Celia spun around. “You talked about him.”
“Yes, I did,” she relented at once. “But you never said a word!”
“What should I say? He’s a man with a mind of his own, not a new bonnet you can just decide to have because you want it? You’re a married woman, and your husband is right here in the house?”
Louisa gaped at her. Celia’s anger faded a little.
“I’m sorry.”
Louisa rushed after her again to take her hands. “Never be! Oh, I am a poor friend. I do so want to see you happy again. It’s just such a surprise that he’s your choice. And now—after that scene—oh, I do hope you aren’t being forced into something you shall hate.”
Celia drew in a long shuddering breath. “No.” She had not been forced; in fact, she had done her best to lure Anthony into making love to her. And even then she had managed to avoid any painful consequences.
Louisa pressed her lips together as if to quell a torrent of further queries, then gave an awkward smile. “Good. I could not bear to see…Well. Good.” She gave a quick nod. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Celia murmured. She was right outside her room. She opened the door and went in, closing the door and leaning against it. Was it good? Louisa wanted to know. Celia touched her abdomen lightly. She could still feel Anthony’s hands on her skin, still feel his mouth on her, still feel him moving within her, still feel the shuddery quakes of pleasure as she came apart in his arms. Her knees went a little weak at the memory, her breath came a little faster. Oh yes, it had been very good.
If only she knew what to do next.
Warfield was waiting for him when he finally left the library. Anthony took one look at his stern expression and sighed. He nodded once and Warfield fell in step beside him, following him all the way to his chamber.
“I should be asking after your intentions, young man,” said his uncle when he had closed the door behind him.
“Are you?” Anthony peeled off his jacket, waving Franklin away when his valet slipped into the room. Just as silently, Franklin slipped back out.
“No. I’m hoping you’ll tell me yourself.”
Anthony lifted one shoulder. There was still a whiff of lemons about his jacket.
“I’m telling myself, young Hamilton would never trifle with a lady for sport. I’m promising myself, I know the boy better than that. And I’m reminding myself that it’s not my concern, and if he wanted me to know what he feels for the lass, he’d tell me.”
Anthony tossed the jacket on the chaise. “Does it really matter what I say on those counts?” he asked in a low voice.
His uncle jerked his head once. “Aye, to me it does.”
“Then you’re absolutely right. It’s none of your concern.” He turned away and began unknotting his cravat.
“Damn it all, lad.” Warfield ran his hands through his hair, standing it on end. “Tell me you’re having a care.”
“Obviously not enough of one,” Anthony muttered, “or I’d have locked the door.”
“I don’t mean the bloody door, I mean for the lady. Do you fancy her?”
He jerked the linen from his neck, another testy reply on the tip of his tongue. But Warfield was watching him with the cross concern that only sprang from affection. Anthony subdued his temper. “Yes,” he murmured.
His uncle’s face cleared at once. “Wonderful! I knew it. Then everything will end well.”
Anthony gave a dry laugh. “Don’t be so hasty. She doesn’t want to marry me, and Exeter isn’t making her.”
Warfield waved it away. “Of course he shouldn’t force her. A bad beginning if ever there were one for a marriage. No, you must persuade her—and as you fancy her already, it shouldn’t be a trial. A man can’t really appreciate something unless he works for it.”
“She doesn’t want to marry again,” said Anthony. “Her first marriage did not give her a liking for it.”
“But that wasn’t with you,” Warfield retorted. “Look, lad. I know you’ve got the knack of making ladies like you. Don’t be modest, it’s true, and anyone with eyes could see them taking your measure this past fortnight. And I know you’ve applied yourself to it in the past,” he added, quirking one brow knowingly.
“That was different.”
“Worse,” corrected his uncle. “There was no affection.”
To Anthony’s mind, the presence of affection was not an obvious benefit. Without affection involved, it didn’t matter if he failed to catch a woman’s interest. There were other women, after all. It was true, he had applied himself to winning a woman before; but if he had failed before, it mattered only a little, and mostly to his pride. But with Celia…it wasn’t just affection or pride. Anthony knew that he was painfully, hopelessly in love with her. He would rather not try at all than try and fail. “I fear—” he began. “I fear…”
His uncle’s footsteps sounded behind him as he tried to put his fear into words. Warfield laid one hand on his shoulder. “We all fear,” he said kindly. “Particularly when there’s a woman involved.”
“But this isn’t just any woman.” He bowed his head to ease the tension in his neck.
“Then you mustn’t persuade her in the ordinary way.” Warfield slapped him on the back, grinning again. “She’s the one, aye?”
Anthony glared at him. “You are not helping matters.”
“What? Haven’t I seen for days that the lass fancies you? Didn’t I tell her mother to stop her meddling between the pair of you? And now you’ve gone and…Well, now you’ve just got to persuade her to have you. As a husband, that is.”
“You told her mother…?” Anthony stared in shock as Warfield grinned triumphantly, rocking on his heels. “Good God, I’m done for. The duchess has hated me for years.”
“Persuade the daughter and the mother will follow,” said his uncle with a gleam in his eye. “Your happiness is right in front of you, if you’re not too much a coward to seize it.”
“Oh, is that all I have to do,” said Anthony dryly.
Warfield nodded. “I’ll undertake the duchess.”
“No,” said Anthony at once. “Don’t. I beg you.”
His uncle flipped one hand. “Nonsense. She’s a mother, and she’s worried, but she’s an intelligent woman. She’ll see reason soon enough, once her daughter comes around. I’ll just whisper a good word for you in her ear.”
“Whisper anything you like in her ear, except my name.” He collapsed into a nearby chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. “She despises me.”
“Eh, she doesn’t know you.” Warfield dismissed it with another wave of his hand.
“Nor does she want to.”
“Lad. Anthony. Listen to me.” He looked up. Warfield almost never called him by his Christian name. His uncle was unusually somber as he spoke. “Don’t be a fool. Since when are you put off by a frowning mother? And you said yourself this isn’t just any woman. You admit she’s worth more than other bits of skirt. You’ll deserve your misery if you don’t even attempt to persuade her.”
He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Warfield was right. And perhaps…A little tendril of hope sprang up in his chest as he remembered Celia’s response to him in the dark library. Perhaps it wasn’t hopeless. The dowager duchess hated him for certain, and David Reece would probably still like to thrash him, but Exeter hadn’t reacted as strongly as he might have. And Celia had only asked for time; she wanted to see if they would suit. That meant she considered it possible that they would.
Perhaps all he needed was that possibility.
Chapter Sixteen
Whatever Marcus had done or said to the guests, Celia never knew. Rosalind had arranged a picnic for the day in a lovely spot near the ruins of an old chapel and she did not change her plan. From her mother’s relentless good cheer, Celia suspected she was hoping that if she carried on as if the previous evening had never happened, it might in fact fade away into nothing. Celia of course couldn’t forget a mom
ent of it, not the reverent way Anthony touched her face when he first kissed her, not the way he played with her hair after they made love, and certainly not the way he made her feel in between.
No one said a word to her about the scene in the library, although it was impossible that they weren’t thinking of it. It ought to have bothered Celia that people were talking about her, and for such a scandalous action, but somehow it didn’t. Every time she caught sight of Anthony—always from a distance—she noticed that he, unlike her, was alone. No one seemed to be speaking to him, and he spoke to no one except Lord Warfield. That bothered Celia, that Anthony was bearing the brunt of the scandal while she was protected from it. But he never approached her and only once looked her way.
They drove out in four carriages, a party of uncertain temperament. Jane chattered determinedly with Louisa. Lord Elton dozed in a corner of the carriage beside her, snoring softly. Mr. Percy rode up from time to time from his place with some of the other mounted gentlemen to inquire after their comfort, obviously at David’s prodding. Celia wished they would all go away so she could think.
“There,” exclaimed Rosalind with satisfaction when everyone had disembarked from the carriages. Servants had come ahead with the picnic things, and luncheon could be served at a moment’s notice. “Isn’t this lovely?”
Celia managed a smile. “Yes, Mama.”
Her mother beamed. “Do enjoy yourself, darling. Mrs. Percy is waiting for you.”
She looked. Jane was waving at her, urging her to join her and Louisa on a stroll through the ruins. Celia could almost hear her mother’s voice telling Jane to keep her far, far away from Anthony Hamilton. With a sigh, Celia went to them.
Anthony thought it best if he did not go on the duchess’s picnic. It would be awkward for everyone, and he didn’t want to put Celia in that position. But Warfield routed him from his chambers, refusing to be put off. He was part of the party and he was going on the picnic if Warfield had to drag him along behind his horse, the earl said, and so Anthony went.
As expected, it was a strained outing. A few of the ladies seemed to form a wall of chatter around Celia, and he saw her only from a distance. The ladies and some of the married gentlemen were to go in carriages, but the other gentlemen were riding. Aside from Warfield, only Percy spoke to him, and that was in apologetic whispers. Anthony nodded and waved him on. He knew well enough what had probably been said about him, and about Celia, last night. He was quite content not to talk to anyone at the moment, to be honest.
The picnic seemed to go on forever. He sat a discreet distance away from Celia but couldn’t help stealing a glance at her from time to time. Once or twice her eyes met his, wistful and wondering, and it was all he could do not to go to her. It would only cause more disquiet, though, so he stayed where he was.
“You should just go talk to the lady,” Warfield observed at one point. “You’re naught but a smoldering cauldron of frustration here.”
Anthony looked away from her to glare at his uncle. “How poetic you are today.”
“Oh, aye?” Warfield laughed. “Might as well put it to use, then, oughtn’t I?”
He got to his feet, giving Anthony a significant wink. Anthony’s eyes narrowed as he watched Warfield stroll across the grass toward—oh, good Lord. Warfield was heading for the dowager duchess, sitting with Lady Throckmorton on the other side of the clearing.
“Hamilton.” He looked up to see Ned standing over him. All morning Ned had been closemouthed and distant; he’d not said one word to Anthony so far, but then most of the party hadn’t. Ned bent his head toward the brook. “Take a stroll to the water?”
Anthony stole another quick glance in Celia’s direction. She was talking with Mrs. Percy. Warfield had stopped to speak to David Reece. Perhaps this was an opportune moment for him to make an escape. He got to his feet and followed Ned. His friend walked in silence until they reached the rushing brook.
Ned’s face had settled into a frown. “Last night,” he said abruptly. “I wanted to speak to you.”
“Ah.” Anthony suddenly realized what Ned was about to say. He had completely forgotten Ned’s hopes regarding Celia.
“Lady Bertram.” Ned seemed incapable of speaking in complete sentences. “I did not know your interest lay in that direction.”
“I did not set out to seduce her, if that’s what you are asking.”
“No.” A muscle flexed in Ned’s jaw as he stared across the stream. “I just—I just wanted to know for certain.”
“I have admired her for some time.” An enormous understatement, but close enough. Ned’s shoulders fell slightly.
“Good. Good.” He nodded once, sharply. “She’s a lovely lady. Very kind and…charming.”
Anthony inclined his head. “Yes.”
Ned shook his head with a strained chuckle. “You know, I never really thought I’d see…But of course, she’s no ordinary woman, is she? Still in a delicate state and all, but sure to be highly sought after. I didn’t figure her for your kind of woman, to be honest, Hamilton.”
Anthony was very still. There was an edge to Ned’s voice he’d never heard before, and didn’t like. “How so?”
Ned laughed again, a little harsher this time. “Oh, she’s a wealthy widow, all right. That attraction is clear. And beautiful. But you’ve been friends with Reece for ages, and I simply thought…well, it takes tact to carry off, doesn’t it? An affair with a friend’s sister.”
“It is not an affair.” He bit off each word. Not for me.
“Isn’t it? Well. Bravo,” Ned said. He seemed to make a visible effort to swallow his bitterness. “Fortunate chap.”
Anthony said nothing, and after a moment Ned muttered something about getting a drink and went back to the picnic. So Ned felt cheated of Celia. It shouldn’t be a surprise; Ned had no fortune of his own, although Warfield had made him an allowance for as long as Anthony could remember. But it left a very sour taste in his mouth to think of Celia in Ned’s arms. Ned, Anthony knew, was a society favorite, a man of great wit and charm and highly regarded by many society hostesses—perhaps even by the dowager duchess, since she had invited him. No doubt Her Grace would much rather see Celia fall for someone like Ned than someone like Anthony. He wondered if she would encourage Celia more heartily to consider other men—like Ned. No matter what Celia felt, Anthony thought she didn’t deserve to be badgered that way.
And of course his greatest fear was that if she took her mother’s advice, she would easily find someone more suitable than he.
He wrenched a long, willowy reed from the riverbank. For several minutes he stripped it, making a switch. He felt like beating something, and the grass would have to do. Footsteps behind him made him look up warily. Who had come to needle him now?
“All right, Hamilton?” Percy gave him a crooked smile. “Didn’t fall in the brook, did you?”
“No.” He turned back to his reed.
“Good, good.” Percy slapped his shoulder. “I’d hate to have to tell the ladies that news.”
“Would they care so much?” Anthony turned the reed over, running his thumb along the stem. “Would Mrs. Percy?”
Percy jerked, sudden alarm coloring his face. “I say, Ham,” he began.
Anthony waved one hand, scowling. “No. No! By God, why does everyone in the house think I’m after his wife?” He slashed violently at the tall grass with the switch.
“Oh,” said Percy a moment later. “I ought not to have thought that. Of course you’d never…Well, not with a mate’s wife, surely. Not Jane, at any rate, even though she is a decent wife.”
“Then keep her happy.” Anthony flung the switch into the brook, watching it bob on end before slowly twirling around and floating away in the current. “I never met a happy wife who wanted an affair on the side.”
“Indeed?” Percy looked at him with interest. “Not many happy wives, then.”
“No,” said Anthony grimly, watching his switch vanish around the bend.
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“Jewels, I suppose,” said Percy. “That sort of thing. Jane’s been after me about her pin money, too. She wants a carriage—”
“Percy,” Anthony interrupted him, “if you want to make your wife happy, talk to her. Listen to her. Write to her when you’re away from her. Take her to the theater or the opera now and then if she likes them. Make love to her until neither of you can walk. If you don’t do those things, someone else will be glad to.”
Percy looked shocked. “Write to her?” he exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“Because when you write to her, you are thinking of her.” The words he had poured out on the page to Celia ran through his mind. Thinking of her to the exclusion of all else. Anthony shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No, wait! I make love to my wife.” Percy ran after him as Anthony turned and strode back toward the others. “Every week!”
“Good work, Percy. How punctual.”
“But she likes it!” Percy was now quite flushed.
“Excellent,” said Anthony over his shoulder.
“Hamilton!” He walked another few steps and then stopped, only swinging around to face his friend when Percy spoke again. “You’re mad for her, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, but a somewhat amazed statement.
Anthony didn’t reply. He simply stood there in the middle of the field, the wind blowing harder every moment, and looked into Percy’s face, a face rapidly filling with understanding. How odd, thought Anthony in detachment, that Percy should become perceptive for the first time in his life at this moment.
“But that’s good, then, isn’t it?” Percy cocked his head. “Half the battle, I’d say. Got an earldom in your pocket and a fortune in the funds. Most men would conclude the business within a week.” Anthony sighed and looked away. “And if you’re mad for her, and do all those things…writing letters and whatnot…she’ll have you and be glad, won’t she?”
He hoped. Anthony slowly shook his head as he raised his hands. “I haven’t the faintest bloody idea, Percy.”
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 17