Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(45)

Celia let out a strangled cry as the duchess tore the drawings several more times and hurled the pages to the carpet.

“Mama!” Celia choked out, forgetting she was to address her mother by her title. “How could you?”

Her days of frenzied work, of Alec bringing forth a new world for her, showing her how to translate what she saw onto blank paper, gone in the space of a moment. Alec had opened her eyes to what was possible, and though Celia did not believe she’d achieve the greatness of famous painters, she could at least create something that pleased.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she clutched a chair to stay on her feet. “How could you?”

“Do not scold me, Celia. You are an ungrateful and disobedient child, spoilt and indulged by your father. There will be no more drawing lessons. Your uncle Perry and I have discussed what is to be done with you, and we still believe marriage is your best recourse.”

“Marriage …” Celia could barely speak the word, could scarcely breathe. Her heart was breaking, her work torn and trampled by the duchess’s high-heeled slippers.

“You took yourself well off the marriage mart by refusing the marquess,” the duchess went on. “You are now considered a light skirt, but as the months have gone by, and no child has come of it, other gentlemen not so fastidious will now consider you. Your husband will never trust you, I’m afraid, but if you are obedient and give him an heir, he will perhaps forgive your faults.”

Celia’s anger flared through her grief. Throughout her childhood, Celia often wondered what she’d done to make her mother dislike her, but in a sudden flash, she realized she’d done nothing at all. Her mother was a single-minded, ambitious woman who did not see Celia as a person, but as a thing to be used to further those ambitions. The duchess had married for the same reason, having no use for the duke once she’d made him her husband and borne two children by him.

“And who is this paragon who will accept me with all my faults?” Celia demanded.

“Keep a civil tongue, daughter. He is not a marquess but the brother of one. A quiet young man who will not amount to much, but at least he has good connections and has said he is willing to marry you. He is James Spencer, younger brother of the Marquess of Ellesmere.”

Celia had met this young man once, a few years ago, when the current Lord Ellesmere, great-nephew of Lady Flora’s husband, had come up to London to go over some business or other with Lady Flora. Lady Flora had invited the duke and duchess for supper with Ellesmere and his brother, and Celia and Edward had come with them.

Celia remembered a rather vapid young man two years older than herself, with limp clothes, a long, pale face, and teeth already rotting. Rumor had it he was a sodomite, although rumor said that about any gentleman who was not well liked and hadn’t yet married.

Younger sons of aristocrats often went into politics or the military, but James Spencer seemed to do not much of anything. He was languid and lazy, and one of the most unprepossessing gentlemen Celia had ever met.

“You cannot mean me to marry him …” Celia’s breath went out of her, blackness closing in. Her stays were far too tight, her stomacher cutting into her abdomen.

“Turning up your nose again, are you?” The duchess sniffed. “Haughty creature. Are marquesses and their families beneath your notice? Lady Flora herself proposed the match. Perhaps she is so fond of you that she wishes to call you niece.”

“Lady Flora.” Celia wheezed the name, fear piling on top of dismay.

“She agrees you are a handful. James lives with Ellesmere on their estate in Hampshire. You will not be a hostess there, of course, as Ellesmere is married, but I’m certain you will be of some use to Lady Ellesmere as her sister-in-law.”

Celia could form no more words. Lady Flora intensely disliked the current Lord Ellesmere—which was not surprising, as she had intensely disliked the former one, her own husband. That Lady Flora would believe his brother would make a good match for Celia … Either James Spencer had much changed since that supper, or Lady Flora had run mad, or else she was setting up this marriage as some machination of her own.

Celia had the sudden urge to discuss the matter with Alec. To pour her troubles out on him, to beg for his advice. To feel his hand on her arm, to hear him rumble, “Ah, poor lass.”

But Alec had troubles of his own—he would hardly wish to listen to hers, would he? What would the sorrow of a young gentlewoman coerced into a loveless marriage be to a man far from his home and family, terrified of speaking his own name?

Through the fog in Celia’s mind came Alec’s quiet but emphatic words from a few days before, when he’d momentarily dropped his cold distance.

When those around ye are making your world hell, ye can trust me. Promise me you’ll remember that.

Celia had answered, I promise.

Had he known of Lady Flora’s and her mother’s plans? Had he been warning her?

“Your father has already approached Ellesmere about settlements,” the duchess said. “The wedding will be quiet, a special license here at home, and then you will be off to Hampshire. We will take you out into the world a bit to get people used to seeing you again while we make preparations, but you must not expect to be too much in society once you are married.”

No, Celia was to rusticate in the country, the family embarrassment shunted aside. “Papa agrees to this match?” she asked in incredulity.