The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (20 page)

From the terrace he had a splendid view of the gardens leading down to the lake, but the only humans in sight were servants. Giving up any pretense of insouciance he caught one of the gardeners who, yes, had seen a gentleman pass this way, with
two
ladies, on their way to the kitchen garden. The presence of a second lady relieved his anxiety for an instant, until he recalled the existence of Mrs. Stewart and her possible part in the mystery of Celia’s kidnapping. Yet a kitchen garden seemed a benign enough spot, and likely to be full of laboring outdoor servants.

Nevertheless he hot-footed the quarter mile or so to the ten-foot wall surrounding an enclosure commensurate with the vegetarian requirements of the vast household. Tearing through the wrought iron gate he was greeted by female laughter. He discovered Celia and Minerva between two rows of raspberry canes. Standing in the middle of the trio, stuffing himself with ripe berries, was William Montrose.

“What in the name of Jupiter do you think you are doing, going off like that?” he roared. Three heads turned in unison, three reddened mouths fell open. His attention fixed on Celia’s stained lips. Good God in Heaven! It was bad enough trying not to kiss her under normal circumstances.

“I was with Minerva and Will,” she protested. Will! She called him
Will
.

“And how was I supposed to know this fact?”

“How was
I
supposed to tell you, since you weren’t present when they called?”

“You could have left word.”

Minerva broke in. “The duchess knew. We paid our respects to her. Blakeney saw us too.”

William Montrose said nothing. He merely folded his arms and looked quizzical. Tarquin, beginning to feel foolish, hoped the other man’s hands were covered in raspberry juice and soiling his coat.

He returned his glance to Celia and, wishing to avoid that tantalizing mouth, fixed his eyes on a small red mark on the bodice of her peach-colored gown. Not a good idea since it was less than an inch from the lace trim on the low neck. Not that there was anything unduly revealing in her dress. A pleated chemisette covered her chest from bodice to chin. But pale rosy mounds gently swelled, veiled but not completely hidden by the sheer gauze, every bit as enticing as an overt display of flesh. He gulped down a breath.

“I’m having the best time in days,” Celia said. “All the ladies do here is gossip and practice their accomplishments and take little walks in the formal gardens. The Montroses know how to have fun.” She lowered the hand, plucked a fat berry and sucked it into the red oval of her lips. “Mmm. Delicious.”

“Does the duchess know you are eating her fruit?” It was all Tarquin could think of to say, like a killjoy schoolmaster.

Minerva looked at him in disbelief. “The head gardener knows me.” Trust the younger Montrose girl to make all the right connections, even in the world of fruit.

“Don’t let us keep you.” William Montrose spoke for the first time. “I’ll keep Celia safe and see her back to the house.” He looked broad and muscular and confident.

Tarquin drew himself up to his superior height and flexed his shoulders, contemplating a suitable snub. He knew he was behaving like an ass but couldn’t seem to help it. “Thank you, Montrose. There’s no need. Miss Seaton is my responsibility. We should return now. The party has plans for the afternoon and we will be missed.” He plucked a particular large fruit from the bush and tossed it into his mouth. “Miss Seaton?” he said, crooking his arm.

Her glance was resentful and her pout sullen, but she began to comply when Minerva called her back. “Before you go, Celia, I have something private to tell you. Will, please go ahead with Mr. Compton.”

He found himself walking two abreast along the path to the gate with William Montrose. The afternoon sun reflecting off the tall walls exacerbated his discomfort. Behind him he registered a whispered exchange of words.

“You’ll want to know,” Montrose said, perfectly at ease, even a little amused, “that Constantine hasn’t been seen in Mandeville Wallop again.” Tarquin acknowledged the information with a nod. “As far as we can tell,” William continued, “he hasn’t been on the other side of the park in Duke’s Mandeville, either, but we can’t be certain, though we did our best to describe him to the villagers there.”

“Thank you,” Tarquin replied. “Until I receive a report from my man in Yorkshire on his inquiries there, there’s not much we can do but wait for the fellow to reappear.” He clenched his fists, the need to stay and keep an eye on Celia at war with his instinct for action, his urge to go out and track down her kidnapper and beat the truth from the man.

The two girls laughed behind him and as he turned he caught Celia tucking a book behind her skirts. “The bit about the rat was the best,” Minerva said. At least, that’s what it sounded like.

Chapter 24

The meaning of polite conversation is not always obvious.

“I
’m glad you walk at a reasonable pace,” she said after a while. They’d been striding along in silence. “I’ve been aching for some exercise. The ladies here tend to mince along with tiny little steps.”

“You don’t mince. I’ll give you that.”

She stopped and dropped him a curtsey. “I’m so gratified to finally gain your approval for something.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

She raised her chin. “It’s been days and you haven’t once commented on my dress. Though I know I’ll never be a beauty, I think Diana’s maid has made me look nice. But not elegant enough to draw a compliment from the great Tarquin Compton. I am sorry I was so presumptuous.”

Stepping back, he subjected her to the practiced survey with which he had assessed the appearance of a hundred ladies: hair arranged in neat curls under a low-crowned Leghorn bonnet trimmed with orange satin; eyebrows artfully plucked to a fashionable arch; peach muslin round gown with long sleeves descending to a fancywork cuff and deeper matching embellishments at the hem; orange kid slippers.

But this was merely surface. He was drawn back to her face: to gray eyes, now stormy with rebellion, that roiled with every emotion; skin like a white peach, and the wide fruit-stained mouth; the strong slim column of her neck. His fingers itched for the warmth of her skin, veiled by thin gauze. Back to the mouth, rapidly becoming the object of his obsession.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” he said.

He’d hurt her, he saw at once. “Oh,” she murmured, eyes stricken. Then she thrust back her shoulders and gave her head a brief shake. “I see. I never did have the ability to look modish. At least I no longer resemble a cauliflower.”

“No,” he said. “Nor any other vegetable. You look very well.”

And that was the most he could give her. He couldn’t possibly explain that, alone of any woman he’d met, he didn’t see her appearance, only her essence. She could be wearing rags—he’d
seen
her in rags—and she’d be the same. Just Celia, the irresistible conundrum, the transparent yet deceiving enigma.

Crossing the bridge over a narrow stretch of the lake, the garden front of Mandeville House sprawled above them. An awning had been erected as shelter from the sun and a dozen or so guests, mostly ladies, clustered beneath it. Her face expressed her reluctance to rejoin the house party.

“Let us sit a while,” he said on impulse. A convenient bench was shaded by a spreading elm yet in public view. Half an hour in his company would raise Celia’s standing in this critical milieu. It would also allow him private conversation with her under circumstances that precluded him doing anything foolish.

“I’m sorry you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

“How long will I have to stay here?”

“Until we know something definite about Constantine.”

“I wish he’d appear again. I’m so tired of waiting.” She exuded tension. Tarquin wondered if it was only fear of the unknown threat, or something akin to the strain under which he labored in her presence. “And I am so tired of the heat!” She fanned herself with her right hand. The left rested between them on the bench. She wore no gloves and her fingers, slender and strong, were lightly tanned and stained with raspberry.

“Mr. Compton,” she began. “Tarquin. I don’t think I have really apologized to you for my behavior when I discovered your memory had gone.”

“No,” he said. “You haven’t. In fact you made it very clear you thought it entirely justified by my own transgressions.”

“In a way I do. But I was wrong to think you’d abandon me. I’ve learned you are a better man than that.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

Before she averted her glance he saw her eyes glisten and he realized, through everything they’d shared, he’d never once seen her weep. She spoke almost in a whisper. “I was afraid of being left alone.”

He wanted to draw her into his arms but in view of the gossiping hordes he couldn’t even take her hand. He rested his own on the bench beside hers and nudged her little finger with his. “You’ve really been alone since your father’s death, haven’t you?”

Celia nodded. The sympathy in his voice, the gentle touch of his finger, threatened to undo her. She stared down at their hands on the bench and dared not say a word lest she burst into tears.

“You told me of the day you heard the news, when you were waiting at the port for him to join you for the voyage home to England. It must have been a dreadful moment for you.”

Home. When the messenger came with news that her father had been killed on the road to Madras, she had to make the trip with only strangers for company, the months-long voyage halfway around the world to throw herself on the mercy of an uncle and aunt she’d never met, in a country she’d never seen. Unthinkingly Tarquin called England her home, but she still wasn’t sure it ever would be for her.

She remembered lying in the dark on the moors under her blanket, telling him the story. Was it only a couple of weeks ago? It seemed an age. Nostalgia pierced her. Those days with Terence Fish had been, for all their discomfort, some of the happiest of her life.

“I’d like to tell you about the day I learned of my father’s death, of my mother’s too.”

Her head jerked up as his voice penetrated her sadness. He’d never confided anything personal to her. When they’d been friends and lovers he’d known nothing personal to confide. His dark eyes met hers with a softer gaze than she’d yet seen in Tarquin.

Then he stared ahead. “I was nine years old and it was summer in Yorkshire.” He paused, his eyes narrow as though recalling a vision. “A summer day, much like this one. I went fishing with one of the village boys. Dickon, that was his name. Dickon Mossley. He could catch trout without rod or line, using only his hands. He called it tickling.”

“I’m grateful to Dickon for teaching you.” She strove to keep her voice from wobbling. “That fish was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“It took me a few years of trying, but that day I finally managed to tickle a fish myself. The first and last time until last week. I’m surprised the skill remained.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t have remembered it if you hadn’t lost your memory.” Her remark didn’t quite make sense but he understood what she meant.

“You may be right. Of course, strictly we were poaching, or Dickon was, but my father wouldn’t mind. I knew he’d be proud of me. But I couldn’t tell him because he and my mother were away from home. They’d traveled into Wales to visit relations. Only my two older sisters were home and I knew they’d be bored by my little trout. Imagine my joy when I saw a traveling carriage drawn up at the front door of Revesby.”

Celia wanted to take Tarquin’s hand, but she knew how it would appear to the merciless onlookers above. She owed it to him not to further compromise him in any way. A fleeting touch to his sleeve was all the physical acknowledgment she could offer.

“I thought they’d come home early. But it wasn’t them. It was the duke and duchess who’d driven over to tell us my parents’ carriage had fallen over the edge of a mountain road.”

The longing to touch him was almost unbearable. She glared up at the ladies fluttering like butterflies at the top of the grassy slope, blithely unaware of the poignant scene below them, but surely alive to any contact between them. “I’m sorry,” she said. Inadequate words. Their little fingers touched again.

“After that I never lived at Revesby again.” His voice sounded almost strangled.

“But you could.”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

“It’s a fine house.”

“I suppose it is,” he said flatly, moving his hand to rest on his crossed knee, “if you like things on the rustic side.” He was retreating from painful memories—she could understand that—and in doing so she was losing him for he also retreated from their moment of empathy.

In desperation she tried to call it back. “And that trout, and the water from the brook, are the foods from your land and gave you strength. It
is
your home.”

“I remember that conversation,” he replied. “For the record I have never set foot in Cornwall in my entire life.”

He sounded angry again, reminded of her perfidy. Not the least of their differences was that those days on the moors, so happy in her recollection, to him represented humiliation and deception.

Their brief truce was over. She had been tempted to reciprocate his confidence, to tell him her loss that day was more than just that of her father, that she’d known then she’d never see her two young half brothers again. Though she was not, in fact, without family, she had no idea where her father had sent Ghazala and her children. They were lost to her forever, somewhere in a vast continent thousands of miles away.

She wouldn’t tell him now. It would be better if he never learned what a scandalous woman he’d been prepared to wed. Especially if he were to marry someone else. The Countess Something-or-Other who sounded quite loathsome with her wonderful Parisian gown. But very suitable for Tarquin who thought it didn’t matter what she, Celia, wore because her appearance was hopelessly beneath his standards.

Suddenly she couldn’t bear to be in his debt, but the only recompense she could offer was her genuine contrition.

“I didn’t finish my apology,” she said. “I realize how much harm I might have caused you and I hope you will be able to recover.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“It never occurred to me that you might be courting another lady, engaged even. I would never have . . . lain with you had I known.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“One of the ladies mentioned you were to wed a countess.” She peered at him around the rim of her bonnet. She was horrified to find the answer important to her.

Damn
.

Celia was not given to profanity, even in her own thoughts. The present inconvenient truth inspired her to worse language, some of the vocabulary she’d learned in the memoirs of Francis Featherbrain, words too wicked to speak aloud.

She was dreadfully afraid that she was in love with Tarquin Compton.

Little wonder she’d been unable to muster pleasure at William Montrose’s obvious admiration. She was mad not to encourage the courtship of an attractive man of good character, excellent prospects, and delightful family. And yet she could not because she pined for a man who didn’t really exist. And by sharing an important part of his history with her, Tarquin had given her just enough of a hint that Terence Fish was alive and well so that she couldn’t contemplate wedding another man.

All the things she disliked about him faded away as surface irritations. She thought only of his strength, the way he’d protected her, both on the moors and now when he refused to abandon her as long as she was in danger. She recalled that Lord Iverley, the opposite of a fashionable fribble and one of the cleverest men she’d ever met, was his close friend. There was much more to Tarquin than he allowed most of the world to see.

But the fact that Celia Seaton remained fathoms beneath his touch made her infatuation distressing. She had to trust it was only infatuation and she would recover as soon as she escaped his constant company. If she truly loved him the future looked bleak. She only hoped she’d be far away from him when he married another.

The beautiful Julia Czerny hadn’t entered Tarquin’s mind in days. When he did think of her, she still seemed a very desirable bride. But she didn’t occupy his thoughts the way Celia did. His urge to confide in her, sparked by her need for comfort, had taken him by surprise. He’d been forced to retreat in good order when she began to ask questions about his past life he wasn’t ready to answer. Or even consider what the answers might be.

His guardian, the duke, had educated him in the obligations of the landowner, but at a distance. The duke employed excellent stewards at his numerous properties and made sure the Revesby estate was well run by a good man. But old memories were starting to intrude.

Leaving the house on his sturdy pony, trailing his father’s cob as they inspected the flocks of sheep, the condition of the barns and walls.

Fishing in the trout stream, with rod and tackle and Papa baiting his hook.

Cricket in the garden. Through all his triumphs playing for his school and university, he’d let himself forget how his father first put a bat in his hands and bowled him easy lobs.

Hugo had always been amused by his sporting pursuits. “At least, dear boy,” he would say, “all that exercise helps maintain your figure.”

Hugo, to whom he owed so much. Hugo who, unlike his parents, had never left him.

Hugo who wanted to arrange a marriage for him with Countess Julia Czerny.

Perhaps it was a good thing Celia had heard gossip about himself and Julia. It was inevitable that news of their connection had spread and made him remember that he might, in fact, have an obligation to the lady.

“I’m not engaged,” he said, smoothing out a wrinkle in his sleeve.

“But you have an understanding?”

Given the confusion of his feelings, he avoided a direct answer. Although he had no idea of Celia’s sentiments, he did not wish to give her the wrong idea until he knew his own.