A Duchess to Remember (13 page)

Before the scientist could become entirely lost in his own circuitous explanations, the butler’s mellifluous voice announced that the Duke of Montford wished to say a few words.

An expectant hush fell over the crowd. Intrigued, Rand glanced at Lady Cecily. The girl paled and tensed. Her gloved hand came up to run a fingertip along the pearl necklace at her throat, as if it felt too tight.

“Ah. The announcement,” said Norland, as if he knew what was coming.

A strange feeling of presentiment filled Rand. He had the ridiculous urge to leap to his feet and shout at Montford to stop.

The duke surveyed the assembled crowd. His lips spread in that thin smile of his. “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to hold this ball tonight in honor of my ward, Lady Cecily Westruther.”

He paused for the polite applause that ensued. “But there is another reason to celebrate. Tonight, Lady Cecily has become betrothed to His Grace, the Duke of Norland.”

In that moment, Rand knew precisely how his ancestors must have felt in a jousting match, when the lance connected with their guts and sent them flying to the ground.

A gasp swept the room. A Babel of conversation and exclamations broke out.

Paralyzed, Rand watched Norland take Lady Cecily’s hand and help her rise. As she got to her feet, she looked back at Rand.

It was a swift glance, but in that instant Rand read the emotion in those dark eyes as if she spoke directly to him.

You should have listened when I told you I didn’t want you. And it’s your own damned fault that you didn’t.

I am sorry.

It seemed to take forever for Norland to lead Cecily forward to where Montford stood. Rand felt as if he were in a nightmare where everything moved slowly, yet he was powerless to stop the progression of events.

As one, Lady Cecily and her betrothed turned to face the guests. Norland still held her hand, damn him! Damn him to hell.

And
she
 … Lady Cecily Westruther looked pale but composed. Her lips trembled as if she tried very hard to smile but couldn’t quite manage such hypocrisy. She didn’t look again in Rand’s direction, much as he willed her to do so. Nor did she regard her fiancé.

Rand wanted to stride over there and shake some sense into that clever brain of hers. How
could
she? How could she throw herself away on Norland, of all men?

Didn’t she know Rand had laid claim to her last night with that kiss?

All around him, glasses were charged and a toast drunk to the happy couple. Rand drank, too. He drank, all right. Drained his champagne glass, wishing very much it were brandy and not this fizzy French wine. He’d need a gallon of it to get as drunk as he’d like.

Supper drew to a close as the crowd converged on the couple to congratulate and wish them happy.

Rand sat alone among the steadily emptying tables as the resolve hardened in his mind and in his soul.

This betrothal was a farce and a tragedy. He could not allow it to stand.

He would make Lady Cecily Westruther his wife. If that meant deceit and seduction and even scandal, so be it.

He didn’t care what it took.

Chapter Nine

Cecily was ready to shatter by the time Montford stepped in to stem the flow of congratulations and draw her away from the crowd. With some suave words of thanks and excuses, he led her back to the ballroom.

She managed to say, “I have yet to thank you for this evening, Your Grace. The ball has been a marvelous success, don’t you think?”

“I wish I could say the pleasure has been unalloyed, Cecily,” he returned. “I must say, I find myself strangely disappointed. I’d expected fireworks of some sort when you finally hit the ton. And yet, here you are, accepting your fate like a lamb. Indeed, you have given me less trouble than either Jane or Rosamund.”

Please don’t.

She knew the sentiments that underlay his words. He thought her a poor creature for accepting her duty so tamely. He’d wanted her to renege on the arrangement with Norland. She hoped he didn’t intend to try persuading her at this stage. She didn’t think she had the strength to fence with him now.

But she ought to have known the duke would not repine uselessly when the deed was done.

Eyeing her with more understanding than she wished him to have, he sighed. “You would benefit from some air, my dear. Perhaps a stroll on the terrace?”

“Thank you,” she managed.

Montford was nothing if not perceptive. She hoped no one else discerned from her demeanor that she was anything but pleased with her engagement. And why should she be
dis
pleased? That was a question, indeed.

He frowned. “I cannot leave my guests, but— Ah! There is Rosamund. I’ll fetch her for you.”

Cecily battled with an absurd desire to burst into sobs. She’d never thought of herself as the sort of ninny who wept at trifles. In fact, she’d always prided herself on her resilience, hadn’t she?

She wished she’d never gone to Ashburn’s house that night.

“Cecily.” Rosamund took her hands, her blue eyes suspiciously bright. Her smile seemed effortful. “Well, it is done. I must wish you happy.”

“Yes.” Cecily squeezed her cousin’s gloved fingers, grateful at least that Rosamund had now stopped trying to persuade her to throw Norland over. “Yes, it is done and now I should like to go somewhere.… Oh, I don’t know where. I want to be alone for a while, but I can’t go back to my bedchamber. My maid will be there. The servants will talk.”

Rosamund glanced to the long windows at the end of the ballroom. “Shall we take a turn on the terrace, as the duke suggested?”

“No!”

Rosamund blinked and Cecily realized she’d spoken too vehemently. If she walked on the terrace, Ashburn might think she courted his attention—or worse, that she’d obeyed his autocratic command to meet him there.

Cecily pressed her stomach with one hand, smoothing the silk that covered it over and over. “No, there are too many people there already.”

Rosamund considered. “What about the summerhouse?”

“Won’t it be locked?” said Cecily.

Was it a trick of the light or did Rosamund blush a little? “It so happens that I have a key.” She patted her reticule as if to indicate the key’s current location.

That caught Cecily’s interest.
“Oh, really?”
she drawled. “Planning a moonlit tryst, were you, my dear?”

“It is something of a tradition with Griffin and me.” An uncharacteristically naughty twinkle sparked in Rosamund’s blue eyes; then a grin broke over her face as if she could not contain it. That look enhanced Rosamund’s exquisite features until her beauty became almost unbearable.

All at once, Cecily felt burningly envious. Not of Rosamund’s beauty, but of the excitement and passion and soul-deep trust she shared with her husband.

“Well, as long as I won’t be in the way,” she said, wishing she hadn’t sounded so wistful.

“Of course not.” Rosamund slipped the key from her reticule and Cecily unobtrusively palmed it.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Rosamund.

Cecily shook her head. “No. I want to be alone, just for a while. It’s not as if I need a chaperone in my own home, after all. Nothing can happen to me in Montford’s garden.”

A reckless statement. She knew very well what might happen to her if Ashburn found her there. But on reflection, she thought it better to have this confrontation than to let resentments fester and conversations go unfinished. If tonight’s announcement hadn’t dissuaded him, she needed to end Ashburn’s pursuit of her, once and for all.

Besides, she still needed that letter.

Rosamund kissed her cheek. “If you are not back in half an hour, I will send Griffin looking for you,” she said.

For the sake of discretion, Cecily did not leave by the central terrace steps but through the library and down the side staircase. Screened from the ballroom by a high yew hedge, she hurried down to the summerhouse at the edge of the garden.

Her confidence in Ashburn’s ingenuity was not misplaced. Only a few minutes passed before he walked in.

His face was in shadow, its harsh angles limned by moonlight. He looked even more enigmatic than usual, if that were possible.

“Why?” His expression might remain impassive, but his voice betrayed him. It seemed strained, perhaps even a little hoarse.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “The alliance was arranged between our families many years ago.”

“And you did not see fit to inform me of that last night?”

“Why should I?” she said. “What business is it of yours whom I marry?”

That statement should have been enough. But something compelled her to add, “I told you I did not go to your house for any amorous purpose.”

“Your words told me you were not interested,” he said. “Your response to my kiss said something entirely different.” His voice deepened. “Indeed, it spoke volumes, Lady Cecily.”

She felt the heat of his regard as if she stood before a roaring hearth. “Whatever you perceived, or thought you perceived, that is irrelevant now. I am pledged to Norland.”

The mention of her betrothed’s name seemed to act powerfully on him. Ashburn loomed over her. Tall, deep-chested. Overwhelming in a very masculine way.

He took her by the shoulders, not as if to shake her, but as if he braced her while the world tumbled around her. “You cannot marry him.”

She must. She drew away from him and repressed a shiver of loss as the warmth of his hands left her skin. She felt as if he
had
shaken her. Right down to her soul.

No. That was ridiculous. One did not fall in love or even form a mild attachment after a scatter of short meetings. She admired Ashburn’s intellect; Lord knew his manner coupled with his dark good looks made him immensely attractive on a physical level, too. He had a powerful presence. How could any woman remain unaffected by him?

And yet … Honesty compelled her to admit there was more to it than that. There
was
a connection between them. She’d felt a sharp tug of recognition from the first instant she’d laid eyes on the Duke of Ashburn.

But she didn’t want to explore that connection. She knew down to her bones that if she gave in to him, the Duke of Ashburn would make demands on her she wasn’t willing to fulfill.

Regrouping, she called on all her Westruther pride. “The fact that you were presumptuous enough to kiss me does not give you the right to dictate whom I marry.”

That statement was self-evident, and yet somehow she felt the justice of his accusatory glare. Shame at her own behavior that night washed over her.

Frustration seemed to pour from him. He expelled a harsh breath and ran a hand through his cropped hair. “Rights? What do rights have to do with it? There is something between us, and you know it, Cecily. Instead of facing that, you are running away. Into a safe, dull marriage that can only end in your misery.
Norland,
for God’s sake!”

“Do not speak of him like that! He is a good, kind man and he will make an excellent husband.”

“Not in the ways that matter,” he said softly. “Don’t ever think it.”

She flinched. Was he talking of marital relations? Again, her lack of experience set her at a disadvantage. If she knew what she was missing, it would be easier to dismiss.

Or did he mean he could offer something deeper than physical satisfaction? She could scarcely believe he meant that.

Love, as she understood it, took time and close acquaintance to develop and mature. She and Ashburn had met a grand total of three times now. Besides, Ashburn was no silly debutante but a man of experience. He could not possibly believe in love at first sight.

What it came down to was this: His Grace, the Duke of Ashburn, was a proud man accustomed to getting his own way. He’d been thwarted, that was all. He’d intended to pursue her and set her up as his flirt for the season and make her fall in love with him because that’s what men of his stamp did.

Now, however, she had taken on all the luster of the forbidden. A man of Ashburn’s temperament must see her betrothal to another first as an affront, but ultimately as a challenge.

And if she succumbed and broke her engagement at his demand, what then? When he’d made her as desperate for him as he now appeared to be for her, he would lose interest as such men always did. He would leave her with nothing but the knowledge that she’d behaved badly toward a very good man.

“I want to marry you, Cecily,” he said.

The world spun around her.
“What?”
she said faintly. “Will you stop at nothing to get your own way? How can you possibly wish to marry me?”

The buttons of his coat flashed as he made an impatient gesture. “I don’t know how. I simply know that I do.”

She put her hand to her cheek, then to her temple, which had begun to throb. This was all about his pride, surely it was. How could a sane man wish to marry a woman he hardly knew?

Unless …

Her eyes narrowed. “You have not lost your fortune, have you?” She was a considerable heiress, after all. And she thought she might as well drown herself in the Serpentine if he wanted her for her money.

His brows twitched together in incomprehension, as if she’d just spoken in Mandarin. “Of course not.”

“Then I—” Oh, it was all too much! She squeezed the bridge of her nose, but the burn behind her eyes wouldn’t go away. She was tired and overwrought and this truly could not be happening to her. Not when she felt so low already.

He moved close to her again, and the touch of his hand was warm against her cheek. It was a gesture of comfort, even if his words gave her no quarter.

“Look at me,” he urged, using his fingertips to tilt her chin so she must meet his gaze. “Tell me you don’t feel that thrill of excitement when I touch you. Just being in the same room with you makes me forget everything else. When I’m not with you, you fill my thoughts. I can’t sleep for thinking of you.”