Dunham

Chapter 30

Celia stood at the edge of a sweltering ballroom in one of her hideous gowns, a fern her only companion and shield. Though her aunt was the very model of kindness to her simpleton niece, the rest of the haute ton was not so inclined.

"The marchioness is so kind to that girl," whispered one woman who had not realized Celia was standing right behind her. Her tone was not complimentary.

"If 'twere me, she'd long been sent to a lunatic asylum. Why, my abigail told me the most frightful tale of the girl's caterwauling if anyone so much as lays a finger on her belongings."

This was true. Celia did not like her personal things to be touched anyroad, but here she was free to act the veriest of banshees if anyone but her mother or George did it.

Her brow wrinkled. Judas had touched her things. Often. Her only objection had been his commandeering of her side of the bed. Why hadn't it bothered her?

He had thumbed through her ship's logs whilst she watched, unaffected (though her journals were locked up tight in a sea chest awaiting a port of call in Rotterdam, where she kept the collection in a bank vault). He had sifted through her liquor cabinet and taken what he wanted. She had allowed him to hold her K1. He had searched for and helped himself to her toy chest whilst she slept in order to mimic her perversion.

He had also put everything back in its proper place, the same way he had found it. Now that she thought on it, she realized he had carefully observed the object he wanted to examine before he picked it up. Never had she had to go behind him and put things in their proper places.

That was not something she could say about her mother or George or any other cabin boy or girl she'd ever had, save Kit.

"Oh, look at the poor dear," came the vicious purr of Celia's sister-in-law, whose hatred for her husband, Captain Lucien Bancroft, was legend throughout the ton, "waiting for her card to fill ... "

Celia looked down at her dance card, which was empty. She didn't bother to hide her smile at it: Smiling at nothing supplied the tabbies with conversation that did not involve clothing or eligible bachelors.

Though it was the most convincing—and useful—ruse Celia had ever concocted, the plethora of opportunity for her personal entertainment could not be underestimated, either.

"My dear," said her aunt breathlessly as she appeared at Celia's elbow, "what a magnificent crush!"

A magnificent crush of handsome young rakehell nobles, for a certes.

"That luscious Spanish lord is here tonight," she breathed. "Covarrubias."

Celia was careful to keep her expression blank, but her heart felt closer to the surface and thudding hard enough to be heard over the mêlée.

"He's older than I care for, but—" Celia would kill her. "—I've seen how he looks at me."

And then she would kill him. "I have a tendre for him, Aunt," she said matter-of-factly and entirely without guile. The Simpleton would not know better than to admit such a thing, particularly regarding a man to whom she had not been introduced.

The marchioness blinked, shocked. "Oh? Oh, then! I'll not be selfish about him, m'dear. Would you like me to introduce you?"

"Yes, Aunt, if you please." It would only take one look for her to make Rafael understand he was not to fuck her aunt under any circumstances.

"Conde Covarrubias!" trilled Aunt Harriet when the tall, broad, blond man approached, as if compelled by Aunt's wishes.

"My lady," he said, as he took Aunt's hand and bowed over it. "You look ravishing, as always, and finally I am seeing you from closer than a ballroom away."