss Derringer! There is no need, you know, to awake the entire household!”

  Anne forgot her flimsy attire in her anger. Her tourmaline eyes smouldered as she regarded the man she once considered marrying with a palpable contempt.

  “I beg to differ, Sir Archibald! When there is thievery abroad, the alarm should be sounded.”

  Dalrymple reached her just as she was opening her mouth to scream.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, you little vixen!” She could feel his breath, dank and tepid, upon her cheek. His hand was about her mouth, so she could taste the vile saltiness of his skin.

  He swung her round. “Before I release you, I shall outline a little scenario, my dear. If you cry out, none but the servants shall hear you. The earl stayed over the night at Lord Anchorford’s. He was foxed, you know.”

  Anne stopped struggling.

  “Excellent, my dear. I see you see reason. If you cry out, nothing more shall happen than the servants being afforded the—ahh, undoubtedly interesting spectacle of you being compromised in your night shift. Whilst I don’t doubt that Primrose, the serving maid would undoubtedly switch places with you, I somehow feel that you, you little ice maiden, would prefer to have your snow-white reputation kept intact.”

  The fury in Anne’s eyes now turned to a dull fear. Sir Archibald chuckled as he removed his hand from her mouth. There would be time enough later.

  “Give back the diamonds and I shall say nothing!”

  “You jest, my dear!”

  “I am deadly serious.”

  “Then, I shall return the favour. The diamonds are mine and so, my dear, at last, are you!”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses, Sir Archibald?” Anne’s throat was dry because she knew, only too clearly, that she was steering a dangerous course. If only Lord Carmichael was home! But he was not, and it was up to her, now, to retrieve his jewels and preserve her own virtue.

  She did not notice, in her anguish, footsteps upon the far carpets. Neither, one might add, did the feverish Dalrymple. He laughed a little and took Anne into his arms. Too shocked to protest, it was exactly the sight Lord Robert came upon as he rounded the corner. He was sickened to the pit of his stomach and stood stockstill, watching the scene unfold. And to think he had nearly, so nearly, invited Anne to become his wife!

  What were they saying? He could hear nothing but Dalrymple’s low chuckle. He decided not to stay. The sight was sickening, and he loathed, above all other things, the practice of eavesdropping.

  So! Miss Derringer had had a change of heart. She would, after all, be accepting Sir Archibald’s kind offer. There could be no other construction, surely, upon what he had just witnessed. She had been magnificent, as always, in the simplicity of her shift. Lord Robert tried not to reflect on the glorious dark braids that gleamed with lustre, or on the rounded curves that proc
laimed themselves through the flimsy nightdress. The wrap he discounted. It was already falling from her shoulders. Soon, he thought, it would be on the floor.

  With a heart heavier than stone, he turned on his heel and silently walked back the way he came. There was sawdust in his throat, though his eyes, stubbornly, remained dry.

  Sixteen

  Anne struggled silently in the man’s grasp. She fought like a tigress, for it was more than just her reputation at stake. She had not resisted Lord Edgemere so staunchly, against the will of both her inclination and his, to be ravished by a man only half his calibre.

  She was breathless from the struggle, for Sir Archibald was wiry and determined. Unbeknown to her, she had the advantage, for Dalrymple was concerned about waking the earl. He suspected he was straining his good fortune to be struggling with the vixen rather than making good his escape. Still, fortune, so far, appeared to be smiling upon him. He renewed his efforts, seeking to constrain Miss Derringer to walk docilely down to the first floor, where many of the houseguests had been accommodated. He was succeeding, for despite not being as well endowed as the earl with regard to superior physique, he was a man, nonetheless.

  Anne gasped in pain as he wrenched at her arms and forcibly dragged her a few steps down the hall. She twisted desperately, ducking in silent struggle. A few more moments and she would have no choice but to scream. The earl might be absent, but surely some small contingent of staff was at hand? Even the appearance of Lord Willoughby Rothbart might be welcome at this juncture. But her reputation, of course, would be in shreds. In the world of the high ton, there was no smoke without fire, and a woman caught dishabille in a sheer nightgown with any man, screaming or not, was doomed.

  Anne drew in a breath and pushed. All of a sudden, she was stumbling, for the steely grip had wavered just a second. She did not stop to think or to allow Sir Archibald to recover the advantage. Her hands, in the dim illumination of the hall—many of the candles were now extinguishing—touched something cold. Quite without thought for the value of her employer’s treasure, she pushed at the marble statue with all her strength, relying on sheer determination to make up for any feminine deficit. It worked. The statue came crashing down on Sir Archibald’s head.

  He jumped out of the way, but moments too late. He was struck a glancing blow, enough to shake the wits out of him and to see him crumpled like a pack of cards upon the floor. Anne gasped and knelt beside him, relief at her freedom engulfed by the horrible fear she might have done him some lasting injury.

  She need not have worried. The pulses in his neck were strong, and when she tentatively removed the tasselled nightcap, there was no more damage to be seen than a rather nasty lump forming through his thinning, dark hair.

  With a sigh of profound relief, Anne tried to gather her shattered wits about her. It was not easy, for there was a marble arm lying forlornly dismembered next to its classical torso. The head, sadly, was missing its aquiline nose. How ludicrous that such a thing should, after the night’s events, overset her. But overset Anne it did.

  As she valiantly retrieved the necklace from Dalrymple’s luxurious brocade pocket and placed it next to the disfigured arm, she felt tears cloud her jewel green eyes. She dabbed at them fiercely before collapsing some way from her tormentor. Then she picked up the torso, fingered the rough, cracked marble edge, and wept.

  My lord, alerted by the crash—as was half his staff— did not trouble to move. The decanter in his hand was empty, and though events had occurred too quickly to allow him to be foxed, his natural inclinations were to stay fixed in his seat without bothering to move. What, after all, could be more momentous than the spectacle he had already witnessed.

  It was the sobs that did it. At first, a small, hushed wail, then the profounder kind of choking sniffs that he had never, even as a small boy, been able to resist. That was how Kitty, with her dear, copper curls, had always managed, somehow, to cut a wheedle with him. But this! This was not Kitty! This was his Celeste, his Anne, his light, his star, his life. He forgot his hopelessness in his sudden compulsion to enfold her in his arms and kiss away the tears. Whatever the tangle between them, he would unravel it.

  He was down the corridor like lightning, just in time to see Anne, wrapped like a baby in her heavy merino wrap, cradling a sadly dismembered Psyche. Behind her were a host of well-meaning minions, from the lordly Hastings, to a common serving girl beset with toothache. With an imperious wave of the hand, Lord Edgemere cleared the hall, indicating only that he wished for a quiet word with his valet. Hastings stepped forward gingerly, for he had no wish for his stockinged feet to be jabbed by shards of marble.

  “Hastings, I believe I can rely on your discretion?”

  “Most certainly, my lord! I shall impress discretion, too, on the rest of the staff. You may be sure that this matter shall go no further. Miss Derringer, if—”

  “Do not concern yourself with Miss Derringer, Hastings! Rather, get Sir Archibald back to his chamber before the rest of the houseguests awake. Tomorrow you may serve him, in his room, a breakfast of coddled eggs and possibly a good dose of cod liver oil. I believe it does wonders for the digestion.”

  Hastings maintained a straight face. “I believe so, my lord. But if I might make a suggestion ...”

  “What is it, Hastings?”

  “My lord despises coddled eggs. He made a particular point of it to Mrs. Tibbet ...”

  “Excellent. As I said, Hastings, just a nice selection of coddled eggs.”

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Hastings?”

  “My lord?”

  “You have not seen Miss Derringer tonight. She was vastly fatigued and enjoyed an excellent night’s sleep as a consequence.”

  “But naturally, my lord.”

  “Very good, Hastings. You may go.”

  With a small nod, Hastings eyed Sir Archibald assessingly. Then, with nothing more than a slight intake of breath, he lifted him aloft and slumped him, protesting a little feebly, upon his broad shoulders.

  “Good! The man appears to have regained consciousness.”

  Anne smiled a little weakly.

  “Night, night, Hastings.” Was there a buoyant curve to my lord’s mouth? It was too dark to tell.

  Lord Robert waited until there were no further footsteps on his Axminster. When the far door shut, at last, he drew in his breath and looked down at Anne. She was still clutching at the statue, but her sobs had subsided. He slid down next to her on the floor.

  “Was it very expensive, my lord?”

  “Oh frightfully! I procured it, you know, from Lord Elgin.”

  “Then, it is priceless!”

  “Quite possibly. Now, my dear, can we cease talking about such paltry matters?”

  Anne nodded. His lips were impossibly close, and his intimate smile was warming her quite delightfully.

  “I take it Sir Archibald’s suit was rejected out of hand?”

  “Out of hand, my lord.”

  “Could you not, possibly, have resorted to a sharp slap? I believe that is efficacious upon occasion.” His eyes twinkled at the memory of just such a set down.

  In spite of her predicament, Anne felt the familiar twitching of her wide, sensuous lips.

  “Do you, my lord? It does not, however, prevent a man from redoubling his efforts upon other occasions.”

  “True, it does not. You did well, upon reflection, to stun the man senseless.”

  Anne giggled. Somehow, when she was with this nonsensical gentleman, her prodigious heap of troubles seemed to melt away as if by magic.

  He continued to tease, though there was a gleam in his eye Anne felt slightly troubling. Well, not troubling, perhaps, but dangerous. Definitely, she decided, dangerous.

  “I, on the other hand, have recovered from the sting of my sharp rebuff and shall now commence redoubling my efforts.”

  “At the risk of another resounding slap.”

  “Only, I hope, if I do not please.”

/>   His eyes locked with hers, and Anne, once again, felt herself in the thrall of a gentleman. This time, however, powerful arms were not constraining her mercilessly in an ironlike vice, nor were her senses reviling any outrage to her dignity.

  She was bound only by silk soft eyes and breath just moments from her own. Her dignity was not outraged; it was celebrated, with the touch of a golden finger upon her cheek and a gentle hand at the nape of her soft, swansdown neck. Her braids were uncoiling into lengths of dark, lustrous, long black curls. She knew an overpowering desire to reach out and touch the blond strands that were so tantalizingly close to her own, touch the masculine lump that protruded, ever so slightly, from his throat. He was clean shaven, yet there was a slight, inviting stubble that she would have given her fortune to explore. It was exposed, now that he had discarded his cravat in the bookroom.

  She shivered at his touch, and once again, the serviceable merino threatened to slip from her shoulders.

  “Leave it!” His voice sounded cracked, though imperious.

  “My lord, I am practically indecent!”

  “Practically beautiful.”

  “Only because you look at me so.”

  “Then, I shall always look at you so!”