There, before Ceressa, stood Latimer Kirkleigh, his bearded visage unfashionable among the pampered and cleanly-shaven men that openly stared as though he were a beast escaped from the wilds. His dark auburn hair was worn simply and waved to his shoulders. Beneath his scarlet velvet coat peeked a waistcoat of palest blue brocade embroidered in silver, and his satin knee breeches displayed his muscled calves. Ceressa’s hand shook so badly she feared she would slosh punch down her gown, so she quickly set it on a nearby table. Sir Geoffrey muttered beneath his breath, but Ceressa clearly heard.
“So he did show up.”
“His arrival is upsetting?” Ceressa knew her voice was unnaturally pitched and unsteady. Why was she so nervous?
“His visit hasn’t been a pleasant one. The Latimer you see is not the Latimer you remember. I confess I hoped he wouldn’t come for he is determined to fight me over every issue that arises. He assured me he had no intention of putting in an appearance at an event he referred to as ‘frivolous.’ I suppose he wants to make me miserable one last time before sailing tonight, now that he’s made it clear I’m to stay out of his affairs and my opinion is of no consequence. But here he is, and I’m certain his presence only bodes ill.” Suddenly, Sir Geoffrey looked at her and his face reddened. “I apologize for my unkind words, but Latimer is most adept at making me forget our Lord in my thoughts and words. Please excuse me, my dear.”
Turning abruptly, Sir Geoffrey strode toward the man Ceressa hadn’t seen in seven years. Two plump dowagers descended upon Sir Geoffrey who, ever the gentleman, greeted them politely and remained cordial even when each took hold of an arm and steered him in the opposite direction. Ceressa might have given way to a soft giggle had Latimer not chosen that moment to shift his gaze, meeting hers.
Heat rushed and she knew her cheeks flamed red. Latimer simply stared, and she stared back, taking in how he looked, wishing she could tell him what was in her heart. But she couldn’t, so she broke contact and fled the ballroom, seeking sanctuary in a small chamber positioned off the long central hallway. As she hurried within, relieved that she might be able to breathe normally, she found herself face to face with Viscount Montvale and his formidable mother.
****
It required skillful maneuvering and the aid of Reva Kirkleigh to extricate Ceressa from the viscount and his mother. First, the young man had insisted on reciting a new poem—one he’d written just for her. Then his mother demanded that Ceressa tell her all about the aunt in Cornwall. If Reva hadn’t noticed her plight and declared there was an old friend to whom she must introduce Ceressa, Ceressa would still be standing there trapped.
“You must have a care, Ceressa.” Lady Kirkleigh propelled her into another room, this one arrayed in shades of royal purple, black, and silver, “Lest you be cornered by his lordship when neither I nor Geoffrey is about. Now, go mingle with some more interesting men. I noticed the son of Count du Plessen was watching you most intently. It would do no harm to speak with him. Now, I want to warn you—Latimer is here, and I know you once thought a great deal of him. I’ve always adored the lad, but I fear he only came tonight because he’s up to mischief, which will anger Geoffrey. His ship sails a little after midnight for the colonies, which is for the best. It seems of late that he wants nothing more than to wage battle with Geoffrey.”
“I know. I saw him. I’m sure he hasn’t time to give me a thought.” Ceressa changed the subject. “I see Lord and Lady Conover near the palms. Lady Conover is a good friend of Mother’s, and she would want to know about Aunt Lydia. Perhaps I’ll have a word with them.”
Reva frowned, and Ceressa knew the lady was displeased that she’d chosen to converse with a couple of middle age rather than the count’s son. In truth, Ceressa was shy at functions, much more like her introverted father than her outgoing mother, a true testament that opposites did attract. But in most matters her parents were in harmony. Her mother always supported Father’s decision that Ceressa be well educated even though the notion was considered foolish by many. But Ceressa was grateful to them for the opportunity, even when their love and overprotectiveness made her crave escape.
Summoned by another group, Lady Kirkleigh slipped away. Determined not to be trapped by Viscount Montvale, and having lost sight of her mother’s friends, Ceressa decided it was time to sample her godfather’s bounty. Making her way to a small table which groaned beneath the weight of trays bearing tempting treats, she took up a gilt-edged plate festooned with delicate leaves and flowers. Even at that moment, Sir Geoffrey’s discreet and efficient servants moved effortlessly about the tables replenishing the food. Selecting a square of toast with caviar, she took a bite, and was about to swallow when a man spoke.
“The caviar is good, but I prefer the raw oysters.”
Ceressa sucked in breath, whirling about to see Latimer Kirkleigh. A crumb of toast caught in her throat at that precise moment. Opening her mouth, no air would pass. The food lodged, refusing to budge. Desperate for air, hissing and wheezing as she choked, Ceressa let him take hold of her arm. Latimer dragged her across the room, and in her state of airless panic, she was aware that people were staring. Taking a cup of punch from a tray held by a servant, Latimer unceremoniously pushed her out the French doors and into the garden, still damp and misty from an earlier rain.
To her horror, Latimer proceeded to whack her on the back, and with the second firm slap, the troublesome bit of toast loosened and indelicately popped out. Ceressa found the crystal cup of punch thrust into her shaking hand, and she somehow managed to lift it to her lips. Taking a drink, the food washed down, and shutting her tearing eyes, Ceressa drew in a deep breath, the scent of blooming narcissus and primroses filling her nostrils. She continued to pull the heavenly air into her lungs until at last, sure she was no longer strangling, she opened her eyes. Latimer stood regarding her with a roguish grin. Removing the cup from her trembling fingers, he placed it on the ledge.
“What caused you to choke? Did I frighten you that badly, or was it my mention of raw oysters? They’re quite a delicacy where I come from.” All Ceressa could do was stare as she tried to make sense of his words. It dawned that this was his attempt at humor. Even so, no words would come, and she wondered if her near strangulation had left her vocal cords paralyzed.
“I take your silence as an indication you’ve nothing to say. I’ve spoken to many a lass, but I don’t think I’ve ever caused one to choke.” The teasing note flavored his voice, but Ceressa’s gaze was focused on his eyes, and the words still wouldn’t come. Golden-green they were, and they blazed boldly. Here was a man confident in manner and purpose, and certain of his effect on women. She knew she should break the hold his gaze had upon her, but a rebellious, determined part urged her not to. Latimer’s face was a fascinatingly attractive combination of strength and ruggedness accentuated by his bearded jaw and dominated by a strong nose that was just a fraction off center.
Tall and muscular, he was a man not easily forgotten. No wonder he’d lived in her dreams for so many years. The light spilling out the door created a copper halo about Latimer’s head. How absurd to think of a halo, for if Sir Geoffrey was to be believed, Latimer was anything but an angel. A fire-breathing dragon, perhaps, for she feared she might very well receive a blast as his dark brows lowered in displeasure.
“I…I…it…a piece of toast went down the wrong way. I’m quite well now, thank you. You were most helpful.” His jaw twitched, and Ceressa silently labeled herself as a dullard. Latimer certainly must find her a disappointment.
“So you do have a tongue. I was merely ‘helpful’? I’d like to think I was a bit more than that.”
“You were God’s instrument,” she quickly assured him. “Otherwise, I might have died or at the very least disgorged the contents of my stomach. Oh my, that wasn’t a very elegant choice of words, was it?” She brought hands up, pressing them to burning cheeks.
Latimer chuckled. “But most descriptive,” he replied. “And I am indeed most delighted you weren’t snatched and whisked up to Heaven, for it would be easy for you to be mistaken for an angel.” As his gaze softened, embarrassment spread lower than her face. Her stomacher was laced so tightly she feared she might indeed relieve herself of anything she’d previously eaten. Or did it seem too tight because she was incredibly nervous? Of one thing she was certain. Latimer didn’t recognize her or he would never be looking as he was. Perhaps it was time to let him know the little girl he’d taught to fence and ride a horse and swim was all grown up, though sadly lacking in the skills of harmless flirtation.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Ceressa hoped her tone was light and nonchalant, although her heart raced. Her voice was raspy and uneven—a side effect of her choking, she assured herself, though she suspected nerves had something to do with that.
“I had hoped you might remedy that situation. But where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself; in the event my uncle hasn’t already told you, I’m the black sheep of the Kirkleigh family. I’m Latimer, Sir Geoffrey’s…nephew.”
Ceressa noted that he’d paused before saying “nephew.” He then swept her an elaborate bow, and her heart fluttered. If she told him she was the child he’d last seen seven years ago, he would surely lose interest. Latimer had noticed because he believed her to be a stranger. And most likely wanted to add her to his list of conquests. Besides, he was to sail for Virginia that night. There wasn’t time to become reacquainted.
Ceressa was about to excuse herself when Reva Kirkleigh’s words echoed in her mind. Did she want her parents picking out the man she would marry, or did she want to have some say? Did Ceressa have the courage to make her own choice? She’d lived her life according to her parents’ rules, and though she didn’t regret having done so, a longing still persisted. Ceressa had no experience with men. Her knowledge of courtship was excruciatingly limited, and she’d discovered that a gentleman reading poetry to her was less than satisfactory. She’d never been kissed upon the lips or held in a man’s arms.
“I prefer to remain anonymous at the moment,” she said, hoping to cloak herself in an aura of mystery. Straightening from his bow, he once more towered, and his eyes darkened as he frowned.
“At the moment? Does that mean you intend to tell me later? Perhaps at midnight? You’ll not scurry off and lose a shoe like that ridiculous girl in that odd fairy tale?”
“I believe the tale is The Hearth Cat and there is nothing odd about it,” she informed him with more fervor than she’d intended. The story was one of several in a fairy tale collection compiled by the Italian poet Giambattista Basile and presented to her by Sir Geoffrey on her seventh birthday. It was one of her most treasured books. “It is a timeless tale of goodness triumphing over all that is wrong and cruel.”
“Clearly unrealistic.”
“If you find the plot so implausible, how is it that you have familiarity with the story?” An unreadable expression flitted, then he sealed his emotions.
“I am deeply attached to a young child whose mother was inordinately fond of the tale.” His wife? Ceressa wondered frantically. And a child—was it his? “The child is my niece,” he added.
Relief swept Ceressa. The child was Constance’s. She was on the verge of asking about the child’s welfare until she realized doing so might reveal her identity.
“Now, as to your name?” It was obvious he would not be deterred.
“I have reasons for keeping my name to myself at the present. Thank you again for your assistance. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Gathering up her beaded skirt and stiff, embroidered petticoats, she took two steps before Latimer grasped her arm. His voice was husky when he spoke.
“I don’t play games.”