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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

When You're Desired (22 page)

BOOK: When You're Desired
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Celia looked rather doubtful, but after a moment, she left the room, returning a short time later with a small box inlaid with ivory. Opening it, she removed a small bundle, which she unwrapped. Now slightly yellow with age, the handkerchief had been folded to show the embroidery at one corner. Two initials, an S and an L, had been joined inside a crudely stitched heart. Celia held it out in her palms like a wounded bird. “They named me at the Foundling Hospital. S for Sarah. The heart and the L became Hartley, I suppose.”
“And you changed the S and the L to St. Lys,” he said.
“Yes. When I escaped from Ireland, I wanted a new start and new name to go with it. Sally was too common. And Sarah much too plain. Celia suits me, I think.”
“This is not an inexpensive handkerchief,” Dorian went on, examining the fragile cambric. “Whoever she was, your mother was not poor.”
“She might have gotten it secondhand, you know.” Celia laughed at his blank expression. “No, I don't suppose you
do
know. I don't suppose the Duke of Berkshire has ever gotten anything secondhand!”
“Only my houses, my lands, my titles, and my jewels,” he said, making her laugh.
“Touché!”
“I still say your mother must have been a gentlewoman,” he pursued. “Only a gentlewoman would think to ruin a perfectly good handkerchief with such indifferent needlework.”
“And if my mother was a gentlewoman, then my father
must
have been a gentleman,” she said, laughing. “At least,
you
will have it so.”
“What if we could find them now?” he said. “Your parents, I mean.”
“My parents?” she said, blinking in surprise. “Lord, they'd be old and gray by now, if they are still alive.”
“We might make inquiries,” he suggested, ignoring her attempt at humor.
“After all this time? Who would even remember?”
“Indeed, some memories might have faded,” he admitted. “But consider this: the passage of time might have made people more willing to speak. What may have been a scandalous secret twenty-four years ago might not seem so very important now.”
Celia shrugged impatiently. “Whoever they were, Dorian, my parents did not want me.”
“You don't know that. You might have been stolen from them.”
“Yes; obviously I am a stolen princess. I am the lost queen of Byzantium. It was the villainous vizier who dropped me in the streets.” Impatiently, she took back the handkerchief and restored it to its box.
“You were not dropped in the streets. They left you at a church, Sally. That's something. They knew you would be cared for.”
She shook her head. “What difference can it possibly make now? Frankly, at this point in my life, I'd rather not know.”
He was silent for a moment. “I looked for your locket at Berkshire House. I shall keep looking.”
“My locket—if it still exists—could be anywhere,” she said. “I doubt your mother kept it. Why would she?”
“Now I think of it,” he said, frowning, “it must be in your grave.”
“In my grave, sir?” she said, shivering. “It's not my grave, if you please. I have no grave. I am still very much alive.”
“
The
grave, shall we say? I'm almost positive that my mother told Joanna the locket had been buried with you. You were not buried, of course, but the locket may have been. It is but thirty miles to Ashlands; we can be there by nightfall.”
She grimaced. “
We
? As delightful as it may sound, I can't just go scampering off with you to Berkshire to dig up a grave! I have a play tonight.”
“But you don't have to bother with all that anymore,” he said. “I'll look after you. All that sort of thing is beneath you, anyway.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Beneath me? What do you mean? It's how I earn my living, Dorian. It's honest work.”
“But you should not have to
earn
your living at all,” he said, the words bursting from his lips as if he had long contained them. “You were brought up to be a lady. You were brought up in my father's house, as my cousin.”
“But I am
not
your cousin,” she replied. “I'm a nameless nobody from the Foundling Hospital. Or, at least, I was. Now, of course, I am Celia St. Lys. There is nothing wrong with being Celia St. Lys, I hope. I quite like it.”
“I have no wish to offend you, Sally. But you must see that I am right. Had my father lived, your life would have been very different.”
“Your father was afraid I might have ‘bad blood.' But your mother assured him I was much too attractive a child to have ‘bad blood.'”
Dorian pursed his lips. “My father did have some rather odd ideas. But that was before he knew you. He soon came to love you as a daughter. He would never have permitted you to set foot on a stage. The very idea would have offended him.”
“True,” she admitted. “My life would have been different had he lived. But he did not live. Your mother—alas!—did not love me as a daughter. She did not choose to keep me in her house, not even as a servant. She got rid of me, and it was her right to do so. All things considered, I think I've done all right for myself, Dorian.”
Dorian rested his fist on the mantelpiece. “Naturally, I do not blame you for the life you have been leading,” he began.
“Thank you!” she said tartly.
“I do not judge you.”
“No indeed.”
“But, Sally,” he said slowly, “you must quit the stage now. Surely you see that.”
“Quit the stage!” she said, becoming angry. “Why should I do that?”
He blinked at her. “Obviously, you cannot go on like this. I cannot permit it. My conscience simply won't allow it.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I propose this: that you become my ward.”
“You want to adopt me?” she said incredulously.
“I would be your guardian, yes. I would look after you. You would want for nothing.”
Celia was on her feet. “Ward! I am twenty-four years old! I can look after myself. I have been doing so for quite some time now. I need no guardian. I work for my living—proudly. You are not going to make me ashamed of myself!”
Dorian was horrified. “That is not my intention, dear girl. I would not for the world make you unhappy. You would be cared for and respected as you should be. I would grant you a handsome annuity. How does three thousand pounds a year sound? You would never have to work another day in your life.”
She stared at him. “Dorian! Are you . . . are you asking me to be your
mistress
?”
“Of course not,” he said, genuinely shocked.
“You just want to
give
me three thousand a year?” she said. “No strings attached?”
“You would have to leave the stage, of course. But that is all I would ask of you.”
“Oh, is that all? What would I do all day if I left the stage?”
“Whatever you liked.”
“I like being on the stage!” she cried.
“But, my dear, does it not distress you to be so much . . . so much on
display
?” he asked. “Surely you don't
like
being ogled by all those men in the pit?”
Celia laughed. “Don't I? That's the best part of it. When they
stop
ogling me I shall be very sad indeed.”
“I know you cannot be serious, my dear.”
“But I am. I love my life, Dorian, just as it is. I am never happier than when I am onstage. You cannot take that away from me.”
“I shall replace it with something better—the life you ought to have had.”
“What? You mean to send me back to Foundling Hospital?”
“If you had remained with us at Ashlands,” he went on doggedly, “if my mother had not done this terrible thing to you, you would have been brought out into society. You would have been presented at court like any carefully brought up young lady.”
“Celia St. Lys at the Court of St. James! Fancy that!”
“Miss Sarah Hartley of Ashlands, ward of the Duke of Berkshire, at the Court of St. James,” he countered. “You would have been invited to balls and parties.”
“Oh, but I
am
invited to balls and parties,” she said archly.
“Yes! Disreputable balls and parties.”
“Is there a better kind?” She sighed. “I know you mean well, Dorian. But I'm afraid it's too late for me to become a proper young lady. I've been on the stage for years. I've had lovers. I'll never be respectable.”
“I don't know what to do,” he confessed.
“Can you not be my friend?” she said. “I would like that very much.”
“I am your friend, of course.”
She laughed. “Good! That's settled, then.”
“But nothing is settled,” he protested. “You must let me do something for you. You must let me make amends somehow.”
“You may drive me to the theatre if you like,” she said. “I must leave now, or I shall be late for rehearsal.”
He waited while she went to change her dress, then they set off together in his cabriolet. Celia had dressed to please him, and looked demure and ladylike in her pink carriage dress and pink velvet bonnet. Their progress down Piccadilly did not go unremarked.
“People will think you are my mistress,” he fretted, observing the stares directed at them.
She laughed. “But of course they will! I don't mind, if you don't.”
“The truth is, I've never really had a mistress.”
“You've never had a mistress?” she repeated incredulously. “I don't believe you! What, never? Never, ever?” As his face slowly turned bright red, she began to laugh.
“You must understand,” he murmured. “I married young. And Joanna was always ill. It wouldn't have been right to deceive her. She would have been so hurt. And, of course, we were always trying to have a child. I did not think it right to—to waste my substance with other women, if you see what I mean. Imagine if a
mistress
had borne me a son! No, I could never have done that to her. She was a good girl.”
“Do forgive my silliness,” Celia said softly. “I know you loved her very much.”
“No,” he said. “You don't understand. I never loved Joanna.”
“What?”
“I did not love my wife. I cared for her, of course. I was as kind to her as I possibly could be, but I . . . I never loved her. I've never been in love.”
Celia stared at him. “But you were so devoted to each other. Yours was the perfect marriage, I thought.”
“The marriage was arranged. We made the best of it; what else could we do?”
“We are becoming maudlin again,” she observed. “Let us have no more serious talk today, I beg you. The day is too fine, and I have always wanted to be driven about town by a handsome young duke.”
At that moment, her name rang out as she was recognized by someone on the street, and she smiled and waved to her devotee.
“Impudent wretch!” Dorian muttered.
“Not at all,” she laughed. “How I should like to be seen driving with you in Hyde Park in Rotten Row with all the beau monde looking on enviously!” she cried, her eyes sparkling.
“Would you like that, indeed?” he said rather doubtfully.
“I should like it above all things!” she cried. “Could we not go tomorrow? 'Tis Sunday. The theatre will be closed. Or we might ride, if you could lend me a horse. I'm a tolerable horsewoman, you know.”
“I know. I taught you myself,” he said.
“Shall we do it, then? Shall we take them by storm? It won't do your reputation any harm to be seen with me, and it could only do me good. People are tired of seeing me with Fitzclarence. They'll be very glad to see me with you. I might even make you fashionable.”
He smiled faintly. “Why not? I had thought to leave for Ashlands this afternoon, but I suppose I can put it off until Monday.”
“Are you so eager to dig up my grave?” she teased. “Let it wait until Monday. Let us spend all Sunday together.”
He laughed. “Very well, my dear. Your resurrection is hereby postponed until Monday. Shall I collect you in the morning for Sunday services? Then, afterward, we might have our ride—and I'll arrange a picnic, too.”
“Sunday services?” she said rather blankly. “Oh! You mean
church.
Lord, I haven't set foot in a church since my wedding day. I'll say this for Sir Terence—he wasn't much of a God-botherer.”
BOOK: When You're Desired
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