"Who are you?" he demanded.
Annoyed by his tone, as he had apparently walked in unannounced, she put up her chin. "I might ask you the same question, monsieur," she replied with as much disdain as she could manage from a good foot beneath his notice.
"Good Lord, a frog!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "What the devil is a frog doing here? And with old Boney back and stirring up trouble again!"
"A ... what did you just call me?" Céleste replied, wide-eyed with indignation.
For a moment the insolent fellow had the grace to look a little discomforted.
"Ummm, well, you know, a frog, froggy, that's to say ... er French."
"How dare you!" she replied, and hit him over the head with her umbrella, devastating the arrangement of his hair from an artful Brutus to something rather more dishevelled and rakish.
"What the ..." The young man stared at her in appalled shock but she had endured too many weeks of misery, too many weeks of solitude and loneliness and ... anger at being sent away. Her temper had been lit. Advancing on him with a tirade of obscene French she waved her umbrella in a threatening manner.
"N-now, just wait a moment," the young buck stuttered, before deciding retreat was the better part of valour and running into the house with Céleste at his heels.
He ground to a halt in the drawing room, apparently deciding it was too embarrassing to run any further away from a diminutive young lady, even if she was wielding an umbrella. Though Céleste noticed he had the remarkable foresight to keep a chair between them.
"We seem to have got off on the wrong foot ..." he ventured, eyeing her with alarm as she rounded the chair. He backed up, away from her, and promptly pitched over the sofa table as it hit the back of his knees. With a yelp of alarm he landed in a crumpled heap between the table and the sofa. Céleste stared at him, with his shiny Hessians still hanging over the rosewood table, his arms akimbo and a look of bewilderment in his hazel eyes, and she began to laugh.
At first it was a ladylike giggle, in the manner she had been instructed, but the indignation on his face was too much to bear and within moments she was shrieking like a banshee with tears running down her face. A moment later, however, she shrieked for a different reason as her feet were swept from under her and she landed hard on her behind in a flurry of muslin and silk.
With fury she rounded on the perpetrator of this outrage, to find the bright hazel eyes full of mirth. She paused, rage warring with amusement, until the ridiculousness of the situation tickled her too much and she began to giggle again. In moments the two of them were breathless with laughter.
"I say," the young man demanded as he extricated himself from the floor and hauled her to her feet in a rather ungainly manner. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you and what are you doing with the ancient ones?"
Céleste sniffed and tried to regain a little of her forgotten dignity. Holding out her hand she gave a stiff curtsey. "I am Célestine Lavelle, La Comtesse de Valrey."
"Well I'll eat my hat," he replied with a lift of one eyebrow. "I'm Aubrey Russell, Seymour's grandson, you see? Anyway, enchanted, I'm sure. But why are you here?"
"Because Lady Russell and Lady Sinclair are preparing me for my come out to society," Céleste replied, smoothing down her rumpled skirts with care.
"Hmmm," Aubrey replied, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth. "But who's preparing society?"
Céleste huffed at him in disgust. "You are a very rude boy!"
Aubrey snorted and gave a short bark of laughter. "Boy is it? 'Pon rep, you're going out of your way to set up my bristles aren't you? And as for rude, well that's the pot calling the kettle black and no mistake!" He wagged a finger at her. "I don't know a word of frog, save for a few choice phrases I picked up at Eton, but I know that was not the kind of language you've been learning from m'grandmother!"
Céleste's face fell as she realised this frightful boy could cause her all sorts of trouble if he chose to.
"Oh don't look so Friday-faced," he said, waving a hand at her and flopping down on the sofa with a sigh and the air of someone who was at home. "I'm not about to give you away. Lord knows I'm never in her good books, always scolding me for something or other."
"Merci, Monsieur," she said with a grateful sigh. "Lady Russell is finding me rather a trial I fear."
"Oh, call me Aubrey do, seems like we're family near as, and I can imagine she is," he replied, staring at her with interest as she surveyed him in return. He was really a very good looking young man. Hazel eyes and thick hair with a slightly auburn tint that curled over his forehead highlighted a very pleasing countenance. One particular wayward lock fell close his eye as he spoke and she itched to push it back out of his way. Added to a tall, lean frame with broad shoulders and a strong square jaw and rather endearing dimples when he smiled, he was really very pleasant to look at. With a sigh she wished that such charms could ever be appealing to her, when a certain dark-haired, grey-eyed devil was never going to give her a second glance.
"So," he said, recalling her attention to him. "How did you come to be here?"
She shrugged and sat down on the sofa opposite him. "Alex brought me," she said, quite forgetting all of Aunt Seymour's lessons in the society of the frank and open manner of her new guest, and referring to him in far too familiar a fashion.
"Alex?" he replied, frowning. She watched, wondering how on earth he could forget his own cousin, and then his eyes widened. "You mean Falmouth? He brought you here?"
"Oui, I mean, yes. Lord Falmouth, 'e brought me."
"Good Lord." He seemed overcome by this information and just sat staring at her for a moment. "Were your family caught up in all the ..." He grimaced and drew a finger across his neck in a rather menacing fashion.
Céleste nodded. "Oui, my uncle was be'eaded, Maman and Papa ran away." She sighed, feeling altogether gloomy now. "Papa died in the war, Maman killed 'erself."
Aubrey's eyes had grown wide and he appeared to settle down and make himself more comfortable. "Well then, don't stop there," he started, waving an impatient hand at her. "Start at the beginning. Where do you come from? What happened to you? How did you meet Falmouth?"
Céleste looked up at him in surprise but his expression was one of rapt attention, and so she settled down, removed her bonnet ... and told him.
Chapter 21
"Wherein letters say more than words on a page."
July 25th
Glebe House. Hertfordshire
Dear Lord Falmouth,
I hope you are in good health and must thank you most kindly for the parcel which arrived safely this morning.
I did very much enjoy the marzipan fruits which reminded me of my birthday and such a happy time with dear Henri and your brother. I will endeavour not to eat them all in one sitting as the Modiste which Aunt Seymour frequents would much enjoy sticking me with pins to illustrate her dismay at any extra inches.
Aunt Seymour and Aunt Dotty were also very pleased with the Champagne and the brandy wine and send their warmest regards.
I was very happy last evening to see so many friends around the dinner table here. Indeed for the first time in my life I truly have friends, which is a very fine thing, and something else I must thank you for with all my heart. Aubrey was there of course, and Lord FitzWalter and his sister, and Viscount Trenchard and his good friend Lord Blakeney, and a host of other names which will no doubt bore you terribly so I shan't mention them. Indeed although I am not officially out it seems Aunt Seymour trusts me to conduct myself with decorum on these happy evenings. Miracles do happen.
In truth the aunts seem to enjoy these lively evenings as much as I do, especially dearest Dorothea who is quite a favourite among all the young people as she is so drole.
Bandit, I regret to inform you, is a perfect little beast however. Last Friday whilst I was away at a picnic with the aunts and Aubrey, he chewed my favourite yellow satin slippers. I was really very put out but then he did sulk so prettily I was oblige
d to forgive him.
I hope you see that my English is much better now, in fact Aunt Seymour almost told me it wasn't too dreadful, so you see I have made great progress.
Your sincere friend,
Célestine Lavelle
Alex stared down at the letter on his desk and tried to bring to mind the visage of his cousin. A lanky boy who stuttered if Alex so much as looked in his direction was unearthed from a long-forgotten memory and he heaved a sigh of relief. Then he took a moment to consider how many years had passed since he had last seen Aubrey Russell and a tightness began in his chest. It had to be five ... no, seven years. A boy could change a great deal in seven years. Cursing under his breath, Alex refilled his glass and took a healthy swallow, relishing the burn as the fine liquor slid down his throat.
So what if she was spending time with the boy ... man. So what if the names on that list were more male than female. He had no doubt his aunts were keeping a close eye on things. Besides Aubrey's father Baron Russell was not a wealthy man. A penniless countess was hardly going to be a match he would welcome.
But what if Céleste loved the boy and he wouldn't or couldn't marry her? The tightness in his chest increased and he rubbed irritably at the spot over his heart.
There wasn't a chance in hell that the wretched boy ... man, wasn't in love with her. He'd have to be blind. He felt a wave of jealousy as he imagined the two of them sneaking off at the picnic, perhaps just disappearing out of sight of the aunts for a moment or two to steal a kiss. His throat grew tight and suddenly it was hard to swallow. He knew, at heart, that Céleste wouldn't be interested in a few sweet little kisses.
In the time they'd spent together Alex had been all too aware that she was a creature of fire and passion. She needed to be schooled by a man who knew what he was about, taught just how those passions could be mastered and indulged, and some wet behind the ears boy would never be able to handle her. He swore, a long low string of obscenities that made him feel no better at all. He hoped to God his aunts were keeping a close eye on the girl because if he discovered Aubrey or any other young fool had laid a finger on her, there wouldn't be enough pieces left to bury by the time he'd finished with them.
He took a deep breath and tried to assure himself that it was just his imagination getting the better of him. His imagination had become a trial of the worst kind over the last months. Not just for imaginings like these which were frequent and humiliating, but for heated dreams that visited him at night and left him hard and aching and numb with loneliness. Dreams in which Céleste ran back to him and he succumbed with every expression of his devotion that could be found. Dreams where he taught her what it was she had wanted from him, where he worshipped every inch of her beautiful skin with the fervour of a zealous and devout supplicant.
He forced the tantalising images from his mind before they could take a hold of him and humiliate him further.
At least she had spoken to him with a little less formality this time. The cool tone of her address in some of her previous letters had sunk him in a sea of despondency of which there had appeared no escape.
In the first weeks after she had left for Hertfordshire he had tried to pick up the threads of his life. Visiting his clubs and even paying a call to one of his mistresses. But the clubs seemed to offer him nothing that he wanted, other than the ability to get drunk which he could accomplish quite satisfactorily by himself without leaving home, and he had realised his mistake on visiting the dark eyed-beauty he had ignored for so many weeks before the door had even opened to him. With cool words of regret he had severed relations with both her and every other woman with whom he'd had an understanding, offering generous recompense for the loss of their protector and his change of heart, but no explanation.
And so here he was still, alone in the echoing walls of Tregothnan, with a decanter of brandy, a letter from Céleste, and a pain in his heart that simply wouldn't be ignored.
With care he refolded the letter and put it carefully with the small pile of her other correspondence. He would reply to her when his emotions were less ragged, so God alone knew when that would be.
He glanced up at the clock and decided to go and meet the men of the Flighty Susan. There was to be another run tonight, though things were getting hot along the coast. Now that Napoleon had finally been brought to account once and for all, after the folly of his last gasp and one hundred days of power, the government would be turning its attentions forcefully back in the smugglers’ direction. He had been inclined to tell the men to leave it be for a week or two to let things cool off.
The church vault where they stored much of their goods before it found a home was well-stocked. His inventory yesterday had revealed the place filled to the rafters with casks and kegs of brandy and tobacco and enough silk to dress every fashionable miss of the ton in any colour of their choosing many times over. But the crew were eager to go and damn it but he was sick of staring at the walls of his empty home and wondering what the hell Céleste was doing, if she ever thought of him at all ... or if he had been resigned to the recesses of her memories as someone to whom she owed a debt of gratitude but nothing more. The pain of that idea made him catch his breath, though it would be everything that he had hoped and planned for her. By God but he was the biggest hypocrite going. Because if everything turned out the way he had professed to hope for her ... it would break his heart.
***
July 30th
Glebe House, Hertfordshire.
Dear Lord Falmouth,
I must thank you most sincerely for your gift. You are all kindness. I have never in my life seen slippers in so many colours. It looked as though a rainbow had tangled itself in the drawing room by the time I had all the pairs laid out side by side. Bandit's eyes were positively alive with the challenge, but I will endeavour to keep them safely out of his questing jaws. Perhaps you should send more marzipan to distract him? Of course now you have set me the daunting task of acquiring a dress in every shade to match the shoes. I hope you are pleased with yourself?
Is it as dreadfully hot in Cornwall as it is here in Hertfordshire? Your aunts are finding it very disagreeable and keep much indoors. Of course Aubrey is wonderful at keeping all of our spirits up, even when the heat makes our tempers a little fraught. Though you cannot imagine that I would ever lose my temper, I hope? I am become far too much the lady to ever do something so indelicate as to use language unbecoming to my station, especially not in French! That would be 'de trop' and far out of character for La Comtesse de Valrey. You see how I have become a very proper English Miss?
Please find enclosed a small drawing of Bandit. I thought you might like to see how the dreadful creature has grown. I am acquiring skills that Aunt Seymour feels necessary to my education. Sadly the pianoforte is far beyond my comprehension and the aunts have admitted defeat, to the relief of all of our nerves. However I do have some small ability with a pencil and brush. I hope you like it.
Your sincere friend,
Célestine Lavelle
August 1st. Tregothnan. Cornwall.
Dear Lady Lavelle,
Please find along with this letter twelve boxes of marzipan. I hope this will keep Bandit from eating my previous gifts, but will not incur the wrath of Aunt Seymour's Modiste and her pins. I have also sent silk in various shades to help you in the arduous task I unwittingly set you of matching dresses to slippers.
Indeed it has been a very hot summer here also, though there is always a refreshing breeze near the coast which is most agreeable. I have also been spending as much time as possible at sea so have escaped much of it.
Please would you forward my esteemed cousin, Mr. Russell, my sincere regards and a wish that he might call upon me in the near future. It has been many years since we last met and I would relish the opportunity to further our acquaintance.
It would appear you may add modesty to your ever-growing list of accomplishments. The drawing of Bandit is perfectly charming. I can see every glimmer of his reca
lcitrant nature in the expression you have captured. Your rendering of his character shows a sharp eye and considerable skill. I hope it will please to you know that I have had it framed and placed in my study.
With sincere regard, your friend and guardian,
Falmouth.
***
Céleste looked up to see Aubrey staring at her with undisguised horror.
"The devil I will!" he retorted.
She blinked at him, perplexed by his manner. "But why? Alex 'as asked you to go and visit 'im. Why would you not go?"
He sat with his back against the ancient apple tree and bit into a small green fruit, grimacing as it was too early yet and the apples were far from ripe. "Because if there was one man who has always been able to put the fear of God in me, it's Falmouth," he replied, tossing the apple out into the garden and setting Bandit chasing off after it.
"Alex?" Céleste replied, laughing at him and waving a delicate, hand-painted fan to create something resembling a cool breeze. "Alex isn't the slightest bit frightening."
Aubrey gaped at her, his eyes narrowing. "Are you sure we're talking about the same fellow? A big hulking brute with a sneer, a superior attitude, and eyes that can freeze your soul with one glance?"
"Bah!" Céleste exclaimed with a dismissive wave of her fan. "Of course 'e looks this way, 'e is an earl, but you must ignore that. It means nothing."
"Easy to say when you're female and are purported to look like Botticelli's Venus," Aubrey grumbled. "You'd have the devil himself on his knees, so it's no surprise you have Falmouth wrapped around your finger." He gave her a stern look. "And you're not supposed to say, bah! Your accent is as bad as ever when you talk to me."
The Earl's Temptation Page 17
