Читать книгу A Rake's Guide to Seduction - Caroline Linden - Страница 8

Much to Celia’s relief, she was not scolded for her misadventure with Lord Euston. She managed to tell her mother about it in such a way that made them both laugh, and that had quite ended the matter as far as Rosalind was concerned.

Her friends, however, were not so easily put off. “Did he go down on one knee?” Jane Melvill wanted to know the next night.

Celia grimaced. “No.”

“Did he kiss you first?” Louisa Witherspoon asked.

“Thank heavens, no.”

“But you wanted him to,” said Mary Greene.

Celia pondered. “When I agreed to walk out with him, I thought he might try to steal a kiss,” she admitted. “And I suppose…I might have let him.”

“Might?” squeaked Louisa in disbelief. “Euston’s so wonderfully handsome!”

“And a wonderful dancer,” said Jane, while Mary nodded.

“But he’s a dreadful bore,” Celia replied. “He began by saying he adored me.”

“A fine beginning,” someone murmured. Celia nodded.

“True. Fine enough. But then”—she glanced around to make certain no one nearby would overhear—“he asked if I adored him.”

Jane looked at Mary, who looked at Louisa. Louisa shrugged. Celia suspected she admired Lord Euston more than the rest of them. “And I couldn’t say yes, because of course I don’t, even if he is handsome and a wonderful dancer.”

Even Louisa had to admit one could not lie about that to a gentleman, no matter how well he looked or danced.

“Then he wanted to speak to my brother.” Celia almost rolled her eyes but caught herself in time. “Of course Exeter would have told him no, but…well, I didn’t want the poor man to go to the trouble when I didn’t want to marry him.”

“Not at all?” asked Louisa, as if she could hardly believe it possible.

“No,” said Celia helplessly. “Not at all.”

“Did he appear distraught? Did he beg you to reconsider?” Jane’s nose was almost twitching with interest.

Celia grimaced again. “Then he tried to kiss me. Make me immortal with a kiss, he said.”

“Oh, that’s Shakespeare,” exclaimed Louisa. “How romantic!”

“It is not Shakespeare, it’s Milton,” Jane told her.

“Milton?” Mary’s nose wrinkled. “Didn’t he write that horrid poem about Lucifer? Was he comparing Celia to a devil? Or to an angel?”

“It’s Marlowe,” said Celia, saying a silent thanks to Anthony. She hadn’t been quite certain herself, but if anyone would know a love poem, it would be Anthony Hamilton. “And I didn’t find it very romantic. He seized me by the hand and wouldn’t let me go.”

“How did you escape?” All three girls turned to look at her again, poetry forgotten. Celia opened her mouth, then closed it. She liked her friends very much, but she also knew they liked to gossip even more than she did. She didn’t dare link her name to Anthony’s, not even after he had been so kind to her and there was nothing at all improper about his actions or hers.

“Someone came by then, and Lord Euston let me go,” she said. “He returned to the ballroom, as did I a moment later.”

Her friends all looked suitably impressed. “At least he didn’t ask you in front of everyone,” Mary said. “Sir George Lacey offered for Martha Winters in a theater box full of people. Imagine how hard it would be to refuse a gentleman, then.”

Celia nodded. “I never thought Lord Euston would propose marriage, not last night. I would never have walked out with him if I had.”

“It does every girl good to get one offer of marriage she must refuse,” said Jane with authority. “My mother says so.”

“Oh dear. Here he comes,” whispered Mary.

“Who?” Jane craned her neck in the direction Mary was facing, then jerked back to answer her own question. “Lord Euston!”

Celia recalled the strength of his grip and shuddered. She also recalled that he had not been pleased to leave her alone with Anthony Hamilton, even if only for a few minutes. She dared a peek over Louisa’s shoulder. He didn’t look like he was coming to apologize for his actions; he looked petulant and a little bit angry. Celia took the coward’s way out. “I feel the need to visit the ladies’ retiring room,” she whispered.

“Shall I go with you?” Mary asked. Celia shook her head.

“Don’t fear, Celia, we’ll keep him from following,” Jane said. “We’ll try to get him to dance with Louisa.”

Celia slipped away through the crowd as Louisa exclaimed in indignation. Keeping her head down, she made her way to the room set aside for the ladies to rest and repair themselves.

Anthony saw her slip out of the ballroom just as he was about to enter the card room. A quick glance along her wake showed Euston talking to the young ladies who had been Celia’s companions only a few moments ago. Anthony’s steps slowed, then turned. “Excuse me,” he murmured to his companions as he walked away from them and headed out the same door she had taken.

He didn’t know what he meant to do. The sight of her golden hair had caught his eye, and the furtive way she left had pricked his interest. She was avoiding Euston—small wonder there, he thought as he climbed the stairs, following her blue-gowned figure. She might not be pleased that he was following her, either, but Anthony continued up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs she turned into the ladies’ powder room. Anthony stopped short. Of course; he should have guessed she was taking refuge where Euston unequivocally couldn’t follow. Nor could he. And lingering outside the powder room to talk to her would only cause the sort of scene she was doubtless hoping to avoid. Tamping down the flicker of disappointment in his chest, he turned to go back to the card room.

“Hamilton,” growled a voice behind him. “I’d like a word with you, sir.”

Anthony turned, his features falling automatically into a disinterested expression. “Yes?”

The man stepped closer, until their toes almost touched. Sir George Howard, a baronet with a modest fortune and an ambitious wife. Not among Anthony’s usual associates. He put his face up close to Anthony’s. “What business do you have talking to my wife?”

“I suppose you’ve asked her already,” he said in neutral tones. Lady Howard was difficult to avoid; Anthony would have sworn she was lying in wait for him, so often had he seen her of late.

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.