In My Wildest Dreams by Christina Dodd Page B

a cyclone in the Pacific Ocean or a volcano in the East Indies. I look to you, Celeste, to tame her.”
    â€œForces of nature are impossible to tame.”
    â€œI have great faith in you. Lady Bucknell claims you are a miracle with unruly children, and the Russian ambassador and his wife wrote glowing recommendations.” Mr. Throckmorton glanced around. “The music has stopped. Shall we walk while I explain the situation?”
    â€œYes!” Dear heavens, yes. Walking along lighted corridors and discussing her position had to be less intimate than this darkness, this touching, this whirl of music in a chamber filled with dreams. Dreams of Ellery, she told herself, delayed only by a hapless event. Spinning out of Mr. Throckmorton’s arms, she walked toward the door.
    He caught her before she had taken two steps. His arm circled her waist and he used her momentum to swing her back into his embrace—closer this time than last; he pressed her chest to his. Outraged, embarrassed and uneasily aware of danger, she leaned back as far as she could. “Mr. . . . Throckmorton!”
    â€œDo you always leave your partner on the dance floor?” He sounded stern. “Because I don’t remember it being done that way in Paris, and I can assure you it isn’t done at all in England.”
    Color rose in her face. He was right, and his rebuke had made her seem surly and ungrateful. She, who had worked so hard to vanquish all trace of rough manners from her demeanor. Yet the Count de Rosselin had made it clear that when a lady was caught in an indiscretion, her behavior did not descend into the depths, but rose to the occasion. “You’re right.” She could scarcely form the words, she hated them so much. “Forgive me for my lack of manners, and thank you for the waltz.”
    The shadows could not hide his stare, nor his grave examination. Lifting his hand to her chin, he cupped it, and he seemed to speak only to himself. “You are the most beautiful and gracious woman I have met in a very, very long time.”
    His voice reverberated through her, and his ardent manner made her want to flee this room. Flee BlytheHall. How had he turned her from resentment to . . . to this kind of appalled appreciation of him and his compliments? Why was she suddenly noticing his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck and the plain strength of his face?
    Then he smiled, and in a tone so light it belied his previous fervor, he said, “Thank you, Celeste. I can’t remember a dance I’ve enjoyed more.”
    He released her, but she dared not turn her back on him. He had taught her a lesson: never lose sight of Mr. Throckmorton. One never knew what he might do.
    He only extended his arm. She laid her hand on it, and together they strolled toward the dim corridor.
    â€œIn England, the waltz is still quite scandalous, you know,” he said. “If someone other than the host—in this case Ellery or myself asks you to dance, they mean you a disrespect.”
    She nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling me. In France—”
    He chuckled. “Yes, in France the waltz is the least of the improprieties.”
    She couldn’t restrain her smile. It was true. In France, she had been the beautiful girl who was the ambassador’s governess. In England, she was still the gardener’s daughter. If not for her longing for Father, and Blythe Hall, and Ellery, she might never have returned. But she had, and she would conquer . . . everything.
    But not tonight. Tonight she walked with Mr. Throckmorton to learn the details of her position.
    She tried to turn toward the brighter lights and the sounds of the party.
    He rather firmly directed her further into the quietdepths of the house. “I thought you’d like to see the changes made since you left.”
    With another man, she might have been dismayed, but she would not be with