“Anyone who took the trouble to know you would accept you,” Celia insisted, ignoring his efforts to turn the subject.
“You’ve gone and ruled out every woman in England.” He leaned over the railing, squinting into the darkness.
“Except myself,” Celia declared, and then she stopped. Good heavens, what had she just said?
Anthony seemed shocked as well. His head whipped around, and he stared at her with raised eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Heat rushed to her face. “I—I meant that I know you, and know you’re not half so bad as you pretend to be.”
His gaze was riveted on her, so dark and intense Celia scarcely recognized him for a moment. Goodness, it was just Anthony, but for a moment, he was looking at her almost like…
“Not half so bad,” he murmured speculatively. “A rare compliment, if I do say so myself.”
She burst out laughing again, relieved that he was merely teasing her. That expression on his face—rather like a wolf’s before he sprang—unsettled her; it had made her think, for one mad moment, that he might in fact spring on her. And even worse, Celia realized that a small, naughty part of her was somewhat curious. No, rampantly curious. She might have let Lord Euston kiss her, but only for the satisfaction of being able to say she had been kissed. She had never expected to be swept away with passion by Lord Euston, who was, as Anthony had said, a dreadful bore. But a kiss from one of the most talked-about rakes in London…now, that would be something else altogether.
“You know what I meant,” she said, shaking off that curiosity as shocking and obviously forbidden. “I know you’ve quite a soft heart, although you hide it very well. As proof, I must point out that you’ve stood out here with me for some time now, trying to make me feel better after receiving the most appalling marriage proposal of all time. David would have laughed until he couldn’t stand upright, and then retold the tale to everyone he met.”
“Ah, but I am not your brother,” he replied, smiling easily although his gaze lingered on her face.
She was glad he couldn’t see her blush. “No, indeed! But because you are not”—she took the last sip of champagne from her glass before setting it on the balustrade—“I must return to the ballroom. I suppose you’ll continue to skulk in the shadows out here, and be appropriately wicked?”
“You know me too well.”
Celia laughed once more. “Good night, Anthony. And thank you.” She flashed him a parting smile and hurried away. Perhaps if she could make her mother see the humor, and idiocy, in Lord Euston’s proposal, Mama wouldn’t ask too many questions about where she’d been ever since.
Anthony listened to her rapid footsteps die away, counting every one. Seventeen steps, and then she was gone. He folded his arms on the balustrade once again, taking a deep breath. The faint scent of lemons lingered in the air. He wondered why she smelled of lemons and not rosewater or something other ladies wore.
“You gave away my champagne, I see,” said a voice behind him.
Anthony smiled and held out the untouched glass sitting next to his elbow. “No. I gave away mine.”
Fanny, Lady Drummond, took it with a coy look. “Indeed.” She turned, looking back at the house. “A bit young for your taste.”
“An old friend,” he said evenly. “The younger sister of a friend. Euston was giving her a spot of trouble.”
“Better and better,” exclaimed Fanny. “You are a knight in shining armor.”
Anthony shrugged. “Hardly.”
“Now, darling, I wouldn’t blame you.” She ran her fingers down his arm. “She’s the catch of the Season. Rumor holds her marriage portion is two hundred thousand pounds.”
“How do the gossips ferret out such information?”
“Persistent spying, I believe. Fouché’s agents would have been put to shame by the matrons of London.” Fanny rested the tip of her fan next to her mouth, studying him. “For a moment, I thought you had spotted your chance.”
Anthony tightened his lips and said nothing. The less said on this topic, the better. The scent of lemons was gone, banished by Fanny’s heavier perfume. “Have you?” pressed Fanny as the silence lengthened. She moved closer, her face lighting up with interest. “Good Lord. The greatest lover in London, pining for a girl?”
He turned to her. “She’s just a girl,” he said. “I’ve known her since she was practically a babe, and yes, I am fond of her. Fanny, you would understand if you’d heard what Euston was saying to her. I spoke as much to close his mouth as anything else.”
“And yet, there was something else,” she replied archly. He sighed in exasperation. She laughed, laying her hand on his. “Admit it, you’ve thought of it. She would solve all your problems, wouldn’t she? Money, connection, respectability…”
He pulled his hand free. “Yes, all I would have to do is persuade the duke of Exeter to give his consent, overcome the dowager duchess’s extreme dislike of me, and then ask the lady herself to choose me above all her respectable, eligible suitors. I don’t take odds that long, Fanny.”
She smirked. “She was a girl a moment ago. Now she’s a lady.” Anthony looked at her in undisguised irritation. Fanny moved closer, so close her breath warmed his ear. “I wouldn’t fault you for trying, darling,” she murmured. “It needn’t alter our relationship in any way…in fact, why don’t you call on me tonight…later…and we can continue that relationship.”
“You’ll want to hear the news from Cornwall, I expect.”
Fanny pouted at his deliberate change of subject, but she let it go. “I don’t believe I would have let you seduce me if I’d known you simply wanted me to invest in some mining venture.” He cocked a brow at her. “All right.” She gave in with a knowing smile. “I would have still let you seduce me, but I would have asked for better terms.”
“I like to think we shall always be on the best of terms with each other.” He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. Fanny’s expression softened even more.
“I suppose we shall. Interest terms…and other terms.”
Anthony smiled, ruthlessly forcing his moment of gallantry from his mind, along with everything else related to Celia Reece. Fanny might make light of it, but he needed every farthing she would invest, and Anthony knew how to work to protect that.
He related the report from the mine manager, knowing Fanny, unlike many women, truly wanted to know how her money was faring. She had a sharp mind for business, and they shared a profitable relationship. Their other relationship was almost as valuable to him—Fanny lived in the present and didn’t dwell on the past, especially not his past. That mattered a great deal to Anthony.
But when Fanny had gone back to the ball, Anthony found his mind wandering. Although Fanny was nearly fifteen years older than he, she was still a very handsome woman, with a tart wit and a marvelous sense of humor. She had a sophistication no young lady just making her debut could claim, and Anthony genuinely liked her. He liked the way her money made his financial schemes successful. He liked her acceptance of their intermittent affair with no recriminations or demands. But she didn’t smell of lemons.
He pushed away from the balustrade, restless and tired at the same time. His plans for the evening had included some time in the card room, where he hoped to win a few months’ rent, but he suspected he couldn’t concentrate on his cards now. Damn lemons.
With a deep sigh, Anthony turned back toward the house. He repeated in his mind what he had told Fanny: Celia was just a girl; he spoke to her out of mere kindness. He tried not to hear the echo of Celia’s words, that she was the only woman in England who thought him…how had she put it…“not half so bad as he pretended.”
He slipped into the overheated ballroom, lingering near the door. Without meaning to, he saw her. She was dancing with another young buck like Euston. Her pink gown swirled around her as her partner turned her, her golden curls gleaming in the candlelight. Anthony’s gaze lingered on her back,
where her partner’s hand was spread in a wide, proprietary grip. The young man was delighted to be dancing with her—and why shouldn’t he be? She beamed up at him, smiling at whatever he’d said to her, and Anthony realized, with a small shock of alarm, that she was breathtaking. No longer a child or a young girl, but a beautiful young woman who would walk out with a gentleman in hopes of a kiss and end up fending off a marriage proposal.
He turned away from the dancers, continuing on his way without another glance back. He wound his way through the crowd, out through the hall, pausing only to collect his things, then down the steps into the night. He kept going, past the lines of waiting carriages, strolling along at an unhurried pace through the streets of London. The early spring air was fresh and crisp; it was a lovely night to walk, but Anthony didn’t walk to enjoy the weather.
At last he reached his lodging, a rented flat in a house just clinging to the edge of respectability. Up the stairs he climbed to his plain, simply furnished rooms. Since sinking most of his funds into the tin mines, he had had to cut his expenses to the bone. There was little of luxury or comfort in his rooms, certainly nothing to tempt a duke’s daughter. His lip curled derisively at his own thoughts as he shrugged off his jacket and unwound his cravat. There was little of anything in his life to tempt any lady.
And yet…
Except me, rang Celia’s words in his mind. No lady in London would accept him…except me, whispered her voice. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed it on a nearby chair. Everyone saw him as a wastrel and a hedonist…except me. Anthony pulled open his collar and yanked the shirt over his head. His skin felt hot and prickly. “She’s your friend’s younger sister,” he told himself out loud. “Practically your own sister.” But it did no good.
He could still close his eyes and see Celia as a red-cheeked little girl, handing him the last scone from tea, wrapped in a handkerchief. He could still hear her angry tears when her brother had insisted she stay behind while they went fishing. And he could still see the glimpse of ankle as she danced, the curve of bosom as she curtsied to her partner, and the gleam of moonlight on her blond curls.
Anthony had liked Celia Reece very much as a girl, but he had never allowed himself to think of her as a woman. Ladies like Celia were not for him. And so long as she remained fixed in his mind as just a girl, everything had been fine. Tonight, though, he found with alarm that he could think of her as nothing but a woman—a young woman, to be certain, but a woman all the same. She had wanted to be kissed tonight, and Anthony knew just how easily he could have been the man to do it. Except me, echoed her voice again, and he remembered how her face changed when he looked at her then. She hadn’t meant it that way when she said it, but he had seen the flush of awareness on her cheeks and the spark of interest in her eyes. And that awareness, to say nothing of the interest, just might have sealed his fate, forever ending any brotherly feelings he had for her.
He splashed cold water from the ewer on his face, letting it run down his neck and chest. Even if Celia would accept him, her family would never allow it. Surely not…except that the duke of Exeter had made a rather odd marriage himself last year, to a penniless widow from a country village. And Celia’s other brother had married even lower. Lady David, Anthony knew, had been a common pickpocket at one time.
If the Reeces could overlook the lack of fortune, family, standing, and even respectability, perhaps…just perhaps…they could accept him as well.
Anthony Hamilton, widely regarded as the most scandalous rogue in London, lay down on his narrow bed alone and contemplated having six children and raising dogs.
Chapter Two
Much to Celia’s relief, she was not scolded for her misadventure with Lord Euston. She managed to tell her mother about it in such a way that made them both laugh, and that had quite ended the matter as far as Rosalind was concerned.
Her friends, however, were not so easily put off. “Did he go down on one knee?” Jane Melvill wanted to know the next night.
Celia grimaced. “No.”
“Did he kiss you first?” Louisa Witherspoon asked.
“Thank heavens, no.”
“But you wanted him to,” said Mary Greene.
Celia pondered. “When I agreed to walk out with him, I thought he might try to steal a kiss,” she admitted. “And I suppose…I might have let him.”
“Might?” squeaked Louisa in disbelief. “Euston’s so wonderfully handsome!”
“And a wonderful dancer,” said Jane, while Mary nodded.
“But he’s a dreadful bore,” Celia replied. “He began by saying he adored me.”
“A fine beginning,” someone murmured. Celia nodded.
“True. Fine enough. But then”—she glanced around to make certain no one nearby would overhear—“he asked if I adored him.”
Jane looked at Mary, who looked at Louisa. Louisa shrugged. Celia suspected she admired Lord Euston more than the rest of them. “And I couldn’t say yes, because of course I don’t, even if he is handsome and a wonderful dancer.”
Even Louisa had to admit one could not lie about that to a gentleman, no matter how well he looked or danced.
“Then he wanted to speak to my brother.” Celia almost rolled her eyes but caught herself in time. “Of course Exeter would have told him no, but…well, I didn’t want the poor man to go to the trouble when I didn’t want to marry him.”
“Not at all?” asked Louisa, as if she could hardly believe it possible.
“No,” said Celia helplessly. “Not at all.”
“Did he appear distraught? Did he beg you to reconsider?” Jane’s nose was almost twitching with interest.
Celia grimaced again. “Then he tried to kiss me. Make me immortal with a kiss, he said.”
“Oh, that’s Shakespeare,” exclaimed Louisa. “How romantic!”
“It is not Shakespeare, it’s Milton,” Jane told her.
“Milton?” Mary’s nose wrinkled. “Didn’t he write that horrid poem about Lucifer? Was he comparing Celia to a devil? Or to an angel?”
“It’s Marlowe,” said Celia, saying a silent thanks to Anthony. She hadn’t been quite certain herself, but if anyone would know a love poem, it would be Anthony Hamilton. “And I didn’t find it very romantic. He seized me by the hand and wouldn’t let me go.”
“How did you escape?” All three girls turned to look at her again, poetry forgotten. Celia opened her mouth, then closed it. She liked her friends very much, but she also knew they liked to gossip even more than she did. She didn’t dare link her name to Anthony’s, not even after he had been so kind to her and there was nothing at all improper about his actions or hers.
“Someone came by then, and Lord Euston let me go,” she said. “He returned to the ballroom, as did I a moment later.”
Her friends all looked suitably impressed. “At least he didn’t ask you in front of everyone,” Mary said. “Sir George Lacey offered for Martha Winters in a theater box full of people. Imagine how hard it would be to refuse a gentleman, then.”
Celia nodded. “I never thought Lord Euston would propose marriage, not last night. I would never have walked out with him if I had.”
“It does every girl good to get one offer of marriage she must refuse,” said Jane with authority. “My mother says so.”
“Oh dear. Here he comes,” whispered Mary.
“Who?” Jane craned her neck in the direction Mary was facing, then jerked back to answer her own question. “Lord Euston!”
Celia recalled the strength of his grip and shuddered. She also recalled that he had not been pleased to leave her alone with Anthony Hamilton, even if only for a few minutes. She dared a peek over Louisa’s shoulder. He didn’t look like he was coming to apologize for his actions; he looked petulant and a little bit angry. Celia took the coward’s way out. “I feel the need to visit the ladies’ retiring room,” she whispered.
“Shall I go with you?” Mary asked. Celia shook her head.
“Don’t fear,
Celia, we’ll keep him from following,” Jane said. “We’ll try to get him to dance with Louisa.”
Celia slipped away through the crowd as Louisa exclaimed in indignation. Keeping her head down, she made her way to the room set aside for the ladies to rest and repair themselves.
Anthony saw her slip out of the ballroom just as he was about to enter the card room. A quick glance along her wake showed Euston talking to the young ladies who had been Celia’s companions only a few moments ago. Anthony’s steps slowed, then turned. “Excuse me,” he murmured to his companions as he walked away from them and headed out the same door she had taken.
He didn’t know what he meant to do. The sight of her golden hair had caught his eye, and the furtive way she left had pricked his interest. She was avoiding Euston—small wonder there, he thought as he climbed the stairs, following her blue-gowned figure. She might not be pleased that he was following her, either, but Anthony continued up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs she turned into the ladies’ powder room. Anthony stopped short. Of course; he should have guessed she was taking refuge where Euston unequivocally couldn’t follow. Nor could he. And lingering outside the powder room to talk to her would only cause the sort of scene she was doubtless hoping to avoid. Tamping down the flicker of disappointment in his chest, he turned to go back to the card room.
“Hamilton,” growled a voice behind him. “I’d like a word with you, sir.”
Anthony turned, his features falling automatically into a disinterested expression. “Yes?”
The man stepped closer, until their toes almost touched. Sir George Howard, a baronet with a modest fortune and an ambitious wife. Not among Anthony’s usual associates. He put his face up close to Anthony’s. “What business do you have talking to my wife?”
“I suppose you’ve asked her already,” he said in neutral tones. Lady Howard was difficult to avoid; Anthony would have sworn she was lying in wait for him, so often had he seen her of late.
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 2
