Read A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Online
Authors: Caroline Linden
The duke nodded. “She has.”
“Right.” For a moment he just sat there, trying to absorb it. Anthony had always known she might not want him and had braced himself for rejection. On a mad impulse he almost asked if he could still approach her, just to know if she might have accepted this other fellow only because he, Anthony, hadn’t asked her—and if she might change her mind.
But no. Celia was too honest to do that. If she had accepted someone, it must only be because she wanted to marry him. She had surely never had a thought of Anthony Hamilton, debauched rake and notorious gambler. He was not only too late, he had never had a chance in the first place. “Of course,” he murmured at last. “I wish her very happy.”
Exeter inclined his head. “I am sorry.”
“No,” said Anthony. “There is no need to be.” He forced a gruesome smile. “I hope you won’t tell her of…this. She is kindhearted enough, she might feel sorry as well.” He paused. “I do not want her pity.”
“I shall keep your confidence,” said the duke with a slightly more sympathetic expression.
“Thank you.” Belatedly Anthony realized he had no more reason to stay, and got stiffly to his feet. His muscles, which had been so tense and tight when he walked into the room, hadn’t yet relaxed. He cleared his throat, but there was nothing more to say. He bowed and murmured a farewell, and left.
Exeter House had come to life in the short time he’d been in the duke’s study. Anthony followed the corridor toward the soaring main hall, passed by servants bustling back and forth with baskets of flowers. He heard his name and turned to see David Reece striding down the hall toward him.
“I say, Hamilton, finally tracked Marcus down, eh?”
“Yes.” He had to say something else before David started asking again what he’d had to discuss with the duke. “I didn’t realize the house was being turned upside down.”
David grimaced. “A ball. The ladies are making wreaths or bouquets, I’m not certain which.” He gestured toward an open door some way down the passage. Slowly, Anthony walked forward, just until he could see the interior.
She was sitting on a sofa with a small mountain of roses in front of her. The morning sunlight streaming in the windows behind her made her curls shine like gold, and pink and yellow petals littered her pale green skirts as she tied the blooms into small bunches. She looked like a Botticelli goddess, and just as attainable.
Behind him, David was still talking. “…after the wedding, of course. Rosalind is already determined it shall be the event of the Season.”
“What?” asked Anthony, tearing his eyes off Celia. “What did you say?”
“Celia’s to wed young Bertram,” repeated David. “Young scamp. A bit dodgy, in my opinion, but my stepmother has declared Celia shall marry whom she chooses, and for some reason she’s chosen him. Not even Marcus can deny her.”
“Indeed,” murmured Anthony. His gaze strayed back to Celia, still laughing merrily with the other ladies in the room. She looked blissfully happy—in love, he thought with a quiet sigh.
“Did you conclude your business with Marcus?” David interrupted his thoughts.
“Er—yes.” Anthony roused himself. He heartily hoped the duke wouldn’t tell a soul what they had discussed.
“And did he have the answer to your question?” David probed.
“Yes,” Anthony murmured. There was another burst of female laughter and Celia blushed, from obvious pleasure. His throat felt dry. “It was a trivial matter. Nothing of significance.”
“Ah. I see.” David eyed him for a moment. “Well, I’ve some fine colts this year. Perhaps you’d care to see them, perhaps take one.” David had become rather domesticated of late, since he married. He was setting up a stable with offspring from some of the finest horseflesh in England. If Anthony could have afforded a horse, he would have been severely tempted.
“Perhaps,” he said instead. Very few people knew of his financial circumstances, and David Reece did not need to be one of them. For all that Reece was a capital fellow and an old friend, Anthony had too much pride to tell him. He had only revealed it to Exeter out of necessity, and look what it had gotten him: nothing.
He bade David farewell and left. The afternoon air hit him in the face, suffocatingly warm. For a moment he lingered on the steps of Exeter House. He hadn’t realized until this moment, as he walked out of her home for possibly the last time, how much he had hoped…
But perhaps this was best. Who was he, after all, to aspire to her? There was a reason he had never before let himself think of her in that way, and the soundness of that reason had just been driven home. He was not the man she loved, or ever would love. He was just a friend of her brother’s, and she had never thought of him as anything else. He would survive it. He had survived many other disappointments in his life.
Anthony drew a deep, resolute breath and walked down the steps without a backward glance.
The Journal of
Lady Celia Reece
Given with Love and
Affection on the
Occasion of her Marriage
by her loving Mother
June 1819
Tomorrow is my wedding day—at last! It seems a year at least since my dear betrothed husband-to-be went down on his knee and asked me to be his wife, although it has really been less than two months. I feel I am the luckiest girl in London, to be the bride of a gentleman of such manners, such charm, such dash! Many young ladies hoped for nothing more than a smile from him. And yet he chose me! So romantically, too. I feel I ought to record every detail of his courtship, to tell our children some day. That is in fact why Mama has given me this journal. She says a girl should have a place to save such happy memories, and I do long to. But oh—there is no time tonight! Suffice to say—for now—that no gentleman was ever more devoted than my beloved has been. He has quite spoiled me with his affection and regard, with poetry and flowers and such attentions as have made me the envy of every unmarried lady in London, and no doubt some of the married ladies as well! I cannot wait for everyone to see my gown. It is surely the most beautiful gown ever made, of blue French silk with seed pearls on the bodice and a great quantity of lace. I shall wear Mama’s lace mantua over my hair, and the loveliest satin slippers—they are cunningly embellished with glass beads in the design of the lilies I shall carry. I am certain my entire ensemble shall be copied all over England.
I must to bed—in a mere ten hours, I shall be Lady Andrew Bertram!
June 1819
It is so lovely to be married. We have journeyed to the Lake District for our wedding trip. Although Bertie is not much interested in the scenery for himself, he has squired me about so devotedly. When I got a blister on my foot, he swept me into his arms and carried me back to the inn! We have had lovely picnics and romantic strolls, and he has read poetry to me. It seems impossible, but I am more in love than ever.
July 1819
Our first night in our new home, Kenlington Abbey. It is nothing like Ainsley Park. It is much older and used to be a monastery. At first glance it’s a bit imposing and even intimidating, with none of the cheery comforts Mama has installed at Ainsley. Perhaps that is to be expected, though, as Bertie’s mother died when he was a child and there has been no mistress at Kenlington since. I confess, I am cowed at the thought of having charge of such a place, but I shall do my best.
Bertie told me some of the history as we traveled, although he admitted he was not a great scholar of family history, as his father is. Every Lansborough heir for three hundred years has been born at Kenlington. I shiver to think I shall be part of that history. And perhaps soon—dear Bertie has been so attentive, and we are only a month married!
August 1819
A dinner party this night, with all the local families of standing invited. Lord L. is very conscious of standing; he never introduced me but as “the duke of Exeter’s sister.” I suppose that is to show how advantageous the match is for Bertie, but I do wish he would stop. I long to meet new friends and wouldn’t want people to think me too proud.
(later)
An odd night. Of all the guests, only the Misses Blacke seemed particularly friendly. They are two spinster sisters who live near Keswick and are of great good humor and spirits. Squire and Lady Melton were also very kind, as were the other guests, but they were mostly of an age with Lord L. There were two single gentlemen as well, particular friends of Bertie’s. Bertie was in high spirits all evening and is still below with Sir
Owen Henry and Mr. William Cane. I had hoped to meet more young ladies, or really any ladies, but I suppose there will be many more opportunities. Jane Melvill has written twice already, and I miss her.
September 1819
A quiet evening at home. Bertie walked out this morning with Sir Owen and Mr. Cane to hunt. Lord L. discouraged me from going with them because he fears for my health, that as I am not accustomed to the northern weather, I may take cold. It is no secret Lord L. wishes for an heir as soon as Bertie and I can manage one. Bertie is his only child, and the last of the Lansborough line at the moment. On our wedding day, he kissed my forehead and asked only that I present him with a grandson before he dies. I am certainly trying my best, but I would still like to walk out from time to time, even if the weather is not as fine as in Kent.
September 1819
A wretched day. Bertie and I argued. I wished to walk into town today, as much for the exercise and fresh air as to explore Keswick. Bertie refused to accompany me, as he had already made plans to fish with Mr. Cane. Lord L. encouraged him to walk with me, as it is quite a long way and Lord L. was afraid I might become lost or not be up to the walk. He is still very solicitous of my health, but Kenlington is too dull for words. No one comes to call, and there are few assemblies. Even a country dance would lift my spirits.
But Bertie would not accompany me. He said it would be rude to tell Mr. Cane he could not fish after all. Perhaps I ought to have been more considerate when he had already made an engagement, but I have no friends in the country to call on, and Bertie is perfectly aware that I spend most of my days at home. It did not seem such a terrible thing to ask of him. I am certain Marcus does not neglect Hannah so, nor David, Vivian.
Late September 1819
Bertie took me into town today to make up for not taking me the other day. We have rarely been alone together, and it was such
a long walk into town, one might have thought we had never spoken to each other in our lives! He confided to me that he does not much care for Cumberland, and that is why he has been so out of sorts. Cumberland, for all that it is beautiful in its own way, is a harsher land than Kent, and perhaps this explains Bertie’s restlessness of late. Still, we had a lovely walk and he even composed some poetry on the way, although very poor verse—so poor we laughed until our stomachs hurt.
In town we met a number of people. We stopped for tea with another newly married couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Winslow. Mr. Winslow, who has just been ordained, grew up in Keswick, and he and Bertie knew each other well. Mrs. Winslow was quite engaging as well, and I should like to know her better, but they are moving house to Mr. Winslow’s new parish in Derbyshire soon.
November 1819
A letter from Mama and one from Jane. I am becoming quite a correspondent of late! Mama has invited us to Ainsley Park for the New Year, but Lord L. does not wish us to go. He still hopes for an heir soon and has quite a dislike of travel. He said I may invite Mama to Kenlington next year, if I wish, and I suppose that must do.
Jane asks when we plan to journey to London again. Bertie is as pleased as I am about returning to London in the spring. It will be so splendid to attend balls and the theater together!
January 1820
I am very dismal today. We are not to spend the Season in London after all. Lord L. has developed a rheumatism and is confined to a chair. The doctor says he must not travel for several months. Lord L. said that he cannot do without us, and he does not want us to go to London. I was quite upset, not just from the loss of London’s entertainments but because I shall miss seeing Marcus and Hannah as well. Mama writes that Hannah will have a child before the year is out—I did not tell Bertie or Lord L. this, though. We still have no prospect of a child, despite diligent efforts.
I asked Bertie to ask his father again about the Season, but
he will not. I know he is unhappy, though, for he has gone to the pub in Keswick with Sir Owen and likely won’t be back before dawn.
February 1820
Oh, horror. After dinner, Lord L. asked me to read to him. His eyes are growing weaker, and he takes great pleasure in my voice, he tells me. I dutifully read for an hour, and then—I don’t know what came over me—I asked if we might go to London for the Season.
“No, my dear. I explained it to Bertie,” he told me. “Your life, and his, will be here. You must learn your roles as master and mistress. You are both needed here, and it will be good for Bertie to settle down a bit.”
“But Bertie had been in the habit of attending the Season,” I dared to say. “And what of Parliament?”
“Bertie needed to find a wife—and a fine job he did, too. When he is Lansborough, he will be in London for Parliament and you may travel to London every spring. With my poor health, I am unable to do as much as before, and Bertie must begin to take over Kenlington, which he cannot do from London. I hope it is not too distressing to you, my dear. Next year you will take the
ton
by storm, I am certain.”
He cannot go because he is in poor health, and he does not want Bertie and me to go, either. I do not think life at Kenlington is so very complicated that we must spend every day of the year studying it. Bertie shows no interest in the estate and spends as little time as possible here, despite Lord L.’s admonishments. If only Bertie would stay in at nights more! He is out until dawn nearly every day now. I think he is as bored as I, but he prefers to spend his time elsewhere. I believe we might amuse ourselves well enough together, but apart it is terribly quiet and lonely.
May 1820
A dreadful disappointment. We were to dine tonight at the Meltons’, but a fearsome rainstorm sprang up. Bertie declared he would go after all and not spend the night at home,
even though his father begged him not to venture out. He persisted and went, but Lord L. and I stayed home, as it was quite fierce out.
I wonder that Bertie was so anxious to be out; he has not spent above ten days together here in the last month. His father’s health has begun to decline of late, and he worries about Bertie worse than ever. I do wish Bertie would make more of an effort to handle more of Kenlington business, and spare Lord L. so he might recover.
May 1820
Bertie has not returned from the Meltons’ these four days. He sent word that a party of guests from Oxfordshire was also detained, and as they were excellent company he found it gratifying to stay.
It is rather disappointing that
my
company is not so desirable to him.
June 1820
Bertie came home in high spirits. He is never so happy as in the company of good friends. His father, however, has taken very ill, and there was quite a row.
I have always tried to be as comforting and loyal after Bertie argues with his father, but in this, I confess, his father has a good point. Bertie
ought
to spend more time at Kenlington, not less. Bertie thought I was disloyal for saying so. Is it not my place to speak my mind? I had thought we could speak freely to each other, but Bertie seemed to resent it.
August 1820
A letter from Mama today. She writes of Marcus’s newborn son, who will be christened Thomas. Lord L. expressed joy and bade me send his felicitations, but afterward he appeared tired and sad, and retired early. Bertie said I ought not to have told his father. When I said I should like to make a visit to see the child and the rest of the family, Bertie said it would only stir up trouble with his father, and perhaps he is right. I do not wish to bring any more despair upon Lord L., who longs so
desperately for a grandson. Bertie said I may write Hannah and Marcus, and send a gift.
I do hope we shall attend the Season in London next year.
December 1820
A quiet Christmastide at Kenlington. Mama was to come, but a bad cold kept her home until the roads were too dangerous to travel.
She hints in her letter at my condition. No doubt she wonders why a year and a half of marriage has produced no child. I cannot tell her the answer, that Bertie would rather spend his evenings drinking at the Black Bull in Keswick than doing anything with me. I fear his father’s constant prodding and prompting about an heir has given Bertie a disgust of the whole business. So long as his father tries to push him into my bed, Bertie runs the other way—leaving me to tell his father every month that I am not expecting. Until we have a child, Lord L. will keep at Bertie, and Bertie will seek other society so long as his father hounds him. What a dreadful muddle.
Bertie does not shun me altogether; it is a bit worrisome that we have not been blessed. Perhaps a child would revive Bertie’s devotion, as well as give me something to fill the hours of the day.
February 1821
Mama sent me a packet of all the latest fashions. She wonders why we aren’t to be in London this year again. I have replied to her that Lord L. is in poor health and needs my care. That is not completely untrue, but not completely true, either. The truth is that Bertie will not even ask his father’s permission, and without it, we have no funds for a Season.
I am not certain I would enjoy the Season in any event. I fear I’ve grown unfashionably quiet and dull, although I have improved my needlework and read a large number of books.
March 1821
After luncheon today, Lord L. summoned me to his chambers. He gave me a magnificent set of jewels, almost fit to rival
the Exeter pearls. They were Bertie’s mother’s, he explained, and should be mine now.
I thanked him and left. I believe Lord L. begins to feel his mortality, and meant well, but I came back to my room in a dismal mood. I have no place to wear such jewels, here in the wilds of Cumberland.
April 1821
Mama asks if she might make a visit. I have cowardly told her no. She will bring news of Marcus’s son, and that can only grieve Lord L. and annoy Bertie. It seems most things I propose annoy Bertie now, or are not interesting to him.
Before we married, Bertie swore he loved me above all others and that he would adore me forever. Either we disagree on what adoration means, or forever is far shorter than I expected.