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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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BOOK: When You're Desired
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She nodded. Getting up, she went to her writing desk and sat down. Drawing a sheet of pink paper toward her, she took up her pen. “In such cases, I believe it is best to submit to one's fate cheerfully,” she went on as she began to write. “I shall find a way to turn this little setback to some advantage. See if I don't.”
He watched in silence as Celia finished her letter. Calmly, she folded it and sealed it with a wafer, pressing her seal, a fleur-de-lis, into the wax. Without rising from her seat or looking at him, she handed it to him.
“What is this?” Simon demanded angrily, as he saw the direction. “What are you playing at? You were supposed to write to the jeweler.”
“I decided,” she said, “to write to Sir Lucas instead. That's all right, isn't it?” Looking up at him, she smiled. “You said I must either return the necklace or grant Sir Lucas my favors. I have no intention of returning that necklace, so . . .”
Simon stared at her, aghast. “What are you saying?”
Chapter 7
“Those were the choices you gave me, were they not?” Celia said. “What's the matter? You look as though you've been kicked! Do you need to sit down?”
“Don't be a fool, Celia,” he snapped. “No one expects you to go to bed with the man.” Angrily, he threw the letter back at her.
“But you
said
—”
“Never mind what I said,” he snapped. “Anyway, he doesn't want
you
. Not anymore. He just wants the necklace back.”
She laughed. “Of course he wants me! He wouldn't have sent me diamonds in the first place if he didn't want me. Some men send jewels. Some men send roses. You, of course, sent me wildflowers. Bluebells. Was I supposed to believe you went out and picked them yourself?”
“My valet,” he said coldly.
“Of course. I should have known. I should have taken your valet to bed instead of you.”
“I wish you had.”
Rising from her chair, she put the letter in his hand. “Take it. When Sir Lucas reads this, he'll forget all about his diamonds, I promise you. If I am wrong, I'll give you the damn necklace. But I am not wrong.”
Simon regarded her impassively, his face like roughly hewn stone. Then he shrugged. “Fine. I don't really care.”
“It shows,” she told him.
“Damn you,” he said softly.
“I meant it as a compliment,” she protested.
The door opened and her manservant brought her a card. “Ah!” she said, smiling. “Send him up.”
Hardly had the words left her mouth before Tom West came bounding into the room like an eager puppy. He had brought St. Lys her cloak. “Oh! I beg your pardon,” he said, stopping short as Lord Simon, his face black with fury, turned to look at him.
“It's quite all right, Tom,” Celia said warmly. “Lord Simon was just leaving.”
Without another word, Simon left the room. This time, when she heard the front door bang shut, she knew he was really gone. She had given him no reason to stay, after all.
From Curzon Street, Simon walked to his club in Charles Street, the Guards Club, where he had left his horse. From there, he rode straight to Sir Lucas Tinsley's red brick town-house in fashionable South Audley Street. An austere butler showed Simon upstairs to the library.
Sir Lucas stood at the window overlooking the street, his hands clasped behind his back. “Well?” he said, without turning around. “Do you have the necklace?”
Simon silently drew Celia's letter from his coat. The lady's paper was distinctive: pale pink, embossed with a border of a gold fleur-de-lis. She had folded the page so that it formed its own envelope and sealed it with a wafer of white wax. Caught under the wax—Simon had not noticed it before, but he saw it now—was a strand of golden hair.
For a moment, Sir Lucas simply stared at the missive. Then he took it up with a most unconvincing show of indifference. His hand shook as he broke the white seal. Simon looked out of the window as the other man read what Celia had written in peacock-blue ink. Behind him, Sir Lucas sat down like a man whose knees had suddenly given way. “
She
wrote this?” he asked, his voice shaking with strong emotion. “With her own hand?”
“I watched her do so.”
“I am to dine with her tonight at Grillon's Hotel in Albemarle Street. A private room!”
“Congratulations,” Simon said coldly.
“I was to escort Lucasta to a ball tonight, but no matter,” Sir Lucas murmured to himself. “I shall make my excuses. Her chaperone can take her. God knows I pay the creature enough. You are to collect Miss St. Lys at the Theatre Royal after her performance tonight.”
Simon discovered, much to his surprise, that this last line had been addressed to himself. “I beg your pardon?” he said, turning from the window with a sharp frown.
“Miss St. Lys cannot arrive at the hotel unescorted. I cannot fetch her. I have my reputation to think of. How would such a thing appear?”
“I daresay they are used to that sort of thing at the Grillon,” Simon said dryly.
“How dare you, sir!” said Sir Lucas, rising from his chair. His left eye circled its socket rapidly, like a cat chasing its own tail. “You will mind what you say about that lady, Lord Simon. When you see her tonight, you will treat her with the respect she deserves. She will tell me if you do not.”
“I shall treat St. Lys exactly as she deserves,” Simon replied. “If she chooses to make a commodity of herself, it is no concern of mine. But you must find someone else to collect your prize for you, Sir Lucas. I fear I must decline the honor of escorting her to you. I am not a panderer.”
“Then I shall not cancel the annuity.” Quickly, he unlocked one of the drawers of his massive mahogany desk and took out the document. “His Royal Highness shall continue to pay me ten thousand pounds per annum until he is dead. If he does not, I shall take the matter to the courts.”
Simon smiled thinly. “Fine,” he said. “I'll take her to you. Shall I undress her for you as well?”
“Do not be insolent, sir,” said Sir Lucas, putting away the annuity and locking the drawer. “I expect you to be discreet, as well. If Miss St. Lys complains of anything, you shall not have the annuity. Do I make myself clear?”
“I understand.” With a curt bow, Simon left the room.
Forty-five minutes later, he presented himself to the prince regent at Carlton House. The prince received him in his dressing gown, as he had just come out of his bath. At fifty-four, His Royal Highness was unquestionably fat, but there still remained about his person some of that manly beauty that had marked his youth. “Well?” he asked hopefully.
“Sir Lucas has agreed to cancel the annuity. There are just one or two details to be worked out. I believe I shall have some very good news for Your Highness tomorrow.”
“Excellent, dear boy! How many does that make?”
“This will be the seventh annuity I have retrieved for Your Highness,” said Simon.
“You must be saving me close upon a hundred thousand per annum,” said the prince. “I thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart, for all your hard work. I know it cannot be pleasant for you. People hate you, I expect.”
“To be hated for my sovereign's sake is no hardship,” Simon replied.
The regent clapped Simon on the shoulder. “You are right, of course. Still, one is grateful. How did you get Sir Lucas to agree? He seemed unassailable.”
“We all have our weaknesses, sir.”
“Oh yes. And what is his?”
“It would be better, perhaps, if Your Highness were to remain in ignorance of it.”
The prince winced. “As bad as that? Well, perhaps you are right. Perhaps one had rather not know. Best you keep it to yourself, then. But you are a miracle worker, sir!” he went on jovially. “Indeed you are. What am I going to do without you?”
“What do you mean, sir? Do without me?”
“Yes, I know you will be very sorry to leave me. I shall be very sorry to see you go. But we must make up the numbers somehow.”
“The numbers, sir? I don't understand.”
“We are down three seats in the House of Lords,” said the prince. “I can't think of anyone more deserving than you, dear boy. I've decided to create you Earl of Sutton.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” said Simon.
“I know I've threatened you with a peerage before, but this time I mean it. You shall take the oath next Friday, if that is convenient.”
“Friday would be most convenient. Thursday would be slightly better, however.”
The prince chuckled. “Thursday is quite out of the question, I'm afraid. One is invited to the theatre next Thursday. Miss St. Lys has a new play! Captain Fitzclarence tells me she means to play in breeches. She is using him for a role model, I daresay. For the pleasure of seeing Miss St. Lys in breeches, I am prepared to hear a lot of boring speeches,” he added, laughing at his own wit.
“Indeed, sir.”
“I have not seen her onstage since the summer of 'fourteen. Do you remember? She was Desdemona in a nightgown. Prince von Blücher was our guest that night. He said it was all he could do not to storm the stage and rescue her from Othello! She was so charming when we met her after the play.”
“I remember.”
“Blücher fell in love with her on the spot! ‘Is it true what they say about Prussians?' she asked him. ‘That they are not born of woman, but hatched from cannonballs!' How we all laughed. If she were a man, I would knight her.”
“Sir?”
“Never underestimate the power of charm, Lord Simon. Why do you suppose that Blücher and his Prussians came to relieve us at Waterloo? For love of
Wellington
? This nation owes a debt to St. Lys. She charmed the old warrior and he never forgot it.”
“Sir!” Simon protested. “With all due respect, that is . . .”
The prince raised his brows.
“An interesting theory, Your Royal Highness.”
“Oh, it's not a theory,” the regent insisted. “It's amazing what we men will do for the approbation of a beautiful woman. Speaking of which, I may have encountered a spot of bother with Lady Conyngham, if you see what I mean. I don't suppose you could smooth things over with her husband? I'd be most grateful.”
“Of course, sir.”
Prinny sighed. “Charm, Lord Simon! Never underestimate a woman with charm.”
“No, sir.”
 
 
“Good evening, Dorian.”
The Duke of Berkshire, seated alone, without even a footman in attendance, started in surprise as his brother entered his stage box that night. Then he motioned to Simon to be quiet. Celia St. Lys was onstage. Slipping into the chair next to his brother, Simon watched as “Juliet” prepared, with much hand-wringing and speechifying, to drink Friar Lawrence's potion. Finally she drank the vial, collapsing on her bed in a deathlike coma, leaving the audience in tears. The curtain came down to thunderous applause.
Dorian wiped his streaming eyes with his handkerchief. “What on earth are you doing here, Simon?” he asked.
“What are
you
doing here?” Simon returned. “It's Wednesday. Shouldn't you be at Almack's looking for a wife? You can't spend all your time in the theatre. Your mother is sure to regard this as a dereliction of duty.”
“I am taking a break,” Dorian informed him.
“So I see. May I remind you of your duty to marry and produce an heir? You cannot spend all your time gawping at actresses. Miss St. Lys is beautiful and charming, but she will never be a duchess.”
Dorian was taken aback by his brother's contemptuous, angry tone. “Simon, I know you hate Miss St. Lys, but you
are
in the minority, you know. The rest of us worship the ground she treads on. You should have seen her at the balcony.”
“Indeed, she is a national treasure. I have just been informed that she is responsible for winning the Battle of Waterloo!”
“You're in an odd humor,” Dorian observed. “What has she to do with the war?”
“Her charm is more powerful than the might of armies. She would make slaves of us all.”
“Do you really dislike her so much?” Dorian asked.
“Yes,” Simon replied. “I really do. More than I can possibly say.”
“Good,” Dorian murmured. “I am hoping to make her my mistress, you see, and I would not like it if my brother were secretly in love with her. But, since you don't like her . . .”
“For God's sake, Dorian. Are you so eager to join the throng? She's had more lovers than you have years. Doesn't that bother you?”
“It would be a strange thing indeed if I were the only man who had ever desired Miss St. Lys,” Dorian replied. “Naturally, she has had lovers. Poor thing! She has never had the opportunity to marry. Nor is she likely to.”
Simon bit his lip. “By all means, make her your mistress. Just don't expect her to be faithful to you.”
Dorian frowned. “What do you mean?” he said sharply.
“Ask Lord Palmerston,” Simon replied.
“No,” said Dorian, “I don't think I will ask Lord Palmerston. I'm a grown man, Simon. I can look after myself.”
“You are determined to have her, then?”
“I am determined to make her an offer,” Dorian replied.
“An offer?” Simon repeated sharply. “An offer of what, may I ask?”
Dorian glanced at him. “I am going to ask her to be my mistress, of course. What did you think I meant?”
BOOK: When You're Desired
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