When You're Desired by Tamara Lejeune Page B

Fitzclarence assured her carelessly, and seated himself beside her. Tom grunted in surprise, but his back held up nicely. Fitzclarence leaned closer to Celia to murmur in her ear. “You’ll never guess who is here.”
    â€œYou are right,” she said, laughing. “I shall never guess, so you had better tell me.”
    Fitzclarence half rose and glanced over his shoulder, then hastily ducked back down. “Oh no! He’s coming this way.”
    There was only one person, she thought, who could have such an extraordinary effect on her friend. “Your father,” she guessed, giggling.
    â€œWorse!”
    â€œWho?” Celia was on her feet. She saw him at once: Colonel Lord Simon Ascot, commander of the Royal Horse Guards. He was looking right at her with those frigid green eyes. As she stared at him, shocked, he made her a slight bow. He had never done that before.
    She sat back down, ducking her head, her heart pounding. Picking up a mother-of-pearl marker, she tossed it onto the green baize table.
    â€œI’m sorry, Miss St. Lys,” the attendant apologized. “The wheel is in motion. No more bets.”
    Flustered, Celia took it back. “Lord! What is he doing here?” she whispered anxiously to Fitzclarence.
    â€œWho, Miss St. Lys?” asked Tom West. Half-hidden by her skirts, he could see nothing but the lower half of the room.
    Celia gave the young man a rap on the rump with her fan. “We discussed this already, Mr. West. If you want to be my garden bench, you must remain perfectly quiet.”
    â€œBeg pardon, Miss St. Lys!”
    â€œHush!” cried Celia, watching the turn of the roulette wheel as avidly as those who had placed bets. As the croupier announced “Zero,” which was the house’s pocket, and swept away all the chips in play, Celia sighed in sympathy with all those who had gambled and lost. She would have lost, too, if Lord Simon had not distracted her.
    She glanced over at him again. He had not been coming toward her before, but now he was. “He is coming this way. What can he want with me?”
    â€œI owe him fifty pounds.”
    â€œHave you got it?”
    â€œOf course I haven’t got it.”
    â€œLet’s just stay calm. Don’t look at him, for heaven’s sake! He might go away if you don’t look at him. They say it works on lions.”
    Fitzclarence could not help looking. “No; still coming. He looks very determined.”
    â€œThat’s just his face. It’s made of granite, you know,” Celia said bravely, but a slight quickening of breath gave her away. Few people on earth had the power to discompose St. Lys, and no one could do it so thoroughly as Lord Simon. Her hand shook as she placed her last chip on number five, but then, in a fit of indecision, she withdrew it from play before the croupier set the ball on the track.
    â€œHe’s looking at you.” Fitzclarence sounded relieved.
    â€œHe can have nothing to say to me,” she declared, watching the wheel spin. “I’m not the one who owes him money.”
    As she spoke, she could feel the crowd separating to make way behind her back—Lord Simon was just the sort of man, she thought sullenly, that weaklings always felt compelled to give way to. She could feel her legs trembling, and was very glad not to have to stand on them. He’s only a man , she reminded herself, watching the little ivory ball bounce from pocket to pocket, as if her very life depended on it. He cannot eat me, after all.
    Recalling the adage about flies and honey, Simon had every intention of being polite to St. Lys. That was before he saw what she was sitting on, or rather whom. He could not see the boy’s face, but he recognized the uniform. His temper frayed at the sight, and it was all he could do not to kick the young idiot in the buttocks.
    â€œCaptain Fitzclarence!” he said sharply. “Is this one of your