Sinful in Satin (14 page)

He had her there. Her quick denial had been stupid, considering just how much she had enjoyed it. He hardly missed that part. “I only meant that I was not inviting another kiss.”

He laughed quietly, enjoying her little fluster. “So perhaps you did enjoy it, but of course you do not want me to kiss you again.”

“Yes—no—I am not sure,” she admitted. “I wish I were sure, though. It was a nice kiss.”

“Then I will not, if you are not sure.”

She shrugged, and hoped she looked sophisticated and not as much the silly schoolgirl that she felt. “It was only one kiss. One more would have hardly signified much, even if I were not sure.”

He reached out and laid his palm on her cheek, as he had in the garden. His thumb rose to brush her lips, creating a tingle that grew as it spread through her. Desire was in him. She saw it in his taut expression and felt it in the mystery exciting her.

One more kiss, surely. Now. He would—

“It cannot be one more, Celia. It can never be only one kiss again. Do not pretend you do not know that.”

He left then. The chamber did not return totally to what it had been before. He lingered like a scent that would not quickly fade, as if the furniture and walls had absorbed some of his life energy and would quietly echo his invasion for days, reminding her of the excitement waiting if she
were
to be sure.

She looked at those crisp, pristine drapes. What had he seen in them that spoke of her? Virginal purity? Opaque blanks, much like his calling cards?

Perhaps he had seen only symbols of a woman still deciding what colors and patterns to add to her life.

 

 

C
elia did not leave the house for the next two days. Jonathan knew this for certain because he did not either. He remained in his chamber, waiting for her to call for the cabriolet to visit friends or see to other business. With luck she would do so at the same time Marian and Bella went to the market, and he would have time to search without danger of interruption.

His vigil left him time to read the papers and journals that had accumulated during his absence from London. It was foolish to subscribe to such things when one would not have the leisure to enjoy them, he knew. However, the ones in France, while interesting and learned in their own right, only had notices regarding developments in England and Scotland, and he never regretted coming home to find the full reports.

The printing shop to which his mail was sent had been happy to see him claim the large stash that had accumulated. Now stacks towered in his chamber and he systematically worked his way through them. Most described experiments in chemistry or natural processes, but a few itemized new species found on long journeys and several reported industrial developments.

He preferred the investigations related to pure science, although its applications did not bore him. He had always found certainty more compelling than ambiguity, and progress in understanding natural law fascinating. The solidity of science, the small but sure discoveries that could be proven again and again, contrasted markedly with just about everything else in the world that he knew.

On the third day, he was forging his way through a lengthy treatise. It was badly written, but usually that did not deter him. Today, however, it encouraged his thoughts to wander, mostly to an image of Celia wearing that sheer silk dress.

He had no trouble seeing her in it, with her golden hair gathered into a loose, thick knot that begged for loosening, and the soft blush of the silk’s hue complementing her pale beauty. The film of fabric stretched over her breasts, pulling tightly against dark tips that had hardened erotically. A man’s hand,
his
hand, glossed over that silk, causing her breasts to turn heavy and firm and sensitive. Her eye color deepened with the pleasure and a million delightful sparks shone in them and she—

Sounds rumbled through the premises, shattering the fantasy. He heard Marian calling up the front stairs, telling Celia to come down at once and see what had arrived on the street outside.

Curious, he set down his reading and went to look himself, while feminine footsteps gently sounded on stairs below. His own chamber faced the garden, so he let himself into the storage chamber across the way. After he had carried that trunk down to Celia’s chamber, she had neglected to relock the chamber, and he had not reminded her to do so. If she would just leave the house, he would finish this mission quickly.

Down below, in front of the house, a grand coach was stopping. It was the sort of conveyance intended to impress. No more than a few hundred families who used such carriages would be residing in London in winter. A handsome matched pair snorted and stomped in front of it, controlled by a liveried coachman at the ribbons.

He opened the window in order to see better. The footman set down the carriage steps. A fair, Germanic-looking fellow got out, and set his hat on his head. Before the rim obscured Jonathan’s view, he recognized the face.

Anthony Dargent was calling on Celia.

C
elia quickly removed her apron and smoothed her hair. She posed herself on the settee in the front sitting room.

Marian entered with the card. Celia looked into Marian’s eyes and recognized both the concern and curiosity in them.

“Bring him in, Marian. He is an old friend.”

While Marian left to do as bid, Celia nervously eyed her surroundings. The upholstery appeared rather faded in today’s light. She had never noticed that before. The furniture in general was quite humble in this house, compared to the other one Alessandra had owned.

She heard boot steps and her heart beat harder with each one.
Five years
. A good part of her life had passed since she had run from that drawing room that day, heart-broken and disillusioned.

Suddenly Anthony was standing in the threshold. Her nerves calmed at the sight of him. He had lost what had still been a boyish freshness in his countenance back then. Five years had matured him in the most flattering of ways, however, and he was even more handsome now. Even his hair had cooperated, darkening slightly to a color still golden but not so yellow.

She could be excused if she wished he had gone soft, she thought. It would help if his face had turned flaccid, and did not still possess such regular and finely sculpted features.

He bowed in greeting. He had always been a gentleman in his behavior, with Mama and her.

Then suddenly he strode forward until he stood right in front of her, gazing down so intensely that it startled her.

“Celia.” He spoke her name as though he exhaled a word kept inside him too long. He abruptly took her hand in both of his and kissed it.

She extricated it from his hold as gently as she could. “Anthony. It is a pleasant surprise to see you. Won’t you sit, please?”

He considered sitting beside her. She saw it and let her hand flutter toward a nearby chair. He followed her direction.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“I assumed you had come to town, to settle your mother’s estate, so I called on Mappleton to ask after you. Imagine my astonishment when he said you had taken residence here.” He looked around, clearly not impressed by what he saw. “Where have you been? I kept asking your mother, but she would only say you were abroad. She never explained if that meant you were on the continent, or just abroad in England or even London itself.”

“I was not far away. I have even visited town periodically these last years. And you, Anthony? Have you spent much time in town?”

“My duties result in long spells in the country. I have inherited the estate now.”

“And married too. I read when it happened. My best wishes for what I am sure is a wonderful match.”

His expression fell. Anthony had never been very good at hiding his thoughts or emotions. That was why she had been so sure he loved her. What else could all the pained, heartfelt, visible yearning have meant?

He flushed, and some of that prior boyishness returned. “It is an excellent match, for all the usual reasons. However ...” His color deepened. “The truth is that you have never been far from my thoughts, Celia. Sometimes at night I hear you singing, the way you did that first afternoon Stratton brought me to one of your mother’s salons. I find myself judging every woman’s beauty against yours, and I always find them lacking. You have continued to captivate me for five years without even being present in my life.”

It was a fine speech, especially for Anthony, who was not known for his eloquence. It was, Celia considered, the sort of speech that would sound very nice as the prelude to a marriage proposal.

Except Anthony no longer had the choice of making one, did he?

“You flatter me too much.” She made sure her smile was kind but formal. “Better if you sought to be captivated by the good woman who
is
present in your life.”

“That is not at all the same. She has my affection and respect, but—she is not like you.”

“After five years, it is unlikely you know what I am like, Anthony. If you hold fond memories, however, there is nothing wrong with that. We are all permitted those, no matter what our obligations.”

He angled toward her, to bridge the distance made by the seat she had assigned him. “And you, Celia? Do you hold any fond memories?”

She did hold some, deep inside her, too bittersweet to examine after what had happened. They emerged now as he turned that earnest gaze on her. Yet it was only the memories that touched her heart, not the gaze itself. His eyes, so familiar once, seemed to be those of a stranger now.

He
was
a stranger, she realized. Five years was a long time in both their lives. Neither of them was the same person as before. She certainly wasn’t that child anymore.

“The memories are a little vague now. They are from an old chapter in my life. It was kind of you to seek me out, to welcome me back to London, however. One can always use a friend or two in town to call on if problems arise.”

A smile, indulgent and kind. The same smile he had given her when he explained her great misunderstanding of his intentions.

“I did not seek you out only to welcome you back to town, Celia. You must know that. Other women, with different mothers, can pretend to be coy, but it does not suit you.”

His close proximity suddenly made her uncomfortable. She stood and strolled away. He began to rise as well.

“No, please, stay there,” she said. “Let us set aside etiquette. It would be better if you remained in your chair. You mention my mother, and make assumptions about me. Yet you know that I left her home, and her plans for me. Why would you think I have changed my mind about that, and am now being coy?”

He smiled. He made a display of gazing around the chamber. “Because this does not become you. You should be living in Mayfair, not here. You should have a good carriage and pair, not the cabriolet you have been seen driving. You should be wearing silks, not that plain wool. You are no longer a girl. Surely you understand now, that marriages are economic choices. Love . . . may require other arrangements.”

She almost laughed, but managed to swallow her bitter amusement. “Your high opinion of the luxury I deserve is charming. So is your reference to love. Do you think I have spent the last five years pining for you?” She offered her own indulgent smile. “But you are correct that I have come to accept the ways of the world. I do not hold against you what happened. What I wanted from you . . . what I thought you wanted too—well, it was naïve. If it is love you want, perhaps you should seek out another hopeful child.”

He did not take it well. No man would. Mama had warned that many men, his kind in particular, thought they bestowed a great gift on women like them with their interest.

His lids lowered. Irritation flexed over his face. “I have waited too long to be easily discouraged.”

“You should not have waited at all.”

“I had no choice except to wait. You left, didn’t you? After I had given your mother your first two years’ allowance. She put me off about you, and the money, until I knew the latter at least would never be mine again. You, however—”

“You gave her money, and she did not return it after I left?” The revelation came like a slap. The shock shattered her poise.

“She was sure you would return, she said. A brief delay, no more, she said.” He gazed at her frankly.

Her stomach turned.
Oh, Mama
. Account book or not, there was indeed one more debt outstanding on the estate. No wonder he had arrived here so boldly, wearing his assumptions like a new hat, and broached this subject without much ceremony.

He again scrutinized the chamber. “In three months you will hate this house, and this neighborhood. You were born for better. I will take care of you, Celia. You will want for nothing. It will be as originally arranged, and as it was meant to be from the day you were born.”

He articulated only what most of the world thought. She felt her face flushing, because sometimes she thought it as well.

“I was born as we are all born, Anthony. Naked and innocent. The daughter of a whore does not come from the womb with a mark on her brow and soul, inherited like the color of her hair.”

“And are you still innocent, Celia? When last I spoke with Alessandra she believed you still to be.”

“What—? You questioned her on—” They had discussed her, in the end as in the beginning, like an item for purchase. “How dare you quiz me, to be sure the goods have not been used, as if I am a—a—This is too much to bear. I must ask you to leave now.”

“Please hear me out first. It is in your interests to do so.”

“You have no right to assume you know what my interests are.”

“You are foolish to insult me, Celia. You pledged your innocence to me long ago because of our love, and can hardly be shocked at my curiosity about its preservation. I will attribute your behavior now to your surprise at seeing me again. I have perhaps been too impatient, but after five years, I can be excused.”