The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton by Miranda Neville

incapable of reform. He would make himself a man worthy of her and give her the protection she needed and deserved.
    “Terence . . . ?” The whisper told him she wasn’t asleep after all. “Are you cold? Would you like to share my blanket?”
    Not the best idea if he intended to retain his honor, and hers. With some misgiving, he put trust in his self-control and rolled over. It was warm. She was warm. And almost naked. He kept a couple of inches of air between them and his hands to himself.
    “Terence . . . ?”
    “What is it?”
    “Would you kiss me goodnight?”
    Five minutes later he dragged himself away and scrambled by starlight in search of cold water.
    S he ought to tell him.
    She ought to confess her lie. Though lie seemed a tiny little word, inadequate for her massive deception.
    Terence Fish had turned out to be so very different from Tarquin Compton as she had known him. It was impossible to believe that the man striding at her side, unshaven and shabby, had ever been a dandy. And appearance was the least of it. Terence bore no resemblance to the haughty, critical, and reserved gentleman of the ton . He was in a wonderful mood this morning, cheerfully anticipating the end of their journey. Shared fantasies of meals, baths, and soft featherbeds kept them laughing.
    He also displayed perfect civility and thoughtfulness in the way he was ever prepared with a hand to help her over a rough patch, two hands at her waist to lift her up a steep incline. Not that she wasn’t capable of managing alone. She always had before. Even during the short period she’d lived as a proper English lady of means, she’d never been the kind of woman who inspired a man to chivalry. She enjoyed his courtesy, and his touch. Each contact gave her a little thrill. Especially once she perceived his frequent assistance was deliberate and not called for by his assessment of her needs. When he added a light kiss to her lips as he swung her over a stone wall, she was certain of it. The low hum of desire that had woken her several times in the night grew stronger. Their glances clashed in an exchange that scorched her to her toes.
    She had, she feared, fallen hard for Terence Fish.
    To try and rid herself of such an inconvenient sentiment, she replayed in her mind her various encounters with Tarquin Compton. Instead of rekindling her wrath she found excuses for his behavior. She now had to admit he wasn’t the only man in London to snub her. As a debutante she’d been a dismal failure. Her anger at his consistent inability to remember her name faded.
    But there had been that night.
    She’d anticipated the evening with some excitement. Mr. John Jocelyn, a gentleman from Devon, had asked her to dance with him at three balls in a row. He’d evinced no shock at learning she’d grown up abroad, neither was he interested in her former life. He was a little dull but he paid her attention, more than could be said for anyone else. By this time Celia had invented a nice little story, implying that her family in India had been one of total respectability and, though she was much too modest to boast of it, some social prominence. Mr. Jocelyn liked social prominence. He enjoyed instructing her about the relative importance of various members of the ton . Celia didn’t love Mr. Jocelyn, or even like him very much, but she needed to marry and he was her only prospect.
    Her chaperone, Lady Trumper, was excited too. Deciding Celia might present a better appearance if her hair was less red, she’d summoned a new hairdresser for the evening. Monsieur Alphonse combed some powder through the thick locks, guaranteed to make her look more blonde than redheaded.
    Celia’s pleasure in her improved appearance seemed justified. Mr. Jocelyn complimented her as they danced. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. The Duchess of Amesbury came up and presented her nephew, Mr. Compton. Tarquin Compton, the darling of the ton and despair of matchmaking