A Rake’s Guide to Seduction

by Caroline Linden

  Anthony had no reply to that, so he said nothing. Celia’s voice grew tighter. “And where does the fault lie in that story? If they are not happy together, does it mean they were never truly in love? Or were they truly in love, but love doesn’t last? Or perhaps even that love doesn’t exist?”

  “Love exists,” he said. “I’ve never seen a man more besotted than your own brother.”

  She gave a despairing little laugh. “Which one?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “True enough.” She sighed. “Yet neither of them was quick to recognize the fact. That’s not much comfort, that your true love could be right before your eyes and you would still not know it.”

  Anthony didn’t dare look at her. “They discovered it eventually.”

  “Hmm.” She looked down at the letter in her hands. “I was too hasty.”

  “We all are, at times.”

  She nodded. “And sometimes not hasty enough. Oh, it is a wretched tangle, isn’t it?”

  Anthony smiled wryly. Yes, he had sometimes not been hasty enough. “Indeed.”

  Celia tucked the letter into her pocket. Go fishing, indeed. The thought almost made her smile again, and that alone made her feel a bit better. Anthony always seemed to have that effect on her. On impulse she grasped his hand. “Thank you. You have been so kind to listen to me. I do hope I’m not being too grim and ruining your visit.”

  His fingers tightened slightly around hers. His eyes seemed to gaze inside her, to the bottom of her soul. “Never suggest it.”

  For a moment she could only sit, caught in the spell of his attention. Again she felt the strange sense of warmth and comfort, just from sitting here talking to him. She had always felt at ease with him, but this time, something was different….

  “Shall we join the others?” His question startled her out of her thoughts. Celia nodded, her face growing warm. He helped her to her feet and offered his arm. Celia gave him her hand and walked with him down the lawn to join the other guests.

  Anthony paced his room late that night. He couldn’t sleep. The two halves of him were waging war inside him. One side, his cool, calculating side, favored doing nothing, or nothing more than he had been doing. Celia’s happiness or unhappiness was none of his concern, not really. She was not his sister, his cousin, his lover, or anything other than an acquaintance he held in high regard. There were more arguments against his involvement in her life than he could count, and Anthony had learned to listen to such arguments.

  But the other side of him, the reckless, impulsive side of him, burned with the need to do something. Being a constant friend wasn’t enough to erase the shadows from her eyes, especially not after Lansborough’s letter. What sort of gentleman would stand by and do nothing as someone he cared for struggled under great unhappiness? The trouble was, anything he did was bound to be viewed with suspicion, merely because he did it. The last thing he wanted to do was expose her to more gossip and even scandal by making his attentions, no matter how nobly motivated and innocently meant, obvious.

  He gripped his hands behind him as he continued prowling the room in indecision. He could tell her brother about the letter…except it was not his place, and what could Reece do in any event? Perhaps one of her sisters-in-law, who both seemed very sensible ladies, would know how to comfort her against Lord Lansborough’s words. But he didn’t know either well enough to betray Celia’s confidences. Those same reasons ruled out mentioning the letter to anyone else, someone he knew even less well. If Celia wanted her family to know, she would tell them. Anything Anthony did must be discreet, both for her sake and for his.

  What could he do, though? He stopped pacing and flexed his hand, still feeling her fingers curling around his. She had thanked him—just for listening to her. He longed to pummel Lansborough for making her feel guilty, but that wouldn’t help Celia. If anything, she’d be sorry for the old man, for whom she clearly had some affection and sympathy.

  Unconsciously he began reviewing the items in his rake’s bag of tricks. What would he normally do to please a woman? Something subtle, something personal, something…lovely. Most of the choices were unsuitable. The only one suitable, in fact…might be the best choice.

  For a moment he paused, considering it. It needn’t be too personal; in fact, it needn’t reveal him at all. Anonymity might even be preferable. Yes, that might be just the thing. He could lift her spirits in a discreet way, without putting her into a difficult position because of his involvement. Before he could change his mind, Anthony unlocked his writing desk. Glancing around his empty room almost furtively, he drew out a sheet of paper and unstopped the bottle of ink.

  He took his time dipping the pen. What to say? Something warm, flattering, admiring, not too ardent. Something to appeal to a romantic heart, but leaving room for retreat if she took offense. Something she would never suspect came from him. He let out his breath; he was a fool for doing this, most likely. Then, casting aside his reservations, he began to write.

  Chapter Ten

  Celia was awake before dawn, but she made no effort to get out of bed even when her maid came. She had dreamed of Bertie’s funeral during the night, of Lord Lansborough weeping brokenly, and had woken with tears on her face. She was tired of feeling sad and low all the time, but every time she began to feel more like her old self, something always seemed to come along and cut her legs out from under her. She knew Lord Lansborough didn’t mean to make her sad by writing to her; that made it all the worse. She was here in Kent, surrounded by loving family and friends, while Lord Lansborough was alone in his manor, in failing health and with only his memories. It seemed dreadful to wish he wouldn’t write to her, and Celia felt even more dreadful because she knew that and still wished he wouldn’t write to her, at least not so sadly.

  “Good morning, madame,” whispered Agnes in surprise as she slipped into the room with a pitcher of warm water. “I hope you’ve not been waiting.”

  “No.”

  “Shall I go?”

  “No,” she said again. She could hardly stay in bed all day. “I’m ready to get up.” Agnes bobbed and nodded, and slipped out of the room. She returned awhile later with a breakfast tray, and Celia made herself sit up. Her mother would worry if she stayed in bed all day. Celia wished, for a moment, she could go fishing, or out walking, or even just stay quietly in her room and read. Today did not feel like a day for merrymaking.

  Agnes arranged the tray for her, and Celia surveyed the plates with disinterest. Not even Cook’s tender little muffins with orange marmalade stirred any hunger. She picked up the cup of tea, trying to shake the horrible feeling that she was all but dying inside.

  Tucked beside the saucer was a folded paper.

  “Agnes,” said Celia, drawing it out, “what’s this?”

  Her maid looked up from opening the drapes. “I don’t know, m’lady. It was in the kitchen, with your name on it. Cook said I ought to bring it up.”

  Mildly curious, Celia broke the small, plain seal and opened the note. She read it, then read it again in growing surprise. “Agnes,” she asked, “did Cook say who sent this?”

  Agnes shook her head. “No, madame.”

  Celia read the note again. “Go ask.”

  “Pardon, madame?”

  “Go ask Cook who sent it,” Celia repeated.

  Agnes dropped a quick curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.” And she hurried out the door.

  Celia laid the note aside. How odd, someone sending her a love note—unsigned, no less. The old Celia would have been wild with excitement. Now, of course, she was older and wiser and knew better than to believe such nonsense. No doubt it was just an attempt to make her feel better; she wouldn’t be surprised if her mother had arranged it. She would have to put a stop to it at once.

  But Agnes returned with no news. “Cook doesn’t know, ma’am,” she said, ducking her head. “It was left in the kitchen overnight, and no one knows who sent it.”

  “I see.” Celia fingered the stra
nge note. “I shall wear the blue striped dress this morning.”

  “Yes, madame.” Agnes hurried to get the dress from the wardrobe, and Celia swung her feet to the floor. She plucked the note from the tray, crossing the room to the fireplace. The fire had not been stirred up, but there was warmth in the embers still. She stirred them with the poker until there was enough heat to ignite a corner of the note. Celia turned away as the paper burned. She certainly wouldn’t be taken in by such empty-headed romantic nonsense again.

  Still, all that day she wondered who had sent it. The handwriting had been unfamiliar, but that meant nothing. Who could it have been?

  It could be a scheme of her mother’s. Celia wasn’t at all sure her mother wouldn’t nudge one of the gentlemen into writing to her that way, and the sentiments could have been copied from any book of poetry. Mama was a terrible matchmaker. But with whom?

  Lord Warfield was surely too old, and he hardly seemed to notice her in any event. He, at least, had not been invited for the purpose of catching her interest. Celia knew he and Marcus spent long hours in the study discussing some railway project, and Lord Warfield only infrequently joined the other guests. Lord Snowden was a neighbor and, she supposed, an eligible gentleman. She had simply never thought of him as such, and rather doubted he thought much of anything about her. Mr. Picton-Lewis was of a scientific nature and didn’t appear to have much poetry—even bad poetry—in his soul. Lord William, though, certainly was capable of writing the note, as were Mr. Childress and probably even Lord Marbury. Mr. Childress especially was very attentive. To be perfectly honest, some of the married gentlemen weren’t out of the question. Celia had noticed some of them giving her looks from time to time, as though wondering which sort of widow she was.

  Oh, and Mr. Hamilton. Celia smiled wryly to herself at the thought of Anthony Hamilton, cool, polished rake who could have any woman he wanted at a snap of his fingers, writing such a letter—to her, of all people.

  But that night there was another note on her pillow, and in the morning another on her tray. Undeniably curious now, Celia took the letters to her desk when Agnes had left. They were both banal, trite things, with little wit in them. She was as much annoyed by them as she was flattered.

  Dear Sir, she wrote. I have received your notes with great surprise. It is no wonder to me you have not signed your name, for why bother, when you have put so little effort into composing the message? Any volume of poetry supplies your sentiment. When I wish to read poetry, I shall visit the library. If you have nothing more original to say to me, anonymously or not, then please spare us both the trouble of corresponding. C. B.

  Anthony found the note on the wide trestle table when he slipped into the kitchen very late that night. TO THE CORRESPONDENT OF LADY B., it said on the outside. For a moment he froze, warily glancing around to see if anyone lurked in the shadows. The kitchen seemed empty, though, so he picked up the message. There was another letter in the pocket of his dressing gown, but he didn’t put it on the table, as he had done before. Curiosity about her response ate at him; was it favorable? He had been watching her, covertly, for two days to see if there were any change in her manner. She seemed a bit more engaged, but it might have been due to anything. For all he knew, she hadn’t gotten a one of his notes, even though he had dared to leave one right on the pillow of her bed.

  He took her note back to his room, not wanting to linger a moment longer than necessary in the kitchen. He closed and locked his door, barely turning the key before tearing open the letter.

  Its tart message brought a pleased grin to his face. Now, that was the Celia he remembered. The grin faded. What ought he to do now? Perhaps it was enough that he had gotten a rise out of her. Perhaps he had accomplished what he wanted to do. Perhaps he ought to let it go now.

  And perhaps he could ignore the challenge in her words. He was already drawing out a clean sheet of paper to reply. After some thought he sat at his desk and took up his pen.

  Dear Madame—

  Forgive my lack of original wit. The same hesitancy that leads me to withhold my name also led me to take refuge in the words of others, words I dare not speak myself. Know that my feelings, if not the words used to express them, are all my own. Wear a yellow ribbon in your hair on the morrow, and I shall understand that my sentiments as well as my words are unwanted.

  Your devoted servant

  “The peach dress today, Agnes.” Celia tapped the latest note from her mystery correspondent against the edge of her desk. She hadn’t entirely expected another note at all, but here one was. He was in full retreat. Good riddance, then, she thought, crossing to her dressing table and rummaging through a drawer in search of a yellow ribbon.

  That morning she walked into town with Jane, the Throckmorton girls, and a few of the gentlemen. It was another sunny day, although with a brisk, cool breeze. For a while she walked with Jane but eventually fell back. Mr. Childress ended up walking beside her, then. He was very charming and witty, but Celia couldn’t shake a vague discomfort. Only when she had returned to her room to change for dinner did she realize what had unsettled her. Mr. Childress reminded her of Bertie.

  She supposed she was doing the poor man a disservice. He might be nothing like Bertie in other ways. But he paid her too much attention. He hung on her every word too obviously. His charm and wit were too cultured, not unforced and easy. He was clearly flattering her and doing his best to charm her, and she didn’t like it. It was exactly how Bertie had won her heart years ago.

  People would think her a lunatic, she thought with a wry smile as she washed, being disgusted with a gentleman paying her his attentions. Most women would no doubt delight in having a handsome society favorite like Mr. Childress devoted to them. Celia wondered if he had written those silly letters; they certainly fit his personality, although she would have thought he’d sign them, so as not to leave even a shadow of doubt about his intentions.

  Thinking of the letters, she reached up to her hair, meaning to remove the yellow ribbon she’d tied in it that morning. Perhaps Mr. Childress’s attentions had been an effort to overcome the sight of the ribbon. But it wasn’t there. She turned her head from side to side, frowning at the mirror, but there was no ribbon. It must have come undone on the walk. The breeze had been quite brisk on the way home.

  Well, no matter. She dressed for dinner and went to join the others, feeling rather confident and self-possessed. Odd, really, when all she had done was reject someone, but it seemed important to her. Instead of falling into a fluttery swoon over trite flattery and silly gestures, she had recognized it for what it was and refused to be swayed by it. She enjoyed dinner more than usual that night, especially since her mother had paired her with Lord Snowden instead of Mr. Childress. At least she believed Lord Snowden’s conversation to be honest, if a bit dull.

  She was very much surprised to see yet another folded little note on her breakfast tray. “I shall start taking breakfast downstairs,” she muttered to herself as she ripped it open, ready to throw it back in Mr. Childress’s face and directly tell him she was not…

  Dearest Lady—

  Words cannot express my relief that you wore no ribbon today. After such a poor beginning, it would have been my just due to receive a dozen yellow ribbons from you. All night I lay in suspense, fearing to see even a bit of ivory. In the light of day I searched anxiously for it, hardly daring to hope. I can only hope—pray—that by its absence you allot me a second chance, another chance for my pen to whisper these words that know no tongue, no voice. Your censure for my timidity has unlocked the vault of my heart, and those thoughts, once imprisoned, begin to riot so fiercely, I cannot restrain them any longer. If you know what it is to have such longing and such feeling bottled inside you, you must understand a hundredth of the joy I feel, to let them escape and fly to you, small and shy though they may be. They shall be fluttering in the air about you, no more than a faint whisper of admiration; of devotion; of hope.

  Ever your devo
ted servant

  She had gone completely still by the end. Well. That was not the tired ode to her eyes the first notes had been. She put it, not in the grate as she had the others, but on her desk. Celia eyed the paper thoughtfully as she dressed. What accounted for the change?

  Perhaps she should write back again. It would only be fair to let the fellow know she had indeed worn a yellow ribbon in her hair and had no desire to continue to receive his letters. Yes, she decided, she would do that.

  But it slipped her mind that night. Her mother had hired a troupe of players to perform a pantomime of one of Shakespeare’s comedies, and she found it rather amusing, even though Mr. Childress contrived to sit next to her and kept trying to make conversation. She nodded and smiled, not listening to half of what he said. Before she knew it, the evening had flown by. By the time she fell into bed she had completely forgotten about the letters, and didn’t remember she had meant to write back and end the correspondence until the morning, when yet another folded paper was on her tray.

  “Agnes,” she said, holding it up. “Where do these come from?”

  Her maid looked worried. “I don’t know, madame. They’re just on the table in the kitchen in the morning with your name on. Shall I not bring them up?”

  Celia pursed her lips and opened the note. It was better; very nice, in fact. Hope illuminates my world, it read in part. My soul begins to lift as I declare my affections. Some have said that love unrequited is the most painful agony, as if the outpouring of love saps one of will and life. It is not so; the more I lay bare my heart’s desires, the more there is to bare, as if I have unstopped a never-ending tide of feeling that flows ever toward you.