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“So it seems, Harvey,” Northington drawled softly.
Celia’s heart skipped a beat, and she was suddenly fully aware of him behind her, his presence as forceful as a blow. She turned slowly, but Northington’s eyes were on Sir John, his voice deceptively soft.
“I have stronger drink in my library, but ladies don’t usually swill gin.”
Harvey lifted a brimming glass, saluted Northington with a mocking bow. “Then port it shall be, so as not to offend the ladies or dilute the evening’s diversions.”
“I do have some more lively entertainment for the evening,” Northington said, and his eyes slid to Celia as he lifted a brow. “Ladies always enjoy dancing.”
“Dancing?” Harvey snorted. “Hardly what I’d call more lively, old boy.”
“You might change your mind before the night’s over.”
“That’s possible but hardly probable.” Harvey drained his glass in a single gulp, then poured another. “But I’m willing to be wrong.”
Celia didn’t resist when Northington took her arm. His touch was light, impersonal but commanding.
“I think you’ll enjoy this, too,” he said.
“Will I? A waltz by torchlight hardly seems exciting enough for Sir John.”
“I’m sure it’s not. However, I’ve engaged dancers for all of us to enjoy.”
She shot him a glance, then turned when she heard the light tinkling of tiny bells and a spate of rapid thrums from a fiddle. Into the middle of the terrace swarmed a group of brightly clad men and women. The women wore full skirts of polished cotton in red and blue and yellow, and bangles on slender arms that jingled with every movement. The men were clad in dark, fitted trousers, scarlet shirts and brilliant blue vests. Their music was loud, lively, and they immediately began to stamp their feet, the women tossing long black hair with obvious abandon and pleasure.
Celia forgot what she was about to say, captured by the primitive, earthy music and graceful abandon of the dancers. Never had she dreamed there could be such dancing as this! One of the women, bolder, younger and more supple than the others, whirled so fiercely that her skirts swung high above her knees, displaying long brown legs. Her hair was loose, save for a knot piled atop her crown and fastened with glittering combs. These she pulled out one by one, tossed them aside as she danced.
“Spanish gypsies,” Northington murmured in Celia’s ear, his warm breath on her neck summoning a shiver. “They camp on my land every year.”
“And you allow them to do so?” It was unnerving, him leaning so close to her, the steady beat of gypsy drums a pounding match to the thud of her heart as she tried to maintain composure.
“It’s a cordial agreement. They camp here without fear of persecution in return for helping Smythe train my horses. Santiago, the older one with the gray hair playing the fiddle, is a master with horses. It takes him no time to train them.”
“I see.” She ignored his hand on her arm, and the suggestive caress of his fingers. “I had no idea you were such a philanthropist, my lord.”
“Hardly. I require a fair return on my investment, whether it be with gypsies, or lovely ladies.”
She turned to meet his gaze. “So everything is only a business arrangement with you.”
“Not everything.” He drew his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Not everything, pretty lady.”
It was suddenly too warm, the air stifling as she met that dark blue gaze. He expected more of her than social conversation. But hadn’t she known that? Yes, she’d known all along that he wanted her, and she still wasn’t certain how she felt—a strange kind of excitement, anticipation—when she should feel only resentment for the son of the man who had killed her mother. Why didn’t she hate him as well as his father? She should. Oh yes, she should. But it was unsettling to realize her feelings for him were much different.
Someone pressed a glass of wine in her hands and she took it, looking up to see Harvey’s eyes on her with an expression of—sympathy? But why?
Defiantly she smiled at him, upset that he would see her distress. He was far too astute for a man who drank so much and seemed so shallow.
“There is more wine,” Harvey said mildly when she drained her glass. “Would you care for another glass?”
Aware of Northington’s attention on her, she held out her empty glass and smiled her thanks.
“Harvey seems to be rubbing off on you,” he drawled, but she shrugged off his comment. Let him think what he wanted!
The music was loud, crashing around her, a cascade of sound that meant little, so she was startled when suddenly one of the dark-haired gypsies presented herself in front of them, hands on her hips and her black eyes narrowed in a sultry challenge as she smiled at Northington.
“My lord, you want us to play yet you do not listen. Come, dance with me again.”
Again? Celia’s eyes jerked to the woman, who met her gaze with a lifted brow and knowing smile.
