A Rake’s Guide to Seduction (6 page)

“It is good to see you all again as well.”

As if sensing she didn’t wish to talk much, Hannah turned the conversation to other topics. Celia was free to sit and listen in peace as they discussed people and events she knew little about. She felt their eyes on her at various times, but as she had nothing to add, she ignored it. At long last, though, something did occur to her.

“David, is your friend Mr. Percy in town this Season?”

“Percy? He’s about, I expect.”

“He married my friend Jane Melvill,” said Celia. “I should like to see her again.”

“Oh. Er—right.” David cleared his throat. “Yes, I expect you’ll see them.”

Celia smiled and nodded but had nothing else to say. After a moment’s pause, David brought up a new topic of conversation. Celia kept her eyes on her plate for the rest of dinner, feeling more and more lost.

If she had felt quiet and ignorant at dinner, though, Celia felt even worse in the drawing room. David sat next to his wife on the small sofa and openly put his arm around her. The children were allowed to come in to say good night, and then Marcus and Hannah walked them back upstairs, baby Edward waving happily from his mother’s arms as Thomas bounced atop his father’s shoulders. Molly trailed after them, and Celia saw her return the little wooden duck to Edward’s grasp as they left the room.

She alone had chosen badly. Both her brothers, whatever scandal and gossip had attended their marriages initially, were happy. Only she, who had had the wedding of the Season to a very eligible, respectable gentleman, was not. For a moment Celia wondered how she had done so poorly; if she had run away with an actor, or eloped to Scotland, or done anything else out of the ordinary, would things have turned out differently? Better?

“So.” Her smiling mother settled into the seat next to hers, shaking Celia out of her thoughts. “I’ve given some thought to your wardrobe, and Madame Lescaut will be here tomorrow.”

Celia stared at her in alarm. “Mama, I—I don’t feel much like going out yet.”

“Of course,” her mother said at once. “But, dearest, it is surely time to leave off the blacks. And fashions have changed a great deal since you left London.”

Celia sighed. Perhaps it was. Perhaps if she dressed less like a widow, she would feel less dead. “I suppose they have.”

Rosalind beamed at her. “How I’ve missed you, Celia! A mother needs her daughter about.”

Celia didn’t know what to say. Did a daughter need her mother about? For some reason, she had felt nothing but dismay so far with her family. Instead of feeling like she had come home, Celia had the awful sense that she had no home anymore, no place where she would feel at ease. Exeter House was Marcus and Hannah’s home, not hers. David and Vivian were happy without her, too. And Rosalind seemed determined to make Celia happy again just so they could shop and talk and carry on as they had before.

Celia looked around the large, bright room.
I don’t belong here,
she thought.

Her mother would have talked more, but Celia couldn’t bear it. She pleaded exhaustion and excused herself.

After such an early evening, and since she was still accustomed to keeping country hours, Celia was awake early. When her maid came, she told Agnes she would eat downstairs. Partly she was determined to join her family, hoping to feel more at home again. Partly she wanted to get away from her room with its memories. She dressed and went down the stairs.

The breakfast room door was open. She heard her mother’s voice, and Celia summoned a smile. She would be more pleasant this morning, she promised herself.

Then a snippet of the conversation in the breakfast room caught her attention, and she paused just outside the door.

“But is Celia happy?” Hannah was asking gently.

There was a pause. Celia remained silent and still, waiting for her mother’s answer, as much to learn for herself as to know her mother’s opinion. Was she happy? She didn’t know. It had been so long since she felt anything. She didn’t feel truly unhappy, but surely that was not the same thing as being happy.

“I am afraid for her,” came Rosalind’s reply at last. It was so soft Celia had to lean closer to the door to hear. “She is so quiet.”

“She has lost her husband,” said Hannah. “It takes time for the grief—”

“No,” interrupted Rosalind. “I don’t think that is the trouble.”

“Then what?”

“I fear…” Her mother’s voice dropped even more. “I fear she has not been happy for some time.”

“But her letters,” Hannah protested after a moment. “She never said a word.”

“No.” Rosalind sighed. “I was a fool not to have noticed sooner. She never said anything bad—not about the miserable Cumberland weather, not about Kenlington Abbey, a drafty old place that’s not been improved since Queen Elizabeth’s day, not about waiting on persnickety old Lansborough. I loved my husband, Hannah, but he vexed me from time to time. I ought to have noticed that Bertram never seemed to vex Celia.”

“It could have meant they were so well-matched.” But there was doubt in Hannah’s voice. Celia closed her eyes; she had lied to her family. She had written happy letters to make them think she was happy, and to hide how disastrous her marriage was.

“Not in this instance.” Her mother’s voice rose. “I should have known. I am her mother! Even if she could not bring herself to tell me, I should have sensed things were not as they should be.”

“You are too harsh on yourself, Rosalind. We all ought to have made a greater effort to bring her back to London; surely Lansborough wouldn’t have refused if Marcus had insisted. We ought to have visited. We are all to blame.”

Celia clasped her hands together to stop their shaking. Who was to blame, she wondered wildly. Bertie? She herself? Lord Lansborough, for keeping them in Cumberland when it was clear Bertie would never be happy there? Not her family. She had discouraged them from coming to visit and had done everything she could to make them think all was well. For that, she alone was to blame.

Her appetite gone, she backed away from the breakfast room door. She slipped out of the house, into the garden. Perhaps she ought to go back to Cumberland, she thought glumly as she walked amid the roses, just blooming. All she seemed to be doing in London was avoiding her family. She didn’t see any way they could help her. Even sadder, she didn’t know how she could help herself. She sank down on a bench.

In the long months since Bertie’s death, Celia had tried to evaluate her life. She was only two-and-twenty; she couldn’t spend the rest of her life in black and alone. What was she to do now? When her mother had arrived and announced she was taking Celia back to town, Lord Lansborough had protested. He was an old man, and if she left he would be utterly alone. Celia had felt sorry for him, and part of her had clung to the familiarity of Kenlington Abbey. She had lived there for four years, after all, and had grown accustomed to its quiet.

London had lost its appeal. She feared her memories of town would be dominated by her first and only Season, when Bertie had swept into her life with daily bouquets of flowers and sonnets to her eyes. He had courted her so ardently, so devotedly, so romantically. Almost before she knew it, he had been going down on his knee and begging her to marry him.

It took her two years to realize that her love for Bertie had never been as strong as on that day, when she accepted him. Celia had always believed in true love at first sight. It hadn’t bothered her that she had known Bertie only two months before they were married. It had never occurred to her that while it might be enough time to fall in love, it was not quite enough time to really
know
someone. Foolishly, she had assumed they could spend the rest of their life together getting to know each other. Instead, it seemed that she and Bertie never really knew each other at all.

Only on looking back did Celia realize that Bertie’s merry laugh rang out more often in crowds. He didn’t like solitary pursuits, and while one person’s company could be sufficient to entertain him, that person had better be an extraordinarily interesting person. Celia, it turned out, had not been interesting enough. If Bertie had to choose between a quiet evening home alone with his wife and a night of drinking with strangers at the local pub, he would choose the pub every time. Celia had still tried to be a good wife to him. She just didn’t like him as much as she had thought.

But that was her fault. No one had forced her to choose Bertie, and she had tried to make the best of things. The best just hadn’t been very good.

His father’s demand that they live in the country in anticipation of a child, a son and heir, had only worsened the situation. Perhaps in town, Celia thought, there would have been enough happening around them to carry both of them through. If they had been in the midst of entertaining society, they might not have noticed, or perhaps not cared, that they were unsuited to each other. She found Bertie tiresome, and she suspected he found her dull. Soon enough there was little reason to anticipate a child of any gender, but Lord Lansborough insisted they remain. He controlled the funds, so they had remained.

She wondered if Lord Lansborough had known Bertie’s true nature. Perhaps he thought that forcing Bertie to stay at Kenlington would eventually overcome his son’s desire for society and entertainment. He had been so displeased with Bertie’s lack of interest in running the estate, and yet Celia couldn’t help noticing that Lord Lansborough had been very particular about matters. The few times Bertie had done something, Lord Lansborough had always taken him to task over it. In fairness to Bertie, he must have thought he could never please his father.

And that had left her stuck in the middle. She knew Lord Lansborough had hounded Bertie mercilessly about producing an heir. Celia truly hoped that, and not her own person, was behind Bertie’s lack of interest in making love to her. She had quite liked that part of marriage, but her interest in lovemaking had dwindled with her affection for Bertie. Certainly after the affair in York, Bertie had never again come to her bed.

She was still sitting there, thinking, when her mother found her. “There you are,” cried Rosalind. She swept Celia into an embrace, pressing her cheek to Celia’s. “You weren’t at breakfast, and Agnes said she didn’t bring a tray. Are you feeling ill?”

“No, Mama.”
Just a little heartsick.
She forced a smile. “I am out of sorts from the journey still.”

Her mother’s blue eyes scrutinized her face. “You must eat, dearest. You’re much too thin as it is. Shall I have Cook prepare some currant buns?”

“No, Mama.”

“Some scones? Crumpets? Some lovely fresh strawberries with cream, perhaps?”

“No, Mama,” Celia repeated.

Her mother’s forehead creased, but she abandoned the topic. “What would you like to do today? I sent for Madame Lescaut, but perhaps you would rather go walking or visit Bond Street. And you must be quite anxious to see your friends again.”

Celia sighed. None of it sounded very appealing. “I don’t know, Mama. I was just enjoying the garden this morning.” Rosalind bit her lip, a gesture that betrayed her anxiety. Celia felt awful for causing her mother such distress. “Perhaps a drive, later today?” she suggested.

Rosalind beamed. “Yes, of course!” She clasped Celia’s hand. “I shall order the carriage this afternoon.” She hesitated. “Shall I send Madame Lescaut away as well?”

Celia sighed. She didn’t feel like being fitted, but she did need new clothing. She had done too little lately, perhaps. “No.”

Her mother’s relief was almost palpable. “I shall tell her to be brief,” she promised with another dazzling smile. “We mustn’t overtire you.”

She managed a wry smile at that. How could someone who did almost nothing feel tired? Even Celia didn’t understand why she had so little interest in everything around her. She must force herself to do more and hope that the actions would help raise her interest.

“Will you come back to the house with me? There is still plenty of breakfast to be had. A cup of tea, perhaps?” Rosalind looked at her hopefully.

Celia took a deep breath. She really wasn’t hungry. “Not yet. I think I shall sit here awhile. The garden at Kenlington wasn’t half so lovely. I have missed this garden.”

It was clear Rosalind was disappointed, but she only nodded. With one more fond touch on Celia’s cheek, she left, walking back to the house.

Celia turned her face to the sky and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her skin. It was nice to be in London, she thought to herself; the sun wasn’t warm this early in the day in Cumberland. And she did love the Exeter garden. She remembered playing hide and seek around the fountain with her father, long, long ago. He was only a dim figure in her memory, having died when she was only eight, and he hadn’t been much inclined to play with children. It had been a rare day that he chased her around the fountain. She remembered him mostly as a presence, a force that sent the servants running and seemed to make the air hum with energy. Rather like Marcus, although she could never picture her father carrying a child on his shoulders as Marcus had done last night.

The crunch of footsteps interrupted her reverie. She opened her eyes and saw Molly, just turning to creep away. “Molly,” she said with a genuine spark of pleasure. “Don’t go.”

Molly faced her again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, sounding so grown up Celia could hardly believe it. “You looked so peaceful.”

Celia smiled. “I was just enjoying the sun. It seems warmer in the south.”

The girl came up beside her. “Does it? What is it like in Cumberland?”

She made a face and shook her head. “Darker. Colder. But beautiful in its own way.” She patted the bench beside her. “Come sit with me.”

Molly sat. She held a drawing case in her arms, which she put on the ground at her feet. “I am supposed to be finding new specimens to sketch,” she explained. “Mr. Griggs knows everything about every plant in the world, I think.”

“Your work is lovely.”

Molly sighed. “Thank you. But I would rather not work on it today.”

“No?”

The girl shook her head. “I would rather ride. Mr. Beecham comes twice a week to give me riding lessons. He’s such a marvelous rider. He can do all sorts of things, like a performer at Astley’s. I asked Mama to have him come three times a week, but she said no. I must study French, and soon dancing.”

Celia had to smile at Molly’s grimace. “You might like dancing.”

“Perhaps,” Molly grudgingly allowed. “But I shall never like French.”

It made her want to laugh out loud. “I remember you used to like catching tadpoles in the pond,” she said on impulse. “Your interests change.”

A guilty look came over Molly’s face. “I’m not supposed to catch frogs anymore,” she whispered. “Mama told me. Young ladies don’t go in the pond.” She sighed darkly. “I expect she’ll allow the boys to go in the pond, though.”

“Ah. And how do you like having brothers?”

Molly made another face. “They’re an awful bother. Edward is very sweet, but Thomas is a terror. He’s forever getting away from his nurse and running after me. He grabs at everything. Once he spilled a bottle of ink on my drawings!”

Celia smiled, a little sadly. “I always wished to have a sister, you know. It was lonely with only my mother for company. When your mother married my brother, I was so pleased. It was almost like I got two sisters: your mother and you.”

Molly looked up shyly. “Really? I wasn’t a bother?”

Celia shook her head. “Not in the least.”

Molly’s smile grew. “I am so glad to hear that.” She put her head to one side and thought a moment. “Boys must be different, I believe. At times I overhear Her Grace telling Mama tales of Uncle Reece, and he was even worse than Thomas, it seems.”

“Well, my mother did not know David until he was almost ten years old,” Celia told her. “So yes, I am certain he was a great deal more trouble than Thomas could possibly be yet.”

“He’ll get worse?” Molly heaved a tragic sigh, and Celia did laugh this time. Just a chuckle, but more than she had laughed in months. She ought to spend more time with Molly, she told herself. Celia had had a deep affection for Molly as a small child, and now the girl was apparently the only person in the house who wasn’t watching Celia’s every move with worry and despair.

“Shall we walk to the pond?” she asked on impulse.

Molly’s face brightened. “Oh, yes!”

“Perhaps we shall catch a frog or two,” Celia added, although she hadn’t the slightest idea how one would catch a frog.

Molly looked at her warily. “For…Thomas?”

“Precisely. Someone must teach him these things so he can torment his tutors some day.” She smiled, and Molly giggled.

“Yes, let’s!” She pushed the drawing case under the bench and they went off together.

“Lovely legs.”

“And a beautiful mouth; nice and soft.”

“Hmm. How is she to ride?”

For an answer, David Reece beckoned, and the female in question obligingly trotted over. Her rider swung down. “Mr. Hamilton will take a ride, Simon,” he said.

The young man nodded, handing the reins of the tall chestnut mare to Anthony. “She’s as smooth as can be,” he said.