They stayed there, immobile as the chamber and the world and the woman demanding attention settled into their consciousness. Primitive fury roared in him, at the interruption and the evidence he would be denied.
Celia’s expression checked that reaction. She looked down at her naked breast, surprised, as if her loss of control dismayed her. She clumsily tried to put her arm through the chemise, blushing hotly now, blinking rapidly as though the world had not righted itself yet.
They got her dressed somehow. She moved back to her chair. As if on cue, Marian opened the door, carried in a tart, and served it.
When she left, Celia gazed across the candle flames at him, her eyes full of awareness of what had happened. He looked back, and imagined her undressed from head to toe, and bent over this table so her pretty bottom rose to him.
T
hings had gotten a bit out of hand with Mr. Albrighton, Celia admitted to herself.
Remain in control. Do not yield too easily. Have an understanding on the arrangement before it progresses beyond a caress or two.
Alessandra must be turning over in her grave.
Her daughter was forgetting everything. She had yielded far too much at dinner, and might have yielded everything if Marian had not made so much noise and brought them back to their senses.
Celia waited that night, for the man who would probably be at her bedchamber’s door after the household went to sleep. She debated what she would do if he came to her. He could be excused if he thought she would accept him.
She tried not to imagine the rest, but she remained excited and enthralled as she lay in the dark, half hoping he would be so bold. Her breasts ached, sensitive to every movement she made. A soft dew covered her skin. She sensed him, above, deciding, wanting.
When it was clear he would not come, her body mourned but her mind found some relief. It was better, of course. There was no understanding. No arrangement. Nor did she really want one, if she were honest and viewed it sanely. He would never do as a protector, should she choose to have one. In such decisions, one must be practical and think of the future.
And yet—it had been delicious. Unearthly. Nor had she been forced to find the pleasure within herself, or remove this man from her mind to do so. He had commanded it in her, and she had no choice in responding. The sensations had teased and lured and overwhelmed, and just thinking of his gaze while they ate that tart made her warm and moist again.
Chapter Thirteen
J
onathan presented himself at the door of Castleford’s home. The duke had invited him to call anytime, and he was about to find out if in fact he could.
He had made sure it was not a Tuesday. He did not want to find Castleford too busy for a good talk. He also did not want to find him too sober to be indiscreet.
The ritual ensued with the liveried servants. This time the captain bore his card away on a salver and left him to wait in that nice chamber with the windows, where they had all played cards.
Alone, with nothing to occupy him except the paintings on the walls, his thoughts turned to Celia. He had been avoiding that. He had kept very busy all morning specifically to that end.
The titillation of desire could not keep away darker reactions to the memories of the dinner last night. Nor could images of her joyful, even enthusiastic, acceptance of pleasure. The truth was he was trifling with her, and did not even know why. He found her beautiful, and fascinating in her unusual view of life; that was true. But he had no interest in a liaison, let alone one that could set her on a path toward more men in the future.
He told himself that if she had not kissed him, things would have never gotten that far. Only he knew that he would have lured her into it anyway. As soon as he saw her in that dress, those caresses became inevitable.
He saw the dress sliding down her shoulder, drawn low by a man’s hand. His hand. This time. The dress suited her too well. Alessandra had known it would enhance all that Celia was when she ordered it.
“One of the public dresses,” Celia had called it. Restrained. Almost demure. Devoid of excess in every way, and more than modest enough. Yet that fabric flowed like water over her body, and hinted at her form more than a man could ignore. No man could see her in it and not imagine her naked, even though the garment offered no scandal.
Like Celia itself, the dress combined innocence and worldliness, modesty and the most sophisticated sensuality. A schoolgirl’s dress, but for a girl schooled by Alessandra.
“His Grace will see you, sir.”
The summons brought him back, to the chamber and the windows. It promised the welcomed reprieve of other things to occupy his mind besides Celia. He needed to complete Edward’s mission quickly; that was clear. It was time to leave London, before he followed the impulse to seduce first and assess the consequences later.
He followed the white wig up the stairs to the duke’s apartment. It sprawled on the level above the public rooms. The wig ushered him into a huge dressing room where Castleford was, surprisingly enough, dressing.
Two valets fussed around the duke. He stood there like a knight being encased in armor instead of a peer being sheathed in superfine. Jonathan took a seat on one of the many chairs and watched the show.
“Good of you to call,” Castleford muttered, with his chin high so valet number one could fix the top button of his shirt without creasing the collar.
“You remember inviting me to do so, don’t you?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Some men only remember sober utterances when they are sober.” Which Castleford was not at the moment. He stood straight enough and his speech did not slur, but his eyes were those of a man who either had already imbibed today, or still carried the effects of the night before.
“I remember everything. The only difference with me is whether I give half a damn, or none at all.”
Valet number two offered Hessian boots for approval. Castleford signaled they would do by sitting in a chair. With smooth moves that belied the effort, the servant slid the boots onto the waiting long legs.
The other man approached with coats in hand, but Castleford shooed him away and told them both to leave. Then he sprawled, hooked one booted leg over the arm of his chair, and smiled at Jonathan like the devil eying the next soul he would steal.
“You came too early. You are supposed to come at night. Ten o’clock would be good, tomorrow. There is a pugilist match to see, and we can find some whores later. I hope you like common ones. I have never understood men paying a hundred pounds for what can be bought for a shilling.”
“I don’t like them too common.”
“I do. Common and lusty and fun. No sad stories of being driven to sin by poverty either. There’s plenty who like the trade.” He eyed Jonathan thoughtfully. “Little Katy would do for you. You’ve spent a lot of time in France and have probably learned to use your tongue well. She fancies that.” He yawned and stretched. “Tomorrow night, then, unless you are occupied with your current mission.”
That was the problem with a man half-drunk. He was wont to speak indiscreetly. Only this indiscretion had been planned, Jonathan suspected.
“The war is long over. There are no more concerns about the coastline.”
“There is always a use for men with your skills. Only it isn’t the Home Office this time, which intrigues me.”
“How do you know whether it is or not, if there is any mission at all?”
“I asked. They don’t like when I do that. It flusters so many people. However, I always get an answer. You would think I was a royal duke, the way it pours out.”
“Perhaps they are afraid that you will kill them if they do not answer.”
“Perhaps so.” He thought about that, and burst out laughing. “I think you may be correct. And here I thought it was deference to my title.”
“It is useful that you collect all that information that you should not have. You probably know more political gossip than anyone.”
He shrugged. “It is more amusing than the twaddle in the drawing rooms about whose fool of a daughter allowed herself to get compromised.”
“It occurs to me that you may know who has set me on a mission, if not the Home Office. Not that there is one, of course.”
“Of course. No, I do not know just who it is. I have not tried to find out. I haven’t decided if I give that half a damn yet, you see.”
Jonathan hoped he would. If Edward did not have him poking into Alessandra’s past on behalf of the Home Office, then for whom instead? He did not like learning that he did the bidding of a man whose name he did not know.
“I can see that I came at the wrong time,” he said. “Before I go, I wonder if you could dig into some of that useless information your curiosity has accumulated, and answer a question for me.”
Castleford looked to the ceiling and groaned dramatically. “You sound like Summerhays. He is always boring me with his political questions.”
“I promise it is only one question. Do you know anything about Anthony Dargent’s father?”
“Dargent? The father left his family to do missionary work, didn’t he? Probably why Dargent turned into such an ass. Chased after that Northrope woman’s girl some years ago. There were some who thought he’d marry her, he was so besotted. There were others annoyed he seemed to have too clear a field.”
“That was generally known, was it?”
“I remember it well. All these men salivating over the pretty virgin. I have never understood the fascination with them. Virgins. For dynastic reasons it is wise to marry one, but that first night has to be clumsy.”
“So you were not interested yourself?”
“Hell, no. Nor in the mother, although she had something to her. You could tell she knew her trade. But if I wanted to swive a woman who subjects me to salons and assemblies and expects diamonds for the effort, I would just get married.”
“I have heard that many others felt differently. Mrs. Northrope was famous for a reason.”
Castleford leveled an unexpectedly direct gaze on him. “So that is what you are doing. Cleaning up after someone’s bad indiscretion. Only it sounds as if you aren’t even sure who he is, and that makes no sense.”
“No, it does not, which should tell you the idea is ridiculous.”
“It certainly is, but that does not mean I am wrong. As for the many others you cleverly encouraged me to remember, I assume they were all titled, like the ones who pursued her openly. Or from families of peers. It was said she was very strict about that, and only gave herself to the best blood.”
“That leaves a lot of men in the pile.”
“In the queue is more like it. And some of them had her while you and I were still boys. Unless she kept a list, you are on a fool’s errand.”
Perhaps not, since the errand was to ensure there was no list. Jonathan had his own reasons for wishing one existed, however.
“If Mrs. Northrope’s patrons were your reason for calling, I am sorry that I have been so useless.” Castleford’s tone did not carry the sarcasm that Jonathan expected. And so he pushed forward when he might have retreated.
“That was mere curiosity, provoked by some coincidental meetings I have had recently. I really came to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course you did.” His eyes glinted with both curiosity and resignation. “The price will be a good rout tomorrow night.”
“The boxing and drinking only. I will pass on the common whores.”
Castleford sighed. “It isn’t as if their vulgarity is catching, Albrighton. It is a hell of a thing that a man has to be a duke before he can freely follow his inclinations.”
“It is not vulgarity that I fear catching, Your Grace.”
That caught Castleford up short. The moment of sobriety passed quickly, however. “What is this favor? Will it amuse me, or be a boring chore?”
“I want you to obtain an audience for me with Thornridge.”
Castleford’s eyes lit with surprise, then dark humor. “So you are going to confront him? Finally?”
“I want to have a conversation with him. That is all.” Castleford swung his leg down and looked at Jonathan long and hard. Jonathan got the sense that the duke was deciding his impulsive condescension toward the bastard had been inspired after all.
“A conversation. Of course.” He grinned. “What fun. I will set my mind on how to trap him, but only if I can be present when you have this chat.”
T
he next day Celia left the house early. More plants would be coming tomorrow, so she wanted this day for herself. She took her cabriolet and drove it east, toward the City. There she called on Mr. Mappleton, as he had written and requested.
Some papers related to her mother’s estate required her signature. After she had completed those formalities, she inquired about the resolution of the debts.
“All are covered, I am delighted to inform you,” Mr. Mappleton reassured.
“No others have come to light? No indications in her records of others possibly outstanding?”
“Not to my awareness. As you know, I never found any account books. It is possible, I suppose, that she simply kept it all in her head.” Rosy tints spotted his pale cheeks. “More discreet.”
“How did you know about the debts now being settled?”
“The lenders and shopkeepers sought me out. They presented documents. In most cases, your mother had her own copies. Even if she did not have an account book, she did have papers.”
“But if a debt is presented to you as executor, how do you know it has not been paid already?”
“Only a fool pays off a debt and does not procure documentation of the fact.”
And Alessandra was no fool.
She took her leave. As she emerged from the building, a tall, blond man approached her, smiling.
Anthony removed his hat and made a deep bow. “Celia, what a happy coincidence.”