The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton

by Miranda Neville

  She seated herself beside him on a patch of grass, hugging her knees. A tilt of her head gave him a view of her wide, smiling mouth. She’d learned a lot about kissing in the past day. He looked forward to giving her another lesson. Not the best way to relax his body perhaps, but it would certainly divert his mind. The significance of animal husbandry receded by the second.

  “Would you kiss me good morning?” he asked.

  Her lips compressed to an O. The glimpse of hot pink within sent a message to his southern regions that was the opposite of relaxing. But he was confident of his power of self-control. Had she not survived the previous night with her virginity intact?

  “I thought I already did,” she said, low and soft like a stroke of velvet.

  “A mere peck. I want another. This time make it last.”

  He loved the way she rose to the challenge. Shifting to kneel between his legs she surveyed him gravely, cocking her head to one side. She trailed her fingers down his forehead, then just the forefinger along the length of his nose. He raised his own hand to join hers and felt the slight bump in the bridge. He had an aquiline nose. How odd that he had no more notion of what he looked like than a blind man did. He didn’t know if he was handsome, though from Celia’s description and her expression now she didn’t find him repulsive. Glowing gray eyes followed her hand’s examination of his face with absolute concentration: the ridges of his cheekbones; the brackets on either side of his own smiling mouth; a fingertip tracing the length of his lips, one after another, making them glow. His breathing accelerated.

  Palms cupped his lower face, massaging his jaw.

  “Bristly,” she murmured.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I like it. It makes you seem . . . wicked.”

  And though that was exactly what he feared he was, he reveled in it. What man wouldn’t wish to seem wicked when being kissed by a pretty girl? Who, incidentally, hadn’t yet done the deed.

  “Kiss me,” he growled and her pupils expanded, darkening her eyes. Her mouth swooped in, then stopped. Pulled back.

  “Make me,” she whispered.

  He placed his right hand at the angle of her neck and shoulder, extending his thumb to caress the bump of her collarbone. Her skin was warm and smooth and slightly moist in the humid air. She edged a little closer on her knees and one part of his brain noted the blanket skirt came untucked during the maneuver. His hand descended, pushing down her chemise. He stopped when he reached the shallow mound of her breast, firm beneath his palm, and applied a gentle squeeze. Her breath quickened.

  “Do you like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like me to continue?” Even as he framed the question his left hand gave the same treatment to the breast’s twin.

  Her eyelids dropped and her only response was an “aah” he took for assent. His hand stilled. “You know what to do.”

  She did and it was wonderful, the best kiss yet. It started soft, a sweet friendly skirmish of lips nibbling at his, then proceeded to full engagement. As their mouths and tongues clashed, Celia’s arms went round him and she pressed her breasts against his chest. Struggling to get closer, she moved her knees to straddle his thighs. His cock, already on guard, leaped to rapt attention.

  Danger. The part of his brain that governed virtue and responsibility shrieked for him to stop before his control slipped away. His mouth retreated a little. His animal senses yelled back. Just a few more minutes. Just one more kiss. Virtue struggled and succumbed. Oh, very well, it said. Just one more kiss, then stop.

  Since it was going to be just one, Terence gave it all he had. He knew it was going to end badly and he hadn’t even noticed a source of cold water nearby. But there was a contentment in pleasing a woman, his woman, while knowing that he was about to sacrifice his own ultimate pleasure for her protection. Innocent that she was, she had no idea how arousing he found her enthusiastic response, the growing skill of her kisses, the sounds of approval in her throat. His hands clasped her waist, to hold her steady and in preparation for thrusting her aside. Just one more minute.

  Then one of her hands came down, inserted itself between their bodies, and rested on the bulge in his pantaloons. The heavy cavalry of his animal senses roared in and virtue was tossed aside, unconscious if not dead, defeated on the battlefield of passion.

  If she’d thought about it she wouldn’t have dared, but Celia wasn’t in a state where careful consideration of her actions and their consequences was an option. From the moment he caressed her breast, her mind and body had been driven by desire: to touch and be touched; to give and receive; to be as close as possible to the man she adored. Deep, damp, devouring kisses were easily the best thing she’d ever done and they made her want more, much more, to feel the same bliss in every part of her. Acting by instinct and without a thought of shame, she parted her knees, moved over him and pressed herself against the length of his body so not a bubble of air separated them.

  And felt that part of him hard against her lower belly: the pillock, according to Joe, or pintle, the word preferred by Francis Featherbrain. Like one of Master Featherbrain’s inamoratas, she reached for it. It swelled and stiffened through his clothing as her own private parts throbbed back.

  The effect was once again remarkable—and delightful. In a matter of seconds her shift had vanished and she was on her back, stark naked. Terence tore off his own clothing with the same desperate urgency with which he’d removed hers and gathered her into his hot hard embrace. Awash in sensation she reveled in the texture of skin, muscle, and hair against her body. Being outdoors, naked to the sky in broad daylight, made her feel deliciously exposed and vulnerable. She yearned to open herself to him, to entrust herself, body and soul, into his keeping. With the desperate knowledge that this happiness could not last, she seized the moment and held on tight.

  Between her legs she ached and knew herself damp with longing. And his time when his fingers penetrated through the nether hair he didn’t stop. Her coral bud of sensuality—Francis had taught her some useful vocabulary—throbbed in anticipation and when his probing digit found it she cried out “yes” and raised her pelvis. She could bring herself to the “critical period” quite efficiently, but oh, how much better it was when Terence did it. Clinging to his shoulders and kissing him wildly, too mindless for any finesse, she urged him on with movements and sound until she dissolved into ecstasy, feeling great shudders of joy ripple through her hidden passage and out along her limbs.

  She wanted more—it wasn’t enough. His pintle rested hot, silken, and smooth against her hip and she felt an emptiness, a sensation, new to her, that she was a void needing to be filled and only he could do it.

  He was breathing hard, half on top of her, his eyes closed and his mouth resting on her shoulder. “Come in,” she whispered, the only way she could think of to express her wish. “Come into me. I want you.”

  “I shouldn’t.” His voice sounded strangled, as though he suffered the cruelest torture.

  He was right. He shouldn’t, for reasons he didn’t even know. But she didn’t care. She wanted him and the consequences be damned. Groping between them she clutched his pintle, hard, feeling it twitch like a wild animal in her grasp. Imitating the vicar’s wife in Featherbrain’s fervent imagination, she guided it toward the entrance of her privies. He groaned again and resistance ceased.

  He took over and any doubt she might have entertained of his experience dissolved. Lying over her, he rubbed his pintle up and down along the crease of her entrance. It was wet and slippery and her excitement reanimated under the friction. At the same time he worked her breasts. Tweaking her nipples, firmly but not enough to cause pain, sent sharp sensations shooting through her body to enhance the wonderful ache of her inner passage. With some effort she raised her head, pecking at his mouth with hers, to encourage him and wordlessly communicate her pleasure and her affection. They kissed messily, then her head flopped back and their eyes met in an exchange that pierc
ed straight to her heart. She closed hers tight to hide the tears that arose unbidden, testament to the bitter truth that marred the sweetness of the moment.

  “Now!” she cried. “Come to me now.”

  It wasn’t what she expected. There was a little pain at his entrance, over quite quickly, then a feeling of being overly filled, not comfortable but not unpleasant, either. She also had a feeling of being possessed, of belonging, something she hadn’t enjoyed in more years than she could remember. His splendid body encompassed her and shielded her from the neglect and dangers of the world. Joined in this primitive act of man and woman, she no longer felt alone.

  She was wet down there and when he began to move, hard and slippery, she could sense herself stretching to accommodate him. Discomfort faded and she began to like it. Their eyes met. His gaze was intense, reflecting his utter concentration on the matter in hand, but also, unless she imagined it, affectionate. She surrendered to the luxury of believing herself loved.

  Wishing to reciprocate in physical form and actively participate in their congress, she put her arms around his waist, stroked the contours of his back then, acting purely on instinct, raised her slightly bended knees and hugged his hips. She caught the rhythm of his movement and rocked her hips to meet them. As the conscious world shrank to the few square inches of their joining, delicious tension swelled up again. Squeezing her eyes shut she focused her mind on the sensations he aroused, drawing him in with her hidden muscles, praying for completion. It came in a rush, less intense than her earlier peak but somehow more satisfying for being shared. Her incoherent benediction to him for making her feel that way elicited a moan of pleasure and he increased the speed of his thrusts. She opened her eyes.

  His own were closed now, and the concentration on his face echoed hers. She realized he must be going through a sensual progression similar to that she’d just experienced. She was fascinated, empowered by her ability to assist in such delight and fiercely happy that she could do so for him. As his crisis approached he threw back his head in an agony of joy. A new warmth flooded her and he collapsed, the weight of his heaving chest welcome on hers, his breath heavy against her shoulder.

  Determined not to let anything ruin the moment, she lay still and emptied her mind.

  All too soon he rolled off and upright. “Here,” he said gruffly, holding out her chemise, as though he, like her, was suddenly aware they were stark naked in the rapidly cooling air, with some kind of dwelling, possibly inhabited, within sight. Then, with a gentle smile that sent her heart tumbling, he sorted out the garment himself and slipped it over her head, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek while he arranged the neck. Greatly to her regret, since she loved the sight of his bare chest, he pulled on his own smock. It was such a silly piece of clothing with its floppy collar, rough gathers, and crude stitching. That she found it heightened the brooding masculinity of his face was a measure of her infatuation.

  His expression grew serious. “That was not well done of me. You deserved a bath and a bed and a wedding ring.”

  What could she say? She wanted them, too, especially the last, though she supposed wedded life wouldn’t be much fun without the other two. Yet a vision of the two of them living like Gypsies on the moors forever had a certain appeal. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. She was procrastinating, postponing an unwelcome task.

  Perhaps this was the moment. When he was satisfied and happy and regarding her with an expression that could be love. She might find him in a forgiving mood. Or perhaps she’d discover that Tarquin Compton, as well as Terence Fish, could love Celia Seaton. She opened her mouth . . . Now.

  “What?” he said, with another quick kiss. “You look as though you have something momentous to say.”

  “Not really.” Coward. She couldn’t bear to drive away that look. Just a minute more, then she’d tell him. “I’m glad we did it,” she blurted.

  “I’m glad we did it, too, although we shouldn’t have.”

  They grinned foolishly at each other in suspended time. A fat drop of water landed on her forehead and she realized the sky had grown dark.

  He snatched up his breeches, her blanket and her hand. “Run!”

  Stumbling, shrieking, laughing, they charged down the hill. He wrenched open the door of the stone building and they were inside before the rain came down in earnest and soaked them. They found themselves in a low barn, empty of inhabitants, either human or animal, though a distinct odor gave evidence of the latter. Celia wasn’t anxious to explore the contents of the floor. At one end of the small room was a hayloft, about as high as her chest.

  “Help me up,” she said, reaching for the loft edge since there was no ladder.

  His touch on her waist and the cool air on her bare bottom as she struggled up had her thinking about “doing it” again. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She giggled softly at that thought in a sheep barn. Once she’d scrambled into the loft she arranged herself on the hay in an alluring pose, or so she hoped.

  “Come and join me,” she cooed. The speed and determination with which he swung himself up indicated a willingness to accept her invitation.

  Then a tingling in the back of her nose presaged an enormous, noisy sneeze. The place wasn’t just dry, it was thick with dust. And that wasn’t all.

  “Oh lord,” she shrieked and twisted bolt upright onto her knees, slapping wildly at her back and shoulders.

  “What is it?”

  “Insects. Or something. I can feel them crawling down my back.” She thrashed around in a panic.

  “Keep still,” he said, half laughing. “Here. It’s just a little spider.”

  “Ugh! I hate spiders.”

  “All gone now.” He dropped the offending creature over the side. “You’re covered in hay and dust.”

  She could sense it all over her skin. Joyful lust had dissipated to be replaced with a sense of being grubby and charmless. Yet looking back at Terence she didn’t find him unattractive. “I must look a fright,” she said.

  He leaned back to examine her with exaggerated portentousness. “The dust has made your hair look almost white. Rather like a cauliflower.”

  She was watching his face as it happened. Affectionate teasing faded to confusion. He swayed and clutched his head. A new consciousness dawned.

  “Miss Seaton,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  It’s always best to own up before you are caught.

  The curtain parted and he was in a ballroom. The scraping of fiddles mingled with the uistakable babble of the chattering ton. Quite normal. A young woman stood before him, looking anxious. That was normal, too, Tarquin made sure of it. He never gave marriageable females, or their chaperones, the chance to get the wrong idea. He knew this girl: she was a little older than some, though it was her first season. Lady Trumper, who discreetly charged handsome sums to the rich and unconnected for introducing their daughters to London, had attempted to foist her in his direction several times, trying to win his approval and help the chances of a lady lacking beauty, elegance, or wit. He’d even been bullied into dancing with her once, though he couldn’t recall how such an anomaly had come about. What was her name? He always forgot.

  She looked even less prepossessing than usual. Unkempt was the only word. Why on earth had her chaperone let her out with her hair in such a mess? Not even pinned up, it framed her face in a wild dusty halo. He blinked twice.

  Apparently Lady Trumper had also let her out without her gown.

  A sharp pain pierced his skull. The music and voices faded as the curtain closed behind him. Then, for the first time in a while it disappeared. His memory no longer had closed off rooms: it felt clear and complete. He even remembered her name.

  “Miss Seaton,” he said. “Why are you dressed like that? It is most improper. And what are we doing in this . . .” he glanced around “ . . . barn?”

  She regarded him with a wary expression. “Do you know who you are?”

  “Of cours
e I do. Why would I forget my own name? I am Tarquin Compton. What an absurd question! I wish I knew what I was doing in this place, however.”

  She smiled. “You don’t remember anything about how we came to be together? Nothing at all?”

  He thought about it. Clearly they weren’t in London. That established, he remembered traveling to Yorkshire to visit his estate, then making a trip away from Revesby on business of some sort, getting lost. Involuntarily he touched the back of his head and found a bump and a scab.

  It all came flooding back, every bit of it, up to and including making love to Miss Celia Seaton in the open air. An act of indiscretion he’d committed in the belief that he was Terence Fish and she was his promised bride.

  He’s always known there was something fishy about the story, but it had never occurred to him, fool that he was, that the whole thing had been invented by her. He wasn’t the villain of the piece, she was.

  “My God! You knew.” His breath was taken away by her effrontery. “Don’t even pretend you didn’t know exactly who I was, right from the start.”

  He jutted his head at her and she shrank back against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. “I won’t,” she said quietly.

  “Why? Why?” He was yelling and he wanted to strangle her. Rather than risk yielding to temptation he jumped down from the loft and berated her from the floor below. “You had me wandering around the moors like a damned idiot for three days, believing I was Terence bloody Fish.” The fact that he’d believed no such thing just made him angrier.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Not good enough. He wanted her to weep but her eyes were dry and flat.

  “You said we were engaged. My God! We lay together. How could you? What were you thinking? You’re a lady of breeding. How could you allow something so improper?”

  “I don’t remember you being so reluctant,” she said with a show of spirit.

  She was correct and it made him more furious. He’d known he was doing wrong. In his shame he lashed out at her. “You were a virgin. You should have guarded your virtue.”