"Aunt Seymour," he said, his tone polite and full of ice. "May I please have a word with you, alone." Despite the courtesy of his request it was very obviously a command, but his Aunt just nodded and stepped briskly to the door as though it had been her idea.
"You most certainly can."
Céleste watched as Alex followed Aunt Seymour out of the room.
"Don't worry, my dear," said Dotty, patting her hand with a fond expression. "Alex can handle Seymour." She gave a heavy sigh. "He's certainly had plenty of practice."
***
Alex led his aunt to his study where the old lady eyed him with a steely expression.
"Aunt Seymour you know how much I appreciate your help in this matter," he began, struggling to keep his temper in check. He owed the old lady deference for all that she'd done for him and the family at large, but dammit he would not allow her to disparage Céleste and he knew exactly what she'd been inferring. His aunt, however, snorted with disgust, interrupting him and shaking her head.
"I'm quite disgusted with you, Alex, to think that you would foist one of your light o' loves on us to pass off ..."
"That will be quite enough!"
He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at having made his aunt jump and actually look a little startled.
"If you are implying that I would have the temerity to bring a woman here to you that I had used in such a way ..." His rage was such that he snapped his mouth shut before he could say something that truly would be unforgivable. He took a breath and turned his back on the outrageous old woman to try and gather his thoughts.
"You mean to tell me that she's an innocent and not some ladybird you've found in the gutter somewhere?" Seymour demanded, the incredulity in her voice quite telling enough.
Alex took a deep breath before he felt himself equal to the task of framing a polite reply. "I am telling you, unequivocally, that she is an innocent. I have not laid a hand on her and neither has anyone else." He took a breath and tried to dispel the memory of Céleste curled around his naked body in the filthy attic in Roscoff. That had been another world, another life, and it didn't make her any less innocent in his eyes.
"She's in love with you," Seymour said with her usual amount of tack and an uncanny ability to strike at the heart of whatever problem was presented to her. Alex thanked God, not for the first time, that she was supposed to be on his side.
"She's a foolish young girl," he said, with a wave of his hand, as though it was of little consequence. "She feels I have saved her and I suppose I have attained a rather heroic status in her mind. She'll forget that soon enough when other opportunities are presented to her." He avoided the all too sharp eyes of his Aunt and turned to look out of the window.
"Hmmmm."
"She needs help, Seymour," he said, his voice quiet. "She's lost everyone and everything. When I found her ..." He paused, and had to take a moment before he could continue without putting too much emotion in his voice. "She was fighting for survival, but with such pride and such ... such dignity." He turned to look at his aunt, holding her eyes this time. "She deserves your help and your compassion, like no one I have ever known."
His Aunt regarded him, her cool grey eyes the match of his own. Cut from the same cloth they had both inherited a tendency for remoteness and detachment, a family trait that had led to a reputation for utter ruthlessness that was entirely deserved. But where his ambitions and desires had twisted and led him down darker paths, Lady Seymour Russell was the height of respectability and the scourge of the ton. Nothing and no one had escaped her critical gaze until she had retired from the public eye ten years ago, broken-hearted by the apparent death of her beloved nephew. But Lawrence wasn't dead, and now Alex was giving her another reason to return to the world she had loved so dearly.
He stood still under her scrutiny and prayed he did not give away more than the fact that he admired Céleste and would help her if he could. In the end she nodded.
"Very well. I will do all in my power to create a success of her."
"Thank you, Aunt," he replied, releasing a breath he'd been unaware of holding, only too relieved that this hurdle at least had been crossed.
They returned to the drawing room and Alex was further heartened to see Céleste and Aunt Dotty with their heads together. He had known dear Dorothea would be unable to resist Céleste. The old lady was everything that was good and kind, and he knew that she would enjoy mothering Céleste as much as he hoped Céleste would enjoy her attentions.
Alex opened his mouth, intending to tell Céleste that it was time to go, but naturally Aunt Seymour beat him to it.
"Everything is settled then, Dorothea, and if we want to make the Inn before dark we must make haste." She stood over Aunt Dotty who was looking at Céleste with pity in her eyes. Alex watched, wrapped in misery as Seymour imperiously commanded them to their feet and ushered them from the room. Suddenly everything was happening too fast. He had thought there would be a little more time, a minute or two at least in which he could prepare his heart for the moment in which she would leave his life. But even knowing this moment was coming, even having arranged that this moment would come, he found he wasn't ready. The word ’perhaps’ flew to his lips but died before he could suggest any notion that they stop for tea, spend the night, stay for a few days ... What was the point in prolonging the agony after all?
They paused on the threshold of the house and made their goodbyes. Alex dutifully kissed his aunt's cheeks, submitting to a hug from Dotty whose eyes were teary. The old lady did hate goodbyes so.
And then there was just Céleste.
She couldn't look at him and he could see she was fighting tears.
"Thank you, my Lord," she said, so quiet and formal that he wanted to shake her and tell her to stop. He wasn't ‘my lord’, not for her, he was her contrebandier and any other ridiculous endearment she wanted to label him, he didn't care. Anything but my Lord. "I must thank you for everything that you 'ave done for me."
"Dear me no, we must do something about that dreadful accent," Seymour said with a tut of disapproval.
No! Alex howled inwardly. Don't change her, don't you dare change a single thing. He clenched his fists, knowing he was being ridiculous. This was why he had sought the woman's help in the first place, so she could change Céleste, so that she could be shaped and moulded into a woman who was acceptable to the ton; into a woman who wouldn't want him any more. His heart was bleeding in his chest. It had to be, for why ever else was he in such pain? That poor unused organ had been ignored for so many cold and lonely years and now it wouldn't shut up. Tell her, tell her, you fool! Tell her you love her and you'll be nothing without her. Tell her there will be no joy, no light, no possible happiness without her. Get on your damn knees and beg her to stay with you!
"Goodbye then, Céleste, I know you'll be happy with my aunts. They will take great care of you."
Better care than he could.
She looked up at him and met his eyes and he knew, in that moment, that he was irreparably and irrevocably changed. His heart was, had always been, would always be hers and hers alone and he was destined to die a lonely and bitter old man without her in his life. A single tear tracked down her cheek and he didn't know how he would survive the next moments, and then she threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him and sobbing.
"Au revoir, mon contrebandier," she whispered as her arms clung about him.
He knew the aunts were watching but he couldn't care, for just a moment he wrapped his arms around her and returned her embrace. He turned his face into the soft curls about her face and inhaled her scent, imprinting the memory of honeysuckle and sunlight on his senses as it would be all he had left to him.
She pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek and then let him go, turning and walking away, and getting into the carriage without a backwards glance. His aunts stared at him, he knew they did, but he couldn't find the will to care that he had shocked them as they finally turned and followed Céleste.
And he watched with the feeling of a man drowning, as the only hold he had on anything good was borne away from him, on into a world where he had no right to follow.
Turning he walked back into the empty house, his footsteps echoing along the great hall as he made his way to his study and grabbed the first decanter that came to hand. He intended to get very drunk, very fast, and he intended to stay that way for a long, long time.
Chapter 20
"Wherein two months have passed, and a broken heart is in no way mended, but a little lightened."
Dorothea and Seymour stood side by side at the drawing room window and looked down at the charming picture in the garden. Seymour frowned, though, knowing there was a deep and heartfelt sadness beneath the superficial beauty. Céleste was walking with the little spaniel pup barking and chasing around in circles at her feet. Dressed all in yellow muslin with embroidered daisies over the bodice, Céleste looked as though she too was blooming along with the rest of the garden which was a riot of spring bulbs and bright colours. She picked up a ball and threw it for her excitable pup. But her expression was wan and listless, and she had done everything the Aunts had asked of her and had sat, uncomplaining through endless lessons on deportment and the proper behaviour of a young lady. She had also made a great effort to lose her French accent, though that was proving harder to accomplish.
"She's dreadfully lonely," Dorothea said with a sigh.
"Hmmm," Seymour replied, non-committal, her grey eyes intent on the apparently bucolic scene. "Have you heard from Alex?"
Dorothea shook her head, her faded ringlets more white than blonde now dancing around her face. "No, not since you scolded him for trying to interfere."
Seymour tutted and turned away from the window, returning to the plush sofa and gave her attention to the tea things that had been laid out for them. With neat and precise movements that were at odds with her advancing years she followed the ritual with meticulous attention. Admiring the pretty white blue and gold Limoges porcelain tea set which her nephew had sent her, as thanks for her help with Céleste's entrée into polite society, she prepared a cup to her sister's preferred taste and handed it to her.
"I did not scold him," she said, returning to the conversation now the important business of preparing tea had been attended to with due diligence. "I merely pointed out that there was little benefit in sending her to us if he was going to criticise our efforts at every turn."
She glanced up at Dorothea to find she had pursed her lips in a familiar fashion. It meant she disagreed with her sister but was unwilling to speak out.
"What?" Seymour demanded, setting her tea cup down with slightly more of a clatter than she had intended.
Dorothea opened her mouth, clearly hesitant.
"Oh, honestly, Dorothea, I won't eat you!"
Her sister gave her a look that clearly disputed that fact but decided to brave it anyway. "I just happen to agree that her accent is rather charming."
Seymour scowled and Dorothea rushed on. "I mean to say that ... Yes she must learn the correct manner of speech and appropriate subjects of conversation ..."
Snorting, Seymour shook her head in remembered outrage. The girl had shocked them both to their bones when she had accidentally dropped a tea cup the day before and cursed in a manner that rendered them both speechless.
Dorothea blushed. "Yes, well she certainly does need ... polishing."
Seymour gave a dark chuckle that made her sister stare into the tea cup.
"But I agree with Alex. I don't think she should completely lose her accent."
With a sniff of displeasure Seymour picked up her own tea cup once more. "Well, as the child has made little sign of progress so far I doubt either of you will have any cause for complaint on that score."
They sat in silence for a little while, both sipping their tea.
"I had a charming letter from Henri," Dorothea ventured, clearly hoping this was a safer topic of conversation.
"Yes," murmured Seymour, whose own letter had filled her with concern. She had previously made it clear to Henri that she was well aware of her eldest nephew's exploits in the smuggling world, and that she was wholly unconvinced by the story of Lawrence's return to the family. That particular episode she had let go, too delighted by his miraculous return to want to know the sordid details of which she imagined there were plenty. Her sweet sister might be content to look at the world through rose tinted spectacles but she was made of sterner stuff. Seymour's own husband, Lord Russell, God rest him, had been a dashing sort of man, not unlike her nephews. And she had been well aware of many of his more shocking exploits. But Henri's letter to her had made some subtle hints that alluded to something she herself had suspected when they had collected Céleste at Tregothnan. Alex was in love with the girl.
Really it was not the match she would have hoped for him. Charming as the girl was, and for all her ... disadvantages, she did seem to be a lovely creature, but she was a foreigner. Not only that, she was French! Seymour shuddered inwardly at the idea. No, no, it really was far from what she had hoped for Alex. But then she had paraded a veritable feast of the best of female English society under his nose since the time he reached his majority and the vexing creature hadn't shown the slightest inclination of marrying any of them. Of course now he'd done his reputation such irreparable damage that any well bred girl would blush and stutter and make a cake of themselves if they got within half a ballroom of him; even if their determined mothers forced them to endure the ordeal for the possibility of capturing one of the most eligible bachelors in the Kingdom.
But if, as she herself had suspected and Henri had alluded to, Alex did have feelings for the child ... it might be her last chance to see him properly wed and fulfilling his duty to provide an heir to the Earldom. She gave a heavy sigh. One thing was abundantly clear. Céleste was pining for Alex.
The vivacious and lively girl that Alex had described in his letters was far removed from the forlorn little creature that haunted their comfortable home and garden and only spoke when spoken to. Dorothea was right. The child was lonely and miserable and there at least they could do something. Now the worst of her obvious faults had been ironed out it was time she met some people of her own age, and perhaps that would restore the bloom to her cheeks.
Seymour returned her attention to her sister. "I've asked Aubrey to come and stay."
"Oh!" Dorothea's tea cup clattered down on its saucer, making Seymour wince. "How delightful! Oh, now we shall have some fun, how wonderful to have young people in the house."
Seymour gave her sister an indulgent smile. Dorothea had never married, thanks to an ill-fated love affair. It had been a devastating blow to dear Dotty, but she had never become bitter or jaded, but had loved her extended family through Seymour with every bit of devotion and rather more demonstrative affection than their mother. Aubrey was her youngest grandson, and at the age of twenty two would be a fine companion to Céleste. He was known for his sense of humour and for getting himself in all manner of scrapes and his father had made it clear that he would be happy to be rid of the 'shiftless blighter' for a few weeks.
"When does he arrive?" Dorothea demanded, her faded blue eyes alight with happiness.
"This afternoon," Seymour said with a placid smile. Well whatever happened, her plans were made, and she must see what she could make of them.
***
Céleste looked at the letter in her hand and sighed. Despite Henri's advice to wait at least three months before she wrote to Alex- make the devil wait, dear - she had given in last week and penned a short and very proper missive to him. Thanks to the aunts her written English had made great strides and she wasn't so very ashamed to put pen to paper. She could, of course, have written in French but she wanted to show him that she was applying herself diligently to her studies to become a proper English lady. For she had no intention of giving up on Alex. None whatsoever. If a sophisticated and worldly English woman was what he wanted, then that was how she would s
tyle herself. Though try as she might her accent seemed to mock her. No matter how many times Seymour schooled her in the correct pronunciation of ‘the, this and that’ it came out ‘zhe, zhis and zhat’. It was very frustrating.
But nonetheless she had wanted Alex to know she was trying hard, and with that in mind had written a short letter. Thanking him for everything he had done for her, extolling the virtues of his aunts and life in Hertfordshire, she had omitted to tell him that she had met no one and had hardly left the house, unwilling for him to know that Aunt Seymour still appeared to be heartily ashamed of her. It was very formal and proper and sounded just as Aunt Seymour had said it should.
In return she had received an even briefer reply. Thanking her for her enquiries, applauding her endeavours and wishing her further success, it had been stark and formal and had reduced her to tears.
With an unladylike curse that would have had the aunts gasping in horror she stuffed the letter away and walked to the front door. The one joy she could find at least in the monotony of life without Alex was the beautiful gardens. She had walked every inch of the extensive grounds and spent as much time out of doors as her studies and the aunts would allow. She paused to call Bandit, but the puppy looked up at her with one weary eye from the sanctuary of his basket and went back to sleep. Even the poor dog could only take so many walks in the fresh air it appeared. With a sigh she buttoned her new yellow silk pelisse, and rammed on her bonnet with a grimace - "Céleste, a lady never walks without a bonnet!"
Snatching up an umbrella she turned smartly ... and walked straight into a masculine chest.
"Ooof!"
"Devil take it!"
She looked up ... and up, at the tall and rather dashing figure of young man with hazel eyes who was looking down at her with consternation. He was dressed in what she was now familiar with as being the very height of fashion after many hours poring over fashion plates in The Ladies' Monthly Museum and La Belle Assemblée. Indeed to her newly trained eyes the intricate folds of his necktie a la trone d'amour, set with one small diamond, the cut of coat and pantaloons, a waistcoat that embraced lovingly an athletic form, the single fob that hung to one side of it and a pair of gleaming Hessians to complete the picture, he looked perfectly splendid, a true Corinthian to be sure. And then he spoiled it by opening his mouth.
The Earl's Temptation Page 16
