A Rake’s Guide to Seduction (14 page)

But now Celia wanted to keep her secrets secret. She didn’t want her mother to know about her mysterious correspondent. If it were just any man, she wouldn’t want her mother to know, simply to prevent any attempts at matchmaking. In this case, though, Celia was certain her mother would cause even more trouble, because she was certain her mother wouldn’t approve of the gentleman—whom Celia was quite sure was Anthony Hamilton.

She had no proof, but the feeling grew stronger with every note. She couldn’t imagine those words coming from any other gentleman at the party. Every conversation they had made her realize she felt more at ease with him than with anyone else. He was the first person she had really told about her marriage—intimate details like the lack of children and her own guilt over that—and never once had she regretted opening her heart to him. And no one had been a better comfort to her when the guests had started to suffocate her, when she had felt so alone and isolated from them. Isolated from them all, except from him, she amended. Never once had she been sorry when he approached her, or wished he would go away and leave her alone. No one else could make her laugh like he did; no one else seemed to be able to read her mood as he did.

The anonymous notes had been something else. They had quickly gone from romantic drivel to heartfelt letters revealing an understanding and sensibility that she had never seen in another man. Only Anthony, she was quite sure, would have written such things to her and taken pains not to reveal himself. And Celia had not pressed the matter, content to enjoy the exchange on its own merits.

Now her mother was alerted, though. Celia foresaw an endless parade of gentlemen seated next to her, introduced to her, matched with her at cards, all while Rosalind watched with the keen eye of a general. Her mother wouldn’t be able to resist. Celia hadn’t enjoyed it thus far, and she didn’t want to endure any more of it. She would have to find out, for absolute certain, who was writing her those notes, and she’d have to do it before her mother found out. Agnes was already sworn to secrecy, but Celia would speak to her again and make clear she wasn’t to tell even the dowager duchess. Celia thought her mother wouldn’t dare to question the guests’ servants, but she should probably discover which of the Exeter servants knew.

Then she would just have to persuade her mystery man to meet her face to face. If she were wrong, and it was not Anthony, she would be in a terrible position. She didn’t want it to be anyone other than Anthony, so her impulse was to tell him to stop…and yet, the notes themselves compelled her not to. Celia tucked that worry into the back of her mind. It would be Anthony. She was sure of it.

She just had to get him to admit it.

Franklin held out the small folded note as soon as he entered his room to dress for dinner that night. As the frequency of his correspondence with Celia increased, Anthony had instructed Franklin to watch for any messages for him in the kitchen. He still left his messages for Celia on the long trestle table, and hers appeared there for him. Anthony took the note, his mood buoyed as always, and tore it open at once.

The message inside, though, punctured his cheer. He read it twice before believing what it said.
If you are truly my friend, meet me tonight,
she wrote.
After dinner, in the library. I shall wait for you there.

Bloody, bloody hell. Of course he couldn’t go.

Anthony dropped the note on the writing desk and let Franklin help him out of his jacket. All he had to do was write and plead timidity. He was too shy to meet her, he could say, and what could she do then? He stripped off his waistcoat with too much force, and a button flew off and rolled across the floor. He tossed the coat at Franklin and strode to the window, hands on his hips.

Meet her. The last thing, and the only thing, he wanted to do. Why did she want to meet him? Had his words touched her heart? Or did she merely want to know who was writing them? Had she tired of the exercise and wished to put an end to it, or did she have some other intent?

Of course he couldn’t go.

This had gotten out of hand. He had only meant to send her a few flowery notes to pique her feminine pride and revive her joie de vivre. It surely would have worked on most women, without the need for anything else. Anthony didn’t feel he was vain to think he knew what women liked. But somehow he had poured out his heart to her, the woman he couldn’t have but had wanted for years, the girl who had no thought of him but as a brotherly friend. He had revealed himself, all right; the only mystery left was his name.

But if he went, she would know. If he claimed he had only written to make her feel happier, she would feel deceived, and rightly so. If he admitted he had meant every word…then she would know he had meant every word. The best choice was to stay away and avoid both possibilities.

He tucked her note into his writing desk with the others and went back to dressing for dinner.

Dinner that night seemed to last an age. Celia could hardly eat from the fluttering of her stomach. She sipped her wine and tried to pay attention to the conversation around her, all the while trying to steal glances at Anthony to see if he, too, suffered from the same anxious anticipation she did.

He didn’t, as far as she could tell. That only made her stomach lurch more. Celia was sure, quite sure, he was the man, but if…just perchance…she were wrong, she ought to be prepared. If Mr. Picton-Lewis appeared, or Mr. Childress, or even Lord William, she would thank him politely, she decided, and tell him they must stop writing to each other. Anything he wished to say to her from now on must be said openly. Not that she wanted any of them to declare themselves openly, but at least she could refuse them just as openly.

But it would not be one of them, she assured herself. Anthony would come to the library. She knew it.

Finally dinner ended, and the ladies went to the drawing room. Mama proposed a musical evening and began soliciting the other ladies to sing and play. Celia tried not to fidget. It suited her very well for everyone to be engaged in the drawing room listening to an impromptu concert, but she had to leave before her nerves snapped. When her mother turned to her, looking hopeful, Celia shook her head.

“No, Mama.”

“Very well. Would you sit with me, then?” Rosalind took her hand, still smiling fondly.

“No, Mama.” Celia placed one hand against her stomach to hide its nervous trembling. “I feel a bit unwell. I was thinking to retire early.”

Concern filled her mother’s face. She took Celia’s chin in her hand and scrutinized her. “Oh dear. You are a bit pale. And you didn’t eat much at dinner.”

“I am sure I shall be fine.” Celia managed a weak smile. Her mother nodded and released her.

“Good night, then. I shall make your excuses.”

On shaking legs Celia left the drawing room. The gentlemen were still at the table, sharing their port. Once assured the corridor was empty, Celia picked up her skirts and ran to the library.

It was empty, and very dark after the brightness of the drawing room. Celia walked slowly into the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The tall French windows let in the weak moonlight; most of the drapes had been drawn, and even after several minutes, she could still hardly see anything. Perfect. She moved farther into the room, trying to calm her nerves. She had never seduced a man, nor had one seduced her. Was this a suitable place for a seduction, even? She swallowed a nervous laugh at her own wondering. Perhaps no one would be seduced tonight. Perhaps it would end up an awkward meeting. Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all for some reason. She would feel a complete fool, sitting here waiting all night.

Behind her the door swung open, then closed with a gentle click. Celia held her breath, her heart suddenly hammering so hard she had to grip the chair to steady herself.
Please,
she begged Fate silently,
please…

For a moment there was silence. Then a soft footstep, followed by another.

And she knew. Just from that step, and the change in the air around her, she knew. Her trembling vanished; her heart seemed to pause, and then begin beating with hard, slow pulses of excitement. She closed her eyes and thought,
Thank heaven.
And a small smile curled her lips.

When he first stepped into the library, Anthony couldn’t see anything. The room was pitch dark, and for a moment he thought she had changed her mind and not come. It was almost a relief; he had worried all through dinner, covertly watching Celia pick at her meal in silence and wondering what she was thinking. Anthony was just as happy to go on as they were, unknown and unseen. From the solitude of his chamber he could say what he felt, bold in obscurity. He had finally come tonight after deciding, reluctantly, that keeping his secret wasn’t fair. She deserved to know—and reject him, if she wished.

A whiff of lemons gave away her presence. He walked slowly into the room and could see her now. She took a step toward him, her blond curls and pale gown just barely visible. The weak moonlight limned her figure in silver, the slope of her bared shoulder, the curves of her bosom, the sweep of her skirts as she moved. A surge of pure, unalloyed desire rolled over him, nearly obliterating his more honorable urges. His breath felt sharp and hot in his chest; this had been a mistake, just as he had told himself every step of the way to the library. Now he was like a man picking his way through a burning forest blindfolded. One wrong step and he would be consumed. But was the wrong step forward, or backward?

“You came.” She sounded pleased.

Or possibly surprised.

He swallowed. “I should not have.” Instinctively he made his voice lower and rougher, clinging to anonymity.

“I’m glad,” she said at the same time. She took another step toward him, her skirts rustling.

He made an odd noise, trying to force a chuckle through his dry throat. “Don’t be.”

“But I wanted you to come.”

“You shouldn’t.” His voice was almost a croak. Stay back, he wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t, and she kept walking, one slow, tantalizing step after another around the wide map table, until finally she was right before him, only an arm’s length away.

“Why not?” she whispered. It took him a moment to think what she meant.

“We should light the lamps,” he said instead. “This isn’t…prudent…”

“What is prudence, but cowardice seeking to justify itself?” She closed the final distance between them and laid her hand on his chest.

He wanted only this, he thought numbly. He wanted only a touch—a single touch—to bring him to his knees. In all the years he had known her, he had never once touched her except very properly on the hand, on the elbow, and once on the back, when he had helped her into a carriage. His fingers cramped as he clenched his hand into a fist, trying to resist. She didn’t know it was he, here alone in the dark with her. He shouldn’t take advantage of her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Don’t you want me?” She inched even closer. “Don’t you want me as I want you?”

“Celia, you don’t know what you’re doing,” he began to say, but she interrupted.

“I know enough.” She tilted back her head to look up at him, a movement he felt more than saw. His face must be as indistinct to her as hers was to him. Not that Anthony needed light to know every line of her face. “But I shall leave if you don’t want me to stay.”

Anthony closed his mouth; those words he couldn’t say. He had spent too long trying to convince himself he didn’t want her, and been too unsuccessful at it. At best, he could bury the feeling deep inside himself. He could control his actions far better than his feelings, and in the bright light of day he would never have allowed things to progress this far. He wasn’t sure she knew it was he. If she were here with him now because she thought he was someone else—if he did as she was tempting him to do, and as his body was burning for him to do—he could destroy a friendship he had valued for years and consign himself to eternal misery.

“Celia,” he rasped, clinging to his sanity and honor with great difficulty, “I must tell you—”

“I know who you are,” she whispered. “I’ve known for some time, Anthony.”

His name fell like an absolution on his ears. She knew. There were still reasons why he shouldn’t do this—many, many reasons—but they fell aside under the weight of those words and the others she had said:
as I want you.

Slowly, reverently, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, once, twice. She stood quietly, her face raised to his, her hand still on his chest. He raised his hands and caressed her cheeks, then trailed one hand down the back of her neck, a feathery touch that made her lips part in a silent gasp against his. He deepened the kiss just a little, wanting to savor every moment, every bit of her.

Her hands slid up his chest, around his neck. She tugged, pulling him closer. Anthony let his fingers continue to drift, down the slope of her shoulder, still amazed to find himself here with her. But Celia made a soft, contented noise in her throat and pressed against him. After a moment’s surprise, Anthony gathered her into his arms and held her snug against him. Oh, Lord, she felt so good. So right.

All Celia’s thoughts and worries about who might seduce whom evaporated as he held her. There were no fears left, only a deep certainty that this was
right.
She felt alive again, finally, vitally, fully alive in Anthony’s arms. Desire radiated off him, for all his touch was still gentle and slow. She ran her fingers over the nape of his neck, openly exploring. The muscles of his shoulders tensed as she combed her fingertips through his crisp chestnut hair. He broke off the kiss to whisper her name as he dropped faint little kisses across her forehead. “Yes,” she said on a sigh. “Oh, yes. Kiss me again.”

He didn’t say anything, but his breathing deepened. She knew he had heard. His mouth returned to hers, hungrier, more demanding. The last traces of melancholy and hesitation burned away under the heat of Anthony’s kiss. For a moment, it occurred to her to wonder just how long he had wanted her this way and why she had never known it before, but then the dam seemed to break. His arms tightened around her, molding her against him. Celia gave a little moan of delight. She wanted him. It was a hot, urgent need within her, to hold him, touch him, kiss him. It was Anthony, the man who made her laugh, who now made her burn. She had never felt it this urgently before but knew it at once for what it was: desire.

What began tentatively quickly grew more heated. It was almost as if he could read her thoughts; no sooner did Celia begin to wish he would touch her than he did. She pushed at his clothing as if it were a barrier between them. He pulled his arms free of his jacket, letting it fall. She unbuttoned his waistcoat and slid her hands beneath it, marveling at how warm and solid he was.

While she worked at his clothing, he was doing the same to hers, loosening her bodice until it gaped above her corset. With wordless murmurs, he bent her back over his arm to trace his fingertips over the exposed mounds of her breasts. Celia shivered, and he sucked in his breath before ducking his head and pressing his lips to her cleavage.

Celia threw back her head and clutched him to her. Her skin seemed to prickle and tingle all over as he trailed soft little kisses across her bosom. His hands pressed and gripped her lower back, rhythmically pulling her body higher and tighter against his until she was almost on her toes, breathless and dizzy and barely able to stand.

His hands slid down, over her waist and hips, and then lifted her, setting her on the edge of the table she had forgotten was behind her. There he paused, resting his cheek on her shoulder, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his hands still around her bottom. Celia wiggled toward the edge of the table, parting her legs and trying to hold him closer. She desperately wanted to feel his body pressed full-length against hers, and whimpered as he shifted.

He lifted his head. It was too dark to see his expression, but Celia could almost feel his emotion: he wanted her, but he was holding back. He wasn’t sure. He was waiting for her to decide. Celia had no qualms or hesitation. She slid her hand to the back of his neck and pulled his lips back to hers.

Anthony felt strangely unbound as he kissed her again. He had tried to fight against his desire for her, and she refused to cooperate, only tempting him more by wiggling against him, sighing against his mouth, pulling at his clothing. Now he gave in to the desire. She wanted him to make love to her, and he could no longer remember why he shouldn’t.

With a light touch he whisked up the skirts of her gown, gliding his palm over her silk-covered leg. She lifted her knees beside his waist, panting softly in encouragement. He untied her garter, slipping the stocking down. His hand was warm against her bare skin as he hiked her knee higher, until she could put her leg around his waist. He pulled her almost off the table, until her hips were just perched on the edge. Celia nearly lost her balance, tipping backward, and only keeping herself upright by clutching at his shoulders.