A Rake’s Guide to Seduction

by Caroline Linden

  Celia mustered a smile. “And I long to meet them. Mama has written quite a lot about them.”

  Hannah cast her eyes upward and laughed ruefully. “There is quite a lot to tell! You never saw two such scamps.”

  “I can hardly wait,” said Celia softly.

  “But first you must settle in after your journey.” Hannah turned, beckoning the butler forward. “Harper, arrange for tea in an hour, please.” He bowed and hurried off. “I’ve had your rooms prepared. No doubt you’re tired and would like to rest.”

  Celia nodded, not so much because she was truly tired but because she found she needed a bit of time alone. The irony was sharp; how desperately had she longed for friends and family all those months at Kenlington, and now she felt a desire just as desperate to get away from them the moment she arrived in London. She needed some time to readjust to this house, to London, like a sailor back on land after months at sea. She followed Hannah and her mother up the stairs in silence, not knowing anyone or anything they were talking about.

  Down the hallway they walked to the room that had been Celia’s since she was a child. Hannah stopped at the door. “I shan’t intrude on you right now. The children will be wild to know you’ve arrived, and I did promise to tell Molly the instant you were here. Oh, Celia, I’m so happy to see you again.” And Hannah hugged her again.

  Celia found a small smile on her face at the mention of Molly. “And I cannot wait to see Molly again. Shall she join us for tea?”

  “I will invite her now,” said Hannah with a laugh.

  “Do you need anything, my dear?” asked her mother fondly. Celia shook her head.

  “No, Mama. A little rest will do.”

  Rosalind squeezed her hand. “Then we shall leave you to it.”

  They went off down the hall together. Celia watched them a moment, then let herself into her room.

  It was like stepping back in time. Everything was just as she remembered it. Hannah must have closed the room and never opened it. Celia walked into the center of the room, looking around in mild astonishment. The last time she had been in this room, she had been a new bride. Memories stirred at the edges of her mind. Her wedding dress had been hung there on a dressmaker’s form so it would not wrinkle. For some reason Celia remembered her maid saying it had taken three hours to press it, and they didn’t dare lay it flat even for a night. That had been the evening before her wedding. She hadn’t gone to sleep until very late, so excited she could hardly stay in bed.

  She walked over to the window and looked out. The gardens lay below, lush and colorful. Far more colorful than the Kenlington gardens; practicality had reigned there, for many plants couldn’t survive the harsher northern winter.

  Celia turned away from the window and sat at her dressing table. The plants weren’t the only thing that had not survived well in Cumberland. Her reflection caught her eye. She leaned closer and studied herself.

  She looked older, for certain. She had seen herself many times in this mirror, and for an instant, she almost expected to see the same pink-cheeked, smiling girl of old. Instead she saw a pale, thin face, blond hair scraped back into a subdued knot. Her blue eyes were somber, and there was no pink in her cheeks. The black of her mourning gown only made her look paler, more devoid of color. Her eyelids fluttered closed and for a moment memory intruded again; Bertie’s handsome face smiling over her shoulder into this very mirror. His arms around her. His breath on her neck as he whispered words of love. Those words seem to echo mockingly inside the hollowness within her. She opened her eyes.

  Bertie was not there behind her in the mirror. The charming boy she had married was gone, every bit as dead as the indifferent, distant husband he had become. Only she was left, and she wondered just how much of her he had taken to the grave with him.

  Sluggishly she got to her feet. She supposed she was tired, and hungry, and all those things one ought to be after a long journey. But lying down held no appeal, and being alone had not brought her any peace, not even in the room that had once been her haven. She opened the door and left.

  In the corridor she met Hannah again. “Oh,” said her sister-in-law in surprise. “You’re not tired?”

  Celia gave a wan smile. “Not much. I’ve been away too long to want to sleep the day away.”

  “Of course.” Hannah smiled, not asking anything further. Celia wondered what her mother had told Hannah. “I was just going up to see the children. Would you like to come with me?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She had never seen Hannah and Marcus’s two young sons. “I hear the boys are quite a handful.”

  Hannah sighed and shook her head. “That they are. The baby of course is just a baby, but Thomas…oh my, Thomas. He keeps us all running from morning ’til night.” She led the way upstairs to the nursery, which was now open and bright.

  A little boy with wavy dark hair sat at a small table, arranging tin soldiers. At their entrance, he looked up, blue eyes brightening. “Mama!” he cried, leaping from his chair and running into Hannah’s arms.

  “Thomas,” she cried back, scooping him up. “I have brought someone to meet you.” She turned toward Celia. “Your aunt, Lady Bertram, has arrived.”

  The little boy pressed his cheek to Hannah’s shoulder, studying Celia from the shelter of his mother’s arms. He was sturdy and round, with bright, curious eyes. Celia stepped forward and made a slight curtsy. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,” she said to him. “But you must call me Aunt Celia, instead of Lady Bertram.”

  “Ceelee,” he whispered, then hid his face in Hannah’s arm. Hannah laughed, and Celia smiled. She supposed she properly ought to call him Tavistock, as Marcus’s heir, but it seemed absurd to call a three-year-old child by his courtesy title.

  “Might I meet your brother?” she asked him. Without looking up, Thomas nodded, and Hannah led her into the next room. In a cradle near the window, a baby with a round face and wispy curls slept, his tiny fingers wrapped around a wooden duck.

  “He adores the duck,” whispered Hannah, juggling her older son into a different position. “He cannot go to sleep without it.”

  Celia’s mouth curved; she remembered choosing that duck for her new nephew before he was even born, from a man who lived in Keswick and carved startlingly realistic animals. That had been a week before Bertie took ill. Her smile faded, and she sighed silently. “He’s a handsome child,” she said in a low voice. A handsome child like she had never had.

  “Thank you,” Hannah replied, her voice filled with affectionate pride. “But we should go see Molly.” She returned Thomas to his table, soothed his protests at being left behind, and they left him with his nursemaid, who had been waiting quietly in the corner.

  Molly was in the schoolroom, where Celia vaguely recalled learning her own sums and letters. Celia remembered Molly very well, a darling child who loved to dig in the dirt and catch bugs and fish. She was brought up short by the girl who looked up when they entered the schoolroom.

  “Aunt Celia!” The girl got to her feet and bobbed a brief curtsy. “How lovely to see you again!”

  “And you, Molly,” said Celia warmly. “Although I can scarce recognize you. You’ve grown so tall.”

  Molly grinned. She was tall, or seemed so to Celia, and her hair was no longer a tangle of long blond curls but a darker honey color, and neatly combed. Her face had lengthened and taken on sharper contours, making her look more like her mother. Her hands were just as dirty as Celia remembered, though.

  Molly must have realized it as well, for she blushed and put them behind her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was working on my drawing.”

  “May I see?”

  Molly nodded, and Celia moved forward to look. A tulip, sliced neatly in half, lay on the table. A half-finished drawing of the plant was next to it; Molly had carefully sketched the insides of the plant and labeled them. “It’s quite good,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Molly crossed the room and brought back a portfol
io. “Here are the rest of them. Mr. Griggs has undertaken to teach me about all the plants in the gardens.”

  Celia’s eyebrows went up as she turned page after page of drawings. “They’re lovely,” she said, amazed more at the dedication and effort than at the technical skill. She would not have had such patience, or interest, when she was only nine years old.

  The girl beamed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Celia put down the book. “Please call me Aunt Celia, like you used to do.”

  Molly’s face grew even brighter. “Gladly, Aunt Celia.”

  “It’s time for Miss Preston’s riding lesson, Your Grace,” said a young woman then, who must have been the governess.

  Hannah looked at Molly. “You may join us for tea after your lesson, if you wish.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Molly grinned once more at Celia. “I shall see you then.”

  “Yes.” Celia smiled and followed Hannah from the room as Molly went to change into her riding clothes. “She’s grown so tall,” she said again.

  Hannah looked amused. “Hasn’t she? She has also become an expert on everything. No question arises but that Molly has the answer—and she is quick to tell us so. Your mother says she has picked up a great deal of Marcus’s manner, which I doubt is a good thing in a girl of her age.”

  “Where is Marcus? Will he be here?” For some reason Celia was hesitant to see her brother; she had a vague sense of foreboding. Marcus, after all, had been persuaded against his better judgment to give Bertie permission to marry her. She knew he wouldn’t speak of it, but she knew he would remember.

  “He should return soon. I’ve sent around to Vivian, inviting her and David to dine here this evening, if that won’t be too tiring for you.”

  “No,” Celia assured her. Perhaps being surrounded by her family again would revive her spirits and make her feel at ease again.

  It did not.

  David greeted her with a hug that pulled her off her feet. Vivian, whom Celia remembered as wary and reserved, had clearly fit into the family more, although she was still formal with Rosalind. Waists had dropped, and Vivian’s gown displayed her rounding belly, proof that she would have a child in a few months. Marcus returned and greeted her almost as warmly as David had, but Celia feared his sharper eyes saw what David overlooked. As expected, though, he said nothing of it.

  “To Celia,” proclaimed David at dinner, raising his wine glass. “It’s dashed good to have you in London again.” Everyone raised their glasses and echoed his toast. Celia smiled uncomfortably.

  “It is good to see you all again as well.”

  As if sensing she didn’t wish to talk much, Hannah turned the conversation to other topics. Celia was free to sit and listen in peace as they discussed people and events she knew little about. She felt their eyes on her at various times, but as she had nothing to add, she ignored it. At long last, though, something did occur to her.

  “David, is your friend Mr. Percy in town this Season?”

  “Percy? He’s about, I expect.”

  “He married my friend Jane Melvill,” said Celia. “I should like to see her again.”

  “Oh. Er—right.” David cleared his throat. “Yes, I expect you’ll see them.”

  Celia smiled and nodded but had nothing else to say. After a moment’s pause, David brought up a new topic of conversation. Celia kept her eyes on her plate for the rest of dinner, feeling more and more lost.

  If she had felt quiet and ignorant at dinner, though, Celia felt even worse in the drawing room. David sat next to his wife on the small sofa and openly put his arm around her. The children were allowed to come in to say good night, and then Marcus and Hannah walked them back upstairs, baby Edward waving happily from his mother’s arms as Thomas bounced atop his father’s shoulders. Molly trailed after them, and Celia saw her return the little wooden duck to Edward’s grasp as they left the room.

  She alone had chosen badly. Both her brothers, whatever scandal and gossip had attended their marriages initially, were happy. Only she, who had had the wedding of the Season to a very eligible, respectable gentleman, was not. For a moment Celia wondered how she had done so poorly; if she had run away with an actor, or eloped to Scotland, or done anything else out of the ordinary, would things have turned out differently? Better?

  “So.” Her smiling mother settled into the seat next to hers, shaking Celia out of her thoughts. “I’ve given some thought to your wardrobe, and Madame Lescaut will be here tomorrow.”

  Celia stared at her in alarm. “Mama, I—I don’t feel much like going out yet.”

  “Of course,” her mother said at once. “But, dearest, it is surely time to leave off the blacks. And fashions have changed a great deal since you left London.”

  Celia sighed. Perhaps it was. Perhaps if she dressed less like a widow, she would feel less dead. “I suppose they have.”

  Rosalind beamed at her. “How I’ve missed you, Celia! A mother needs her daughter about.”

  Celia didn’t know what to say. Did a daughter need her mother about? For some reason, she had felt nothing but dismay so far with her family. Instead of feeling like she had come home, Celia had the awful sense that she had no home anymore, no place where she would feel at ease. Exeter House was Marcus and Hannah’s home, not hers. David and Vivian were happy without her, too. And Rosalind seemed determined to make Celia happy again just so they could shop and talk and carry on as they had before.

  Celia looked around the large, bright room. I don’t belong here, she thought.

  Her mother would have talked more, but Celia couldn’t bear it. She pleaded exhaustion and excused herself.

  Chapter Five

  After such an early evening, and since she was still accustomed to keeping country hours, Celia was awake early. When her maid came, she told Agnes she would eat downstairs. Partly she was determined to join her family, hoping to feel more at home again. Partly she wanted to get away from her room with its memories. She dressed and went down the stairs.

  The breakfast room door was open. She heard her mother’s voice, and Celia summoned a smile. She would be more pleasant this morning, she promised herself.

  Then a snippet of the conversation in the breakfast room caught her attention, and she paused just outside the door.

  “But is Celia happy?” Hannah was asking gently.

  There was a pause. Celia remained silent and still, waiting for her mother’s answer, as much to learn for herself as to know her mother’s opinion. Was she happy? She didn’t know. It had been so long since she felt anything. She didn’t feel truly unhappy, but surely that was not the same thing as being happy.

  “I am afraid for her,” came Rosalind’s reply at last. It was so soft Celia had to lean closer to the door to hear. “She is so quiet.”

  “She has lost her husband,” said Hannah. “It takes time for the grief—”

  “No,” interrupted Rosalind. “I don’t think that is the trouble.”

  “Then what?”

  “I fear…” Her mother’s voice dropped even more. “I fear she has not been happy for some time.”

  “But her letters,” Hannah protested after a moment. “She never said a word.”

  “No.” Rosalind sighed. “I was a fool not to have noticed sooner. She never said anything bad—not about the miserable Cumberland weather, not about Kenlington Abbey, a drafty old place that’s not been improved since Queen Elizabeth’s day, not about waiting on persnickety old Lansborough. I loved my husband, Hannah, but he vexed me from time to time. I ought to have noticed that Bertram never seemed to vex Celia.”

  “It could have meant they were so well-matched.” But there was doubt in Hannah’s voice. Celia closed her eyes; she had lied to her family. She had written happy letters to make them think she was happy, and to hide how disastrous her marriage was.

  “Not in this instance.” Her mother’s voice rose. “I should have known. I am her mother! Even if she could not bring herself to tell me, I should have
sensed things were not as they should be.”

  “You are too harsh on yourself, Rosalind. We all ought to have made a greater effort to bring her back to London; surely Lansborough wouldn’t have refused if Marcus had insisted. We ought to have visited. We are all to blame.”

  Celia clasped her hands together to stop their shaking. Who was to blame, she wondered wildly. Bertie? She herself? Lord Lansborough, for keeping them in Cumberland when it was clear Bertie would never be happy there? Not her family. She had discouraged them from coming to visit and had done everything she could to make them think all was well. For that, she alone was to blame.

  Her appetite gone, she backed away from the breakfast room door. She slipped out of the house, into the garden. Perhaps she ought to go back to Cumberland, she thought glumly as she walked amid the roses, just blooming. All she seemed to be doing in London was avoiding her family. She didn’t see any way they could help her. Even sadder, she didn’t know how she could help herself. She sank down on a bench.

  In the long months since Bertie’s death, Celia had tried to evaluate her life. She was only two-and-twenty; she couldn’t spend the rest of her life in black and alone. What was she to do now? When her mother had arrived and announced she was taking Celia back to town, Lord Lansborough had protested. He was an old man, and if she left he would be utterly alone. Celia had felt sorry for him, and part of her had clung to the familiarity of Kenlington Abbey. She had lived there for four years, after all, and had grown accustomed to its quiet.

  London had lost its appeal. She feared her memories of town would be dominated by her first and only Season, when Bertie had swept into her life with daily bouquets of flowers and sonnets to her eyes. He had courted her so ardently, so devotedly, so romantically. Almost before she knew it, he had been going down on his knee and begging her to marry him.