Authors: Georgie Lee
‘My distant cousin hasn’t annoyed me enough to consider denying him the title, nor has he sufficiently impressed me enough to secure it.’ He moved his free hand behind his back, something of the imperious Randall coming over him. ‘If it weren’t for Aunt Ella chiding me to settle the matter one way or another, I wouldn’t even consider marriage.’
She stared straight ahead at the large painting of some past Marquess hanging at the end of the hall, the decision to keep her secrets justified. For all the tenderness he’d shown her at the bridge, for all his helping of her and Theresa, it was clear he intended to offer nothing more than friendship. She might enjoy this brief interlude of intimacy with him, but she couldn’t allow herself to expect more, nor should she. He owed her nothing beyond an apology for the past, but even this seemed too petty to expect in the face of his current generosity.
‘You’re very quiet,’ he observed as they approached her room.
‘I’m more tired than I realised.’
‘Then you must make sure to rest.’ He stopped at her door, more the teasing London lord than the caring man who’d held her at the mill today. ‘I expect to be amused and dazzled by your wit tomorrow.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Thank you again for everything.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ He leaned in and brushed a small kiss over her cheek. Desire clashed with fear as she inhaled the bergamot cologne on his skin. She moved a touch closer, clasping the sides of her dress to keep her hands from sliding along the angles of his face and bringing his lips down to hers. He lingered close to her and she closed her eyes, yearning for his mouth to cover hers, her heart drumming a steady rhythm as his breath whispered along her temple. The fine cotton beneath her fingers wrinkled as she waited, anxious for him to either take her in his arms or move away.
‘Randall?’ she whispered in frustration, opening her eyes to meet his, ashamed at how much she craved his embrace. What did he want from her? It seemed to change every minute, shifting like light through a stained glass window at the end of the day.
He straightened at the sound of his name and took one step back, his eyes burning with a want to match hers, but she caught the conflict beneath the flames—it echoed her own.
‘Goodnight, Cecelia.’ He walked off down the hall.
She released her dress, her hands going to the hidden pendant. There was more to this than calculated manoeuvring, something deeper she felt within her heart, but refused to put into words or believe. Men like Randall did not love.
* * *
Randall didn’t remember the hallway to his room being so long. Behind him, he heard the click of Cecelia’s bedroom door, but didn’t look back. He couldn’t and expect to maintain the self-control pushing him away. She wanted him and the answering need clawed at his insides, but he fought it, hating the strength of it, especially when all the while she held a part of herself back. He’d seen the mistrust flicker through her eyes in the library when he’d asked about her finances. It was brief, but as clear as the longing filling them just now, though he wondered if it was longing for him or his title.
He threw open his bedroom door and it banged against the iron doorstop behind it. Madame de Badeau and all her conniving be damned. He’d pursued Cecelia, he’d brought her here. If anyone was playing a game of conquest, it was him. Only it wasn’t a game any more.
Randall took off his coat and tossed it over a chair.
‘Good evening, my lord.’ Blakely came in from the dressing room, unruffled by Randall’s brusque entrance as he collected the coat.
Reverend lay on his chaise at the foot of the bed, his tail thumping against the pillows at the sight of Randall. He rubbed the dog between his ears, irked at Blakely’s silence and missing Mr Joshua’s easy conversation and humour. The valet was still in London, trying to learn something of Cecelia’s secret, though Randall didn’t hold out much hope of hearing any word from him. Not even he had been able to get at the truth of it yesterday. He’d spent the better part of an hour with Cecelia’s solicitor, trying to cajole and then bribe the man into revealing what he knew. All the solicitor would say was her inheritance payment was not made and he’d referred her to the services of Mr Rathbone. Randall had then paid a visit to the moneylender, but it proved equally fruitless. The man was away from town on business and not expected back for at least a week. Waiting grated on him, but he had no choice. At least while she was here she was safe and a few more days without news would make no difference.
His hand paused over Reverend and the dog licked it until Randall resumed his steady strokes.
Why won’t she trust me?
Twice he’d asked her to confide in him and twice she’d lied, despite everything he’d done for Miss Fields, or the intimacies they’d shared today. It seemed even when he was at his most honest and forthright, she still held back.
From the dressing room, the sweep of the clothes brush over the wool coat scratched at Randall’s nerves. He rubbed Reverend’s head again, but not even this calmed him. ‘That will be all for tonight, Blakely.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ the man answered, then left.
Randall pulled loose his cravat, unwinding the length of it from around his neck. He couldn’t blame Cecelia for being cautious. His initial reasons for pursuing her were less than chivalrous and she knew it. She’d guessed it when he’d given her the pendant, the token he had yet to see her wear.
Randall dropped the cravat on the floor, the silence more irritating than the valet’s scratching brush. He pulled open the French doors leading to the balcony and stepped outside, the cool air cutting through his silk shirt. A wide expanse of grass stretched out from the house and a herd of deer moved over the short grass, their breath clouding above their heads. Beyond them, at the far edge of the lawn, stood the large ash tree and beneath its wide branches rested Uncle Edmund and Randall’s parents.
He plucked an ivy leaf off the wall and ran one thumb over the smooth surface. Perhaps in the end his father was right: he wasn’t a man worthy enough for the affection of a woman like Cecelia.
Randall crushed the leaf and tossed it over the railing. No, his father wasn’t right, he couldn’t be. The old man didn’t know him. Only Cecelia did and, despite his reputation and past mistakes, she was still willing to come here and be with him, to tell him her past sorrows and let him comfort her.
He glanced down the line of the house, noticing the slit of light through the heavy curtains of Cecelia’s room.
She’s still awake
.
He gripped the railing, the rough stone digging into his palms and stopping him from returning to her door. Despite the need dancing in her eyes before they’d parted, and the faint disappointment sweeping across her face when he’d pulled away, the idea of going to her now felt too much like all the other halls he’d trod at various country houses. None of those women meant to Randall what Cecelia did and he wouldn’t disgrace her by treating her like one of them. She might not trust him, but she hadn’t pushed him away. As long as she was here, there existed the possibility of burying all her doubts and his.
Chapter Thirteen
C
ecelia stepped outside, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sharp morning sun breaking through the clouds and cutting between the back portico columns. The crunch of boots over gravel joined the chirping of birds and the short gusts of wind as Randall walked up the long path from the stables, Reverend bounding through the tall grass next to it. He stood straight, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d experienced even a small measure of the conflict which kept her from sound sleep, he hid it well.
Last night, the darkness had stretched out through the long hours as her mind ran in circles, working to tease out what Randall wanted from her. Every time he moved to cross the line of friendship, he drew back until she wanted to pull the pendant from her neck, hand it back to him and leave. Somewhere near midnight, all of Lord Strathmore’s obvious ogling had almost seemed preferable to Randall’s constant pursuing and retreating. At least the Earl was clear in his desire, unlike Randall.
Cecelia started down the stairs, moving slower with each step that brought her closer to him, reluctant to spend the morning guessing at his intentions. Somewhere inside, Theresa and Lady Ellington were lost in their preparations for the assembly. Cecelia should be with them, not here, pulled in more directions than a mule team hitched together.
Her foot touched the last step and she felt a pebble roll beneath her shoe. She lurched forward and Randall rushed to her. She fell against his chest, her hand clutching his coat. His arms clasped her, sturdy enough to balance her, but not the tripping in her heart.
‘Steady now.’ His voice rumbled through his chest and hers as he helped her regain her balance.
‘One would think after three months on a rocking ship, I could walk a straight line on dry land.’ She laughed nervously, aware of his heavy hands on her waist. She let go of his lapel and smoothed the wrinkled wool, her palm too firm against his coat, savouring the hard chest beneath. The memory of him as a young man emerging from the mill pond, fat drops of water sliding over the curve of his chest and catching in the sweep of hair in the centre, came rushing back to her.
‘Did you enjoy sea travel?’ His low voice drew her from the past to meet his eyes and an amused smirk.
‘No, not at all.’ She snatched back her hand, feeling a little too much like Lord Strathmore with all her pawing at Randall. ‘In fact, I’ll be happy to never set foot on a ship again.’
‘Then you have no intention of returning to your lands in Virginia?’ There was too much hope in his question, but not enough for her.
If only she could.
‘Not at present. No. Perhaps some day. I don’t know.’ She stepped around him, making for the garden path, rattled by his innocent question, eager to escape it and the encroaching despair. Reverend trotted beside her, panting. ‘I want to see your uncle’s garden.’
He hurried to catch up to her as they reached the entrance to the statue garden at the end of the walk. An iron trellis marked the gateway, adorned with a full rose bush heavy with pink blooms.
‘Are you sure a trip inside won’t be too dangerous to your reputation?’ Randall asked, teasing her happiness out from beneath her troubles. ‘I’ve heard there are marbles of a most scandalous nature in there.’
She fingered a pink bud, unable to hold back a smile. ‘I think I may risk my reputation just this once.’
‘Then prepare to be stunned.’
Side by side they passed under the arch and into the garden, Reverend following at their heels. Among the deep green of ivy, white marble glistened in the sun. Where once the naked bodies stood proudly in the centre to scandalise a virtuous maiden, now they lay hidden behind roses and honeysuckle and peeked out from wooded grottos. Around them the hedges rattled with another gust, but the wind blew softer in here.
Reverend sniffed at the base of a half-naked goddess, the urn in her arms filled with cascading blue flowers which covered all but her bare shoulders. Then the dog found some unseen trail and followed it off through a tangle of high, feathery grass bending and rising with the wind.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she exclaimed, trailing her fingers across the top of a row of yellow flowers.
‘I told you I was quite the gardener.’
She threw him a disbelieving look. ‘I can’t imagine you mucking in the mud.’
‘Well, my greensman and I. He did the work while I suggested what to plant and where.’ He motioned to the statue of a large man holding up a sword, his stomach muscles rippled in white with veins of brown, his erect penis now draped with a tasteful kilt of honeysuckle.
‘You’ve both done excellent work, I’ve never seen a garden like this.’ She wandered along the path, her hem sweeping the flowers hanging over the gravel and collecting bits of dew and fine yellow pollen. She passed three dancing nymphs, admiring the tall hedge of purple flowers protecting their modesty. Just past them, where the paths merged in a wide circle in the centre of the garden, stood a willow tree. The arching branches draped over the marble bodies of Venus and Mars locked together in ecstasy, the sinewy screen swaying and shielding their full nakedness from everyone except each other.
It’d been so vulgar before, all of it, and something inside her caught at the beauty of it now. Randall might not believe in love, but, like his embrace on the bridge, all the carefully placed flowers and trees whispered of his caring and tenderness.
Randall trailed behind Cecelia, her breathy gasps of amazement and surprise worth more than all the impressed murmurings created by his art exhibit.
‘Theresa will be very disappointed when she finally sees this. I’ve made it sound like some kind of statue Gomorrah, but you’ve transformed it into something wonderful.’
‘As you can see, my talents extend beyond mere rumours and ruining people.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She touched something hidden beneath the dark pelisse. ‘It’s in everything you’ve created here and all your kindness to me and Theresa.’
Randall looked up to watch a small bird hopping between the branches. Despite what he’d done ten years ago, and all he’d done and become since, she was still willing to believe in him and it rattled him more than all his father’s old curses.
‘There aren’t many who’d agree with your generous opinion of me.’ He didn’t deserve her belief, not when he’d worked so hard to gain it and to what end? What waited for them at the conclusion of all this, more broken figurines and Cecelia weeping on a chaise while he strode away? After comforting her at the mill, it sickened him to think they might become strangers again, avoiding each other across ballrooms.
‘Your aunt thinks highly of you,’ she offered optimistically, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before the wind caught it again. ‘She practically sings your praises and your uncle thought well of you, too.’
Without thinking, Randall reached out and tucked the hair behind her ear. She didn’t flinch or pull away, but watched him with wide eyes, looking more like a porcelain statue than any of the solid marbles surrounding them. His hand hesitated by her ear, brushing the curve of it. He should stop this game, stop drawing her to him, but he couldn’t.
He pulled back his hand. She deserved more than the little he could give her, the little he’d ever given anyone, including his father, who’d been right to call him selfish.
‘My father didn’t think so well of me.’ He reached up and took one thin branch between his fingers, pulling it close to examine the leaves. ‘Aunt Ella used to say he laughed more before my mother died. I never saw him laugh, or happy. I think that night I did him a favour. He wanted to die, to be with my mother, but couldn’t because it’s a sin.’
He tugged a handful of leaves from the branch and sent it bobbing back up over their heads. Death might have freed his father, but it’d trapped Randall with a torn past he could never mend.
She moved closer, the earthy scent of grass and dew faint around her. ‘You aren’t to blame for what he thought of you or how he died.’
Randall opened his fingers and the leaves fluttered to the ground as he wrapped one arm around her waist, drawing her into the arc of his body. Her hands rested on his chest, light, easy, not tense or ready to push away. Temptation licked through him as her tongue swept over her lips, making them shine like her eyes. Old memories rose up before him, the dark hallway outside the manor dining room, Uncle Edmund’s laughing inside, Cecelia pressed like this against him, free, willing, eager. Excitement shot through him as she tilted back her head, raising her mouth to meet his, offering herself to him as she had so long ago.
I’ve found you again.
He slid his other hand behind her neck and the small curls above her collar brushed against his fingers. His arm tightened around her waist, pressing her closer, her body warm against the chilly wind. With his tongue, he traced the line of her lips and she opened them, accepting his deeper caress. He drank her in, the taste of her like honey to a man used to vinegar.
Somewhere outside the garden, a far-off voice sounded before fading like the distant bleat of a sheep in the field. The voice called out again, closer now, and Randall clung to Cecelia, turning them away from the garden arch and everything beyond the trellis which sought to separate them. If he could kiss her deeper, hold her closer, she and all the comfort she offered might never vanish from his life again.
* * *
‘Cecelia?’ Theresa’s voice rang clear from just beyond the hedges. Cecelia barely heard her cousin’s calls or the soft rustle of half-boots on the grass, ignoring them in the hopes they might go away. She laced her fingers behind Randall’s neck, holding him as if he were a large rock in the middle of a fast-moving stream. The current might rush around and over them, but it would not move them. If only the current could drown out the noise of the world beyond the garden.
‘Cecelia?’ Theresa’s voice rang out again. It should have pulled her back, but instead she fell deeper into Randall, pressing her stomach into his, feeling the true depth of his need between them.
‘Cecelia, where are you?’ Theresa’s voice insisted, much closer this time, the sharp tone startling Cecelia from this daydream.
She broke from Randall’s kiss, all her forgotten caution rushing in to fill the small gap between their bodies. She widened it, looking around Randall, expecting to see Theresa at the garden arch. Instead, she could hear her moving through the leaves on the opposite side.
‘Don’t go,’ he whispered, trailing his lips up the curve of her neck, his cheek soft against hers. Need and fear tugged her in opposite directions and she didn’t know which urge to follow.
The sound of Theresa’s footsteps near the garden entrance finally made her decision.
‘I have to,’ came her feeble protest.
Randall’s arms eased around her and she stepped back. His thumb pressed hard against the palm of her hand as he led her away from the willow and to the arch where he finally let go.
‘Here I am.’ Cecelia stepped out of the garden, listening for the sound of Randall following behind her but there was nothing except the rustle of bushes in the wind. He remained hidden behind the hedges. Only Reverend appeared, bounding up to Theresa, his tail wagging. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Lady Ellington asked me to fetch you.’ She patted the dog on the head. ‘She’s going to let us borrow some of her jewels tonight and she wants us to choose which ones we want to wear. Can I wear her diamonds? Please?’
‘Diamonds aren’t for unmarried ladies,’ Cecelia chided with a laugh, her own nervousness bubbling up through her and heightened by her cousin’s enthusiasm. ‘Something more subtle like pearls will do.’
Theresa scrutinised Cecelia’s face. ‘You seem flushed. Are you feeling well?’
‘Quite well, I only hurried up from the end of the garden when I heard your voice. Tell me more about the jewellery.’
Theresa took Cecelia’s arm and together they walked back to the house, leaving Reverend to follow another trail across the lawn. Theresa continued to chatter, but Cecelia heard little of it. The soft urgency of Randall’s kiss lingered on her lips, along with the relief of finally knowing where his intentions lay.
Movement in an upstairs window caught her attention and she noticed the Countess watching them, a wide smile on her face.
Cecelia stumbled, gripping Theresa’s arm to steady herself. How long had Lady Ellington been standing there?
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Theresa asked.
‘Yes, my shoe slipped on the wet grass.’
‘But the grass is dry.’
‘Never mind. Come along. We can’t keep the Countess waiting.’
Cecelia forced herself to focus on Theresa’s lively words as they entered the sitting room, the darkness unsettling after the bright light of the garden. They climbed the stairs and Cecelia looked out the large window at the top, but only the tips of distant trees were visible. She wanted to rush to it and know just how much of the garden one could see from here, but she couldn’t, not with Theresa holding her arm.
They reached the end of the hallway and Lady Ellington came out of her room.
‘Cecelia says I can’t wear the diamonds. She wants me to wear the pearls, but I don’t think they’ll look right,’ Theresa hurried forward to complain.
Cecelia lingered behind her, trying to ignore the way the Countess’s eyes kept dancing over Theresa’s shoulders to meet hers with a knowing gleam.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I have something which will suit you both,’ Lady Ellington reassured her. ‘Now go inside. My lady’s maid has laid out the selection.’
Theresa practically skipped into the Countess’s room, leaving them alone in the hallway.
‘My dear, I’m so sorry we haven’t had a chance to chat.’ She clasped her hands together in front of her mouth, hiding the start of a smile behind her large rings. ‘Though I think Randall has more than made up for my neglect.’
Cecelia didn’t know whether to groan or worry. After years with the late Marquess, she doubted Lady Ellington would be scandalised by a stolen kiss, but if she saw them, it would only increase her matchmaking ideas. Cecelia barely knew her own feelings when alone in her room, much less under Lady Ellington’s less-than-subtle scrutiny. ‘Yes, Randall showed me the changes he made to the garden.’