Celia stared at her cousin incredulously. “But you cannot mean it! Oh, why did you accept Lord Northington’s invitation?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s invited us there for reasons that are quite transparent. If we refuse, he will know why.”
“If we accept, he will assume the worst. Really, I think you underestimate Lord Northington.”
“If he has wicked designs on you, we are there to see he does not succeed,” Jacqueline replied tranquilly. “Oh, it cannot be as bad as that, petite. I doubt he will risk ravishing you within earshot of your family. Besides, it is quite a social coup to be invited to his country house. Very few have ever been—why, I don’t think any female has been invited before!”
Celia jerked at the ribbons in her hair. It was going into the lion’s den, but how could she confide that to her cousin without betraying her own reaction to his touch? It was true that this would be an excellent opportunity, but for whom?
“Very well,” she said aloud. “If you think it proper for us to visit, I’ll go.”
“Brilliant! Carolyn will be delighted at the prospect of a visit to the country. Oh, Northington is intrigued by you. Yes, you were so right, it’s obvious he is quite interested, for he never would invite us if he didn’t have serious intentions.”
“Perhaps, but it’s which of his intentions are so serious that concerns me,” Celia replied lightly to hide her apprehension.
“Do you think—But no, he would not be so bold. Not even Northington would risk angering Jules.” Jacqueline lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I do not mean to sound so confident, but it is true that Jules is very influential. He has many business interests, and has been involved with the Moreland shipping concern for many years.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Celia managed a smile.
“And Mrs. Pemberton has also been invited, with her niece Olivia,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully, a frown on her brow as she read again the penned invitation that had been delivered—and answered—that morning. “I’m not at all certain why. For appearance’s sake, do you think? It’s just that Mrs. Pemberton is easily influenced and quite desperate to make a good match for Olivia. Surely he does not entertain a desire for Miss Freestone!”
“It’s possible,” Celia said, but Jacqueline was shaking her head.
“No, no, I don’t think so. Mrs. Pemberton is only a ruse. She’s too determined to snag a title for Olivia, and has become completely obsessed with the notion. Not that it’s easy having a young lady who is still on the shelf at twenty-four, but one should not allow disappointment and despair to overcome breeding and decorum.”
“I am twenty-one,” Celia pointed out wryly, and her cousin looked momentarily startled.
Then she said, “Yes, but you have not been presented, and Olivia Freestone has had several Seasons.”
“Then she deserves our compassion instead of pity, I suspect, especially if she has earned the attentions of Northington.”
Jacqueline laughed softly. “You can be most cynical at times, Celia. Lord Northington has met his match in you, I vow. Ah, it promises to be a most entertaining few days. I’ll inform Jules that we will need the carriage on Thursday.”
Harmony Hill was a pleasant surprise. Celia saw it in the valley as their landau crested the hill. By the time the vehicle paused at the gatehouse, she realized that the house itself was actually perched upon a hill slope. Beyond green meadows was a blue-gray haze that was the Straits of Dover, the channel separating England from Calais, chalky-white cliffs that plummeted into a frothy wash of surf.
“Oh, it is a lovely sight,” Jacqueline said. “I shall never forget when I first saw those white cliffs. At the time, they represented freedom to me. Now, of course, they represent home.”
“Yes, I recall seeing the cliffs when my ship first neared land,” Celia replied. Her hands clenched in her lap, fingers knotted together. Had she made a mistake? Agreeing to come here could set her on a dangerous course, but how could she refuse?
Thank God I am not alone, she thought, but there was little comfort in the reminder. If Northington was bold enough to take liberties in an alcove outside a crowded ballroom, what hope had she of keeping him at bay on his own estate?
Lord Northington was not there to greet them when they disembarked from the landau, but they were told he would arrive soon to welcome his guests.
The ancient butler moved with slow grace as he showed them to their rooms, and Celia learned that they were the first to arrive. Apparently Mrs. Pemberton and her niece had been delayed.
Exchanging a potent glance with her cousin, Celia was shown to her chamber first, a lovely room on the second floor with green silk-striped wallpaper and billowing drapes over windows with a view of the surrounding valley. A massive, ornately carved bed dominated the chamber, and thick carpets lay upon the floor. Freshly cut flowers spilled from a crystal vase atop a baroque table, stalks of lavender vying with roses for color and fragrance, lush blooms a vivid touch to grace the chamber.
“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.
“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 would 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.
To Celia’s surprise, he did, eyes narrow and focused on the girl’s face, his step matching hers, heels slamming down one after the other, his lean body powerful and graceful at the same time. It was obvious he had done this before, and Celia was shocked by the realization that the gypsy girl was very familiar with him. It was in her eyes, in the laughing curve of her lips, in the dark gleam of triumph she threw toward Celia.
They have been together, she thought then, and was startled by the pang of anger that knifed through her. Why should she care what woman had caught his eye? It didn’t matter in the least.
She must have stumbled, for her partner caught her by the elbow to steady her.
“Señorita,” he said softly, a question in the dark eyes fastened on her face.
Smiling, he urged her to follow his steps, and Celia forced a smile as she obliged.
Damn Northington, this was just another of his games, an attempt to prove his masculine appeal. She would ignore him, as he well deserved, and pretend that she hadn’t noticed at all, or even cared.
She danced with the young gypsy, and discovered that once she concentrated, she could mimic his moves quite well. Her feet flew over the stones and her body seemed to move of its own volition to the driving tempo of the music that soared beneath the lanterns. The music went faster and faster and so did her feet as she twisted, turned, let her arms go above her head as she had seen Marita do. It was suddenly liberating to dance so freely, as if she cared for nothing but the moment.
And maybe that’s partly true, she thought as she let the music direct her feet. Maybe I should think of nothing but this very moment, right now, and not remember anything or think of what I must do tomorrow…I’m so weary of it all, the hurting and the frustration. And yes, the desperation. Oh, why did I ever think I could manage this?
It was hopeless. The earl of Moreland was too far out of her reach, beyond any justice she could exact. How silly it all was, to think she could come to England and somehow ruin a man like Moreland.
Hot tears stung her eyes, half-blinding her as she danced, losing herself in the music instead of despair, pushing all from her mind as her breath came in harsh pants and perspiration dampened her clothes.
As she had seen Marita do, she reached up to free her hair, tossing aside the pretty hairpins as carelessly as if they were worthless, shaking her head to let her pale hair cascade around her shoulders and in her face. Nothing mattered at this moment but relief from constant tension, from all restrictions.
From Northington…
Colter was very much aware of her, startled and angrily amused by her display. Bloody hell, he had only himself to blame for it, for goading her into some kind of reaction, something other than the stiff, cool composure that he knew she didn’t feel. But this! Christ, Harvey was nearly choking on his port, staring at Celia as if he’d never seen her before, and the gypsies—He’d put an end to this before it went too far, for the young man, Mario, who danced with Celia was getting much too close to her.
Lady Leverton watched Celia with wide eyes and an expression of dismay, while Mrs. Pemberton had risen to her feet and snapped a command for her niece to stop that nonsense at once.
Colter reached Celia in two long strides, his glance at the startled Mario a warning the young man immediately understood. Silently he stepped back.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Colter asked Celia softly, but she was obviously impervious to his anger or intimidation.
“Dancing, my lord.” A misty sheen made her face glow, and her eyes were very green and bright. “Is this not what you wanted? Your guests to enjoy themselves?”
She whirled away from him before he could reply, and he moved after her, catching her against the far wall, all too aware that they were being observed, that Santiago was grinning widely. Damn her! The little cat knew what she was doing.
The movements of the dance brought her close to him and she moved her body in a deliberate brush against his. Her arms swept upward, slowly and sinuously, to lift the mass of honey-colored hair away from her neck, then let it drop again as Marita had done earlier, a provocative ploy meant to entice.
“Stop it,” he said quietly, the steely note in his voice making her eyes widen at him, “or I’ll give you what you’re so prettily asking for. If that’s what you want, by God, I can oblige. Don’t tempt me!”
She came to an abrupt halt as the music ended, her chest heaving from her exertions, green eyes sparkling angrily at him.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will do just what you say, my lord. You seem quite adept at being an autocrat. Is that why you invited me here? You needn’t have gone to so much trouble. I was well aware of your inclinations before I arrived.”
“I think,” he said slowly, eyes narrowed at her, “that you know very well why I invited you here. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“Yes,” she said in almost a whisper, lips slightly trembling, whether with anger or emotion he couldn’t tell, “I know very well why you invited me.”
“Then we needn’t delay any longer.”