The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton by Miranda Neville Page A

mamas, asked Celia Seaton, whose standing was so low as to be virtually subterranean, to stand up with him. He, of course, denied all prior acquaintance but she didn’t care. She knew Mr. Jocelyn would be impressed and enjoyed envious glances from girls who’d always ignored her. She couldn’t now remember what they’d talked about. Country dances, with all the back-and-forth between partners, were never conducive to coherent conversation.
    Some time after the dance was over, she stood with some ladies next to a large potted tree when it happened. “Remind me, Jocelyn.” Mr. Compton’s arrogant voice was uistakable. “What is the name of the young lady I danced with earlier? The duchess presented us. The one with a head like a cauliflower.”
    Hateful, hateful man! Humiliation stung anew, as it had so often over the last year when she’d remembered the moment.
    She scowled at her companion who met her glare with a whimsical quirk of his brow and a quick smile, flashing white in contrast to the tan he’d acquired during two days in the sun. All at once her resentment washed away.
    After hearing the fatal words she’d rushed off to find a retiring room and a mirror. Disaster! The powder had all risen to the surface of her hair. A bubble of mirth formed low in her chest. A cauliflower was a polite way of describing it. She looked like someone whose head had been dipped in a flour sack.
    As for the architect of her mortification, look at him now! No model of elegance he, in his dusty smock and bare feet. Although, she had to admit, he also looked nothing like any species of vegetable or fruit. She laughed out loud.
    “What?” he asked.
    “Nothing,” she said. “It’s just that you look so funny.”
    “I hate to break it to you, but your own appearance is quite odd.”
    “That’s not a nice way to address a lady. Try for a little flattery.”
    “I believe in total honesty. You look odd and also beautiful.”
    A flush of pleasure suffused her chest. “Thank you. I’m not used to hearing compliments.”
    “You should be. And I intend to make sure you become so used to them you’ll shrug them off. Positively blasé as Byron put it.”
    At that moment Celia knew she’d fallen in love: certainly with Terence Fish but also, she feared, with Tarquin Compton. She no longer believed they were two separate beings. In fact it was absurd to think so. Terence was merely the true man stripped of his worldly accouterments. Her heart lurched and her breath felt thick. Ignoring a niggle of doom in her brain, she wanted to laugh with joy and throw herself into his arms.
    “Celia.” His voice grew serious. “How long have we known each other?”
    “About three months.”
    “Did you ever think I might not be the man I claimed to be?”
    She stumbled and immediately he was there with a steadying arm. “No, of course not.”
    As she spoke the words she knew she’d missed, or deliberately avoided, an opportunity to tell him who he really was. But she shied from the confession. Let her enjoy her loving, attentive fiancé for a little longer. Time enough to tell the truth when they reached Stonewick which might, if Joe’s directions were good, be only a few miles further on.
    She hoped so. Clouds had been gathering all morning, promising an end to the dry weather. The air grew muggy and oppressive. At the same time, she willed the moors to extend before them and prolong her time with Terence. Tarquin, when he learned the truth, was going to be very angry.
    She clung to his arm shamelessly, enjoying his closeness while she could. “I always knew exactly who you were,” she said.
    “Do you think I could have been on this part of the moors before?”
    “It’s possible, I suppose,” she said cautiously. “Does the landscape seem familiar? Everywhere we’ve been looks much the same to me.”
    “Every so often I get the feeling my memory might return. As though it were pushing against a heavy curtain in my head, seeking