The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (27 page)

“What do you intend to do with it?” Julia asked. “As I am sure you know by now, it should rightfully be restored to me.”

“The way I see it, the jewel is Celia’s. She’s suffered enough for it and I shall abide by her decision.”

Celia found herself in an unaccustomed position of power. “I feel like Solomon,” she said with a dazed laugh. “Should I slice the gem in two?”

“No!” Two female voices united in agony.

“Shall I keep it to wear?”

Tarquin considered the matter with mock gravity. “I do not believe rubies are the best gems for your coloring. You could sell it and buy emeralds instead.”

“Now we’re getting down to business,” said the duchess. “I’ve offered her thirty thousand.”

“Paltry. The stone is worth twice that at auction. I’d be glad to conduct the sale on your behalf, Miss Seaton. Countess, what is your bid?”

“Fifty thousand, and not a penny more,” snapped the duchess before Julia could speak.

They all looked at the latter, who walked around the edge of the pit and placed her arm on Celia’s. “You know why I need the jewel,” she said softly.

“Make your best offer, then,” Tarquin said. “Didn’t Count Czerny leave you wealthy?”

“He left me virtually penniless.”

He looked down his nose at her in his most Tarquin-ish manner. “That’s something you have in common with Celia. Her father left her with nothing. So did her guardian. And you are asking her to give up her only asset.”

“Fifty thousand,” repeated the duchess. “And my patronage. With such a fortune and my support you could marry anyone.”

There was only one person Celia wanted to marry. With fifty thousand pounds she wouldn’t come to Tarquin a penniless nobody. She had a dazzling vision of herself as an heiress once more, as she had been during her London season, only with better connections and better clothes.

“Celia.” There was no mistaking the entreaty in the countess’s voice. For the first time in their acquaintance Julia Czerny sounded less than confident. Perhaps it was the yellow light of the lantern, but the polished beauty looked haggard and ten years older. “I can’t equal that offer.” She bit her lip. “My God, I can’t come near it. I am throwing myself on your mercy.”

Celia looked at each of the women, the duchess glaring like a power-mad parrot, the countess pale and pleading, then at Tarquin. She tried to read his face. She knew he had no love for his aunt, but did he favor Julia?

“What shall I do?” she asked. “What do
you
think I should do?”

“I think it’s entirely up to you, my dear.”

She thought about the Mysore ruby, the legendary gem that Tarquin must have retrieved from the rattle. She wondered what it looked like, this famous treasure that had caused so much trouble. Incredible that she’d been carrying it with her ever since her father had packed her off to Madras. What an insane risk he’d taken, hiding it in an unused child’s toy. Despite the rattle’s sentimental value to her, she could have lost it a dozen times. Of course, he’d expected to join her within a day or two, had never thought his theft of the jewel would prove fatal. His greed had cost him his life and it had cost Celia her family, not just her father but her father’s other family.

Suddenly she wanted no part of it. To profit from her father’s crime seemed sordid. The vision of riches melted away, but after all, she was no worse off than she had been.

She took Julia’s hands and smiled at her. “The ruby is yours by right. Tarquin shall return it to you.”

He nodded with a grim smile.

Chapter 31

When it comes to a book, the good bits are always worth reading again.

B
lakeney, together with a platoon of servants who had been searching other buildings in the park, arrived before Constantine regained consciousness and hauled him away. Tarquin would have preferred to accompany Celia back to the house, but he needed to lay information with the magistrate against the kidnapper.

He would happily have subjected the Duchess of Amesbury to the same treatment, but he wouldn’t disgrace his uncle. The duke thanked him for his forbearance while looking a little wistful at the notion of his wife in jail. He cheered up when he learned he wouldn’t, after all, have to pony up for the ruby. He even talked about putting his foot down when it came to future purchases.

Tarquin had no opportunity to speak to Celia before it was time to dress for dinner. Never had he found the nightly ritual more tedious. He upset his valet very much by refusing to take an interest in his choice of waistcoat. The man almost burst into tears when Tarquin tied his neck cloth at the first attempt, glanced in the mirror and said “good enough.”

On a sudden whim he hurried to the writing desk in his bedchamber to scribble a note. What was it she said she wanted from him?
Gratitude
. He didn’t entirely understand her need, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t provide it.

“I need a box.”

“A box, sir?”

“Something small. Empty out those cuff buttons.”

“But sir . . .”

“Never mind about them. Just put them somewhere else.”

It was unwise, perhaps, to send Celia the ruby. But he didn’t believe her any longer in danger. Besides he had no intention of letting her sleep alone tonight.

S
he’d never seen a famous ruby, or any other famous gem. Pigeon’s blood, Julia had called the color. Celia wondered idly how the blood of a pigeon differed from that of any other bird. She held it up to the light but it left her curiously uoved. She didn’t regret for a moment that she wasn’t to keep it. Tarquin’s note was much more interesting.

My dear Celia
. How she treasured the endearment.
I am deeply grateful to you for thwarting the duchess, and so is my uncle. T.

She sat at her dressing table while Chantal arranged her hair, pondering his meaning. She’d demanded his gratitude as a necessity for an equitable marriage. Was that what he meant? If so, she’d prefer him to state it with less ambiguity. The single sentence could just reflect his delight in his aunt’s displeasure. The duchess had flung her some very unladylike epithets while they waited for a carriage to carry them the half mile or so from the icehouse to Mandeville House.

The mention of the duke suggested that his sentiment had no very deep meaning, let alone a hidden one. But he did call her “dear.” And he’d done so in the icehouse too. In front of other people.

She wished she had someone to discuss it with, Minerva perhaps. But that rational young lady would no doubt tell her to be direct and just ask Tarquin what he meant. She might know more about parliamentary tactics and the nation’s foreign affairs than any seventeen-year-old on earth, but she’d never been in love. Only one in the throes of that inconvenient passion could understand the wild pendulum swing of her emotions, cleaving her into two personalities.

Sensible Celia wanted Tarquin only if she could be sure their marriage wouldn’t leave her a sad neglected shadow in his godlike glory. Besotted Celia just wanted him, at any time under any conditions.

Where is your pride, girl?
demanded Sensible Celia.
You have no worldly advantages to bring to a union with a man who exemplifies worldliness: no fortune, no family, no beauty.

But he
likes
my looks!
shrieked Besotted Celia, fastening on the only point she could argue with.
Why else would he wish to lie with me?

Because he’s a man and in both cases you were there, and willing. You think he’ll want you forever, when he has the choice of real beauties?

Like Countess Czerny, you mean?

Like Julia.

If he wants her, he should have her. I only want him to be happy.

Wait a minute, just now you said you wanted him under any conditions.

I do! But I want him to have what he wants.

But if we are being sensible we’ll accept his offer because we’ve just whistled away fifty thousand pounds and we have nothing.

I won’t be married for pity.

You’re mad.

And there both sides of Celia, Sensible and Besotted, agreed. Quite, quite mad in the head.

There was also the unseemly physical effect Tarquin had on her. When he was in a room she was struck down with a strange kind of partial blindness by which everyone else faded into a blurred grisaille compared to Tarquin’s vividly etched presence. The affliction was getting worse. Just the thought of him now had her hot and bothered.

The second package arrived as Chantal prepared her for bed, after a long tedious evening playing charades in which they’d been on separate teams and had hardly a chance to exchange a word.

It contained a book, a very familiar volume. A strip of paper marked a particular page.
I fear there may be a rat in your room
. She read the passage, one that had been recommended by Minerva, she recalled.

Apparently charades weren’t over for the night.

H
e entered her room to find her seated on a pillow on the floor with her back to the door. The room was well lit by four candles. The scene was, after all, supposed to take place in broad daylight on a river bank. Some of his best moments with Celia had taken place next to running water. Though unfortunately covering her legs, her simple nightgown was quite reminiscent of a fondly remembered shift.

“May I sit with you,
madame
?” She nodded without looking up and waved him down onto another cushion, placed on the floor beside her own. Her nose was buried in a small octavo volume covered with a paper wrapper. He tilted his head to examine it. “Pray tell me, what are you studying so assiduously? A work of piety, no doubt.”

Naughty eyes met his over the top of the open book. “What else, sir?” She showed him the wrapper on which she’d written in ink “Fordyce’s Sermons.” A nice embellishment. His Celia had imagination as well as a sense of fun. He silently commended her success in suppressing her laughter and only hoped he could match her restraint. She’d made quite an impression that evening at charades, displaying a thespian talent he should have suspected. It had given him the idea for the little drama they now enacted.

Damn it, he loved that she’d understood his suggestive note.

He removed the book from her hands and arched away in mock indignation. “You, madam, are a hypocrite. Why, these are no sermons! This is that notorious work of depravity,
The Memoirs of a Lady of Pleasure
by Mr. John Cleland.”

Celia buried her face in her hands. “Alas! I am discovered.”

“And I took you for a lady of virtue!”

“I am so ashamed!” And, just like the pious widow in Featherbrain’s memoirs, she shifted to a kneeling position and buried her face in her cushion. “Alack, sir!” she moaned. “I cannot look at you.”

The sight of her well-formed rump drove away the urge to laugh. Dropping to his knees behind her he stroked the taut linen-covered cheeks then pressed a hand between her thighs. Heat and wetness told him she was as excited as he. She might be able to control a laugh, but a happy little gasp escaped her. With a big grin he reached under the skirt and walked his fingers up her long, strong, shapely limbs.

Zeus, but he loved her legs.

“Oh, sir!” she cried. “What has happened?”

“Do you feel something crawling up your legs?”

She emitted a muted but most convincing shriek. “Yes! For heavens sake, what is it?”

“I saw a big water rat escape from the river and I fear it’s hiding in your skirts. I think I’d better take a look.”

Alas, once he got his head under her skirts his recollection of the prescribed scene unraveled. Her smooth skin touching his face, the heat and musky scent of her sex sent his senses swimming and his brain sailing off into the ether. A particularly luscious piece of inner thigh being offered to his mouth, he licked and sucked on it.

“The rat bit me!”

That she could still remember elements of the playbook, even when delivered in a squeak, told him she wasn’t yet as crazed as he. He’d have to see about that. With a little vigorous rearrangement he had Celia on her back, gasping with delight as she succumbed to the ministrations of his mouth.

“O
h lord,” Celia sighed happily. He kept two fingers inside her and she could feel herself continue to convulse around them. “Francis Featherbrain never did that.”

“Francis Featherbrain was an idiot.” His face lay on her belly and the movement of his mouth tickled. “Also fictional. I am real and therefore my repertoire is unlimited.”

“But Tarquin,” she began, enjoying her prerogative to toy with his short silky hair. Then she became distracted tracing his ears with her fingers. She’d never noticed how beautiful they were, just the right size for his head, the whorls neat and even.

“What?”

“We didn’t finish the bit with the rat. I want to see how the scene ends.”

His head popped up with conspicuous speed. “I’m ready if you are. Do you mind if we omit some of the dialogue?”

“It was rather long.”

“And very badly written.”

“In this particular work of literature . . .” the word drew a snort from him “ . . . the plot surpassed the quality of the prose.”

She pushed him off and returned to her previous position on knees and elbows. “You can go hunting under my skirts anytime,” she said, giving her rear a provocative wriggle.

Her grateful ears detected the rustle of discarded garments. When he pushed up her nightgown and enveloped her from behind she quivered at the touch of warm skin, the rasp of his chest hair on her back, his hard cock pressing against her bottom. Already she ached for its entrance and pushed back against the rock hard muscle. But in addition to the physical excitement generated by the silly, titillating game, her leaping heart answered the strength and protection of his powerful body.

Two other times he’d held her from behind against his chest: ducking on the hillside, hidden by a boulder, when they first escaped from the cottage, and in the loft in Joe’s barn. And each time she’d been safe in his arms, she realized, even the first time when he was half out of his mind from a blow to the head and she was filled with anger at everyone in the world, including him. Whether Terence Fish or Tarquin Compton, and despite the fact he had every reason to dislike and distrust her, he’d never once let her down. A dozen times over the past weeks he could have washed his hands of Celia Seaton, and more than a few times he’d wished to, she knew. But he’d stayed and met his slender obligation to her without flinching, and she had grown to expect it.

She had not been nearly as frightened as she should have been in the icehouse that afternoon. In the depths of her heart she’d known Tarquin would come for her.

Heat welled behind her eyes. Giving an incoherent keen, half laugh and half sob, she reached clumsy arms back to grab hold of a thigh, a handful of buttock, to pull him closer, to embrace the only person in the world who hadn’t failed her. And lost her balance to land ungracefully splayed on the cushions, more laughing than crying. She managed to roll over and throw her arms about his shoulders and neck and tug him close as though to never let him go. “Make love to me, Tarquin,” she whispered fiercely. “Love me.”

His expression took her breath away and made her feel beautiful. Waiting tears escaped at the sight of such eager tenderness. He kissed away a trickle that damped her cheek.

“You are crying,” he whispered. “Why?”

Not knowing how to explain her feelings, or whether it was wise to do so, she shook her head and pulled his head down to hers. Since he was, as she had learned, easily distracted by physical advances, she took control of the kiss, drawing him in, sucking on his tongue, devouring him. He gave up asking questions and kissed her back until the distinction between his mouth, his taste, and hers blurred and she felt as close to him as she had to any living soul. When at last he entered her, through her spiraling frenzy of excitement she felt a never-experienced peace, like a weary traveler who tops the crest of a hill and sees the road home. And her climax, when it came, was an earthy echo of the sentiment.

Afterward they lay on the carpet, Tarquin on his side propped up on his elbow. With his other hand he finger-combed her hair, spreading it over her pillow with absorbed concentration.