Pride came to her rescue. She wouldn’t let Bea or the servants see that anything was amiss. No, she’d save her sharp words for tomorrow evening when the Dragon expected her to be smiling and compliant.
For the briefest moment, she remembered him stroking her hair as she fell asleep with her head on his chest. His touch had been gentle and loving.
Or had she imagined those emotions because she’d let down her guard?
“When are we leaving?" she abruptly asked Beatrice.
Avery answered, “It will take an hour to ready the coach. I was about to ask when you wished to return to Town? His Grace said you may stay here as his guests as long as you wish.”
Celeste stood. She was no longer shaky; she was furious. “Have the coach brought round as soon as possible. Excuse me, Bea, but I need to see that my things are packed. We will leave as soon as possible.”
“Aren’t you going to eat first?” Beatrice asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
Up in her room, she set about folding her clothes into her portmanteau that she had set on the bed. The maid offered to help with packing, but Celeste sent her away. She needed to be alone before she was betrayed by the doubt and hurt she attempted to hold at bay.
The moment the door closed behind the servant, Celeste almost crumpled to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist in an attempt to hold herself together. She remembered him deep inside her, connecting them in both body and spirit, and she wanted to hate him?—
Except, she didn’t.
Nor would she give in to crippling self-recriminations. She was not sorry she had given him her trust. She had been honest in her emotions. Her love for him was strong and clear. She’d given herself freely. Her only sin, she realized, was expecting him to be something he wasn’t.
Besides, if he was the sort of man to run off, she had no need for him.
The thought gave her courage, a courage she hadn’t believed she possessed. A sense of calm fell over her. She straightened her body and took several deep breaths.
She was determined to honor her father’s belief in her. She now understood the charity was something true to her heart, just as he’d directed. Did it hurt that Oliver had left her? Absolutely. But his actions would not deter her from her course.
Celeste had dared to go after the one man who had captured her interest, and she’d not apologize for being true to her heart. Instead, she decided, the time had come for the Dragon to learn that not all women played his games.
The papers were notwrong about the anticipation for the subscription ball. Celeste’s sisters claimed it was all anyone could talk about. Since the duke’s staff had taken care of all the details, Celeste didn’t even have the ball to fret over. She was just expected to show up.
She tried to focus on the charity's success. Many wounded soldiers would be helped. Lord Masick’s property would eventually provide dozens of homes for them and their pets. It was going to be all that she had envisioned.
Celeste was frustrated that, in spite of her proud promises to herself, she was so weak as to hope Oliver would call and explain himself. As the hours passed without word, her imagination created all sorts of mean-spirited reasons for his callous disregard. There were moments when her bravado waivered, when she was certain if he had physically stabbed her in the heart, she could not be in more pain.
However, she would survive this. She would carry on. She was a Harrington. She dressed for the ball in an indigo gown that brought out the green and golden flecks in her eyes. This was the best she’d ever looked and the color made her feel powerful.
It also helped her spirits that her brother, the Duke of Kenbrooks and his duchess, Felicia, arrived, surprising everyone. The couple preferred Fenmere Park and rarely came to Town. They hadn’t even sent word to expect them. They were both were in great spirits and obviously thought Celeste should be as well.
“Father would have been so proud of you, Cece,” her brother said, using her nickname.
Celeste accepted her brother’s praise as a talisman to help her through this night. She and her family, with the absence of their mother, who was dining before the ball with Lady Redhill, left for the event.
At the Duke of Salcombe’s home, all were in a rush to finish the last details before the guests arrived. Celeste braced herself for her meeting with the duke. A harried Mr. Peters herded her toward the ballroom entrance. “You will be in the receiving line with His Grace.”
“No, I won’t,” Celeste informed him, but before she could sail away with her head held high, the hairs at the nape of her neck tingled with anticipation. The air seemed to shift, and she caught the scent of shaving soap—one she knew well since she’d spent a night breathing in every inch of Oliver.
She turned. He was coming down the hall toward her.
The world, her family’s chattering, the servants’ movements, and the musicians tuning their instruments faded until there was only the duke. The smile on his handsome face was welcoming. His eyes were warm with what appeared to be happiness at seeing her.
At first, his reaction was confusing. Her hands curled into fists, as she remembered drawing him into her room, into her bed, into her body. Her heart pounded, and she found it hard to breathe. Did he expect her to be grateful that he had not cut her out completely? That he’d let her stand in the receiving linewhile everyone lauded his great insight into the dishonorable pittance the country was giving men who had sacrificed their limbs and futures for its king?
Except, suddenly, she realized she didn’t care who was given credit for the charity, not really. Her goal had been to see a wrong righted. And so it would be, eventually.
However, as he approached, she mourned what she had lost.Him.The man she had dared to trust with her love.
