The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton by Miranda Neville

lady’s heart is through her stomach.
     
    C rossing the stream presented a problem. They had to walk several hundred yards in each direction before they discovered shallows they could ford without soaking their clothing. As it was, his pantaloons were wet below the knee. On the positive side, he cheerfully ignored her request to look away and enjoyed another glimpse of Celia’s legs when she removed the blanket to make the crossing.
    It proved impossible to get his boots back on and he lacked the incentive to try very hard. The blister on his heel was sore and he couldn’t think of a way to have Celia help him that would involve her raising her bottom to him. Seeing her like that, vainly trying to suppress her indignation, was his favorite moment on the journey so far. The view had been nice too.
    So he stuffed them into the sack which he, like a gentleman, insisted on carrying. In his own mind he needed to brush up his gentlemanly credentials because, as he wrestled with the footwear, one of those visions flashed through his mind: a well-appointed shop staffed by the most superior of tradesmen; plaster casts of his feet; obsequious attention to his demands; the magical name of Hoby, boot maker to the haut ton . He began to fear he was no gentleman. On the other hand he might be a nobleman . A member of the aristocracy up to no good.
    The hill grew steeper, the sun higher and hotter. The day that had started so well descended into sullen discomfort. What should have been an hour or two’s brisk walk stretched out as they picked their way, bare-footed, through prickly shrubs over the rocky moor. Judging by the sky it was near noon when they reached the top of the hill. Celia let out a brief moan of disappointment at the sight of unrelieved gorse, grass and rocks disappearing into the horizon.
    “I was wrong,” she said. “There’s nothing to eat here.”
    “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
    “Not as sorry as I.” She smiled without humor. “I hate to be wrong.”
    “Somehow I guessed that.”
    “You don’t like it, either.”
    “Do I not?” He frowned. “I don’t feel like the sort of person who insists on being right.”
    “Well, you are.”
    She rubbed the soles of each foot against the opposite calf, looking comically annoyed as she hopped from one to the other. With a sigh, for the dozenth time that morning, she adjusted the blanket that served as her skirt. “This wretched thing won’t stay up and the cloth is scratchy.”
    “Let’s sit and rest for a few minutes,” he said, drawing her down onto an unbrambly patch of grass. “Perhaps later we’ll find a stream and I can tickle another fish.”
    Hugging her knees, she glared at the endless moors. Oddly, the discontented expression suited her: with the strong bone structure of her face she looked haughty and handsome while the pout of her generous mouth had him thinking about kisses again. He found her perfectly justified ill-temper endearing.
    “I’m sorry I am grumpy,” she said after a few minutes. “I’m footsore but you must be too. How’s your head?”
    “Still empty but it doesn’t ache anymore.”
    “I’m hungry again. That trout wasn’t very large and I ate nothing all day yesterday, either, except a bite of breakfast.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said and put an arm about her shoulder with no intention to do other than comfort. She stiffened under his touch, confirming his impression that their relations had included little physical contact.
    “Many have suffered far worse than a missed meal and a blister or two,” she said briskly. He could imagine her addressing her charges thus. Whatever she might say, he’d wager she was an excellent governess. “I just remembered something my ayah said, my Indian nurse. When we eat and drink the water and food of a place, we draw strength from the land.”
    “In that case, what are we waiting for? That one small trout must have imbued us with the vigor of giants. We should be able