He caught sight of her again, beaming up at Bertram, and his heart seemed to stop in his chest. There was a glow to her face, a vivacity to her manner, that made him smile just to look at her. The only thing worse than holding a hand this bad was wanting to win this badly with it. He couldn’t bow out, no matter how foolish it was not to. Some gambles were worth any odds.
For a fortnight he considered the problem. Events seemed to conspire against him—Lady Howard tried to refuse her money back, even when he told her he would tell her husband everything. She grew quite hysterical, throwing herself at him and tearing open her bodice. Anthony suspected she had expected a far larger return on her money than he had offered her, so she could return the full three thousand to her husband’s funds with no one the wiser. When he refused her bared breasts, she took to following him about town, always approaching him in public and threatening a scene at any moment. He stayed away from society for four straight nights to avoid her, even though it cost him the opportunity to see Celia again, too.
Could Celia come to care for him? The likely answer was no, of course. He acknowledged that as he sat in dark, smoky card rooms and tried to keep his mind on his cards. He gambled with people from the whole width of society, yet knew he was perceived as somehow worse than the rest. Anthony even curtailed his gaming for a while, trying out his new, morally upright life, but then the bill from his tailor arrived and he had to return to the tables. Even in his tight financial circumstances, the one thing he could not scrimp on was his clothing. If he began to dress like a man in dire straits, people would stop giving him their money, and then he would be truly sunk.
But he still thought about her. Six children and a pack of dogs. The image was growing on him.
Finally he decided the key would be winning the duke of Exeter’s consent. He had never asked permission to court a young lady before, and now—just his luck—he would have to ask the strict and grim duke of Exeter. But as Celia’s oldest brother and guardian, his approval was vital, and once gained, it would surely go a long way toward winning the dowager duchess’s approval, if not her blessing. To persuade the duke, Anthony planned to surrender at once: confess his sins, admit his failings, and swear a solemn oath to mend his ways. A lot of humility, he hoped, would go a long way.
He managed to get an invitation to the annual Roxbury ball, knowing that Exeter and Lord Roxbury were allies in Parliament and even friends, as much as Exeter could be said to have friends at all. He dressed with great care—more than any woman had ever done, he thought to himself in dark amusement—and set off.
After an hour, though, he had not caught even a glimpse of Exeter, his duchess, the dowager duchess, or Celia herself. Finally he located Celia’s brother, his old friend David Reece, near the card room. “Is Exeter about this evening?” Anthony straightened his shoulders, tense with apprehension.
“I believe so.” David Reece peered into the depths of his empty glass. “He won’t be in there, though.”
“Right.” Anthony glanced into the card room, automatically sizing up players. He turned resolutely away and walked back into the ballroom. Exeter was known to disapprove of gambling, and Anthony knew his reputation would hurt him in that regard. He hoped the duke would accept his explanation.
Reece followed him. “Do you have a particular question for Marcus?”
“What?” Distracted, Anthony scanned the ballroom for the duke.
“Why do you want to find him?” Reece repeated.
Anthony turned to look at his friend. “A question about an investment,” he said vaguely. “Someone recommended his opinion.”
Reece gave him an odd look. “Investments.”
“Er—yes,” Anthony said. “Of a rather delicate nature.”
His friend did not look convinced. “Right. Here, I’ll ask Vivian.” His wife was winding her way through the crowd toward them. Anthony went still as he realized Celia was with her.
“There you are, love.” David drew his wife close to his side, unabashedly affectionate. “Have you seen Marcus? Hamilton wants him.”
“I’m to tell you they’ve gone home,” she answered, a faint Irish lilt to her voice. “Her Grace felt unwell. They’re nearly home by now, I expect.”
“Ah. Bad luck, then,” David said to Anthony.
He made himself smile and nod as if he didn’t mind. “Another time.”
“Was it an urgent matter, Mr. Hamilton?” Celia gazed up at him with wide blue eyes. She wore a very fashionable gown of pale blue, perfectly suitable for a young lady making her debut. Its very modesty made him burn to see her without it. Just her slim figure, clothed only by a cloud of golden, lemony hair…
“No, it can wait.” But not long. He couldn’t see her many more times without giving himself away. Wouldn’t that give society a delicious spectacle: the notorious rake starry-eyed over a girl. “I hope Her Grace recovers.”
Her smile was so warm. “I shall tell her you wish her well.”
He nodded, and after a moment two young ladies came up to steal Celia away. The three girls departed, leaving Anthony alone with David Reece and his wife.
“I trust the delay won’t affect your investments,” said Reece.
Anthony started, tearing his eyes away from Celia’s departing back. “No. I shall call on him.”
The next morning he presented himself at Exeter House as early as was polite. The butler showed him into the duke’s study, where Exeter did not look overly surprised to see him. Perhaps Reece had said something.
“Hamilton.” The duke nodded in greeting. Anthony bowed. Exeter waved one hand. “Won’t you be seated?”
Anthony sat, feeling rather like he was sitting down in a high-stakes situation with his every farthing in the center of the table. Outwardly he was calm, but inwardly his nerves were coiled tight. “I have come to ask permission to court your sister, Lady Celia.”
The duke’s eyebrows went up. He looked shocked. Anthony took a deep breath and plowed on. “I am aware that my reputation will make you hesitant. This is not a lark to me, nor a passing impulse. I have known Lady Celia since she was a child and have always felt the greatest affection for her.”
“Er—yes,” said the duke, still apparently caught off guard.
“I am well aware that there is gossip attached to my name. Not all of it is true—in fact, a fair amount of it is completely wrong,” Anthony went on with his practiced speech. “You may be concerned that I will break her heart. I will not, to the very best of my ability. Whatever people say about me, I am a man of my word, and I give my solemn vow that I shall do everything in my power to make her happy and to avoid that which will make her unhappy. Your sister will never be disgraced by my actions.”
“Indeed,” murmured the duke. “Mr. Hamilton—”
“I will make amends with my father. We shall never be on the best of terms, but I am his only heir. I shall do whatever is necessary to ensure Lady Celia is received as a future countess.”
“Mr. Hamilton…”
“And my finances…” Here he paused before going on, more slowly. “I am not a gambler by whim, Your Grace. It is my income. The earl has not made me an allowance in several years, since our estrangement. I had to have means to live. I have investments, though still modest, and can support a wife. With her dowry as capital, I shall be able to give up cards entirely.” He realized he was gripping the arm of the chair, and uncurled his fingers as he waited for the duke’s answer.
“Mr. Hamilton.” Exeter leaned forward, fixing him with an unreadable gaze. “That is all very admirable, but I must tell you that I have recently given my permission to another man for Celia’s hand in marriage.”
It was so far from the answer he was expecting, Anthony couldn’t comprehend it for a moment. “I see,” he said after a pause. He had expected to have to plead his cause; he had even expected to be refused. He had not expected that answer, that he was too late entirely. “And she has…?” He couldn’t even say it. He’d put every f
arthing on the table and lost it.
The duke nodded. “She has.”
“Right.” For a moment he just sat there, trying to absorb it. Anthony had always known she might not want him and had braced himself for rejection. On a mad impulse he almost asked if he could still approach her, just to know if she might have accepted this other fellow only because he, Anthony, hadn’t asked her—and if she might change her mind.
But no. Celia was too honest to do that. If she had accepted someone, it must only be because she wanted to marry him. She had surely never had a thought of Anthony Hamilton, debauched rake and notorious gambler. He was not only too late, he had never had a chance in the first place. “Of course,” he murmured at last. “I wish her very happy.”
Exeter inclined his head. “I am sorry.”
“No,” said Anthony. “There is no need to be.” He forced a gruesome smile. “I hope you won’t tell her of…this. She is kindhearted enough, she might feel sorry as well.” He paused. “I do not want her pity.”
“I shall keep your confidence,” said the duke with a slightly more sympathetic expression.
“Thank you.” Belatedly Anthony realized he had no more reason to stay, and got stiffly to his feet. His muscles, which had been so tense and tight when he walked into the room, hadn’t yet relaxed. He cleared his throat, but there was nothing more to say. He bowed and murmured a farewell, and left.
Exeter House had come to life in the short time he’d been in the duke’s study. Anthony followed the corridor toward the soaring main hall, passed by servants bustling back and forth with baskets of flowers. He heard his name and turned to see David Reece striding down the hall toward him.
“I say, Hamilton, finally tracked Marcus down, eh?”
“Yes.” He had to say something else before David started asking again what he’d had to discuss with the duke. “I didn’t realize the house was being turned upside down.”
David grimaced. “A ball. The ladies are making wreaths or bouquets, I’m not certain which.” He gestured toward an open door some way down the passage. Slowly, Anthony walked forward, just until he could see the interior.
She was sitting on a sofa with a small mountain of roses in front of her. The morning sunlight streaming in the windows behind her made her curls shine like gold, and pink and yellow petals littered her pale green skirts as she tied the blooms into small bunches. She looked like a Botticelli goddess, and just as attainable.
Behind him, David was still talking. “…after the wedding, of course. Rosalind is already determined it shall be the event of the Season.”
“What?” asked Anthony, tearing his eyes off Celia. “What did you say?”
“Celia’s to wed young Bertram,” repeated David. “Young scamp. A bit dodgy, in my opinion, but my stepmother has declared Celia shall marry whom she chooses, and for some reason she’s chosen him. Not even Marcus can deny her.”
“Indeed,” murmured Anthony. His gaze strayed back to Celia, still laughing merrily with the other ladies in the room. She looked blissfully happy—in love, he thought with a quiet sigh.
“Did you conclude your business with Marcus?” David interrupted his thoughts.
“Er—yes.” Anthony roused himself. He heartily hoped the duke wouldn’t tell a soul what they had discussed.
“And did he have the answer to your question?” David probed.
“Yes,” Anthony murmured. There was another burst of female laughter and Celia blushed, from obvious pleasure. His throat felt dry. “It was a trivial matter. Nothing of significance.”
“Ah. I see.” David eyed him for a moment. “Well, I’ve some fine colts this year. Perhaps you’d care to see them, perhaps take one.” David had become rather domesticated of late, since he married. He was setting up a stable with offspring from some of the finest horseflesh in England. If Anthony could have afforded a horse, he would have been severely tempted.
“Perhaps,” he said instead. Very few people knew of his financial circumstances, and David Reece did not need to be one of them. For all that Reece was a capital fellow and an old friend, Anthony had too much pride to tell him. He had only revealed it to Exeter out of necessity, and look what it had gotten him: nothing.
He bade David farewell and left. The afternoon air hit him in the face, suffocatingly warm. For a moment he lingered on the steps of Exeter House. He hadn’t realized until this moment, as he walked out of her home for possibly the last time, how much he had hoped…
But perhaps this was best. Who was he, after all, to aspire to her? There was a reason he had never before let himself think of her in that way, and the soundness of that reason had just been driven home. He was not the man she loved, or ever would love. He was just a friend of her brother’s, and she had never thought of him as anything else. He would survive it. He had survived many other disappointments in his life.
Anthony drew a deep, resolute breath and walked down the steps without a backward glance.
The Journal of
Lady Celia Reece
Given with Love and
Affection on the
Occasion of her Marriage
by her loving Mother
June 1819
Tomorrow is my wedding day—at last! It seems a year at least since my dear betrothed husband-to-be went down on his knee and asked me to be his wife, although it has really been less than two months. I feel I am the luckiest girl in London, to be the bride of a gentleman of such manners, such charm, such dash! Many young ladies hoped for nothing more than a smile from him. And yet he chose me! So romantically, too. I feel I ought to record every detail of his courtship, to tell our children some day. That is in fact why Mama has given me this journal. She says a girl should have a place to save such happy memories, and I do long to. But oh—there is no time tonight! Suffice to say—for now—that no gentleman was ever more devoted than my beloved has been. He has quite spoiled me with his affection and regard, with poetry and flowers and such attentions as have made me the envy of every unmarried lady in London, and no doubt some of the married ladies as well! I cannot wait for everyone to see my gown. It is surely the most beautiful gown ever made, of blue French silk with seed pearls on the bodice and a great quantity of lace. I shall wear Mama’s lace mantua over my hair, and the loveliest satin slippers—they are cunningly embellished with glass beads in the design of the lilies I shall carry. I am certain my entire ensemble shall be copied all over England.
I must to bed—in a mere ten hours, I shall be Lady Andrew Bertram!
June 1819
It is so lovely to be married. We have journeyed to the Lake District for our wedding trip. Although Bertie is not much interested in the scenery for himself, he has squired me about so devotedly. When I got a blister on my foot, he swept me into his arms and carried me back to the inn! We have had lovely picnics and romantic strolls, and he has read poetry to me. It seems impossible, but I am more in love than ever.
July 1819
Our first night in our new home, Kenlington Abbey. It is nothing like Ainsley Park. It is much older and used to be a monastery. At first glance it’s a bit imposing and even intimidating, with none of the cheery comforts Mama has installed at Ainsley. Perhaps that is to be expected, though, as Bertie’s mother died when he was a child and there has been no mistress at Kenlington since. I confess, I am cowed at the thought of having charge of such a place, but I shall do my best.
Bertie told me some of the history as we traveled, although he admitted he was not a great scholar of family history, as his father is. Every Lansborough heir for three hundred years has been born at Kenlington. I shiver to think I shall be part of that history. And perhaps soon—dear Bertie has been so attentive, and we are only a month married!
August 1819
A dinner party this night, with all the local families of standing invited. Lord L. is very conscious of standing; he never introduced me but as “the duke of Exeter’s sister.” I suppose that is to show how advantageous the ma
tch is for Bertie, but I do wish he would stop. I long to meet new friends and wouldn’t want people to think me too proud.
(later)
An odd night. Of all the guests, only the Misses Blacke seemed particularly friendly. They are two spinster sisters who live near Keswick and are of great good humor and spirits. Squire and Lady Melton were also very kind, as were the other guests, but they were mostly of an age with Lord L. There were two single gentlemen as well, particular friends of Bertie’s. Bertie was in high spirits all evening and is still below with Sir Owen Henry and Mr. William Cane. I had hoped to meet more young ladies, or really any ladies, but I suppose there will be many more opportunities. Jane Melvill has written twice already, and I miss her.
September 1819
A quiet evening at home. Bertie walked out this morning with Sir Owen and Mr. Cane to hunt. Lord L. discouraged me from going with them because he fears for my health, that as I am not accustomed to the northern weather, I may take cold. It is no secret Lord L. wishes for an heir as soon as Bertie and I can manage one. Bertie is his only child, and the last of the Lansborough line at the moment. On our wedding day, he kissed my forehead and asked only that I present him with a grandson before he dies. I am certainly trying my best, but I would still like to walk out from time to time, even if the weather is not as fine as in Kent.
September 1819
A wretched day. Bertie and I argued. I wished to walk into town today, as much for the exercise and fresh air as to explore Keswick. Bertie refused to accompany me, as he had already made plans to fish with Mr. Cane. Lord L. encouraged him to walk with me, as it is quite a long way and Lord L. was afraid I might become lost or not be up to the walk. He is still very solicitous of my health, but Kenlington is too dull for words. No one comes to call, and there are few assemblies. Even a country dance would lift my spirits.
But Bertie would not accompany me. He said it would be rude to tell Mr. Cane he could not fish after all. Perhaps I ought to have been more considerate when he had already made an engagement, but I have no friends in the country to call on, and Bertie is perfectly aware that I spend most of my days at home. It did not seem such a terrible thing to ask of him. I am certain Marcus does not neglect Hannah so, nor David, Vivian.
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 4
