The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton Read Online Free

doubt penniless too. He felt for his pockets and found none. The snug cut of his breeches didn’t allow for such a convenience.
    C elia heaved an inward sigh of relief when Mr. Compton stopped asking questions and agreed to enter the cottage in search of water. Inventing “Terence Fish’s” background was going to be a challenge. She knew next to nothing about the workings of the Church of England. This was the trouble about coming up with a lie without time to plan ahead. She wished she’d made him a prospective East India Company clerk instead. Thank the Lord, she could claim ignorance of the path that had brought him to this place.
    It astonished her that he managed to reek of arrogance, even under circumstances which should have reduced the proudest man to a proper sense of humility. The way he’d accused her of making no sense reminded her of his officious opinions, used to depress those who didn’t live up to his standards. He didn’t like his name, that was for certain. Too bad, she thought smugly. She had no idea how long he would remain ignorant of his true identity. She hoped for her sake it would be long enough to keep his escort to Mrs. Stewart’s house, and for his that it wouldn’t be much longer than that. In the meantime Tarquin Compton, the second coming of Beau Brummell, was going to live as Mr. Fish.
    The cottage showed signs of recent but not immediate habitation. The stone hearth was cold though a heap of ash and charred wood gave evidence of use. Celia snatched up an old-fashioned metal tinderbox.
    “We’ll take this,” she said. “And this.” She tugged at the blackened kettle hanging on a chain over the fireplace. “I can’t get it loose. Will you try?”
    Silently he tried to free the utensil. Celia was pleased to see him so obedient. Perhaps the loss of his memory had softened his disposition.
    “It’s forged together. I can’t remove it without tools.” He regarded his now-sooty hands with distaste. “Did you happen to discover any water?” The supercilious tone told her his improved manners were only sporadic and he’d lost none of his fabled fastidiousness.
    It took but a minute to search the cottage: a narrow bed, a rustic table and chair were the principal furnishings. A small cupboard contained a tin cup and a small knife but not a crumb of food. An earthenware pitcher on the floor stood empty. “There wasn’t anything to eat or drink upstairs, either,” she said. “Either the villain intended to leave me thirsty, or he’ll be back soon. I think we should hurry. Let’s take everything we can.” A small burlap sack with a strap hung from a hook on the wall. A dusting of seeds fell to the floor as she shook it out. She stuffed the tinderbox, cup, and knife into the bag, and threw in a couple of rags she found in a corner.
    Mr. Compton looked at her with disapproval. “You cannot travel dressed like that.”
    “I’m so sorry but I missed the wardrobe of ladies’ clothing. Perhaps you could direct me.” Their betrothal had slipped her mind and she let her underlying hostility show. “I would certainly prefer not to walk across the Yorkshire moors in my undergarment,” she said, moderating her tone, “but I don’t see the alternative.”
    He eyed her person with a glint in his eye that might almost be appreciative. Then his glance shifted to the bed.
    “Here,” he said. “Use this.”
    “This” was a crude homespun blanket of undyed wool. She wrapped it around her waist and, after some trial and error, succeeded in tucking it in to form a skirt. While not very secure, the makeshift garment at least covered her legs.
    “What about you?” she asked. “You’ll get a sunburn without anything on top and later you’ll be cold.”
    “I’ll have to manage.” Even though the light told her evening fast approached, there was no hint of chill in the air. “Wait.”
    She saw it at the same time, lying on the floor behind the open door. “Perfect! The