Romancing Lady Cecily (3 page)

Yet with each passing day that Cecily spent preparing for the wedding and shopping for the final pieces in her trousseau, and with each passing night recalling with fevered clarity the feeling of wholeness when the baron's lips met hers, the fantasy of escaping England with her own lover became something she indulged in far too often. And though she tried to content herself with the knowledge that she was right in marrying the stranger her father had chosen, she couldn't help remembering the overwhelming joy on Angela's face the day she'd told Cecily of her plans to be with the man she loved.

A hand touched her wrist and slid down to give her fingers a comforting squeeze. Cecily smiled at her mother and began the walk at her parents' side toward the town house. They quickly converged with the other guests, all timely in their appearance—no one dared to arrive late to Lady Mayberry's ball. Although she had the urge to crane her neck and look around for the baron, Cecily resisted. So many times she'd tried to guess if he was in the vicinity simply by evaluating any changes in her breath or any other physical reaction, but it became a pointless gesture; just the thought of the baron created a visceral response as if he'd stroked her from one end to the other.

“Is it true?” someone asked in delight beside her.

Cecily recognized her friend's voice and glanced over at Eleanor, the daughter of the Viscount Morgan. Tall, blond, and slender, people had often commented on how similar she and Angela had appeared.

“Yes, I shall be a married woman this Friday,” Cecily said, sending a glance toward her mother. As much as Cecily loved her, the countess' tongue for gossip was rivaled by only a few.

“But who is he?” Eleanor bent her head to whisper in Cecily's ear. “Is he a Spaniard? Surely not a Frenchman!”

“No, no. Nothing so exotic or terrible, I'm afraid. Just another Englishman. And—” Cecily raised her hand to forestall the next question. “—you shall learn his identity at the same time as everyone else.”

Thank God her parents had decided it best to keep her future husband's name a secret from the ton. Although it created quite a stir and several jests over the past two years when the wedding had been delayed time and time again, no one realized that even Cecily didn't know his name. It was also effective in turning away prospective suitors who might otherwise have pursued her hand and created an awkward situation. The only man who had dared to approach her since the news of her betrothal had been the baron, and he'd simply laughed when she first made certain to mention her engagement to him.

“I want much more than your name bound to mine,” he murmured darkly in her ear. “I will have all of you, Lady Cecily, every hair, every breath, every heartbeat . . . and every moan.”

“You are such a tease,” Eleanor humphed, then squealed as she caught sight of someone else and hurried off. Cecily wanted to call her back. She should demand to know how the other woman could act so happy when Angela had died not even a fortnight ago. She'd seen Eleanor sobbing at the funeral, leaning on Lord Grayhurst for support. Had her tears dried so easily, then? Had it been easy to put away the memory of Angela and don such a convincing mask of happiness and frivolity?

Carried along by the crowd, Cecily was swept past the front door and up the stairs to the entrance of the ballroom. Everyone quieted and formed an orderly queue as they strained to hear the announcements made of those before them.

“His Lordship the Earl of Marwick, Her Ladyship the Countess of Marwick, and Lady Cecily Bishop,” the butler read from their invitation. Cecily assumed the proper smile and followed behind her parents as they greeted their hostess.

For the next hour she danced. Quadrilles, reels, and even a waltz or two. Even if the eligible men no longer sought her out as a potential bride, bachelors and married men alike still seemed to enjoy a partner with a pretty face. She counted everything. The number of dances, the number of people whom she spoke with, the glasses of punch she consumed. Twelve potted plants and six columns for couples to use when engaging in private conversations. Two terrace doors, three violinists, and one feathered hairpiece set atop the white head of the very eccentric Lady Abernathy. Unfortunately, she lost count of the number of times she smiled. There were far too many of those, prominent displays for all the world to see, when all she wanted to do was return home and crawl into her bed where she could simultaneously forget about Angela's death and her upcoming marriage by dreaming about the Baron Sedgwick.

The baron, who was nowhere to be found among the fourteen dark-headed men nearby, nor was he among the seven she'd counted tonight with similar broad shoulders or the two who, for a moment, made her smiles turn genuine with their well-pointed jests.

But then he
was
there, standing before her with another glass of punch in his hand. And he was the only one she'd seen that night with black eyes, the only man who'd made her heart turn over as a result of his devastating smile.

“Good evening, Lady Cecily,” he greeted. The meandering path of his gaze brought to mind the first time he'd seen her nude, when they'd escaped from the Carlisles' musicale into the conservatory where he'd helped her to strip bare and then ordered her to touch herself while he watched. It was also the first time she'd realized that he meant to be her lover in all but the final act between a husband and wife.

Cecily sucked in a breath, saw how his pupils flared in response. Like musical instruments they were, each taking turns to play the bow upon the strings to elicit a reaction from the other. Pleased, she breathed deeply again, her breasts pushing against the bodice of her gown.

Slowly the baron's lashes lifted to her face. He smiled and moved his outstretched arm. “Refreshment, my lady? You appear quite flushed.”

“No, thank you.” Cecily licked her lips, almost heady with knowledge of the sensual power she held over him. Every encounter was like this, an exploration of her own femininity while he stroked and pulled and tugged at her seams.

He inclined his head and handed the glass off to a passing servant. “Shall we dance then?” He moved in closer, his black eyes steady on hers. Though conversations continued around them, though someone's skirts pressed against hers to her right, only he remained in focus, drawing her to him. The heavy sensation of blood running thickly through her veins. The shortening of her breath. The inevitable way she leaned in to place her hand in . . .

“No,” she gasped, jerking her hand back to her side. “No dancing. I've promised the next set to Mr. Bell.”

“I don't think Mr. Bell would mind if I dance with you instead,” he said. “Nor do I think you would particularly care.”

“We mustn't. I—” And here it was. The time she'd been dreading, the time when she would have to reveal that her future husband—August—had written to say they would be married in two days and she shouldn't be with him ever again. To dance with him was only inviting torment on her part and likely scandal if the other guests saw the longing on her face she tried but surely failed to hide.

But as she hesitated, he placed her hand over his arm and led her on to the dance floor. He kept the proper distance between them as they walked, even when he turned toward her and placed his hands—one at her waist, the other covering hers. As the music began and he led her in the first turn of the waltz, his stiff arm and posture kept her a safe distance away.

Still, the very air between them hummed. When she looked into his face, she saw that he, too, could feel it, this inescapable need between them. Oh, but he wasn't simply feeling it. He had created it, and seemed to enjoy himself as he watched her fight against her desires to uphold her reputation in front of the others.

“Why did you not want to dance with me, Cecily?” he asked. His voice was too low to carry to the other dancers, and the thumb attached to the hand at her waist slid briefly up, then down. A private seduction, here in the middle of Lady Mayberry's ballroom. “Could it have anything to do with the rumors I've been hearing for the past week and a half?”

Her throat went dry. “You've heard?” All this time she'd thought she hadn't seen him because she'd made an effort to make herself unavailable. But could it be that he'd learned of her wedding and instead had kept himself away from her?

“It seems your erstwhile fiancé has finally become decisive about the date he plans to marry you. Shall I give you my felicitations now, or wait until later?”

Cecily glanced away, over his shoulder. She tried to ignore the suggestion in that one word. Still, its echo slithered in her mind, beckoning to her. She returned her gaze to his. “Later?”

He smiled, as if in approval of her capitulation. “When I steal you away and you agree to marry me instead.”

Cecily laughed. When his grip on her hand tightened and he narrowed his eyes, she flung back her head and laughed again, the light and fluff of a lady's amusement. Else she would have cried, knowing that no matter whether he jested or was entirely serious, her duty and her family's obligation required her to marry a man she'd only yet met in letters. “I wonder, my lord,” she said, tilting her head. “What great confidence you must have, to believe that I would so readily agree.”

“Indeed.” He answered her smile with an idle one of his own and studied her as they turned again. Then his gaze shifted to their joined hands. With a lift of his brow, he brought her hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss over her fingers. “Your claws are showing, kitten.”

“Let go before everyone sees,” she hissed.

“Oh, everyone has already seen. They are watching us closely. You have become a great spectacle. Do you think, if I were to ruin you right now as they all stare, your mysterious fiancé would have you still? Or, perhaps the better question is: would you still choose him, or would you choose me instead?”

“You
will
ruin me if you continue,” she said.

He returned their hands to their proper places, but not before she heard him murmur, “I should have ruined you a long time ago.”

She ignored it, ignored the thought of him lying above her, their limbs entangled as he finally made her his lover in truth. Her chest ached.

“I don't want to ever see you again,” she said.

He faltered as they turned once more, their movements a step behind the count of the music. “I'm afraid, my darling, that your wish must unavoidably remain unfulfilled. For, you see, I live in England. You live in England. Unless your husband takes you away to gallivant around the world, he also will likely live in England.” He paused. “He is an Englishman, is he not?”

“Yes. And you know I meant that I want you to stop seeking me out. Cease following me. Allow me to move on, as you must do.”

“Hmm.” Another thumb stroke at her waist. “I don't believe you mentioned his name to me. Or perhaps you did and I simply forgot. What was it again?”

She gritted her teeth. “Your memory is correct. I didn't tell you.” Would the waltz never end? Must this moment be prolonged? Why wouldn't he allow her to say good-bye?

“Come now, don't be shy. If I don't know his name, how am I to know to avoid the two of you at all costs?”

“August,” she muttered.

The curve of his mouth flattened, the black of his eyes somehow appearing to become even deeper. “Ah.”

The violins pulled at the last strains of the waltz, and he swung her around in their final turn, then slowly drew her to a stop. Wordlessly he escorted her to the side where he'd first found her. “My lady,” he said, then bowed.

Cecily's heart thumped. “That's it?” she whispered to his bent head. “You've given up, then?”

He straightened, taking a step backward. One small step, and yet it seemed the greatest divide. “I will never give up,” he said. But then he walked away.

Chapter 3

It was only the second time that he'd stood beneath Cecily's window. Although from the beginning he'd made sure to discover exactly which bedroom was hers, he hadn't allowed himself to come more than once before. He knew his limits, and the thought of Cecily in the bedchamber above, clothed in nothing more than her night rail, vulnerable and his for the taking—the image was too much to bear.

But tonight he allowed the image in his mind, embraced the picture his imagination painted of her blanket pushed to the end of the bed, her night rail tangled about her waist, her hair fanned over her pillow and her chest heaving as she dreamed of him.

Did she dream of him?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Certainly he'd done everything to become her greatest desire, the same inescapable obsession that she'd become to him since the very first night he saw her.

He lowered his gaze from her window and considered the tree outside. It would have been convenient had it been planted a foot closer; as it stood now he was more likely to break his neck than to actually succeed in climbing from branch to branch and then inside her window.

Fortunately, he'd arrived with another plan.

Drawing his watch from his pocket, he watched the seconds tick by. After approximately ninety-three had passed, a quiet click sounded at the study window nearby. The window casement swung out, followed by the head of the groom. Charles. He'd been very careful to obey his instructions to the last detail, but if he did happen to be sacked, he'd have a healthy purse of coins to sustain him for a while.

Scruples were meaningless to the baron. Especially when it came to Lady Cecily. He would have paid far more—all of his fortune—in order to be with her.

After a quick nod in his direction, Charles withdrew his head and Sedgwick approached the window. After climbing inside, he followed the footman's muffled footsteps from the study and up the stairs, straight to her bedchamber.

Sedgwick reached inside his pocket and withdrew the coin he'd promised. “Very good, my lord,” the servant whispered with a grin, then silently melted into the shadows.

Sedgwick turned to the door.

The increased tempo of his heartbeat was familiar now, something which had once surprised him whenever she was near, something he'd tried to amuse himself with, but now he simply accepted it. Without her, he was a man who only pretended to be complete. With her, he only pretended to hold the reins of his self-control.

He knocked.

Foolish, to give her an opportunity to deny him entrance. To chance that someone else might hear—or that even she might not hear the sound beyond her own slumber.

He waited, but could detect no movement within the bedchamber. Closing his eyes, he covered the handle with his hand again. He could not walk away. He must see her tonight.

But as he pushed into the chamber he came face-to-face with her, her arm outstretched toward the door. She gasped, and he lunged forward, covering her mouth with his hand. “Quiet, kitten, else you will rouse the entire house.”

A long moment passed. She gave a nod, and he released her, stepping backward to shut the door. He continued watching her, unable to look away. All of the images his mind had conjured had been for naught; the silk he wished to rip away was instead long cotton, the loose hair he wished to plunder was instead braided tightly at her scalp. Despite all that he'd taught her, she still remained the innocent virgin in appearance.

Sedgwick smiled. Her eyes widened as he strolled toward her. “You cannot be here,” she whispered when he cupped her face between his hands.

Bending his head, he kissed her cheek, then turned her head to kiss the other. As he did so the sweet rush of her breath fanned over his skin. And God, that was all he needed for his body to harden, ready to take her in the very next moment.

He forced himself to release her and step away. Tonight he would give neither of them the pleasure of seduction. He already knew she lusted for him, something he'd once believed would be enough. But now that the wedding date was in two days, he needed more from her. Much more.

“Run away with me,” he murmured, circling her. She shivered as he watched, and his muscles tightened with the impulse to reach out and draw her near, to fold her in his embrace.

“I can't,” she whispered, staring ahead at the opposite wall.

“Do you expect me to believe that you wish to marry your mysterious fiancé—this August—more than you want me?”

Her body stiffened, her chin jerking toward him as he passed her left shoulder. “I don't know what you expect,” she said, using that haughty tone that he loved so well.

“But you do, don't you, Cecily?” He smiled narrowly. “You care about me, even though you might deny it.”

She met his eyes. He raised a brow then looked away, ignoring the whisper of doubt which slithered through his conscience. He couldn't stay near her. If he did, he would be too tempted to touch her, to kiss her, to sway her through physical means. Instead, he wandered into the darker shadows of the blackened room, away from the light cast off by the low fire. He remained silent. Not because there weren't any words he could find, but because there were too many.

“I believe I like seeing you jealous,” she said at length.

He forced laughter from his throat. “Jealous? Dear kitten, I am jealous of everything which touches you. I despise that nightgown you are wearing, for it brushes your skin. I despise your maid, for touching your hair every day. I despise everyone who sees you the times when I cannot, who speaks to you when I cannot, the beggar in the street who glimpses your stockinged ankles as you pass by. Of course I am jealous of the man who will soon have you bound to him for the remainder of your life.”

He watched the heavy rise and fall of her chest, the protective way she crossed her arms over her chest. She hadn't expected him to admit the truth. But he must be careful; doing so could be addictive and very dangerous.

Yet though he grasped for it, he didn't have the control he needed so desperately when he was around her. Leaving the shadows, he crossed the room and halted before her. He took her hand, raised it to his lips. “Do you believe I am a good man, kitten?”

“No,” she replied immediately, forcefully, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

“And yet, tell me this, my lady. If I were someone else—if I were the man whom your parents wish you to marry two days hence—would you marry me instead?”

Her eyes searched his. “What reason would I have to marry you?” she asked.

His heartbeat seized, the breath stolen from his lungs. Still, he was careful not to tighten his hold on her hand; nor did he release her. “I see,” he said, moving forward until he stood against her, her breasts pushing into his chest. With his other hand he reached down and slowly began pulling up her night rail and beneath, her shift.

“This is what you want, is it not?” His knee nudged her thigh, forced her to walk backward until she was wedged between him and the bed. “Do you expect me to continue as we have been after you wed? Do you believe I will still be there to play servant to your needs?” He dipped his head, dragging his mouth along the edge of her jaw line and below to the tender give of her throat. How he wished he could sink his teeth into her flesh, to brand her as his and his alone, so that even she couldn't doubt it.

“No.” She shook her head. The hand unclaimed by his reached up, anchored itself at his neck. “I would not be that woman. I will not betray my husband once we are married.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to satisfy you now, won't I? One last time before he completes your knowledge of the marriage bed.”

Her fingers clenched in his hair. His scalp stung with pain. “Yes.”

It was a plea, although he knew she wouldn't give him more. She might make silent confessions with her body, might moan and gasp and seek his lips with hers, but she never gave voice to her desires. He had to fight for control to stay away from her, while she held herself so easily away. Only through the kisses and caresses did they both give in.

He secured her night rail and shift in his fist above her waist and pinned her against the bed with his weight. “Open your legs,” he ordered, hardening even further when she obeyed him immediately.

With his other hand still holding hers, he brought their clasped hands to the juncture of her thighs. He released her only long enough to cover the back of her hand with his. Then he guided her fingers. Together, they parted the folds of her wet, silken flesh.

“Sedgwick,” she gasped.

He clamped his lips together, too close to demanding that she use his given name.

He drew away from her, only far enough to look down and watch their shallow strokes. He moved his fingers to her wrist, giving her more freedom. “Don't stop,” he said. She made a soft sighing sound. He glanced up to find her gaze on his face. Leaning forward, he kissed her, aware of the feel of her delicate sinews moving beneath his fingertips below, the pulse in her wrist throbbing. His tongue stroking hers the same way her fingers feverishly caressed her own swollen need.

He felt the movement of her fingers increase and she moaned, breaking their kiss. He looked down again and tightened the pressure of his hand. “Slowly.” If she refused to beg when he touched her, then he would see her lose control with herself, to writhe and come undone at her own touch.

A whimper crossed her lips but she slowed, her wrist flexing beneath his fingers as she stroked herself with one long, shaking movement. He alternated between watching her play with herself under his direction and lifting his gaze to her face. With each sigh and moan she tossed her head from side to side, first into the gleam of firelight and then into the darkness of shadow. Her lips pursed for a while, then parted in pants. Her eyes were closed, although they flickered open to sear his soul whenever he gave another command.

“Deeper.” Above she was virginal innocence: braided hair and high-necked cotton gown. His lashes lowered to below, where her long slender white legs stood splayed wide in the darkness, erotic in the white and black where the firelight couldn't reach. And there, between, were their hands—his there only upon her wrist to guide, to encourage and restrict as she—

God. He swallowed hard. The heaviness in his loins spread throughout his body, weighing his arms and legs, the sight of her pleasuring herself more potent than laudanum.

“Curl your finger.”

“Sedgwick. . . .”

“Yes?” His breath caught, his attention shifting to focus on her face. But her eyes were closed still, hiding the admission he sought from his gaze.

“I . . . want you.”

His chest caved in, his lungs expelling air. Self-flagellation would have been no more painful than this, this constant hope he kept that she would one day give him permission to more than her body. He didn't regret coming, but he should have left as soon as she'd made it clear he was not her choice. “No, kitten,” he murmured. He stilled her hand entirely. Her eyes flew open, glaring.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released both her wrist and his hold on her night rail. “I must go.”

“Go?”

He turned, straightened his clothing. Composed his features. Erased the longing. When he was certain that she would see only what he wanted her to see, he met her gaze one last time.

She'd lowered her clothing, perched herself on the edge of the bed with her hands on either side gripping the mattress. “Damn you, Sedgwick. Damn you for doing this to me.”

“I believe you know how to bring it to an end. Surely I'm not necessary for this part.”

“Perhaps not.” She glanced away, bit her lip. “But don't you want to watch?”

He cursed her vulnerability, that shyness coupled with her seductive, teasing words. He'd been lured by her beauty, but this was how he'd been caught. Drawn in, his defenses plundered one moment by her hesitance, then her confidence, her passion . . . then his own belief that he could make her need him just as much, so desperate to have him that she would do anything.

When he remained silent, she lifted her chin and looked at him again, her gaze almost accusatory. “I want you, but I won't beg you to stay.”

He nearly shook with the urge to go to her, to touch her again, but he knew himself too well to understand that if he did, he would be the one begging. He would take her now, and ruin the years he'd waited for her to give him everything. Instead, he curved his lips. “I didn't think you would, Lady Cecily. After all, you have a wedding to prepare for.” He gave a deep bow. “I bid you adieu.”

He turned to the door and paused. He waited only a moment, but it was far too long. Even if he had waited an hour, her silence made it clear that no declaration would come from her lips. He opened the door. “I wish you all manner of happiness in your marriage,” he said before leaving. This truth, at least, he could speak.