In My Wildest Dreams by Christina Dodd Page A

her in his dominion; she couldn’t break away. Not unless he allowed her, and she wasn’t at all certain he would.
    Their circling slowed. He looked down at her rather than where they were going, his face shadowed by night. Yet her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, the moon provided its frail illumination, and she could see his features and gain an impression of his mien—which was far more than she wanted.
    Amazement etched his features. “A thousand pounds is not so much. I’ve paid more to Ellery’s liaisons to be rid of them.”
    â€œI am not one of Ellery’s liaisons.” It was an insult to be described as one. “And I won’t be bribed!” And she didn’t like dancing so closely that his legs tangled in her skirts and his chest loomed so near to her nose she could smell the faint scent of soap, whisky and beneath it all, clean masculinity. She wondered how the scent of himself had so escaped Mr. Throckmorton’s control; he didn’t seem the sort of man who would allow the gardener’s daughter such an intimate acquaintance.
    â€œNo, of course you’re not.” Mr. Throckmortonmanaged to sound surprised. “I wasn’t offering you a thousand pounds per annum and a house in Paris. I was saying that my brother has cost the family a great deal over the years. That’s why we had such hopes for this betrothal.”
    â€œBut if he won’t wed Lady Hyacinth, he won’t. He’s a grown man, and you can scarcely force him to the altar.” So she had told herself, and her father, all through her preparations for the ball.
    â€œToo true.”
    It was true, although the aura of power Mr. Throckmorton gave off seemed almost indomitable. Strange, she’d never thought of him like that before. She’d always known that he was the heir, of course, but she scarcely remembered when he had returned from his travels. She had been so much in love with Ellery that that man who had walked the grounds had been almost a ghost to her.
    Now he was the same: quiet, observant, very much in control of himself. But different: attractive, masculine, and that control . . . it was almost a challenge. Celeste was surprised that in the impressionable years of her adolescence she had never noticed him.
    â€œI was sorry to hear of your wife’s death,” she blurted, then cringed at her clumsy change of subject.
    â€œThank you.” He didn’t loosen his hold on her, or seem stricken with uncomfortable memories. “It was a tragedy.”
    â€œI imagine you miss her.” Celeste didn’t know why she pursued this line of conversation.
    â€œI do. She was sensible, a good mate to me, and a wonderful mother.”
    The kind of praise every woman scorned! Celestehad a vision of their marriage—arid, uninspiring, and most of all, sensible. But the vision worked well to dissipate the impression of virility which made her so uncomfortably aware of him. “How long has it been?”
    â€œThree years. Penelope is—was—doing well.”
    Penelope! His daughter. Her charge. Celeste seized the topic of conversation. “I remember Penelope. She was four when I left, but even then she seemed very much your daughter.”
    What had made her say that?
    A faint smile flirted with his lips. “Boring?”
    â€œNot at all!” What had caused him to say that? “Only very tranquil and composed for a child so young. What has happened to cause her further grief?”
    â€œOne word. Kiki.”
    â€œKiki? What is that?”
    â€œNot a what. A who.”
    They stood in the middle of the floor now, not dancing, just swaying.
    â€œKiki is your other charge.”
    â€œMy other charge?” Startled, she said, “I thought . . . that is, you said I would be teaching two girls, and I thought that the other child—”
    â€œMust be mine? No, Kiki is not mine. Kiki is a force of nature, like