The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (19 page)

“Excuse me, ma’am. I do not believe we are acquainted.”

The young woman’s face fell. “Oh, indeed . . .”

“Lady Felicia Howard,” said one of the gentlemen.

Tarquin bowed. “Lady Felicia, your most humble servant.”

“You knew that girl perfectly well! How can you be so callous?” Celia hissed at him once the party drifted on. “You are rude.”

“I never encourage uarried girls. I wouldn’t want to give them ideas.”

“Do you have any idea how arrogant that statement is? You insulted her by pretending not to know her. If she knows you were pretending. If not, if she really thinks you have forgotten her, her feelings must be hurt.”

“Really? How do you know what Lady Felicia feels?”

“Because, Mr. High-and-Mighty . . .”

“Enough! I remember now. I ruined your life by forgetting your name . . .”

“
Pretending
to forget my name.”

“And you called me Terence Fish.”

“It served you right,
Fishy.
I shall never apologize for
that
.”

Their squabble, conducted a couple of tones above a whisper, was beginning to attract attention. He placed a warning hand on Celia’s arms and raised his voice. “I am sure you are right about that, Miss Seaton. Let me accompany you to the tea tray.”

He meant that he believed she’d never apologize. But perhaps it did serve him right. The idea that the reverence of the
ton
gave him the right to be unkind aroused his conscience. He’d noticed how unhappy Celia was, standing alone in this vast room full of indifferent strangers. Many who lacked the birth and connections, or even just the beauty and personality, to impress the leaders of the beau monde must feel like that much of the time. Why, even he could recall feeling awkward and out of place as a youth, before Hugo took him in hand.

Fishy
. His lips twitched. Inventing a silly name for him wasn’t such a terrible crime. And Terence Fish was a funny one.

But the comic christening was only the beginning of Celia’s deceptions. Far worse was the way she’d misled him into behavior unbecoming to a gentleman. Worse still was that he would very much like to repeat the misconduct and he no longer had the excuse that they were betrothed.

Chapter 23

When a gentleman offers advice, pretend to consider it before doing whatever you originally intended.

I
n three days as a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Hampton, Celia learned two things. Young ladies had a very dull time of it at gatherings of the politically prominent; and she, Celia Seaton, was virtually invisible. The two facts were not necessarily connected.

No one quite knew what to make of her. She was accepted as being a slight acquaintance of Lord Blakeney’s, invited as a courtesy to his eccentric neighbors the Montroses whose house was too small to accommodate their entire family. To be an excess visitor of such an undistinguished family put her beyond anything but the most perfunctory of notice.

To her surprise she didn’t much care. The previous year she longed to be one of the inner circle; now she was a disinterested and often bored observer. Had she any knowledge of politics, she might have found meaning in the machinations of the Members of Parliament who spun in the Duke of Hampton’s orbit. Most of the men and a few women, older friends of the duchess, were gripped by weighty matters of state or wallowed in the shallows of patronage and political jockeying.

When in London she’d heard people boast of being invited to the great country houses, she’d been curious and envious. But once she got over the beauty and splendor of the mansion and became accustomed to the army of servants, there wasn’t much to do. The gentlemen may have been having fun; she wouldn’t know; they were absent most of the day. The ladies sat around and talked, dabbled in genteel accomplishments, and waited for the next meal when the gentlemen would join them.

Tarquin, needless to say, didn’t share her invisibility. She doubted most of the three or four dozen guests at Mandeville even connected her with him. They were simply too thrilled to have the famous dandy among them. Hearing the ladies flutter like deranged doves in his presence, preening and flapping to win his attention, reminded her of the miserable days of her London season. The third morning of her stay, the younger members assembled in the Yellow Morning Room, a modest designation for a large and elaborately decorated chamber. At breakfast there had been some talk of cricket among the gentlemen and to Celia’s surprise she gathered Tarquin was to take part. Despite firsthand observation of his prowess as a boxer, not to mention direct knowledge of his muscles, seeing him in this milieu made it difficult to recall his appearance and behavior in those other circumstances.

As happened far too frequently, her glance was drawn across the room to where he stood with two or three of the gentlemen. Always the center of attention in any group, regardless of sex, he said something that raised a crack of laughter. A response from one of the men drew a brief smile. Celia remembered that smile, all too rare but transforming his face from stern judgment to irresistible warmth. Her knowledge of Tarquin as a very different man from the social peacock came flooding back as her heart thumped, heat suffused her torso. Oh yes, indeed. Under the perfect grooming Tarquin Compton possessed a physicality that was belied by the tailored shell. She felt a little short of breath as she remembered what lay beneath the exquisite clothing.

“Do you think Mr. Compton handsome, Miss Seaton?” She’d been caught staring, luckily by Lady Felicia Howard. Celia had become quite fond of the youngest, kindest, and dimmest of the female guests.

“I don’t believe anyone denies that his appearance is perfect in every way,” she replied.

“Do you think so? Of course, he is very well dressed. Everyone says so, though I like to see a gentleman wear a little color. He is so severe, and satirical too. I find him quite frightening.”

“Do not, I beg you, Felicia, say anything foolish in front of Mr. Compton.” Lady Felicia’s dominating married sister, Lady Georgina Harville, joined the conversation. Or rather she joined her sister, whom she was desperate to wed to Lord Blakeney. Celia, she ignored. “He may say something to Blakeney and all your prospects will be dashed. Why must Mr. Compton come here at this time? He rarely accepts invitations to country houses. I didn’t even know he was a friend of Blakeney’s.”

“I wonder whom Mr. Compton will marry,” Felicia said. “I can’t imagine any girl being good enough for him.”

“Do not even think about him,” her sister ordered, mostly unfairly, Celia thought, since Felicia’s question had been driven by idle curiosity rather than the least interest in Tarquin as a potential husband. “He is to wed Miss Bromley.”

“Belinda?” Felicia giggled. “She must be two feet shorter than him.”

“I had it a month ago from the Duchess of Amesbury herself. As his aunt and hers she is in a position to know.”

Celia wasn’t aware she’d tensed up, till she found herself relaxing. It amused her to be privy to knowledge the so-fashionable Lady Georgina lacked: that his aunt the duchess was the last person Tarquin Compton would take into his confidence, and any niece of hers the last girl he’d marry. She’d love to hear Lady Georgina’s reaction to the information that Tarquin had preferred to marry
her
.

Another lady entered the discussion. “
I
heard that he is all but betrothed to the widowed Countess Czerny. She is a connection of the duke and very wealthy. Mr. Compton has no need to settle for a lady of lesser fortune and I daresay Miss Bromley has no more than twenty thousand pounds. Lord Hugo favors the countess and his influence is great. They are to be wed before Christmas.”

“Don’t say! I met the countess at Devonshire House. I never saw a more elegant gown. Straight from Paris, I swear on my honor. It seems that skirts are to be much wider next year.”

Don’t talk about skirts
, Celia silently begged. She wanted to hear more about this countess. The minute her name was mentioned she’d had an ominous feeling.

Lady Georgina’s brow creased. Clearly she was torn between pique at having her own gossip contradicted and fascination with this new tidbit. “I must admit they would be well suited. I cannot imagine a more elegant pair. Are you quite certain?”

“My mother had it from her cousin Lady Juno Danvers.”

“Of course, Lady Juno is almost as old as Lord Hugo and they’ve been acquainted forever.”

“Came on the town in the reign of George II, can you imagine?”

Don’t talk about Lady Juno.

“I believe Lord Hugo once offered for Lady Juno but the old earl, her father, wouldn’t hear of it.”

“She would have been better off than with Danvers. Bad blood there.”

“Lady Juno was heartbroken. On the other hand it’s difficult to fancy Lord Hugo wed, the dear old gentleman.”

Celia was ready to scream. She had no interest in a putative and long-forgotten romance between two people she’d never met, but was consumed with curiosity about Countess Czerny and Tarquin. While she could dismiss the power of the duchess, she knew of his affection for his Uncle Hugo.

It had never occurred to her that he might have an understanding with another woman. Not a formal engagement, for surely he wouldn’t then have offered for her. But if he had courted this countess, come close to making her an offer, her own deception was all the more shameful.

Perhaps Tarquin was in love with Countess Czerny. Celia envisioned her: beautiful, dressed in the height of fashion, possessed of an intriguing foreign accent and a fortune that made twenty thousand pounds seem contemptible.

She scarcely noticed when the ladies drifted off into recollections of other ancient alliances and never returned to the present day before the arrival of Lord Blakeney. Lady Georgina nudged her sister, who tried to look enticing. At least that was Celia’s interpretation of an expression that put her in mind of a friendly mouse. Felicia needn’t have bothered.

“How are you, Miss Seaton? Are you being looked after?” Blakeney made a point of inquiring at least once a day. He even, with a little effort, remembered her name. It was likely the only reason anyone bothered to speak to her at all, his attention and that of Mr. Compton. Though after the first day Tarquin had spoken to her very little.

“Very well, thank you, my lord. I am quite comfortable.”

“Excellent. We’re having a cricket match tomorrow. Some of you ladies must come and watch.”

“I’d rather play than watch.”

“A lady who plays cricket? Compton, come here!” Tarquin, who had ignored her throughout breakfast, excused himself from his conversation. “Did you know Miss Seaton is a cricketer, or a cricketress, rather?”

“A cricketrix, perhaps? How very Amazonian.” He bowed to her. “Is there no end to your accomplishments?”

Foreign countesses, she was quite sure, never played outdoor games with small boys. The thought made her surly. “Don’t put yourself out to compliment me,” she said, “if you can’t sound as though you mean it.”

Tarquin knew he didn’t and he knew he was being unfair. Abandoning Celia to the mercy of the fashionable ladies staying at Mandeville was not the behavior of a gentleman. A little more attention on his part would make her life easier. He never underestimated his own power. Yet it was all he could do to exchange a few civil words when the whole party gathered at breakfast or dinner. The rest of the time he avoided the ladies and, despite the heat, spent most of his time joining the sporting pursuits beloved of Blakeney and his cronies: riding, sparring, and fencing, or playing tennis in the court built in imitation of Henry VIII’s at Hampton Court.

He’d always cultivated his physique, but generally he balanced his sporting and intellectual interests. Now he was spending several hours a day pushing his body to the limits of its endurance so that he could make it ignore its primary urge: to indulge in what was perhaps his favorite physical activity.

But it wasn’t the current lack of a mistress that was driving him to distraction. It was the presence of one maddening woman whom he was determined to avoid. Celia Seaton had nothing—
nothing
—to recommend her as a wife. No fortune, no connections, no
ton
, and a dubious character. Since the minute he’d woken up without an idea of his own identity, her only honorable act had been to release him from the engagement his own honor had demanded of him. He’d narrowly avoided being tied to her for life and he ought to get down on his knees and thank God in his infinite mercy for sparing him that fate.

And yet. And yet she had something, something that drew his eyes to her when they were in the same room. Something that made him itch for her company and her impertinent conversation. Something that kept him awake at night as he contemplated finding her bedroom, now empty of Minerva’s shielding presence.

Fearing loss of control he kept away from her, relying on the presence of the swarms of guests and servants to keep her safe while he awaited the report from his Yorkshire agent whom he’d ordered to discreetly investigate Constantine’s visit to the Baldwin household, and the character and movements of the mysterious Mrs. Stewart.

“Don’t forget,” he began, drawing her away from Lady Georgina’s group.

“I know,” she said. “Don’t go outside alone or with fewer than two gentlemen or half a dozen ladies. Try never to be alone. Stay in the house as much as possible. I could hardly forget. You tell me every time we meet.” She folded her arms and curled her wide mouth in a sulky—and tempting—pout.

He wanted to strangle her. Or kiss her. “It’s for your own safety.”

“I am deeply grateful.” She didn’t sound even shallowly grateful. “Now excuse me. You have cricket to practice and I have embroidery to admire.” She turned her back on him and took a seat next to an elderly lady famous for her devotion to tent-stitch. Tarquin stamped out of the room in search of a cricket bat.

An hour of knocking Charles Harville’s bowling all over the field calmed him. Having washed off the sweat and changed his linens, he descended in a conciliatory mood, determined to say something nice to her, pay her a little attention to encourage the other ladies. It took him five minutes searching to establish that she was nowhere to be seen.

On a couple of occasions he’d noticed Celia—lucky woman—in company with Lady Georgina Harville and her sister. Suppressing all visible symptoms of rising panic, or even excessive interest in the answer, he asked them if they knew where Miss Seaton was.

“I haven’t seen her since soon after breakfast when you were speaking to her,” Lady Georgina replied with barely disguised curiosity.

“I saw her through the window on my way here,” said her giggling sister. “She was walking through the lower garden toward the lake path.”

“Alone?” He
would
strangle her.

“She was with a gentleman.”

His heart pounded. “Who?”

“A stranger. I didn’t know him.”

Tarquin wanted to shake the girl till she stopped tittering. He refrained because he doubted Lady Felicia’s ability to provide a sensible description of the man who, he very much feared, might be Constantine. He couldn’t even ask whether Celia appeared to be going willingly without provoking undesirable questions.

Striding from the room with an urgency unbecoming to a man of legendary coolness, he almost broke into a run as he passed through the oversized hall, down an endless arched corridor and through the massive scarlet saloon to the doors leading onto the garden front terrace. Damn it, why did these ducal houses have to be so ridiculously large?