Chapter 9
“How was the property?” Beatrice asked when Celeste came down after changing for dinner. Bea was in the receiving room enjoying more of Salcombe’s sherry.
“Good,” Celeste answered.
“Would you care for a drink?” Bea asked. “It is very good sherry.”
Celeste shook her head.
Her friend frowned. “What is the matter?”
But before Celeste could answer, Oliver joined them.
A subdued Oliver. Oh, he was amiable enough but quiet, and he didn’t look at her.
Once they sat down for dinner, Bea asked him about the property, and he expounded as little as Celeste had.
Her friend looked from him to Celeste, who concentrated on buttering a slice of bread.
Celeste was quickly understanding that his pique, as she was beginning to think of it, was all for the better. He was keeping his distance, and that was the way things should be.
Bea acted puzzled but carried on. She smiled as if she didn’t notice anything amiss—until they left the table and adjourned to the sitting room. There, Oliver made his apologies and excused himself for the evening.
Once they were alone, Bea didn’t waste a moment. “What is going on? Did you and the duke have words?”
“Not really. Everything was fine until it wasn’t.”
“Tell me everything.” And so, to her surprise, Celeste did. She wasn’t one to blurt out her feelings on something so personal, even to Bea. However, this was a moment when she needed to confide in someone.
When she was done, Beatrice said, “This confirms my suspicions.”
“And what do you think?”
“That he is interested in you. Certainly, he wants you. He stares at you whenever he thinks you aren’t looking. Even this evening.”
“I didn’t notice.” She’d been too uncomfortable.
“Celeste, he hangs on your every word. He listens to you.”
“He is dedicated to the charity—” Celeste started.
“He wants you.” Beatrice’s words echoed George’s claim.
The idea was still too fantastical for Celeste to believe. “The Dragon of London can’t be interested in me.”
“Whyever not?”
“I’m a bit—” She searched for the right word. “Pugnacious, to be honest. I’ve also been called too independent. And there are women who are far better looking than I am who have tried and failed to capture his attention.”
“Maybe, he has come to recognize your value. You are lovely, Celeste, even though you aren’t what is in fashion.
Few of us are. However, a man worthy of you will appreciate what you bring to his life.
I find Salcombe a true gentleman, regardless of what the gossips say.
The question is, what do you think of him? Do you respect him?”
“Of course, I do,” Celeste answered, and that was true. Her admiration grew with every interaction. However, she was realistic. “Bea, if he was interested, shouldn’t he be more forthright about it?”
“Ah, Celeste, no man is forthright until he knows he is on firm ground. Especially if he is just discovering he has a heart.”
The thought that Oliver had been trying to express his feelings, and that she had been deaf to his words, appalled her. “What do I do, Bea?”
Her friend had a ready answer. “First, stop overthinking.”
“How does one do that? Especially if I have been rather callous toward him. I never imagined he might be attracted to me. He’s so full of life and honest and wonderful.”
“If he is all those things and he genuinely cares, you needn’t worry. He will seek you out.”
“But what if—”
“What if the moon falls into the ocean? Some things are beyond your control, child. But heed me on this. Stop trying to manage everything.”
“How do I do that? I’m responsible for the charity. It is what Father wanted.”
“I think your father’s true wish was for you, and each of your sisters, to be happy. He has pushed you out of your grief and into the world. His spirit may even be a heavenly hand bringing you and Salcombe together.”
Could that be true? Celeste thought back to when she first realized she needed someone to help her start her charity.
She had immediately thought of Oliver, even though she hadn’t known him.
At the time, she’d considered the idea of asking him to be her lead patron as divine inspiration because she had known immediately he would attract attention to her cause.
And then she realized another truth. “I’m in love with him.” There, she’d said it, even though she feared she wasn’t worthy of such love. “But what if he might have been telling me that he thinks of me as a good friend?”
“That is the risk of love, my dear. One must trust the feelings, even if it turns out they are not returned. That is Shakespeare, and every poet who has ever picked up a quill or pen.” Beatrice set down the sherry glass and yawned, covering her mouth as if slightly embarrassed. “I’m for bed. Are you coming?”
“Of course, yes.” Tomorrow. She would talk to Oliver in the morning. She’d be honest, or so she promised herself as she followed her friend up the stairs, her mind already roiling with all her fears, doubts, and wants. Oh, yes, she wanted him.
Unfortunately, pride was important to her. She didn’t want to look a fool. If she misinterpreted his intentions, she might lose her charity’s lead patron. Although that might already have happened.
But what if Beatrice was right and he did have feelings for her?
“Celeste, you are doing it again,” Beatrice said. The statement startled Celeste into realizing they had reached their bedroom doors.
“I just—” Celeste started, but Beatrice cut her off.
“Darling girl, for once, let yourself believe you are lovable just the way you are. I certainly love you.” With those words, Beatrice entered her room.
A maid was waiting for Celeste in her room to help her undress. She let the girl brush out her hair and then dismissed her.
The house was quiet. Celeste blew out the candle, plunging the room into moonlight and shadows. She climbed into bed, knowing she probably would not fall asleep—
A light rap sounded on the door. Celeste sat up, not certain if she'd heard correctly. There was another soft knock.
Celeste found her dressing gown and threw it over her night rail. She cracked open the door, expecting to see Beatrice. Instead, Oliver slipped into her room.
He had taken off his neckcloth, and his shirt hem hung outside his breeches as if he had started to undress, then changed his mind. He still wore his boots. His hair appeared as if he had been dragging his fingers through it. He appeared miserable, his expression tense.
“I need to talk with you about what happened this afternoon,” he said. “I feel there is more to be said.”
A flood of emotions washed over her, the strongest being hope. A joyous hope.
Suddenly, she understood what Bea had been trying to say. So, she let her heart decide. She grabbed hold of his shirt, the material soft in her clenched fingers, pulled him down, and kissed him with the full passion of her being.
Oliver was stunned by her kiss.
Only moments ago, he had believed he was going mad with worry because he’d upset her again. He’d wondered if he would ever do anything right when it came to Celeste. He had no difficulty pleasing other women or maneuvering them toward what he wanted.
But Celeste wasn’t other women. She was unique, special… and he couldn’t risk losing her. Because one of the realizations he’d had while he’d been furiously pacing his room was that he loved her. All of her—the tilt of her head, the sound of her laugh, her determination, her honesty, her passion.
He’d always assumed the concept of “love” was for fools and poets.
He’d thought it a fantasy. However, in this moment, in this kiss, Oliver came face to face with the possibility that he was the one who hadn’t understood.
Nothing in this world meant more to him than Celeste.
He wanted her respect, her trust, and for her to love him in the way he loved her.
And so, when she pulled him into a kiss, he wrapped his arms around her, lifted her up so that not even her toes touched the floor, and let his kiss speak for him.
Her arms tightened around him. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Oliver carried her to the bed.
He had a thought that he would leave her there, but that was not what happened.
He was so lost in their kiss that when his legs hit the bed, the two of them fell forward onto the mattress.
He twisted at the last moment so that he didn’t fall on top of her.
Instead, he rolled over onto his back, carrying her with him.
The kiss broke.
She didn’t scramble away. Instead, she looked down at him, one hand on the mattress, another on his chest. Her hair created a golden curtain around them.
For a long moment, they stared into each other’s eyes.
Gently, he combed the silken strands of her hair back from her face. Then, cradling her face in his palms, he kissed her again, deeper, fuller, the way she deserved to be kissed.
His tongue touched hers. Celeste gave a small start as if this was unexpected, and then she mimicked him, the tip of her tongue stroking the length of his.
The sensation of it went straight through him to the very willing and ready member pressed against his breeches.
He needed to stop this before they went too far.
He meant to rise from the bed, but instead, he rolled over, bringing her beneath him.
She held fast. Her legs parted, and he found himself nestled against the heart of her.
Oliver thought he would explode. She wasn’t being deliberately provocative, just open and straightforward as she always was. She desired him. He could feel the heat of her, even through the layers of her dressing gown and night rail. He wanted to touch her skin.
One more kiss, and he knew he would be powerless to control himself.
Celeste gave her love full rein. It didn’t matter what happened on the morrow. She didn’t care what anyone thought. Her body sang with the pleasure of touching him. She ached for him and for what only he could give her.
He was her forever.