A Reckless Encounter

“Yes. Though I do think,” she replied with a shaky smile, “that he is definitely dangerous.”

12

Celia looked shaken, Jacqueline thought, though she behaved as if all were perfectly tranquil. She drank cups of champagne punch, danced with knights, barons and even an earl, laughed and flirted and seemed not to notice that Lord Northington had not returned.

It had not escaped her notice that Northington and Celia had disappeared for a short length of time, however, nor that Celia was definitely flustered when she returned. It was so like the viscount to do such a thing, and she worried that Celia—so young and innocent, for all that she seemed capable of handling herself well—would find him too experienced to be seduced into a marriage proposal.

She suppressed a light shiver. Northington wasn’t very much like his father had been—a terrible man, the new earl, with no scruples at all. At least the viscount had a sense of decency. Should she tell Celia about the earl and Léonie, how he had pursued her so intently many years before? Oh, the man then known as Lord Northington had been absolutely furious when Léonie wed her American and left London.

She had spurned his advances and he’d sworn vengeance on her, but thankfully, she had escaped him unscathed. It had been rumored that then viscount Northington could be quite cruel, and oh, she had been so glad Léonie left England before he could exact his retaliation on her for her refusal of him.

But really, what had he expected? Everyone whispered of his excesses, his depravities and membership in that terrible club where men treated women with such awful indifference. Jules had told her of it—a wicked group of men dedicated to appeasing perverted sexual desires with willing—and unwilling—women. Yet all that was gone now, she thought, for there had been no mention of it in so very long a time.

And now perhaps it would be vindication of a sort if Léonie’s daughter did wed Northington, for after all, he was not the dissolute rake that his father had been, regardless of the gossip. Even Jules thought highly of him, despite their political differences, and Jules was rarely wrong about a person.

Ah, it was so difficult to know what to do. But at the moment Celia was enjoying herself, and if the viscount was immune to her charm, he was practically the only man there who was. Men buzzed around Celia in her scarlet gown as if bees around a lovely flower, fetching more champagne punch and asking her to dance, promising to leave their cards the very next morning.

Yes, she was a success again tonight, and her lack of a dowry seemed not to matter when it came to men willing to fall at her feet and promise undying devotion.

Practicality dictated that few of them would actually make an offer, for most needed a profitable alliance to increase family lands or wealth, yet Jacqueline thought with a great deal of satisfaction that her petite cousine would make a very good match indeed before this Season ended. There would be no need to worry about presenting her in the spring!

Just like my Caro, she thought fondly as she turned her gaze toward her daughter, who was dancing primly with her betrothed, a rather plain but very good-hearted young man with impeccable antecedents and an excellent future. Lord Melwyn was destined to be influential one day, she was certain of it. With Carolyn at his side, he would lack for nothing. Certainly the ample dowry she brought would be quite beneficial.

What, I wonder, Jacqueline mused, would Jules say if I wished to set aside at least a small portion to offer with Celia? A woman shouldn’t ever feel deficient, as if she brought nothing to the marriage but her beauty, for there would always be a niggling worry that her husband had wed beneath him. She knew that feeling well enough. Always, she had worried that Jules regretted not marrying a wealthy bride, and it had taken years to finally believe that he truly loved her.

It would be so wonderful to know Celia had the same assurance.

“But here you are again,” she said as Celia’s partner returned her, both of them flushed and smiling from the lively contredanse that had just ended. “And not a moment too soon. We are to go into supper.”

“I am not at all hungry,” Celia said a little breathlessly as a cup was pressed into her hand. “But I think I have drank too much champagne tonight!”

“My dear, are you unwell?”

Jacqueline leaned close and put a hand on her arm, and Celia realized belatedly that she gripped her crystal glass so tightly the stem had cracked. She managed a light laugh.

“Exhausted, but quite well.”

Maneuvering her away from the overattentive ears of those near them, Jacqueline murmured, “Whatever did Lord Northington say to you tonight?”

“Why do you think he said something?”

“I know he said something, but what? You look…you look almost angry.”

“Oh, I am just weary from all the dancing. Why ever would you think I’m angry?”

“No one has such a fierce expression unless they are, my dear, and it seems that Northington has left without claiming another dance with you. Oh.” She drew back a little to peer into Celia’s face. “Did you perhaps make him angry?”

“How would I know? It would be most difficult to distinguish his moods if I cared to dwell on them.” She drained the last of her punch, a less potent drink than the champagne. “I find him quite irritating.”

“Most men are irritating. That has nothing to do with being eligible. Northington will be earl one day. He is still young and handsome and has a title. While his father may have an unsavory reputation, that is all in the past. And really, it hardly matters what the father is, as long as the son is his own man.”

“But is he? Is Lord Northington his own man? He seems as brutal as the father.”

“Oh my child, so much gossip is based on false facts, it is difficult to say what is true and what is untrue. But my Jules holds the viscount in high regard so I cannot think he is so very wicked after all.”

“I begin to think that there must be s

omething more to life than catching a husband.” Celia managed a light tone though she was unsettled and on edge, uncertain what to do next. Nothing had gone as she envisioned, for Northington was not at all malleable, or even predictable.