Romancing Lady Cecily (2 page)

His other hand reached below, to the sodden hem of her dress. Cecily moaned, then bit her lip, her legs quivering as she imagined the next path his fingers would take. “Is this why you stayed? Is this why you continue returning to me?” One damp stocking rolled to her ankle.

She couldn't speak. She could hardly breathe, convinced that the barest touch from him now would send her flying apart, helpless in his arms.

“Answer me, Cecily. Is this what you wanted?”

She waited, a wordless plea that he would continue without her response. The rain pattered ceaselessly against the roof, the slosh of the wheels and stomp of the horses' hooves louder for the silence within the carriage. She sensed his stare on her, a presence which evoked the same impulse to surrender as the sensual drag of his lips across her skin. Her memories were slaves to him, tormenting her with the knowledge of the pleasure he could give her if only she answered as he wished.

Minutes passed. A quiet expectation weighted the air between them, the substance of her desire a tangible, relentless compulsion, more inevitable even than the draw of oxygen into her lungs. It was cruel of him to force her to say the words, when he knew that someday she must deny him and instead turn to another.

Still, when his hands fell away and he began to withdraw she panicked. She caught his arm, pressed his palm over her heart once again. “Yes,” she whispered, meeting his black gaze, blushing at the dark promises within. “This is why I stayed.”

And God help her, because when the day of her wedding finally came, she didn't know if she would be able to find the strength to leave.

Chapter 2

The rain hadn't stopped when Cecily arrived home. She carried it in with her, trailing water over the threshold and into the grand foyer. The footman at the door raised a brow at her sodden appearance but said nothing, as though accustomed to her odd entrances. Cecily feared that her time with Baron Sedgwick was beginning to result in changes of her character—for better or worse, she had yet to determine.

As if inspired by the mere thought of his name, her heart tripped unsteadily inside her chest, setting her pulse to vibrating throughout her entire body. Even when he wasn't present, he controlled her just as surely as a clock's pendulum controlled its hands.

In her bedchamber, Cecily raised her arms, bent her head, and lifted her feet all at her maid's commands. The drenched dress, petticoats, and even the soaked chemise were soon discarded, replaced by a velvet robe which seemed to have been heating before the fire, waiting for her return.

“His lordship asked that you join him and her ladyship in the sitting room as soon as you're able, my lady,” her maid told her as she gathered Cecily's wet garments into her arms.

At once, the pleasant remnants of being surrounded by the baron's arms folded beneath the terrifying thought that her parents might have taken greater notice than usual at her prolonged absence.

Cecily smoothed her palms over the edges of the robe as she twisted her head and stared into the fire. “Yes, of course. The yellow silk, then, with the lace edges.” A dress to enhance her youthfulness, her innocence. Only Sedgwick knew that he'd turned her into a corrupt and wanton creature, witless with her need for him.

Being made to step out of her fur robe was nothing short of an act of cruelty, and Cecily shivered at the bite of the air, the crisp April wind slipping through the window casements to nip at her skin. But soon she was dressed, coiffed, and primped as befitting the daughter of an earl.

No one would ever suspect the extent of the emptiness inside, the space the baron had gradually carved inside her soul. It taunted her, tested her, left her craving his presence. Had Angela's lover made her feel the same? Had she also tried to ignore his attentions and quench the passion between them, to no avail?

Angela.

Without the sensual distraction the baron provided, the swell of grief Cecily had suppressed rose high again. She swallowed it with a smile as she entered the sitting room.

“Father. Mother.” She greeted each with a kiss to the cheek. Her father nodded and brushed down the hairs of his side-whiskers. A nervous gesture, one she'd mimicked as a child, when she wished that she, too, had whiskers. Her mother murmured something soft, her voice as soothing as the ritual of watching her steady hands pour their tea every afternoon.

But Cecily couldn't understand her, not above the furious tattoo of her pulse, roaring in her ears. Every movement they made, each syllable formed upon their lips, seemed slow and deliberate, increasing her fear that they'd finally discovered her trysts with a man who not only wasn't her betrothed, but one who trod on the good graces of Society simply because it amused him.

“Cecily, dear.” Her father cleared his throat and gestured to the seat at her mother's side. “Sit down.”

Yes, she should be terrified, ill with the thought of disappointing the parents who had never been anything but loving and indulgent of her. Yet she found herself nearly giddy with relief that everything would soon be revealed. No more hiding. No more secrets. Perhaps if her meetings with Baron Sedgwick became known, he wouldn't seem as mysterious or devastatingly wicked anymore. No, he would be harmless. And she—Cecily prayed fervently—perhaps she would finally be set free from the net he'd cast over her. She could return to being the sensible woman she'd always been, one who would have never before considered running away as Angela had.

Her mother passed Cecily her embroidery hoop. The earl paced to the window and back again, stroking his whiskers. At length, just as Cecily had looped the thread into her needle, he pivoted on his heel and announced, “We've received a letter from your betrothed. It came while you were away at the shops.”

This proclamation in itself wasn't very exciting, nor was the guilt which rushed through Cecily in its wake. Her fiancé wrote regularly, at least twice a month. Notes to her father, with whom he made investments, and short little notes to Cecily herself. They were private pieces which Cecily suspected her father read beforehand, letters which never went beyond anything more than well wishes for her health. Once there had been a stray sentence mentioning how he looked forward to being together as husband and wife one day. But that had been all. Nothing amusing or interesting, nothing to arouse her passion or her imagination as the baron was so skilled at doing.

No, the announcement that they'd received a letter from her betrothed wasn't newsworthy. It was her father's agitation, evidenced by his quick, jerky movements and the uncontrolled modulation of his voice, which caused Cecily to curl her hands. The needle in her grip pricked her thumb, but she didn't flinch.

“Oh?” she said, smiling. “And what did my dear fiancé write to us this time?”

“You are to be married within a week.”

The smile on her face felt like a broken hinge, the only thing supporting the structure of her composure; if she were to let it slip even a little, a possibility existed that the mild-mannered, predictable daughter they believed her to be would disappear entirely. “A week,” she echoed, still smiling. “But the banns—”

“He's arranged for a special license.”

Of course he had.

“But . . .” Cecily laid her embroidery upon her lap, clasped her hands together. “But he's delayed the wedding for over two years. Why is he suddenly insistent, and why so soon, and—” Her chin lifted, her voice becoming more strident. “What if I no longer wish to marry him?”

“Cecily,” her mother admonished gently beside her. “You gave your word. Your father gave his word.”

“I've changed my mind,” she said, rising to her feet. The embroidery fell away, unheeded to the floor.

Her father frowned. “My dear girl, you must marry him. It is a matter of honor. The investments he's made—”

“They are only investments, yes? Surely you can repay him for what he's given to the company.” Cecily spread her arms wide, encompassing the wealth of the sitting room. The plush Persian rugs, the antique Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Queen Anne pieces. “Surely we have enough, surely the company can—”

“No. We can't. You don't understand.”

“I'm sorry, Father. Mother. But—”

“God's teeth, Cecily, he
is
the company!”

Cecily stared at her father's wide, wild eyes. His breath wheezed in and out with each movement of his chest. She shifted her gaze to her mother, but the countess looked down at her embroidery, her hands knotted, her face pale.

“Shortly after the initial investments were made, some very unfortunate events occurred. Everything was lost. Not only our wealth, but that of my friends and acquaintances who had trusted me. I—” Her father reached up, wiped his brow. “I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't approached me.”

Cecily narrowed her eyes. “How did he know of your misfortune?”

“Rumors had begun to circulate. I tried to quash them while I searched for loans, but it was useless. He offered to invest all of the money I had lost and much more. He shared his wealth with me, and in return—”

“You sold me.”

“You agreed to the marriage,” her father was quick to assure her.

“Because it was what you wanted! But did I really have a choice? If I had said no, would you have refused him?”

Her father's expression twisted, his dull blue gaze seeking escape from hers. “No. He only wanted you.”

Cecily sank to her chair and put her face in her hands. The letters she'd received from him—each and every one was so distant and courteous. The words of a gentleman, though ruthless he might be. When she read his letters she felt cold, detached—whereas the baron aroused every manner of feeling within her breast. The baron, whom she'd resisted falling in love with, with whom she'd experienced every pleasure but that which was reserved between man and wife, secretly hoping that the day of her arranged marriage would never come and she might marry him instead.

“What is his name?” she asked, a muffled question into her hands.

“You know he wished to remain anonymous. He made it very clear that you not discover his identity until your wedding.”

“Which is now to be within a week, is it not? Am I to meet my bridegroom without knowing his name? Do I not deserve that at least, Father?”

Her father gave her an odd smile. “I told him you were a good girl, that you wouldn't push to know it. But he was sure you would. Somehow he knew you would.”

Cecily laughed. “He knows me well, does he? Or at least he believes so.”

“August. That's the name he told me to give to you.”

“But not his true name?”

Her father glanced away.

“Do I know him, then? Have I met him before? Have I danced with him in between his travels overseas?”

“Enough. I can't tell you any more. He made me swear to secrecy.”

“I am your daughter!”

Her father stepped forward and cupped her shoulders, angled his head to bend toward hers. “And you are precious to me beyond life itself. If I did not believe he would treat you well, that he did not have the highest regard for you, no amount of money offered would have persuaded me to give him your hand.”

“But you did.”

“I did.” His hands lifted from her shoulders. “He has given us much, and we have made an arrangement for your marriage in turn. It is something you will abide by, is it not?”

A cloak of despair, hot and heavy—was this how Angela felt before she ran away with her lover?—fell over her.
Duty. Honor.
These were the words of the world to which she belonged. Not
passion
. Not
choice
. Her wedding—the inevitable which she'd been preparing for over the past two years, the day she'd hoped would never come—was here. She'd been correct in keeping at least a small part of herself from the baron. If only she could remove all the other pieces she'd so easily surrendered to him.

Cecily lifted her chin and attempted another smile. She and Angela had both known the lives that had been planned for them, had both happily accepted their futures. But the parallel between them had ended last night when Angela had deserted her husband and child. Unlike Angela, she would not change course. She would not disappoint those who mattered the most to her.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I shall marry as you wish, Father.”

When she returned to her bedchamber it was to find a bouquet of white lilies held in her maid's hands. “These just arrived, my lady.” Her arm extended, a small white envelope tucked between her fingers. “And a note—”

Cecily tore it open when she recognized the familiar script. Unlike her fiancé's, the baron's handwriting lay thick and sloped across the parchment, even the curves of each letter's lines seductive.

My dearest Lady Cecily,

I grieve for your loss at the passing of your dear friend Lady Wriothesly.

You have my deepest sympathies.

S—

He must have made inquiries immediately after she left his carriage. His concern had been sincere. Cecily clutched the note and sank to her knees, the tears rising once more.

The carriage door opened, revealing the exterior of Lady Mayberry's town house in all of its bedecked glory. Cecily might have been able to send her regrets to every other ball, soiree, afternoon tea and dinner party that week, but no one missed Lady Mayberry's annual ball. Even when Cecily had tried to convince her mother she shouldn't go—not only because of her impending nuptials but also because she still wanted to wear mourning for Angela—her mother simply patted her arm and instructed Cecily's maid to find the violet gown they'd bought specifically for the Mayberry ball at the beginning of the Season.

The groom appeared in the space before the door, folding out the steps and waiting expectantly. Her father cleared his throat. Cecily startled and turned her head. In the darkness, she could only see a slice of his whiskered cheek by the stripe of light from the lamps at the front of the Mayberry residence. “Time to go,” he said.

“Of course.” Reaching forward, she allowed the groom to take her hand as she descended from the carriage. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stared at the town house while the earl and countess stepped down as well. The mansion was ablaze, every window lit from within. Streams of people thronged toward the door from the other carriages in line, their laughter and gaiety disquieting when the entire past week had been spent in nothing but tears.

Tears for Angela, and thoughts of the Baron Sedgwick.

It would be the cruelest turn of fate to face him again now, knowing she must soon belong to another in all regards. And because fate seemed to have no particular fondness for her, she knew he would be here. His presence would taunt her with her own weakness, the realization that she would never be able to forget him no matter how she tried. He was a curse, the only person who could have ever swayed her into defying her parents and running from the obligation of her arranged marriage. His eyes, his lips, the touch of his hands—how seductive memories of him were when she lay in bed at night, contemplating the realization that in only a few days she would lay beneath another man.

She'd never condoned Angela's plan to escape with her lover. Yes, she was glad to see her friend happy, but she'd refused to assist Angela in her preparations. They were proper ladies, the crème of the ton, respected and admired by matrons and debutantes alike. Neither of them was supposed to be the kind of woman who jaunted off to the Continent, leaving an ocean-sized scandal in her wake.