by Diane Gaston
She did not answer the question.
Phillipa pushed her needle through the fabric. ‘You danced with our—our natural brother, I noticed. It was kind of you.’
‘Kind?’ He’d been a wonderful dancer.
‘No one else danced with him.’
Celia had not seen him ask anyone else to dance. She felt compelled to defend him. ‘I found nothing to object to in him.’ Except his connection to this family.
Phillipa frowned. ‘I did not know of him until lately.’
Celia did not want to make Rhys the topic of conversation. She took a sip of tea and felt the eyes of Lord Westleigh’s portrait upon her. ‘You danced with Mr Campion, I noticed.’
Phillipa shrugged. ‘I suspect his mother or mine put him up to it. Our families have known each other a long time.’
Celia did not know what to say in response to that.
‘To own the truth,’ Phillipa went on, ‘I do not like to attend balls or any of the London events.’
‘Will you not come to the opera tonight?’ It was the event everyone was attending.
‘I think not,’ Phillipa said.
At that moment Neddington entered the room. ‘Forgive me for intruding, Mother,’ he said. ‘I merely wished to say hello to Miss Gale and Lady Gale.’ He bowed to Celia. ‘How do you do, my lady?’
‘Very well, Ned. Thank you,’ she responded, thinking now that he looked like a younger version of his father. Why had she not seen it before?
He turned to Adele and his voice softened. ‘And you, Miss Gale?’
She glowed. ‘I am very well, sir.’
Celia felt like weeping. She would surely lose Adele when she married this man.
She would lose Rhys, as well.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘We ought to be on our way, Adele.’ They’d been there longer than the typical fifteen minutes.
‘Will you allow me to see you to your carriage?’ Ned asked.
‘Oh, we walked. It is such a fine day,’ Adele said.
Ned smiled. ‘Then might I escort you both back home?’
Adele gave Celia a pleading look.
‘That would be kind of you,’ Celia said.
* * *
Rhys prowled around the gaming house like a bear in a cage. He’d felt like a caged beast since the night before, the night of the ball, the event that had changed everything with Celia. How could he have guessed that Celia would be present at that ball? At any ball?
She was nothing like the aristocracy.
He should have told her his connection with Westleigh right from the beginning—especially after she confessed that Westleigh had killed her father.
He’d used that fact as an excuse not to tell her.
Would she come tonight?
He wanted another chance to make her understand.
To ask her to forgive him.
He wandered to the cashier’s office and stood in the doorway. MacEvoy was busy with a patron, but Rhys did not need to speak aloud. He merely raised his brows.
MacEvoy shook his head.
She had not arrived.
Rhys spun around, his frustration growing.
Xavier stood there, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest. ‘Let me guess. Mac told you matters were unchanged since the last time you checked with him. Twenty minutes ago.’
Rhys scowled at him. ‘Were you counting the time on your pocket watch?’
‘I probably could have set my watch by you.’ Xavier straightened. ‘Care to tell me why you are pacing the rooms?’
He was in no mood to go into this with his friend and hear again Xavier’s cautions. ‘I’m merely making certain all is well.’
He pushed past Xavier and re-entered the game room.
A few minutes later, Rhys spied Xavier at the hazard table watching the play.
Rhys wandered over to him. ‘It seems slow tonight.’
‘Everyone is at the opera,’ Xavier answered in a good-natured tone, somewhat easing Rhys’s guilt for having snapped at him.
A patron threw the dice on the table.
‘Nine!’ Belinda called.
‘I’m out,’ the man cried.
‘How do you know everyone is at the opera?’ Rhys asked Xavier.
‘I called upon my parents today,’ his friend replied. ‘They were bound for the opera and said that was the entertainment for the evening.’
Rhys nodded. ‘Your parents looked in good health last night.’
‘As always.’
Xavier’s parents were, in Rhys’s eyes, a rarity—members of the ton who were selfless and generous, and not at all concerned with the status of one’s birth. Xavier’s brothers and sisters had each found their places in society. Xavier had not.
Rhys noticed Xavier’s attention shift and his brows rise.
Lord Westleigh had entered the game room. Celia was at his side, but looked as if she were trying to remove a leech.
‘Now what?’ Xavier commented.
‘Now what indeed,’ growled Rhys who crossed the room to get his father away from her.
‘Westleigh,’ he said in a sharp voice.
His father gave him a contemptuous look. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t my son.’
Through her mask, Rhys saw Celia’s eyes reflecting distress. She took advantage of the situation and turned to greet other gamblers who walked in behind them.
‘Some whist, Madame Fortune?’ Rhys heard one of them ask.
He faced his father. ‘What are you about, Westleigh?’
Westleigh made a helpless gesture. ‘Whatever do you mean, my son?’ He smirked. ‘Are you fearing I will steal your paramour from you?’
Rhys leaned threateningly into his face. ‘Do not plague her. Do you hear me?’
They were attracting some attention, so Rhys walked away from him. He searched for Celia, but she was seated at a whist table with Sir Reginald and another masked couple he strongly suspected were Lord and Lady Ashstone. Ashstone’s pockets were deep and Rhys hoped Celia would win a good sum from him.
She raised her eyes and caught Rhys’s gaze, but her opponents gestured to the cards and she looked away.
Rhys wandered back towards the hazard table where Xavier was now in conversation with Belinda, the table’s croupier, whose complexion had brightened at his attention.
Rhys approached Xavier from behind and heard him say, ‘Let me know if anything seems amiss. Especially if Madame Fortune plays.’
Rhys stepped back quickly, but caught sight of Westleigh intently watching the exchange.
Had Westleigh heard Xavier, as well?
* * *
Celia should have skipped the gaming house this night. She was so weary. She supposed the constant late hours were taking a toll. She’d come, she told herself, to win more money, but truly, she had come to see Rhys. Except she doubted she could last long enough to see him. All she could think about was sleep.
She struggled to make it through the whist game. Her play was so badly off that quitting was the only decent thing to do.
‘Another game?’ Sir Reginald asked eagerly. ‘We need a chance to recoup.’
The masked couple playing them were eager to continue.
‘By all means,’ the lady said with a smile.
Celia scooped up the few counters she had left. ‘I must beg off. I fear I am so fatigued that I cannot think straight.’
Her gentleman opponent chuckled. ‘All the more reason we wish to play you another game.’
She smiled at him. ‘I am no challenge tonight. You both would be bored by me.’
‘I suppose you are correct, madam,’ the man responded.
She dropped her counters in her reticule and stood. ‘Another time, perhaps.’
Her feet felt leaden as she walked to the cashier’s room.
She poured out her counters. ‘I am done for the night, Mr MacEvoy.’
He looked surprised. ‘Early for you, is it not, madam?’
She tried
to smile. ‘It is, indeed. If—if you think Mr Rhysdale would not wish to pay me, just cash in what is left.’
‘You may pay her, MacEvoy,’ came a voice from behind her.
Celia turned. Rhys stood there, filling the doorway, his expression indiscernible.
‘Forgive me, Rhys. I am so very tired. I cannot stay.’ She took four crowns from MacEvoy’s hand and placed them in the leather purse inside her reticule.
When she stepped towards the door again, he did not move. She raised her eyes to his and he gave way for her.
But he walked with her to the hall.
‘You are fatigued?’ He made it sound as if she were making an excuse.
‘I am, Rhys. Truly. There is no other reason.’
He touched her arm, an expression of concern on his face. ‘How do you plan to summon your carriage?’
She placed the back of her hand against her forehead. ‘I had not thought that far ahead.’
He took her arm. ‘Come. I’ll sort it out for you.’
She was too tired to protest.
They reached the hall.
Rhys said, ‘Tell me where your coachman waits for you and I’ll send for him.’
She shook her head. ‘I do not know where he waits. I think he goes back to the stable.’
‘Then I will send for a hackney coach and alert your coachman when he calls for you.’
He’d have to send someone to Piccadilly to a coach stand. It seemed a foolish fuss. ‘Rhys, I do not live far from here. Would you have someone walk me home?’
‘I will walk you home.’ He turned to Cummings and asked for Celia’s shawl and his hat and gloves.
When they stepped outside, he asked, ‘You do not mind me knowing your address?’
She shrugged. ‘You know who I am. It would be a simple matter for you to discover where I live.’
He offered his arm. ‘Which way?’
She held on to him, grateful for his strength. ‘To Half Moon Street.’
As they walked to St James’s Street and turned towards Piccadilly, Celia removed her mask and carried it by its ribbons.
The night air felt cool on her face, reviving her. ‘I feel better in the fresh air.’
‘Are you ill?’ he asked.
‘Not ill, I do not think. Tired.’ Her limbs felt heavy. ‘All I wish is to go to bed.’
Her gaze flashed to him. She realised what she’d said.
He simply kept walking.
Finally he spoke. ‘The late nights are too taxing for you.’
They hadn’t been. She’d been energised by the success of her gambling—and the pleasures of her affair with him. The fatigue came on all of a sudden.
‘I just need a little rest, I expect,’ she told him.
In spite of herself she relished the feel of his strong arm under her fingers. It reminded her of how it felt to be held by him.
Her body flared merely at the memory and the intensity of her desire momentarily drove away fatigue. She wanted him so desperately she thought of asking him to take her back to the Masquerade and put her to bed in his room.
And remain there with her.
But an image of Rhys standing next to Westleigh, greeting guests in the ballroom, also flashed through her mind. She tried to shake it away.
She broke the silence between them. ‘One could almost like London if it always felt like this.’
‘Like what?’ His voice matched the night.
‘Quiet and still.’ A carriage sounded in a nearby street, the horses’ hooves and the wheels loud even at a distance. She smiled. ‘At least, mostly quiet and still.’
He reached over and touched her hand, but released it and kept walking.
They reached Piccadilly and he gestured down the length of the street. ‘It is an impressive sight.’
Gas lamps bathed the street in gold and the busy traffic of the day was reduced to a carriage or two. All the dirt of the day was obscured by the night.
‘It is lovely,’ she admitted.
They crossed Piccadilly.
‘But you plan to leave.’ He said this as a statement.
‘I am not meant for London,’ she said.
They fell silent again.
This time he spoke first. ‘I want you to stay.’
She stopped and turned to him, but she could not speak. Instead she reached up and touched his cheek.
He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘I do not want what we’ve had to end.’
Neither did she. ‘Oh, Rhys.’
He pulled her into an embrace and she could not help but melt against him. Encircled in his arms she did not feel alone.
She rested her head against his heart and was comforted by its steady beat. ‘I am not leaving yet, Rhys.’
She felt his voice rumble in his chest. ‘Then come to me as often as you can, Celia.’
She pulled away, only to nod her head.
She’d endure the contact with Westleigh and risk the intoxication of gambling to be with him a little longer.
They walked arm in arm along Piccadilly, the night wrapping them in an illusion that there was no one else in the world except the two of them. For the first time since the ball, Celia felt at peace.
They approached Half Moon Street. ‘My street,’ she said.
They turned on to the street and she wished her rooms were at the far end instead of so close to Piccadilly.
‘Here.’ She stopped, already bereft at parting from him.
He gathered her in his arms again and lowered his head, touching his lips to hers. ‘Come to me tomorrow,’ he whispered. ‘If you feel well enough.’
He kissed her again and desire flamed through her, its intensity taking more of a toll on her body than her fatigue. All she wanted was to share a bed with him and re-experience the delight of joining her body with his.
She threw her arms around him and hugged him close. ‘I will if I can, Rhys,’ she cried.
It would be impossible for her to stay away.
* * *
Celia knocked lightly on the door to her rooms and listened through it until she heard footsteps approach. ‘Tucker?’ she called through the door. ‘It is Lady Gale.’
The lock turned and the door opened.
Her butler looked surprised.
‘Do not be concerned, Tucker.’ She walked inside. ‘I merely decided to leave early.’
He leaned outside. ‘The carriage, ma’am?’
She turned around and glimpsed Rhys walking away, a mere shadow in the darkness. ‘No carriage, but I was escorted home. Someone must tell Jonah.’
‘I will see to it, ma’am.’ He closed the door and turned the lock again.
‘You can go to bed early.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘I am indebted to you for the long hours I force you to keep. Please know how grateful I am.’
He bowed his head. ‘I can only admire you, my lady.’
She started up the stairs. Her flesh ached from missing Rhys and her fatigue returned. Suddenly it was like scaling the Alps to reach the first floor.
She opened her bedchamber door and startled her maid.
‘Oh!’ The woman popped up from a chair. ‘I must have dozed. What time is it? Forgive me, ma’am.’
‘I do not mind if you doze, Younie.’ Celia yawned. ‘I am home early. It must only be half-past two. I became so fatigued.’
Younie hurried over to her. ‘Are you ill, ma’am? Let me feel your forehead.’ She put the back of her hand against Celia’s forehead.
‘I do not feel feverish,’ Celia responded. ‘Merely tired.’
Her maid took her shawl from her shoulders and Celia dropped her reticule and mask on a table.
As soon as she was all dressed and ready to crawl into bed, the door opened. ‘Another night of gallivanting, I see.’ Her mother-in-law strode in.
Celia turned to her maid. ‘You may go, Younie. Goodnight and thank you.’
Younie ducked her head down and walked out of the room.
C
elia turned away from her mother-in-law. ‘I did not hear you knock, Lady Gale.’
‘Well, I didn’t knock,’ the woman answered without apology. ‘Was that the man whose bed you are warming? I saw you with him outside.’
Celia rubbed her temples. ‘What were you doing at the window at this hour?’
The older woman pursed her lips. ‘Why, waiting to see you, of course. Otherwise I’d be asleep.’
Celia swung around. ‘Why? Is something amiss? With Adele?’
Lady Gale put her fists on her hips. ‘Nothing is amiss with Adele except having a stepmother who is a strumpet.’
Celia’s fingers pressed into her temples. ‘So you have merely come to lash me with your tongue. I have no patience for it. Leave me, Lady Gale. I will not discuss my private affairs with you. I cannot tolerate you any longer.’
Lady Gale lifted her chin. ‘What will you do? Toss me out?’
Celia speared her with her gaze. ‘Do not tempt me, ma’am.’
Her tone must have penetrated, because her mother-in-law turned around and left the room. Celia climbed into bed, but now was so agitated by her mother-in-law that sleep evaded her.
* * *
By morning Celia was convinced she was ill. When she woke she felt so nauseated she feared she could not reach the chamberpot in time to vomit. She remained in bed the whole day and begged off from attending the social event of the evening.
She also had Tucker deliver a message to Rhys to tell him she could not come to the gaming house that night.
* * *
When she felt equally unwell the next day, as well, she sent a message to Rhys saying she would return when she was recovered.
She missed him. And not only for the lovemaking. She missed watching him walk through the game room watching everything with an experienced eye. She missed sharing supper with him and sharing the trivialities of each night together. She missed being held by him.
* * *
Days passed. Sometimes by afternoon, Celia would feel the malaise leave her, but by evening all she wished was to retire early and sleep.
She had apologised to Younie and the housekeeper more than once for not being able to hold down her food and causing them such unpleasantness.
One morning Younie brought her dry toast and tea in bed.
‘I do not know why I am not recovering,’ she said to her maid. ‘I am never ill. Adele thinks I should call the physician, but I keep thinking tomorrow I will feel better.’
