Rosemary Rogers - A Reckless Encounter

Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”

A chill shivered down Celia’s spine. She steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage.

Yet she could not find him. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.

She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.

“This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.

He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.

Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response. Panic swelled, coupled with an overwhelming need to escape. But it was his touch that unnerved her most.

Faintly, she managed to say, “If you will excuse me, I must attend to some personal business.”

Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long, was not the man she had come to ruin.

There had to be two Lord Northingtons.

SWEET SAVAGE LOVE

SAVAGE DESIRE

WICKED LOVING LIES

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To my family

To all my readers, lifelong and new. I cherish your loyalty much more than I can say. And to my wonderful editors at MIRA Books, Dianne Moggy and Martha Keenan. Here’s to a glorious future!

PART I PART I “The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.” —Pascal, Pensées

PROLOGUE

PART II

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

PART III

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

PART IV

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

EPIGRAPH

EPILOGUE

“The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.”

—Pascal, Pensées

Georgetown, District of Columbia

1810

Danger wore an elegant coat and arrogance. When twelve-year-old Celia Sinclair opened the door that cool autumn evening, a tall man with features as sharp as a hawk stood on the stoop. His voice was impatient and brusque, the words clipped, the accent unmistakably British.

“I have come to visit Madame.”

When she did not reply, but continued to stare at him, he added impatiently, “This is the home of Léonie St. Remy, is it not?”

Celia smoothed her hands over the blue kersey of her dress, suddenly aware of how shabby she must look. “Madame Sinclair is busy at the moment, sir. If you will leave your card, I will—”

“My card? Rather pretentious of you, considering this humble abode, I think. Go and fetch your mistress, girl.” He pushed her hand away when she moved to close the door, and wedged his body inside. “Inform her that Lord Northington wishes to see her at once.”

Brown eyes stared down at her from a face pitted with the faint remnants of scars. His mouth was full, his cheekbones high and stark, the slash of black eyebrows a marked contrast to his powdered hair.

This was Lord Northington, the man her mother had once said was a beast!

“Don’t stand there gaping at me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’ll see you’re dismissed from your post for this impertinence. Fetch Madame at once!”

“I am not a servant, my lord,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of fetching Madame. Leave your card, and when she returns, I shall give it to her.”

“Impudent brat,” he spat. “I know she’s here. I followed her.” Even in the gloom, she could see the hot flare of anger in his eyes, the white lines that cut grooves on each side of his mouth as he grated, “It would serve you best to do as you’re told. The consequences can so often be…unpleasant.”

Celia’s brief spurt of courage failed her. She took a backward step, her heart hammering fearfully in her chest.

“You have no authority here!”

“I have no intention of remaining here to bandy words with an insolent brat.”

Ignoring her choked cry, he brushed past her. Boot-steps echoed loudly on the bare wooden floors as he moved down the hallway to the tiny parlor. His glance into the empty room was dismissive, his lip curled.

Celia saw it as he must see it, so bare now of the once lovely furnishings; not even linen scarves were left to adorn the single drum table that had yet to be sold, and the upholstered settee looked alone and forlorn in front of the cold fireplace. The years of deprivation since her father’s death were obvious, the remnants of their once comfortable life pitiful. Northington moved past the parlor.

“You must not!” she cried as he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Panic drove her, and unreasoning fear that he meant to harm her mother. She caught at his sleeve, but he jerked free.

The covered walkway was short, and he closed the distance in only three strides, then pushed open the door. “There you are, Madame!”

His change from contemptuous to beguiling was instant and shocking. Celia hung back, trembling as her mother turned to face the intruder with a serenity that belied the taut set of her mouth. Blond hair waved back from her high, intelligent forehead, and green eyes studied the man with an emotion Celia couldn’t interpret. Fear? Disdain?

“Lord Northington. This is certainly a surprise.”

“A pleasant one, I trust.”

“Would it matter if it were not, my lord?”

It was said lightly, but Celia recognized the steel beneath her mother’s velvet tone. Behind her, Old Peter stood silent and stiff, disapproval radiating from his dusky face.

Maman and the viscount spoke French, the language lending itself to subtle nuances that even a child could identify.

“My dear Madame,” Northington said with a soft laugh, “I crave your approval as none other.”

“Would that were true, my lord. Tell me what brings you to my home.”

“Need you ask?”

Celia saw her mother flush.

“Not in front of my daughter, if you please, my lord!”

“Your daughter? This pretty child?” He turned toward Celia. “I should have known. That glorious fair hair and green eyes are too exquisite to be duplicated in mere dross. Come here, child, and tell me your name.”

Though she made no effort to move, her mother stepped in front of Celia as if to protect her. She gazed coolly at Northington as she said, “Stay here, little one. Peter will serve your supper.”

“But I wish to wait for you, Maman.”

“I will return to you soon, my love.”

Old Peter put a hand on Celia’s shoulder when she would have protested more, and she fell silent as her mother preceded Northington from the kitchen. The clatter of a pot lid made a staccato sound. After a moment, Old Peter said softly, “He is bold, that one. To come here after her—”