“I suppose it is,” he said flatly, moving his hand to rest on his crossed knee, “if you like things on the rustic side.” He was retreating from painful memories—she could understand that—and in doing so she was losing him for he also retreated from their moment of empathy.
In desperation she tried to call it back. “And that trout, and the water from the brook, are the foods from your land and gave you strength. It is your home.”
“I remember that conversation,” he replied. “For the record I have never set foot in Cornwall in my entire life.”
He sounded angry again, reminded of her perfidy. Not the least of their differences was that those days on the moors, so happy in her recollection, to him represented humiliation and deception.
Their brief truce was over. She had been tempted to reciprocate his confidence, to tell him her loss that day was more than just that of her father, that she’d known then she’d never see her two young half brothers again. Though she was not, in fact, without family, she had no idea where her father had sent Ghazala and her children. They were lost to her forever, somewhere in a vast continent thousands of miles away.
She wouldn’t tell him now. It would be better if he never learned what a scandalous woman he’d been prepared to wed. Especially if he were to marry someone else. The Countess Something-or-Other who sounded quite loathsome with her wonderful Parisian gown. But very suitable for Tarquin who thought it didn’t matter what she, Celia, wore because her appearance was hopelessly beneath his standards.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear to be in his debt, but the only recompense she could offer was her genuine contrition.
“I didn’t finish my apology,” she said. “I realize how much harm I might have caused you and I hope you will be able to recover.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“It never occurred to me that you might be courting another lady, engaged even. I would never have . . . lain with you had I known.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“One of the ladies mentioned you were to wed a countess.” She peered at him around the rim of her bonnet. She was horrified to find the answer important to her.
Damn.
Celia was not given to profanity, even in her own thoughts. The present inconvenient truth inspired her to worse language, some of the vocabulary she’d learned in the memoirs of Francis Featherbrain, words too wicked to speak aloud.
She was dreadfully afraid that she was in love with Tarquin Compton.
Little wonder she’d been unable to muster pleasure at William Montrose’s obvious admiration. She was mad not to encourage the courtship of an attractive man of good character, excellent prospects, and delightful family. And yet she could not because she pined for a man who didn’t really exist. And by sharing an important part of his history with her, Tarquin had given her just enough of a hint that Terence Fish was alive and well so that she couldn’t contemplate wedding another man.
All the things she disliked about him faded away as surface irritations. She thought only of his strength, the way he’d protected her, both on the moors and now when he refused to abandon her as long as she was in danger. She recalled that Lord Iverley, the opposite of a fashionable fribble and one of the cleverest men she’d ever met, was his close friend. There was much more to Tarquin than he allowed most of the world to see.
But the fact that Celia Seaton remained fathoms beneath his touch made her infatuation distressing. She had to trust it was only infatuation and she would recover as soon as she escaped his constant company. If she truly loved him the future looked bleak. She only hoped she’d be far away from him when he married another.
The beautiful Julia Czerny hadn’t entered Tarquin’s mind in days. When he did think of her, she still seemed a very desirable bride. But she didn’t occupy his thoughts the way Celia did. His urge to confide in her, sparked by her need for comfort, had taken him by surprise. He’d been forced to retreat in good order when she began to ask questions about his past life he wasn’t ready to answer. Or even consider what the answers might be.
His guardian, the duke, had educated him in the obligations of the landowner, but at a distance. The duke employed excellent stewards at his numerous properties and made sure the Revesby estate was well run by a good man. But old memories were starting to intrude.
Leaving the house on his sturdy pony, trailing his father’s cob as they inspected the flocks of sheep, the condition of the barns and walls.
Fishing in the trout stream, with rod and tackle and Papa baiting his hook.
Cricket in the garden. Through all his triumphs playing for his school and university, he’d let himself forget how his father first put a bat in his hands and bowled him easy lobs.
Hugo had always been amused by his sporting pursuits. “At least, dear boy,” he would say, “all that exercise helps maintain your figure.”
Hugo, to whom he owed so much. Hugo who, unlike his parents, had never left him.
Hugo who wanted to arrange a marriage for him with Countess Julia Czerny.
Perhaps it was a good thing Celia had heard gossip about himself and Julia. It was inevitable that news of their connection had spread and made him remember that he might, in fact, have an obligation to the lady.
“I’m not engaged,” he said, smoothing out a wrinkle in his sleeve.
“But you have an understanding?”
Given the confusion of his feelings, he avoided a direct answer. Although he had no idea of Celia’s sentiments, he did not wish to give her the wrong idea until he knew his own.
“Countess Czerny is a charming woman. A distant cousin. I enjoyed making her acquaintance in London at the end of the season.” Let Celia make of that what she would.
She took the hint and ran with it. “I wish you joy. And now I think we should rejoin the party.” Jerking to her feet, she shook out her skirts, leaving a small book on the bench. “Oh, that’s mine . . .”
He beat her to it. “No,” he said, checking the spine lettering of The Genuine Amours. “I believe it is in fact mine.” He stowed it in the pocket of his coat and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Celia looked mutinous, but what could she do? She’d been caught, not only reading a most unsuitable book, but also lending it to Minerva Montrose, the innocent seventeen-year-old daughter of her recent hosts. On the other hand, the Montroses were unconventional and for all he knew Miss Minerva had been reading Aretino in the schoolroom, most likely in the original Italian.
He looked forward to finding the bit about the rat.
Chapter 25
The tyranny of affection is hard to withstand.
Mandeville had an apparently unlimited capacity to absorb people. Each day, usually in the afternoon, new guests arrived and the great hall bustled with their accompanying servants, luggage, and sometimes pet dogs and birds. Then they were shown to their rooms, and seemed to disappear into the fabric of the building, leaving the mansion graceful and serene. Only when large numbers assembled in one place did one get an impression of a crowd. At dinner in the state dining room Celia was always stunned to see dozens of people accommodated at the endless table.
Feeling hot and sticky after the day outside, she was passing through the hall on her way to a wash and change of clothing. She glanced without much interest at an arriving party, not expecting to see anyone she knew. A gentleman of advanced age was guided through the massive front door on the arm of an upper servant. Despite his years the man possessed an air of great elegance. Judging by the deference he attracted, he was someone of importance. The Duchess of Hampton herself came out to welcome him and could be heard expressing gratified surprise at the honor of his visit.
Joining in the veneration was another new arrival, a raven-haired beauty who appeared to be his traveling companion. Celia wondered idly if the gentleman was a high-ranking nobleman, another duke perhaps, and she his granddaughter. She was certain she’d never encountered the lady during her London season; she wouldn’t have forg
otten the combination of exquisite features and perfect figure dressed with a level of sophisticated good taste to which Celia could never in a million years aspire.
She had almost skirted the activity in the hall and reached the stairs when an uistakable figure entered from the other end. Given the recent revelation of her feelings, it gave her no pleasure to be instantly aware of that dark imposing presence, the buzz in her head, the jolt of excitement beneath her ribs at the sight of him.
Tarquin made straight for the newcomers and took the lady’s hand. The pair of them presented a picture of supreme modishness and perfect ton. The limber grace of his bow, the refined curve of the lady’s wrist as she raised it for his kiss brought an uncomfortable pricking to Celia’s eyes. She looked down and saw a small raspberry stain on her bodice. She’d been wearing a soiled gown for much of the day and she hadn’t even noticed.
Sniffing and blinking hard, she surveyed the scene below through a mist of unfallen tears. At least Tarquin hadn’t lingered over the lady. All his attention was now on the old man who relinquished his servant’s arm and transferred his weight to Tarquin’s. In a flash she saw the resemblance. Not so much in feature, though they shared the aquiline nose and commanding height. Tarquin’s dark handsomeness contrasted with the still-thick white hair of the other. But though the old man was frail, his posture was almost as straight as the younger’s and there was an indefinable similarity in their stances.
“Who is he?” she asked one of the lady guests who stood a few steps below her.
She hardly had to wait for the answer. Tarquin wore his rare smile and a look of affection she’d seen only in the days of Terence Fish. “Lord Hugo Hartley,” came the reply. “I am amazed. I do not believe he has left London in decades. Something important must have happened to bring him to join his nephew here.”
“And the lady?”
“The Countess Czerny.”
Tarquin was summoned to Lord Hugo’s room thirty minutes before the dinner hour. His uncle had rested from the journey and, while his valet completed his toilette for the evening, they exchanged remarks on the continuing struggle between the king and his estranged wife and the prospects for the coronation. But these days Hugo preferred reminiscences of the past to speculation on a future he might never see. From the man who had been like a grandfather, even a father to him, Tarquin never minded hearing the same old stories.
“Amazing that I should have outlived King George,” Hugo said, his voice distinctly smug. “We were exact contemporaries, you know. Born just weeks apart in 1738. I knew him as a boy and attended him at his coronation. He was always a dull dog, you know, and priggish. Whoever heard of a straight-laced Hanoverian? After he married I avoided Court.”
“Didn’t he approve of your clothes?” This question always provoked a response. Lord Hugo had been a dandy for over sixty years, since before the term was invented, or so he claimed.
“As to that, I can’t say. He always dressed soberly but in those days we weren’t afraid of colors.” He sighed. “No one has ever accused me of failing to dress à la mode but I find modern taste sadly plain. Look at us both. All in black like a pair of crows.”
“In your case a robin redbreast.”
Hugo eyed Tarquin’s chaste white waistcoat with displeasure and ran an approving hand over the embroidered scarlet satin of his own. “I don’t suppose,” he said on a sigh, “that I shall live to see satins and velvets or gilt embroidery and heavy falls of lace return to fashion. I’m sorry I shall never wear pink again.”
For the first time he could remember, Tarquin felt impatient with Hugo’s conversation. He wished they could talk about something other than clothing and gossip. There’d never been any point discussing the state of the nation, or the business of his estate. Hugo would merely wave it aside with a flick of the wrist and a well-turned witticism on the horrors of rural economy. Come to think of it, Tarquin had often been guilty of the latter himself.
He refused to be diverted any longer. “Are you going to tell me what unprecedented event brings you out of Mayfair for the first time in twenty years?”
Hugo withdrew his hand from the ministrations of his valet who had been buffing his nails. He nodded at the man who bowed and left the room in silence. Probably listening from the dressing room next door. Bennett had been in Lord Hugo’s service longer than Tarquin had been alive. He sometimes wondered about the exact nature of the relations between master and servant.
“Hand me that letter, if you please, dear boy.” He gestured to the mantelpiece, accepted the folded sheet, then bade Tarquin be seated. “A few days ago I had a letter from Lady Garsington who heard from Lady Amanda Vanderlin who had the news from her brother Lord Blakeney. Let me read part of it.”
Tarquin knew what was coming. The extent of Hugo’s correspondence made it inevitable he’d hear something.
“ ‘According to Blakeney your nephew had taken it into his head to rusticate. He is in Shropshire, staying at the childhood home of Lady Iverley. Since Lady I. is expecting to be brought to bed (strangely soon after her marriage I may add, but more on that later) it is odd she should be entertaining guests. Most curious is that Mr. C. arrived in company with a young lady, a Miss Celia Seaton. I don’t understand why your nephew, my dear Hugo, should be concerning himself with a young lady of such negligible connections. I know nothing about her at all, aside from her brief appearance in London under the aegis of Lady Trumper, no very great recommendation I am sure you agree. For all I know the girl may have fallen from a tree. These things may be misrepresented at a distance, yet Blakeney seemed to think your nephew on terms of some intimacy with Miss S.’ ” Hugo lowered the paper. “Well?”
Tarquin refrained from swearing out loud and tried to shrug it off. “I confess myself astonished that Blakeney should have read so much into the bare fact of my staying in the same house as Miss Seaton.”
“And now, I gather from the duchess, you are both staying in this one, invited by Blakeney. I was surprised, and naturally pleased, to find you at Mandeville. But why is Miss Seaton here if there is no connection between you?”
“There wasn’t enough room at Wallop Hall.”
Hugo knew him too well. He merely raised his eyebrows, folded his hands, and awaited the truth. Tarquin considered what portion of the long, involved tale to impart. He wasn’t in the habit of keeping secrets from Hugo, but he didn’t see the point in distressing the old gentleman with the tale of his attack and subsequent memory loss. He must have been truly concerned to have traveled so far in the summer heat. Tarquin felt a quiver of terror that the unwise journey might have damaged Hugo’s frail health.
Whatever his own feelings about Celia, he didn’t want Hugo to think the worst of her. Although Hugo was been like a father to him, he couldn’t confide in him as he had to Sebastian. Sebastian didn’t deal in simplistic moral judgments. Neither did Hugo, to be fair. How could he with his socially unacceptable, not to mention illegal, tastes? But his great-uncle was old and had become hardened in his attitudes, which had something of the poacher-turned-gamekeeper. Tarquin was reluctant to expose Celia to the harsh light of his opinions.
“I won’t go into details without betraying a confidence. Let me just say,” he equivocated, “that I was able to assist Miss Seaton when she found herself in an awkward situation, and escorted her to Wallop Hall.”
Hugo nodded in satisfaction. “Then nothing has happened to change your intentions with regards to Julia.”
“The countess and I have no kind of understanding. If you recall I left it to you to make the arrangements, to negotiate an arranged marriage in fact. Very French. I am not sure why I did so and I fear I may have been drunk.”
“Not even a little jug-bitten. You acceded to my wishes because of the great respect you have for your elders.”
“Have you offered for her on my behalf? I don’t know how these things work.”
“We have spoken.”
Tarquin’s temper frayed. “For
God’s sake, Hugo, stop being so damned opaque. Am I obligated to marry the Countess Czerny?”
“Respect, my dear boy, respect.” Perhaps realizing he’d pressed too far, Hugo shook his head. “There is no agreement.”
Relief was preceded by a momentary pang of cowardly regret. If he really were engaged to Julia then he could stop worrying and dismiss his continuing, and most inconvenient, attraction to Celia.
“How did she happen to come here with you?”
“Julia called on me the morning I had the letter. She immediately offered, the dear girl, to accompany me here.”
“And a damned bad idea, too. Why you decided to leave London on account of such a rumor, I have no idea.”
Hugo smiled smugly. “I could tell she was disturbed by the report and asked a good many questions about Miss Seaton, none of which I was able to answer. I do believe she was jealous. You made quite an impression there. I am pleased to give you both the opportunity to further your acquaintance. There’s nothing like a country house gathering to foster intimacy.”
An intimacy Tarquin now felt loath to advance. What did Countess Czerny mean, encouraging an elderly gentleman to run around the country in this heat? If the noble lady was truly in pursuit of him, killing Uncle Hugo was not the way to endear herself. Between the two of them they’d managed to make the idea of his marriage to Julia seem quite unpalatable.
He wished he’d never set eyes on either Julia or Celia. He wished he were a hundred miles away.
Good God. He’d rather be in Yorkshire.
Chapter 26
Dismiss the follies of your youth and hope others are equally forgetful.
Celia climbed the stairs determined to look her very best that night.
So Tarquin Compton thought it didn’t matter what she wore! She’d show him. If she could win the admiration of William Montrose, then there had to be one gentleman among the many at Mandeville who would flirt with her and she was going to find him. Without fooling herself that she could compete with the luscious countess, she would keep her pride intact as Tarquin demonstrated his intentions to the world.
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton Page 19