In My Wildest Dreams (6 page)

5

D
epending on her whim, the gardener's wife, Aimee, had alternately cursed and praised the size and the age of the Blythe Hall kitchen. Yet Milford had always liked the room. You couldn't call it cozy, not with the three worktables, or the huge fireplace with spit that took up one wall, or the ovens that were built into the brick. But when extra servants were brought in for a party and the place bustled with the business of cooking for a hundred guests and their servants, well, then it was a fine, loud, merry place filled with smells that reminded him of the days when his wife was in charge.

Except, of course, that above all the commotion, Esther's voice rang out. Esther, who had taken Aimee's place as head cook.

It wasn't that Milford minded having another cook take over his wife's domain. No, he was a sensible man who understood the need for food on a regular basis. It
was Esther herself who had been the thorn in Milford's side since the day she'd arrived, hired over from the Fairchild household, the third cook to arrive after Mrs. Milford's death and the one who wouldn't leave, no matter how fervently he wished it. And Scottish to boot—that is to say, stubborn, raw boned and sharp tongued. She had for the past eight years held the reins in the kitchen, and during that time he'd not had one peaceful meal. She didn't care how loud the scullery maids got with their tales of which stable lad had asked them to Midsummer's Night. Nor did she care if the laughter got too raucous or the jokes too salacious. All she cared about was whether the food got to the table warm and on time, and despite Milford's worst expectations, that was always done. Always. No matter what calamity befell the kitchen—and he'd never sat in a kitchen uncursed with calamity—Esther always sailed through with flying colors.

But none of that vexed him. No, what truly vexed him was that she always dragged him into some spirited discussion. Dragged him in when all he wanted was to eat his meals in peace and quiet and then get back to his dirt and his flowers.

Right now the kitchen staff, temporary and permanent, struggled to produce the canapés that circulated with the footmen as well as the formal dinner that would be served at midnight. So it took the loud clang of a silver salver on the long kitchen table where Milford ate his supper to capture anyone's attention. Herne stood there, eyes twinkling, belly heaving, and when he had everyone's attention, he proclaimed, “Celeste is dancing with Mr. Ellery.”

As announcements went, this one provoked the
desired effect. Brunella, the senior upstairs maid, froze with her fork in the air. Elva, the newest scullery maid, stood with her scrub brush upraised. Adair, the footman who had returned to reload his tray with a variety of canapés, stared at his superior with awestruck eyes.

Esther gave a great laugh that caught like contagion among the bustling kitchen staff. “Our little Celeste has gone to the ball at last!”

Every head turned toward Milford. The bench beneath his arse grew harder, the table before him jiggled, as close by his elbow, Arwydd mashed a kettle full of potatoes, and Milford's head inched further toward his plate. Futilely, he wished he was in his greenhouse. Better to be coaxing the pinks to grow than to face this battery of interference and expectation. No one said anything for so long he had begun to hope they had given up on him.

Then Herne spoke. “Aren't ye proud, Milford?”

Lifting his gaze, Milford realized that they watched him, bright-eyed with curiosity. No matter that he'd already made his thoughts clear to Celeste. No matter that his daughter and her goings-on were none of their concern. The servants had watched her grow up, most of them. A good number of them remembered his wife with affection. So, since they figured they had the right, they would badger him until he made a statement.

So he did. “Celeste should keep in her proper place,” he growled.

“But she's beautiful,” Herne protested. “The lords are whisperin' an' guessin' as t' who she might be. I tell ye, she fits right in!”

Milford ignored the silly fool and went back to eating his plate of spinach dressed with vinegar and bacon.

“I vow, Milford, wearing that dour face ye're like sheep droppings floating in the eggnog.” It was Esther who spoke. Of course it was Esther.

Driven to speech, he answered, “Stubborn.”

“I wonder where she got that from.”

“Don't know.”

Alva stopped turning the coneys on the spit to ask, “Wouldn't ye like fer yer daughter to marry Mr. Ellery?”

“Men like Mr. Ellery don't marry the gardener's daughter,” he answered.

“Celeste is as beautiful as any of those other, aristocratic girls,” Esther said, “and more sweetly mannered and smarter, too.”

He snapped, “I know my daughter's value.”

“Ye've got a damned funny way of showing it.”

Milford's temper seldom ignited. So seldom, in fact, he could count the times on his fingers and his toes. But something about this woman and her smug disdain and her good puddings brought a slow rise of color to his cheeks. Lifting his gaze, he stared at her levelly. “I guess that's because, unlike everyone else here, I live in a world where the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and the rich marry the rich and the only time a gentleman looks on the gardener's daughter is to give to her a bellyache that takes nine months to cure.”

Esther's brown eyes flashed with yellow bits of flame. “And it's people like you who shatter dreams that should come true.”

“Maybe so. Maybe so.” Sopping the last of his bread in the drippings, he wiped his face with his napkin and stood up. “But I don't think it's going to be me who shatters Celeste's dreams.”

* * *

Moonlight shimmered through the open windows of the ballroom, gleaming on the waxed hardwood floors in long, faint trails, setting the carved gold leaf aglow, creating the fairyland Celeste recognized from her girlhood. On summer nights when the family was away, she had come here to pretend. Pretend she was waiting for Ellery, pretend he had arrived, pretend to dance in his arms, pretend to kiss his generous lips until she was breathless and swept by desire.

But tonight, pretend would yield to reality. Ellery would escape that trap Mr. Throckmorton had sprung. He would come and make all her dreams come true. He would, because otherwise Mr. Throckmorton would have won, and Ellery was the dashing one, the handsome one, the masterful one.

Well, perhaps not masterful, but he'd never had the chance to be. Not with Mr. Throckmorton always there being tall and dark and proper. But with the right encouragement,
her
encouragement, Ellery would be masterful from now on.

Gathering her skirts, she spun in a circle, letting happiness wash over her.

Yes, Ellery was a wizard at escaping the many snares set for him; she had seen him do it. Tonight he would escape into her arms, and nothing could destroy the happiness of being young, in love, and home after four long years in exile.

Finding herself standing in one of the long trails of moonlight, she glanced toward the doors. Ellery had yet to arrive, so she gave into the memories. Backing away, she took a running start and skated along the floor, her leather-soled slippers allowing a smooth glide all the
way to the window. Laughing, she flung herself around and went back, running and sliding with hoydenish pleasure.

After all, if Ellery did happen to see her, she knew well how she looked. Youthful, carefree, charming. What crime to be caught enjoying a romp? The scent of beeswax rose from the floor and the sweet scent of night-blooming nicotiana rose from the garden outside and filled the room with its fragrance.

But when a large figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the corridor's faint candlelight, she stopped in mid-glide. A glance showed him to be man-shaped, attired in a gentleman's austere suit, and of approximately Ellery's size and shape. She had imagined Ellery arriving with a laugh and a kiss. When the fellow cleared his throat, she knew it wasn't Ellery. Ellery would never clear his throat at her in that tone.

Facing the door, she peered through the darkness.

Mr. Throckmorton stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, holding two glasses of champagne and wearing a quizzical smile. “I used to skate along these floors just like that,” he said. “Although I haven't thought about it for years.”

Her sentiments warred between incredulity that Ellery had failed to appear and skepticism that Mr. Throckmorton had ever, in his whole somber life, ever slid along a beam of moonlight.

He strolled toward her and stopped at arm's length.

She stood, chin up, spine rigid with disbelief. “Where's Ellery?”

“Ellery sent me in his place.” Mr. Throckmorton extended the glass. “He's battling a bit of a rash.”

Uncertainly, Celeste took the champagne. “A rash?”

“Apparently he ate something that didn't agree with him.”

“Something he ate?” Suspicion bloomed in her mind, and her eyes narrowed as she contemplated Mr. Throckmorton. “Ellery ate a strawberry?”

“Usually he's more careful. But tonight he seemed to be in a hurry.”

In a hurry. Of course. To see her. “Was it in that—” Abruptly she remembered she shouldn't know about Frau Wieland's silly dessert, and changed the subject. “Poor Ellery! Is he going to be all right?”

“Yes.” Mr. Throckmorton smiled into his glass. “Yes, I think he really is.”

She took a step toward the door. “Does he need—”

Mr. Throckmorton blocked her path. “No. He doesn't need anything. Right now, he is well tended and unwilling to have anyone see him in this condition.”

She wavered. She didn't know how to get around Mr. Throckmorton, and she suspected he told the truth about Ellery's reluctance to have her view him covered with unsightly blotches. And yet . . . and yet she didn't wish to be trapped in the middle of her long-cherished fantasy . . . with the wrong man.

“Ellery did tell me to dance with you in the moonlight to the distant strains of music.” Taking a sip of his champagne, Mr. Throckmorton watched her closely. “Did I get that right?”

“Yes,” she said, numb with frustration. “You got it right.” Mr. Throckmorton had quoted her exact words back to her. Only Ellery could have told him, so Ellery had truly sent his brother in his place. She glanced around the glimmering ballroom where, only a few moments ago, dreams had been adrift. Now the music
sounded off key, the gold leaf seemed dull and overdone, and the moonlight did no more than reflect the light of the sun—as Mr. Throckmorton reflected the light of Ellery.

Mr. Throckmorton took her glass and placed both his and hers on a table by the wall. Coming back to her, he extended his arms.

She didn't walk into them. It was too odd to think of dancing with, of all people, Mr. Throckmorton. He was too old, too solemn, too responsible. Everything Ellery was not.

But neither was he indecisive, for when she hesitated, he gathered her to him. His arm wrapped around her waist, his hand caught her hand, and without giving her a moment to adjust to the sensation of being in his arms, he swept her away. He shouldn't have been able to waltz. Businessmen shouldn't be able to make the music come alive with motion. But while Mr. Throckmorton danced without flourishes or extravagance, his motions were elegant, his gait smooth. He led like a man used to leading—in every situation.

She didn't know what to do with her free hand. To touch his shoulder seemed an act of insolence, almost of intimacy. But although she battled the thought and scolded herself as silly, she still couldn't bring herself to lift her palm up so far and hold him as comportment demanded he be held. Instead, she rested her hand against his upper arm . . . and discovered how his muscles flexed beneath her fingers.

“This is quite lovely.” His voice sounded smooth, rich, content, when she knew he must want to be back at the party, greeting the guests, supervising the
arrangements, aware that every person he made happy was one more person who might someday do business with him. “My brother will be devastated to know he missed this.”