The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club)

by Miranda Neville

  “If he wouldn’t believe in your innocence before, he certainly won’t now.” Unspoken but ever present was the fact she was no innocent.

  As she stared at the table a chill seeped through her veins and she faced the truth. There was no one to whom she could turn. She’d love to spurn his grudging offer, made only to save face in the eyes of the world. I shall go to my father’s cousin Sir Lordly Baronet. I have no need of your help. She might have any number of baronets, even a peer or two, among her kin. But if so she didn’t know them. Other than her former guardian Mr. Twistleton, her mother’s sister’s widower, she possessed not a single connection. And, worse still, not a single penny and no means of earning one. Needless to say, the Baldwins weren’t going to supply her with a reference. The mysterious disappearing Mrs. Stewart had been her only hope. She was absolutely alone in the world.

  “There’s no alternative, Celia,” he said. “I don’t see a way out.”

  His use of her Christian name, for the first time since he remembered his own, comforted her a little. While he still seethed with barely suppressed rage, the slight effort to be civil was to be commended. If she had any sense, she ought to accept his offer with relief and gratitude. He risked only the loss of his reputation; her life was at stake.

  She hadn’t been in love with Bertram Baldwin, even a little, but she’d been ready to marry him and be a good wife. He offered his name and home, she’d be a mother to his four sons; it was a fair exchange. But with Mr. Compton, Tarquin, the condescension was all on his part. And perhaps it would be easier to contemplate wedding him without affection if there hadn’t been a few hours—impossible to believe it was only yesterday when it seemed a lifetime had passed—when she’d fancied she loved him.

  He loomed over her, frightening in the perfection of his person. Not a wrinkle, a snagged thread nor the slightest blemish marred his clothing. His hair was a sculpted masterpiece. And how did he get that jaw so smooth? His forbidding expression killed any impulse to touch it. The man she’d loved had been a temporary product of a blow to the head and never really existed. The idea that she, with her lack of prettiness, unruly reddish hair, no fashion sense (and lack of wardrobe of any kind, modish or otherwise) should wed this haughty paragon was absurd. She’d spend the rest of her life feeling inadequate, a shabby wraith in the shadow of his magnificence.

  Tired of having him tower over her, she stood and moved to the other side of the table. “Mr. Compton,” she began. “I am sensible of the honor you do me, but I’m not overcome by joy at the prospect of our marriage. I’m sure you feel the same way.”

  “That is of no importance. We have no choice.”

  “We have a choice, as long as we haven’t stood before a clergyman and spoken our vows. Let’s not do anything hasty. If we wait, some other course will occur to us.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “I am trying to save us both from a lifetime of misery and you’re making no effort to help.”

  “What makes you believe we are condemned to a lifetime of misery?”

  “The expression on your face, for one thing. You look as though you’d stepped in something odious.” She threw up her hands. “I’m going upstairs to dress.”

  “You can’t fasten your stays, remember, which is why we find ourselves betrothed.”

  It was the thought of her wardrobe that almost brought Celia to tears. If she wanted to wear anything other than twenty-year-old ball gowns, she would have to ask him for money. She detested her utter dependence.

  “Now sit down, there’s a good girl.”

  She blinked furiously, gritted her teeth, and sat.

  “I have a plan. I shall take you to stay with Lord and Lady Iverley. Sebastian Iverley has been my closest friend since Cambridge. He married a few months ago and his wife can chaperone you. We must make sure everything appears proper before our marriage. I don’t want a hint of scandal.”

  “Oh no! Everything must appear proper,” she muttered mutinously.

  “They are visiting her family in Shropshire, less than two days away by post. Mrs. Wardle can come as your companion for the journey.”

  “Would Lady Iverley help me find a position? Perhaps she could be persuaded to furnish me with a reference.”

  “You’d rather be a governess than marry me?”

  Instead of a blunt yes Celia strove for a measure of tact. “I think our lack of enthusiasm is mutual.”

  “Let’s not start that again,” he said. “The best thing is that Diana Iverley has perfect taste. There’s no better-dressed lady in London. She is the very person to make you presentable.”

  Wonderful. She was no doubt one of those haughty beauties of the ton who had regarded Miss Celia Seaton as less than the dust beneath their feet. On the other hand, she’d hardly be pleased to see her husband’s friend make a misalliance. Lady Iverley might be turned into an ally. Celia decided her best course was quiet acceptance while she examined her alternatives.

  Chapter 16

  One betrothal may be a misfortune. Two looks like carelessness.

  He was engaged to be married. To the wrong woman.

  When he remembered the summer plans of the Iverleys another lost memory resurfaced, and not a trivial one: the existence of the Countess Julia Czerny, to whom he might or might not also be betrothed. His predicament was bad enough, without adding a malfunctioning brain to the mix. Concentrating fiercely, he traced the history of his dealings with Countess Czerny.

  Lord Hugo Hartley had shared a settee with the English-born widow of an Austrian count at the Amesbury rout-party late in the season. She was some kind of cousin of the duke, and thus of Tarquin, too, but the connection was obscure. As usual every aspect of Hugo’s person, from his well-cut white hair to his evening slippers, was impeccably groomed, his clothing the height of current fashion in the best of taste. In the countess his uncle might have met his feminine equivalent. Her bronze satin gown could only have been made in Paris, its deceptive simplicity designed to enhance the lady’s exotic beauty.

  “My dear boy,” Hugo greeted him. “Have you met Julia yet? Countess Czerny, my nephew, Mr. Tarquin Compton.”

  “ ‘When as in silks my Julia goes, Then, then methinks how sweetly flows, That liquefaction of her clothes,’ ” Tarquin quoted, brushing his lips over her gloved knuckles. He encountered golden eyes, almond-shaped and distinctly amused.

  “What do you say to ladies when the poets fail to provide you with apposite lines?” Her low voice seemed quite English yet held indefinable overtones of some unknown, alien song.

  “I’ve never encountered such beauty as yours, Countess. I fear I’d be struck dumb if Herrick had not supplied me with the text.”

  Her laugh was music itself. “You haven’t complimented my beauty at all, sir, only my dress.”

  Clever too. And well read.

  He’d called on her a couple of times, taken her driving in the park, danced with her at a ball. Then Hugo made his plea and suggested the countess as a suitable bride. For the first time in his life, Tarquin considered marriage. She was a year or two older than him, but that was an advantage. If he had to marry, a sophisticated widow with money of her own who shared his taste for fashionable life would be perfect.

  Much to his relief, he was sure nothing had been said, though they both knew the game they were playing. They’d been acquainted a bare fortnight when they left town, each for different parts of the country. Tacitly they’d agreed to let Hugo negotiate the union, one that wouldn’t, he supposed, now take place.

  He wasn’t heartbroken. That he’d waited almost a day to remember Julia’s existence after the return of his memory was testimony to his relative indifference. But he wasn’t sure if he was in some way committed to her. At the very least, becoming betrothed to Celia without breaking with her first seemed bad ton.

  Tarquin did not like to be guilty of bad ton.

  He looked at Celia, standing with her hands on her hips, her face a mask of angry def
iance, her hair a wild halo clashing with the deep red silk brocade of his dressing gown. The contrast between her and Julia was not flattering. Why had he felt bound to defend her when the duchess had accused him of debauching her? Because, he supposed, when it came down to it he had.

  “We don’t have to marry,” she continued to argue. “We can find a solution.”

  He thought about Julia’s sleek elegance, her understanding of the way the world worked, her lack of noisy, messy emotion.

  “We must marry,” he said and wished for once he didn’t have to act the gentleman.

  But far worse than the loss of Julia was the fact that he’d been compromised or bullied into marriage with Celia through the interference of the duchess. How he hated to let her get the better of him!

  Chapter 17

  Rabbits are known for long ears and excessive fecundity.

  Most of the journey to Shropshire was spent apart, Tarquin on horseback, Celia in the post chaise with Mrs. Wardle. His valet and their baggage (mostly his) followed in another vehicle. Hiring two speedy vehicles was an extravagance. Used to spending without much thought, he would have to be more provident once he had a wife. He habitually lived up to the limits of his healthy income.

  Dinner at the inn where they stopped for the night was eaten almost in silence. Only for the last leg, after they were alone, did he join her in the carriage, wanting to present a united front to anyone who saw them arrive. His recitation of information about the Iverleys was received quietly.

  He had no idea what Celia felt about their situation: anger, nerves, acceptance, triumph, or none of those. She seemed almost cowed and he found her passivity irritating. Where was the impertinent, argumentative governess who wore her feelings openly? He wanted her to rage so that he could rage back, smile so he could turn her glee to misery, grovel so he could reject her apologies.

  “That must be the wall around the Mandeville park,” he remarked. “The Duke of Hampton’s house is very close to Wallop Hall.”

  “I see,” she said without notable interest.

  “We must be close.” Much to his relief they turned into a drive lined with ancient oaks.

  All the way to Shropshire, Tarquin had the uneasy feeling he’d forgotten yet another thing. When they reached Wallop Hall he thought he knew what it was. While aware that Diana Iverley’s handsome fortune came from her first husband, he hadn’t appreciated the relative humbleness of her family, the Montroses. They pulled up in front of an ivy-covered manor of considerable antiquity. Both building and grounds had a frayed appearance and the house was a small one. Though not doubting their welcome, he wondered whether the Montroses would have room for them. He was thankful for his foresight in leaving Mrs. Wardle at Much Wenlock to return home by stagecoach.

  As he handed Celia down from the post chaise, three squealing piglets sped across the gravel, running perilously close to his boots. Reflexively he checked that his footwear remained unsullied and finally drew a reaction from his companion.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “They didn’t leave a single mark.”

  Ignoring her smirk, he turned his attention to the rusty door pull, half expecting it to come away in his hands. He heard the bell clanging within and waited. And waited.

  “Is there anyone here?” Celia asked.

  “There must be.” He rang again and almost at once the door was opened, not by a servant but by Minerva Montrose, Lady Iverley’s younger sister, looking harassed.

  “Mr. Compton?” she said. “What a surprise!” And not a welcome one apparently, though he’d always been on cordial terms with Miss Montrose. She was unusually sensible for a seventeen-year-old and he’d never needed to depress her pretensions. “Oh good heavens! The pigs are loose again. I’m afraid you find us at sixes and sevens. Not,” she added with a deprecating grimace, “that there’s anything unusual about that, but today’s worse.”

  “I’m sorry to arrive at a bad moment. May I present Miss Seaton? We are engaged to be married.”

  Minerva’s eyes widened as she and Celia exchanged curtsies and polite greetings.

  “Are Lord and Lady Iverley here?”

  “Yes, but they’re rather busy. Or at least Diana is. She was brought to bed this morning.”

  The missing puzzle piece in Tarquin’s memory dropped into place. Diana Iverley, who’d been the size of a small pony last time he saw her, was due to give birth any day. This very day, it appeared. The timing of their arrival couldn’t be worse.

  Minerva saved him from the uncomfortable experience of an insoluble social quandary. “You had better come in.” Once in a dark hall, she indicated a room next to the entrance. “Sebastian’s in the study with my father. Why don’t you join him? I’ll take Miss Seaton to tidy herself.”

  Abandoned by the ladies, Tarquin opened the door and found a scene of debauchery in a book-lined office. Competing with an array of papers and mysterious metals objects on the big desk were two empty bottles and another half-full. A bewhiskered gentleman of middle age sat slumped on one side of the desk, his substantial belly straining a half-buttoned waistcoat. Hunched on the other, elbows on desk and head in hands, the picture of misery, was the tall, rangy figure of Viscount Iverley.

  “Tarquin!” he moaned, looking up without evincing any surprise. “I’ve killed her! I’ve killed Diana!”

  “My child!” The other man, presumably Diana’s father, began to weep. “My little goddess. I should never have let her marry you! She’s going to die and I’ve killed her.”

  “It’s all my fault and I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  Surveying the scene with equal parts alarm and disgust, Tarquin was tempted to pour himself a glass from the open bottle but decided the addition of a third drunk wouldn’t be helpful. He’d arrived unannounced, with an unknown lady, at a strange house. Without Diana or Sebastian to introduce him—the latter was obviously incapable of polite observance—he’d have to navigate an awkward situation alone.

  “Y’know, Tarquin,” Sebastian said. “A great head has to come out of a teee-ny hole. You know how small the hole is. At least,” he frowned, “you don’t with Diana but with other women. It’s small. And heads are hu-u-ge.”

  “And most women survive it. I knew you shouldn’t have been reading that book about childbirth. It’s made you worry too much. Leave it to the women and the doctors.”

  The attempt to bolster his friend’s spirits had no effect. “She’s going to die. What am I to do without her?” He banged his head on the desk and his spectacles slid down his nose. Adjusting them, he spotted the bottle but found it just outside his grasp. “Pour me some wine.”

  “More wine,” echoed Mr. Montrose.

  “For God’s sake, don’t give either of them another drop!” The new arrival, a tall fair woman, was identified as Mrs. Montrose by her resemblance to Minerva. “William, you are a fool,” she said to her husband. “I survived childbirth six times, not that you were any help.”

  “But this is Diana,” he moaned. “My little goddess. I remember the day she was born. The most beautiful child I ever saw.”

  Their hostess turned away in exasperation. “You must be Mr. Compton,” she said briskly. “Minerva told me you were here. I’m sorry I’m too busy to welcome you properly.” She quelled Tarquin’s apology with a brisk “Nonsense” and addressed her son-in-law. “If you want to be useful, Sebastian, ride over to Mandeville House and fetch some ice. The icehouse here is empty but the duke’s is much deeper. Diana’s feeling the heat badly.”

  “How is she? Will it be long?” Sebastian wasn’t as drunk as Tarquin had first thought.

  “She’s fine and it’ll be hours. Run along now and take Mr. Compton with you. Minerva will look after his fiancée. William,” she said to her spouse. “Go and put your head under the pump then find someone to round up the pigs.”

  Sebastian led Tarquin to the stables. “It’s terrible, this waiting. Knowing what Diana’s going through and not be
ing allowed to be there. There’s not a damned thing I can do to help.”

  “You are helping,” Tarquin said bracingly. “You’re going to get her some ice. Has there ever been such a summer?”

  Quarter of an hour later they headed up the drive on horseback.

  “Did Mrs. Montrose say fiancée?” His allotted task had, for the moment, diverted Sebastian’s mind from his fear of widowerhood and reminded him of the existence of the rest of the world. “What’s going on? You never said anything to me about marriage.” Though he’d come far from his old scorn for all females, he still didn’t have a very high opinion of the sex, with the exception of Diana and Minerva.

  Tarquin had great respect for Lord Iverley. Sebastian was well read in a wide range of disciplines, a loyal friend, and there was no one with better judgment when it came to an antiquarian book. But the knotty issues of social custom and human relations had never been his forte. Though Diana had brought him a long way from the scruffy, misogynistic bookworm he used to be, Tarquin would never have believed he’d need Sebastian’s counsel on a social matter. Nuances of good ton fell into his own area of expertise. Yet he needed to talk to someone and there was no one he trusted more.

  They were almost at Mandeville House, the mansion of Sebastian’s uncle the Duke of Hampton, by the time he finished telling his story. He had to put up with a good deal of laughter from Sebastian who found the name Terence Fish immensely amusing.

  “I look forward to meeting Miss Seaton,” he said. “She sounds like a lady with a sense of humor and there are worse attributes in a wife. Diana never lets me take myself too seriously.”

  “Do you agree that I must marry her?” Tarquin said hastily, not anxious to hear another outburst about Lady Iverley’s diverse perfections and imminent demise.

  “She sounds as though she’s in a tricky spot without much choice. Does she want to marry you?”

  “Why wouldn’t she? I’m an excellent match. Much better than she could ever have expected.”