It was so far from the answer he was expecting, Anthony couldn’t comprehend it for a moment. “I see,” he said after a pause. He had expected to have to plead his cause; he had even expected to be refused. He had not expected that answer, that he was too late entirely. “And she has…?” He couldn’t even say it. He’d put every farthing on the table and lost it.
The duke nodded. “She has.”
“Right.” For a moment he just sat there, trying to absorb it. Anthony had always known she might not want him and had braced himself for rejection. On a mad impulse he almost asked if he could still approach her, just to know if she might have accepted this other fellow only because he, Anthony, hadn’t asked her—and if she might change her mind.
But no. Celia was too honest to do that. If she had accepted someone, it must only be because she wanted to marry him. She had surely never had a thought of Anthony Hamilton, debauched rake and notorious gambler. He was not only too late, he had never had a chance in the first place. “Of course,” he murmured at last. “I wish her very happy.”
Exeter inclined his head. “I am sorry.”
“No,” said Anthony. “There is no need to be.” He forced a gruesome smile. “I hope you won’t tell her of…this. She is kindhearted enough, she might feel sorry as well.” He paused. “I do not want her pity.”
“I shall keep your confidence,” said the duke with a slightly more sympathetic expression.
“Thank you.” Belatedly Anthony realized he had no more reason to stay, and got stiffly to his feet. His muscles, which had been so tense and tight when he walked into the room, hadn’t yet relaxed. He cleared his throat, but there was nothing more to say. He bowed and murmured a farewell, and left.
Exeter House had come to life in the short time he’d been in the duke’s study. Anthony followed the corridor toward the soaring main hall, passed by servants bustling back and forth with baskets of flowers. He heard his name and turned to see David Reece striding down the hall toward him.
“I say, Hamilton, finally tracked Marcus down, eh?”
“Yes.” He had to say something else before David started asking again what he’d had to discuss with the duke. “I didn’t realize the house was being turned upside down.”
David grimaced. “A ball. The ladies are making wreaths or bouquets, I’m not certain which.” He gestured toward an open door some way down the passage. Slowly, Anthony walked forward, just until he could see the interior.
She was sitting on a sofa with a small mountain of roses in front of her. The morning sunlight streaming in the windows behind her made her curls shine like gold, and pink and yellow petals littered her pale green skirts as she tied the blooms into small bunches. She looked like a Botticelli goddess, and just as attainable.
Behind him, David was still talking. “…after the wedding, of course. Rosalind is already determined it shall be the event of the Season.”
“What?” asked Anthony, tearing his eyes off Celia. “What did you say?”
“Celia’s to wed young Bertram,” repeated David. “Young scamp. A bit dodgy, in my opinion, but my stepmother has declared Celia shall marry whom she chooses, and for some reason she’s chosen him. Not even Marcus can deny her.”
“Indeed,” murmured Anthony. His gaze strayed back to Celia, still laughing merrily with the other ladies in the room. She looked blissfully happy—in love, he thought with a quiet sigh.
“Did you conclude your business with Marcus?” David interrupted his thoughts.
“Er—yes.” Anthony roused himself. He heartily hoped the duke wouldn’t tell a soul what they had discussed.
“And did he have the answer to your question?” David probed.
“Yes,” Anthony murmured. There was another burst of female laughter and Celia blushed, from obvious pleasure. His throat felt dry. “It was a trivial matter. Nothing of significance.”
“Ah. I see.” David eyed him for a moment. “Well, I’ve some fine colts this year. Perhaps you’d care to see them, perhaps take one.” David had become rather domesticated of late, since he married. He was setting up a stable with offspring from some of the finest horseflesh in England. If Anthony could have afforded a horse, he would have been severely tempted.
“Perhaps,” he said instead. Very few people knew of his financial circumstances, and David Reece did not need to be one of them. For all that Reece was a capital fellow and an old friend, Anthony had too much pride to tell him. He had only revealed it to Exeter out of necessity, and look what it had gotten him: nothing.
He bade David farewell and left. The afternoon air hit him in the face, suffocatingly warm. For a moment he lingered on the steps of Exeter House. He hadn’t realized until this moment, as he walked out of her home for possibly the last time, how much he had hoped…
But perhaps this was best. Who was he, after all, to aspire to her? There was a reason he had never before let himself think of her in that way, and the soundness of that reason had just been driven home. He was not the man she loved, or ever would love. He was just a friend of her brother’s, and she had never thought of him as anything else. He would survive it. He had survived many other disappointments in his life.
Anthony drew a deep, resolute breath and walked down the steps without a backward glance.
The Journal of
Lady Celia Reece
Given with Love and
Affection on the
Occasion of her Marriage
by her loving Mother
June 1819
Tomorrow is my wedding day—at last! It seems a year at least since my dear betrothed husband-to-be went down on his knee and asked me to be his wife, although it has really been less than two months. I feel I am the luckiest girl in London, to be the bride of a gentleman of such manners, such charm, such dash! Many young ladies hoped for nothing more than a smile from him. And yet he chose me! So romantically, too. I feel I ought to record every detail of his courtship, to tell our children some day. That is in fact why Mama has given me this journal. She says a girl should have a place to save such happy memories, and I do long to. But oh—there is no time tonight! Suffice to say—for now—that no gentleman was ever more devoted than my beloved has been. He has quite spoiled me with his affection and regard, with poetry and flowers and such attentions as have made me the envy of every unmarried lady in London, and no doubt some of the married ladies as well! I cannot wait for everyone to see my gown. It is surely the most beautiful gown ever made, of blue French silk with seed pearls on the bodice and a great quantity of lace. I shall wear Mama’s lace mantua over my hair, and the loveliest satin slippers—they are cunningly embellished with glass beads in the design of the lilies I shall carry. I am certain my entire ensemble shall be copied all over England.
I must to bed—in a mere ten hours, I shall be Lady Andrew Bertram!
June 1819
It is so lovely to be married. We have journeyed to the Lake District for our wedding trip. Although Bertie is not much interested in the scenery for himself, he has squired me about so devotedly. When I got a blister on my foot, he swept me into his arms and carried me back to the inn! We have had lovely picnics and romantic strolls, and he has read poetry to me. It seems impossible, but I am more in love than ever.
July 1819
Our first night in our new home, Kenlington Abbey. It is nothing like Ainsley Park. It is much older and used to be a monastery. At first glance it’s a bit imposing and even intimidating, with none of the cheery comforts Mama has installed at Ainsley. Perhaps that is to be expected, though, as Bertie’s mother died when he was a child and there has been no mistress at Kenlington since. I confess, I am cowed at the thought of having charge of such a place, but I shall do