back tears as Flood applied witch hazel to her swollen cheek. Flood crooned to her softly.
Fitzclarence was lounging on the pink sofa in the next room. The muslin curtain had not been drawn between the two areas, and he had an excellent view of Celia at her dressing table. âWell?â he drawled. âAre we going to have a bruise or not?â
Pushing Flood away, Celia inspected her face in the mirror. One cheek did indeed look pinker than the other. âI should have hit her back,â she muttered angrily. âOne should always hit back. Else the blows keep coming.â
âIndeed,â said Fitzclarence.
âI ran away,â Celia continued bitterly. âIn the army, Iâd be shot for cowardice.â
âYou were perfect,â he told her firmly. âYou showed her how a lady behaves. You curtsied like a princess, and you left the room like a queen. I was proud of you.â
âI should have kicked her,â Celia insisted. âThat bitch!â
âThat bitch,â said Fitzclarence, âhas a dowry of three hundred thousand pounds.â
âWorth every penny,â Celia sneered. âShe will make him a proper duchess.â
He laughed. âOh, he âs not going to marry her. I am. Iâve just decided. And when she is my wife, Celia, you shall be avenged. I shall send her to bed without any supper. Worse, I shall send her to bed without me .â
Celia rose from her dressing table, and Flood, anticipating her mistressâs needs, instantly was there with the actressâs cloak. As Flood fastened the clasp at her throat, Celia pulled on her gloves. âOf course he is to marry her,â the actress said crossly. âWhy else would he have anything to do with that cross-eyed pig of a girl?â
âShall we wager on it?â he said, grinning.
âIf you marry Miss Tinsley, Iâll give you a thousand pounds for a wedding present.â
âAnd if the Duke of Berkshire marries her, I . . . I shall go into a monastery!â
Celia could not help laughing.
âI am quite serious, you know,â he said. âHer Grace remarked on what a pretty-behaved girl you are. The duke could not take his eyes off of you. You have made a conquest there, I think.â
She tossed her head. âAnother one? How nice for me.â
âHe has forty thousand a year,â Fitzclarence said persuasively. âHe is a widower. He has no heir.â
âThen he is as good as married,â Celia said impatiently. âAnd, therefore, no good to me. I donât want to be anybodyâs kept mistress.â
âBut youâre clever. You could make him marry you.â
âNaturally, I could,â she said airily. âBut then what?â
âWell, youâd be a duchess. Thatâs something.â
âIâd be his property,â she retorted. âIâd be locked in a cage for the rest of my life, and he would hold the key. I may be clever, but am not such a fool as that.â
He laughed. âDonât you want a husband?â
âLord, no!â Celia replied, shuddering. âIâd rather have gallstones.â
âMy father had gallstones,â said Fitzclarence. âHe suffered greatly. Gallstones are no laughing matter.â
âNeither are husbands,â Celia said tartly.
âYet many ladies do laugh at them,â he said.
âNaturally one laughs at other peopleâs husbands,â said Celia. âItâs only polite! Oneâs own husband is not so amusing.â
âWhat?â said Fitzclarence, starting up in surprise. â You have a husband?â
âWe do not speak of him,â said Flood, firmly, âand he is moldering in his grave.â
âYouâre quite right, Flood,â Celia said contritely. âHe left us a little money, anyway, so we should not speak ill of him. Shall we go?â she said, picking up her reticule and her newly