The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club)

by Miranda Neville

  Tiptoeing down the passage, the emergence of a man from another room made her jump. Before he backed away and slammed the door she identified a portly middle-aged peer, visiting a chamber inhabited by a lady who was not, she believed, his own wife. Suppressing an impulse to giggle, she wondered if he’d recognized her and if so, where he thought she was headed. She reached her destination without further adventure, hesitated before the sturdy polished door, and softly knocked.

  No response. He would be sleeping. As quietly as possible she turned the door handle and pushed. It wasn’t locked. Offering a quick prayer that she had the right room, she opened the door just far enough to let her slide in, and closed it behind her.

  Soft air wafted in through open uncurtained windows, rendering the atmosphere deliciously cool after the stuffy passage. Starlight revealed the shadowy monochrome forms of the furnishings, dominated by a great bed from which emerged the sound of rhythmic breathing.

  “Tarquin?” Celia whispered. No reaction. Depositing her candlestick on a chest, she crept to the side of the bed and repeated her call. He stirred but didn’t waken. In the gloom his dark head contrasted with the white bed linens. She leaned over and reached for his shoulder and found skin, hot to the touch over muscle that jumped beneath her palm. He slept without a shirt.

  Was he naked? Her hands itched to investigate further, to explore the body she’d known for a short while, before it retreated beneath the armor of sartorial perfection. A jolt of desire fluttered through her abdomen and her brain felt fuzzy.

  “Tarquin?” she asked for the third time and he came to life. Half sitting, he twisted over and hauled her up. She found herself sprawled over his chest, captured by steely arms. Her halfhearted remonstration was stifled by his lips and she surrendered without a fight.

  The taste and texture of his mouth were immediately familiar and kindled the memory of pure happiness. Lovingly she framed his head, looped her fingers through the soft hair to the shapely skull, opened to welcome a deep kiss she wanted to last forever.

  An eager moan rumbled in the back of his throat. He drew her closer and she arranged her body to align itself over his. One question was answered: he was indeed naked. Only a sheet and her own nightgown separated them. Every inch of her ached for him. She wanted his skin and muscle, his very soul and spirit to surround and possess her. His arousal pressed against her thigh and she willed the layers of linen and cotton to disappear. Maddeningly, cloth failed to dissolve into the ether so she dragged her lips away and struggled to her knees, straddling his hips. He groaned an incoherent protest.

  Tarquin was having a wonderful dream in which finally, at long last, he was kissing Celia again. Better still, it wasn’t happening in a dirty hay loft or on the bare Yorkshire ground, but in a soft bed with sheets of lavender-scented linen. Then she withdrew, faded away. Come back, he spoke in his dream. Don’t leave me alone. And woke up.

  His heart leaped with astonished joy to find her still there, in all her corporeal reality. Her magnificent corporeal reality, revealed when she pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it away. Framed by a faint aura of distant candlelight, he could make out only a shadowy blur of her body so he stretched a trembling hand to trace a slender shoulder, down the silky arm, firm for a woman, around the gentle curve of trim waist and across the flat stomach to linger. She wriggled a little when his fingers tickled the indent of her navel. At the shake of her hips his swelling cock arose to make a tent of the sheet covering it, straining toward the curly entrance to her sex. Yes, she truly was in bed with him. Shuddering with desire, he raised both arms to cup the small breasts, feeling her hard nipples tickle his palms and kneading the firm flesh with his fingers.

  Her own hands were busy, too, tugging the sheet out of the way until nothing separated their nakedness. He reached for her, planning to roll them over, when she pounced, wresting control of the encounter. She fell on him like a tiger, seizing his shoulders with strong fingers, devouring his chest with her hot mouth, and grinding her pelvis over his erection.

  The unschooled fierceness of her loving assault was more exciting than the skill of a courtesan. The ferocious sincerity of her ministrations clawed at his heart. “Yes, like that.” He murmured encouragement, tilting his hips and grasping hers to better guide her gyrations. “Oh, Zeus, yes!” he hissed when she took his cock firmly in her hand and lowered herself onto it. It took a little trial and error on her part, but finally he was lodged inside her.

  Then she stopped. “What now?” He smiled at the chagrin revealed in the two words. Her ignorance annoyed her. “I want to ride you.” She gave it a few seconds of thought then leaned forward to clasp his shoulders. Tentatively she raised herself off him and sank down again.

  “You have the right idea,” he said through clenched teeth, and thrust back.

  “I do, don’t I?” she said with a naïve pride that sent a little thrill of emotion through his chest.

  In very little time they established their rhythm and worked in harmony, damp bodies burning against the cool linens, urgent hands caressing, hot breath mingling in consuming kisses and barely comprehensible words of bliss. He held back, waiting for her. He had to summon all his strength but it was no hardship; he’d happily spend all night drowning in Celia’s scent and skin, the music of her moans. Hell, he’d spend a lifetime doing this. With fierce satisfaction he felt her climb toward climax, reach for her own peak, and tumble over the top in a joyful orgasm. She collapsed on his chest and he drove to his own finish.

  He retained just enough presence of mind to roll over in the last seconds, and pull out before he spilled his seed. Then he gathered her close in his arms and murmured her name as he dropped slow, grateful kisses all over her face. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

  “Tarquin,” she said and nipped at his ear.

  “Celia,” he muttered again, beginning to feel sleepy. “I think you’ve killed me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What a way to go.”

  She snuggled closer and kissed his neck. “Riding St. George is fun.”

  “Where did you hear that phrase?” He refrained from pointing out that it was whore’s cant.

  “Er, I read it in a book.”

  “Right. I think I know the volume in question. You shouldn’t have read it.”

  “Oh? Yet it’s perfectly correct for you to own it?”

  “I am a man. Ouch.” She’d punched him in the side, though not hard. “It’s not as though it’s much of a book. My collection contains volumes of far greater artistic value.”

  She drew back to look at his face, her gray eyes huge and dark in the half-light. “You own many books about . . . this kind of activity? Illustrated?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “I should like to see them.”

  If they gave her more ideas like “riding St. George” it was a notion with merit. He yawned. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  He pulled her close and tugged the sheet half over them, though the night was warm enough without. She gave a little sigh and laid her head on his chest. He stroked the thick locks draped over her shoulders and felt her breath on his skin. As he prepared to drift into slumber he made a mental note to wake early so he could get back to his room before the servants stirred. Then he remembered. He was in his room.

  He was in his room and so was Celia. Suddenly wide awake, he sat upright, drawing a grumble from her.

  “What?” he almost shouted. “What are you doing here? What do you mean by visiting a man’s room in the middle of the night?”

  She scrambled to kneel beside him, arms folded, lips pouting. “You didn’t seem to mind. I came to tell you something and you just grabbed me.”

  “I was asleep. I had no idea what I was doing.”

  “If your valet came in while you slept would you pull him into bed with you?”

  Her comical indignation drew a smile. “No, of course not. What did you need to say to me that couldn’t wait ti
ll morning?”

  “There was someone in my room, searching through my things.”

  “My God! And you waited till now to tell me!”

  “I was distracted.”

  He could appreciate that. Kneeling in her naked glory, she looked beautiful enough to distract a saint. Grasping her elbows he peered at her face. He didn’t know whether to be relieved at her state of calm or worried by her lack of concern for her safety. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Celia was still distracted. The earlier events of the night seemed far off now and somehow unreal, compared with their lovemaking. She feared to ask what it meant for their future. After days of being treated with scant civility, his confidences that afternoon had given her hope he might forgive her, though no realistic expectation that his feelings would ever match hers. But now this. What did it mean? Did it mean anything to Tarquin, or had she been merely a convenient female body taking him unawares? If there was any truth in Featherbrain’s memoirs, men were not only capable of lying with women who meant nothing to them, they could do so when enamored of another. The existence of the beautiful, charming, and witty countess loomed large.

  Her mouth watered at the sight of his lean, muscular chest set off against crisp, bright white linen. Irrationally, she had no wish to revisit the alarming matter of awaking to find an intruder in her room. What she wanted was to discuss their feelings for one another. But he was looking at her expectantly and she had no idea how to broach the topic.

  He misunderstood her sigh. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” His concerned tone and his touch on her shoulders felt like affection to her infatuated brain. Then he got down from the bed, retrieved her nightgown, which he handed to her, and fetched a dressing robe for himself.

  The resumption of clothing diluted the sense of intimacy. Decently covered they sat on the bed, she with legs folded beneath her, he perched on the edge.

  “Now tell me,” he said.

  By the light of the candle, which he’d moved to the bedside table, she watched his clever, characterful face as he listened to her account.

  When she finished he frowned. “Are you sure you locked the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t forget?”

  “Tarquin,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve had a conversation since we came to Mandeville when you didn’t remind me to lock my door at night. No, I didn’t forget.”

  “What about the window? Was it open? Could he have come in that way?”

  “My room overlooks an enclosed courtyard. It’s a steep drop and even if he somehow climbed the wall he’d still have to get into the house to reach it. Besides, he left by the door and when I followed him a few seconds later he’d disappeared. He’s somewhere in the house. That’s why I didn’t want to stay alone in my room. Do you think Constantine could have broken in?”

  “It seems unlikely. And even less likely he could have talked his way in. As you know, there are servants everywhere and a stranger would be spotted at once and questioned. I doubt it was Constantine.”

  “Who, then?”

  “I don’t know, but more likely one of the servants or guests, or a servant of one of the guests. Are you sure it was a man?”

  She narrowed her eyes, reliving the nocturnal visitation. “No, I assumed it was Constantine but it could have been anyone.”

  “I’ll ask Blakeney if anyone unusual has arrived at the house, anyone who one might not expect to see here.”

  “I think I’m the only guest who answers to that description.”

  “I’ll take him into our confidence if necessary, but I’d much rather not explain the situation. It won’t do your reputation any good for our journey across the moors to be known, even if we are engaged.”

  His tone was so matter-of-fact she almost missed it. Her heart jolted but the expression on his face was equally detached. “We are not engaged,” she said, hoping for a fervent contradiction.

  “You should have thought of that when you came to my room.”

  “You know why I came, and no one saw me.”

  “And look what happened.”

  “That wasn’t my fault. You started it.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yes I did. And since I am not in the habit of seducing respectable single ladies, we shall have to marry. I’m sorry if you don’t like the idea but that’s all there is to it. Prepare to be married.”

  “We lay together before and you didn’t think we had to wed. No one need know.”

  “Last time you took advantage of me when I was out of my mind. I have no such excuse. I may still not be entirely sane but I take full responsibility for my actions.”

  “That’s stupid. You still don’t want to marry me and you can’t make me.” She was desperate for him to argue with her. It wouldn’t take much for her to agree. Just a tiny indication that their marriage would mean more to him than an unfortunate necessity muddled into by mistake. Instead he barely looked at her. “Is this something to do with the duchess?”

  “No. The duchess need not concern us.” In this case the confidence in his voice gave her all the assurance she needed.

  “What about the countess? What about Lord Hugo? He wants you to her marry her, doesn’t he?”

  His face, which hadn’t cracked a smile since the subject of marriage had arisen, looked grim. “If he does, I shall have to disappoint him.”

  “I know how important he is to you.”

  “You may not be my uncle’s first choice as my bride, but he’ll recover. Now,” he continued briskly, “we need a plan. We can’t announce our betrothal tomorrow. It would appear odd when we’ve spent so little time together. I’ll have to court you for a few days first. It’ll also let me stay close to you so we don’t have any more little incidents like tonight’s.”

  Celia felt she was giving in too easily, but there wasn’t any point arguing, for now. Nothing irrevocable would happen immediately and she had to acknowledge she’d enjoy being courted by Tarquin. Perhaps she’d convince herself he meant it.

  Perhaps he would mean it.

  “Are you going to stay close to me all night too?” she asked. She intended the question flirtatiously, fishing for a further compliment on her appeal as a bed partner.

  She stood with her hands on her hips, head tilted seductively, and Tarquin wanted nothing more than to accept her invitation and return to bed, together.

  Resisting her wasn’t easy, but soon he would legitimately sleep with her, every night. The resumption of his betrothal to Celia felt right, much more so than last time. No need to examine his feelings closely. He still had Hugo to deal with, but he’d worry about that later.

  “Your maid will have to sleep with you,” he said, “and I’d better get you back to your room now, before the servants are up and about.” Dawning light through his window told him that wouldn’t be long.

  They crept back along the passage to Celia’s room. Within seconds they determined the small chamber was deserted.

  “I’m afraid I have to leave you,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Do you wish to send for your maid?”

  “She’s not here. She returned to Wallop Hall for the night but I expect her back later this morning.”

  “Good. I don’t want you alone at night.”

  “No more than I want to be alone.” She bit her lower lip and he read the strain on face. “I hate having to wait for his next move. I want to know what’s going on. When he comes back I’d like to catch him in the act.”

  “I like that idea. Unfortunately he may have already been. Your room has been empty for an hour or two and if he was watching he’ll have had time to search every inch.”

  “He won’t have found anything because there’s nothing to find.” Celia shook her head in frustration. “What does he want? I have nothing, nothing at all. Every single thing I have with me was either lent to me by Diana or bought in Shropshire.”

  “Whoever is after you thinks you have something o
f value.”

  “Constantine took my luggage, my reticule, and my clothing. Whatever it was, I don’t have it anymore.” He was about to offer her a comforting hug when she stiffened. “Wait! The rattle, the silver rattle I gave to Diana for Aldus.”

  “Why would anyone want that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not valuable, but it’s the only thing Constantine didn’t take. That, and my shift.”

  He couldn’t restrain a grin. “I remember that shift.”

  “I think Chantal burned it.”

  “Pity,” he said, mulling the situation. Like Celia he had the urge to force the mystery into the light. Only when it was resolved would Celia be safe and they could proceed with their lives, together. The prospect was distinctly pleasing.

  “I think we could take advantage of your maid’s temporary absence. Do you think you could tell as many people as possible that some possessions, perhaps a piece of baggage mislaid on the journey, have just arrived at Mandeville?”

  Chapter 28

  Things aren’t always better in the morning.

  “I am so thankful the missing bag has appeared.”

  If she said it once, she said it a dozen times and most members of the house party must have heard it by now. If they wondered why the generally reserved Miss Seaton was suddenly twittering trivial facts about her personal affairs to all and sundry, she didn’t care. She’d had to listen to enough nonsense from them.

  Getting attention wasn’t hard. Since Mr. Compton had seated himself beside her at breakfast and appeared rapt in admiration of her wit and beauty, she’d been the subject of much speculation on the part of the ladies and curiosity from the gentlemen. Both sexes, she thought ruefully, found Tarquin’s apparent attraction to her puzzling.