Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(23)
But Celia’s fingers shook on the stair railing as she ascended, and she knew in her heart that her two drawing lessons with Mr. Finn had already changed everything.
Celia did not have a lesson the next morning, because at breakfast in the soaring dining room, her mother instructed that she wanted Celia to attend Lady Flora’s salon with her that evening.
Celia froze in the act of lifting the pot of chocolate to pour into her cup. “What on earth for?”
The duchess eyed her with displeasure. “Really, Celia, you are in no position to be rude to me. Lady Flora has graciously allowed me to bring you. She has invited the right people for you to be introduced to as a portrait painter.”
“But I’ve only had two lessons.” Celia slopped chocolate into her cup and thumped the pot back to the table. She took a sip of the bitter, thick liquid, trying to let it soothe her.
“Do not be obdurate. No one will expect you to whisk out a palette and start in. You will be presented as an artist in training. It is good that you go and ease the stain of your disgrace. These ladies and gentlemen have done far more scandalous things in their lives than be found kissing a man they refused to marry. There will be no debutantes there for you to shock. You will attend.”
And that, Celia knew, was that.
When she walked into the salon at nine that evening, wearing the most modest ensemble she owned, her dread fell away and her heart began to pound. In the far corner of the grand drawing room, in the shadows as though keeping to his relatively lowly position, was Mr. Finn.
Chapter 7
Alec felt the air change when Celia entered the drawing room. A lightness floated through the cloying perfume of the ladies and gentlemen, the scent of powder, the odor of bodies in silk and brocade.
Celia’s gown was an olive green open-robe design over underskirts of mustard yellow. Her stomacher was unadorned, unlike Lady Flora’s which fluttered with deep pink ribbons marching from abdomen to a very low décolletage. Lady Flora didn’t quite let her nipples show at this gathering, but he’d seen her in ensembles that bared her entire bosom.
In contrast to the other ladies here, Celia looked like a nun. Her parents might be too Church of England to send her to a convent, but they treated her as though she were in one.
Celia’s dark hair was hidden under a modest cap and she kept her eyes cast down, as befitting one in disgrace. Her mother, who wore a silver and blue gown as dazzling as Celia’s was drab, walked next to her daughter like a jailor who couldn’t afford to let her prisoner out of her sight.
Celia’s head might be bowed, but she was not in any way submissive. Alec saw the sparks in her eyes as she glanced about, watched them flare when she spied Alec in the corner.
Alec caught her gaze, and in that moment, everything stopped.
In the stretch of time between one heartbeat and the next, Alec saw all the way down inside Celia Fotheringhay—her stubbornness, her determination not to be broken. He saw as well her vulnerability, her awareness that she was trapped, caught in her mother’s machinations as well as the hypocrisy of the world in which she existed.
The ladies and gentlemen in this room were not guiltless of sin—in fact, they boasted of their sins, yet at the same time condemned Celia for refusing to be shackled to a man she despised. The difference? They’d capitulated to loveless marriages to please society, while Celia had dared to defy the rules.
Alec’s estimation of her rose. The part of him that was Alec the loving man warmed, and he wanted to raise his glass to her. Celia had courage and beauty, and he longed to unleash both.
Another heartbeat and Celia was turning away, shepherded by her mother to a corner. Celia sat on an armless chair, taking the glass of sherry her mother handed her, the duchess not even allowing Celia to be served directly by a footman.
The disgraced wallflower, made to sit amongst those who censured her, to be useful to the people who castigated her, bent her head and sipped her sherry.
Alec saw in her a beautiful woman with fire beneath her skin, the restlessness of a tethered being who yearned to fly. The artist in him wanted to strip away her confining clothes to reveal the beauty beneath, the passionate man in him wanting to touch that beauty, kiss it, taste it.
Little brother Malcolm, the Runt, was right about Alec—when he lost his heart he did it rapidly and completely.
But there was no question of losing his heart, Alec thought reluctantly. Perhaps protectiveness was what he felt about Celia, pity for a vulnerable young woman. Alec would have to find some armor and polish it up if he were going to be a valiant knight to the ladies, like a tarnished Sir Percival.
By the time Celia had been settled, the room had already forgotten her. The salon commenced, ladies and gentlemen discoursing on topics of the moment.
The company was graced today by Mrs. Reynolds, Lady Flora’s companion. Mrs. Reynolds was a black-haired, blue-eyed vivacious beauty—some claimed she’d been a courtesan in her younger days. After she’d been widowed and left penniless, Lady Flora, her girlhood friend, had taken her in. Mrs. Reynolds set off her dark looks with a raspberry colored brocade robe à la Fran?aise over a shimmering gold silk underskirt, lace adorning her décolletage and three-quarter sleeves.
Mrs. Reynolds had been absent from the house for a few days. Where she’d been and what she’d been about, Alec didn’t know, and Lady Flora hadn’t told him. Lady Flora had many plots and schemes going at once—helping Alec was only one of them. Alec had learned very quickly not to ask Lady Flora too many questions.