“Good morning, Duchess. Good morning, Uncle. What a surprise to see you.”
The Duke of Amesbury cast him a look of mute apology. Tarquin was fond of his mother’s brother, who had done his duty as a guardian with a measure of affection and now showed no inclination to interfere with his life.
Unlike his wife.
With exquisite punctiliousness he bowed over her hand. She flared her nostrils and emitted a sound halfway between a sniff and a snort, eloquent with derision. “Compton.” Her fingers clenched as though itching to wield the birch. That, at least, he no longer had to suffer at her hands. “I’ve heard nothing from your sisters,” she continued, holding him responsible for the dilatory letter writing habits of two ladies who were older than him, married, and living far away.
“Mary writes that her family is well. Claudia is increasing again.”
The duchess’s mouth thinned to what passed for a smile. “It’s to be hoped she does her duty this time.”
“Indeed.”
“Six girls! Was ever anything so mismanaged?”
In Tarquin’s opinion the only mismanagement was expecting his sister to endure so many pregnancies in twelve years of marriage, but he said nothing. He never bandied unnecessary words with the duchess.
“Such a thing would never be allowed in my family. The Bromleys always have boys.”
“Really, Duchess? I thought you were born a Bromley.”
“Well, of course there must be some girls, or whom would men marry?” Magnificently immune to logic, she turned to the subject at hand. “Where were you?” she barked.
“Truman took unnecessary alarm when I decided to spend a night or two away from home.”
“You have a mistress, I suppose. You should be married. When you return to London I shall present you to my niece, Miss Belinda Bromley. She came out this year but she didn’t take. She is perfect for you.”
And would, being a Bromley, presumably breed many sons. If it was possible to feel amusement in her presence he would have laughed. She’d been trying to marry him off for years, always presenting him with the most insultingly dismal marriage candidates. Including, he reflected with grim irony, Miss Celia Seaton. And since she mustn’t discover an uarried lady staying under his roof, he needed to get rid of her as soon as possible.
“It was thoughtless of you, Compton, to make me come all the way here.”
Tarquin gritted his teeth and raised his eyebrows. “Had I known you would be concerned, or even that you were in Yorkshire, I would have been sure to inform you of my whereabouts.”
“I loathe Yorkshire but I had to come up on a matter of business.” She looked around the room. “I haven’t been in this house since the day we came to tell you about your parents’ death. It hasn’t changed.”
“Why would it? It’s been largely uninhabited since that day.”
“I never liked it. Old and badly arranged.”
“In that case don’t let me keep you here for another minute.”
The duchess never took a hint. Instead she took a seat. “Pour me some tea. Coming out so early was highly inconvenient. I scarcely had time for a bite of breakfast.”
Without a word, Tarquin went to the sideboard and poured her a cup, adding milk and sugar at her demand.
“It’s cold,” she said. “Ring for fresh.”
He was growing anxious. Celia might descend at any moment. “The bell is broken.” True. “And I believe all my servants are out. That’s why you had to let yourself into the house.”
“I’ll find someone.” Ignoring his protest she swept out of the room and he prayed she wouldn’t decide to look upstairs.
“Taking the opportunity to nose around,” the duke said, confirming Tarquin’s fears. “I’m sorry to intrude on you, my boy, but you know what she’s like. She’s particularly vexed at the moment.”
“How can you tell?”
The duke winced. “I can tell. She’s been balked.”
“Jewelry?”
“The Mysore ruby again. She first heard of it a year ago—over a hundred carets and pigeon blood red—then it disappeared.”
“If I remember, you bought her the Hohenstein emeralds instead.” With a shudder he remembered the sight of the huge parure adorning the duchess’s scrawny neck, clashing horribly with a purple satin gown.
“Forty thousand, they cost me. They kept her quiet for a month or two, but then she heard a rumor the ruby had resurfaced, in Yorkshire of all places. Nothing for it but to leave Brighton and come up here. Then she meets her London agent and he tells her he doesn’t have the jewel yet. But when—if—he finds it she’s going to make me pony up and the emeralds will seem a bargain.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You don’t know how lucky you are not to have a wife.”
Tarquin looked down at the rather pudgy duke and backed away as tactfully as he could. Subscribing to Mr. Brummell’s dictum that a gentleman should smell of unobtrusive cleanliness, his only scent was a special soap, ordered from a Parisian shop and custom made for him in the south of France. He abhorred the duke’s unfortunate addiction to perfume. Of course his uncle was rich and powerful enough not to give a damn what anyone thought of him. The only person he feared was his wife. “It’s not as though she can make you, Uncle.”
“You know what she’s like. A man does prefer peace in his own house. I don’t suppose you’d tell her you’ll propose to Belinda, would you? She’d be so pleased she might forget about the ruby.” The duke’s expression recalled a dog who knows it isn’t dinnertime but asks anyway.
“Forgive me, but I wouldn’t be inclined to choose anyone related to the duchess.”
“I daresay you are wise. Belinda’s a little dab of a chit, that’s why she hasn’t found a husband yet. And I expect she’s not as amenable as she appears.” His mournful expression was comical. “They hide their true natures until after they catch you.”
The duchess stormed back into the room, her true nature on flamboyant display.
“I can’t find anyone. Your kitchen quarters are a disgrace, just like the rest of this house. Your mother was a fool to marry Compton, and a bigger one not to raze the place to the ground and start again. I suppose she couldn’t afford it. A duke’s sister should have done much better than a Yorkshire gentleman. I blame your uncle for making us spend Christmas here that year. They should never have met.”
“Shall we leave my mother and father out of it?”
His father may have been a country gentleman and only an adequate match for a duke’s daughter, but to Tarquin’s mind there was no question his mother had made a wiser choice than her brother.
The duchess reclaimed her seat at the table. “She had no notion of family dignity. Lucky for them that I was in charge of your sisters’ presentations. I made sure they made decent matches, better than they could have expected.”
He waited, letting her invective roll over him.
“When I had to take the three of you in, the last thing I needed was more children. I’d just married off my youngest. But I spared no effort to ensure your sisters were well established and I shall do my duty by you as well.”
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Duchess, but there’s no need. Now let me escort you to your carriage.”
Ignoring his offered arm, she remained planted in her chair. “Grateful! If you were grateful you would have offered for one of the unexceptional young women I have introduced you to.”
One of those unexceptional candidates occupied a spare bedchamber and might appear at any second. Tarquin clenched his fists at his sides, wondering how on earth he was going to dislodge the mulish duchess. He stared at her for a minute, contemplating drastic measures. Would his uncle feel bound to object if he slung the beldame over his shoulder and carried her to the carriage?
Too late. Celia burst in, wearing his second-best dressing gown.
The house was an agreeable surprise. Celia knew little of architecture, but from her first sight of t
he interior she found Revesby Hall appealing. A well-proportioned square of gray stone, it was the perfect size for a no-nonsense country family with many children and lots of dogs and horses. Mr. Baldwin’s house had been on the small size for his four boisterous sons. Keeping the place, and the boys, in order had been a constant struggle. The Baldwins could have used a room like one she’d noticed off the hall at Revesby: a big messy depository for boots, coats, fishing rods, bats and balls, and the like.
It was hard to equate Mr. Compton with this informal paradise, but Terence Fish would have been quite at home here.
The view from her bedchamber revealed rolling moorland, stone walls, and sheep, arousing memories of events better forgotten. She needed to look ahead and face her terrifyingly empty future. And since she had no idea what she would do next, she put her mind to the immediate problem of getting dressed. The evening gowns belonging to the late Mrs. Compton, or Lady Something Compton rather, were lovely with very high waists, tiny bodices, and floating skirts. Unsuitable as it was for breakfast in Yorkshire, she had a mind to wear one in blue silk with a tunic of embroidered silver tissue. Celia laid the delicate stuff over her hand and admired the glistening beadwork.
Realizing she could manage neither stays nor gown alone, she pulled on the red brocade dressing gown her host had lent her over her shift and went downstairs to find a human being. She wandered along a promising corridor and found the kitchen, but Mrs. Wardle was nowhere to be seen. Trying the other side of the staircase, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Compton through an open door.
“I need help with my stays,” she said. “And my gown. It fastens at the back with laces and I can’t manage them alone.”
By the time she noticed the visitors it was too late to withdraw.
“Miss Seaton, isn’t it? I never forget a face.”
Neither did Celia, certainly not this one. She’d never seen a human being with a greater resemblance to a parrot than the lady seated at the table. Her impulse to flee she suppressed with regret. The Duchess of Amesbury had recognized her. Across the table from his aunt, Mr. Compton stood like a statue. Celia didn’t mistake his glacial expression for indifference. He’d spent most of the previous evening, before they retired to the separate bliss of beds with mattresses, impressing upon her that no one—no one—must ever learn she’d spent the night under his roof without a chaperone.
Just her luck she’d been caught at Revesby by someone who knew her. She looked down at the floor and wished her ankles weren’t exposed. Mrs. Wardle had found undergarments and shoes for her, but not a single item of hosiery.
Slightly to her surprise she had the presence of mind to summon a curtsey and her knee poked through the opening of the robe. “Your grace,” she murmured, straightening hastily.
The duchess’s eyes bored into her. “I had no idea, Nephew, that your habits included the seduction of well-bred ladies.”
“You misunderstand, your grace,” Celia cut in quickly. “Nothing of that kind happened. Mr. Compton rescued me from a very difficult situation. He has behaved like a perfect gentleman.”
“I see. How very chivalrous of him. Did you spend the night in this house?”
“Yes, but . . .”
When the duchess smiled, Celia learned, she ceased to resemble a parrot and turned reptilian. “When is the wedding?”
“There’s no need for him to offer for me, I assure, your grace.”
“You and he are alone here?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Mr. Compton cut off her protest. “Miss Seaton is a young lady of unimpeachable virtue.” She had to say that for him: he knew how to lie with conviction. “So virtuous, so innocent, that she doesn’t understand how the impure minds of others will perceive her situation.” If their plight weren’t so grave she’d have giggled. “I have not yet had an opportunity to broach the topic since we hadn’t yet met this morning. Naturally I shall offer her my hand in marriage.”
Celia broke in. “There’s no need . . .”
A stern glance bade her be silent and she thought she’d better obey. They could find a way out of this fix later.
“Come here, girl.” The duchess summoned her with a nod.
“Her name is Miss Seaton.”
His aunt ignored the interruption. “If you are to join our family I need to know more of yours than that foolish Trumper woman told me. She’s been known to present some odd birds to the ton but she charges a pretty penny so I imagine your fortune is more than respectable.”
“I have none.” Celia disdained to lie to this rampaging elephant of a woman.
“How can that be true? Did you lie to Trumper?” The duchess’s eyes gleamed with avid curiosity. “I never thought she could be deceived about money.”
“My late uncle,” Celia answered with as much dignity as she could summon when clutching a man’s dressing gown closed at the front, “sadly died before he made provision for me.”
“Such carelessness about business would not be permitted in the best families. I know some Seatons in the north. Are you one of them?”
“I have no idea. My father lived in India and that’s where I grew up.”
“Not a nabob, I take it. A pity. Inferior connections may be eradicated by a truly large fortune.”
Celia hadn’t thought Mr. Compton had anything in common with his formidable aunt until she was on the receiving end of this set down. But he surprised her by coming to the rescue.
“Don’t be vulgar, Duchess. There’s nothing the matter with Miss Seaton’s connections. She was the niece of a most respectable man in Lincolnshire. Her lack of fortune was an accident, and my own is adequate to our needs.”
His chivalry touched her. He knew little of the respectability or otherwise of her late guardian, while the unpretentious shabbiness of Revesby Hall made her wonder about the truth of his second claim.
The duchess looked as if she’d like to argue, but even she, without actually quailing, retreated before Mr. Compton’s icy rebuke.
“I shall take my leave then,” she said, getting to her feet, “and give you a chance to come to an understanding. Miss Seaton, I have no idea why you disappeared from town last year, or what you’ve been doing since, but you will do very well for Tarquin.” She walked to the door, leaving Celia with the feeling she meant something quite different, then paused at the threshold. “I do recommend, dear Miss Seaton, that you put on some clothes before hearing my nephew’s proposal. You wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”
“I should go upstairs,” Celia said weakly, as she watched the duchess’s retreating back, trailed by her husband, a man so insignificant in appearance that Celia had only noticed his presence when he offered hasty felicitations. “My attire . . .”
“Stay.” Mr. Compton gripped her arm. “Sit.”
“I am not a dog.” He glared at her. She sat.
They shared an uneasy silence until they heard the duchess’s carriage depart.
Mr. Compton’s eerie calm was fraying at the edges. “Do you make a habit of entering dining rooms in a state of dishabille?”
“I needed help with my gown. Mrs. Wardle was nowhere to be found. I had no idea you weren’t alone.”
“Don’t you have ears? Didn’t you hear us speaking? Didn’t you think before you stumbled into a public room in a dressing gown? A man’s dressing gown?”
“There’s no need to shout.”
“And when you realized someone was with me, why didn’t you have the wit to flee? If the duchess hadn’t known who you were, we wouldn’t be in this mess. She’d have assumed I’d brought home a woman of easy virtue.”
“That’s what I am, isn’t it?” She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes to dispel a prickly weakness.
“No,” he said, moderating his pitch. “That is not what you are. The blame for our actions is equal. And now we’ve been caught, we must marry.”
The words were generous, gallant even, but they didn’t sound that way. While no longer sh
outing he clearly remained furious.
“I don’t want to marry you and you don’t want to marry me.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“The duchess is the only one who knows. Can’t you explain to her what happened? I find it hard to believe she’d welcome me to her family if she knew the truth. She’d be glad to save her nephew from a disastrous match.”
“If the duchess knew the truth she’d broadcast it to the world.”
“But surely she cannot wish to put you in a difficult position?”
A short humorless laugh was his only response.
“My goodness, you mean she would!”
“The Duchess of Amesbury likes to make people dance to her tune. In recent years I’ve managed to avoid putting myself in the position of having to. If we don’t marry she’ll make sure I suffer public embarrassment. And you will be ruined. Not that she bears you any ill will beyond the general malice with which she regards the world. You are merely an irrelevant bystander caught in the crossfire of our lifelong mutual loathing. Your ruin would be my fault as much as hers.”
Irrelevant bystander or innocent victim, Celia rejected either role. She hadn’t escaped from that cottage and lied and cheated her way across the dales to find herself back where she started, at the mercy of fate and the whims of others.
“You forget,” she said. “I am already ruined.”
“That is why our marriage is your only option.”
“I could return to Mr. Baldwin and explain.” Even as she made the suggestion her voice faltered. She saw herself telling the tale under Bertram’s confused gaze and his sister’s scornful one. Kidnapped by the man they thought her lover; locked up without her clothes; escaping across the moors, almost naked, in company with yet another man. Only a simpleton would believe such a tale.
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club) Page 11