A Rake’s Guide to Seduction (9 page)

“You recommended having six children and a pack of dogs.” She looked at him in astonishment, and he tapped his temple with a rueful grin. “I remember.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I do, too,” she said slowly, a smile forming on her lips. “The night you saved me from Lord Euston.”

Anthony pretended to shudder. “And the most appalling abuse of poetry I’ve ever heard, before or since.”

“Surely not. Lord Farnsworth once recited his own poetry, ‘An Ode on a Decanter of Brandy.’”

“A love poem, no doubt.”

Celia gave a little gasp of laughter. “I do believe it was!” She shook her head. “Particularly as he was holding the decanter aloft during his recitation. It quite enlivened the evening.” Her smile faded. The moonlight turned her hair dark silver as she bowed her head. “I feel such a hypocrite,” she said. “I don’t want people to talk about me and my troubles, yet I find it amusing when someone else stands on a table and declares his undying affection for the bottle.”

“You’re not a hypocrite at all,” he told her. “A tipsy fellow climbing on a table and composing odes to cheap brandy makes himself a public spectacle and simply cries out to be a figure of fun to others. Farnsworth himself found it amusing, once his head stopped aching. A person’s private troubles, on the other hand, are rarely amusing, and ought never to be proclaimed to all.”

“Some seem to find them so,” came her soft reply.

Anthony shook his head. “Not amusing. Titillating. They delight in knowing someone else’s private concerns, whatever those concerns may be. It’s not about the scandal or the force or the shock; it’s simply about knowing something they have neither right nor reason to know.”

Celia was quiet for a while. “I do believe you’re right,” she said at last. “I never thought of it that way, but…yes. That is very logical. How sensible you are.”

“Ah, now I can retire with my mind at peace,” he said with a smile. “I have said something sensible today.”

“I am sure it is not the first sensible thing you’ve said today.” They had reached the far end of the garden. Celia tipped her head back, looking at the starry sky above. “No more wishing stars,” she murmured. “Just my luck, to have missed the only one tonight.”

“You may have my wish, if you like.”

She just shook her head. “I should go back. Mama will wonder where I’ve gone.”

Without a word Anthony turned back toward the house. The garden was still and peaceful, with only the breeze rustling the trees. She walked with him all the way in silence, then bade him a quiet good night at the door. Anthony watched her go back inside the house; he wasn’t ready to go in himself yet, and it made for an easier parting.

So others were talking about her, and she knew it. He tried to repress the swell of anger at those other guests, who had so little breeding that they would come to whisper about their hostess’s sorrows. It was one thing in London, where razor-tongued old biddies would carve their neighbor’s lives into bits for sport, but these were supposed to be Celia’s friends. David had said so. And if this was how her friends would treat her…

“Lady Bertram?” Anthony started at the voice, coming from the other side of the garden. “Lady Bertram?” it called again. Anthony shook off his thoughts and turned toward the man whose footsteps were already crunching toward him.

“Ah, Hamilton,” said Ned Childress in surprise. Ned was nearly a sort of cousin to him. His father had been cousin to Lord Warfield, Anthony’s uncle, and he and Ned had spent many summers at Warfield’s Scottish estate as boys. Ned was one of Anthony’s few friends. “I was in search of Lady Bertram. Don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”

“Yes, for a few moments. She has returned to the house.”

“Ah.” There was a hint of disappointment in Ned’s voice. “Her Grace asked me to see that she was all right.”

“She appeared perfectly well when I saw her.” Physically, at any rate.

“Right.” Ned hesitated. “What are you doing out here?”

Anthony took a deep breath. “Taking the air, of course. Fine, fresh country air. Nothing like it.”

Ned laughed, understanding at once. “And nothing at all like the air of a drawing room filled with gossiping women.” Anthony smiled faintly and said nothing. “I never understand why they find you so interesting. You’re one of the dullest blokes I know.”

“Spoken like a true friend.”

Ned laughed again. “Of course!” He glanced over his shoulder. “I should go back, if Lady Bertram is not lying ill in the garden. Join me?”

Anthony took another deep breath and let it out. Might as well, he thought, and get it done with. He could hardly spend the entire house party lurking in the shadows. And after seeing Celia and talking to her, of course it was clear he wasn’t the only one chafing at the gossips—even if he were the one better equipped to deal with them. If all he did was divert the busybodies’ attention from her onto himself, at least he would have accomplished something useful. “Of course.”

The first few days of the party were unpredictable. That was the best way Celia could describe them. On one hand, it was lovely to see some friends again, to be in the country again, to be outside in the sunshine and wearing colors. At times she almost began to feel at home and happy again.

But on the other hand, there were times she wanted to flee the entire party. The more time she spent with Jane, Mary, and Louisa, the more she realized her marriage had not been the only one made on short acquaintance and uncertain affection. Louisa liked being a viscountess, but otherwise had little fondness for Lord Elton. Mary’s marriage had been arranged by her parents, and she made no secret of resenting being treated like a child by her elderly husband. Jane was fond enough of Percy, but in a careless sort of way. She thought nothing of sharing his foibles and laughing at him with others. Celia remembered their days as unmarried young ladies having their first Season together, dreaming of romantic love matches with handsome young men, and wondered how they had all become such jaded women in only four years.

And the gossip. Celia had once liked to gossip. Her mother had constantly warned her not to engage in it, but she hadn’t seen the harm in whispering with her friends. It always seemed the best bits had been kept secret from them in any event, as young ladies. Now that the restrictions had been lifted by their married status, though, Celia began to wish she had listened more closely to her mother’s advice.

“Mary told me she intends to seduce Mr. Hamilton,” said Louisa one morning as they sat outside watching the other guests bowl. Earlier the ladies had taken a turn at the green, but now the gentlemen were playing.

“Indeed?” Jane didn’t seem at all as shocked as Celia was by this casual announcement.

“Hillenby wants an heir but doesn’t appear capable of siring one himself, at least not to Mary’s satisfaction.” Louisa leaned forward to scan the trays of refreshments set on the table. “Are there any more of those sweet buns?”

“Mr. Hamilton certainly appears far more capable than Hillenby,” said Jane. “I do wonder if she’ll succeed?”

Louisa pushed away a dish of tarts and smirked. “I doubt it.” She lowered her voice. “Does Mary seem like the kind of woman to attract a man like that?”

“Rumor holds he doesn’t turn away any woman. Percy says Mr. Hamilton’s always been able to get any woman he wants, just with a wink of his eye.” Jane rolled her eyes. “I think he was quite jealous.”

Celia turned to look at the man in question. She wondered if his ears were burning, as the old saying went; did he suspect people were talking of him, barely fifty feet away? He was with some other gentlemen at the green, no doubt talking strategy and shots. From the expressions on some of the gentlemen’s faces, Celia suspected there was money riding on some throws.

Mr. Hamilton was not obviously a rake. He dressed with perfect taste, but not at all in a way that drew attention. He was handsome, although not extraordinarily. Tall and well-built, he wore his rich brown hair cut shorter than was stylish, although it did seem to suit him. His most exceptional feature was his eyes, warm brown eyes that could be as warm as liquid gold, and the way they would fasten on a person and never once leave her, as if he simply couldn’t bear to look away. Until one had the full force of his attention—and those eyes—turned upon her, one might hardly notice him in a crowd.

He caught her looking at him then and tilted his head slightly toward her. His eyes softened even though the smile didn’t reach his mouth. Celia felt the warmth of his regard all the way across the lawn. His attention was so intent on her, unwavering, unflinching, but not bold or even unsettling. It was rather like stepping close to the fire on a cold day. Celia dropped her eyes for a moment, rather surprised at that feeling, and when she glanced back he had turned away, with no sign he had been looking at her, not even when Mr. Childress turned her way and doffed his hat slightly. With a start, Celia looked away from the gentlemen.

“But that’s the point,” Louisa was saying. “If he wanted Mary he could get her—why, I’ll wager he finds her naked in his bed before the party ends. You know Mary never was shy or modest. But if he doesn’t want her…” She smiled, a very superior look. “It’s the chase that matters to rogues like him. If he can get a woman for a wink of his eye, why would he want her? A woman must be unobtainable—a challenge—to attract his attention.”

“Isn’t it odd what makes a woman appealing to a man?” Jane shaded her eyes as she looked toward the green. Her husband was lining up his shot, his face creased with concentration. “When a man is young, it’s all in a woman’s face and form. When a man wants to marry, it’s all her fortune and family. And when he is already married…” She sighed. “Perhaps if she inherited a prize-winning colt he would be as entranced.”

A shouting went up from the green. Percy leaped into the air exultantly. “Did you see that shot?” he cried up at them.

Jane smiled. “Good show, Percy!” He turned back to the other men, laughing and talking some more, and Celia saw a few bits of money change hands. She wondered if her mother knew the guests were wagering on bowls. Mama did not approve of gambling.

“What do you think, Celia?” Louisa had located a platter of Cook’s tender little muffins and put two on her plate. “You’re so quiet, I do hope we’re not droning on and putting you to sleep.”

She forced a small smile. “No. I am just quiet lately.”

“Of course.” Jane nodded sympathetically. “Louisa, those muffins are dreadful for one’s figure. I’m certain my corset is tighter after only two days of eating them.”

Louisa made a face at her but put aside the muffins.

“I think you do Mr. Hamilton an injustice,” Celia said. “Whatever affairs he has, I am sure he is very discreet. He doesn’t like to talk about himself at all.”

Louisa blinked at her in surprise. “I keep forgetting you know him. What was he like as a boy?”

“He was always very kind to me. I never saw any wickedness in him.” Honesty then compelled Celia to add, “I did not know him well and haven’t spoken to him in years. He is my brother’s friend.”

“Oh.” Louisa appeared disappointed. “How interesting it would be to know someone so wicked, and to know what he had been like before.”

“He’s not wicked,” Celia said quietly. “I cannot believe that.”

Louisa looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”

“It is possible,” said Jane. “Everyone said Percy was almost as dissipated.”

“Well, isn’t he?” Louisa plucked another muffin from the tray.

“No,” declared Jane in outrage. “At least, not that I have seen. He gambles a bit and spends far too much time at the races, and I suppose he drinks more than he ought, but I’ve never heard a word of him with a mistress or another woman.”

“Aren’t you fortunate,” said Louisa. “I vow Elton must have a very expensive mistress, the way he scrimps and saves. He’s not spending his income on me.”

“I just wish Percy would show as much animation at home as he does when there’s a game of bowls to be wagered upon.” Jane reached for the tray of muffins, obligingly handed over by Louisa. “I am quite sure Mr. Hamilton doesn’t talk of horses and cards in bed. He wouldn’t have half so many lovers if he did.”

“Perhaps he speaks of them with more spirit,” suggested Louisa with a mischievous grin.

Jane frowned at her, then broke out laughing. “Perhaps. How spirited, I wonder? How might one make horse racing seductive?”

“If any man could, I’d lay money it would be Mr. Hamilton.”

Celia turned her eyes on her hands in her lap. She hated to hear them talk about Mr. Hamilton that way, as if he were a hard-hearted rake who thought only of seducing as many women as possible. She knew there was more to him than that. But this was the sort of gossip she had once gloried in, Celia admitted to herself. She had been happily scandalized and had repeated the shocking tidbits with glee. Who was she to frown on it now, when she had been just as guilty herself?

She couldn’t look at the gentlemen again.

“That’s five pounds on a draw. Do I have that right?” A pause. “Hamilton?”

Anthony pulled his gaze away from the ladies on the terrace. “Certainly.”

Ned grinned. Percy glared at him for wagering on the draw shot. Anthony lifted one shoulder in indifferent apology. Percy was a terrible bowler, and he was the one who had started the wagering in the first place.

Percy took his ball and toed the line, his face grim. Anthony stole another glance toward the terrace. Lady Hillenby had drifted down near the green to join the Misses Throckmorton, two giggly young girls who applauded vigorously whenever Lord William Norwood stepped to the line. He could almost feel Lady Hillenby’s eyes prying at his clothing. She had managed to sidle up against him after dinner last night and murmur a fairly blatant proposition. Even had he been attracted to her, Anthony would never for a moment consider anything so indiscreet at a house party—let alone at this of all house parties. He wondered what Celia had been thinking as she looked at him so thoughtfully just now.

“She’s circling,” Ned murmured. “Watch your back, Hamilton.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Anthony under the shouts of the other gentlemen as Percy, shockingly, made his shot.

“If not your back, then your bed.” Ned laughed at his repressive glance. “Rumor is Hillenby wants an heir.”

“He should get one himself, then.” Anthony grinned and tipped his hat as Percy turned to give him a victorious salute. “He’ll not get one from me.”

“I doubt he could tell the difference.”

“You never know,” said Anthony under his breath.

“If only ladies would throw themselves at me the way they do at you. I at least would appreciate the effort.”

“This doesn’t strike me as the proper setting,” Anthony replied. “There are an awful lot of husbands present.”

“A good point,” Ned agreed. “Although, not all the ladies are married.”

Anthony froze for a moment, then jerked around to follow Ned’s gaze. Ned was looking right at Celia, still sitting on the terrace with Mrs. Percy and Lady Elton. “Lady Bertram is out of mourning now,” Ned went on, lowering his voice but speaking warmly. “A very lovely lady. I vow, she’s almost as beautiful as Percy’s wife.”

Anthony knew most men would consider Mrs. Percy the more beautiful woman, with her dark curls and plump little bow of a mouth, but for him Celia outshone her. Celia was certainly beautiful—he defied any man with blood in his veins to deny it—but her true beauty lay within. Somehow he didn’t expect Ned to know that.

“I wonder…”

“Yes?” asked Anthony curtly when Ned let his wondering linger too long unspoken.

“I wonder if she’s decided to re-enter society,” his friend said slowly, still watching her. “Perhaps marry again. What a fetching bride she would be. And she can’t be above five-and-twenty.”

She was just two-and-twenty, eight years younger than he. Far too young not to marry again. Anthony turned back to the bowlers, regrouping for another match. “I believe she is still recovering from the loss of her husband.”

“But if that were so, would there be so many unmarried gentlemen in attendance?” Ned caught sight of his frown. “I was only speculating. You can’t deny she’s a handsome woman, and with money and position as well. I think I shall make my interest known to her—discreetly, of course—in case she has put off mourning entirely. It’s time for me to marry anyway, and a wealthy widow is an ideal bride for a man in my position. What do you think? You know her family.”

Anthony forced his mouth into a tight smile. “Not well enough to help your cause.”

Ned laughed. “I hardly need help courting ladies. They might not fancy me as much as they do you, but I have my own charm.”

“So you persist in telling me.”

Ned waved it away, his mood unaffected. “Have pity, Ham. What of her family? Lady Bertram’s a bit above me, widow of the Lansborough heir and sister of a duke. Have I got a chance, a mere gentleman?”

Anthony longed to say no. He risked another glance toward Celia. She had put her head down and turned away from the other ladies. In her straw bonnet and pale dress, she was blanched by the sun almost as pale as an alabaster statue, so still and remote. Who was he to say what would please her? He knew she didn’t have any sort of immodest pride or ambition that would cause her to reject Ned just for his lack of title. He also didn’t think Ned would be the man to touch her heart…but who was he to say that, either? He really must stop thinking he knew anything about her. “As good a chance as any, if her heart is engaged,” he said quietly. “She’s a most gracious lady.”

“Excellent.” Ned’s face cleared. “Most excellent.”

Anthony didn’t look at the ladies again.

That evening Celia made the mistake of sitting near the Throckmorton girls after dinner. She had thought to escape Mary and Louisa’s chatter about scandal and lovers but soon found she had not improved her situation. Daphne and Kitty were only a few years younger than she, but they seemed decades younger as they giggled and chattered to each other. Celia had known them both for years, as their mother was her mother’s dearest friend. It gave her quite a shock to realize Daphne and Kitty were the same age she had been when she married Bertie, and yet were still as silly as they had been at ages eight and nine.

“What a lovely party, don’t you think, Lady Bertram?” said Kitty with a giggle.

“The finest party we’ve ever been to,” put in Daphne before Celia could even open her mouth. “Mama was so delighted to tell us we were both to attend, because, of course, next year is to be our Season in London—”

“Although I still do not think it fair I should have to share my Season with you,” Kitty complained. “I am older and should have my own Season.”

“You are not even a year older, and why should I have to wait a year when I am prettier? I am quite sure I shall land a husband very soon and then you can enjoy your Season alone.”

Kitty’s eyes snapped. “Perhaps I shall have a husband even before next Season!”

“Well, if you mean Lord William I hope you don’t hold your breath expecting him to propose,” Daphne retorted. “Everyone can see he favors me. Lady Bertram, don’t you agree? Surely you’ve noticed.”