The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton

by Miranda Neville

  “You said your kidnapper planned to return. I imagine he will come that way. While I am anxious to meet the fellow who abducted you and attacked me, I would rather do so when I am feeling stronger and my head doesn’t ache.”

  The alternative was a steep rise behind the hut, leading who knew where. She looked wistfully at the downhill grassy track and back at the rocky hillside and had to admit he made sense. “He had a pistol,” she acknowledged. “Are you able to walk?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my legs.”

  Chapter 4

  A gentleman without his valet is like a fish without a phaeton.

  Whatever the state of his legs, it appeared his riding boots had not been designed for a tramp over rough terrain. Before they reached the crest of the hill, he had a pain on one heel that echoed the continuing throb in his brain. But he could hardly grumble when his companion was barefoot. She never uttered a complaint as she picked her way up the rocky slope. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of another until he heard shouts from below. Without forethought he fell to his knees, pulling Celia down with him, and rolled them both behind a rocky outcrop.

  “Ow!” she complained, when he landed on top of her.

  “Shh!”

  “Why did you do that?” She shoved at his chest.

  He put a hand over her mouth. “There happen to be at least two men down there,” he hissed, “and my guess is they are looking for us, so be quiet.”

  She nodded and he released her. “I heard them,” she whispered, “but do you have to lie on top of me? There’s something sticking into my leg.”

  “Sorry.” He shifted his lower body so his hip rested on the ground. “Better?”

  “Not really.”

  Once again he adjusted his weight but they were on a steep hillside and gravity pulled him down, squeezing her recumbent body between his and the rock. “I can’t move further back without exposing myself to view.” Stretching his neck, he peered around the side of their shelter. “I can see down the hill,” he said. “There are two men and they’re searching the area. We’d better keep quiet and keep still.”

  They lay together for many minutes listening to the ebb and flow of their pursuers’ voices. His concentration on their location was disturbed by the sound of his own breathing, and more especially that of his companion. As he strained to make sense of the men’s shouting, the gentle undulations of her chest beneath his took on an outsized importance. One fact kept penetrating the mingled concerns of physical pain, mental bewilderment, and present danger. That the body lying against his was undoubtedly a female one. And that the female in question was—perhaps—his betrothed wife. Through his confusion, the thought added piquancy to their situation.

  He wondered if he’d ever kissed her. Tilting his head he observed a generous mouth. Whatever else he forgot, surely he’d remember its touch. Slightly ajar, it emitted a soft warmth that tempted him to taste. But the stormy expression in her eyes belied the invitation. His beloved’s temper, if the experience of the past hour or so was anything to go by, didn’t match the sweet promise of those lips.

  How could he blame her? She’d endured a day every bit as trying as his own. On the other hand she did, at least, know who she was.

  Hoof beats down the hill put paid to his musing.

  “What’s happening?” she said, wriggling to escape.

  “They’re riding off. Their horses must have been behind the house.”

  “Most likely one of them is yours.”

  “What color is my horse?”

  “A bay.”

  “Those two looked like a gray and a chestnut.”

  “Can you be certain from so far away?” For some reason she sounded defensive.

  “No.”

  “You see? It may easily be a bay.”

  “Is it important?”

  “No,” she said. “I suppose not.”

  After two hours hard trudging, a broad, swift stream halted their progress. A nearby stand of trees offered shelter from the still-powerful evening sun. With matching sighs of relief they cast themselves down in the shade.

  “Let me look at your head,” she said.

  He fingered the tender spot on his skull. It didn’t feel too terrible a wound and the walk had diminished the throbbing. “It’s all right,” he said. “The bleeding stopped.”

  “I’m going to clean it. Wait.” She scrambled down the slope to the water. Glad to rest, he sat and leaned back against the trunk of an oak tree. Closing his eyes, he tried to contemplate his bizarre situation. Since deep cogitation made his head ache more, he gave up until Celia returned and fell to her knees beside him.

  “Tilt your head forward,” she commanded. She probed through his hair and gently palpated the sore spot with cool, soothing fingers. “It’s quite a lump,” she said, “but the area of broken skin is small and a scab has formed. Head wounds always bleed a great deal, even slight ones.”

  “Are you an expert?”

  “As governess in a family of four boys I have vast experience with all kinds of minor injury.”

  “Did any of your charges ever lose his memory?”

  “Only for the multiplication tables. And the dates of the kings of England.”

  “I assume such memory failure was temporary.”

  “Intermittent, but in some cases likely permanent, I fear. I was never a very good teacher.”

  He laughed. “Ouch.”

  She drew back. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “Only by making me laugh.”

  “I want to give you a compress. Bend your head and keep still.”

  The cold wet cloth felt wonderful. As the dull throbbing in his brain faded he realized Celia had pulled his head almost into her bosom. He jammed his eyes shut but that didn’t help since he became aware of her scent: a little musky, not surprising after a strenuous walk in hot weather, but far from disagreeable. When they’d lain together hiding from their pursuers, his impression had been that her small breasts, under the sensible shift, were well-shaped and pert, practically perfect. He ventured a quick look, just to make sure, but the range was too close. All he could see was linen and shadowed skin so he closed his eyes again, with a feeling of virtue, and concentrated on the blissful soothing of his wound.

  “There,” she said after several minutes. “The cloth is warm now. Shall I soak it again?”

  “Later perhaps. Thank you for your care. If only your ministrations had cured my more vexatious injury! But I still can’t remember a thing. Please tell me everything you know about me.”

  She fussed with the damp rag, spreading it to dry before returning to sit beside him on the ground. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How about when we met,” he said with a touch of impatience. “Surely the reminder of such an important event will jog my memory.”

  Celia certainly hoped not.

  During their long walk she’d had time to invent a few details of her romance with Mr. Fish, so she began with a degree of confidence. “Soon after you came to lodge with Mr. Blyth, the vicar of Sedgwick.”

  “To study for the church?”

  “As I said before. Soon afterward we met at a ball.”

  “A public assembly?”

  “A small private ball given by the squire’s wife, Mrs. Wilkinson, to celebrate her daughter’s engagement.”

  “Is it usual for a governess to be invited to such a private party?”

  How typical of Tarquin Compton to detect the flaw in her story. She had decided to stick to facts, as far as was possible, in the invention of their courtship. It so happened that she had attended Mrs. Wilkinson’s ball because she had lately become betrothed, to her employer, Mr. Baldwin. Apparently the blow to the head hadn’t dulled his instinct for social nuance.

  “I may only be a governess,” she said with a touch of hauteur, “but my family is not without distinction. Miss Baldwin, my employer’s sister, chaperoned me.” Much against her will, she could have ad
ded. Miss Baldwin had loathed her brother’s promised bride. Celia was sure she’d done everything she could to make Bertram believe the evidence of her misbehavior. “Shall I continue?”

  “I was merely trying to understand the situation. Why was I invited to the ball?”

  “Because you are a gentleman, and Mr. Blyth’s pupil.”

  “Not because I come from a family of distinction?”

  “Will you stop interrupting and let me tell the story?”

  “I beg your pardon. Go on.”

  “I wore my best evening gown, a pale yellow silk left from my London season. I believe I looked very well for Yorkshire.”

  If any doubt remained that Tarquin Compton was not himself, his reception of this statement dispelled it. “I’m sure you looked charming, but could we pass over the fashion folderol and get to the point?”

  This was where her account departed from the historical into the fantastic. “The dancing had already begun but I had no partner because there were too many ladies.” She frowned. “Why are there never enough gentlemen at balls?” This question evoked a groan which Celia read as a demand that she get on with the story. “As soon as you came through the door I noticed you. All the ladies did, you understand, since there weren’t enough partners to go around.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “You are very tall.”

  “How gratifying to be noticed for something beyond the mere fact of being male.”

  “Male and able to dance. The vicar entered with you but he can’t walk without a cane.” Realizing she needed to put a little effort into her depiction of their courtship, she edged around to look him in the eye. “I noticed you particularly because you are so handsome.”

  “Am I?” He sounded surprised. “I don’t know what I look like.”

  This part was easy. She had only to describe Mr. Compton as she’d first seen him in a London ballroom. “Oh yes! Though in an uncommon way. Your nose is quite prominent, your chin firm, and your eyes so dark a brown as to appear almost ebony. But what struck me most is the way you present yourself. You always hold yourself so proudly, and your attire is faultless. Your clothes fit perfectly without any flaw. Your neck cloth is a work of art. And even with black hair and a dark complexion, I have never seen a cleaner-shaven man. People always wonder how you do it. Mr. Baldwin, my employer, is a dark man and by midday he almost has a beard.”

  While she described his features, Mr. Compton examined his face with his hand. He rubbed his chin. “Not so smooth now. I fear by the morning I will have a beard.”

  Celia gave into temptation and ran the tips of her fingers over the rough bristles forming on his jaw. “I like it,” she said truthfully. “It makes you look a little like a pirate in a storybook.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. The way you portray me makes me sound a blasted dandy. Did you just choke?”

  She snatched away her hand. “Frog in my throat. I would never fall in love with a dandy.”

  “I wish I could say I remember any of this, but none of it seems familiar. What happened after I entered the ballroom?”

  “You looked across the room and saw me. As soon as our eyes met I fell in love, and later you told me you had felt the same way. Although Mrs. Wilkinson—”

  “Remind me, who is she?”

  “Our hostess. Mrs. Wilkinson tried to present you to other young ladies but you declined to meet anyone but me.”

  “That seems shabby behavior.”

  “I thought it excessively romantic. You asked me to stand up for the country dance and afterward you fetched us lemonade.”

  “What a thrilling entertaient.”

  “It was the most wonderful night of my life. The next day you called on me at Mr. Baldwin’s and a week later we were betrothed.”

  “How could I afford to offer marriage? Are the Fishes a family of means? Where do they come from?”

  Celia repressed a sigh of exasperation. Instead of being carried away by her tale of love at first sight, Mr. Compton insisted on asking a lot of boring, practical, and highly inconvenient questions, as though he were her father instead of her lover. Of course he wasn’t her lover, but he didn’t know that. She scrutinized a mental map of England for an area far from Yorkshire.

  “Your home is in Cornwall. Near Falmouth, on the sea.”

  “A very suitable location for a family of Fishes. Are we big Fish or little Fish?”

  “You told me your family is highly respected.”

  “But the question is, how big is the pond in which we swim? And how many are in the shoal? Am I an orphan Fish? An only Fish? Do I have living parents or close relations?”

  “You never told me very much about your family,” Celia said cautiously. “You must at least be acquainted with big fish in Cornwall. You have a promise of an excellent living near . . . Truro.”

  “Then why am I studying for the church in Yorkshire? It seems a long way to go. I should think I could find a situation closer.”

  He looked haughty again, reminding her that this was still Tarquin Compton, the toplofty terror of the ton. For a few minutes there she’d almost believed in Terence Fish, her charming half-dressed fiancé who made jokes about his own name. To avoid his inquisitive gaze, she shifted around and sat beside him, sharing the backrest of the sturdy tree trunk.

  “I don’t know why you came to the north, but I’m glad you did. Perhaps it was fate that we both ended up here. I lived in India until two years ago.”

  “How in the name of Zeus did you end up a governess in Yorkshire?”

  Changing the subject from his invented life to her (mostly) true one had definite appeal. “It’s a long story.”

  “Before you begin, we should decide whether to go any farther tonight. It will be dark in little more than an hour.”

  “My feet would prefer to stay here, yet they might be persuaded to walk another mile or two if there was a meal at the end of them.” Her stomach growled horribly.

  “I suppose nothing edible has magically appeared in that bag?” he asked.

  She picked up the sack and peered in. “I can smell roast chicken. No, I’m mistaken. Just a pile of rags. And a cup.”

  Across the stream rolling moorland stretched for miles ahead. “I think,” he said, “we should resign ourselves to fasting tonight. Here we have water, and the shelter of this tree. I also doubt we can cross the stream without getting our clothes wet and I’d rather do it in the morning when we have time to dry off.” He reached for the bag. “Let me fill that cup.”

  Remembering the book, Celia retrieved the cup herself and thrust the bag behind her. “Here. Or let me.” She stood and winced when her foot hit a stone.

  “Are you injured? Let me look. You tended to my wounds, now let me return the favor.” He knelt before her, his dark head bent low. His touch on her ankle gave her a shocking little tingle.

  She pulled away her foot. “Thank you but there’s no need. My feet are sore but no skin broken. I bathed them when I soaked the rag.”

  “A foot bath is an appealing idea. I’ll go and do it now and fetch us some water. Will you give me a hand up?”

  The touch of his fingers, the brush of his body as he stood, sent a tremor through hers. “I look forward to a serving of Eau de Yorkshire brook,” she said hastily. “An excellent vintage, I am sure.”

  He smiled at her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. We’ll toast our escape and our betrothal and then you can tell me the story of your life.”

  Celia had never seen Tarquin Compton smile. It made his harsh, characterful face appear incredibly handsome. As she settled back against the tree, she began to feel quite guilty for deceiving him. He was being such a good sport about their predicament. The thought of confessing her lies was daunting. It was bad enough to spend the night out in the wilds with an almost strange man. She had no doubt that if she confessed the truth now he would become an exceedingly angry man. Once they reached Mrs. Stewart’s she’d have to tell him who he was, a
nd hope the knowledge would bring back his memory. If not, her friend would find him a doctor and they could contact his relations.

  “Ahem.” The subject of her thoughts stood over her.

  “That was quick,” she said.

  He looked sheepish, another expression new to Mr. Compton. “My boots fit so well I can’t get them off. I daresay that’s why the thief didn’t take them with the rest of my clothing.”

  Naturally Tarquin Compton wouldn’t be like lesser mortals, whose boots tended to wrinkle, or even sag, around the ankles. His were perfectly smooth, molding his calves almost to knee height.

  “Let me try,” she said. “Sit down.”

  Removing a man’s footwear was an oddly intimate business. In the few hours spent in his company, nothing else had seemed more indecent. Absurd since when they met they’d both been half-naked. Even lying together, hiding from their pursuers, hadn’t troubled her as much: it had been necessary. And at that point her indignation was still fresh while now her feelings toward him had shifted. She was still angry at Tarquin Compton but she found she almost liked Terence Fish. Avoiding his eyes, she knelt before him and yanked the proffered boot. She’d never felt such butter-soft leather.

  “It won’t budge,” she said.

  He leaned back and braced himself on his elbows. “Try now.”

  “Nothing. Not an inch. They fit like gloves.”

  He stood and offered her a hand to help her up. “I was afraid of that. We’ll have to do it the other way.” Celia didn’t think she liked the glint in his eye.

  Not far off he found a boulder of the right height. Once seated he extended a leg. “Straddle my knee. If you don’t mind, of course.” She minded all right, but it would be churlish to object. He did need to remove his boots. “Not like that. With your back to me.” She was sure she didn’t imagine the amusement in his voice.

  Following his instructions required some adjustment of her “skirt.” The blanket’s tendency to slip had given her a good deal of annoyance during the long walk. When she got herself into position, balanced over his leg, she was aware of the view she presented of her bottom. This, she discovered, was only the beginning of her humiliation.