A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 9

  But she could see Mr. Hamilton. He was seated near the middle of the table. His dinner partner was David’s wife, Vivian, and they seemed to be having a perfectly lovely time, conversing mostly with each other. Mr. Hamilton even smiled at Vivian, a true smile this time. There was the old Anthony she remembered in that smile, his eyes dark amber and his handsome face relaxed in amusement. No doubt Vivian was enjoying dinner much more than Celia was, from her expression. Celia gave a silent sigh as Mr. Picton-Lewis asked her about another type of bird in Cumberland, and tried to turn her mind back to him. She supposed if she found ornithology half as interesting as Mr. Picton-Lewis did, they could also have an engrossing conversation, but as it was, Celia could hardly wait for dinner to end.

  After dinner the ladies left the men to their port and returned to the drawing room. This time Celia deliberately dodged her mother and sat with Jane and Louisa and Mary in a quiet corner. This was what she had truly looked forward to, the chance to talk with her friends again after so many years away. This was what she had missed, those years in Cumberland: her friendships. It would be a delight to talk to other young women her age again, after being all but alone with her elderly father-in-law for a year.

  Their conversation, though, was not what she had anticipated.

  Chapter Seven

  “I can hardly believe he’s here,” Mary said with barely repressed excitement.

  “Lord David,” Jane said knowingly. “He and Percy were always friends with him.”

  “Indeed.” Mary and Louisa shared a glance.

  “You don’t mean Mr. Hamilton, do you?” asked Celia in cautious disbelief.

  “Who else?” Louisa lifted one hand. “Celia, darling, it’s an absolute shock to see him here. He rarely goes about in society—”

  “Not in good society, at any rate,” Jane interjected.

  “But the tales of his doings…I do believe he singlehandedly keeps the gossip rags in business.”

  “People have talked about him for years,” Celia said. “And I never thought half of it was true.”

  “Even if only half is true, he’s about as wicked as one can get and still be received.” Mary seemed pleased by the thought.

  “He’s received because old Lynley might kick off at any moment,” said Louisa.

  “He’s received because he made a fortune in Welsh tin or some such thing,” Jane replied. “And an earldom, combined with that fortune and that face—”

  “And that form,” said Louisa on a sigh.

  “—he’d be received even if someone could prove he did kill that man in Bath.” Mary gave a decisive nod.

  “What?” Celia gasped. “He killed a man? No!”

  Jane lifted one shoulder. “Well, no one could prove it. Percy says he wasn’t even in Bath then, but other people say he was.”

  “He would never do such a thing,” Celia protested. Anthony, kill a man? It was impossible to reconcile that with her memories of him.

  “He may have been provoked,” Mary conceded. “They say the other man drew his pistol first.”

  “Because he caught Mr. Hamilton cheating at cards,” said Louisa. “They say he only plays at the most notorious gaming hells now because no one else will sit down with him.”

  “I can’t believe he cheated, or that he would kill a man.” Celia cast about desperately for another topic of conversation.

  “There’s plenty else he’s done,” Louisa told her. “Mrs. Ridgely threw a fish at Lady Pierce because he tossed her over for Lady Pierce.”

  “Oh, I remember that!” Mary exclaimed. She made a chagrined face. “At the Nethercote ball. I was so sorry to miss it; Hillenby refused to go after Lord Nethercote voted in favor of some Irish bill Hillenby despises.”

  “We weren’t there, either,” Jane told her. “Percy won’t go to Nethercote House because Sir William only allows penny stakes in his card room.”

  “I was there.” Louisa’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “And saw the entire affair.”

  “A fish?” Celia felt a creeping discomfort at the way Louisa savored the story, and at Mary’s disappointment in missing the spectacle.

  “A whole poached salmon in cream sauce. She snatched up the tray from the table, and flung it at Lady Pierce just as everyone was going in to supper. It quite ruined Lady Pierce’s gown, a lovely blue silk with gold cord trim and blond lace. It was so fashionable, and now no one can copy it because of the scandal attached to it.” Louisa sighed, as if mourning the loss of a beautiful gown.

  “But you can hardly blame Mr. Hamilton for what others did,” Celia murmured.

  Mary leaned forward, flicking one hand dismissively. “Oh, but we all know he’s behind it. Really, can you imagine what sort of lover he must be, to make Catherine Ridgely destroy her own reputation over him? Mr. Ridgely dragged her off into the country the next day, and she hasn’t been seen since.”

  “She must have been driven completely out of her mind to fly into such a passion,” Louisa agreed with a shiver of delight. “It does make one wonder…”

  There was a moment of silence as they shared another knowing look, and Celia fought back the urge to jump up and leave. She had always enjoyed a bit of gossip, but this was almost cruel. Not only were they gossiping, but Louisa and Mary were actually pleased that someone they knew personally had humiliated herself so badly. Celia didn’t know Mrs. Ridgely, or why she had thrown a fish at anyone, but she felt very sorry for her all the same.

  “How is Lord Elton?” she asked Louisa instead.

  Her friend made a face. “Healthy.”

  “I never met him before yesterday,” Celia said. “Is he amiable?”

  Louisa looked surprised. “Amiable enough, I suppose. We aren’t in each other’s company often.”

  “He’s a dry old stick.” Jane laughed. “At least one can’t call Percy dull.”

  “He’s merely a drunkard.” Jane rolled her eyes at Louisa’s comment but didn’t refute it.

  “He’ll be a baronet one day, and he’s a handsome fellow. I do wish his father wouldn’t dangle him on such a short string, though. I have to pinch the housekeeping just to pay the milliner.”

  “It’s no better when your husband controls his own funds,” Louisa replied. “He barely gives me enough housekeeping to pay the servants, and then complains if I don’t serve beef every night.”

  “At least you control the housekeeping,” grumbled Mary. “Hillenby only gives me a small amount of pin money and nothing else.”

  The gentlemen came into the room then. Celia caught sight of her mother heading her way, a gleam in her eyes. Rosalind had had her head together with Lady Throckmorton all evening, and Celia dreaded whatever exhibition they had planned. Her conversation with her friends had dampened her spirits even more, and her head ached. She couldn’t bear any more, not when she suddenly felt like the latest object of interest: the tragic widow. Were the others talking about her sad life with as much relish as Louisa discussed Mr. Hamilton’s allegedly wicked life? No doubt they were. They just weren’t bold enough to do it in front of her—yet.

  Celia got to her feet. “You must excuse me.”

  “Of course!” Jane pressed Celia’s hand in hers. “Are you ill?”

  She managed a halfhearted smile. “No, I just require a bit of air.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  She wanted to be alone. “I shall be fine,” she said with a better smile. “Please stay and enjoy yourself.”

  Jane, who clearly was disposed to stay and enjoy herself, nodded and released her, and Mary and Louisa wished her well. Celia slipped out of the room. For a moment she stood in the hall outside the drawing room, listening to the murmur of conversation punctuated by moments of laughter. Everyone was having a fine time…except her.

  She began to walk, wandering the corridors she had known since she was born. Ainsley Park, though one of the finest estates in England, was not an enormously large house. It had been built over many centuries by many different pe
ople, and as such included a variety of quirks like secret cupboards and hidden doors, but Rosalind had made it as modern as a house could be. Celia had explored every inch of it as a child, always delighted when some new feature was installed or some secret uncovered. Unlike the austere formality of Kenlington House, Ainsley was bright and lived-in. Every step she took held memories that made her smile.

  She left the house through the side entrance. It was a beautiful night, with only a crescent of moon to compete with the stars. Celia stopped and took a deep breath, closing her eyes and raising her face to the cool air as she stood on the wide stone steps. Perhaps she did feel a bit more at home here—at least when she was alone.

  Celia opened her eyes and gasped. A man stood in the shadows a short distance away from her, watching her. Her heart thudded against her ribs for a moment, and she pressed one hand to her chest. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said breathlessly. “You startled me.”

  Mr. Hamilton didn’t move. “Then I must beg your pardon. I did not mean to.”

  Celia smiled. “We had best forgive each other at once, then.”

  “Done,” he said with a chuckle. “Is the party moving out of doors?”

  “What? Oh, no. I came for a breath of fresh air.” She remembered what Mary and Louisa had said about him, that he was unbearably wicked and might have killed a man and caused women to have public brawls over him. Did he know? He must suspect. Perhaps that was why he was out here, too. She hadn’t noticed he wasn’t with the other gentlemen when they arrived in the drawing room.

  “I did the same.” Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now; she could see the wry twist to his mouth. He knew, she realized. He knew very well what they were saying about him.

  “Shall we take a turn about the garden?” Celia didn’t mean to ask the question, it just came out. But she couldn’t be so cold to him that she just walked away, not when he was escaping the same thing she was.

  His hesitation was slight. “I would be delighted.”

  For a while they walked in silence. Anthony had come outside to be alone and to avoid any unpleasantness in the drawing room. No one could have missed the looks he got at dinner. Even Reece and Percy had merely nodded in understanding when he turned away from the gentlemen at the drawing room door and headed for the outdoors instead. He ought to be annoyed with Reece, Anthony thought, for pushing him to come to this house party knowing full well the talk it would cause. Lord Elton had watched him as though he expected Anthony to steal his purse, and Lord William Norwood seemed to have a desire to duel on the morrow, so provoking was he. Anthony was accustomed to people talking about him, even in front of his face, but he must be getting old and perverse; part of him had considered standing up and announcing that he was taking bets on which lady at the party he could seduce first, just to see Hillenby’s face turn completely purple.

  So he came outside. It was quiet outside, and a beautiful night as well. Ainsley Park was a fine estate, and it had been some time since Anthony had seen it. A solitary walk seemed just the thing before going to bed.

  But then she came out, turning her face up to the moon with an expression of near-rapture. In the moonlight the changes in her face weren’t as striking. Instead she was just as beautiful as he remembered—even more so, perhaps. She no longer had the rosy exuberance of youth, but sorrow hadn’t destroyed her beauty. It had pared away the rounder, more innocent softness and left her with a mysterious quality that made her even more alluring to him.

  She appeared too caught up in her own thoughts to be horrified by his presence as they walked. He found it hard to believe she hadn’t already gotten an earful from Lady Elton, if not from her mother. When she had gasped at the sight of him, Anthony had braced himself for a cool retreat. Instead she invited him to take a stroll. Anthony remembered what her brother had said that afternoon, and saw it was true: Celia was far quieter than she had ever been as a girl. She was just walking beside him, absorbed in her own thoughts and unconcerned with his wicked reputation. Anthony found it remarkably peaceful and walked a little easier.

  “Mr. Hamilton,” she said abruptly. “You have never paid much mind to gossip. How have you managed?”

  Years of practice, he thought. That, and years of getting pummeled for reacting to it. Indifference had been literally beaten into him. “There are far more interesting things to mind. It’s not difficult at all.”

  “But when—I mean, if,” she hastily corrected herself. “If you suspected people were talking of you, how could you bear it? Is it better to hear what they say, or to avoid it entirely?”

  “It’s often difficult to avoid it entirely. Some of it may be so absurdly wrong, it’s amusing.” He tried to answer lightly but still honestly. He didn’t want to make her feel worse by admitting that some gossip, the parts that bit more closely to the truth, could maim a person’s soul.

  “I suppose,” she murmured doubtfully.

  Another silence ensued. They passed through the arbor into the more formal garden, silvery and shadowy in the moonlight. Anthony stole a glance at his companion; her expression was pensive and almost troubled, quiet and still, nothing like the ever-changing open countenance he remembered. He recalled how she had looked the day he learned of her engagement, covered in rose petals and laughing merrily, vibrant and pink with joy. Again he wondered what had gone wrong, how abominable a husband Bertram had been to transform her thus.

  Perhaps that was wrong, though. He knew only what Reece had told him about her marriage. Perhaps her melancholy sprang more from grief, or guilt, or something unrelated. He must remember that he didn’t really know her now. The Celia he remembered would have stopped in starstruck delight at the sight of a shooting star, but this Celia didn’t even notice the streak of celestial light above her. Her eyes were only on the path in front of her, not on the skies or the gardens or him.

  “Did you see that?” he asked softly. “In the sky. A shooting star.”

  “Oh?” She tilted her face upward, but there was still no joy in it. She was looking only because he had said something. “I missed it.”

  “Your question about gossip,” he said. “My answer was too hasty.” She looked at him, but Anthony kept his eyes on the sky, searching for any more shooting stars—wishing stars, his mother had called them. “It takes time to be able to ignore it. At first, one cannot help but want to know, to hear everything. It’s impossible not to be appalled, humiliated, indignant, even angry. Often it’s difficult to restrain yourself from retaliation of some sort. Unfortunately, that only leads people to talk more, and now you’ve given them grist for their mill. It becomes harder to ignore, as the tattletales try to provoke a reaction from you, giving them yet more to talk about. It’s a cruel cycle, really.

  “But eventually, if you very diligently ignore it and persuade everyone you don’t care, they begin to leave you alone—somewhat. Often your best hope is that someone else commits a more scandalous act and diverts attention from you.”

  “That sounds awful,” she said with a sigh.

  “The cure, I was once told, is to be as dull as possible, and thus escape interest in the first place.” He said it lightly, wondering if she would remember her own words to him. For a moment she didn’t react, and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She didn’t remember, he realized, and was about to speak again when recognition dawned on her face.

  “That is not quite what I said—you did mean to remind me of that? I believe I said settling down to a quiet life would quiet rumors about wickedness.”

  “You recommended having six children and a pack of dogs.” She looked at him in astonishment, and he tapped his temple with a rueful grin. “I remember.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, I do, too,” she said slowly, a smile forming on her lips. “The night you saved me from Lord Euston.”

  Anthony pretended to shudder. “And the most appalling abuse of poetry I’ve ever heard, before or since.”

  “Surely not. Lord Farnsworth once recited h
is own poetry, ‘An Ode on a Decanter of Brandy.’”

  “A love poem, no doubt.”

  Celia gave a little gasp of laughter. “I do believe it was!” She shook her head. “Particularly as he was holding the decanter aloft during his recitation. It quite enlivened the evening.” Her smile faded. The moonlight turned her hair dark silver as she bowed her head. “I feel such a hypocrite,” she said. “I don’t want people to talk about me and my troubles, yet I find it amusing when someone else stands on a table and declares his undying affection for the bottle.”

  “You’re not a hypocrite at all,” he told her. “A tipsy fellow climbing on a table and composing odes to cheap brandy makes himself a public spectacle and simply cries out to be a figure of fun to others. Farnsworth himself found it amusing, once his head stopped aching. A person’s private troubles, on the other hand, are rarely amusing, and ought never to be proclaimed to all.”

  “Some seem to find them so,” came her soft reply.

  Anthony shook his head. “Not amusing. Titillating. They delight in knowing someone else’s private concerns, whatever those concerns may be. It’s not about the scandal or the force or the shock; it’s simply about knowing something they have neither right nor reason to know.”