The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club)

by Miranda Neville

Like every other girl, she’d yearned for a word of approval from a man who could make or break a reputation. She’d admired the supreme elegance of his figure, his clever hawkish face that made softer and fairer men seem clumsy and commonplace. And as a nervous aspirant to the beau monde, from her stance on the fringes of the ballrooms she’d envied the way he seemed not to give a damn for the opinions of others.

  That was at first. Later her pride rebelled against his determined ignorance of the very fact of her existence. Nevertheless she’d been pleased when his aunt, the Duchess of Amesbury introduced them, again. But then his careless insult had destroyed her slender standing and ruined her hopes of making a suitable marriage. The fury and humiliation of that moment burned as though it were yesterday.

  The most influential gentleman in London, a nonpareil adored by all, had compared her to a cauliflower. Only concern for her unshod foot restrained the urge to kick the man while he was down.

  Balked of revenge, she considered her next move as a reluctant Good Samaritan. Water. Cold water on his forehead ought to revive him. Since she couldn’t get into the cottage while his body blocked the door, she went around the building to check for an alternative entrance. While contemplating the possibilities of the single window, a groan summoned her back. Mr. Compton had woken on his own and risen to his knees. He looked up at her approach, stared at her for a few seconds, shook his head as if to clear it. Then he tried to stand and swayed, extending an arm to the ground to retain his balance.

  “Do you think you ought to stand?” she asked.

  If he noticed the grudge in her tone he gave no sign of it. “I’m not doing any good down here.” He felt the back of his head. “It appears someone hit me.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He examined the red stain on his fingers. “So I am. No wonder it hurts. I would be in your debt, madam, if you would lend me your arm. Without it I fear I may ignominiously fall back into the dirt.” The words might entreat but the tone reeked of arrogance. As he regained strength he sounded like the Mr. Compton she knew and loathed.

  “Here,” she said. “And try not to get blood on my shift. It’s all I have.”

  With fastidious care he wiped his fingers on the grass. Then, with the commanding grace that befitted the lion of the London drawing rooms, he placed the clean hand on her arm and rose to his feet.

  She’d forgotten how tall he was, one the few gentlemen she’d met who towered over her. He looked down at her and she blushed. She was, she recalled, decidedly underdressed for the encounter. He was, too, but still managed to look disgustingly elegant naked from the waist up. His breeches and boots, though dusty, fit perfectly while her shift was shabby and torn. At least it was made of solid cloth. For once her slender means turned to her advantage. Finer, dearer linen would reveal far more.

  Whether from good manners, genuine indifference, or a derangement of judgment caused by injury, Mr. Compton showed no discernable emotion as he took in her appearance. Instead he managed a creditable bow.

  “Madam,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance. We are not, I believe, acquainted. Perhaps introductions are in order.”

  Any impulse to forgive his past transgressions dissolved. Six times in London Celia had been presented to Tarquin Compton. Six times he had expressed his obviously insincere pleasure at making her acquaintance. He never remembered her. Even after they’d danced and he’d spoiled her prospects he couldn’t identify her. It was particularly insulting that he could so heedlessly destroy someone’s future without even knowing her name. She refused to humiliate herself by reminding him of their previous meetings.

  She tilted her nose a few degrees higher, engaged his haughty eye, and prepared to deny any prior acquaintance when he spoke again. “I am . . .” He stopped. For the first time in the strange encounter he seemed unsure of himself. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t remember who I am. I don’t remember anything.”

  “You don’t know your own name?” she asked.

  He shook his head, wincing with pain at the motion.

  Celia had heard of such effects of a blow to the head but could scarcely believe it. That this should happen to Mr. High-and-Mighty Compton, that the man had no idea he was an arbiter of fashion, the darling of the ton, the terror of the uarried maidens, was too bizarre. About to inform him of both their names she caught herself and stopped to give some thought to her predicament.

  It was too perfect.

  She was stranded in the wilderness, she knew not where, with no money, no friends, and no clothes. Aside from one offer of assistance, which might not still be open to her, she was alone in the world, in dire need of help and protection. Nothing she knew of the odious Mr. Compton suggested that, were he in his right mind, he’d give the time of day to a penniless governess with a soiled reputation. But he didn’t know he was Mr. Compton, had no idea of his paramount position in London society. He could be persuaded to be of use.

  “My dearest,” she said, letting her voice break on a dry and entirely spurious sob. “Surely you know me!”

  “Er. No. Have we met before?”

  “Alas! You have forgotten.” She flung her arms about his neck and inhaled the merest hint of his scent, a subtle, complicated essence lingering beneath the musky, and by no means disagreeable, overlay of sweat and horse. In the instant before he drew back she learned his chest was hard and the light mat of hair covering it almost silky.

  “What have I forgotten? Who are you?”

  “You don’t know me?”

  He narrowed his eyes and scanned her face carefully. “You do seem familiar.”

  “Thank God! The evil thief has not robbed you of all your wits. It must be beyond the power of any villain to make you forget what we are to each other.”

  “Perhaps you could give me a little hint.”

  “You will recall as soon I remind you. You must recall.”

  “What must I recall?” Testiness blended with confusion.

  “That I am Celia! Your betrothed wife!”

  He didn’t believe her, that was clear. “We are engaged? To be married? Are you quite sure?”

  “Of course I am sure. Can you have forgotten the sweet moment when I promised to be yours?”

  “Apparently, yes.” His eyes seemed more black than brown as they met hers in the gaze that had reduced a hundred debutantes and a thousand parvenus to sniveling idiots. “I can’t remember anything else, either. Why don’t you remind me? And you can start by telling me my own name.”

  Celia stiffened her spine and refused to be intimidated. She needed help and Mr. Tarquin Compton owed her recompense. She might as well enjoy herself a little. She shrugged off any slight qualm about her next lie.

  “Your name, my dearest, is Terence Fish.”

  Chapter 3

  Amnesiacs can’t be choosers.

  When he discovered the hole in his consciousness where his own name ought to be, the woman stared at him, seeming as bemused as he. From the neck up she looked like a lady, a young lady, with reddish hair arranged neatly, if not fashionably, and pinned up on top. This proper coiffeur framed a strong face with high cheekbones, gray eyes, a straight nose, and a wide mouth.

  Propriety ended at the neck. Her only garment was a linen shift ending above the knees. That was it. Not a stitch more. And since he had no idea who he was, where he was, or why, the presence of a lady so garbed explained everything. Obviously he was asleep. The scanty chemise was less diaphanous than the undergarments favored by women who might be expected to invade his dreams, but it did reveal long and shapely legs and he was quite partial to long legs. How unfair that in such a promising dream his head continued to ache. A steady pounding in his brain spoiled the erotic possibilities of this illusory encounter.

  Then she began to speak and his headache worsened. She claimed to know him—that made sense. Why else would they be together in this place, each so woefully underdressed? Her face seemed faintly familiar, like that of a slight ac
quaintance encountered out of his or her usual sphere, whose name one cannot place. But any illusion of sleep was shattered when she flung herself at him. She was a tall woman, and strong, and her fierce embrace almost knocked him down, proving their corporeal reality beyond doubt.

  He drew back in alarm, fearing she might be deranged, an impression strengthened by her next claim.

  Betrothed? They were betrothed? He might have forgotten his identity, but instinct revolted at the notion of impending matrimony.

  “Can you have forgotten the sweet moment when I promised to be yours?” she cried.

  Good God. Could he possibly be the kind of man who went in for sweet moments?

  “I can’t remember anything else, either. Why don’t you remind me? And you can start by telling me my own name.” Surely that would recall his wits.

  And then he knew. Perhaps he had, in a moment of madness, agreed to wed this demented female. But of one thing he was sure, to the very depths of his being. His name was not Terence Fish.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I cannot be named Fish.”

  Continuing in dramatic vein she wrung her hands before her bosom. “You are indeed my Terence!” Then her expression changed to one of horror. “Unless you lied to me! But that cannot be so. When we met you were staying with the vicar.”

  “What was I doing there?”

  “Studying for the church.”

  He felt on firmer ground. “No,” he said. “I am not going to be a clergyman.”

  “Of course you are. You are a most pious man with a promising career before you.”

  “Huh? Then what on earth am I doing in this benighted place?” He looked around at a landscape of steep hills, scraggly grass, low shrubs, few trees, frequent crags, and no human habitation in view, aside from the rough cottage in whose shadow they stood. “At a guess I’d say we are on the Yorkshire moors, hardly a suitable launching point for a career in the church.”

  “I will explain everything later. We must leave before our attacker returns. Unfortunately he took all our possessions as well as,” she added with a blush, “most of our clothing.”

  He frowned. “Why would the thief return if he already has everything?”

  She sounded a little irritable. “Because it wasn’t just a common robbery. I was kidnapped and brought to this place. My abductor shut me in the attic of the cottage and said he’d come back later.”

  His head ached even worse. “Let me get this straight, er, what did you say your name is? Celia?”

  “Celia,” she said in a resentful tone. “Celia Seaton.” She actually dropped a curtsey which he could have sworn was ironic. Why on earth? She could hardly blame him for forgetting her name when he didn’t even remember his own. Although Celia Seaton chimed a familiar note in his brain. Unlike Terence Fish.

  “A man kidnapped you, Celia.”

  “Yes.”

  “And brought you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “I don’t know, but I think you must have followed us and come to rescue me. Then the villain knocked you down and stole your horse and your clothes.” And the blasted woman flung her arms around him again. “Thank you, my dearest Terence. You are a hero!”

  Some hero, managing to end up half-naked, horseless, and no doubt penniless too. He felt for his pockets and found none. The snug cut of his breeches didn’t allow for such a convenience.

  Celia heaved an inward sigh of relief when Mr. Compton stopped asking questions and agreed to enter the cottage in search of water. Inventing “Terence Fish’s” background was going to be a challenge. She knew next to nothing about the workings of the Church of England. This was the trouble about coming up with a lie without time to plan ahead. She wished she’d made him a prospective East India Company clerk instead. Thank the Lord, she could claim ignorance of the path that had brought him to this place.

  It astonished her that he managed to reek of arrogance, even under circumstances which should have reduced the proudest man to a proper sense of humility. The way he’d accused her of making no sense reminded her of his officious opinions, used to depress those who didn’t live up to his standards. He didn’t like his name, that was for certain. Too bad, she thought smugly. She had no idea how long he would remain ignorant of his true identity. She hoped for her sake it would be long enough to keep his escort to Mrs. Stewart’s house, and for his that it wouldn’t be much longer than that. In the meantime Tarquin Compton, the second coming of Beau Brummell, was going to live as Mr. Fish.

  The cottage showed signs of recent but not immediate habitation. The stone hearth was cold though a heap of ash and charred wood gave evidence of use. Celia snatched up an old-fashioned metal tinderbox.

  “We’ll take this,” she said. “And this.” She tugged at the blackened kettle hanging on a chain over the fireplace. “I can’t get it loose. Will you try?”

  Silently he tried to free the utensil. Celia was pleased to see him so obedient. Perhaps the loss of his memory had softened his disposition.

  “It’s forged together. I can’t remove it without tools.” He regarded his now-sooty hands with distaste. “Did you happen to discover any water?” The supercilious tone told her his improved manners were only sporadic and he’d lost none of his fabled fastidiousness.

  It took but a minute to search the cottage: a narrow bed, a rustic table and chair were the principal furnishings. A small cupboard contained a tin cup and a small knife but not a crumb of food. An earthenware pitcher on the floor stood empty. “There wasn’t anything to eat or drink upstairs, either,” she said. “Either the villain intended to leave me thirsty, or he’ll be back soon. I think we should hurry. Let’s take everything we can.” A small burlap sack with a strap hung from a hook on the wall. A dusting of seeds fell to the floor as she shook it out. She stuffed the tinderbox, cup, and knife into the bag, and threw in a couple of rags she found in a corner.

  Mr. Compton looked at her with disapproval. “You cannot travel dressed like that.”

  “I’m so sorry but I missed the wardrobe of ladies’ clothing. Perhaps you could direct me.” Their betrothal had slipped her mind and she let her underlying hostility show. “I would certainly prefer not to walk across the Yorkshire moors in my undergarment,” she said, moderating her tone, “but I don’t see the alternative.”

  He eyed her person with a glint in his eye that might almost be appreciative. Then his glance shifted to the bed.

  “Here,” he said. “Use this.”

  “This” was a crude homespun blanket of undyed wool. She wrapped it around her waist and, after some trial and error, succeeded in tucking it in to form a skirt. While not very secure, the makeshift garment at least covered her legs.

  “What about you?” she asked. “You’ll get a sunburn without anything on top and later you’ll be cold.”

  “I’ll have to manage.” Even though the light told her evening fast approached, there was no hint of chill in the air. “Wait.”

  She saw it at the same time, lying on the floor behind the open door. “Perfect! The kidnapper must have left it behind.”

  “And no doubt replaced it with my coat and shirt. I trust they were more elegant than this . . . thing.”

  “You always dress well, Terence, considering your limited means.”

  He fingered the rough cloth. “I suppose I should be grateful he left me my breeches and boots. It’s better than nothing.”

  Celia hid her smile and slung the seed bag over her shoulder. She couldn’t wait to see Tarquin Compton dressed like a yokel. “I’ll leave you to your toilette and await you outside.”

  The first thing she saw was her mother’s rattle. She’d dropped it when she knelt to tend to Mr. Compton. Finding it a second time, quite by chance, boosted her confidence; luck might finally be on her side. Not far from its resting place, against a tussock of grass, she spotted a small book bound in marble paper covers with a leather spine. At the creak of the cotta
ge door, she thrust both rattle and book into the sack. The latter very likely belonged to her companion and might bear his name, or some other clue to his identity.

  At the sight of him she couldn’t contain her grin. “You are quite à la mode,” she said and dropped a mocking curtsey. Yet, much to her annoyance, the man was incapable of wearing anything, even this humble garment, without a certain air. The impeccable fit of his breeches and knee-high boots helped, as did dark hair cut in the short Brutus style that kept its shape under duress. A faint shadow on his chin and jaw lent him a raffish air that only added to his attractiveness. With his piercing dark eyes and aquiline nose he looked less like a farm laborer than a pirate.

  “Will I start a new fashion?” he asked.

  How ironic that if anyone saw him so garbed he most likely would.

  “I’m not sure they’d allow you into Almack’s.”

  “Have I been to Almack’s?” he asked with a frown. “I don’t believe the patronesses welcome humble clergymen.” Why did he have to remember that fact?

  “No,” she said coolly, “but I have.”

  “I thought you were a governess.”

  “Not always. I fell on hard times.”

  “I wish you’d tell me about it. Hearing your story might jog my memory. For that matter, you must tell me everything you know of my history.”

  “Later. We must leave.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  “I don’t know where we are, but if we follow the track we’ll come to a road eventually. I wish to reach the town of Stonewick where we can be sure of a welcome from an old friend of my father’s. When we meet someone we can ask for directions.”

  Mr. Compton surveyed the landscape with a frown. The cottage, though isolated, overlooked a gentle vale. A few hundred yards down the hill, the rough track joined a stream, and accompanied the silver ribbon of water into the horizon. “I don’t like that idea.”

  “Why not?” Celia tried to contain her irritation. She felt quite strongly that she was in charge of the party since her companion was, in his present state, almost an idiot. “Have you a better one?”