The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (23 page)

“Now tell me,” he said.

By the light of the candle, which he’d moved to the bedside table, she watched his clever, characterful face as he listened to her account.

When she finished he frowned. “Are you sure you locked the door?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t forget?”

“Tarquin,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve had a conversation since we came to Mandeville when you didn’t remind me to lock my door at night. No, I didn’t forget.”

“What about the window? Was it open? Could he have come in that way?”

“My room overlooks an enclosed courtyard. It’s a steep drop and even if he somehow climbed the wall he’d still have to get into the house to reach it. Besides, he left by the door and when I followed him a few seconds later he’d disappeared. He’s somewhere in the house. That’s why I didn’t want to stay alone in my room. Do you think Constantine could have broken in?”

“It seems unlikely. And even less likely he could have talked his way in. As you know, there are servants everywhere and a stranger would be spotted at once and questioned. I doubt it was Constantine.”

“Who, then?”

“I don’t know, but more likely one of the servants or guests, or a servant of one of the guests. Are you sure it was a man?”

She narrowed her eyes, reliving the nocturnal visitation. “No, I assumed it was Constantine but it could have been anyone.”

“I’ll ask Blakeney if anyone unusual has arrived at the house, anyone who one might not expect to see here.”

“I think I’m the only guest who answers to that description.”

“I’ll take him into our confidence if necessary, but I’d much rather not explain the situation. It won’t do your reputation any good for our journey across the moors to be known, even if we are engaged.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact she almost missed it. Her heart jolted but the expression on his face was equally detached. “We are not engaged,” she said, hoping for a fervent contradiction.

“You should have thought of that when you came to my room.”

“You know why I came, and no one saw me.”

“And look what happened.”

“That wasn’t my fault. You started it.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yes I did. And since I am not in the habit of seducing respectable single ladies, we shall have to marry. I’m sorry if you don’t like the idea but that’s all there is to it. Prepare to be married.”

“We lay together before and you didn’t think we had to wed. No one need know.”

“Last time you took advantage of me when I was out of my mind. I have no such excuse. I may still not be entirely sane but I take full responsibility for my actions.”

“That’s stupid. You still don’t want to marry me and you can’t make me.” She was desperate for him to argue with her. It wouldn’t take much for her to agree. Just a tiny indication that their marriage would mean more to him than an unfortunate necessity muddled into by mistake. Instead he barely looked at her. “Is this something to do with the duchess?”

“No. The duchess need not concern us.” In this case the confidence in his voice gave her all the assurance she needed.

“What about the countess? What about Lord Hugo? He wants you to her marry her, doesn’t he?”

His face, which hadn’t cracked a smile since the subject of marriage had arisen, looked grim. “If he does, I shall have to disappoint him.”

“I know how important he is to you.”

“You may not be my uncle’s first choice as my bride, but he’ll recover. Now,” he continued briskly, “we need a plan. We can’t announce our betrothal tomorrow. It would appear odd when we’ve spent so little time together. I’ll have to court you for a few days first. It’ll also let me stay close to you so we don’t have any more little incidents like tonight’s.”

Celia felt she was giving in too easily, but there wasn’t any point arguing, for now. Nothing irrevocable would happen immediately and she had to acknowledge she’d enjoy being courted by Tarquin. Perhaps she’d convince herself he meant it.

Perhaps he
would
mean it.

“Are you going to stay close to me all night too?” she asked. She intended the question flirtatiously, fishing for a further compliment on her appeal as a bed partner.

She stood with her hands on her hips, head tilted seductively, and Tarquin wanted nothing more than to accept her invitation and return to bed, together.

Resisting her wasn’t easy, but soon he would legitimately sleep with her, every night. The resumption of his betrothal to Celia felt right, much more so than last time. No need to examine his feelings closely. He still had Hugo to deal with, but he’d worry about that later.

“Your maid will have to sleep with you,” he said, “and I’d better get you back to your room now, before the servants are up and about.” Dawning light through his window told him that wouldn’t be long.

They crept back along the passage to Celia’s room. Within seconds they determined the small chamber was deserted.

“I’m afraid I have to leave you,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Do you wish to send for your maid?”

“She’s not here. She returned to Wallop Hall for the night but I expect her back later this morning.”

“Good. I don’t want you alone at night.”

“No more than I want to be alone.” She bit her lower lip and he read the strain on face. “I hate having to wait for his next move. I want to know what’s going on. When he comes back I’d like to catch him in the act.”

“I like that idea. Unfortunately he may have already been. Your room has been empty for an hour or two and if he was watching he’ll have had time to search every inch.”

“He won’t have found anything because there’s nothing to find.” Celia shook her head in frustration. “What does he want? I have nothing, nothing at all. Every single thing I have with me was either lent to me by Diana or bought in Shropshire.”

“Whoever is after you thinks you have something of value.”

“Constantine took my luggage, my reticule, and my clothing. Whatever it was, I don’t have it anymore.” He was about to offer her a comforting hug when she stiffened. “Wait! The rattle, the silver rattle I gave to Diana for Aldus.”

“Why would anyone want that?”

“I don’t know. It’s not valuable, but it’s the only thing Constantine didn’t take. That, and my shift.”

He couldn’t restrain a grin. “I remember that shift.”

“I think Chantal burned it.”

“Pity,” he said, mulling the situation. Like Celia he had the urge to force the mystery into the light. Only when it was resolved would Celia be safe and they could proceed with their lives, together. The prospect was distinctly pleasing.

“I think we could take advantage of your maid’s temporary absence. Do you think you could tell as many people as possible that some possessions, perhaps a piece of baggage mislaid on the journey, have just arrived at Mandeville?”

Chapter 28

Things aren’t always better in the morning.

“I
am so thankful the missing bag has appeared.”

If she said it once, she said it a dozen times and most members of the house party must have heard it by now. If they wondered why the generally reserved Miss Seaton was suddenly twittering trivial facts about her personal affairs to all and sundry, she didn’t care. She’d had to listen to enough nonsense from them.

Getting attention wasn’t hard. Since Mr. Compton had seated himself beside her at breakfast and appeared rapt in admiration of her wit and beauty, she’d been the subject of much speculation on the part of the ladies and curiosity from the gentlemen. Both sexes, she thought ruefully, found Tarquin’s apparent attraction to her puzzling.

She drifted toward another group, containing a couple of ladies who might conceivably remain in ignorance of the imaginary adventures of her luggage, when a stirring and rustling among the assembled females indicated the arrival of men, come in from the morning’s masculine entertaients. Celia couldn’t help observing that courtship didn’t keep Tarquin away from his regular exercise.

Everyone noticed when he came into a room. She used to believe his influence in the
ton
derived from fashion’s fickle whim: admiration for one who was taller, ruder, and better dressed than any other gentleman. Hard to please, he must be worth pleasing. Now she no longer resented him, she understood his allure. Tarquin possessed a commanding presence as much for his strength of character as for his appearance.

His presence certainly commanded
her
attention. The sight of him at the door aroused a prickling awareness that started in the back of her neck, spread to her shoulders then downward through her body. She was breathless without the least exertion. His gaze swept around the room and settled on her with one of his heart-stopping smiles. He made his way across the room, brushing off the appeals of two peeresses and the wife of a cabinet minister.

A dozen pairs of curious eyes watched him bow low over her hand and murmur her name. “You look delightful this morning.” A dozen heads tilted in their direction, trying to overhear. “Have you had a good day?”

“Thrilling. And you?”

“Very dull. But it’s getting better now.”

“Instead of going out and doing whatever you gentlemen do, you should stay with the ladies. The embroidery! The piano practice! The exchange of beauty secrets! So much excitement is enough to give me palpitations.”

“I can always use a new beauty secret.”

“You’re quite exquisite enough. I’m keeping them to myself.”

“Forget them! You don’t need any.”

She looked at him uncertainly, in case this was one of his remarks like “It doesn’t matter what you wear,” but the admiration in his eyes seemed genuine and he sounded sincere. For the moment she decided to forget he might be acting a part and revel in the enjoyment of being courted by Tarquin. The heat in his gaze reminded her that while he might not love her, he enjoyed bedding her. Perhaps that was sufficient basis for a successful marriage. She looked back at him with what was doubtless a smitten grin.

He raised his voice a notch or two. “Did your belongings arrive from Wallop Hall safely?”

“Yes, thank you. I was so thankful.” She launched into her tale for the sixth time. “I had that box sent by carrier from Yorkshire and I feared it was lost.”

He shook his head mournfully. “Carriers can be so unreliable. And Yorkshire is very large and quite wild. There’s no saying what one may lose there.”

“How true. It’s not the only thing I’ve lost in Yorkshire.”

“Really? Anything in particular?”

Her toes curled in her slippers and she pursed her lips to stifle her laugh. Also, to stop herself from acting on the sudden urge to kiss him. He leaned in and his breath tickled her ear. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. Or perhaps you could show me. Again.”

She stepped back, afraid she
would
kiss him in public, and reapplied herself to the task at hand.

“My maid—she’s really Lady Iverley’s maid—went to Wallop Hall last night and, fancy, there was the box. She brought it back with her this morning and I am so happy to be reunited with many things, including precious family treasures. I feared them lost forever.” Not knowing what she was supposed to have that was so valuable, she was deliberately vague about the contents of the illusory box. Family treasures covered things she might have acquired in India, or during her brief tenure as Mr. Twistleton’s ward.

Since the object was to have people overhear, her annoyance at the interest of those around them was irrational. She wanted Tarquin’s undivided attention and she was loath to share it with anyone, least of all Countess Czerny. She didn’t know how long the countess had been there, a few feet away. Not long. Although the lady moved quietly, adding a serenely swanlike glide to her many perfections, she had a way of making her presence felt. Tarquin was apparently feeling it. He stared at her in a way that made Celia’s heart plummet.

“Miss Seaton,” she said, looking odiously beautiful. “I hope you won’t mind if we borrow Cousin Tarquin from you.” By “we” she meant herself and two of the best born, best-looking, and best-dressed lady guests. Neither one of them had ever given Celia more than the time of day. And, yes, Celia minded very much.

“Mr. Compton may do whatever he likes,” she said.

“I hope, then,” said one of the ladies, an extremely wealthy marchioness, “he will like to tell us what he thinks of Julia’s costume. It’s the latest fashion from Paris and though I like the fuller skirt I find the sleeves very ugly. Do you not agree, Tarquin?”

Julia
emitted a carillon of tinkling laughter. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that the latest fashions are never ugly when they come from Paris.”

“Very true,” Tarquin said. “I wouldn’t dare criticize such an objet d’art as your gown.” He looked her up and down with total absorption, no doubt taking in the details of the countess’s dark red dress made from some rich material Celia couldn’t even name, though she was sure Tarquin could. “But I can safely predict, Jane,”—he called the marchioness by her Christian name—“that in a few weeks, perhaps only two or three, when Cousin Julia’s gown is no longer new, that I shall be able to agree with you that, yes, the sleeves are very ugly.”

Another carillon. “I’ve always heard that no one can slip an insult past one’s guard like you, Cousin.”

“Tarquin is a master of fencing,” said the marchioness.

“Not just verbally,” piped up the third lady, the Honorable Mrs. Someone whose name Celia had forgotten. “He defeated my husband handily yesterday. Poor Edward is practicing for the rematch. You’ll have to join us in the gallery, Julia.”

As Celia had suspected, some of the more favored ladies, those belonging to the inner circles of the
ton
, joined the gentlemen for their mysterious activities. The bubble of excitement engendered by Tarquin’s flirtatious wooing popped, dissipating her sense of well-being and leaving her depressed and ill-tempered.

This was Tarquin’s world and not hers. She mustn’t forget that the lives they found comfortable were oceans apart. She could never be at home in his milieu. To believe otherwise was delusional.