Regency Reputation. Diane Gaston
hurt more than her mother-in-law would ever know, but today her mother-in-law’s abuse merely made her angry.
After all she’d sacrificed for the woman’s comfort …
Celia faced her. ‘You speak only to wound me, ma’am. It is badly done of you.’
Her mother-in-law stopped on the second stair. She flushed and avoided Celia’s eye.
Celia maintained her composure. ‘Recall, if you please, that your son left you in more precarious financial circumstances than he did me, but I have not abandoned you.’ Much as she would like to. ‘Nor have I abandoned Adele. I am doing the best I can for all of us.’
Lady Gale pursed her lips. ‘You keep us both under your thumb with your tight-fisted ways. You control us with the purse strings.’
Celia tied the ribbons on her hat. ‘Think the worst of me, if you wish, but at least have the good manners to refrain from speaking your thoughts aloud.’ She opened the door. ‘I should return in an hour or so.’
Younie had sewn a swirl of netting to the crown of Celia’s hat. When she stepped onto the pavement, Celia pulled the netting over her face so no one would recognise her if they happened to spy her entering the Masquerade Club.
The afternoon was grey and chilly and Celia walked briskly, needing to work off her anger at the woman.
Lady Gale had well known of her son’s debauchery, but still she preferred to blame all Gale’s ills on Celia. In truth, the man had countless vices, many more than mere gambling. He’d treated Celia like a brood mare and then thrust her out to pasture when she didn’t produce, all the while taunting her with his flagrant infidelities and profligate ways. As if that were not enough, he neglected his daughter.
And his mother.
Celia had known nothing of men when her aunt and uncle arranged her marriage to Gale. She’d still been reeling from her parents’ deaths and barely old enough for a come-out. Her aunt and uncle simply wished to rid themselves of her. She’d never felt comfortable with Gale, but thought she had no choice but to marry him. She never imagined how bad marriage to him would be.
The only thing he’d wanted from Celia was a son and when she could not comply, he disdained her for it. Over and over and over. Life was only tolerable for her when he went off to London or anywhere else. Celia cared nothing about what he did in those places as long as he was gone.
Little did she know he’d squandered his fortune, leaving only what he could not touch: Celia’s widow’s portion and Adele’s dowry.
She’d worn widow’s black after Gale died, but she had never mourned him. His death had set her free.
And she would free herself of his mother, as well, when Adele was settled. As long as her husband would be generous enough to take on the responsibility of the Dowager Lady Gale.
It was not until Celia turned off St James’s on to Park Place that she remembered her destination. She was indeed meeting a man. Would not Lady Gale suffer palpitations if she knew? She was meeting a man who offered her the best chance of escaping life with her mother-in-law. A man who had almost kissed her.
The gaming hell was only a few short streets away from her rooms. In daylight it looked like any other residence.
But it was an entirely different world.
As she reached for the knocker, her hand shook.
For the first time he would see her face. Was she ready for that?
She sounded the knocker and the door opened almost immediately. The burly man who attended the door at night stood in the doorway.
Celia made herself smile. ‘Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mr Rhysdale.’
The taciturn man nodded and stepped aside for her to enter. He lifted a finger. A signal for her to wait, she supposed. He trudged up the stairs.
Celia took a breath and glanced around to try to calm her nerves.
At night this hall looked somewhat exotic with its deep green walls and chairs and gilded tables. At night the light from a branch of candles made the gold gilt glitter and a scent of brandy and men filled the air. To her right was a drawing room, its door ajar. To anyone peeking in a window this house would appear as respectable as any Mayfair town house.
The doorman descended the dark mahogany stairs and nodded again. Celia assumed that meant he’d announced her to Mr Rhysdale. He then disappeared into the recesses of rooms behind the hall.
A moment later Rhysdale appeared on the stairs. ‘Madam?’
She turned towards him and lifted the netting from her face, suddenly fearful he would not approve of her true appearance.
He paused, ever so slightly, but his expression gave away nothing of his thoughts.
He descended to the hall. ‘Come. We will talk upstairs.’
Dismayed by his unreadable reaction, Celia followed him to the second floor where sounds of men hammering nails and sawing wood reached her ears.
‘Forgive the noise,’ he said. ‘I’m having this floor remodelled into rooms for my use.’ He lifted the latch of a door to her right. ‘We can talk in here.’
They entered a small drawing room. Its furnishings appeared fashionable, as well as comfortable. They were stylishly arranged.
He gestured for her to sit on a deep red sofa. He sat on an adjacent chair. ‘I’ve ordered tea.’
She might have been calling upon one of her mother-in-law’s society friends. Escorted into a pleasant drawing room. Served tea. The conventions might be identical, but this was no typical morning call.
In daylight Rhysdale was even more imposing. His dress and grooming were as impeccable as the most well-attired lord, even though he managed to wear the pieces as casually as if he’d just walked in from a morning ride. His eyes, dark as midnight in the game room, were a spellbinding mix of umber and amber when illuminated by the sun from the windows.
His gaze seemed to take in her total appearance, but his expression remained impassive. Did she disappoint? She was too tall to be fashionable. Her figure was unremarkable. Her neck was too long; her face too thin; her lips too full; her hair too plain a brown—she could almost hear her husband’s voice listing her faults.
But what did Rhysdale think?
And why was it she cared so much for his approval?
He blinked, then averted his compelling eyes. ‘I assume you have not changed your mind about my proposition?’ His smooth voice made her quiver inside.
She swallowed. ‘I would not have kept the appointment otherwise.’
A smile grew across his face. ‘Then, perhaps an introduction is in order?’
She was prepared for this, at least. He would be a fool to hire her without knowing her name.
And he was no fool.
She’d already decided to give him her true name. Her maiden name.
She extended her gloved hand. ‘I am Celia Allen, sir.’
It pleased her to be Celia Allen again. The surname was common enough and her father minor enough that no one would connect the name to Lord Gale’s widow.
He took her hand, but held it rather than shake it. ‘Miss Allen or Mrs Allen?’
She pulled her hand away. ‘Miss Allen.’
Rhys felt the loss of her hand as if something valuable had slipped through his fingers. With this first glimpse of her face, he wanted her more than ever.
She reminded him of a deer with her long regal neck and alert-but-wary eyes that were the colour of moss at twilight. She seemed wrong for the city. She was meant for the country, for brisk walks in fresh country air. The bloom in her cheeks, the hue of