Authors: Georgie Lee
‘Cecelia, how wonderful to see you again.’ Lady Ellington hurried down to greet them, her blond curls streaked with grey bouncing as she rushed forward to embrace Cecelia.
Cecelia held the woman tightly, inhaling her rosewater perfume and the hint of her favourite plum wine clinging to her fine dress. In a strange way, the scent smelled more like home than the bottle of her mother’s old perfume at the bottom of her trunk. Lady Ellington caressed her back, the way she used to do when Cecelia had cried, and Cecelia’s eyes filled with tears. The longing to sink down into the woman’s ample chest and cry out all her stress and frustration almost made her forget Theresa, the footmen, driver and maid all standing around them.
‘I am so sorry to hear about Daniel,’ Lady Ellington whispered.
Cecelia squeezed her eyes shut and hugged the woman closer. To her shame, it wasn’t the memory of Daniel which upset her so much at this moment. She took a step back, wanting to speak, to thank Lady Ellington for her kindness, but she couldn’t for fear of releasing the sobs caught in her throat.
Lady Ellington cupped Cecelia’s face in her soft, ring-clad hands, brushing away the tear slipping down Cecelia’s cheek. ‘It’s more than Daniel, isn’t it?’
Cecelia nodded.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. When you’re settled in, we’ll have a good long chat like we used to and work out what’s to be done.’ She smiled in her motherly way and Cecelia couldn’t help but smile back, knowing deep down coming here had been the right choice.
Lady Ellington squeezed her hands, then turned to Theresa.
‘And you must be Miss Fields.’ Lady Ellington clapped her hands together, the large diamond ring from her late husband, the Earl of Ellington, sending a splash of rainbows across her face. ‘I hear you’ve caught the eye of a certain young neighbour of mine.’
Lady Ellington hooked her arm in Theresa’s and drew her up the stairs to the house, Cecelia following on her other side. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of arranging many, shall we say, “chance” encounters between you and Mr Menton while you’re here. The first will be a country ball at the assembly room. Won’t he be surprised when I arrive with you?’
They entered the manor and walked through the high-ceilinged hall. Marble busts on half pillars between the tall windows watched them, the classical lines echoed in the numerous landscapes hanging in large gilded frames on the plastered walls.
‘I don’t know how well you remember the house, Cecelia, but I’ve made a number of improvements since Edmund passed.’ Lady Ellington let go of Theresa, waving her jewelled hand over the hall and the large wooden staircase leading upstairs. ‘For one thing, I changed the subject matter of the paintings.’
‘Yes, all London was talking of Lord Falconbridge’s art exhibition.’
Lady Ellington sighed. ‘Sometimes Randall has Edmund’s flair for the theatrical, but I’m relieved to see the last of them gone. I could live with the memory of my brother, but not those paintings. However, the statue garden is almost as he left it, though Randall has made a few changes and it’s much improved. Now, follow me, there’s a light supper waiting for you in the sitting room.’
Lady Ellington strolled off and Theresa hurried to Cecelia’s side. ‘What’s in the statue garden?’
‘Nudes,’ Cecelia whispered. ‘Enough to make a bawd proud.’
Cecelia drew a stunned Theresa forward, following Lady Ellington into a sitting room adorned with red-silk wallpaper and gilded trim. On a small table in the centre, an assortment of meats, cheeses, fine bread and cakes waited for them.
They sat down to enjoy the food, Cecelia relishing the strong brew and spooning a large helping of sugar into her cup. While they ate, Lady Ellington outlined their week, a lively mix of dances, dinners and rides, most of which, in some way, would include Mr Menton.
‘When will Lord Falconbridge be joining us?’ Theresa asked, shooting Cecelia an impish look before turning innocent eyes back to Lady Ellington.
‘If he sent Reverend ahead, then he can’t be far behind.’ She looked at the dog, who leaned against Cecelia’s leg, watching every bite of cake. ‘I know more about Randall’s comings and goings because of his dog than any letter he ever sends me. Reverend, come here and stop pestering Cecelia.’
The dog’s eyes shifted to Aunt Ella before resuming their steady stare at Cecelia.
‘He’s all right. I don’t mind.’ She rewarded his patience with a piece of cake.
‘He’s quite taken with Cecelia,’ Theresa added.
‘He isn’t the only one.’ Lady Ellington smirked before hiding it behind a long sip of tea.
Cecelia focused on Reverend, adjusting his collar to keep her embarrassment from showing. She hoped Lady Ellington didn’t intend to play matchmaker with her and Randall.
‘You’ve arrived at a very fortunate time.’ Lady Ellington set down her cup, then sat back with no small measure of pride. ‘A young lady from one of the nearby families ordered dresses for her wedding trousseau, then eloped. Her family refused to pay for them, so I purchased the lot. The modiste will be here tomorrow morning to alter them for Miss Fields.’
‘Oh, but Lady Ellington, I couldn’t, I mean—’ Theresa stammered, shooting Cecelia a panicky look. They couldn’t afford new dresses, much less a modiste to alter them.
‘Your clothes are quite fine, but I’m told they lack the fashion and I want you to look your best for Mr Menton,’ Lady Ellington explained.
‘You’re too kind,’ Cecelia stepped in. ‘But we can’t impose.’
‘Nonsense. The dresses and modiste are already paid for so I’ll hear no refusals.’ Lady Ellington patted Theresa’s arm. ‘Since I have no daughter of my own, I shall simply adopt you. Now, tell me about your beau.’
Lady Ellington listened with rapture while Theresa told her all about her time with Mr Menton, leaving Cecelia to her thoughts.
Cecelia finished her tea and set down the cup, noticing the large portrait of Randall hanging across the room near the door. Judging by the style of his clothes and the smoothness of his face, it must have been painted not long after her summer here, perhaps during his Grand Tour. His eyes held not the surety of the present, but the same false arrogance she remembered. Like her, he’d been struggling with his own grief and searching for a sense of his place in the world, puffing himself up to hide the pain lying just below the surface, a pain she knew too well.
She picked up her tea and took a long sip, the deep flavour helping put off the memories. With any luck Randall would stay in London and she could focus on Theresa and Mr Menton. As much as she wanted to see him again, his absence would give her a chance to enjoy the quiet of the country and regain something of the woman who’d once managed Belle View.
Chapter Eleven
C
ecelia walked down the line of horses in the Falconbridge stable, admiring the fine selection of horseflesh. Reverend trotted at her heels and a groom followed close behind. Most of the horses were meant for the carriage, but she passed two fine stallions shifting in their stalls, one tall with a brown coat, the other black with a white nose. Just past them stood a pied gelding waiting patiently, a fine horse, but nothing like the stallions. Since Lady Ellington no longer rode, Cecelia could only imagine why Randall kept the more docile animal.
‘Shall I saddle the gelding for you, ma’am?’ the groom asked.
‘No, I’ll ride the black stallion.’ She wasn’t about to join the no doubt long line of ladies who’d ridden the gelding before.
‘Ma’am, he isn’t a suitable horse for a lady.’
‘Why? Is he unruly?’
‘No.’
‘Is he prone to jump or bolt?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then he’s perfect for me. Please saddle him at once.’
With an ‘it’s your neck’ shrug, the groom led the horse out of the stall and saddled him. He worked at a snail’s pace, the whole time throwing out instructions for managing the horse. Cecelia heard little of it, wishing she could push him aside and saddle the animal herself, itching to be off.
Finally, he finished adjusting the stirrups, but his suggestions seemed to have no end.
‘Keep a tight grip on the reins. Never let your control slack.’ He boosted her into the saddle, then stepped back. ‘Would you like me to ride with you?’
‘No, thank you.’ She settled her knee around the pommel, arranged the skirt of her grey riding habit over her legs, then took up the reins. ‘I believe I can manage.’
With an unladylike hoot, she kicked the horse and they bolted out of the paddock, Reverend running beside them. The horse raced down the riding path, kicking up dust and sending birds flying from the grass. She leaned over the horse’s strong neck, urging him on, the speed more thrilling than the race in Rotten Row. Here there were no frowns of disapproving matrons to stop her, nor worries over her reputation and Randall, only rolling hills and wide open fields. She rode faster and harder, her body tight and alive.
The horse sped up the path to the crest of a small hill before beginning to slow and she eased him into a walk, his steady rocking as relaxing as one of the old porch chairs at Belle View. Reverend bounded through the long grass beside the packed dirt, flushing out rabbits and a few quails before picking his way back to her. Beneath her, the horse ambled along, oblivious to the dog panting beside him, pieces of grass and twigs stuck in his dark fur.
From the small hill, she could see the manor house, but not the rooms at the back where Lady Ellington and Theresa were busy with the modiste. They’d spent most of the morning selecting the first gowns to be altered, Theresa as giddy as the day of her thirteenth birthday when Cecelia had taken her to Williamsburg to purchase her first grown-up dresses. As much as Cecelia enjoyed seeing her cousin happy, all the talk of ribbons and trim could not hold her attention. Instead, she’d sat in the window seat, petting Reverend, her ears and the dog’s perking up each time a footman passed in the hallway, both of them waiting for the sound of Randall’s arrival.
By midday, he had yet to appear and, unable to sit still any longer, Cecelia had made her excuses, changed into her habit and fled to the stables, Reverend determined to remain at her side.
Ahead, another horse and rider appeared on the crest. Reverend stopped, his sharp noise pointing at the rider, his ears twitching forward before he took off in a run. Cecelia froze in her saddle.
Randall.
He trotted forward on the brown stallion and her fingers sought out the gold bracelet, but she couldn’t find it. She looked down in a panic, thinking it lost until she remembered leaving it on her dressing table so it wouldn’t catch in the buttons of the habit. Her nervous fingers toyed with the riding-crop loop instead.
‘My aunt said you were out riding.’ Randall cocked one finger at the stallion. ‘An interesting choice for a lady.’
‘You and your groom are of the same mind.’ She sat up straighter, frowning at the dust rimming the edge of her habit. ‘You’re back from London so soon?’
‘I concluded my business and saw no reason to stay away.’ His horse flicked its ears, shooing off a small fly. ‘Shall we ride together?’
She hesitated, not wanting to be alone with Randall, but unwilling to return to the house and more talk of dresses. ‘Of course.’
Randall heard the stallion snort as Cecelia brought it into step beside his mount.
‘I’ve missed views like this so much since coming to London.’ She followed the flight of a bird as it dipped down over a field, genuine delight brightening her face.
‘I miss it, too. The peace and quiet. When I’m here, I’m a different man.’ Randall took in the wispy clouds passing above the gnarled oaks on the hillside. ‘There’s a calm here sorely lacking in London.’
‘Do my ears deceive me or is the notorious Marquess of Falconbridge pining for the pleasures of the country?’ Cecelia laid one hand on her chest in feigned surprise. ‘Society would be shocked to discover it.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I no longer care what society thinks.’
‘Liar.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Mirth danced in her eyes. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Why? Can’t a man change?’
‘If he has a compelling enough reason to, but you, my lord, have none.’
‘How do you know? Can you read minds now?’
‘One has only to look at you to see it. You aren’t ill and therefore not afraid of dying, nor has the fear of God struck you from your horse.’
‘Perhaps it’s a deeper emotion compelling me?’ His humour dimmed with the truth of his statement.
‘Such as?’ The question was drawing instead of teasing and he answered it more honestly than he should have.
‘Seeing the man I’ve become through another’s eyes.’
Her smile faded. ‘I’ve been very bad about that, haven’t I, especially since you’ve been nothing but kind. I’m sorry. It’s not my place to tell you how to live or behave, or to reprimand you like some disapproving dowager or, worse yet, your father.’
He adjusted his grip on the reins. ‘You could never sound like him.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Theresa has given me many years of practice correcting behaviour.’
‘But you speak with genuine concern and from the heart. Whatever heart he had died with my mother.’ He rose up a little in the stirrups, remembering the things he’d told her about his father’s death. The shame of it gnawed through him and he wanted to bolt off across the fields and leave the memories of his father in the dust of his horse’s hooves. He settled back into his seat, determined to remain steady, refusing to let fear overwhelm him and turn him again into the snivelling boy he loathed, the one who’d driven Cecelia away.
‘Are you all right, Randall?’ Her voice broke through the grey surrounding him.
He studied her atop the horse, waiting for his answer. There was no reason to run. She knew his secret, but she’d never judged him because of it. She only judged the man he’d become since. She might apologise for chastising him, but he knew she was right. ‘I’m better now that you’re here.’
She looked down, but not before he caught the faint red creeping over her fine, straight nose. Then the uncertainty vanished and she faced him with a smile again. ‘Then let’s hope everything works out between Theresa and Mr Menton, so you may see a great deal more of me in the country.’
‘I’d like that very much.’
She turned her attention back to the path, uncertainty replacing the mirth in her eyes, as though she struggled between believing him and maintaining her humour, and her distance.
The high afternoon sun caressed her face and played in the green and brown of her eyes. She rode with confidence, her back straight, her high breasts graced by the fitted fabric of her habit before it flowed down to cover her slender legs.
He tugged at one glove, wanting to reach out and stroke the graceful arm relaxed by her side, but he kept his hand on the reins. He didn’t want to break the easy mood between them or send her galloping back to the manor because of his boldness.
He let his grip slacken on the reins. How different things would be if he hadn’t pushed her away all those years ago. He could draw her from her horse, lay her down in the grass and savour her kisses, let her soft arms envelop him and make him forget all the filth and muck of town.
Their horses maintained a steady pace as they crossed the wood bridge spanning a clear stream as it poured down the rocks before emptying into the River Stour. Downstream, the mill sat on the bank beneath a thick grove of tall trees, the wooden waterwheel turning in a steady rhythm, creaking on its axle as it splashed and dripped water into the calm pond.
‘What happened to the old mill?’ she asked with disappointment. ‘I was looking forward to seeing it.’
‘The river overflowed its banks during a storm a few years ago. The mill was badly damaged and had to be rebuilt.’
‘I suppose nothing stays the same.’ She sighed.
‘Some things have.’
‘Such as your uncle’s garden? I have yet to explore it.’
He ran his fingers along the edges of his lips, trying to hide his embarrassment. It was not an art collection he was proud of and, unlike the paintings, much more difficult to dispose of. ‘I’ve made some changes, but the spirit is the same.’
‘Yes, Lady Ellington told me about it. I’m going to have quite a time keeping Theresa from such scandalous figures.’
‘Let her see them. Best she learn a few things now. It’ll give her an advantage.’
‘I know I shouldn’t agree with you, but I do.’
‘That’s because you’re sensible. Now come along and I’ll show you the new building.’
They guided the horses to the flat area in front of the mill, stopping at the post. Randall dismounted and wrapped the reins of both horses around the knotted wood. He reached up to help her down and she held his shoulders as she slid from the saddle. Her stomach and breasts brushed against his chest and he closed his eyes, struggling not to groan at the pressure of her body against his. She continued to lean into him as her feet touched the ground and he opened his eyes, his hands lingering on her waist, just above the curve of her hips. The light falling through the trees played along the arches of her cheeks and his fingers tightened on her waist, matching the taut grip of his desire as he struggled to keep from pressing his lips to hers. Though her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, her hesitant expression made him step back and let go, fearing their fragile friendship might slip away like the water pouring under the bridge.
‘This way.’ He swung his hand at the wooden mill door.
She reached for the handle, but it didn’t budge. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Mr Robson must have gone to fetch something. Shall we wait?’
‘Yes.’ She stepped over to the small railing overlooking the waterwheel. Her fitted habit pulled tight over her round buttocks as she leaned over to look into the water. The simple material and lack of design enhanced her curves and he opened and closed his hands at the memory of her firm body between his palms. When she turned to him and pointed to the reeds, he caught a teasing glance of the smooth skin of her breasts beneath the open V of the bodice. He was so mesmerised by the sight of her, he almost didn’t hear the question.
‘Is that the boat?’
He pulled himself from his trance and looked to where she pointed. Deep in the tall reeds along the bank, almost hidden by the foxtails, the grey and weathered bow of the wooden boat stuck out just above the surface of the water, a perch for a fat green frog.
‘It is.’ Something inside him dropped. ‘I guess it didn’t survive the storm, either.’
‘Pity. I was looking forward to rowing again.’
‘It wouldn’t be proper for a rake and widow to be alone on the water,’ he teased, driving away the gloom settling between them.
She rewarded him with an agreeing smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose it would.’
They started down the dirt path to where it dipped close to the pond before rising up to the stone bridge spanning the wide waterfall. Reverend romped in the water along the shore as Randall and Cecelia crossed the bridge. They paused at the centre and leaned over the railing to watch the green moss dance in the current below. The slope of the land was longer here and the water didn’t spill as fast or as loud over the rocks.
Across the pond, Randall noticed the boat again. The sight of it sunken and ruined dragged on him like the tumbling water pulling down leaves and twigs, reminding him of all their lost time together.
‘Were you happy with Daniel?’ he asked.
She straightened, looking more surprised than when he’d appeared at her house yesterday with Reverend. He expected her to chastise him for asking something so private, but she only folded her hands together and faced the pond. ‘Yes. He was a kind and generous man.’
A knot of jealousy twisted his insides. If she’d told him the man was cruel, he’d have cursed him to Hades, but hearing her speak fondly of him did not ease Randall’s mind. Few would remember him so kindly. ‘Did you love him?’
She traced a groove in the capstone, the outline of her wedding band just visible beneath the fitted kidskin glove. ‘I was fond of him at first. He was so sweet and kind. Only later, after we’d struggled with Belle View and so many other things, did the love come.’
The pain of realising again how completely he’d lost her rose up in him before he pushed it down. He wouldn’t be jealous of a dead man, not when she was standing beside him. ‘And there were no children?’
Her fingers curled on the edge of the stone, the answer evident.
Randall laid one hand over hers, squeezing it tight. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the pond. ‘There was a child our second year together. A beautiful little boy, but a fever took him. It almost took Daniel, too, but he recovered. After the illness, there were no more children. The midwife said it can happen when a man catches the fever so late in life.’