Chapter 9
Celia never felt conflicted about men.
She was absolutely determined to remain that way, and yet she could not help the niggling feeling growing within her. Dominic Longfield was going to be a conflict within her.
She had, of course, enjoyed men.
How could one not? Men were magnificent creatures. Even if she did not have a great deal of time for them. Or need.
She preferred to think of them more like works of art. They were meant to bring joy and excitement and contemplation, but she didn’t actually want to have one with her all the time.
Surely, they were best in another room for others to admire.
Another building would do too.
But she could not help the fact that she was now deep into something with the Duke of Roseford. Dominic.
The coach brought her home, and the coachman did not bear any judgment, neither did the footmen. No one judged the Briarwoods, certainly not the Briarwoods themselves, and she did not judge herself at all.
She was quite glad about the decision she had taken up, but now she was, dare she say, invested in him.
She was not the sort of person to have a one-off encounter. An affair? Possibly. Some of her cousins were definitely capable of doing that.
But Celia was the sort of person who had to fully enjoy another human being, and to do that, one had to understand them, one had to be excited by them, and she was both where Dominic was concerned.
But she was also worried.
So, as soon as the coach pulled up in front of Heron House, she darted down onto the gravel drive, hiked her skirts up, and raced up the steps and into the house.
She knew exactly who she was seeking.
It was dark now, but there were lamps about with golden candlelight spilling from sconces, and she headed straight for her grandmama’s favorite study.
Once she had charged up the stairs and down the appropriate hall, she grabbed hold of the golden handle, twisted it, thrust the panel open, and headed into the room.
And there was her grandmother, striding back and forth before the fire. Her grandmama had, as of late, taken to doing a great deal of walking and carrying heavy things about. She’d been most firm that she would not become a frail old lady and be whisked away on the wind.
Celia rather admired her grandmother for her determination to stay strong, even as she aged, and she had. There was no question about it. The spark of life in her grandmother’s eyes was undeniable. It was just like the spark of the jewelry that bedecked her fingers and dangled from her ears.
“Grandmama,” she called out, and her grandmother stilled, turning to her, her snowy white hair gleaming in the candlelight as it always did.
She wore a dressing gown over very simple clothes. She had stopped wearing such heavy and ornate things, and sometimes she actually wore gentlemen’s trousers. She insisted they made things far easier, and she didn’t have to worry about tripping over any hems or ruffles.
Celia rather loved seeing her grandmama in trousers and a coat. She looked jaunty, like some of the remarkable characters from novels she’d read about. Or the roles her grandmother had once portrayed upon the stage.
Somehow, her grandmother looked stronger, and that was important because they all wanted her to last forever.
“What is it, my dear?” her grandmama called.
She drew in a breath, then announced, “I have a project.”
“Do you?” her grandmother said, putting the book down on top of the mantel, crossing to the silver grog tray, and pouring herself out a small brandy. “Tell me all about it. Is he delicious? I have heard he is quite striking.”
“Grandmama, how do you know it is a man?” Celia asked, perplexed.
Her grandmother waggled her silvery brows as she poured the amber liquid into a snifter. “I know it’s a man, my dear, because I can see the glow in your cheeks, the twinkle in your eye, and the mischief that has occurred and will quite likely only increase.”
“Grandmama,” she exclaimed, though she wasn’t shocked at all, “it would be nice if a person could have a secret or two in this house from you.”
“You don’t mean that,” her grandmother said. “We don’t do secrets.”
“All the same,” she returned ruefully, “it’s like we’re all walking books that are open to whatever page you wish to read.”
Her grandmother threw her head back and laughed brightly at that. “It is true, my dear. You all are, but every great actress is able to read those about her. It is how we learn to play parts, you know?”
“I don’t know. That has never been my strong suit,” Celia admitted. “I cannot hide anything, nor do I wish to play anyone but myself.”
Her grandmother crossed to her and cupped her cheek indulgently, then said, “I wouldn’t wish you any different. Would you care for a brandy yourself?”
“No, Grandmama. I wish to keep my head about me.”
Her grandmother nodded, then lifted the small crystal glass to her lips and took a drink. Then she let out a sigh of pleasure. “What a nice little treat that is.”
Her grandmother generally did not drink at all, but in the late evening, she had been taking a little nightcap as of late, as if she wished to treasure all the delicious experiences that she might before the end of her life.
“Tell me about him,” her grandmother said.
Celia frowned. “I think he’s in trouble.”
“Oh, dear.” Her grandmother winked dramatically. “Is he going to be hanged as a highwayman then?”
Though there were no highwaymen now, she rather understood her grandmother’s meaning. “Worse, he has a cause.”
“Oh, that’s my favorite kind of gentleman,” her grandmama exclaimed. “But are you about to make him yours? That can be quite tricky, my dear.”
“Well, I thought I had handled it a few weeks ago, ensuring our paths would not cross again,” she said honestly.
“I passed him over to the family. I thought Uncle Leander would handle him, but it doesn’t seem as if he has been handled.
And Fate has intervened, and I cannot escape it.
I found the Duke of Roseford in the East End, walking the streets, headed to his accommodation. He’s living in the East End!”
“How very singular of him,” her grandmother drawled. “When one gets out of there, one usually stays out. It is so funny that wealthy people feel the need to go live there so that they can assuage themselves of the guilt they have of being born wealthy.”
Her grandmother, of course, had had to claw her way out of poverty and the East End, so she had little patience for those who moralized or took pleasure in visiting the East End. Of course, she went to the East End occasionally.
She most certainly went to the Covent Garden District to visit her sister and the numerous members of their family who had fallen in love with the performing arts and taken up work in the various theaters.
“It’s not, I think, quite like that, Grandmama,” she corrected. “I don’t think he was necessarily raised to be wealthy, even though he was the grandson of the Duke of Roseford. And I don’t think he’s there out of guilt or fascination.”
“Ah, Roseford,” her grandmother sighed as she lowered herself into the chair before the fire, recalling the connection. “Of course. What a scandalous story that was. Broke that terrible old man’s heart, if he had a heart, when his son left.”
“Do you remember it, Grandmama?” Celia prompted, crossing to her.
Her grandmother nodded, staring into the flames as if the story lay there. “Come, my dear. It is no small tale. Sit beside me.”
But instead of sitting beside her grandmother, she went and knelt before her grandmother, as she did once long ago when she was a small girl.
And just as she had when she was a small girl, her grandmother began to stroke her fingers through Celia’s hair. She wasn’t a little girl and she hadn’t been for a very, very long time, but she was determined to savor this sort of experience, to shore up every memory that she could.
“Tell me,” Celia said.
There was a long pause and then, in a low voice, her grandmother began, “The Duke of Roseford at that time was a grim fellow who believed in control and power and who absolutely believed in the importance of the English Empire. No colony could be let go. All colonies were to be held by force. And he firmly believed that England had every right to subjugate nations and their people for the Crown.” She let out a note of disgust before she added, “You should have heard the rabid things he said about India and what he believed should be allowed to be done to keep India in our grasp for all time. I fear for the future,” she said, “since there are so many people like that who do not balk at the blood they’re willing to spill to keep their money and their power.
It has always been so. And yet there are people like my son, and people like the Duke of Roseford’s son, the earl.
That boy read a great deal, and that, of course, appalled his father.
Many men think that a future duke shouldn’t be quite so learned, but that boy was.
And then one day, he argued with his father, as we all understand, because he was a firm Whig and the old duke was a Tory.
The young earl believed, without reservation or hesitation, that the colonies should become the United States, even before it had cut its teeth on revolution.
But the rumbles of war were happening, and the earl corresponded with a young man named the Marquis de Lafayette, who had left France and gone to fight for the colonists cause because so many young people at that time were taken with the ideas of the Enlightenment.
And the young earl went, and he never returned.
He had no desire to be a duke. He wanted to be free instead.
His father never forgave him. He died, frothing and furious at his son’s betrayal and defiance. ”
Celia’s grandmother’s hands paused in Celia’s hair. “I always rather admired that young man who was willing to give up everything for belief.”