“After me,” said Kitty through gritted teeth.
“I should like Lord William to propose then, after I’ve had my come-out ball and ordered a new wardrobe. Mama said this party would be a fine introduction to town manners and good society, but she steadfastly refused to order new wardrobes. I think that’s dreadfully unfair, don’t you, Lady Bertram? How can we appear to best advantage in these old gowns?” She waved one hand at her frock.
“There is more to appearing at your best than a new gown.” Good heavens; had she been this silly as a girl? It was a wonder her family had put up with her. Celia finally abandoned subtlety and gave an excuse Kitty and Daphne would understand. “You must excuse me, I must speak to my mother.”
“There you are.” Rosalind beamed at her approach and made room for her on the sofa, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ve not seen you all day.”
Celia tried to appear cheerful. “How are you, Mama?”
Rosalind smiled. “Perfectly well. But how are you, darling? Are you enjoying the gathering?”
Celia looked around the room. Louisa was off flirting with Lord William while her husband dozed by the fireplace. Mary was watching Mr. Hamilton with hungry eyes; Lord Hillenby had already retired for the night, as he had every night after dinner. The Throckmorton girls were glowering at Louisa and whispering fiercely to each other, and their mother had made a table of whist with Lord Snowden, Mr. Picton-Lewis, and Mr. Percy, who appeared ready to play at anything where he might wager a farthing. Mr. Hamilton…he sat serene and solitary, reading a book. He alone among the guests appeared to be content with his lot.
Was this what she had missed, all those years in Cumberland? Whispered discussions of who was having an affair with whom, and how one might go about seducing a different lover? Celia wondered just how much of her own life had gone through the gossip mill. It seemed naive to think she had escaped entirely. Had Jane and Louisa been just as willing to discuss her and her marriage as they were to discuss everyone else’s? She had always thought of them as her friends, but now she wondered if she could truly count anyone as her friend. She wondered if anyone in the world really knew her at all anymore, or if she really knew anyone.
Celia sighed. “Yes, Mama.”
“Is there anything you would like to do tomorrow? Any diversion you would care to see? I considered hiring a troupe of players one night; what do you think?”
Celia closed her eyes as her mother talked, too brightly, of plans for the party. “Yes, Mama.”
“Which part?” Rosalind peered closely at her face. “Celia, you’re so pale. Are you feeling ill?”
Only in spirit. She gave a hopeless smile and shook her head. “Just a little tired.”
Her mother was worried, Celia could see, but Rosalind tried to hide it. “Then go to bed, dear. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
If only that were so. Celia simply nodded, making her way upstairs alone, wishing she had not left Cumberland at all.
Chapter Nine
The next morning Celia decided not even to attempt to fit in. She hadn’t seen Molly since the guests arrived, no doubt because Hannah was keeping her children well away from the guests. Celia suspected Molly was chafing under the confinement as much as she had as a child, when her mother had kept her confined when her brothers had guests. She went directly to the children’s rooms after breakfast.
“Mama, make him stop!” Molly’s cry reached her while she was still in the corridor. Celia quickened her steps as a child’s wailing began, with a patter of running footsteps.
In the schoolroom, chaos seemed to reign. The table was covered with Molly’s drawing materials, but it looked as though a vase of flowers had also been dumped out atop her papers and pens. Water dripped off the edges of the table, making colorful little puddles on the floor, and a number of wilted tulips lay scattered about. Hannah, looking harried, stood in the corner with baby Edward fussing in her arms as Thomas yanked at her skirts and wailed even louder. Molly was on the other side of the table clutching her book of drawings to her chest, her cheeks red.
“Molly, he’s just a child,” said Hannah, handing the baby to the nurse and scooping up Thomas, who flung his arms around her neck and hid his face in her shoulder. “I’m sorry—”
“But he’s spoiled my drawing—again!” Molly looked near tears. “Why must I draw in here? Why can’t I go to the garden?”
“Molly, you know why.” Hannah had to raise her voice over Thomas’s crying. “Please understand.”
“I understand that Thomas causes trouble and I always have to be understanding!” Two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “It isn’t fair!”
“No,” her mother agreed with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Molly, but while the guests are here, you can’t run wild about the grounds as usual.”
Molly pressed her lips together, her face growing redder. Celia stepped into the breach. “I was about to go walking. I came to see if Molly might be excused from her lessons to walk with me this morning.”
Desperate hope leaped into the girl’s face, and she turned anxiously to her mother. “Of course she may,” said Hannah, giving Celia a grateful look. “Put away your things, Molly, and fetch your bonnet.” Molly whirled and ran from the room almost before her mother finished speaking. Celia came into the room, surveying the mess. “She feels so constrained,” Hannah explained quietly. “Usually she is allowed the run of the estate, but I don’t want her to interfere with our guests.”
Celia smiled. “I remember that feeling well. With two older brothers, I spent many a day restricted to the nursery while they carried on something my mother didn’t want me to see.”
Hannah smiled again. Thomas had stopped crying and was now just snuggling in her arms. She put him down, then knelt before him. “Master Thomas,” she said firmly, “you are not to touch your sister’s belongings.”
His lower lip came out. “But Mama, Molly likes pretty flowers! I brought her more!”
“Yes, but then you spilled them on her work.” Hannah put her hands on his little shoulders. “She is very upset. It was rude of you to pester her while she worked, even if you meant well.”
“Molly sad?”
“Yes.” Now the little boy looked a little sad himself. “If you don’t learn to respect her, she won’t want you about. You like doing things with Molly, don’t you?” After a moment, he nodded. “Then you must apologize.”
Molly came back into the room, and Thomas looked at her with round, sad eyes. “I ’pologize, Molly.”
Her expression softened a little. “Thank you, Thomas.” Celia saw Hannah’s shoulders sag slightly with a breath of relief. “I’m ready, Aunt Celia,” Molly added eaglerly.
“We’re off, then.”
Molly fairly skipped along beside her as they walked down the stairs and out of the house. “Thank you for inviting me, Aunt Celia. I was almost wild to get out of the house!”
She smiled. “I could see that.”
“Thomas won’t leave me alone.” She huffed. “Mama says he’ll play with Edward once Edward grows bigger, and want nothing to do with me, but that seems an awfully long time away.”
“At least they are younger,” Celia told her. “My older brothers not only wanted little to do with me, they were allowed to do all sorts of things I wasn’t. You at least will be ahead of them. I hear you are already a splendid rider.”
Molly’s face lit up. “It is all thanks to Mr. Beecham. Oh, I am so glad he came into Kent with us this time, for now I shall still have my lessons with him. He’s the most marvelous teacher, Aunt Celia. I expect there’s nothing he can’t get a horse to do.” She glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “May we stop by the stables on our walk? I should like to show you my pony.”
“Of course.” They turned down the path that wound past the stables. Celia remembered that Molly would wander off as a smaller child and was often to be found in the stables petting the cats or watching the horses being groomed. Now she led Celia to a
stall where a gray and white dappled pony munched on hay.
“Her name is Lucinda.” Molly gazed at the pony with pride. “I would ride her all the time if Mama permitted it.” The pony swung her head around at Molly’s voice and trotted over, pushing her nose into Molly’s hand.
“She’s a beautiful pony.”
“Yes.” Molly cooed and murmured to Lucinda, “Mr. Beecham says she’s the finest pony he’s ever seen.” She looked over her shoulder. “There he is. I do wish I could have a lesson today….”
Mr. Beecham, Vivian’s younger brother, was a lean whipcord of a man. Celia knew he was about her own age. She had never really gotten to know him, since Vivian had married David only a few months before she herself got married and left for Cumberland, but she remembered Simon Beecham as a thin, quiet fellow with wary eyes. Now he appeared much more at ease as he brushed out the coat of a tall chestnut mare, whistling softly.
“What a beautiful horse,” said Molly, walking up to him. The horse turned its head to look at her but otherwise didn’t move.
“Aye,” Simon said. He glanced at Celia and nodded. “Good day, Lady Bertram.”
“Good day, Mr. Beecham.”
“Is this one of Uncle Reece’s horses?” Molly tilted her head back to study the animal with confident expertise.
“No, curious miss, this is Mr. Hamilton’s horse. The finest horse your uncle ever bred, and before you ask, no, you may not feed her an apple. You’ll not be undoing my hard work by spoiling her now.” He flicked his sandy brown hair out of his eyes and winked at Molly. “If you stand there much longer, I’ll set you to work combing out the tail.”
Celia looked at the horse with renewed interest. Mr. Hamilton’s. A mare. Bertie had never ridden any but the most spirited stallions, even when he could barely control them. Bertie had liked the danger of it. Mr. Hamilton obviously valued something else, for his horse seemed the most well-trained creature Celia had ever seen. Even with Molly flitting back and forth around her, the horse didn’t stir.
After a while Molly tore herself away from the stables and they continued their walk. They took a very long walk, down all the wooded trails Celia had explored as a child and that Molly now haunted, and by the end of it Celia was fully informed on Molly’s life, all the joys and tribulations a nine-year-old girl had. It brought a smile to her face, remembering her own self at that age, and all the things she had rebelled against and longed for and delighted in. In some ways she wasn’t so different now—but in others she was completely changed.
As they reached the terrace, the butler came out. “A letter for you, my lady.” He held out the letter on his tray. Celia took it, her raised spirits promptly dropping again as she read the direction. It was from her father-in-law, Lord Lansborough.
She looked at her companion. “Thank you for a lovely walk, Molly.”
The girl beamed. “Thank you, Aunt Celia. I feel much better now.”
Celia clasped her hand. “I’m so glad. Go tell your governess you’ve returned.” Molly bobbed in reply and hurried off into the house.
Her smile fading, Celia took her letter into a quiet corner of the garden, around the eastern corner of the house. There was a secluded arbor there, a peaceful little spot one might hide away in. For a while she simply sat and held the letter. She had a feeling she would need to hide for a while after reading it.
Lord Lansborough had written to her nearly every week since she left Cumberland, and she had come to view his missives with dread. She had developed a great deal of affection for the old man during her marriage, but Bertie’s death decimated him. Never exactly a jolly fellow, he had become tragically sad since his son’s death, and he wrote of little but how much he mourned Bertie, how much he missed her, how something had reminded him of Bertie, how quiet Kenlington was now. He was old and lonely and had no one else. She didn’t want to read his letter but couldn’t do that to him. How could she abandon him now as well? With a sigh, she broke the seal and opened the letter.
Anthony was having a devil of a time concentrating on his work.
He had retreated to the library once it was clear the rest of the party would be outside for the day. He imagined this would leave everyone satisfied, and mostly it had. No one else seemed to miss him and Anthony was perfectly content.
It was peaceful and quiet in the library; the room was at the back of the house and had obviously been improved in recent years, featuring tall French windows that afforded a sweeping view of the garden and lawns. It reminded him of his own bright, airy library in his house, and he had taken a table in a particularly sunny corner. He got on well enough for a while, working steadily through the letters from his solicitors, inquiries from inventors seeking investors, and so on, until a flash of blue caught his eye.
Through the window he could see a corner of the garden. The main party was out on the lawn playing at croquet or some other game, but Celia wasn’t. If he moved his head just a little, he could see her, quietly sitting on a stone bench tucked under an arbor. He tried to ignore her, out there all alone in the midst of a party in her honor. Anthony leaned his head back, and saw the gentle curve of her cheek, the wisps of golden hair trailing from her bonnet. For a long moment he contemplated the slope of her shoulder and imagined running his finger down it until she arched her neck and let him press his lips…
He turned his head away. Leave the lady in peace, he told himself, forcibly concentrating on his letter. When it was done, he replaced the pen and sealed the letter, then again, from the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of her. She hadn’t moved.
Anthony realized he was drumming his fingers on the table, and folded his hands. He was not going to intrude on her. He ought to leave her alone. He had work to do, after all. Her shoulders rose and fell on a sigh, and he jerked his eyes away again. Since when had he done as he ought? With a sigh, he pushed back from the table, collected his papers and put them away, then strolled out into the garden.
She looked up at his approach, not quite hiding the bleakness in her eyes. “Good day, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Good day, Lady Bertram.” He paused, taken aback by that look. “It is very fine out.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you have discovered the quietest corner in the gardens.”
“Have I?” She sighed, folding the letter she had been reading. “I suppose so.”
He hesitated a moment, then sat on the other end of the bench. For a moment both were silent, Celia with her head bent in somber contemplation of the letter in her hands, and Anthony in covert observation of her.
“It is from Lord Lansborough,” she said. “My father-in-law. He is lonely, now I am gone from Kenlington.”
“I am sure you were a great comfort to him,” Anthony murmured.
“He is devastated by Bertie’s death,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Bertie was his only son. Lord Lansborough did so long for an heir, and I feel—I fear I disappointed him.”
Anthony shifted on the bench. “Unless I have been seriously misinformed, creating an heir takes two people.”
“But I am the only one left,” she whispered.
“Does he reproach you?” Anthony asked after a pause, making an effort to keep his voice even. How dare old Lansborough heap guilt on her head, especially when there was nothing that could be done about it now?
She heaved a quiet sigh. “No. But perhaps—if I had been more—” She broke off and looked away, blinking rapidly against the dazzling sunlight.
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “And perhaps not. Not all things are meant to be, no matter how strongly one desires them.”
She slanted him a curious look. “And is it so easy to put off the longing?”
A question he knew too well how to answer. “No, it’s not,” he said gently. “But—sometimes—it does help, knowing that it was unattainable from the beginning.”
She frowned a little. “I don’t see how that could be so.”
“Well.” He cleared his th
roat. “If you long for something impossible, it takes the sting out of failure. Too often, regrets spring from the things one could have done but didn’t, and the chance that those actions might have led to success. It is the weight of personal fault that causes the pain, the feeling that but for being remiss in some way, you might have achieved your goal. If there is absolutely nothing else one could have done…it was simply not meant to be.” He lifted one hand. “Have I managed to be sensible in any way?”
Celia sighed, but her expression had eased. “Yes. You always do. So what do you suggest?”
He tilted back his head to study the arbor above them. “When you want something, do everything in your power to achieve it. Leave no room for regret. And if you still fail in your objective, console yourself that it must surely not be your own fault, and you shall find a better opportunity.”
“And when it is too late for that?”
For a moment he was silent. “Then one should go fishing,” he said at last.
Her eyes widened, then she burst out laughing. She stopped at once, looking around with an almost alarmed expression. “What good will fishing do?”
“Perhaps not much,” he conceded with a rueful grin, “but it’s more enjoyable than contemplating your woes.”
Anthony could see she wanted to laugh again. She was biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself, but her mouth still curved. He felt ridiculously pleased with himself for getting her to laugh.
But after a moment the glow faded from her face, and she looked out across the garden to the other guests playing Pall Mall on the lawn. The occasional laugh or shout of triumph was barely audible from this distance.
“My mother thinks I am moping,” she said suddenly. “She thinks I am still brokenhearted over Bertie and that it’s time for me to leave off mourning him and re-enter society. All these entertainments and outings are meant to raise my spirits and take my mind off my grief.”
“And are they succeeding?” he dared to ask after a moment.
Celia shook her head. “She’s completely wrong. That’s not the problem, and I don’t think this house party is the solution.” She heaved a sigh. “There may be no happy answer for me. I feel as though everything I believed in was wrong. I married not for advantage or wealth or connection, but for love—and I made a terrible choice. I always thought to marry for love meant one would be happy forever. It’s such a lovely story, that a girl will meet a gentleman, they’ll fall madly in love with each other, and live the rest of their days devoted to each other. But it doesn’t always happen that way, does it?”
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 11
