A | B | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14A | 14B | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30A | 30B | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41A | 41B | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45A | 45B | 46A | 46B | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56A | 56B | 57

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PART II

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MAY, 1780
RATHBONE HOUSE
LONDON, ENGLAND

WORD OF CELIA’s salón had gone through the ton like fire through a ship’s magazine. When Aunt Harriet quizzed her at luncheon the next day, she dully related only the barest facts of the evening: She gave her thoughts on a book, answered Lord Tavendish’s questions, and swooned. When pressed, she expressed some confusion as to why Lady Grisham would be overset with her, as she had simply done what she had been asked to do.

“I’m sorry, Celia. Did you tell me what book you were giving your thoughts upon?”

“No, Aunt. Fanny Hill.”

“Oh, that—! Oh, what gall that woman has!”

Her aunt clucked in disgust that had she known that, she would have refused the marquess’s order she join him for supper at the admiral’s home.

“Did you accompany her, Marianne?”

“No, Harriet. Lord Tavendish did the honors.”

“And what was he thinking, to allow this, I’d like to know!”

Woman sniffed. “I would be most happy to chaperone for the gehl.”

“No need to put yourself out, Prudence,” Harriet purred viciously.

When Lord Macaroni came ’round to collect Celia and her mother for the evening’s rout, the marchioness interrogated him immediately on that very detail.

“Why, my lady,” he cooed, bending over her hand, “I staged the most humiliating thing for Hestia and her common burgher friend, which is really quite redundant. Did that bit of gossip not reach your ears? Dreadful business with dear Celia. I’ll be shocked if Hestia’s received at all for the rest of the Season.”

“You are too good to her, Tavendish. The admiral should have chosen you.”

“I should not have allowed myself to be outmaneuvered by that damnable Spaniard, rather,” he said, casting a wry glance at Celia. She was hard pressed not to tread his toe or roll her eyes.

Then Tavendish graciously offered to assume the task of being Celia’s escort, caretaker, and guard, relieving the marquess, marchioness, and the sickly baroness of a duty that must be (“to be quite truthful”) burdensome. It was a brilliant plan (of which Elliott seemed to be in no short supply), and made Celia wish she had thought of it. The earl further requested that his judgment be trusted in all things (particularly considering his long friendship with the marquess) and he be allowed to return her to Rathbone House when he saw fit.

This was agreeable to all parties.

“Alas,” Elliott said once he was seated beside Celia in the coach, “we have no time for you to dine properly before we make our appearance at the ball, so I brought you a few bites. I’ll not have you swooning again.”

“God’s bones, Elliott,” she breathed when he gave her a thick slice of bread coated liberally with butter, “you are the most lovely man. I may even be able to forgive your refusal to marry me immediately after meeting me. I would have informed you of my identity had you at least considered it for more than an hour.”

“’Twas more than an hour!” he protested.

She leveled him a stony stare.

“Mayhap no fewer than two hours.”

“You could not have waited one more day.”

“Oh ho, Madam! This is what has you vexed, I see. You have been punishing me for so quickly divesting myself of a simpleton in favor of my lover.”

Celia huffed and applied herself to the food he had brought her while he rummaged in the basket that apparently contained more than a bite.

“You informed your mother as to my identity, I presume?” he asked vaguely while he opened a bottle and handed it to her. “Some time before the opera? That is when her disgust for Lord Macaroni disappeared.”

“Just before, in fact.” She tipped her head back and drank a delicious grog. “Thank you,” she said after tucking the bottle back into the basket. “Mama was bedeviling me concerning my fondness for your licentious lordship, and I bade her be more discerning in her observations. She recognized your eyes.”

“Ah,” he said softly, sliding his palm under hers to bring her hand to his mouth. Celia caught her breath when he pressed his mouth to her knuckles. Those very eyes had her snared, as they had from the moment they had kissed in Sint Eustitius.

“I wanted to kiss you so very desperately that night,” Celia whispered, “there in the box.”

“I knew that,” he murmured, bringing her to him.

He tasted of rum and lime.

They kissed softly, with a surety and knowledge that gave lie to the slight time they had spent together, particularly in this manner. His mouth was firm as he deepened the kiss, his skin warm and smelling slightly of sunshine, his big hand soft on her face where his thumb stroked her cheekbone and brought her closer to him.

Celia’s stomach growled.

Elliott grinned against her mouth. “I should be insulted,” he murmured, pulling away from her. He bent to snatch a wedge of cheese out of the basket. “Your appetite for food trumps your appetite for me.”

Celia grimaced and settled back into the squabs with her cheese and grog. “Aye, I know. I beg your indulgence.”

“I was teasing you,” Elliott said dryly. “My yard is not so demanding when there are more pressing matters at hand, as, for example, the dire condition of your tits.”

She snorted around her bite and grumbled, “Such a romantic.”

The coach came to a halt at the end of a long line of coaches waiting to deposit their occupants at Lord and Lady Weatherly’s front door, and would give Celia more time to partake of the food Elliott had brought her. When he laid his arm across her shoulders, she half turned and rested the entirety of her weight against his side.

“You make a rather comfortable chaise, my lord,” she remarked absently when his arm slid down to lie heavily across her much-diminished bosom, too happy at the moment to be bothered by their situation.

Elliott grunted. “’Tis my purpose in life, to be your chaise.”

They said nothing more as she ate and he stroked her arm. The coach would inch forward at regular intervals until at last—

“There are but three coaches ahead of us, Madam.”

It did not take long for the two of them to put the basket to rights and drink the last of the grog before their coach pulled up and Elliott whisked her out of their conveyance and into the manor. They slowly climbed the stairs to the ballroom, he prancing and she plodding, her hand in the crook of his arm and her eyes on the floor. He flittered and fluttered the entire way until they reached the ballroom.

Once they were announced, Elliott was swarmed with women and men alike, all vying for his attention. She did not have to feign discomfort with this. Though she was used to living cheek by jowl on a ship, she did not do so trussed up in stays, smothered by brocades, silks, and velvets, and burdened by a wig that, should it come loose, would make her a prisoner of war.

She dug her fingertips into Elliott’s heavily brocaded arm, hoping he would feel it, but she need not have worried.

“Come now,” he chirped. “Back away. Shoo. Miss Bancroft needs a bit of room to breathe.” He lowered his voice and intoned, “Her captivity, you know, poor gehl.”

After the people had dispersed, Elliott turned her right around to flitter and flutter his way out of the ballroom, down the staircase, and out the door to the street.

“That was a tidy maneuver,” Celia said wryly.

“And yet it took … ” He consulted his pocket watch. “ … a glass and a half. I’ll assume you’re still hungry.”

“I’ve been hungry for weeks upon weeks,” she grumbled. “These forty-five minutes past were no hardship after your offering.”

It was a perfect evening for a stroll with a lover, and she pressed herself against Elliott while they leisurely made their way the two blocks his coach had progressed.

“Lord Tavendish! A moment, if you please?”

Elliott turned at the shout, forcing Celia to trip around him to face a rather ordinary looking young man loping toward them.

“Merrill!” Elliott gushed when the young man reached them and bowed. He had rather unremarkable brown hair and, if the light did not deceive, eyes to match. “What a lovely surprise. Have you seen Lady Camille out and about this eve? I believe our brother is escorting her.”

“Not yet, my lord. I sought you out because I would like to speak with you this week, if I may.”

“Oh?” he said low, as Lord Macaroni gave way to Earl Tavendish. “You’re set to offer for her, then?”

“Yes, my lord,” the boy said with such earnestness Celia’s amusement turned to pleased melancholy.

But Elliott was speaking. “—sure she’ll be happy to hear that. Come ’round to the Gables tomorrow, will you? An hour past noon, and we’ll discuss it.”

The young noble sketched another bow and said, “Thank you, Lord Tavendish,” before retracing his path back to the manor.

Elliott grinned as he handed Celia into the carriage and gave their direction as the Dovecote. “That will make her happy. Even happier if he will agree to a wedding some time in the next few weeks.”

“She is increasing?”

“Good God, no. She and I found ourselves in some sympathy with regard to our mother. She is helping me with my Lord Macaroni masquerade and I am helping her in her determination to control her destiny insofar as she can.”

“Does that mean you have pondered my lecture on the nature of a woman’s independence?”

“It does, Madam, and did my littlest sister but know it, she would kiss your feet in gratitude. Let us finish the bread.”

Once they had attained Celia’s room at the Dovecote, Elliott again assisted her in undressing. Sounds of any number of licentious activities wafted through the walls and the floor, the ceiling and the door. A footman and two kitchen maids delivered supper, whilst one of Celia’s crewmen set her sea chest at the foot of the bed. He barely missed running into Phoebe as she came floating through the door to tend Celia’s hair.

Soon enough Elliott was half undressed with his hair down past his shoulders and Celia’s swirled around her thighs. She was comfortable in her red silk kimono and they were so very blessedly alone. It was when Celia was seated next to Elliott and had begun to eat that she noticed his glances at her kimono and realized he had been silent from the moment she had slipped it on.

“Are you planning to wed him after all?” he muttered.

She sighed, looking at the man she knew, the one she’d fallen in love with, the one she could never wed, and it was as if they had never parted, never played their dangerous masquerade.

There would be no laughter tonight. “What sensible woman would refuse him?” she muttered resentfully.

“And now we find our circumstances reversed,” he murmured whilst she attended her meal. “Do you feel some sympathy for me?”

She gaped at him, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Our situation has not changed!”

“Tell me how our dilemmas are different.”

Celia didn’t answer right away, but began to eat. “My dilemma,” she finally said around her food, “is born of love, not duty. Much like my mother’s, in fact, so ’tis for her I have gained sympathy.” He gestured slightly for her to continue when she paused overlong. “Bancroft couldn’t have told you that I am not his child else you would have known me sooner.”

“Indeed. He said very little on the matter, as he did not want to embarrass either himself or your mother any more than had already been done. His shame and regret have taken deep root within him.” Celia snorted. “What happened the day Dunham took you? In detail, if you please.”

She took a deep breath and relayed the tale. He interjected with a spare question or two, a grunt, a sigh, but did not otherwise make his thoughts known.

“But,” she concluded, “there is something more, something my mother is keeping to herself. I don’t know how Papa and Mama met, because they both refuse to tell me, which makes me think whatever they are hiding is more than the affaire. But because of my ruse, I dare not quiz Bancroft to ascertain his knowledge of it.”

Elliott’s brow wrinkled. “My mother mentioned your father had run off with a girl when he was still a lad.”

Celia stared at Elliott as if he had lost his mind. “My mother was born here, in London.”

He shrugged. “’Twas long ago. She was not certain of it.” He paused. “Your brother claims he was not witness to the row between Hylton and Dunham, but Hylton says he was.”

“Bancroft is correct. And Lucien was as terrified as I was,” Celia whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “We were confronted with a giant of a man accosting our mother, ran to fetch our father to save her, and suddenly, we were in the middle of a war that started as soon as Bancroft saw the resemblance between me and Dunham.” She pressed her hand against her mouth. “Lucien ran after us—Dunham and me, I mean. He beat at Papa, screaming at him to let me go … Then he ran to Bancroft to scream at him to save me from him, but … ” She swallowed. “I don’t blame Lucien for casting it out of his mind. I wish I had had that luxury.”

She found one of her hands wrapped up in both of Elliott’s, taken to his mouth, upon which he pressed a gentle kiss.

“Their affaire lasted nine years. He put into Philadelphia twice a year for a fortnight, and she would go to him. Somehow. He had no knowledge of my existence until that day. She loves Papa dearly, but … she also loves Bancroft. I have been so angry with her for so long—”

“You don’t seem angry and you rub along together well.”

“I need my mother more than I need to heap my anger upon her head. She was taken from me once; I’ll not do anything to add to her burden of guilt.”

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If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!