In My Wildest Dreams (2 page)

1

“G
arrick, you must tell me—who is that beautiful lady I met at the train station?”

Lifting his attention from the row of figures, Garrick Throckmorton stared at Ellery. His younger brother stood framed in the doorway of the study, his clothing exquisitely cut, his blond hair styled perfectly, his tanned cheeks flushed with becoming color.

Throckmorton had hoped to finish writing instructions on the accounting to his secretary before putting in his first appearance at the reception, but as he studied his over-excited, excessively handsome younger brother, he realized that would not be possible. He recognized trouble when he saw it, and in this family, trouble almost always came in the shape of Ellery Throckmorton. “A beautiful lady?” Throckmorton blotted his pen. “Your fiancée, I would hope.”

“No, no.
Not
Hyacinth.” Ellery waved off his intended
with a sweep of his elegant hand. “Most certainly not Hyacinth.”

The sound of violins, cellos and French horns drifted in from the terrace and the drawing rooms along with the babble of guests, arrived just this afternoon for five days of festivities celebrating Ellery's betrothal to Lady Hyacinth Illington. Therefore, Throckmorton realized, their own voices could be heard—not that such a paltry consideration would occur to Ellery. “Shut the door,” Throckmorton instructed, and waited until Ellery had complied. “Hyacinth is quite a handsome girl.”

“She's handsome enough.” Ellery glanced at the cut-glass decanter of brandy on the sideboard. “But
this
was a woman, and what a woman! She—”

Determined to halt this liaison before it started, Throckmorton interrupted. “Starting an affair at your betrothal celebration is in extremely poor taste.”

“An affair?” Ellery's long, elegant face grew longer. “I couldn't start an affair with that girl! She's dewy with innocence.”

If Ellery didn't want an affair, what did he want?
Marriage?
To a girl whose name was unknown to him?

Oh, yes. Such a romantic flight of fancy was bound to appeal to Ellery. Handsome, frivolous, light-hearted Ellery, who wanted nothing so much as to remain an available bachelor forever.

Removing his glasses, Throckmorton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dewy. Hm. Yes. But, as I'd like to point out, so is Lady Hyacinth—and she's your betrothed.”

In a daring rush of words, Ellery said, “My betrothed, not my wife.”

Damn. Throckmorton should have known this whole
arrangement had gone too easily. He'd been waiting for the other shoe to fall, and by God, it had—not surprisingly, in the form of a woman. “You didn't object to the engagement before.”

Ellery stiffened. He stalked forward. Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned toward Throckmorton and glared, his blue eyes narrowed. Only the length and sweep of his eyelashes detracted from the menace he projected. “Object? I most certainly did object, but you had high-handedly put the announcement in the
Times
without consulting me.”

“Pah. You could have raved and shouted until I withdrew my offer on your behalf. You didn't.” Throckmorton neatly corked his ink, placed his pen in his desk drawer and started to slide it closed. Something caught his eye, and he opened it again. A pen was missing. Two pens. “Have the children been playing in here again?”

“I don't know, and don't try and change the subject!” Ellery rapped his knuckles on the desk.

The governess couldn't get here too soon, Throckmorton reflected. The girls were running wild . . . or rather, Kiki was running wild and half the time dragging Penelope with her. The loss of his pens were the least of the problem.

Ellery said, “I didn't object because you never gave me a chance.”

“And because Lady Hyacinth
is
a very handsome female, and an heiress, and the daughter of the Marquess of Longshaw. And because you know it's time for you to settle down.” Reflecting bitterly on the fate of his pens, Throckmorton shut the drawer. “An aging roué is an ugly thing.”

“I'm only twenty-six.”

“I married at twenty-one.” Throckmorton waved his paper briefly to dry it, then placed it in the wooden box on top of his desk. Locking the box, he dropped the key into his pocket.

Ellery observed his every movement. “Father married at forty.”

“He had to make his fortune first so he could afford to buy an aristocratic bride.”

“Mother would tack your ears to a slateboard if she heard you talking about her like that.”

“Probably.” Throckmorton pushed back his chair. The plain brown leather furniture slid on a thick Oriental rug of rich azure and peach on a background of winter white. The stripped drapes, accented with gold, echoed the azure and peach, as did the Oriental vases and the flowers they held. Each artifact, each knick-knack, each ornament was placed with taste and gave the chamber a sense of tranquility, which belied the chaos of Throckmorton's business life.

For the refined touches he could thank his mother. Lady Philberta Breckinridge-Wallingfork had been but twenty years old and the daughter of one of England's oldest earldoms when she had been forced by her family's impoverished circumstances to wed. Yet she had been a dutiful wife to Stanley Throckmorton and a good mother to the boys. Because of Lady Philberta and her family's prestige, the Throckmortons were able to circulate among the
ton
, to give parties like this one and see London's finest in their drawing rooms. The
ton
might whisper about them behind their fans, but never did those whispers reach Throckmorton's ears, as the Throckmorton males had a reputation for swift and righteous retaliation. “Lady Hyacinth will add just as
much luster to the Throckmorton name as Mother did when she married Father.”

Turning, Ellery leaned against the massive desk, crossed his arms, and gave his impression of an ill-used man brooding. “It doesn't hurt that Hyacinth's family owns those tea plantations in India.”

Throckmorton went to the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. “It doesn't hurt that you're handsome enough to turn any girl's head, either, but I don't throw your prettiness in your face.”

Discarding the brooding like a wet cloak, Ellery turned. “Which brings us back to my mysterious lady.”

“I'm glad you're not attracted to her for shallow reasons.”

Throckmorton should have known it was too much to expect that Ellery would play his part in this betrothal without balking. Ellery was good at racing, whoring and drinking, but he'd been thrown from his horse too many times lately, been caught in the wrong bed too often and been unpleasantly, staggeringly drunk one too many times. It was time to get the lad married and settled down before he broke his neck—or someone shot him.

Throckmorton straightened his cravat. “Tell me about this mystery woman.”

Eagerly, Ellery recited her virtues. “Her hair is light brown with streaks of gold flowing like honey. Her teeth are white and even, like a string of the most precious pearls. She's petite and curvy, like a marble Venus.” With his hands, he indicated the shapeliness of the young woman in question. “Her skin is like—”

“Alabaster?”

“Yes!” Ellery smiled, his own alabaster teeth flashing.

“Of course.” Throckmorton rolled down his sleeves and re-pinned his cuffs. “I suppose her nipples are like two perfect rosebuds.”

Ellery's brow puckered. He seldom comprehended Throckmorton's gibes.

One didn't tease the golden boy.

“I don't know about her nipples.”

With heartfelt sincerity, Throckmorton said, “Thank God for that, at least.”

“Yet.” Ellery's white teeth gleamed in a smile.

Perhaps Ellery did comprehend more than Throckmorton gave him credit for. But Ellery didn't comprehend how important this betrothal to Hyacinth and her Indian plantations were to the family interests—and more than family interests—or he wouldn't be babbling about some unfamiliar female guest with good teeth and rosebud nipples.

“Uh-oh.” Ellery headed for the sideboard and poured himself a grand amount of brandy. “I recognize that expression. It's the I'm-the-Throckmorton-and-I-have-to-manage-everything expression.”

“Strange. I was thinking how fortunate that you're seeking handsome young ladies for me.”

Arrested in the act of taking a drink, Ellery said, “Don't be ridiculous. This one's mine—although it wouldn't hurt you to remarry, you know. Since Joanna's death there hasn't been a woman worthy of you, and you might not be so bloody grim if you stuck your finger in the jampot occasionally.”

Throckmorton had heard it before. “I'll worry about my finger, you worry about yours.”

“But you're worrying about mine, too, or you
wouldn't have arranged this damned betrothal.” Ellery downed the liquor in one motion.

“You draw enough money from the company, you might as well earn your keep somehow.”

“Marrying well to do my part for the company?” Ellery must have been practicing his sneer in private, for that curl of the lips looked almost sincere. “Now
there's
a role where I can at last surpass my superior older brother.” Then, before Throckmorton could inquire into the nature of that remark, he asked, “So you'll find out her name for me?”

This female obviously had Ellery twisted in a knot. “Why don't you just ask her?”

Ellery turned the glass in his fingers. “She won't tell me.”

Throckmorton lifted an eyebrow. “She won't tell you?”

“I met her at the train station. I was supposed to pick up Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh—”

“What time was it?”

“Just after four.”

“They came in on the two o'clock.”

“That explains why they weren't there.” Ellery dismissed his godparents with a shrug. “They'll forgive me.”

Throckmorton agreed. They would. Everyone forgave Ellery everything.

“She was just standing there, beautiful, well formed—”

“Alabaster teeth.”

“I couldn't see them at first. She got off the train and looked around, lost and alone—”

“Touching.”

“But as soon as I asked her if I could assist her, she flashed the most beautiful smile in the world and said, ‘Greetings, Ellery!' “

Throckmorton experienced the stirrings of real unease. “She knew you.”

“She certainly did. She knows you, too. She asked about you—I told her you were dull as ever.”

“Thank you.”

“She laughed and said, ‘Of course.' “

“And thanks to her.” Always good to know one's repute. Always a relief to know the truth had not yet made its way across two continents to England.

“She asked about Mother. She asked about Tehuti, and wanted to know what kind of colts he'd sired. She asked about Gunilla, and she dabbed sparkling tears from the corners of her eyes when I told her the old dog had died.” Ellery sighed deeply, his broad shoulders lifting and falling. “Her handkerchief was trimmed in lace and smelled of the most exquisite perfume.” Ellery, the connoisseur of all things female, squinted and said, “Citrus, cinnamon and, I think, ylang-ylang.”

“Only
you
would know that.” Throckmorton shrugged into his conservatively tailored black coat. “So if she knows you, why don't you know her?”

Ellery poured the snifter full again. “I swear I don't remember that exquisite creature.”

Ellery remembered every handsome female he'd ever met. “How unlike you.”

“Exactly.” Ellery sipped this brandy with a little more care. “And how could I forget her? She adores me.”

“Find me a female who doesn't,” Throckmorton said dryly.

“When I mentioned my betrothal, her big hazel eyes filled with sparkling tears again.”

Whoever the woman was, she was obviously playing Ellery as if he were a fine instrument. “So you comforted her?”