A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Read online

  Howard reached out and caught the front of his jacket, twisting it tight. Anthony let himself be yanked forward and shaken, only pulling back his head with an expression of distaste. Sir George looked as though he were just waiting for any excuse to call him out. “That’s not what I asked,” Sir George snapped. “I want to hear it from you.”

  Anthony sighed as if the whole thing bored him, even though the man was putting a severe strain on his clothing. Sir George was a few inches shorter than Anthony, but he was squat and broad and built like a bull; he had the fists of a pugilist. There was nothing at all to gain by provoking him, especially not when the only witnesses were a few of the baronet’s friends. “Nothing but polite conversation,” he said.

  Howard gave him another shake, his eyes glittering. He was half-drunk, unless Anthony was very much mistaken. “Rubbish. Polite conversation doesn’t take place with so many little smiles and end with three thousand pounds missing from my accounts.”

  Anthony raised one eyebrow. Three thousand pounds? Lady Howard had given him only two thousand, and that was after vowing her husband would never notice. “Are you accusing me of theft?”

  “Not directly.” Howard glowered at him. “Stay away from my wife.”

  Anthony inclined his head. “As you wish.” The corridor was relatively empty, but the people who were about were watching as Howard continued to hold him by the jacket. Didn’t the fool realize this would attract even more scandal to his name than any contact Anthony had with Lady Howard?

  The vein in Howard’s temple began to pulse. “I mean it,” he said, his voice rising. He thrust his fist into Anthony’s face and shook it. “Stay away from my wife!”

  Now people were openly staring at them. Ladies going into the powder room and ladies leaving the powder room were standing, agog with interest. Anthony lowered his voice. “Let me go, Howard. I’ve never touched your wife.”

  “I don’t believe you.” One of Sir George’s companions stepped forward, murmuring into his ear. Sir George shook like a wet dog. “Damned seducer,” he snarled at Anthony. “Thief. I know what you do. Cozen some poor woman into thinking she’s in love with you, then persuade her to give you her money. You’ve gambled my three thousand pounds away already, haven’t you? I see you every night at the tables. Never care whether you win or lose, do you?” The companion, glancing around nervously, whispered to Sir George again, and again the baronet shook him off. “Don’t care, because it’s not your money!”

  From the corner of his eye Anthony caught a flash of blue, the same color as Celia’s gown. Oh, Lord. He ought never to have followed her. He’d much prefer she didn’t witness this. “Release me,” he ordered in a low, even voice. “You are causing a scene, sir.”

  Glowering, Sir George wrenched Anthony’s jacket, releasing him with a shove that made him fall back a step. “Stay away from my wife,” Sir George said once more, pointing a thick finger at him.

  “With pleasure,” muttered Anthony, twitching his jacket back into place and moving to step around the man. He would return Lady Howard’s funds tomorrow and avoid her like the deadly plague from now on. No investment was worth this.

  But the baronet heard, and with a strangled roar he pulled free of his friend’s restraining hold and lunged. His fist slammed into the side of Anthony’s face, connecting with his nose and cheekbone and sending white-hot pain through his entire head.

  For a moment he couldn’t breathe. The force of the blow, coupled with the surprise of it, made him light-headed. Blindly Anthony groped behind him for support, only dimly aware that Sir George’s friends had seized him and dragged him back. Damned fool, Anthony thought to himself, not to see that one coming.

  He found the wall and leaned against it, his head ringing. He raised one hand to his face and it came away crimson. The lunatic had probably broken his nose, and now blood was dripping all over his waistcoat. Suddenly exhausted, he turned his back to the onlookers, resting his shoulder against the wall and feeling in his pockets for a handkerchief.

  “Mr. Hamilton?” He stiffened at the cautious inquiry behind him. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” he said, but his voice came out thick and muffled. He finally located a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, hoping she would go away.

  But she stepped around in front of him and gasped. “No! Oh, you most certainly are hurt! How could you say no?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, trying not to wince at the way his own voice caused his head to vibrate with greater agony.

  “Nothing! There’s blood all over you. Oh, Anthony.” Her eyes filled with dismay, Celia put her hand on his arm. “Stay right there. I’ll be back.”

  He ought to walk away, to take himself home where he could bleed in private. This was not at all how he had hoped to approach Celia, and he most especially didn’t want her to hear that Sir George had punched him because he suspected Anthony of having an affair with his wife. He should leave before she returned.

  But she was back before he could gather his will to go. “Here, let me help you.” With gentle hands she took the blood-soaked handkerchief away and replaced it with a clean linen, dabbing at the blood on his face. “What happened?”

  “A gentlemen’s dispute.” For a moment he just stood slumped against the wall, savoring the feel of her hands on his face in spite of the pain.

  Celia snorted. “A gentlemen’s dispute! An obvious lie if ever I heard one. Someone in the retiring room said Sir George Howard called you a thief before he hit you.”

  “He might have done.” As much as he was enjoying her ministrations, she was being too tender; blood was still pouring down his chin. “Here, let me. You have to hold it firmly.” He covered her hand with his, taking the cloth. For a moment their fingers tangled together before she extricated hers. “You should go back to the ball,” he said with a gruesome smile as he applied the cloth to his nose again, dropping his chin and squeezing firmly.

  “And leave you here like this? Of course not.” Celia looked around. “Come, there’s a settee over here. Sit down.”

  He waved one hand in refusal, but she took his arm and tugged him toward it. When he sat, she sat beside him. “I’m quite all right,” he tried to tell her one last time. “You needn’t waste your evening tending me.”

  She laughed in disbelief. “Anthony, you can hardly speak! Your nose is going to be swollen, and your clothes are covered with blood. You are not quite all right.”

  He cast an awkward glance down at himself. “Oh dear. I do look a fright.” His cravat was pulled askew and wrinkled, and it looked like a pair of buttons had gone missing from his waistcoat. Everything was flecked and splotched with blood.

  “Your valet will be terribly upset,” she said, looking at his clothes.

  “Ah…yes. No doubt.” Anthony shifted the cloth at his nose.

  “You must make certain he brings you cool compresses for your nose,” Celia told him. “David broke his nose once and Mama sent for ice. It helps the pain.”

  “I shall trust no one’s advice but yours.”

  She beamed at him. “I could ask Mama for more information, if you like. Or is your man used to dealing with things like this?”

  “Not so much,” Anthony murmured wryly. She frowned, and he continued quickly, “He’s a proud fellow. Nursing is quite beneath him, I’ve been given to understand. I dare not put him out too much.”

  She looked at him as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “I can hardly see you being browbeaten by your servants.”

  Anthony sighed. “He’ll scold me properly for getting blood on this waistcoat, and tell me I deserve every ache and pain in my head for bringing home so many stains on my person.”

  “How terrible! You mustn’t let him abuse you so. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault at all.” Her eyes flashed. “Sir George has an awful temper, and everyone knows it. Even David says he’s a hothead.”

  “No doubt it was the wine.” He removed the cloth and waited, but the bleeding
continued. He turned the cloth over and pressed it back to his nose.

  “That doesn’t make it acceptable for him to go about punching people,” Celia went on. “Whatever was he thinking?”

  Anthony knew the answer to that, just as well as he knew how quickly everyone in London would seize on the story. No doubt within a week everyone would believe he was having a torrid affair with Lady Howard and her husband had been defending her honor. Oh yes, and that he had embezzled three thousand pounds from Sir George as well. Mustn’t forget that bit. He slumped back in his seat.

  “Are you feeling faint?” She scooted closer, her face anxious. “Should I send for someone? Fetch another cloth? Would you like a drink, or—?”

  “No, no.” He made himself smile. “Really, I am perfectly well. See, the bleeding has stopped.” He took the cloth from his face. She inspected his injured nose closely, and Anthony almost held his breath as she leaned even closer toward him. Good Lord, her eyes were so blue. And her lips were so pink….

  “Celia.” Anthony glanced up from under his eyebrows to see Rosalind, the dowager duchess of Exeter, standing over them. From her polite but chilly smile, he guessed she was not pleased to find her daughter here with him.

  “Mama, Sir George Howard punched Mr. Hamilton in the face,” Celia said.

  “Celia, let’s not gossip,” her mother said in a firm voice.

  “It’s not gossip, Mama, I saw it as I left the powder room. And look—he may have broken Mr. Hamilton’s nose!”

  The dowager duchess did not appear swayed by this. Her lips pinched together and she glanced at Anthony as he made to rise. She put up her hand. “Please don’t, Mr. Hamilton. There is no need.”

  He ignored her, getting to his feet and giving a small bow. “Lady Celia has been most kind in assisting me.”

  The duchess smiled a tight little smile. “I am delighted to hear it. Perhaps someone should send for Lord Carfax’s valet, Mr. Hamilton, to see to your injury.”

  “Should we send for some ice, Mama?” Celia asked. “As you did when David broke his nose.”

  “Mr. Hamilton is well able to send for anything he requires.”

  Unless what he required was her daughter’s company. He gave another brief bow, this time in Celia’s direction. “Yes, indeed. Thank you most sincerely, Lady Celia, for your kindness.”

  “Of course.” She curtsied. “Do take care of yourself, sir.”

  He nodded once. “I shall.”

  The dowager duchess shepherded her daughter away, and Anthony contemplated the bloody cloth in his hand. He should take the duchess’s demeanor as a warning, he thought. No doubt she viewed him just as suspiciously as the rest of society did, always ready and willing to be outraged by his actions, real or rumored.

  Lord Carfax, the host, approached then. He apologized for Sir George’s behavior and summoned a servant to help Anthony repair his appearance. Anthony went with the man into a guest room and cleaned his face and hands. His nose was already swelling and his head ached. His clothes were in a sad state; he gave them an obligatory straightening. Hopefully his landlady would be able to scrub out the blood.

  His fingers lingered on his re-tied cravat as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t know what had possessed him to tell Celia those lies about his valet, a person who didn’t even exist. Perhaps because she just assumed he had one, and he didn’t want her to know he didn’t. Perhaps because he had preferred to make her laugh at him instead of tending him. Her touch had been so gentle as she wiped the blood from his face.

  Was he a fool? Most likely. With a sigh he turned from the mirror. The wise thing to do would be to return to the card room, win a tidy pile of money, and forget how she had fussed over him with such tender concern.

  And Anthony always tried to do the wise thing.

  Chapter Three

  Celia didn’t see Anthony Hamilton again for almost a fortnight. Her mother gave her a stern lecture about associating with scandalous people like him and then kept a closer eye on her when they were out. Although she didn’t want to disobey her mother, Celia did want to know if he had recovered. It was easy to hear tales of his public behavior; she heard he returned to the card room after being punched by Sir George Howard and played piquet until dawn, still speckled with his own blood. But that told her nothing of his health, and finally she was forced to turn to her brother.

  “Hamilton? He’s fine,” said David carelessly. His eyes were following his wife, Vivian, around the room as she danced with Lord Milbury. David made no effort to hide his devotion to his new wife, nor how protective he was of her. Vivian had been raised in the rookeries and made her way as a pickpocket before she met David, in a vaguely shocking way no one had seen fit to explain to Celia. David was always ready to step in if he perceived any slight to her. Celia thought it quite lovely of him, actually, even if it made him aggravatingly distracted at times.

  “No, truly, David.” Celia poked his arm. “He was hurt.”

  “What? Oh, yes. But he’s fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  David finally tore his eyes away from Vivian for a moment. “Yes, Celia, I’m certain. It was a glancing blow.”

  “It might have broken his nose!”

  Her brother waved one hand, making a face. “It was one punch. Hamilton’s suffered a lot worse in his time. Don’t worry.”

  “But I haven’t seen him since then.”

  That got his attention. “Have you been looking for him?”

  She flushed. “No. I just wanted to know he was well.”

  “He is.” Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother would have an apoplexy if—”

  “Then don’t tell her,” Celia snapped. “He did nothing, I did nothing. I just wanted to know, and now that you’ve told me, I am satisfied.”

  David continued to look suspicious, but he didn’t press her. “Excellent.”

  Celia shook her head and walked away from her infuriating brother, back across the room toward her friends. Why was she not allowed to ask after the health of an acquaintance, she fumed. Surely not even Anthony was so wicked that it was wrong to wish him well.

  “Good evening, Lady Celia.” The voice made her start. Celia whirled around to see the man himself, bowing in front of her.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hamilton,” she said with surprised pleasure. “I am so glad to see you again!” His eyebrows shot up. Celia gave an embarrassed little laugh, realizing how odd that must sound. “That is, I am so glad to see you are well.”

  “I am very well, thank you.” He looked at her with a strange expression. “I hope you are well.”

  “Oh, yes, but when last I saw you, you were covered in blood.”

  “Ah, yes, that. A night’s discomfort.” His mouth quirked. “Surely you weren’t worried?”

  “Of course I was! You might have had a broken nose. I didn’t see you anywhere after that, and David only said you were fine.” She huffed. “Do gentlemen go about beating each other regularly? David was sure it was a common enough occurrence that you barely noticed.”

  His half-grin had faded. “I am flattered you would inquire after my health.”

  There was something in his voice that caught her attention, but when she looked, his face was inscrutable. Celia sighed and shook her head. “And I had no idea what ‘fine’ meant. David might be on death’s doorstep and still he would insist he was fine.”

  “No, I am well. Quite well, in fact.” He sounded somehow distracted, as he stared at her. “I wished to thank you for your kindness that night.”

  “It was the least I could do,” she exclaimed. “I fear I was no real help to you at all. I’m afraid I haven’t much experience at nursing.”

  “I could not imagine a better nurse.” He gave a slight smile. “Although I should hate to appear to such a disadvantage in your eyes again. It was not the best way to renew our acquaintance.”

  She laughed ruefully. “No. But you were so gallant the previous night, when
Lord Euston…Well, we have neither of us been at our best, perhaps.”

  “And yet I can see no fault in you.”

  “That is because you haven’t seen me for several years,” she scoffed. “A few more meetings, and you shall find me as tiresome as when I was a child.”

  “I never found you tiresome.” He said it simply, calmly. Celia paused, contrite.

  “No, you were always so kind to me. Kinder than David, especially! And I shall never forget it.” She caught sight of her mother advancing on them with fire in her eyes. “But I must go. Good evening, Mr. Hamilton.” She bobbed a quick curtsy.

  “Good evening, Lady Celia.” He bowed, and she hurried to intercept her mother and explain before Mama worked herself into a state.

  Anthony didn’t watch her go. There was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the dowager duchess. But his heart still pounded, and his hand trembled as he took a glass from a nearby servant and downed half the wine in one gulp.

  She had been pleased to see him. And she had worried about him. Anthony took a deep breath, held it a moment as he contemplated that thought with unbounded and unwarranted pleasure, and swallowed the rest of his wine.

  Anthony was a seasoned gambler. He held a bad hand now, and he knew it. There was no way he could bluff his way out of it; the scandal sheets had made his every misdeed public, and even given him credit for some misdeeds not his own. In fact, the best thing to do with a hand this bad was to bow out at once. Perhaps he could wait a year. A year was a long time, and he could mend his ways and get his life in order before attempting it….

  But she was dancing with another man. Lord Andrew Bertram, son and heir to the earl of Lansborough. Another handsome, respectable gentleman like Euston. Anthony’s eyes narrowed as he watched them, Bertram’s fair head next to Celia’s golden one. A year was too long, he decided abruptly. It seemed unlikely Bertram was looking to marry yet—he was a year younger than Anthony, and known for his merry, carefree ways—but there were sure to be others. If Anthony wanted any chance of winning her, he couldn’t wait.