Bella and Marian served, decked out in clean aprons and acting like sober servants. The turtle soup was probably quite good, but he did not notice its taste much. Celia appeared beautiful in this light. It made her eyes appear even larger and deeper, as though if he looked long enough, he could see right into her soul.
“I heard a rumor about you,” she said while they waited for the next course.
He had been pouring some very nice wine that she said she had found in the cellar. He focused on the flowing red liquid. “I am hardly notable enough to attract rumors.”
“It has to do with the woman in the park—your cousin—who snubbed you. She is the sister of the Earl of Thornridge, isn’t she? Lady Chesmont.”
Marian arrived with fish in a nice citrus sauce. It appeared a few of the fruit had been removed from that orange tree before it was delivered to the Robertsons.
“Have you been talking to Summerhays? Hawkeswell?” He had never asked them not to reveal his relationship to Thornridge, but it would still surprise him if they had. “Their wives?”
“Then it is true. It is very cruel of them not to acknowledge you.”
“They have their reasons, I suppose. Nor is it cruel. Inconvenient to be sure.”
Her expression softened. “It was cruel when you were a child at least.”
“Perhaps. I don’t remember.” Except he did remember. The rejection by that family was not something one would forget.
“Then they all do know about you?”
“Oh, yes. They know.” He should let it be, but her blue eyes invited confidences, and the wine and her presence urged indiscretion. “It was only cruel once. I was nine years old. It was long ago.”
“What happened?”
He did not answer. She waited, very serious, very interested.
“My mother brought me to Hollycroft, Thornridge’s estate. She asked to speak with my cousin, who had just reached his majority. He refused to see her. We had traveled a good distance, and she would not accept his repudiation. She sat down in front of his door, and declared she would remain there until either he saw her or she died. I sat with her.”
Her expression turned troubled. “Please do not tell me that he let her starve there.”
“Not quite, although it did nothing good for her health, which was already poor. We sat there for three days and three nights. Finally Thornridge relented. He expected guests for a house party, and did not want the embarrassment.”
“So you met him then?”
“It was the only time in my life that I did. I remember little of it. She made demands. He was cold as stone. Accusations flew from her and insults from him. In the end, however, she obtained his agreement to educate me. There was a small allowance for some years, conditional upon my not claiming any relationship.”
He returned to his meal, to indicate there would be no more details. He remembered more of that meeting between his mother and his cousin than he said, however. Over the years bits of it had come back to him, especially what his mother had said and the claims she had made. No, not claims. Threats.
Celia considered him while he ate the fish. She puzzled over what she saw with a vague frown. “How do you live, if that allowance ended? I see no employment.”
“You are very inquisitive about me. Is there a reason?”
“I am curious. That is all.”
“Because I kissed you?”
“Because you live upstairs. And because of that business up north, and your being a magistrate there. I knew about that, you see. I recognized your name in a paper’s story that Verity showed to me months ago.”
So, she had begun piecing things together. He pretended she had not, and waited to see where this went. It was an excuse to watch the nuanced changes in her eyes and expression, and the way the candles’ flames cast moving lights over her skin.
“It occurred to me that important men would have to intervene for you to have that position,” she said. “You had never even lived in the region before, I believe, so important recommendations would have to be made to the locals there. Then I remembered how you used to go away suddenly and come back unexpectedly during the war, while I lived with my mother. I have developed a theory about all that.”
She smiled smugly. Her eyes teased him
“If your theory gains me invitations to private dinners at which you wear satin dresses, I am unlikely to declare it wrong.”
“Don’t you even want to know what my theory is?”
“Not really. I think that you will tell me anyway, however.”
She pouted adorably at his refusal to play the game. Then, as he expected, she did tell him anyway.
“I think that you are one of those men who spied and such during the war over in France. What do you think about that?”
“I am relieved that your theory did not make me out to be boring, at least.”
“Then I think you were sent north to find out what was happening up there. Sent by important men. I think that you are now waiting for them to tell you to go somewhere else to do things like that once more.”
“You possess an active imagination.”
“There is more. I think you came by this unusual employment because someone important heard the rumors too, years ago, and opened this one door for you when most others remained closed.” She tilted her head back and gave him a haughty gaze. “What do you think of my imagination now, Mr. Albrighton?”
Marian arrived to serve fowl in a rich sauce. After she had left he poured Celia more wine. “I only went to France a few times. Most of my missions were right here in England. Mostly along the coast. You are correct about the last part too. One important man opened one door.” He raised his wine in salute.
Her eyes widened. “You mean I have it right? I guessed it all?”
“Most of it.” She appeared so astonished that he regretted not dissembling. One good feint and she would have probably dropped the entire topic.
Only he had not really wanted to lie or distract her after she had turned her mind to the matter so well. That she had even bothered flattered him, and perhaps opened its own doors, in a manner of speaking.
She gazed at him so clearly. So frankly. Merriment sparkled in her eyes, but there was nothing of the child in her regard. “Are you spying now, with me?”
He had not expected that. Damnation, she was far shrewder than he had realized. He hid his surprise with a laugh. “You have found me out. The leaders of the nation’s horticultural societies petitioned the Prince Regent to send me to discover the secrets about your plants.”
She laughed, musically. “I am happy to learn that you are employed with such trifling duties right now. You see, I would like to hire you.”
She surprised him again. His guard was down due to wine and a woman’s beauty. Which, of course, had been her plan, and the reason for this dinner to begin with.
“I will have to decline, Miss Pennifold.”
“You do not even know what I want you to do.”
He was not so besotted that he did not know that trouble lay ahead. “You cannot afford me. Paying my fee would impoverish you.”
“You cannot be that expensive. You live here, after all. Not on Park Lane. You might at least listen to my request before turning me down.”
He nodded, resigned. “Forgive me. I have been rude. Tell me what you require.”
“It is very simple. I want you to find out who my father is.”
“To what end?”
She rolled her eyes. “Do I need an end? I just want to know. Wouldn’t you want to know? You are a bastard too, and you do know, but I do not.”
“My father acknowledged me, even if his relatives do not. If your father chose not to acknowledge you, he probably had his reason, and will not welcome any prying.”
“His reason is the same as everyone’s reason for everything where I am concerned. He assumed I would follow my mother’s path, and did not want his name associated with that. However, if I do not enter her profe
ssion, he may feel differently. Nor do I expect you to let him know you are prying, so his welcome or lack of it will not signify.”
If I do not. The question still had not been firmly decided, then.
“I cannot conjure information out of thin air. Tell me what you know already, and I will decide if there would be any chance of success if I agreed to this.”
“That is the problem. I know nothing. I had hoped to learn some hints in her papers and belongings, but she removed everything that might lead me to him.” Her expression turned sad. Her entire posture did. “I only want to know his name, so half of me is not this blank. It was unkind of her to make sure I never would see him, even across a crowded park.”
Only that in itself was telling. Alessandra would not have been so careful with an unimportant man’s identity. Nor could an insignificant man bring to bear the power that demanded such discretion.
Celia watched him earnestly. All flirtation had left her manner upon speaking of this. It mattered to her, finding this man’s name. He could understand why. She was correct. He was a bastard, but at least he knew his parentage. He tried to imagine what it was like not to.
Celia was twenty-three. Her conception had been early in Alessandra’s career. The father might be that French émigré Edward had spoken of. Or an early lover after that, one who had reason to be discreet in his affairs.
He might well find out her father’s name without even trying, as he pursued his other mission—
She frowned in reaction to his silence. Determination entered her eyes. She rose slowly, and the candlelight warmed the pale fawn of her dress. Satin ripples moved over her body as she walked around the table.
She stood beside his chair. The scent of lavender flowed over him and her satin touched his hand. She cupped his face in her smooth, soft palms, and bent down to kiss him.
A deliberate kiss. Artful. Expert. Her tongue slid into him and played, teasing and arousing. This was not an impulse like on the day Dargent had come. That had been Celia, acting out of both joy and sorrow.
Tonight, the daughter of Alessandra Northrope bestowed a favor.
If the goal was to drive him delirious, it worked. His body reacted savagely. This courtesan drama was a calculated, controlling taunt, however, and he’d be damned if he settled for it.
He pulled her onto his lap, into his arms. Her studied expression shattered into one of astonished surprise. She even stretched away when he began to kiss her, but as soon as their mouths touched she melted, then circled his neck with her arm.
She met him as an equal in that kiss, giving, taking, swinging between abandon and restraint. The velvet of her mouth, the warmth of her body in his arms, the instinctive flexing of her hips against his lap, pressing his erection like the softest squeeze, made him senseless. His mind narrowed on the feel of her, the taste, her gasps of girlish surprise and her moans of wanton pleasure.
Her scent, floral and musky . . . Her mouth and tongue tantalized him, implying pleasures he doubted she understood. . . . Her breast, so soft and womanly beneath that satin, rose into his caress as if she ached for the touch, filling his hand . . . Her body moved, moved, in a gentle flex, maddening him as they both lost themselves in sensations . . . Light, white and pristine and fresh, surrounded him, filling him and making the pleasure joyful and perfect.
No thought interfered. No considerations. He teased at her breast and she cried soft whimpers of need into the crook of his neck. The beautiful, feminine sound sparkled through the light, changing quickly to needy notes, then desperate ones.
The dress was designed to be discarded. He had no trouble loosening the hooks that closed it. He took her mouth, ravished it, while he slid the satin down slowly, then pulled the chemise less carefully.
He had to look at the ivory skin beneath his hand. She did too, with her lips parted and her eyes two pools of stars. They both watched his fingers circle her breast, their impatient breaths merging together. The barest smile spoke her pleasure in the tease, and her breast, pale and brown tipped, rose to encourage that caress while her hip pressed down and made even the light dim for a moment.
He touched lightly, tantalizing her. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Her face showed ecstasy as he circled and rubbed. His consciousness narrowed on the heat making him tight and hard and on her willing passion and on what would come, had to come now, soon, when he took her, claimed her, and bound her to him so that light and joyful pleasure would never be lost.
Whispers now, in her madness. Breaths of assent and clipped gasps that begged. He kissed down her neck to her chest, and used his tongue as wickedly as he could so she would know the ragged desire he knew, and the hunger howling through his essence.
Sweet, too sweet, even with the painful need. He saw himself with her, holding all of her, satin gone, feeling her skin against his own and tasting her, all of her. His caresses followed his mind’s eye, to her legs and the watery satin, then up the silken flesh beneath. Her melody of astonished breaths quickened, faster, faster, wondrous now, urging him on—
Noises, loud ones, from somewhere in the distance. Golden candle flames swallowed the white light, leaving deep shadows and a table. Celia’s hand grasped his arm, her blue eyes sightless, her cries swallowed in a deep breath.
A cough nearby. A loud one, as a woman cleared her throat so gutterally it shook the door behind him.
They stayed there, immobile as the chamber and the world and the woman demanding attention settled into their consciousness. Primitive fury roared in him, at the interruption and the evidence he would be denied.
Celia’s expression checked that reaction. She looked down at her naked breast, surprised, as if her loss of control dismayed her. She clumsily tried to put her arm through the chemise, blushing hotly now, blinking rapidly as though the world had not righted itself yet.
They got her dressed somehow. She moved back to her chair. As if on cue, Marian opened the door, carried in a tart, and served it.
When she left, Celia gazed across the candle flames at him, her eyes full of awareness of what had happened. He looked back, and imagined her undressed from head to toe, and bent over this table so her pretty bottom rose to him.
Things had gotten a bit out of hand with Mr. Albrighton, Celia admitted to herself. Remain in control. Do not yield too easily. Have an understanding on the arrangement before it progresses beyond a caress or two.
Alessandra must be turning over in her grave.
Her daughter was forgetting everything. She had yielded far too much at dinner, and might have yielded everything if Marian had not made so much noise and brought them back to their senses.
Celia waited that night, for the man who would probably be at her bedchamber’s door after the household went to sleep. She debated what she would do if he came to her. He could be excused if he thought she would accept him.
She tried not to imagine the rest, but she remained excited and enthralled as she lay in the dark, half hoping he would be so bold. Her breasts ached, sensitive to every movement she made. A soft dew covered her skin. She sensed him, above, deciding, wanting.
When it was clear he would not come, her body mourned but her mind found some relief. It was better, of course. There was no understanding. No arrangement. Nor did she really want one, if she were honest and viewed it sanely. He would never do as a protector, should she choose to have one. In such decisions, one must be practical and think of the future.
And yet—it had been delicious. Unearthly. Nor had she been forced to find the pleasure within herself, or remove this man from her mind to do so. He had commanded it in her, and she had no choice in responding. The sensations had teased and lured and overwhelmed, and just thinking of his gaze while they ate that tart made her warm and moist again.
Chapter Thirteen
Jonathan presented himself at the door of Castleford’s home. The duke had invited him to call anytime, and he was about to find out if in fact he could.
He had made sure
it was not a Tuesday. He did not want to find Castleford too busy for a good talk. He also did not want to find him too sober to be indiscreet.
The ritual ensued with the liveried servants. This time the captain bore his card away on a salver and left him to wait in that nice chamber with the windows, where they had all played cards.
Alone, with nothing to occupy him except the paintings on the walls, his thoughts turned to Celia. He had been avoiding that. He had kept very busy all morning specifically to that end.
The titillation of desire could not keep away darker reactions to the memories of the dinner last night. Nor could images of her joyful, even enthusiastic, acceptance of pleasure. The truth was he was trifling with her, and did not even know why. He found her beautiful, and fascinating in her unusual view of life; that was true. But he had no interest in a liaison, let alone one that could set her on a path toward more men in the future.
He told himself that if she had not kissed him, things would have never gotten that far. Only he knew that he would have lured her into it anyway. As soon as he saw her in that dress, those caresses became inevitable.
He saw the dress sliding down her shoulder, drawn low by a man’s hand. His hand. This time. The dress suited her too well. Alessandra had known it would enhance all that Celia was when she ordered it.
“One of the public dresses,” Celia had called it. Restrained. Almost demure. Devoid of excess in every way, and more than modest enough. Yet that fabric flowed like water over her body, and hinted at her form more than a man could ignore. No man could see her in it and not imagine her naked, even though the garment offered no scandal.
Like Celia itself, the dress combined innocence and worldliness, modesty and the most sophisticated sensuality. A schoolgirl’s dress, but for a girl schooled by Alessandra.
“His Grace will see you, sir.”
The summons brought him back, to the chamber and the windows. It promised the welcomed reprieve of other things to occupy his mind besides Celia. He needed to complete Edward’s mission quickly; that was clear. It was time to leave London, before he followed the impulse to seduce first and assess the consequences later.
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