Page 39 of The Good Girl's Guide to Rakes
“That’sa pleased smile,” Rosalind noted playfully. “And I doubt it’s because you’re promenading with Lord Montford. Although,” her friend went on, peering closely at her, “the flush in your cheeks is the variety that’s usually attributed to a sweetheart. That can’t be the earl, could it? Unless you find bland blonds exciting.”
“It’snotthe earl,” Celeste said.
“But thereissomeone else. Oho,” Rosalind crowed, “you’re getting redder, so I’m correct. Who is he?”
“There’s no one,” Celeste insisted.
Yet she could still picture Kieran at the horticultural exhibition, and how he’d been both dangerously handsome and unexpectedly well-behaved amidst the blooms and leaves and ladies and gentlemen. She might have anticipated that he could charm whomever he met, but most surprising, most incredible, was his concern for her. Especially when she’d revealed her circumstances with Lord Montford.
If you could have anything, anything at all for yourself, what would it be? If there’s one belief I want you to hold, it’s that you can always speak your mind with me.
She didn’t regret telling him about her longed-for work in Ratcliff, but it brought back sharp, painful memories of what could never be. Still, no one else asked her what she desired for herself. No one offered her the kind of trust and security that Kieran did. A fortnight ago, she wouldn’t have believed that such a scoundrel could have given her so much—but there was far more to him than she’d known. Including the fact that he, too, was forced into a persona assigned to him by his family.
The nuance and layers to that man continued to unbalance her. Learning more about him only increased her fascination, and that was a state she could not encourage developing.
She caught herself stroking the palm of her hand, as if his touch continued to linger there, a day later. It had been foolish to touch him in that way, creating a sharp hunger where before she’dmerely wanted a taste. Yet, much as she should, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. Life was a collection of moments, and she’d have that one to clutch close in the years ahead.
But by the end of the Season, she would be engaged to Lord Montford, and a lifetime of marriage to one man while simultaneously pining for another was a tragic circumstance.
Refusing the earl was impossible. Not only would her father be furious if she declined him, Lord Montford would be outraged that a girl from new money refused his suit, and the Kilburns would become societal pariahs.
She’d have to accept, but until then, she would enjoy every stolen moment of freedom—with Kieran beside her.
“Given that you’re staring into the ether like a woman who’s eaten a considerable amount of opium,” Rosalind said dryly, “I strongly doubt that there’s no one. That’s all right, Celly. Tell me if and when you’re ready. God knows you had to endure my impersonation of a gothic heroine when I thought I was in love with Justine Powell.”
The urge to confess swelled within Celeste. She’d been so good about keeping her bargain with Kieran secret, and while she did talk about certain aspects of it with Dolly—though not too much, to create a defense of plausible deniability should things fall apart—sharing this thrilling episode of her life with her dearest friend was irresistible.
“I need a moment of air,” Celeste said in a normal conversational tone. When she headed toward the ballroom’s balcony, she motioned for Rosalind toaccompany her. Once she and her friend were outside, and once Celeste had ensured that they were entirely alone, she explained her arrangement with the notorious Ransome brother, careful to pitch her voice as low as possible so no one could hear her, just in case therewereany curious ears about. As she spoke, Rosalind’s eyes grew wider and rounder, until they nearly eclipsed her face.
Unease iced along Celeste’s nerves. Would Rosalind chastise her? Call her foolish, willful, or worse? Their friendship had been forged in the depths of their hatred for Miss Hadstock’s lessons, creating a bond over their desire for more than a life as a useless ornament. If Rosalind condemned her, she could lose her dearest and most beloved confidante.
“Salome?” her friend asked in a whisper when she’d concluded. “You call yourself Salome?”
“You have another name in mind?” Celeste replied stiffly.
“Salome danced and brought men to their knees. Even cost a chap his head.” Rosalind’s grin was wicked. “Your scheme’s utterly perfect.”
Celeste sagged in relief against the stone balustrade. “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of it, or tell me I’m a madwoman for doing this?”
Rosalind enfolded her in an embrace. “The world has expectations for us, and all of them are confining. We need to take every opportunity to do something exclusively for us. We owe it to ourselves.” Her friend stepped back enough to look her in the eye. “Do be careful, Celly.”
“Admonitions of caution,” Celeste said, wry, “when you’ve just been encouraging me to chop off men’s heads?”
“I don’t care about their heads.” Her friend spoke earnestly. “It’s your heart that needs protection.”
“Kieran Ransome is a rogue and scoundrel of the first water. I’d be a fool to get my heart involved.”
A corner of Rosalind’s mouth turned up. “That’s the trouble with hearts. They involve themselves, whether we want them to or not.”
Over the mantel the clock chimed eleven, which was usually the hour that Kieran was nestled at his favorite chophouse, dining robustly to fuel himself for the night’s adventures. Instead, he was home, sitting next to the fire with a book balanced on his thigh, sheets of paper resting on the book. He paused with his quill hovering above the foolscap, trying to come up with precisely the proper combination of words.
They burst into his mind—She prowls amongst timid hothouse flowers—and he hurriedly scribbled them onto the paper. It wasn’t easy to write on so precarious a surface, but he scrawled the line and looked down at it with satisfaction.
“Quite right,” Finn drawled as he crossed the room. “Desks are inane and overvalued when writing.”
“I do my best work when there’s an element of danger in the composing.” Kieran resisted the impulse to hunch protectively over his work. Finn was the one person he trusted to know that he stillwrote poetry, yet even so, it was a challenge to unlearn habits long ingrained. He’d lost too many of his poems when his father or Simon had discovered them and torn them to pieces or burned them.
Finn ambled closer, and peered over Kieran’s shoulder. “Whoprowls amongst timid hothouse flowers?”
