Wicked Wager Read Free Page A

fashions of the day. But Raphael’s creased brow sent fear coursing through her as she was reminded of the night three weeks ago when he’d sent her after Harry Carstairs. She stopped and ran clammy hands over her wide skirts. Skirts supported by so many petticoats and layers, tied around her middle; dressing seemed sometimes to take forever. As did undressing, she thought with sinking heart, another image of that fateful night intruding: a room strewn with petticoats, Harry fumbling with the ties, before Miss Charlotte Paige’s shrill cry had sent them fleeing in fright. Harry had snatched Celeste’s hand, dragging her with him as they passed his horrified betrothed on his way to the front door; then down the passage and through the front door.
    Celeste wondered if the young woman still had those discarded petticoats or whether she’d burned them. At the time she’d wanted to say something. To apologise. Explain. She’d thought it might come to that; a full accounting of her actions, but when Miss Paige failed to name her, Raphael had applauded Celeste for a mission accomplished in part.
    His satisfaction was short-lived. Weeks later, no word had come from Harry, and Raphael’s growing agitation and bursts of anger were increasingly directed at his cousin and future wife, Celeste.
    â€˜I asked you if you were unscathed, darling,’ Raphael repeated, an edge of impatience to his voice as Celeste recovered her wits and returned to the here and now.
    Unscathed? ‘My skirts, you mean?’ she asked, hooking her hand into the crook of Raphael’s elbow and patting a curl into place as she affected the unruffled demeanour of the lady of fashion.
    â€˜I think that is all I could be referring to, my dear Celeste, for you did not take a tumble, though you certainly look as dazed as if you’d hit your head.’ He flicked her an impatient smile. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
    She felt as if she had. The brief glance she’d exchanged with that unknown gentlemen had affected her like no other encounter. His dark penetrating gaze had been more than just unsettling. He’d felt the connection, too. She was sure he had.
    Celeste glanced at her skirts and shook her head.
    â€˜Good, then I daresay it’s time to call it a night. I shall see first you and then Lady Drummond home.’ He was brisk and businesslike, as usual, ascertaining her movements for the morrow. ‘At noon you’ll have the fittings for your wedding finery and I shall see you at nine in the evening at Vauxhall with the rest of our party.’ He withdrew a snowy linen handkerchief from his coat pocket to flick across the seat of his carriage, before offering his hand to Lady Drummond and then Celeste to help them into the carriage. Such fastidiousness might appear as solicitous care to some, but Celeste found it irritating beyond extreme, sometimes. Now being one of those occasions. Raphael said he cared deeply about her—and she believed him—but not so deeply that he’d put her feelings above his own, much less on the same level.
    She glanced at Lady Drummond, whose wizened face was etched with lines of weariness and whose shoulders sagged, and took a chance. The old woman was all but deaf, she knew.
    â€˜Raphael, I want you to release me from this marriage,’ she whispered, pretending interest in her ivory fan. ‘I am trapped. I cannot cry off. Uncle will never allow it, and the whole world believes you are mad for me. I once thought it, but I cannot marry you, knowing what I know now. Please, release me from this marriage so that I might find a husband who will love me as I would wish to be loved.’
    The tautness around Raphael’s lips indicated far more than his tone, that he was mightily displeased. ‘I don’t believe this is a conversation for our short journey home in present company, my dear. Perhaps tomorrow evening we might discuss in greater