Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(46)
“He sees that it will be best. He indulges you too much, as I say. It will be good for the pair of you to have you out of his influence.”
Her mother had bullied her father into it, she meant. The room spun, and Celia had to sit down, though she was never allowed to sit while the duchess stood.
“No, I will not …”
The duchess’s lip curled. “Do not begin about what you will and will not do. I hope Lord James will cure you of this obstinacy with the back of his hand. If he does not, Ellesmere will. Now, tomorrow night you will accompany me and Lady Flora to the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall. We will go in fancy dress—this will be one of Lady Flora’s extravagant outings, and you must be paraded about as Lord James Spencer’s betrothed. Have your maid fix you a costume—one of the commedia dell’arte—Pierette, say, not one so ostentatious as Columbine. Do not speak to me again until then.”
So ending her speech, the duchess swung around and strode out of the room. She did not bother to slam the door—a footman closed it decorously behind her.
Celia slid from the chair to the floor. She groped for the torn drawings, the lines and curves she’d painstakingly drawn now forlorn scraps.
No more tears would come. Her eyes burned, her grief twisting inside as she gazed upon the destruction of work she’d labored over for the last week. Celia had poured her heart into the drawing of London, and Alec’s hand was in it—it was art they had created together.
As Celia gathered the fragments and held them close another realization poured over her. It wasn’t simply the picture she mourned, but what it represented—the hours she’d stood close to Alec, his hand brushing hers as he showed her how to bring the drawing to life, his breath on her skin as he scrutinized her strokes.
He’d been as caught up in the creation as she had been. Time had at once stood still and flown by, magical moments of Alec and Celia working side-by-side, both of them excited about the vista of London unfolding before their eyes.
The duchess had destroyed that beautiful time with each rip of the paper.
Celia could never marry Lord James Spencer. Even if the young man had been a paragon of gentlemanliness, Celia could not pledge her heart, her loyalty, to him. It would be a lie, through and through. She would live in misery, and it would be unfair to James, as unpalatable as he was.
But would she have a choice? Her father must have decided that giving in to the duchess was the quickest way to peace. Celia had watched him give way to her all his life—it was unlikely he’d cease now, no matter how much he sympathized with Celia. And perhaps her father had been convinced that marriage to the brother of a marquess would be better for Celia than no marriage at all.
When those around ye are making your world hell, ye can trust me.
Celia gathered up the pieces of the drawing. She couldn’t save it, but perhaps she could save herself. She’d seek out Alec and pour out her tale. Even if he could do nothing to help her, he might have some advice, or at the very least, he’d comfort her in his low, rumbling tones that made her want to stand close to him and simply listen.
She’d dress up and go to Lady Flora’s gathering and be sweet as honey, coercing an entry into Lady Flora’s house. If the lessons were at an end, she couldn’t simply turn up—she’d have to plan a way for Lady Flora to invite her so that she could speak with Alec alone.
Celia restored her portfolio the best she could and lugged it herself out of the room and up the stairs. Her determination was high, but her heart was lead in her chest.
The shaft of light that had kept her life bearable these last days had been suddenly and inexorably extinguished.
Alec climbed into Lady Flora’s carriage the next night to find himself facing a lady in a diamond-patterned dress of bright green, red, and black, with a lace ruff at her neck, jewels glittering on the fabric. A tricorn hat rested on Lady Flora’s fair hair, and she held a black mask in her gloved hand. Next to her was Mrs. Reynolds in more subdued colors but with the same kind of lace ruff, tricorn hat, and mask.
Lady Flora took in Alec’s plain breeches, frock coat, boots, and hatless hair with disapproval. “You are supposed to be in costume.”
The coach jerked forward, wheels bumping over cobbles on its way out of the square.
Alec lifted the flap on the pack he’d set next to him, revealing a fold of white velvet trimmed with black. “I’ll not ride through London dressed as a clown. Ye have to take me as I am for now.”
Lady Flora’s eyes tightened in annoyance. She had laid plans, and she didn’t like any alteration to said plans. “Make certain you are ready in time. It would never do for Celia to go off with the wrong Pierrot.”
Mrs. Reynolds put a soothing hand on her arm. “I will steer her right.”
Lady Flora let out a sigh, but sank back into the cushions as the carriage moved down South Audley Street to Piccadilly. From there they wended their way through St. James’s to Charing Cross with its pillory in the center, empty tonight. Whitehall took them farther south, past palaces full of British government ministers and the admiralty who would have collective apoplexy if they knew a rebel Highlander rolled in a comfortable carriage through their midst.
Whitehall petered out into meandering streets full of people enjoying drink, cock fights, and general laziness. A few of these denizens ran after the coach to beat on it and demand coin. Lady Flora’s coachman snarled at them and flicked his whip menacingly.