When You're Desired (21 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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She laughed. “So you
did
capture the
maréchal
after all.”
“No indeed. Musgrove captured him. I merely captured Musgrove. Damned if the
maréchal
wasn't still draped across his saddle when we got back to the line!”
“And that is when you were struck?” she murmured, running her hands across his scarred torso. “I wish I had been there to look after you,” she whispered, dipping her head to kiss the tip of the scar.
He half smiled. “What? Celia St. Lys, a woman of the camps? Never!”
She grinned. “I would have made an excellent soldier's doxy!”
“Lord Simon's doxy,” he corrected her. “You would have had pride of place among all the women of the camp.”
“I would have scrubbed your shirts in the river with the rest of them,” she said gamely. “Cooked your dinner over a campfire, and delivered your bastards in a tent.”
“Don't be silly,” he said. “You would have been quite safe in a hotel in Brussels with servants to look after you.”
“In rooms over a shop, no doubt!” she said, laughing. “How droll! And if you had fallen in battle, the other officers of the regiment would all have drawn lots for me.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I am not rich, as you know, but I think I can manage something a little better than rooms over a shop. You shall have a house of your own.”
“I have a house of my own already, young man,” she said, laughing. “You are in it. What did you think this was, a nutshell?”
He paid no attention to her raillery. “You cannot stay here. I shall find you new lodgings, first thing.”
“What?” she said, shaking her head in puzzlement. “I don't need lodgings.”
“Who pays for this house?” he asked, frowning.
“I do,” she said, affronted. “That is to say, I did pay for it. I own it. It is mine. I like it, and I have no intention of leaving it to please you or anyone else.”
“You own this house?”
“You do not believe me?”
“Very well; you may own it. But who bought it for you?” he demanded. “One of your lovers, no doubt. Lord Palmerston?”
Celia sat up. Finding her slip at the foot of the bed, she pulled it over her head angrily. “Ten minutes in my bed, and the man thinks he owns me!” she cried. “For your information, my lord,
I
bought this house. It's mine, and I do not mean to give it up. And even if Lord Palmerston had given it to me—what a joke! But even if he had, it would still be mine, and why shouldn't I keep it? Would you have me give everything back?”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
“Oh, I see!” she said, leaping out of the bed. “I am to have nothing but what I receive from your hand.”
“I certainly won't allow you to keep any presents from other men,” he snapped. “The diamond collar must go back to Sir Lucas.”
“Is
that
what this was about?” she cried, turning pale. “You're still after that bloody necklace? Is that why you took me to bed?”
“No,” he said savagely, springing out of bed, “of course not. But if you are to be my mistress, you must learn to respect my wishes.”
“What makes you think I want to be your mistress?” she demanded. “That would not suit me at all! Oh, you're well enough for a tumble here and there, I grant you that!” she added, taking a step back as he lunged at her. “You are a tyrant!” she complained. “You want a slave, not a mistress. Why should I give up my house for you? Why should I give up my diamonds? Would you have me give up the stage, as well?”
“When the children come, yes,” he said. “We were not so careful this time. There might be a child.”
“I pray not,” she said violently. “You want to take me off the stage. You want me breeding and dependent on you for everything! You don't want to love me. You want to own me. I am such a fool.”
“If there is a child, you will never be rid of me.”
“If there is a child, I shall go abroad,” she declared. “I should give the babe to gypsies, and you would never see it!”
Simon's eyes narrowed. “I would hunt you to the ends of the earth, madam.”
She laughed bitterly. “Now I see the attraction of Miss Archer! Yes! Little Belinda will serve you well. She is too stupid and timid to think for herself. She will be very happy to exist solely for your pleasure. You can train her as you would one of your dogs.”
“I did find her manners very pleasing,” he said, beginning to dress. “She will make me a fine companion. You, on the other hand, are only good for one thing. You do satisfy my man's body, I'll grant you that.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “Go! Get out! Go back to your virgin! And when you are quite bored with her, don't even think of coming back here to me. I'd only laugh in your face.”
He finished dressing and left without another word. She did not seek to detain him but jumped as she heard the front door slam. After taking a moment to compose herself, she took up her bedroom taper and hurried downstairs to lock the door and bolt it.
Chapter 13
Dorian awoke in his bed at Berkshire House with a violent headache and only the vaguest memories of the night before. Almost before his eyes were open, his mother, who had passed the night in a chair at his bedside, was upon him. “Dorian!” she cried, launching herself onto the bed to seize his hand. “Thank God! You naughty boy! What a scare you gave your mama.”
Dorian struggled to sit up. Still groggy, he was too slow to prevent his mother's attack on his person, but he did manage to prevent her from fluffing the pillows. “Give over, woman,” he snarled. “I'm not a boy; I am the bloody Duke of Berkshire. Send Hill to me at once,” he added, in a weakening tone. “My head is very bad, and I seem to have broken a nail.”
“I am not surprised,” his mother said severely as she withdrew from the bed. “You were brought home drunk, sir—very drunk indeed!”
Dorian covered his ears with his hands. “I cannot hear you, madam,” he told her. “You are wasting your breath. I want Hill!”
“Your valet is not here, Dorian,” she informed him. He had never noticed it before, but she had a voice rather like a French horn. “You left him at Brooks's. Don't you remember? I daresay Hamilton can be prevailed upon to look after you. You do need looking after,” she added with a motherly tenderness that grated his nerves.
Dorian scowled at her. “Why did Simon have to bring me
here
? I was perfectly all right where I was.”
The duchess sniffed disdainfully. “Apparently
that woman
did not agree. She threw you out into the street, I believe.”
With a swiftness born of anger, Dorian threw off the bedclothes and jumped to his feet. “That woman!” he cried. “You dare call her that? You, of all people?”
She stared, flabbergasted by his rage. “How dare you shout at me,” she whimpered. Taking out her handkerchief she pressed it to dry eyes. “Your own mother! I realize 'twas my idea for you to take a mistress, but really, Dorian! I do not think Miss St. Lys has been at all good for you. There! I said it! She should not have given you so much to drink. Even your brother was shocked by your behavior, and as you know, nothing shocks
him
.”
Dorian staggered a little, but by gripping the table, managed to remain upright. “Are you suggesting that I discard Miss St. Lys?” he demanded, thrusting out his jaw. “Believe me, madam, I would sooner discard
you
!”
Shocked, she fell into a chair. “Dorian, you cannot mean that!” she gasped.
“I do mean it,” he assured her. “Have a care what you say about Miss St. Lys, madam, or you may find yourself persona non grata here at Berkshire House. As it is, you are definitely persona non grata in my bedroom. Get out! Get out and send Hill to me or Hamilton or whoever. Just get out!” he shouted, a vein throbbing in his temple.
“Dorian!” she cried, choking back a sob. “I do not deserve this!”
“I have yet to decide what you deserve,” he said coldly. His energy spent, he sagged against the bedpost. “Is there nothing that weighs on your conscience, madam?”
“Of course not,” she answered, bewildered.
He looked at her, shaking his head. “Out of respect for my father, I shan't turn you out,” he said. “I shall remove to Brooks's for the rest of the season. After that . . . after
that
, madam, we shall see. But I cannot live with you; that much is certain. Now, for God's sake, leave me!”
To no avail the duchess pleaded and protested. Dorian would neither relent nor explain his anger. Forced to quit the room, she hastened to the morning room. Three quarters of an hour later, she observed from the window that Dorian had summoned his cabriolet. His groom slowly walked the perfectly matched bays up and down the street, keeping them warm for the duke.
As she stood fretting, her maid burst into the room. “Madam! His Grace has gone mad!”
This was no more than the duchess's own private fear, but she turned on her servant savagely. “Nonsense, Alcott!”
The maid stood her ground. “He is in your dressing room, madam! He has broken open your jewel chest!”
“What!” cried the duchess. Picking up her skirts, she ran upstairs as quickly as a young girl. Upon entering her dressing room, she stood stunned, unable to believe her eyes. Dorian had indeed broken open her jewel chest, and was pawing through the contents like the most brazen of thieves. “My God! What are you doing?” she whispered, aghast.
Dorian held up a fistful of diamonds and emeralds. “These are mine, I believe,” he said, shoving the jewels into his pocket. “That is to say, they belong to the estate—to me.”
“They are the Ascot emeralds,” she stammered.
“And the ring on your finger,” he said, holding out his hand. “Unless I am mistaken, that belongs to me as well.”
“My engagement ring!”
“Give it to me,” he said implacably. “Give it to me, or I shall tear it from your finger.”
Mute with fear, she drew the huge, glittering green stone from her finger and dropped it in his hand.
“Thank you.” His gaze was frigid as he walked past her to the door. “I seem to have broken your jewelry box,” he added as he went out of the room. “Get yourself a new one—have them send me the bill at Brooks's.”
“Good God, Dorian! What is the matter with you?” she cried, her face ashen; but the duke was already gone.
He drove himself to Celia's house. She was with Flood in the back room on the first floor up. They were working, sorting through Celia's vast collection of theatrical costumes. She had not decided what she would wear in the very first scene of the new play, the scene where Viola washed up on the shores of Illyria after the shipwreck. As he came into the room, she was on her pedestal in a flowing white garment of almost Grecian aspect, her head tilted to one side as she studied the effect in the long mirrors that lined all four walls. Even the back of the door was mirrored.
Dorian knew the room; he had collapsed in it the night before.
“My dear sir,” she greeted him, climbing down from the pedestal, much to the annoyance of Flood, who was on her knees before her mistress, her mouth full of pins. “I do hope you feel better than you look!” Celia added, laughing as she held out her hands to him.
“What a fright I must have given you,” he murmured, embarrassed.
“I was a little worried,” she admitted, “but your brother assured me you would be all right.”
“I am glad you sent for him. I know how much you dislike one another.”
“Indeed, your brother and I will never be friends,” she answered. “But he is your brother, and I know that he loves you.”
“He was not rude to you, I hope?”
She laughed. “I can never see your brother without I feel sorry for his men. What they must endure! Fortunately, I am not one of his men. He can't have me flogged, however much he may wish to.”
“I wish you could be friends, Sally,” Dorian said sadly. “Simon is the best man I know, and if you are ever in difficulty, you could not do better than to apply to him for assistance. I wish you would let me tell him of your connection to the family,” he went on hopefully. “Then he would treat you with more respect.”
“I doubt it. He might pity me, but he certainly would not respect me. That I could not bear! To be pitied by Lord Simon! I would rather he hate me.”
“Of course I shan't tell him, if that is what you wish,” he assured her. “Though it seems a pity. You always admired him so much.”
“Admired him!” she exclaimed, astonished. “What do you mean?”
He smiled at her. “You know what I mean, Miss Sally! Many is the time I found you at the top of the stairs at Ashlands, staring up at his portrait with an adoring gaze.”
She frowned. “I was only a child then,” she said crossly. “I didn't even know it was a picture of a real person, let alone a living creature, until your father told me one day.”
Dorian chuckled. “Caught you looking at his favorite son, did he? Yes, Simon was his favorite,” he went on in answer to her look of surprise. “He was a rough-and-tumble boy. A hell-born babe, as they say. My father liked that. He was but fifteen when that portrait was painted but, alas, already old in sin.”
“Oh yes?” said Celia. “And what were the sins of his youth?”
He chuckled. “Women, of course! That is why he was packed off to the army. An affair with some girl or other when he was at Eton.”
“What sort of girl was she?”
“The sort that persuaded my father to send him to India. We did not see him again for nearly eight years.”
“By then,
I
had been packed off to Ireland.”
Dorian shuddered. This is what he had come to talk to her about, and he had been dreading having to bring it up. “Was it very bad for you, my dear?”
She took his hand. “Let us not speak of it,” she said firmly. “It would only cause you pain. There was a time,” she added, bringing his hand to her cheek, “when I wanted very much to cause you pain.”
“And now?”
She smiled. “Now I am glad to see my cousin Dorian again. Shall we go sit in the drawing room?”
She led the way, and the maidservant brought the tea. Celia presided over the teapot with real pleasure. “I used to do this at Ashlands, do you remember? Your mother taught me the art. Yes, Cousin Dorian; there is an art to making tea, an art to being a good hostess.”
“You were happy at Ashlands.”
“It was like paradise to me. The first year I was with you I was black-and-blue from pinching myself. I'd have the most dreadful nightmares. I lived in fear that I'd be sent back to the Foundling Hospital. Your father did not like me at first,” she added, “so my fears were not unfounded.”
“You soon won him over,” he remembered. “He came to adore you.”
“I made it my business to win him over,” she replied. “I did not want to be cast out of paradise, after all.”
“Within six months, he was living in your pocket. We all were.”
“After a year, I stopped pinching myself. I had never known such happiness, such security. I was never happier than when I was with you at Ashlands.”
“And to Ashlands you must return,” he said eagerly. “As my guest. This summer, when the theatres close, what else have you to do? Come to Ashlands and stay as long as you like.”
Celia was shaking her head. “Impossible! The servants might recognize me. Servants are much more observant than their masters, you know. They must be, if they are to keep their places.”
“The servants!” he exclaimed suddenly, drawing in a shaking breath. “I had not thought of them. Why, all these years, they must have known the truth! Not all of them, perhaps, but some of them had to know you were alive. They could not
all
have been in ignorance. Who knew? Who amongst them knew you had been sent away?”
“No one would dare question your mother,” said Celia. “She would have given them orders. They would have had no choice but to obey. Indeed, you shall not blame the servants.”
“Why should I not blame them?” he returned. “If they had orders, they were not
my
orders. I am master at Ashlands, not my mother. All these years, they have deceived me!”
“I beg you, do not think of punishing your servants!” she said, alarmed. “Not for my sake. They were always kind to me. It is not their fault I fell out of favor with the mistress.”
“And the vicar!” he went on, as if he had not heard her. “Whom did he think he was burying?
Was
there really a funeral? The stonemason who carved your headstone—did
he
know 'twas for an empty grave? At least, one assumes it was an empty grave. At this point, I wouldn't put anything past my mother! She could very easily have slaughtered a village girl and tossed
her
body in the coffin.”
Celia laughed shakily. “Don't be ridiculous, Dorian.”
“Did they pack you a trunk, at least? You had your things about you?”
“I had my clothes, some of them. I wasn't allowed to keep any books or letters. I could have nothing to show where I'd come from. The little presents I'd received over the years—those were taken from me. My dolls. My silver hairbrushes. My locket with my parents' hair inside. She did let me keep my handkerchief, though.”
He looked puzzled. “Your handkerchief?”
“The one that was with me when I was found as an infant. It was accounted quite without value, and I was allowed to keep it.”
“May I see it?” he asked, surprising her.
“Why?”
“Will you not indulge an old friend?”

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