Chapter Twelve
Rosalind had worried for a while that the house party had been a bad idea and had pushed Celia even further into her gloom. For the first week Celia had been quiet and withdrawn, when she hadn’t just gone missing entirely from the party. It had given Rosalind several sleepless nights, fearing that she had done exactly the wrong thing by inviting everyone to Ainsley Park. Perhaps she had misjudged the composition of the guest list. Perhaps she had invited too many people. Perhaps she ought to have waited a year and allowed Celia to rusticate in peace.
So she was overjoyed when she noticed signs of Celia’s melancholy lifting. At first the signs were slight. Instead of retiring early or slipping away from the party, Celia would stay. Then Rosalind realized her daughter was smiling more often and even laughing from time to time. She joined in the parlor games, and bowled and walked out with the others. She was still far more quiet and reserved than she had once been, but it was a vast improvement from the somber, silent young woman who had returned from Cumberland. That Celia had terrified Rosalind, and her disappearance was cause for great joy to a worried mother.
The one dark spot on Rosalind’s happiness was Anthony Hamilton. The man was an unrepentant rake. Rosalind was quite sure he was carrying on with Lady Hillenby, right under Lord Hillenby’s nose; Lady Hillenby was a bold thing, for all that Celia called her a friend, and Rosalind was sorry to have invited the Hillenbys at all. And that would be bad enough of Mr. Hamilton, but she now suspected he was setting his sights on her own daughter. Twice she had caught him watching Celia across the dining table, and more than once she suspected the man had lain in wait for Celia somewhere, so he could escort her back to the other guests. An affair with Lady Hillenby was one thing; Rosalind expected little better of him, after all. But this was utterly intolerable.
One couldn’t baldly warn him off, of course. Rosalind didn’t know what designs he harbored on her daughter, but she was determined to prevent them all. With some subtle manipulation, she contrived to keep him away from Celia. She moved Mr. Hamilton to the other end of the table and sat Celia next to a different gentleman every night. She was never more thankful that she had invited the very well-liked Mr. Childress, who was surely capable of charming any woman alive and who could always be counted on to act as Celia’s escort. She was more vigilant during the evenings, and devised entertainments that didn’t permit quiet moments apart. She even took to playing at bowls with the guests during the day. At first she had stayed back and out of the way, until discovering that David’s rapscallion friend Edward Percy had enticed all the gentlemen into wagering on the game. It was best that she keep a closer eye on things for many reasons.
And it worked. She still caught Mr. Hamilton watching Celia, but as Celia’s spirits improved, so did her circle. And since she no longer withdrew from the party, there was no chance for Mr. Hamilton to catch her alone. All in all, Rosalind felt things were going fairly well now.
She was sitting at the writing desk in the morning room, writing out the menu for the next day and contemplating the success of her endeavors, when the door swung open behind her, then closed with a bang. “Madame, you are making a mistake!” said an angry voice.
Rosalind whirled around, her mouth dropping open. The earl of Warfield stood in front of her, his hands in fists at his sides, his face dark as a thundercloud. Tall and red-haired, the Scottish earl had not been on her guest list originally. Marcus had added him at the last moment because they were contemplating a canal project together, and so far the earl had been closeted with Marcus much of the time. This was fine with Rosalind. Lord Warfield was a good-natured sort, she supposed, but he was, to put it politely, rough around the edges. He had a booming laugh that rang out far too often. He had little delicacy in his address; Rosalind had distinctly overheard him refer to her as “a fetching lass.” As if one called any dowager duchess, a woman with a grown daughter, a lass. And worst of all, Lord Warfield was Mr. Hamilton’s uncle. Somehow that seemed an odd connection, the bluff, hearty earl and the cold-hearted rake, but Rosalind wasn’t fond of either of them.
She recovered her voice. “How dare you!”
“How dare I?” He advanced on her. Rosalind rose, drawing herself up to her full height and assuming her frostiest expression. How dare this man, this uncouth Scot, scold her as if she were a child? “How dare you! You are humiliating a decent man!”
She gasped. “What? Sir, you overstep your bounds!”
Warfield slashed one hand through the air. “Someone must, if you will persist in marking Hamilton as an outcast.”
Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Heavens. I never knew I had such power. Pray, how have I marked him—or any of my guests—as an outcast?”
“You know what I mean,” he growled. “You have deliberately seated every unmarried gentleman next to your daughter at dinner—except Hamilton. You have asked every unmarried gentleman to read aloud at nights—except Hamilton. You have tried your best to get every unmarried gentleman to sing with Lady Bertram—except Hamilton. For God’s sake, woman, do you think people are blind?”
“My daughter,” said Rosalind with cool, composed fury, “is in a delicate state. I prefer to spare her any discomfort. She is recently out of mourning for her husband, and—”
“You’ve an odd way of showing such compassion,” he interrupted. “Anyone with eyes can see the lass is quiet and withdrawn, but the one person—sometimes the only person—she speaks to is young Hamilton. I think you know it, you don’t like it, and you’re doing your damnedest to separate them. Why?”
Rosalind simply stared him down for a moment. Of course he was right; every word was true. But it was not his concern. “If I have been ungracious as a hostess, I apologize,” she finally said in a glacial tone. “Please convey my regrets to Mr. Hamilton, since you appear to be his representative in these matters.”
“Bollocks,” said the man rudely. Rosalind gasped in shock. “That’s not what I want you to do, even were it a true apology. I want to know why. If you intend to shun the man, why even invite him?”
“I did not invite him,” she snapped. “David did. There. Are you satisfied now?”
Some of the anger drained from his face. A slight frown took its place, more bemused than anything else. “What have you got against him?”
She pressed her lips together. “Nothing more than any mother in England would have against a rake who likely sees my poor bereaved daughter as nothing more than a wealthy widow, ripe for sport.”
“He’s not nearly as bad as the gossips say,” said Warfield, sounding more and more puzzled. “I thought you had more discernment than that. Has he ever done the slightest thing against Lady Bertram?”
“No,” Rosalind was forced to admit.
“Has she said she wishes him to keep a distance?”
Rosalind lifted her chin. The answer to that question was the same as the previous answer, but she was not about to tell him. “I keep my daughter’s confidence, sir.”
“All right.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned closer, his sharp green eyes searching her face. “Then why don’t you like him?”
“I hardly have to explain myself to you.”
“Why not?” he asked, his voice growing softer. “If you’ve an honest opinion, there’s no reason not to say it.”
Rosalind met his gaze straight on. “His reputation is unpardonable. His mere presence casts a whiff of scandal, if not brimstone. I wonder why I bear the weight of your scorn when he clearly does not. Perhaps if you counseled him to mend his ways, women such as I would not recoil at the sight of him. You think I am a hypocrite and a scandalmonger, but you’re wrong: I am a mother. I will do anything to protect my daughter from further misery, and if that includes offending the greatest rogue in Christendom by not asking him to read poetry aloud after dinner, I will do it without hesitation or regret. Have I finally explained myself clearly enough to you?”
Warfield’s face sank into weary lines. “Ye
s,” he said quietly. “You have explained yourself perfectly.” Rosalind inclined her head in acknowledgment. “You’re wrong about him, though.”
“Perhaps.” The word was dry with doubt.
He shook his head. “One day you’ll see it. I hope I am around on that day.” Warfield turned to go but paused at the door. “I’ll be ready to accept your apology then.”
“Good day, Lord Warfield,” said Rosalind coldly, infuriated by the way the corner of his mouth turned up as he let himself out. If anyone were wrong about Mr. Hamilton, it was surely his too-forgiving uncle.
Besides, she knew her daughter far better than Lord Warfield did, and she was certain Celia wanted nothing to do with Mr. Hamilton, not really. Mr. Hamilton was the very last sort of person who could make Celia happy. A man like that would crush her daughter’s fragile spirit, seducing her and then leaving her just as he left every other woman, broken and disgraced.
Her anger cooled into determination. Celia’s spirits had improved a great deal. If there were a gentleman at the root of it, she should know. She was Celia’s mother, after all; it was her duty to know these things. If there were a man, she ought to know who he was, to make certain he was acceptable. If there were no man, she should still know, so that she might encourage whatever had revived her daughter from her melancholy.
She located Celia in the garden. Her daughter wore a small smile as she strolled idly along, and Rosalind realized Celia looked truly happy again for the first time since returning from the north. Her maternal heart swelled with delight; she just knew it had been the right decision to bring Celia back from Cumberland. It had been like bringing her back from the grave.
With renewed purpose she headed toward Celia, thankful to have caught her alone. “There you are, dearest,” she called.
Celia looked up at her mother’s voice. “Yes, Mama?” She had hidden in the garden to read the latest note from her secret admirer. She re-read each message several times now.
Her mother took her chin in one hand and inspected her face. “It is so good to see your smile again.” Her voice trembled very slightly.
Celia blushed a little. “It is good to smile again.”
Rosalind smiled, releasing her. “It’s good to be home, is it not?”
“It has been good to be back, but this is no longer my home,” said Celia wryly. As much as she loved Ainsley Park, it really wasn’t home anymore.
“Nonsense,” cried her mother. “Even when you have another home, you shall always be welcome at Ainsley Park.”
“I know,” Celia assured her. “I only meant that it feels like a visit, not as though I am returning to stay.”
“Indeed.” Rosalind linked her arm through Celia’s and they walked on together. “Do you have reason to believe you will be leaving soon?”
Celia ducked her head, pretending to study the roses. Her mother’s question was too careful. “No, Mama. I simply know I shall, some day.”
“Of course, of course,” said her mother quickly. “Naturally a young woman will wish to be mistress of her own home.” Again Celia refused to answer the underlying question, and finally Rosalind continued, “You are much too young to spend your life alone.”
The words of the note on her breakfast tray this morning ran through Celia’s head, and she couldn’t keep a small, pleased smile from her face. She didn’t feel alone anymore. “No, Mama.”
“Are you…” Rosalind paused, watching her closely. “Dearest, has one of the gentlemen…perhaps…touched your heart?” Celia glanced at her guardedly. “I ask only because I am so relieved to see you happy again. Oh, child, I was so worried when I arrived in Cumberland. You were so silent, so sad! However natural it might have been after losing your husband, it broke my heart, Celia. And to see you smile again, to hear you laugh and talk as you used to…” She trailed off, squeezing Celia’s hand in hers. “I promise not to interfere, if it is a gentleman.”
Celia stopped, turning to face her mother. “Please don’t worry about me. I think I am done with being sad and silent. Mama, in Cumberland—”
“You don’t have to tell me, dearest,” Rosalind interrupted. “It is in the past, and I don’t wish to dwell on it.”
She shook her head. “I want to tell you. I—I did not choose well in Bertie. He and I were not nearly as suited as I thought. I never truly knew him before we married, and that is a mistake I shall never make again. Don’t blame yourself,” she said as her mother’s face grew more and more dismayed. “You were everything a loving mother should be; you allowed me my choice. It is not your fault I was wrong.
“And don’t blame Bertie. He thought we would get along. He married me with the right intentions. Lord Lansborough kept us in Cumberland, hoping Bertie would settle into managing the estate and being a husband. No one is to blame, really. We all acted as we thought best.” She paused. “We were all wrong.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” whispered her mother.
Celia bit her lip. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“Oh, my dear child…”
“But I have learned from it. Yes, there is a gentleman who has engaged my interest, but I am determined to be more circumspect this time, and not to rush matters.”
“I understand,” her mother said at once. “I shan’t interfere or press you. It is enough for me to see you happy again.” She squeezed Celia’s hands, giving her a tremulous smile. “I shall leave you in peace,” she promised once more. She leaned in and kissed Celia’s cheek. “I only want you to be happy.”
Celia smiled. “I know, Mama. Thank you.”
Still beaming, her mother left her. Celia turned and resumed her stroll through the garden. For all her mother’s promises and best intentions, Celia knew she would be queried more and more about this mystery gentleman. Her mother’s curiosity was like an unstoppable force; her desire to know was too strong to be denied, especially with regards to Celia. In the years between her father’s death and her own marriage, Celia had been her mother’s constant companion. She had been fortunate to have such a loving and devoted mother, but Celia also knew she had had few, if any, secrets from her mother. With no ill will, her mother had managed to know almost everything about her life.
But now Celia wanted to keep her secrets secret. She didn’t want her mother to know about her mysterious correspondent. If it were just any man, she wouldn’t want her mother to know, simply to prevent any attempts at matchmaking. In this case, though, Celia was certain her mother would cause even more trouble, because she was certain her mother wouldn’t approve of the gentleman—whom Celia was quite sure was Anthony Hamilton.
She had no proof, but the feeling grew stronger with every note. She couldn’t imagine those words coming from any other gentleman at the party. Every conversation they had made her realize she felt more at ease with him than with anyone else. He was the first person she had really told about her marriage—intimate details like the lack of children and her own guilt over that—and never once had she regretted opening her heart to him. And no one had been a better comfort to her when the guests had started to suffocate her, when she had felt so alone and isolated from them. Isolated from them all, except from him, she amended. Never once had she been sorry when he approached her, or wished he would go away and leave her alone. No one else could make her laugh like he did; no one else seemed to be able to read her mood as he did.
The anonymous notes had been something else. They had quickly gone from romantic drivel to heartfelt letters revealing an understanding and sensibility that she had never seen in another man. Only Anthony, she was quite sure, would have written such things to her and taken pains not to reveal himself. And Celia had not pressed the matter, content to enjoy the exchange on its own merits.
Now her mother was alerted, though. Celia foresaw an endless parade of gentlemen seated next to her, introduced to her, matched with her at cards, all while Rosalind watched with the keen eye of a general. Her mother wouldn’t be able to resist. Ce
lia hadn’t enjoyed it thus far, and she didn’t want to endure any more of it. She would have to find out, for absolute certain, who was writing her those notes, and she’d have to do it before her mother found out. Agnes was already sworn to secrecy, but Celia would speak to her again and make clear she wasn’t to tell even the dowager duchess. Celia thought her mother wouldn’t dare to question the guests’ servants, but she should probably discover which of the Exeter servants knew.
Then she would just have to persuade her mystery man to meet her face to face. If she were wrong, and it was not Anthony, she would be in a terrible position. She didn’t want it to be anyone other than Anthony, so her impulse was to tell him to stop…and yet, the notes themselves compelled her not to. Celia tucked that worry into the back of her mind. It would be Anthony. She was sure of it.
She just had to get him to admit it.
Chapter Thirteen
Franklin held out the small folded note as soon as he entered his room to dress for dinner that night. As the frequency of his correspondence with Celia increased, Anthony had instructed Franklin to watch for any messages for him in the kitchen. He still left his messages for Celia on the long trestle table, and hers appeared there for him. Anthony took the note, his mood buoyed as always, and tore it open at once.
The message inside, though, punctured his cheer. He read it twice before believing what it said. If you are truly my friend, meet me tonight, she wrote. After dinner, in the library. I shall wait for you there.
Bloody, bloody hell. Of course he couldn’t go.
Anthony dropped the note on the writing desk and let Franklin help him out of his jacket. All he had to do was write and plead timidity. He was too shy to meet her, he could say, and what could she do then? He stripped off his waistcoat with too much force, and a button flew off and rolled across the floor. He tossed the coat at Franklin and strode to the window, hands on his hips.
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 14
