Wicked Wager (6 page)

‘Your behaviour came from the heart, Miss Rosington, for if you did not know who I was, then I can only be delighted that you found my attentions so pleasing based purely on your honest reaction to me as an ordinary man. You have no idea how delightful that is to a gentleman such as myself, who is constantly fielding off advances.'

His smile, warmer now, more sincere, made Celeste's heart hammer even harder. So he didn't condemn her? Nor, it seemed, had he drawn any association between her and his sister.

Thank the good Lord.

He also seemed to misconstrue the extent of her relief for something else, together with her apparent willingness to pursue that which began by a hanging lantern on a plane tree in Vauxhall. For now he had taken her hand, a gesture concealed by the lush greenery, and one that was doing extraordinary things to Celeste's equilibrium.

He put his head close to hers and she closed her eyes and inhaled with excitement the fragrant breeze bearing the scent of roses. ‘I can't tell you how much I anticipate the following two days,' he murmured, ‘now that we have been thrown together in this singular way.'

Celeste opened her eyes to see him straighten, a regretful smile tugging at the corner of his oh so kissable mouth. ‘Now, your aunt is signalling to you, but before you go to her …' He hesitated, bending slightly to take her hands. ‘I'd like you to know that I shall be admiring the daffodils beneath the mulberry tree by the lake just before dinner. Ten minutes before we are due into the dining room, in fact.' He straightened, dropping her hands, and for one thrilling moment Celeste imagined he was about to brush her cheek with his fingertips.

‘Until later, Miss Rosington …'

Celeste blinked stupidly as he offered her an elegant bow before turning on his heel as Lady Branwell came to claim her.

She was still in a daze when her aunt began describing the details of some titillating
on-dit
to which she'd just been made privy, no doubt intended as a salutary warning on the need for becoming chasteness in her niece.

Celeste was not in the mood to heed any kind of moral guidance right now. Clearly, there could be no misinterpreting the viscount's single-minded interest. If she had half a brain, or at least any consideration for her reputation, she knew she should nip this in the bud. She should certainly not for a moment consider meeting Lord Peregrine alone, anywhere, under any circumstances.

But her heart hammered nevertheless at the interest this handsome, raven-haired scion of elegance and refinement showed in her; and she felt the tug of something deeper than superficial desire, although that on its own was compelling enough to throw caution to the winds.

‘Celeste, are you chasing after fairies or are you coming indoors with us?'

Celeste raised her head to attend to her aunt. Was she chasing fairies, she wondered as she trailed after the two older women?

Or was Celeste chasing after the first very real prospect of something that might flourish from her barren heart and offer her a happiness she would never know with Raphael?

Chapter Four

Celeste paced her bedchamber in an agony of indecision. There was nothing to be gained other than exposure and ruin should she indulge in this wicked, clandestine meeting just before dinner.

Unless it was to make clear to him that under
no
circumstances would she risk her good name by indulging in wicked, clandestine meetings with the presumptuous said viscount, now or in the future. Obviously she'd overstepped all notions of proper behaviour at Vauxhall Gardens, and she needed to ensure he understood she would on no account be up for such adventures again.

It was that which determined her, for the truth was she was too restless to remain in her dressing room and hope that her failure to materialise would send the required message. No, far better to see the viscount in person and make it clear she was betrothed, she deeply regretted her shameful impropriety, but she could never find herself alone with Lord Peregrine again.

The trouble was that ten minutes later, beneath the mulberry tree, at the requisite moment, midway through spouting her rehearsed little speech, the deeply interested, smouldering look of that gentleman almost completely undid her. His close proximity made the constriction of her stays almost unbearable, while her throat thickened so much she could barely push out the words, though she tried valiantly enough.

As she floundered while trying to explain that she could never see him alone again, he considered her words thoughtfully, his long shadow easier for Celeste to focus on than his face, which she now thought the handsomest of any she'd gazed upon.

‘What you're saying, Miss Rosington, is you allowed your heart to rule your head. That while you are pledged to your cousin, you were swayed by your physical impulses, which is your excuse for kissing me.'

She knew she must appear like a gaping fish, yet still the rest of the words needed to make sense of her sentence refused to come.

‘Kissing you
back
, my lord,' she finally corrected him. ‘I am not in the habit of such rash and inexcusable behaviour. In fact, I have never been so close to any gentleman stranger, alone, in such circumstances.'

He took a step closer and circled her waist, and though she gasped with surprise, she did not move back. No, she closed her eyes and swayed in his embrace, her mind drinking in his words, delivered in a compelling, husky murmur, as if they were some drug.

‘So despite your nuptials nearly upon you, you are telling me that when I strayed into your orbit you were impelled by impulses beyond your control to seek alternative excitement. Namely, that which I offered?'

She opened her eyes briefly, signalling a flare of indignation, for he made her sound no better than a strumpet.

But with his face only inches away from hers, her defences crumbled. With a brief incline of her head she opened her mouth to admit this was exactly the case; and then his lips were on hers, a sweet touch that instantly turned her into a melting puddle of desire.

Raphael had never kissed her and Celeste knew he never would. So she savoured the moment, surrendering entirely to the soft, teasing touch of his hand that cupped the back of her neck, offering no resistance when the arm about her waist pulled her closer. The feel of his hard chest pressing against her breasts fired off desires she'd never experienced, strong and confusing, coursing through her body which seemed to succumb to an almost mindless, euphoric ecstasy. It was this that galvanised her into pushing him away; this unfamiliar lack of self-control when she had spent a lifetime obeying strictures.

Her future was arranged. It was only now she realised how foolish and impossible were her ideas of marrying to please her heart. The gorgeous philandering viscount embracing her knew she was to be wed in two weeks. This alone was well nigh the reason he considered himself safe in making up to her. He was certainly not about to declare he couldn't live without her and make her a marriage offer within the requisite time to free Celeste from a lifetime bound to Raphael.

Moreover, he was dangerous; not just for the feelings he unleashed in her, but the fact he was Miss Paige's brother.

So what was Celeste doing out by the mulberry tree, alone … yes, with a man reputed to be a libertine? Sheltered she might be, yet she had heard the stories—she should be deporting herself with the decorum required as Raphael, Lord Ogilvy's future wife. Hadn't Raphael said he would give her license to follow her heart? Well, only on the basis that no hint of scandal be attached to her for the first years of her marriage. Later, with Raphael's family line secured, she could do as she wished. Her future husband had said so in just those words. Though what desires she might choose to pursue in Jamaica was another matter.

Oh Lord, but it all sounded so sordid. She didn't want such affairs to be her only means of satisfying the needs of her heart.

‘Where are you going?'

He sounded surprised when he yielded sufficiently to look into her face. She might almost have believed he was genuinely disappointed as she shook her head, pushing completely out of his arms and saying over her shoulder as she turned, ‘I've made a terrible mistake in coming here, my lord,' before she fled back to the house.

***

Celeste had gained sufficient countenance to face the viscount over the dinner table during dinner, though she avoided his eyes. It was the only way she could keep the heat from her cheeks and form coherent sentences as she engaged in conversation with the vicar on her left.

When the subject turned to trade in Jamaica, she felt the blood thrum through her veins and, glancing down, saw the blush spread from her bosom upwards. She only hoped that what was noticeable to her would be dismissed as the heat by everyone else.

What if Harry Carstairs' name were to be brought up? The disappearance of the wealthy Jamaican plantation owner was bound to become a topic of discussion.

Especially when he was to have married the sister of the man sitting across from her, Lord Peregrine.

With sinking heart, Celeste picked at her food. He'd not know that she had just as much reason for finding Harry as he did.

‘I hear the captain of the
Batavia's
put in a hefty insurance claim for the loss of so many slaves on the high seas,' Lord Cowdril remarked as he tucked into his beef. His deep voice cut across the tinkling conversation, which dulled to a murmur before all ears were on what was apparently the latest
on-dit
.

‘Slaves?' His wife raised her eyebrows. ‘An insurance claim? Well, a lucrative commodity whose loss would surely hurt the captain's pocket, to be sure.'

‘Yet a human being, with all due respect, Lady Cowdril?' Lord Peregrine looked more enquiring than combative, though Celeste heard the edge to his voice. She was surprised to see that the lips, which had claimed hers with both tenderness and passion so recently, were set in a hard line.

Lord Cowdril dabbed at the goose fat dribbling down his chin. ‘Ain't your manservant a slave, Perry? Don't know how you can sleep at night for fear he'll cut your throat.'

Lord Peregrine raised an eyebrow as he carefully put down his cutlery. ‘I've never had a more loyal manservant than Nelson.' The cold cast of his features made Celeste think suddenly how much she'd dislike crossing him. The passionate, interested viscount she knew was not in evidence now.

‘Nor do I fear for my life, since it is due to my manservant that I indeed still have a life,' Lord Peregrine went on.

‘So he valiantly snatched you from the jaws of death. From footpads, I recall. Of course he did what he needed to secure his position with you.' Lord Cowdril waved a dismissive hand. ‘You disapprove of slavery, Perry, and of calling them commodities, and yet do you not concede that you've bought this man—or rather his loyalty?' He looked triumphant.

Celeste watched Lord Peregrine obviously choose his words with care. ‘I won Nelson at cards and yes, I admit it, I considered him a commodity at the time. Only since I've come to know him as a human being have I come to disapprove of slavery.'

Lady Cowdril's vermillion-stained lips curved into a thin smile as she patted her pomaded locks. ‘Your conversations on slavery with Lady Busselton must be diverting, Perry. Her position was secured entirely through her father's reliance on the slave trade.'

Celeste felt herself go even pinker while a certain horror rose within her. She hadn't known Perry was a friend of the captain's daughter. She studied him covertly. His answer was imperative to what she'd have to report to Raphael.

‘Lady Busselton occupies a place in society which, as you correctly point out, is thanks to her father's trading success, but I assure you, our conversations do not encompass trade. Especially not her father's.'

Lady Cowdril shuddered, as if the idea of trade were more repugnant than slavery. Lord Cowdril looked satisfied. He drained his wine glass and smiled. ‘‘Course not, Perry, and no intention of lancing you at the table like that. Unpardonable.'

The conversation appeared to be headed for less controversial waters, but there was still too much Celeste did not know.

Boldly, for she was not yet married and speaking up at the dinner table was not sanctioned for one in her position, she ventured, ‘How did these slaves die?'

Five shocked faces turned to her, as if she'd uttered blasphemy.

‘Good Lord, girl, what does it matter?' her hostess replied. ‘They're slaves.'

The vicar on her left patted her hand and sent her a warning look, as if counselling her to hold her tongue. Only Lord Peregrine eyed her with more sympathy and interest than hitherto, as Lord Cowdril said, ‘Disease, Miss Rosington. Once the first one succumbed, the rest went down like flies.'

‘Like flies, my lord?' She repeated his words, imbuing them with the faintest scepticism. Lord Cowdril appeared to take offence, but Lord Peregrine, she noticed, looked surprised.

Interesting, she thought, assuming the subject was about to be turned to another topic by Lord Peregrine's thoughtful silence. She was just responding to a murmured question from the vicar when the viscount suddenly remarked, in a tone he'd use to address a girl barely out of the nursery, ‘Miss Rosington, you are very young but you do understand that as Lord Ogilvy is a notable slave owner in Jamaica, you, yourself, will lose many of the wretched creatures through disease, and no doubt your husband will rail at the financial impost.'

Lady Cowdril put down her fork with a clatter. ‘Come now, Perry, you are being unfair on my poor guest. What does she know about slaves? She is an innocent, not yet married, and you are making her the focus of the entire table by your remark. Miss Rosington has no interest in whether her husband's slaves succumb to disease or any other such nonsense.'

Disregarding his hostess, Lord Peregrine went on, ‘She will most certainly care if the loss of such an investment impacts on her dress allowance.'