“Very well, thank you, my lord. I am quite comfortable.”
“Excellent. We’re having a cricket match tomorrow. Some of you ladies must come and watch.”
“I’d rather play than watch.”
“A lady who plays cricket? Compton, come here!” Tarquin, who had ignored her throughout breakfast, excused himself from his conversation. “Did you know Miss Seaton is a cricketer, or a cricketress, rather?”
“A cricketrix, perhaps? How very Amazonian.” He bowed to her. “Is there no end to your accomplishments?”
Foreign countesses, she was quite sure, never played outdoor games with small boys. The thought made her surly. “Don’t put yourself out to compliment me,” she said, “if you can’t sound as though you mean it.”
Tarquin knew he didn’t and he knew he was being unfair. Abandoning Celia to the mercy of the fashionable ladies staying at Mandeville was not the behavior of a gentleman. A little more attention on his part would make her life easier. He never underestimated his own power. Yet it was all he could do to exchange a few civil words when the whole party gathered at breakfast or dinner. The rest of the time he avoided the ladies and, despite the heat, spent most of his time joining the sporting pursuits beloved of Blakeney and his cronies: riding, sparring, and fencing, or playing tennis in the court built in imitation of Henry VIII’s at Hampton Court.
He’d always cultivated his physique, but generally he balanced his sporting and intellectual interests. Now he was spending several hours a day pushing his body to the limits of its endurance so that he could make it ignore its primary urge: to indulge in what was perhaps his favorite physical activity.
But it wasn’t the current lack of a mistress that was driving him to distraction. It was the presence of one maddening woman whom he was determined to avoid. Celia Seaton had nothing—nothing—to recommend her as a wife. No fortune, no connections, no ton, and a dubious character. Since the minute he’d woken up without an idea of his own identity, her only honorable act had been to release him from the engagement his own honor had demanded of him. He’d narrowly avoided being tied to her for life and he ought to get down on his knees and thank God in his infinite mercy for sparing him that fate.
And yet. And yet she had something, something that drew his eyes to her when they were in the same room. Something that made him itch for her company and her impertinent conversation. Something that kept him awake at night as he contemplated finding her bedroom, now empty of Minerva’s shielding presence.
Fearing loss of control he kept away from her, relying on the presence of the swarms of guests and servants to keep her safe while he awaited the report from his Yorkshire agent whom he’d ordered to discreetly investigate Constantine’s visit to the Baldwin household, and the character and movements of the mysterious Mrs. Stewart.
“Don’t forget,” he began, drawing her away from Lady Georgina’s group.
“I know,” she said. “Don’t go outside alone or with fewer than two gentlemen or half a dozen ladies. Try never to be alone. Stay in the house as much as possible. I could hardly forget. You tell me every time we meet.” She folded her arms and curled her wide mouth in a sulky—and tempting—pout.
He wanted to strangle her. Or kiss her. “It’s for your own safety.”
“I am deeply grateful.” She didn’t sound even shallowly grateful. “Now excuse me. You have cricket to practice and I have embroidery to admire.” She turned her back on him and took a seat next to an elderly lady famous for her devotion to tent-stitch. Tarquin stamped out of the room in search of a cricket bat.
An hour of knocking Charles Harville’s bowling all over the field calmed him. Having washed off the sweat and changed his linens, he descended in a conciliatory mood, determined to say something nice to her, pay her a little attention to encourage the other ladies. It took him five minutes searching to establish that she was nowhere to be seen.
On a couple of occasions he’d noticed Celia—lucky woman—in company with Lady Georgina Harville and her sister. Suppressing all visible symptoms of rising panic, or even excessive interest in the answer, he asked them if they knew where Miss Seaton was.
“I haven’t seen her since soon after breakfast when you were speaking to her,” Lady Georgina replied with barely disguised curiosity.
“I saw her through the window on my way here,” said her giggling sister. “She was walking through the lower garden toward the lake path.”
“Alone?” He would strangle her.
“She was with a gentleman.”
His heart pounded. “Who?”
“A stranger. I didn’t know him.”
Tarquin wanted to shake the girl till she stopped tittering. He refrained because he doubted Lady Felicia’s ability to provide a sensible description of the man who, he very much feared, might be Constantine. He couldn’t even ask whether Celia appeared to be going willingly without provoking undesirable questions.
Striding from the room with an urgency unbecoming to a man of legendary coolness, he almost broke into a run as he passed through the oversized hall, down an endless arched corridor and through the massive scarlet saloon to the doors leading onto the garden front terrace. Damn it, why did these ducal houses have to be so ridiculously large?
From the terrace he had a splendid view of the gardens leading down to the lake, but the only humans in sight were servants. Giving up any pretense of insouciance he caught one of the gardeners who, yes, had seen a gentleman pass this way, with two ladies, on their way to the kitchen garden. The presence of a second lady relieved his anxiety for an instant, until he recalled the existence of Mrs. Stewart and her possible part in the mystery of Celia’s kidnapping. Yet a kitchen garden seemed a benign enough spot, and likely to be full of laboring outdoor servants.
Nevertheless he hot-footed the quarter mile or so to the ten-foot wall surrounding an enclosure commensurate with the vegetarian requirements of the vast household. Tearing through the wrought iron gate he was greeted by female laughter. He discovered Celia and Minerva between two rows of raspberry canes. Standing in the middle of the trio, stuffing himself with ripe berries, was William Montrose.
“What in the name of Jupiter do you think you are doing, going off like that?” he roared. Three heads turned in unison, three reddened mouths fell open. His attention fixed on Celia’s stained lips. Good God in Heaven! It was bad enough trying not to kiss her under normal circumstances.
“I was with Minerva and Will,” she protested. Will! She called him Will.
“And how was I supposed to know this fact?”
“How was I supposed to tell you, since you weren’t present when they called?”
“You could have left word.”
Minerva broke in. “The duchess knew. We paid our respects to her. Blakeney saw us too.”
William Montrose said nothing. He merely folded his arms and looked quizzical. Tarquin, beginning to feel foolish, hoped the other man’s hands were covered in raspberry juice and soiling his coat.
He returned his glance to Celia and, wishing to avoid that tantalizing mouth, fixed his eyes on a small red mark on the bodice of her peach-colored gown. Not a good idea since it was less than an inch from the lace trim on the low neck. Not that there was anything unduly revealing in her dress. A pleated chemisette covered her chest from bodice to chin. But pale rosy mounds gently swelled, veiled but not completely hidden by the sheer gauze, every bit as enticing as an overt display of flesh. He gulped down a breath.
“I’m having the best time in days,” Celia said. “All the ladies do here is gossip and practice their accomplishments and take little walks in the formal gardens. The Montroses know how to have fun.” She lowered the hand, plucked a fat berry and sucked it into the red oval of her lips. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“Does the duchess know you are eating her fruit?” It was all Tarquin could think of to say, like a killjoy schoolmaster.
Minerva looked at him in disbelief. “The head gardener knows me.”
Trust the younger Montrose girl to make all the right connections, even in the world of fruit.
“Don’t let us keep you.” William Montrose spoke for the first time. “I’ll keep Celia safe and see her back to the house.” He looked broad and muscular and confident.
Tarquin drew himself up to his superior height and flexed his shoulders, contemplating a suitable snub. He knew he was behaving like an ass but couldn’t seem to help it. “Thank you, Montrose. There’s no need. Miss Seaton is my responsibility. We should return now. The party has plans for the afternoon and we will be missed.” He plucked a particular large fruit from the bush and tossed it into his mouth. “Miss Seaton?” he said, crooking his arm.
Her glance was resentful and her pout sullen, but she began to comply when Minerva called her back. “Before you go, Celia, I have something private to tell you. Will, please go ahead with Mr. Compton.”
He found himself walking two abreast along the path to the gate with William Montrose. The afternoon sun reflecting off the tall walls exacerbated his discomfort. Behind him he registered a whispered exchange of words.
“You’ll want to know,” Montrose said, perfectly at ease, even a little amused, “that Constantine hasn’t been seen in Mandeville Wallop again.” Tarquin acknowledged the information with a nod. “As far as we can tell,” William continued, “he hasn’t been on the other side of the park in Duke’s Mandeville, either, but we can’t be certain, though we did our best to describe him to the villagers there.”
“Thank you,” Tarquin replied. “Until I receive a report from my man in Yorkshire on his inquiries there, there’s not much we can do but wait for the fellow to reappear.” He clenched his fists, the need to stay and keep an eye on Celia at war with his instinct for action, his urge to go out and track down her kidnapper and beat the truth from the man.
The two girls laughed behind him and as he turned he caught Celia tucking a book behind her skirts. “The bit about the rat was the best,” Minerva said. At least, that’s what it sounded like.
Chapter 24
The meaning of polite conversation is not always obvious.
“I’m glad you walk at a reasonable pace,” she said after a while. They’d been striding along in silence. “I’ve been aching for some exercise. The ladies here tend to mince along with tiny little steps.”
“You don’t mince. I’ll give you that.”
She stopped and dropped him a curtsey. “I’m so gratified to finally gain your approval for something.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She raised her chin. “It’s been days and you haven’t once commented on my dress. Though I know I’ll never be a beauty, I think Diana’s maid has made me look nice. But not elegant enough to draw a compliment from the great Tarquin Compton. I am sorry I was so presumptuous.”
Stepping back, he subjected her to the practiced survey with which he had assessed the appearance of a hundred ladies: hair arranged in neat curls under a low-crowned Leghorn bonnet trimmed with orange satin; eyebrows artfully plucked to a fashionable arch; peach muslin round gown with long sleeves descending to a fancywork cuff and deeper matching embellishments at the hem; orange kid slippers.
But this was merely surface. He was drawn back to her face: to gray eyes, now stormy with rebellion, that roiled with every emotion; skin like a white peach, and the wide fruit-stained mouth; the strong slim column of her neck. His fingers itched for the warmth of her skin, veiled by thin gauze. Back to the mouth, rapidly becoming the object of his obsession.
“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” he said.
He’d hurt her, he saw at once. “Oh,” she murmured, eyes stricken. Then she thrust back her shoulders and gave her head a brief shake. “I see. I never did have the ability to look modish. At least I no longer resemble a cauliflower.”
“No,” he said. “Nor any other vegetable. You look very well.”
And that was the most he could give her. He couldn’t possibly explain that, alone of any woman he’d met, he didn’t see her appearance, only her essence. She could be wearing rags—he’d seen her in rags—and she’d be the same. Just Celia, the irresistible conundrum, the transparent yet deceiving enigma.
Crossing the bridge over a narrow stretch of the lake, the garden front of Mandeville House sprawled above them. An awning had been erected as shelter from the sun and a dozen or so guests, mostly ladies, clustered beneath it. Her face expressed her reluctance to rejoin the house party.
“Let us sit a while,” he said on impulse. A convenient bench was shaded by a spreading elm yet in public view. Half an hour in his company would raise Celia’s standing in this critical milieu. It would also allow him private conversation with her under circumstances that precluded him doing anything foolish.
“I’m sorry you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
“How long will I have to stay here?”
“Until we know something definite about Constantine.”
“I wish he’d appear again. I’m so tired of waiting.” She exuded tension. Tarquin wondered if it was only fear of the unknown threat, or something akin to the strain under which he labored in her presence. “And I am so tired of the heat!” She fanned herself with her right hand. The left rested between them on the bench. She wore no gloves and her fingers, slender and strong, were lightly tanned and stained with raspberry.
“Mr. Compton,” she began. “Tarquin. I don’t think I have really apologized to you for my behavior when I discovered your memory had gone.”
“No,” he said. “You haven’t. In fact you made it very clear you thought it entirely justified by my own transgressions.”
“In a way I do. But I was wrong to think you’d abandon me. I’ve learned you are a better man than that.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
Before she averted her glance he saw her eyes glisten and he realized, through everything they’d shared, he’d never once seen her weep. She spoke almost in a whisper. “I was afraid of being left alone.”
He wanted to draw her into his arms but in view of the gossiping hordes he couldn’t even take her hand. He rested his own on the bench beside hers and nudged her little finger with his. “You’ve really been alone since your father’s death, haven’t you?”
Celia nodded. The sympathy in his voice, the gentle touch of his finger, threatened to undo her. She stared down at their hands on the bench and dared not say a word lest she burst into tears.
“You told me of the day you heard the news, when you were waiting at the port for him to join you for the voyage home to England. It must have been a dreadful moment for you.”
Home. When the messenger came with news that her father had been killed on the road to Madras, she had to make the trip with only strangers for company, the months-long voyage halfway around the world to throw herself on the mercy of an uncle and aunt she’d never met, in a country she’d never seen. Unthinkingly Tarquin called England her home, but she still wasn’t sure it ever would be for her.
She remembered lying in the dark on the moors under her blanket, telling him the story. Was it only a couple of weeks ago? It seemed an age. Nostalgia pierced her. Those days with Terence Fish had been, for all their discomfort, some of the happiest of her life.
“I’d like to tell you about the day I learned of my father’s death, of my mother’s too.”
Her head jerked up as his voice penetrated her sadness. He’d never confided anything personal to her. When they’d been friends and lovers he’d known nothing personal to confide. His dark eyes met hers with a softer gaze than she’d yet seen in Tarquin.
Then he stared ahead. “I was nine years old and it was summer in Yorkshire.” He paused, his eyes narrow as though recalling a vision. “A summer day, much like this one. I went fishing with one of the village boys. Dickon, that was his name. Dickon Mossley. He could catch trout without rod or line, using only his hands. He called it tickling.”
“I’m grateful to Dickon for teaching
you.” She strove to keep her voice from wobbling. “That fish was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“It took me a few years of trying, but that day I finally managed to tickle a fish myself. The first and last time until last week. I’m surprised the skill remained.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t have remembered it if you hadn’t lost your memory.” Her remark didn’t quite make sense but he understood what she meant.
“You may be right. Of course, strictly we were poaching, or Dickon was, but my father wouldn’t mind. I knew he’d be proud of me. But I couldn’t tell him because he and my mother were away from home. They’d traveled into Wales to visit relations. Only my two older sisters were home and I knew they’d be bored by my little trout. Imagine my joy when I saw a traveling carriage drawn up at the front door of Revesby.”
Celia wanted to take Tarquin’s hand, but she knew how it would appear to the merciless onlookers above. She owed it to him not to further compromise him in any way. A fleeting touch to his sleeve was all the physical acknowledgment she could offer.
“I thought they’d come home early. But it wasn’t them. It was the duke and duchess who’d driven over to tell us my parents’ carriage had fallen over the edge of a mountain road.”
The longing to touch him was almost unbearable. She glared up at the ladies fluttering like butterflies at the top of the grassy slope, blithely unaware of the poignant scene below them, but surely alive to any contact between them. “I’m sorry,” she said. Inadequate words. Their little fingers touched again.
“After that I never lived at Revesby again.” His voice sounded almost strangled.
“But you could.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club) Page 18
