Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(57)
Alec’s mind too easily pictured things. He imagined Will, rage in his eyes as his bravado fell away, his glare that changed to agony as the bayonet ran into his heart. Then the life would drain from his face and he’d fall back, bloody and dead, as the soldiers laughed.
Alec clenched his jaw so hard it ached. “We won’t let them.” He knew he should comfort Josette, but he couldn’t move, frozen to the bone. “We’ll find him, damn his hide. And then we’ll give him hell for worrying us so.”
Josette didn’t smile. She gave Alec a nod, but it was clear she didn’t believe Will was still alive.
He had to be. Alec clung to the hope. If he gave up that hope, Will would truly be dead and gone, and Alec couldn’t face a future that stark.
“Even your nightdress is beautiful.” Glenna lifted the thin cotton gown from the trunk and laid it upon the bed, smoothing its skirt. “What must it be like to have such clothes?”
Celia had never given her gowns much thought, having been used to sumptuous fabric and the best seamstresses all her life. She had friends who fussed over their clothing and raged if even one stitch wasn’t to their liking, but as long as Celia didn’t look a mess, she was happy. A quick glance in a mirror or letting a maid straighten a skirt had been enough for her.
But now she looked down at the crumpled, soiled white velvets of her costume and cringed. She’d just been married in the wrinkled garments of a clown.
“I’ve never been to a masquerade,” Glenna said, not noticing Celia’s discomfiture. She unhooked the bodice from Celia’s skirts, drew off her stomacher and corset cover, and began to unlace her stays. “Mum would never let me. Says men and women who have to pretend to be others for fun are right fools. Says masquerades are excuses to paw at one another’s husbands and wives.”
Her mother, the beautiful landlady who clearly knew Alec well, wasn’t wrong. Celia’s mother’s masquerades were gatherings of decorum, but Celia had attended others where shepherds chased masked shepherdesses into darkened rooms, and shadows under trees in a garden were filled with people not chatting or dancing.
“Your mother is quite lovely,” Celia said. Both Glenna and Josette had dark hair and eyes, but the porcelain pale skin of the north. “As are you. You look much like her.”
Glenna shrugged. “You’re kind, but I know I’m a stick with my hair everywhere.” She began to unpin Celia’s braids, unwinding them from their tight coil. The loosening of clothes and hair felt good, relaxing on this mad night.
“That is what you might see in a mirror,” Celia said with conviction. “I see a very pretty young lady.”
“Aw, ain’t ye sweet. Mum was an artists’ model when she were younger. Took off her kit to let men paint her picture. I ask you …”
An artists’ model—this explained how Alec had met her. Which meant Mrs. Oswald must have taken off her kit for Alec. Celia tried to decide, through her exhaustion and bemusement, how she felt about that.
She remembered how she’d reflected that artists’ models must live exciting lives when Alec had talked about them on her first day of lessons, and how he’d said they sat for him simply because they wanted to be paid. Mrs. Oswald, as beautiful as she was, seemed a sensible woman, at least at first glance, not scandalous at all.
“If you’re wondering, my lady, Lord Alec ain’t my father,” Glenna went on with disarming frankness. “I don’t know who is, but it ain’t Lord Alec. I was already toddling around before Mum met him.” She pulled a brush through Celia’s hair. “Just thought I’d set your mind at rest. It’s his brother Mum fancies. Only never tell her I said that.”
“Never.” Celia met Glenna’s gaze in the mirror and smiled. The girl was easy to like.
Glenna kept up her rapid and cheerful chatter as she helped Celia into her nightdress, but Celia faded back from it, too many things jostling for her attention. Her life had changed tonight, but whether for good or ill remained to be seen.
Yet, she couldn’t be terrified. Something had woken in her, defiance and hope, as though chains had fallen away.
She belonged to Alec now, by law, but Celia couldn’t believe that a man who’d held his child so tenderly could be cruel to her. Most gentlemen barely acknowledged they had children at all, especially when they were babes. They didn’t hold them, bounce them in their arms, and worry about their teething troubles.
At last Celia was ready for bed, her face washed, hair combed and braided. The bedcovers had been folded back, and Glenna competently lifted them so Celia could slide beneath.
The bed had been warmed—Celia’s foot touched a cloth-wrapped brick that radiated heat. Glenna lingered for a time, shaking out Celia’s white velvet gown and straightening things on the dressing table. At last she departed, sending Celia a grin that was much too knowing for her age.
Celia was married. With all marriage entailed. Her heart hammered, every footfall in the stairwell outside her door magnified.
Would he come? Alec had married her to keep her safe, he’d said, to remove her from the game.
Did that mean in name only? Or would Alec expect his right to her in bed?
Celia shivered. Her mother had explained all about what men wanted from their wives, in explicit detail. The duchess had not wanted Celia to be an ignorant maiden, she said, and told her that the quicker a man was pleased, the more quickly he left her alone.