A Rake’s Guide to Seduction (24 page)

The duke announced their engagement at dinner that evening. David Reece was the first on his feet to propose a toast to the new couple, and Percy seconded it. Everyone raised their glasses quickly, as if they had been expecting such a thing for some time and were glad to have it out in the open. The announcement seemed, in a way, to release the tension in the party, as if the normal order of things had now been righted and the little scandal in the library had been put to rest. The conversation flowed more easily that night after the ladies left, and Anthony felt completely at ease for the first time as the other men congratulated him.

Except Ned, that is. He drank more port than anyone else but said the least. Anthony remembered their conversation by the stream and wondered just how strongly Ned had hoped to wed Celia himself. He had never seen the slightest preference for Ned in
her
behavior, but perhaps Ned had seen things differently. And of course, were their positions reversed, and Ned were receiving congratulations on his upcoming marriage to Celia…Well, one bottle of port probably wouldn’t have been enough for Anthony in that event.

“Well done, lad, well done!” Warfield slapped him on the back as the men moved to join the ladies in the drawing room, and they had a moment to speak quietly. “And the lady looks as happy as a bride ought to look.”

Anthony smiled. “I intend to keep her so.”

His uncle laughed. “No doubt! And you never fail in what you set out to do; damned admirable, I say. May you and your wife enjoy a long and happy life together.”

Anthony nodded in thanks and in doing so caught sight of Ned. Ned was watching them, his face set, and when Anthony met his gaze, he turned on his heel and left the room. Anthony’s grin faded.

Warfield noticed and frowned after Ned. “A bit disappointed, that one.”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’ll get over it. ’Tis clear her heart was never engaged there, and his disappointment is more for the match than for the lady.”

“Of course,” Anthony murmured.

“Shall we join the ladies?” Warfield asked with a gleam in his eye. “I like to see the way her eyes light up when you come into the room.” Anthony shot him a quizzical look, and Warfield laughed heartily. “Oh, Lord, boy, to see your face! Aye, it’s true, and you’d notice if you weren’t so busy trying not to stare at her like a hungry dog after a meaty bone.”

“A mutt and a bone,” said Anthony wryly. “You flatter us both. I shall gladly leave you at the door for better company.”

“That you shall, my lad.” With another slap on the shoulder, they followed the rest of the gentlemen.

That night Anthony felt almost a part of the family. A spirited game of charades left the company in gales of laughter, especially after Mrs. Percy called her husband an elephant when he was attempting to be a Roman general and he in turn called her a whirlwind when she was portraying the Three Fates. Celia sat beside Anthony on the sofa, where he could touch her hand discreetly from time to time to make her cheeks turn pink. And at the end of the evening, they managed to walk more slowly than anyone else up the stairs, until they were quite alone in the corridor.

“Good night, my darling,” he whispered, pulling her close outside her door.

“And to you.” She raised her face to him, a dreamy smile on her lips. Anthony kissed her, lightly, then deeply, until she was clinging to him breathlessly and he had to brace one hand against the wall. “Come to me later,” she whispered, her eyes glowing and her breathing rapid.

He touched her lower lip. “No.” And kissed her again.

“Why not?” She moved against him, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Anthony chuckled and trailed one hand down her back until she arched, pressing her breasts against him.

“We’re going to wait,” he murmured in her ear, still stroking her back. “Until our wedding night. And then I shall have my wicked way with you all night long, until you cannot breathe or speak properly. You’d best get your rest now, my lady.”

“What shall you do?” Celia’s voice was husky with desire. He laughed again, even more softly, and she shivered. They were standing in the corridor, where anyone might walk by and see them wrapped around each other, but Celia didn’t care a bit.

“I plan to tie you to my bed,” came his dark, seductive voice in her ear, his breath on her neck sending shivers down her spine.

“You won’t need to,” she told him. Her knees were already weak.

“But I want to.” He brushed his lips across the rapid pulse below her jaw, and Celia’s breath came out in a sigh of want. “I want to taste every inch of you, from every angle. I want to make you weep with need, and then I want to satisfy that need until you can’t even beg for more.”

Celia moaned. “Why wait?”

He nuzzled her neck once more and released her. “Because I made a vow, just last night, that I would never again make love to any woman other than my wife.”

Celia’s heart quivered.
How romantic,
whispered a little voice in her head, a voice momentarily at odds with the demands of her body. “But
I
am your wife,” she argued softly, tugging at his jacket.

“Not yet.” His smile was full of promise, and Celia swallowed. Mutely she nodded acquiescence and released him. He opened her door, watched her go through it, and then closed it.

In her room she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. How long until the wedding? A fortnight. She pressed one hand to her heated face. Goodness, that seemed a long time all of a sudden.

But his vow…Celia closed her eyes, another smile curving her lips. She liked that vow very much.

The next week passed in happy contentment. Although all the houseguests had been invited to extend their stay for the wedding, many had to leave. Soon it was just the Percys, Warfield, and Ned. Anthony would really have preferred the last gentleman leave as well. Ned kept to his rooms and avoided Anthony, and was distant when in company. Anthony took the hint and ignored Ned in return.

With the house emptier and quieter, there were more opportunities to steal away with Celia for an hour or two. He loved surprising her. He loved seeing her eyes open wide when he whispered something shocking in her ear, and he loved the naughty smile that went with her blush even as she went along with his ideas. He loved that she allowed him liberties even when they shocked her. He loved everything about her.

Although he kept his vow not to visit Celia’s bed again, he saw no need to deprive either of them of lesser pleasures, in stolen moments here and there. Still, it wasn’t quite the same, and he took to early morning rides to take the edge off his hunger for her. Perhaps he had been too hasty in declaring he wouldn’t make love to her again until they were wed. But no; anticipation was a potent aphrodisiac. He could wait another week. It felt like he had waited his entire life for her, and in a week’s time she would be his, forever.

He rode so early, the rest of the household was usually not awake, but one morning that was not the case. He came downstairs dressed to ride as usual and Ned was there, in his traveling clothes, slapping his gloves into his palm. A trunk sat in the hall, and a footman was carrying out a valise. As Anthony came down the stairs, Ned looked up and his expression eased.

“Hamilton,” he said, sounding relieved. “There you are. I was about to leave you a note.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Ned cleared his throat. “About…That is, to wish you well.” Anthony inclined his head. Ned hesitated. “On your marriage.”

“Thank you.”

“I have been…” Again Ned seemed to struggle for words. “I have not been gracious.”

Again Anthony merely bowed his head. Ned had been far from gracious, barely speaking a word to him in the past week or more. “You are leaving?”

“Yes, I have some business that requires my attention.” Ned gave a gruesome smile. “My immediate attention, unfortunately. I made my farewells to Warfield and our hosts last evening.”

Anthony unbent a little. He knew that feeling all too well. Who was he to judge another man in tight straits? For all he knew, Ned had been under strain for reasons completely unrelated to Anthony’s engagement to Celia. Ned had been a friend to him for years, and he was uncharitable to mistrust every word the man said now. “Safe journey back to town.”

“Thank you.” He grinned, finally looking like the same Ned of old. “Convey my felicitations to the bride, would you?”

Anthony smiled back, clasping Ned’s offered hand. Ned donned his hat and they walked out to where his horse waited behind the small carriage carrying his baggage and his valet.

“I shall miss this place,” Ned said, squinting against the sun as he tugged on his gloves. “The finest estate in Kent, they say.”

“Yes, I’ve always thought so.”

“Ah, yes. I forget you were often here as a boy.”

Anthony glanced at him, but Ned was still surveying the grounds. “Not often.”

Ned sighed. “Oftener than I. Fare thee well, Ham.”

Anthony stood on the steps and raised one hand in farewell as Ned mounted his horse and touched the brim of his hat in reply before riding off.

He walked to the stables and saddled Hestia himself, not bothering the grooms. He rode out around the lake, heading for the open fields and meadows. There was really nothing like riding early in the morning, Anthony thought, filling his lungs with crisp fresh air as Hestia stretched out her stride. He liked this part of the country. Perhaps he should surprise Celia with a property in Kent. He hadn’t yet thought of another wedding gift for her.

He had reached the dirt road that led to the ruins where they had picnicked several days earlier when he heard a sharp crack somewhere to his left, in the woods. His horse laid her ears flat back on her head and snorted. Anthony pulled her up, glancing into the trees. That had sounded an awful lot like a pistol shot, but no one from the house was out shooting. Surely there wouldn’t be poachers out this near the house.

The second shot took off his hat. Too startled even to curse, Anthony ducked low on Hestia’s neck, instinctively grabbing for the hat. Who the bloody hell was shooting—and why? It was damned careless. “Hold your fire!” he shouted.

The third shot sounded closer than even the second. Hestia whinnied sharply and lunged forward, breaking into a gallop. It was all Anthony could do to keep his seat as she tore up the road. Another shot cracked, and Hestia swerved abruptly to the right, veering up the slope of the hill. The shift took Anthony off guard and he lost a stirrup, leaving him no choice but to cling to the horse’s neck. He supposed Mr. Beecham hadn’t trained the poor animal to remain calm whilst being shot at. Anthony found it rather alarming himself, particularly as he still had no idea who was doing the shooting, where they were hiding, or why they had taken such a dislike to him. Instead of trying to bring Hestia under control, he gave her her head and concentrated on staying in the saddle.

She must have run three miles or more before she finally slowed to a trot, her sides slick with sweat. Anthony guided her into the shelter of a stand of oaks before pulling her up and gingerly sliding to the ground.

The horse trembled as he examined her. She favored her left hind hoof, lifting it just off the ground, and Anthony finally realized what had made her bolt: a long, oozing gash across her flank. It wasn’t clear if the pistol ball had gone into or merely scored her flesh; there was too much blood to tell. She snorted and stamped her hooves as Anthony probed the wound. “Shh,” he crooned to quiet her, leaving it. There was nothing he could do to help her out here. He’d have to take her back to the stables.

Assuming he didn’t get shot first, that is. All the while he tended the horse, Anthony kept one eye out for any sign of the marksman. The first shot had gone wide, the second struck his hat, the third his horse, and the fourth was also nearby. There was no conclusion to make except that he himself was the target.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite sure where he was at the moment. In giving Hestia her head, he had let her outrun the boundaries of what he remembered of Ainsley Park. He set his hat, which he’d been unconsciously clutching all the while, back on his head and tried to think. They had headed south from the ruins for some time. His eyes constantly moving from side to side, Anthony adjusted the saddle and tack before swinging back onto the horse’s back. He’d lead her if he could, but in case the fellow with the pistol had followed, he judged it better to be mounted.

“All right, let’s go home,” he murmured, wheeling her around and setting her into a walk. “The long, cautious way.”

Although Celia had told her mother it was to be a small wedding, Rosalind insisted some things simply could not be omitted.

“Just because it is a small wedding it needn’t be a plain wedding,” she said as they walked in the garden. “Have you given any thought to what you shall wear?”

“No,” said Celia, leaning down to sniff the just-opened rosebuds. It had been a week since they announced their engagement, and Celia had not spent much of it on the wedding. The Eltons and the Throckmortons had been called back to London, and Lord Snowden had also returned home to his nearby estate after the other guests left. The quieter house had meant more opportunities to sneak away with Anthony for an hour or two, and although he had stuck fast to his vow not to make love to her, they had found other, nearly as delightful, pleasures. Just yesterday he had pulled her into a linen cupboard and—

“I have sent to Madame Lescaut, although perhaps we shall just remake one of your newer gowns,” Rosalind went on. “Hannah might lend you the lace mantua from her wedding, and of course you must wear some of the pearls.”

“Mama, I don’t care for pearls or lace.” A rose had broken off, the bud hanging from the stem by a thread of green. She broke it off and held it up. “I shall just wear some roses in my hair. They smell so lovely.”

Her mother sighed. “Of course, dearest, if that is what you wish.”

Celia smiled, the same contented smile that she seemed to wear all the time now. “It is.” She twirled the bud between her fingers, inhaling its soft fragrance. “There’s no need to make over a gown. My blue silk will do. And we shall just have the guests who are still here.”

Rosalind made a soft noise in the back of her throat. “What of the earl of Lynley?”

Celia paused. Anthony’s father. They ought to invite him, but she suspected Anthony wouldn’t want him. The little he had said about his father had not been warm. “I shall ask Anthony,” she said at last. “But Mama, I think he may not wish to come in any event. He and his son do not get on well.”

“Yes, I know. But Lynley is his father. We must invite him for propriety’s sake.”

Celia nibbled her lip, still fiddling with the rosebud. “I shall ask,” she said again.

“Celia, I really think if you insisted—”

“Yes.” She stopped and faced her mother. “Yes, Mama, if I insisted, Anthony would agree to invite him. But why must I insist? For propriety’s sake? I don’t care if Lord Lynley is here. I suspect Anthony would rather not see him, and why must I force the earl upon him on our wedding day?”

“Darling,” began her mother in the calm but firm voice that normally was not to be refused. “You shall be a countess one day. Even if your husband does not stand on these ceremonies, you must. It is the proper thing to do, and it is your place to see to it.”

“Mama, I want to be married quietly and happily. Must we argue?”

Rosalind closed her eyes and took a breath, as if praying for patience. “No,” she said. “We must not.”

“I
am
happy,” Celia told her in a rush. “You do know that, don’t you? You have always done so much for me, and for us all, and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your efforts, but in this I just want to revel in being happy. I don’t want to worry about appearances, not when the appearances might cause my husband to be unhappy.”

Rosalind sighed. “You are right. It is your wedding, and I shall not overrule you. I—I am not accustomed to seeing you as an independent woman, Celia. It is hard for me to stop mothering you, especially after you were gone so long and I’ve only just gotten you back. I missed you so, dearest.”

“Perhaps you don’t need to stop mothering me,” she replied with a grin. “Just treat me as you do Hannah or Vivian.”

Rosalind gave a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “As much as I love my daughters-in-law, they are not you.” She reached out and laid one hand gently alongside Celia’s cheek. “You are my only child. For so many years it was just we two, together, while your brothers went off to school and had their own lives elsewhere. I am not used to sharing you, nor being without you.”

Celia suddenly realized what her mother was trying to say. Rosalind had devoted her life to Celia. She had been widowed before she was thirty, but she had never remarried, instead staying quietly in the country to raise Celia and to be as loving a mother as she could be to Marcus and David. Celia’s happy childhood, her carefree life, even her impetuous first marriage, had all been due to Rosalind’s care and attention.

And what would Celia have done, if she had had a child with Bertie? Would she have brought the child back to London after Bertie’s death, or would she have stayed to raise the child in its father’s home at Kenlington? It was a sobering thought. If she’d had the child she longed for, she would have stayed at Kenlington—and she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Anthony. In that moment Celia was very selfishly happy she had not had a child after all, and at the same time she saw what her mother had given up for her. She threw her arms around her mother. “You must visit us often, Mama,” she said, “for I cannot do without you, either.”

Rosalind embraced her, then stepped back, her smile more firmly in place. “You must see that your husband finds a suitable estate, then. I can’t have my daughter living in a cottage.” They both laughed.

“Celia.”

She looked around to see Marcus on the path. “Yes?”

“I must have a word with you.”

A whisper of foreboding stole up her spine at her brother’s words and manner. Something was wrong. “About what?”

Instead of answering he held out one hand. “Come with me.”

“Marcus, what is it?” asked Rosalind in concern. He barely glanced at her.

“I am not certain. Perhaps only a misunderstanding. Celia?”

She shook herself. Perhaps it was only a misunderstanding. But she could see that Marcus didn’t think it was. She squeezed her mother’s hand and turned toward the house. “Yes, I’m coming.”

Marcus wouldn’t tell her anything as they walked. Each step along the gravel path seemed to twist the knot of anxiety in her stomach a little tighter. Before long the dread had outweighed the curiosity, and when they reached Marcus’s study and found David waiting outside the door, his face set, Celia had to fight off the urge to run away from whatever they had to tell her.

Her oldest brother ushered her into the study, and David closed the door behind them. Warily Celia sat down, glancing between the two of them. For once they looked completely alike, and identically grim. “What is it?” she asked again.

“Do you know where Mr. Hamilton is?” asked Marcus. “No one seems to have seen him in some time.”

“No,” she said slowly. “No, I haven’t seen him since last night. Has he gone missing? Have you asked his valet?”

“The valet knows only that he rose early and went out dressed to ride,” said David. “His horse is gone from the stables.”

“We must go out looking for him!” Celia started to rise. “He may be hurt—”

“No one suspects that,” said Marcus, putting out his hand to stay her. “We merely want to speak to him, but he is nowhere to be found. It seemed reasonable that you might have more knowledge of his whereabouts or plans than either of us.”

She shook her head. “No.” Her brothers exchanged a look, and Celia leapt to her feet. “Tell me!” she exclaimed. “What is wrong? Why are you looking for Anthony? Tell me this instant!”

Again they glanced at each other. “We’re not certain,” said Marcus.

“Celia, has he never mentioned anything about another attachment?” asked David. She stared at him in bewilderment. David cleared his throat. “About another woman,” he clarified.

“No,” she said.

“Did he never hint there might be difficulties regarding your marriage?” he pressed. “Any obstacle?”

“No.”

“Did he ever tell you he had been married before?” asked Marcus softly.

She blinked, then gave a gasp of shocked laughter. “No. Not at all!”

David sighed and hung his head. Marcus closed his eyes. Celia threw up her hands.

“If you won’t tell me what the matter is, I shall leave!” She turned toward the door.

“There is a woman,” said Marcus behind her. “Here, in the small drawing room. She says she is Mrs. Hamilton. She says she is his wife.”

For a moment Celia stood motionless with shock. She couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly. Slowly she turned to face her brothers. “Impossible,” she said numbly.

“She claims they have been married for some time. She heard news of your engagement to him and rushed here to prevent a scandal. She arrived this morning.”

“Impossible,” Celia whispered again.

“Celia, she has a child,” said David gently.

She clutched her hands to her throat. Her chest seemed to be caving in on itself. Anthony, a liar and a bigamist? Could he have lied to her so much—and to this other woman as well? A black pit seemed to open in front of her, and for a moment she teetered on the brink of falling into it. Behind her the door opened quietly. A hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Celia started, jerking her head around to see her mother standing beside her, her face filled with compassion.

“It’s impossible,” she choked, wanting someone, anyone, to agree with her.

“Of course,” said her mother at once. “Hannah told me the story. Marcus, you spoke to this woman?”

Without taking his eyes off Celia, he nodded. David crossed the room and held out a piece of paper. “She said this was his last message to her. Celia, do you know Hamilton’s hand?”

She eyed the letter with alarm. Yes, she did know his hand. She knew every spike and slope of his writing, how he crossed his Ts with sharp slashes, how his words ended with a little curl to the last letter, a final flourish to the word. She couldn’t bear to see that writing to someone else—to his wife.

She covered her mouth with one hand. Disloyal, treacherous thought—that meant she suspected he might be guilty. And she didn’t, truly she didn’t. Except…that letter…

As she stood in mute despair, her mother reached out and took the letter. She unfolded it and held it in front of them both, where Celia could see it without touching it. She tried to focus on the writing without taking in the words, but couldn’t help it.

The silence in the room seemed to last forever. Finally Rosalind looked at David. “You must know his hand. Is this…?”

David hesitated. “I am not certain.”

Celia’s stunned eyes moved back to the letter. It
was
very like his hand. She just couldn’t believe it. “No,” she said faintly.

“It’s not?” David stepped closer to her, studying her intently. “You’re certain it is not?”

“No.” Carefully she shook her head. “I’m not certain. I just don’t know.” David exchanged another look with Marcus.

“We have to find him,” he said.

“No,” said Celia, her voice growing firmer and louder. “This letter makes no sense. He would never do such a thing, to me or to any woman. If he had a wife and child, he would never abandon them. He would never deceive me like this. What would he gain by it?”

“Celia, you are a very wealthy widow,” said her brother. “Probably wealthier than he is.”

“You don’t know that.” She turned to her mother. “Mama, you believe me, don’t you?”

Rosalind blinked several times. “Celia, we should ask the man to explain,” she began. Celia pulled away from her.

“Perhaps you require that, but I don’t. I know he would never do this.”

For a moment the room was silent again. Marcus looked at David, who looked at Rosalind, who looked on the verge of tears as she wrung her hands and watched Celia.

“The stories about him, dearest,” whispered her mother in anguish.

“Are mostly lies!” Celia burst out. “Where is Lord Warfield? He knows Anthony. Ask him!”

“And what are we to tell the woman?” Marcus leaned back against his desk, arms folded over his chest. “The one claiming to be his wife.”

Celia pressed her hands to her temples. “I don’t know—perhaps there is another gentleman with the same name. This woman might be confused, or mistaken. She might have never laid eyes on him before, and it will all turn out to be a terrible mistake.”

David coughed. “Ahem.”

“What?” He ignored her, instead looking at Marcus. Marcus’s face had settled once more into forbidding lines. “What is it?” Celia demanded again. “Tell me, David!”

“She’s laid eyes on him before,” said her brother reluctantly. “I remember they were…companions. Years ago.”

“And since?”

David was shaking his head even before Marcus’s question. “I don’t know. Hamilton and I aren’t much in company anymore. He went off to Wales or someplace for a year or more, and we spoke only infrequently after he returned.”

Marcus’s eyes moved to Rosalind. She flushed. “I—I really don’t know, Marcus. I have not been as much in London these past few years.”

“Then we shall wait,” said Marcus evenly.

“Wait?” Rosalind echoed.

“Until Hamilton returns,” he said. “As Celia says, there may be a terrible mistake. A man deserves a chance to explain. But if he’s not back today, Celia…” His gaze softened on her. “It would look very bad.”

“I don’t know where he went!”

“I’ll get Warfield and Simon,” said David. “We’ll ride out and have a look.”

Marcus nodded. “Hannah will see to the woman and keep her quiet. I’ll send into Maidstone and try to discover anything about this letter, and if it were sent from here.”

“Celia, come with me,” said her mother, laying her hands on Celia’s shoulders. She shook them off and stood, tense and wretched, in the middle of the room.

“No,” she said in a quavering voice.

Marcus came to stand in front of her. His face was etched with concern. “You must trust me in this.”

“But you don’t trust him,” she whispered.

He sighed. “I want to know the truth.”