by Stella Riley
His hand came down over hers, checking the mare’s pace along with that of the Nomad.
‘And if I do?’
Faintly startled, Celia looked into intent hazel eyes from which all trace of levity had vanished and was aware that things were moving too far and too fast. She liked Eden and, at times, was even attracted to him. But there was another who attracted her more – and, even had there not been, Eden was not the kind of husband she wanted, for he was untitled, unfashionable and far too blunt. On the other hand, it might be fun to teach him how the game of flirtation ought to be played.
Shrugging slightly, she said, ‘How can I tell? As the moment you’re in danger of having me think of you as the person whose grip has bruised my wrist.’
Her hand was released on the instant and a hint of betraying colour mantled his cheek. He said, ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just that I … I can’t play games with you.’
‘And who,’ demanded Celia, thoroughly annoyed at having her mind read, ‘suggested that you should? I certainly did not – any more than I’ve given you the right to ask me impertinent questions.’
For a long moment, Eden simply looked at her. Then, with a small rueful smile, he said, ‘I seem to be making a lot of mistakes today. Perhaps we’d better turn back before I make any more. And, in any case, Tom will be waiting – for I doubt Jezebel will come to him if I’m not there.’
‘Dear me!’ came the withering response. ‘Then we’d best go immediately, hadn’t we? God forbid that we should keep your groom waiting – or that, just once in a while, you should fly that wretched bird without him.’
Frowning slightly, he turned his horse alongside hers.
‘I don’t think you quite understand. Tom isn’t just a groom – he’s a friend.’
Her brows soared. ‘But he works in your stables.’
‘So? I’ve known him all my life and he loves hawking as much as I do.’ He met her blank stare thoughtfully. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?’
‘Don’t be silly. He’s a servant – so aside from the fact that he puts himself forward too much, I’ve no feelings either way. Neither can I imagine why we’re wasting time discussing him,’ she shrugged. Then, summoning her most ravishing smile, ‘I’ve something much more exciting to tell you. Father has promised that I may spend Christmas at Whitehall this year. Isn’t that splendid?’
As she intended, a knife twisted in Eden’s stomach and it was a moment before he could bring himself to reply. Then he said flatly, ‘That rather depends on one’s point of view, doesn’t it? But of course I wish you every pleasure.’
* * *
It had been their last meeting but any residue of regret fell solely to Eden for, while gusty winds pounded the window-panes with sudden, heavy showers of rain, Celia was lost in an orgy of preparation and thought only of London.
It was not her first visit but it was to be her first as an adult and, most exciting of all, she was to be presented at Court and become one of the cultured, glittering company that surrounded King Charles and his French Queen. The only fly in her ointment was that she was thrown suddenly and rather alarmingly into the company of her mother. As a child reared by a rapid succession of nursery-maids – who, as Celia discovered later, had found more favour in the eyes of her father than those of her mother – Lady Wroxton had always been an elegant, remote figure; a creature of jewels and scented satin, whose attention the little Celia had seldom been successful in capturing. And though she was now grown up enough to see past the glamour that had dazzled her childhood to the woman who had never been exactly beautiful and was now beginning to age, Mary was still the one person who could make Celia feel gauche. She was also the one person who ought surely to have loved her but somehow never had.
They left Far Flamstead a full week earlier than planned, before the persistently wet weather should turn the roads into quagmires. Celia glowed with anticipation and Lady Wroxton resigned herself to at least two days of unmitigated tedium and discomfort. But on the following afternoon, when they were less than an hour from their destination, she finally summoned enough energy to ensure that her daughter understood exactly where her duty lay.
Settling her hands more deeply into her sable muff, she said with a distant smile, ‘Well, my dear, I think it’s time we had a little talk about your future. Reluctant as I am to mention so vulgar a matter, you can’t be unaware that the cost of giving you this opportunity will not be small. And your father is not a rich man.’
‘No,’ agreed Celia dutifully. ‘I am very grateful to him – to you both.’
Lady Wroxton sighed and a trace of irritation appeared on her carefully-painted face.
‘I am relieved to hear it. You will therefore do your best not to disappoint us.’
‘N-no, madam. But I don’t quite --’
Her ladyship drew a long breath and abandoned subtlety.
‘Celia. Why do you think you’re going to Court?’
‘To be presented to their Majesties and to – to find a husband.’
‘Quite. Most particularly the latter. What I am trying to make plain is that I expect you to marry well. A gentleman of breeding and … substance. Someone with the right connections and perhaps a position at Court. There is no reason why you should not aim high, my dear; in fact, there is every reason why you should. I trust I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, madam.’ Celia had never doubted that she would become a baroness at the very least. ‘And I think I should like to live in London. The country is very dull.’
Satisfied, Lady Wroxton permitted herself a smile of approval. Never having taken the trouble to acquaint herself with the workings of her daughter’s mind, it did not occur to her that, unlike Francis, Celia had very little idea of the deep financial waters in which her father was perpetually struggling – nor had ever contemplated the possibility that she might one day wish to marry a man who was not rich. And so her mother saw only the compliance of a properly reared girl and decided that it was quite unnecessary to broach the distasteful matter of the dowry. Relief warmed her smile and she said lightly, ‘You’re a sensible child – and a pretty one. I’m sure your father and I can rely on you to be a credit to us.’
The result of this was that mother and daughter arrived at the narrow house in the Strand in a state of rare mutual accord which enabled them to overlook the sad fact that there were none but servants to greet them. And when, on the following morning, Lord Wroxton deigned to favour his wife with a few minutes of his time, she was able to tell him that they need have no fears about Celia.
‘She’s more sense than I supposed, then,’ was his lordship’s reply. ‘I’d begun to think her head was full of romantic flummery and that she was set on having young Maxwell.’
‘That was nothing. Merely a flirtation.’
Gervase laughed. ‘Trying out her claws, was she? Well, I can’t blame her for that.’
‘No. And we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that Eden Maxwell is perfectly eligible. Not the best we can hope for – but by no means contemptible,’ said his wife coolly. ‘He dresses deplorably, of course – but that is something which might be mended.’
His lordship smothered a yawn.
‘Yes … well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If I’m to pay off that damned Italian, I need a son-in-law already in control of his fortune – not one who could wait twenty years to inherit.’ He paused and then, anxiety creasing his brow, said abruptly, ‘I don’t like this debt, Mary. I wish I’d never let you talk me into it.’
‘And how else, pray, are we to support the costs of our new title in addition to establishing Francis at Court and finding a match for Celia?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t like borrowing from foreigners. It leads to all sort of trouble. I remember my cousin Giles being up to his neck in debt to one, years ago – and he was never free of worry till the day he died. I don’t want to go the same way. And – say what you like – this bl
oody Italian’s dangerous.’
‘Oh don’t be such a weakling!’ snapped Mary irritably. ‘The man’s a usurer, that’s all. And if the King can borrow from him, why shouldn’t we?’
‘Because, unlike His Majesty, we can be bankrupted,’ came the bitter reply. ‘And I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days in a French hovel. Particularly with you.’
* * *
The days became weeks, Christmas approached and Celia was in her element. Graciously welcomed by King Charles and Queen Henrietta Maria to their brilliant and elegant court at Whitehall, she rapidly renewed old acquaintances, made a host of new ones, and was soon engaged in a number of delicious flirtations – the most delicious of all being with Sir Hugo Verney.
But weaving in and out of the season’s festivities was a thread that wasn’t festive at all and Celia found it dull. There was always such talk, she decided, and it never amounted to anything. Last year everyone had talked of war with Scotland; now they talked of it again. They had even appointed a Council to discuss it thrice weekly and there were rumours that a Parliament would be called to vote money for it. Celia dismissed it with a shrug and merely wished that the gentlemen were less prone to gather in corners debating the state of the northern defences and the purchase of arms from Hamburg.
She was rather more interested in Viscount Wentworth – a dark, grimly distinguished gentlemen who had been recalled from Ireland to deal with the Scottish rebels and who, it was said, had contributed twenty thousand pounds from his own pocket in order to raise the army he thought necessary to do it. If this was true, he was duly rewarded for the King promptly created him Earl of Strafford – an honour which, as far as Celia could see, neither lessened his grimness nor increased his popularity. The latter, according to Francis, was something to do with the new Earl’s refusal to sacrifice Ireland to English profiteers and his ruthless determination to solve problems which the vacillating nature of the King’s other ministers seemed only to aggravate. Francis, it appeared, approved wholeheartedly of my lord Strafford.
It was all much too serious for Celia and she turned with relief to Sir Hugo – who never mentioned politics and kept her constantly amused. She found that she liked him even better than she remembered and was quite astonished how much his laughing glances and outrageous compliments contributed to her pleasure. He was not, of course, her only gallant, but he was most definitely the only one she really cared for.
Of her other admirers, most were Francis’s friends; men like the Queen’s Master of Horse, Harry Jermyn and the Earl of Bristol’s son, George Digby. All these she liked and had no wish to discourage. And then there was Cyrus Winter whose attentions she would willingly have dispensed with had she only known how. His cold grey eyes and prematurely silvered hair did not please her eye and there was something in his manner that disturbed her. But Mr Winter was no ordinary young man whose eagerness could be blunted by a snub. In fact, he was not young at all and seemed regrettably friendly with her mother. How friendly, Celia was by no means sure. As friendly, for example, as was her father with Sarah Davenport? Court life was a great eye-opener and not everything that one learned was pleasant.
Lady Wroxton watched her daughter’s progress carefully and with rather more than usual interest. She had been surprised that Cyrus should notice the child … but not much, for unexpectedness was a habit with him. It was his main charm, thought Mary idly; and he was quite likely to cultivate Celia out of no more than a spirit of devilment. He had been her own lover now for almost a year and still, despite an increasingly jaded palate, she was reluctant to relinquish him. He was innovative in bed and amusing out of it – and he was rich enough to make their liaison extremely profitable to her. So when she saw Celia being cold to the point of rudeness, she was swift to deliver a reprimand – for though Cyrus was the last man on earth to give two straws for a chit of eighteen, he might just find the challenge of her dislike too piquant a temptation to resist. And Mary wanted no rivals at all – least of all her own daughter.
As she watched, it seemed that her instinct had been right, for tonight he had given the girl no more than a civil greeting. That was very satisfactory. Less so was the fact that, of the other gentlemen clustered about Celia, not one was worth more than three thousand a year – and Hugo Verney, nothing at all. With Gervase developing a nervous tic over his indebtedness to the Italian, it was extremely provoking that his daughter seemed unable to attract even one man with a purse fat enough to remedy the situation.
A dark figure paused at her side and, turning, she found herself looking at Luciano del Santi. The aptness of his appearance gave her a slight jolt … but then, he was everywhere these days. A crow at the elbow of society, said Gervase. And yet, thought Mary, despite that ill-formed shoulder of his, he was the only man she’d seen in a long time who just might prove an adequate replacement for Cyrus Winter. Certainly he was equally rich – and his coldness was intriguing. Her eyes narrowed appraisingly and a slow smile touched her mouth as she wondered how deep that chill really went.
‘You are often among us these days, sir,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m told that the King declares your financial advice to be quite … priceless.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyes told her nothing and the melodious voice was smooth as butter. ‘How fortunate it is, then, that I find the honour of serving His Majesty sufficient reward.’
‘Just so.’ She suspected irony but could not be sure of it. ‘They say you are a wizard.’
‘Do they so?’ His smile was sudden and dazzling ‘And is that all they say?’
She laughed. ‘You know it isn’t. And I suspect care very little for it or you’d not be here.’
He inclined his head in the oblique, almost imperceptible manner that was so peculiarly his own and said nothing.
‘Why do you come, I wonder?’
‘Is it not everyone’s ambition to be accepted at Court?’
‘Perhaps. But if that were all, you would take a little more care not to antagonise people – instead of being openly contemptuous of their good opinion.’
His glance swept the room.
‘Should I not be contemptuous of it?’
She shrugged. ‘You may think what you please. What you may not do is show it.’
‘So.’ His mouth curled a little. ‘You find me transparent. I congratulate you.’
This time the irony was unmistakeable but Mary refused to let it annoy her. She said, ‘You are too clever for your own good, signor, and you make enemies needlessly. Could you but bring yourself to be a trifle more conciliatory, there are those amongst us who would not find it difficult to … like you.’
Luciano del Santi’s impersonal gaze rested on her calmly.
‘Such as yourself, for example? Your ladyship does me too much honour. So much that I am almost tempted.’
‘Only almost? That is scarcely flattering.’
‘No. But you see, there is one small problem. I do not crawl.’ He paused and then continued blandly, ‘A mixed blessing, perhaps. If I were more compliant, something tells me that I should have been less fortunate in engaging your ladyship’s … interest.’
Mary met his eyes and, seeing the knowledge there, drew a long, slightly unsteady breath. Then, deciding to meet fire with fire, she said sweetly, ‘You, sir, are a bastard.’
‘Yes.’ He smiled with soft, malicious charm. ‘I thought that was my main attraction.’
* * *
Whitehall was a gay, confident place that Christmas. The King forgot his need to economise and ordered a new set of tapestries from Mortlake; the Queen was pregnant again – by Harry Jermyn, said the scandal-mongers; and the masque of Philogenes and the Furies, with words by Will Davenant and décor by Mr Inigo Jones, promised spectacular entertainment.
It was on the evening when this was to be performed that Hugo Verney, overcome by an emotion that was entirely new to him, finally lost his head and, drawing Celia first into the semi-privacy of a curtained alcove and then into his ar
ms, gave way to an impulse that wasn’t new at all and kissed her. To his credit, he recovered himself almost immediately and stepped back, watchful and a little pale, with an apology already on his lips.
‘Celia … I beg your pardon. That was inexcusable. Have I upset you? I didn’t mean to.’
Flushed and startled, Celia lost herself in a tangle of half sentences. She was not surprised that he had kissed her – only by how much she had liked it. And the result was utter confusion.
Hugo stared desperately at her downcast head.
‘Oh hell!’ he breathed. And then, very gently, ‘I’m sorry – I really am. Can you believe that I meant no disrespect?’
‘Yes.’
It was the merest whisper and it all but undid him. Celia, however, began to regain a little of her poise – though her colour was still high and she kept her eyes fixed on her hands. These were somewhat unsteady and, to hide the fact, she began toying with the bunches of ribbon on her blue satin bodice. A sweet expectancy was growing inside her and, when he showed no sign of adding to what he had said, she murmured, ‘But I think, sir, that you are grown over-bold.’ And waited, hopefully.
‘I know it,’ came the wooden reply.
Surprised, she stole a quick look at him and wondered at the grimness of his expression. Then, happily misconstruing it, she said encouragingly, ‘But perhaps I may forgive you … just this once.’
Unable for the first time he could remember to think of a single thing to say, Hugo drew a long breath and wished that the floor would open and swallow him up. It would be easier if she were angry; but, instead of rebuking him, she stood there looking as though she thought he was going to offer something more than the very real apology that was all he had to give.
A stab of sudden comprehension tore through his chest.
That was it, of course. He had never spoken of his betrothal; when he was with Celia, it had always been something he preferred not to remember. And, unbelievably, it seemed that – despite the fact that it was common knowledge – no one else had told her either. She did not know. It was as simple as that. And, because she didn’t know, she was expecting him to talk of love.