Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets: The Soldier's Dark Secret / The Soldier's Rebel Lover. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
could do the same.’
‘You would be leading the way for England,’ Jack said. ‘Your good sense in preserving the garden will be appreciated by generations of Trestains to come. Think about that, Eleanor.’
Her ladyship did, rewarding Celeste with a tight smile. ‘I wonder, Mademoiselle, if it is not too much trouble, if you could perhaps give me the benefit of your artistic eye and suggest a few enhancements. I can then discuss them with Sir Charles and our landscaper. Awarding you full credit for your contribution of course.’
Celeste nodded, slanting Jack a complicit smile. Lady Eleanor continued to sift through the drawings, laying a small selection to one side which, Celeste was pleased to note, contained most of her own favourites.
‘These are really very good, Mademoiselle,’ she said, sounding as if she meant it. ‘I am most pleased. Sir Charles will make the final selection tomorrow. You will excuse me now, I must go and speak to cook. Your Aunt Christina’s long-awaited annual gift of a haunch of prime Highland venison has finally arrived, Jack. Something of a family tradition, Mademoiselle,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘Every year we have a special banquet when it arrives. We will be celebrating the occasion tonight.’
Jack shifted uncomfortably, looking not at all enamoured by the prospect.
‘Your brother,’ Lady Eleanor said, ‘will be very much gratified by your presence. I believe that your aunt, in the accompanying letter, was most eager for you to partake of the beast, and particularly requested that Charles give her an account of the dinner—for it seems she has no hope of a letter from you.’
‘I have had my arm in a splint these past two months, Eleanor, in case it has escaped your attention.’
Her ladyship turned to Celeste, ignoring this remark. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion, I will entreat you to use any influence you have with Jack. Is it really so much to ask that he joins us en famille for a special dinner sent all the way from Scotland by his favourite relative?’
Celeste, taken aback by Lady Eleanor’s consulting her on any subject save art, found herself shaking her head.
‘You see? Mademoiselle Marmion agrees,’ her ladyship said, turning back to Jack.
‘I don’t think...’
But Celeste’s role had, it seemed, been played. ‘It is not as if we are even holding the usual grand banquet,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Not a single guest. Not even our closest neighbours. I told Charles that they would be most offended, but he said he cared nothing for any guest save you. So I take it you will not be letting him down?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eleanor, what a damned—dashed fuss over a bite of dinner. Yes,’ Jack said, ‘I’ll be there. Satisfied?’
‘Your brother will be, and that is what matters to me. You too are cordially invited of course, Mademoiselle Marmion. Until tonight, then.’
Lady Eleanor swept from the studio. Jack stared at the door, his jaw working. ‘It is just dinner,’ Celeste said tentatively. ‘Though I am surprised Lady Eleanor thinks me worthy of your aunt’s precious venison.’
Jack grimaced. ‘Obviously, she assumes that your presence makes the chances of my attendance more likely.’
Celeste coloured. ‘Have we been indiscreet?’ Her colour deepened. ‘You do not think that someone saw us at the lake the other morning?’ It was the first time either of them had mentioned it. She wished immediately she had not. Unlike those other kisses, the memory of this one was not inflammatory, but bittersweet.
‘No,’ Jack said, ‘I’m sure no one saw us. It’s one of the things I like about that place, it’s completely private.’
‘Unless someone hides behind a hawthorn tree.’
Jack’s smile was twisted. ‘As with so many things, you are the exception that proves the rule.’
Their eyes met and held. He reached out to touch her cheek. She turned her head. Her lips brushed his palm.
‘Celeste.’ His voice was filled with the same longing she felt. He took a step towards her, then halted. ‘You must be keen to get to work, now Eleanor has made some decisions. I will see you at this blasted dinner.’
Confused, frustrated, as much by her own reaction as Jack’s, Celeste turned her back on the closed door and set about stretching some canvases.
* * *
Jack put the final touches to his cravat. It was not perfect, but it would do. At times like this, he missed his faithful army batman, but Alfred was happily ensconced many hundreds of miles away as the landlord of the Bricklayer’s Arms in Leeds, and besides, the last thing Jack really wanted was proximity to any of his former comrades. Still, no one could tie a cravat like Alfred.
He pulled on his waistcoat. Grey satin stripes, and one of his best. Quite wasted in the country, but Eleanor would appreciate the effort he was making. As she’d appreciate the formality of his cutaway black coat and silk breeches. They were considerably looser on him than the last time he’d worn them to the now-infamous ball held by Lady Richmond on the eve of Waterloo. He closed his eyes, but it seemed a set of evening clothes, even one with such associations, did not trigger anything other than a vague discomfort, and that was coming from his shoes, which had always pinched.
Perhaps he was on the mend, mentally as well as physically? Perhaps this thing, this nostalgia, whatever the hell it was, would heal, as his shoulder was doing, and his arm.
‘Nostalgia,’ Jack said viciously as he shrugged himself into his coat. Such a soft, comfortable little word to describe what he felt. Was it all in his head? But the pain, the tearing blackness, the white heat of his uncontrollable fury, the terror that made him run from himself, the sweats and the shakes, and the dull ache in his head, they were all too real.
‘I am not mad.’ He jumped as the porcelain dish containing his cuff-links clattered to the floor. It was not broken, thank the Lord. He picked up the scattered links, replacing the dish carefully. If he was insane he wouldn’t recognise or understand what it was that made him feel the way he did. And that, he understood only too well. How could he fail too when he lived through it again and again, almost every night without fail?
Seated at the dressing table, a brush in one hand, he stared at his reflection. What he didn’t understand was that for two years he had functioned reasonably well. The dream had been sporadic. He’d carried on doing what he’d always done. True, there had been doubts, but none strong enough to stop him doing his duty, stop him believing that doing his duty was paramount. Only after Waterloo, when peace was indisputable, when war was over, had his symptoms escalated.
And only after Celeste arrived at Trestain Manor, had he had to cope with not only enduring the symptoms, but confronting the fact that they were in danger of ruining his life.
A flicker of rebellion kindled in his heart. He didn’t want to spend his life enduring. He wanted to have his life back. Not the old one, that was gone for ever, but something preferable to this shadow of a life. Celeste sent his head spinning, she forced him to face a good many unpalatable truths, but she also sent blood rushing to parts of him he’d thought dormant. It frightened him, the thought of giving free reign to the passion she ignited, because he had retained such a tight grip on himself for so long, it was almost impossible for him to think about letting go.
Almost. Jack picked up his other brush and set about taming his hair. Almost was better than completely. Instead of dreading tonight, what he needed to do was to see it as a test. A possible step forward on the road to recovery.
* * *
Celeste was nervous, though she couldn’t account for it. She stood clutching the obligatory small glass of Madeira wine, half-listening to Sir Charles recount a complicated anecdote which seemed to involve a miller, his wife, the village baker, a neighbouring magistrate and, if her ears were not deceiving her, a wheel of Stilton cheese. Celeste took another sip of the