When You're Desired (13 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Until tomorrow then,” Simon said, hastening away.
“Well, child,” said Mrs. Archer, left alone with her daughter. “What did you think of him?”
Belinda blinked at her. “What did I think of who, Mama? Of Lord Simon?”
“Yes, child. Is he not a handsome man? And he was quite taken with you, my love. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he—But I get ahead of myself.”
“Was he not waiting for Miss St. Lys, Mama?”
“That is what he said,” replied her mother. “But that was only an excuse to meet you, my love, I am sure.”
“Why should Lord Simon want to meet me?”
“He has heard the rumors. I suppose he wanted to see you for himself.”
“Rumors? What rumors?” Belinda asked, quite bewildered.
“About your father, of course.”
“My father!”
“Oh, my dear,” said her mother, taking her hands. “I suppose it is time you found out. Your father was not Mr. Archer.”
“What!” cried Belinda, staggered.
“Your father, my love, is none other than the Prince of Wales!”
This was too much for Belinda. Her eyes crossed. She fainted, crumpling to the ground, where she lay still.
 
 
“The Duke of Berkshire's carriage stops the way!”
Pale and composed, Dorian made his way through the crowded crush room to the open doors. The air outside was so wonderfully clear and cold that he almost wanted to dismiss the carriage and walk home. He had ordered it in the expectation that he would take Miss St. Lys to supper after the performance. Otherwise, he would have walked to the theatre—if, indeed, he had decided to go to the theatre at all that night, which did not seem very likely. If not for St. Lys, he would have gone to Almack's that night, as usual. One always went to Almack's on a Wednesday during the season.
But the carriage was already here, and he might as well use it. He climbed up. The footman folded the steps and closed the door. For some reason, the carriage lamps had not been lit, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened interior.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” said Celia from the opposite side of the carriage.
Startled, Dorian jumped at the sound of her voice. “Miss St. Lys!” he exclaimed, squinting at her in the gloom. “What are you doing here?”
Celia lowered the hood of her cloak and her golden hair spilled around her shoulders. “We are going to supper, are we not, Your Grace?” she said. “You have not forgotten me, surely?”
“No,” he said, recovering his composure. “I have not forgotten. But I thought—”
He broke off, confused.
“You thought what, Your Grace?” she asked as the carriage whisked off into the night.
“My brother gave me to understand that you—that he—Well, it doesn't bear repeating.”
“He told you I had come to terms with Sir Lucas Tinsley,” said Celia calmly. “That I had agreed to a rendezvous with that gentleman? It's quite true, I'm afraid. I did not want to agree to it, of course, but your brother told me I had to. He made threats. I was never so frightened in all my life!”
“Simon threatened you? I cannot believe it.”
“I could hardly believe it myself,” she said. “I did not dare say no to him. I would have agreed to anything to make him go away. Of course,” she went on virtuously, “I never had the least intention of going through with it. The rendezvous, I mean. I knew that you would protect me, Your Grace. I have been hiding in your carriage since the end of the play, terrified that your brother would find me. You must think me a dreadful coward,” she added, trembling. “I
am
a dreadful coward! But I did not know what else to do.”
“I do not know what to think,” Dorian said frankly. “My brother is a gentleman. He would never use a lady so ill.”
“But I am not a lady, Your Grace,” she told him sadly. “I am merely an actress, and of little consequence.”
“You are Celia St. Lys!” he protested.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured. “But Sir Lucas is so very rich and powerful. Men of that kind may take what they want.”
“I am shocked!” said Dorian. “What has my brother to do with any of this? He serves the Prince of Wales, not Sir Lucas Tinsley.”
“I am but a pawn between these great men,” said Celia.
“The prince must want something from Sir Lucas. In return, it seems that Sir Lucas wants something from
me
. Your brother is the facilitator of these black bargains.” She shivered eloquently. “What chance do I have when such forces are arrayed against me? I must either submit, or throw myself in the Thames!”
“Throw yourself in the Thames!” he cried, alarmed. “No no! You mustn't do that.”
“Then I must submit to him,” she said, beginning to cry. “I must give him what he wants, though my soul dies within me!”
“No! That is not what I meant.” Quickly, he took out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “Dry your eyes, Miss St. Lys. The situation is far from hopeless.”
“I am sure you are right, Your Grace,” she said bravely, through her tears. “I mustn't give up hope. You must not worry about me. I shall be quite all right. I'll be just fine! Just set me down anywhere, and forget you ever saw me. That is all I ask of you. I should never have gotten you involved in this. Do please forgive me.”
She attempted to return his handkerchief, but instead of taking it, he shortened the distance between them and took both her hands in his. Half kneeling, half seated next to her, he kissed the backs of her hands, crying, “Set you down? Forget you? Never!”
Celia looked at him hopefully. “Your Grace?”
“From this moment, my dear,” Dorian said resolutely, “you are under my protection. I shall never let any harm come to you.”
“But Sir Lucas! Lord Simon!” she protested.
“I am the Duke of Berkshire,” he said simply. “Believe me, you are quite safe. I'll never let anyone hurt you.”
“Do you promise?” she said.
“I promise. I shall always keep you safe.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Releasing her hands, he returned to his seat. “Now then,” he said briskly. “You said you would be hungry after the play. Shall we dine at the Pulteney? Unless, of course, you would rather go home and go straight to bed,” he said quickly. “I'm sure I wouldn't blame you.”
“Your Grace!” she said, scandalized.
“Oh no!” he said, blushing. “You would go to bed alone, of course. I didn't mean
that.
I just thought you might be tired, that's all.”
“I'm very tired,” she said. “But I am also very hungry.”
“You will like the Pulteney,” he said. “Have you ever dined there?”
“No, Your Grace. Could we not go to Monsieur Grillon's hotel?”
“Grillon's?”
“They know me there,” she said. “It's like a home away from home for me. The chef is a particular friend of mine, and Monsieur Grillon always looks after me so well when I am there. I often stay there when I feel the need to be absolutely alone. No servants, no visitors. It's like a little country retreat for me, right in the heart of London.”
He smiled pleasantly. “Very well, then! We shall dine there, if you prefer.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, and he knocked on the window to tell the coachman.
 
 
In Albemarle Street, Monsieur Grillon himself came out to greet them at the door of his elegant hotel. To Dorian's surprise, the Frenchman kissed Celia on both cheeks as if she were his long-lost daughter. They spoke in French. Dorian could not help feeling a little neglected; he was used to being fawned over wherever he went. But he stood, smiling and good-natured until Celia, at last, presented the hotelier to him.
Smiling, Monsieur Grillon conducted Mademoiselle St. Lys and
monsieur le duc
to a private room. Though by no means a small chamber, it boasted but a single table, set for two.
When he had seated Miss St. Lys, Monsieur Grillon clapped his hands and a flurry of waiters brought iced champagne, smoked oysters, and caviar. Much French was spoken. At last, monsieur clapped his hands again, and suddenly Dorian had Celia all to himself again.
“You seem to be feeling much better,” he remarked.
“Why not? I am among friends now.”
“So I noticed. Do you ever think of returning to your native land?” he asked her.
Celia helped herself to some caviar. “My native land? What do you mean?”
“Well, France, of course. Are you not French?”
“Lord, no!” she said, laughing. “I'm as English as you are. At least, I hope I am. I don't really know. I was a foundling, Your Grace,” she explained in response to his questioning look. “My parents could have been French, I suppose.”
“Oh, I see,” he said gravely. “You've done very well for yourself, my dear.”
“Considering my humble origins? Yes, Your Grace. I have done well for myself. But I never forget where I came from. I often visit the Foundling Hospital, and it is my privilege to help raise money for the children there. The ten pounds your gracious mother promised would do much good.”
“Oh, good heavens,” he murmured in dismay. “What you must think of me! I meant to give it to you yesterday—with a contribution of my own.”
“It would be better if Your Grace gave it to the Foundling Hospital in person,” she said. “I could arrange a tour, if you like. I'll show you where I used to card wool.”
“You are a credit to the place,” he said. “Did they teach you to speak French there?”
“No, Your Grace,” she said. “I had the good fortune to be adopted by a rich lady. She had two sons, but no daughter. I suppose she singled me out because I was pretty. She dressed me up like a little doll. She quite doted on me. I grew up with the best of everything. I even had a French governess.”
“So did I.” He laughed. “But she never did me much good, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, but I was a very eager pupil,” she said, smiling. “I lived in fear that I would be sent back to the Foundling Hospital. I would have done anything to please my benefactress. I learned to sing and dance. I would perform dramatic readings in the drawing room for the whole family.”
“You were destined for the stage then,” he said warmly.
“Certainly I was not cut out for obscurity,” she replied. “Obscurity tried to claim me once, but I fought my way back.”
“And now you are the most famous woman in London!”
“Fame is a two-edged sword,” she said. “Most people are good. But every now and then I meet a Sir Lucas.”
His face darkened, but as the waiters had come into the room bearing the first course before them on silver trays, he said nothing. “Do not think of him,” he said softly. “You are under my protection now. I shall look after you, Miss St. Lys, always.”
She laughed. “Forgive me,” she said, still laughing, “but I have heard
that
before.”
He frowned. “Not from me, you haven't,” he said firmly.
“Yes, actually, I have,” she said, startling him. “I have heard it from you, Dorian. I never thought I would hear it again. But then . . . I never thought I would
see
you again.”
He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You don't recognize me, do you?”
“Of course I recognize you,” he said faintly. “You are Celia St. Lys.”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “In spite of you!”
“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Miss St. Lys,” he stammered. “Have we—? Are you saying we have met before?”
“Of course you would not remember
me
,” she said bitterly, and he was both appalled and fascinated to see that there were tears standing proud in her beautiful eyes. “Why should you, after all?”
“I am sorry,” he said slowly. “I honestly do not know what you are talking about.”
“I used to dream of this moment,” she went on. “I never thought it would happen, but here we are. You talk of protection! You think I don't know what that means? You want me in your bed! You are the same as Sir Lucas! You think you are better than he, but you are not. In fact, you are worse! You think, after all you have done, that I should be glad, even grateful for the chance to be your plaything!”
“No, of course not. I don't—Look here! What do you mean, after all I have done? I haven't done anything.”

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