Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(75)

Celia reached up and took Alec’s hand. “I am, Papa.”

The duke gazed hard at her and then at Alec. Finally he sighed and nodded. “I did promise, didn’t I? Very well, Celia. You have my blessing.”

Celia’s mother scowled at her husband. “I see nothing blessed about it. This young man already has a babe. Celia will be a drudge to it.”

“No, indeed. Jenny is lovely,” Celia put in quickly.

“There is nothing lovely about babies.” The duchess sniffed. “I ought to know—I bore two of them. Good Lord.” She pressed her hand to her face, her eyes widening. “How will I break this news to Edward? He will have apoplexy.”

“He already knows.” Celia squeezed Alec’s hand and he squeezed back in reassurance. “We saw him—in the country, near our house. Al—Mr. Finn and I were looking for possible places to live while in England.”

“Nonsense,” the duke broke in briskly “Your home will be with us, of course, at Hungerford Park.”

The duchess ignored him. “What on earth is Edward doing home? I thought he was campaigning in France and the Netherlands.” She spoke ingenuously, apparently entirely forgetting she’d told Celia Edward waited to speak to her in the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall.

“He said he was on leave,” Celia said.

Both duke and duchess looked perplexed, and disquiet touched Alec. He’d suspected Edward of being complicit in capturing Will, but then why wouldn’t the duke know about it? His wife, a plotter if Alec ever saw one, was equally nonplussed.

“All the better that he is in England,” Lady Flora broke in. “You must have a grand celebration, a wedding reception, at Hungerford Park—your first ball of the summer—to show how pleased you are at this marriage.”

“That my daughter disobeyed me at every turn and ran away with a parvenu?” the duchess asked in incredulity.

Celia drew herself up to speak, but Alec stilled her.

“It’s all right, my dear.” He spoke in the breathy, self-deprecating voice that he’d assumed as the dithering Mr. Finn. “I am a man of no consequence and we know it. It was a love match, Your Grace … And Your Grace.” He nodded to Celia’s mother, then her father. “I am a fortunate man indeed.”

The duchess gave him a chilly look. “More than fortunate. You have your hands on a duke’s daughter and her legacy.”

“No, no,” Alec said quickly. “My man of business will see to it that her money in trust is beyond my reach.”

“Then what on earth will you live on?” the duchess asked. “Yes, Charles, you will have to fashion some sort of position for him so they will not starve altogether.” She swung to Lady Flora, eyes blazing. “I agree, Flora, that we must show the world we are not completely disgusted with this turn of events. Husband, put it about that you’ve had your eye on this man Finn for a time, and that we arranged the marriage. I will throw myself into planning a grand soiree, and perhaps the labor involved will help me forget my anguish that my daughter has destroyed all my hopes.”

With a swish of skirts, she sped past Lady Flora and out of the room, shrilling for her footman to attend her.

Mrs. Reynolds watched her go, a look of satisfaction on her face. Lady Flora, serenely cool, betrayed no such triumph.

Celia rose, breaking the tableaux. “Papa.”

The duke went to her, and Celia took his hands. They were of a height, the duke’s brown-green eyes so like Celia’s own. He had an ingenuous face, a man not gifted with extreme intellect, but Alec noted that he’d looked at each person in the room as a unique being without instantly categorizing them as the duchess did.

The duke touched his cheek to Celia’s. “Daughter. I am pleased to see you so happy.”

He gave her a warm smile and then held out his hand to Alec over the sofa. “I greet you, sir. Son. I hope that we may have a long and satisfying acquaintance.”

Alec clasped the duke’s hand, and the duke pressed his other hand over it, squeezing in friendship.

“As I do,” Alec answered politely.

The duke looked straight into Alec’s eyes, but Alec saw no recognition dawn, no sudden awareness that Alec was a Scotsman from the rebellious Highlands. There was no duplicity in the duke’s gaze, only tentative camaraderie and optimism.

Either the duke was a superb actor, or Alec had misjudged him entirely. Alec saw no cruelty or callousness in this man, and he realized in that moment that he’d been completely wrong—the Duke of Crenshaw had nothing to do with capturing and imprisoning his brother.





Chapter 25





The Duchess of Crenshaw’s summer ball was remarked upon for years to come, but not for the reasons, Celia knew, that the duchess could have foreseen.

In less than a week’s time, Celia and Alec were installed at Hungerford Park, a house that dated to the fourteenth century but had been built over and around so many times that the original stones could only be found in one of the cellars. Ten years ago, the facade had been redone so that rows of tall, narrow windows flooded the house with light. Celia’s father complained about the window tax, but Celia’s mother had overridden his objections.

The ballroom, on the end of the first floor and lined by three walls of these windows, had been dusted and polished, new candles set in its five chandeliers that dripped with crystals. An orchestra tuned in a gallery above, and the double doors were thrown open to a terrace that overlooked the formal gardens. Chinese paper lanterns hanging from branches of trees down the garden’s center lit the fountains and the walks.