Romancing Lady Cecily (4 page)

Chapter 4

The morning of her wedding, Cecily went through her usual routine. She woke as the scullery maid stirred the fire. She brushed her hair as she waited for her lady's maid to enter and help her dress.

Her gown was ivory, in the style of Queen Victoria's wedding gown. She didn't examine it too closely; her mother had chosen both the color and the pattern. It must have had quite a few buttons, as it took the maid an interminably long time to finish with the back.

Her hair was done simply at her request. Even if she must marry a stranger and behave as a dutiful daughter, at least she could have her way in this small part; no effort would be made to please him with her coiffure. No braids, no fanciful parts or sweeps or even anything other than the plainest of pins. Her small rebellion didn't matter, anyway; the veil covered all of her hair and hid it from sight.

Her father escorted her to the carriage. The three of them—Cecily, her father, and her mother—rode mostly in silence to the church. Her father attempted to make trivial conversation about the street hawkers they passed, but soon quieted when no response was made to his words.

The church was small. Not St. Michael's or St. George's. There was no need for the wedding to be held there, as only her parents and the vicar of the town parish were to be witnesses; that was as her bridegroom had wished it, and Cecily was grateful. She couldn't think of anything worse than meeting her husband for the first time in front of a few hundred guests. If nothing else, she wanted the privacy for her own reaction and her own thoughts. It would be difficult enough hiding her repulsion from four people, let alone trying to act the happy bride in front of the entire ton.

With her hands clasped upon her lap, Cecily stared through her veil at the curtain covering the carriage window. No call of the coachman or sound from the harnesses alerted her that they were stopping; one moment the carriage had been moving along at a steady clip, and the next it was still, waiting for her to descend in front of the church.

She could feel her mother and father watching her. Without meeting their eyes, she clutched her skirts in one hand while holding on to the groom's hand with the other. She breathed in deeply. “A beautiful day,” she commented, and indeed, it was—no London fog for her wedding day, but clear sunshine and blue skies with only a scattering of clouds. Even a bird perched on the church roof, chirping happily.

She'd been wrong to only want her parents and the vicar as witnesses. Angela should have been there, too. After all, Cecily had helped Angela prepare before her wedding; it was only fair for Angela to be at hers as well.

Cecily bit her lip as her father took her arm and followed her mother inside the church. Yet despite the pain—or perhaps because of it—tears filled her eyes. They moved across to the open sanctuary doors. Down the long aisle, she could see the form of her bridegroom and the vicar waiting. Her mother strolled up the aisle before her. Then, turning, she too waited.

They began to walk, her father steady and strong beside her. But with each step that took her closer to the front of the church, she couldn't help but think: This shouldn't be happening. She shouldn't be marrying a stranger named August. Angela shouldn't be dead. Circumstances shouldn't have made her choose between her family and a man who changed the entire meaning of the world when she was with him. When she'd asked him the night he came to her bedchamber why she should marry him, he should have told her he loved her. He should have given her a reason to defy honor and duty beyond her own desires.

Damn him.

By the time they arrived at the other end of the aisle, the tears were brimming over, blurring her vision until all she could see of her bridegroom through her veil was the dark outline of his head and shoulders. Her father released her arm and stepped away. Swallowing, Cecily gave a small nod to the man who would soon be her husband and then looked toward the vicar.

The vicar opened his mouth. Cecily blinked, forcing the tears to clear. When she opened them again, the vicar's mouth was closed. Movement came from the side, and then her veil was being lifted.

The scream thickened her throat. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want him to see her, not until it was over. Only a few more moments. . . . “No—”

A finger touched her chin, drawing her gaze toward his. Dark obsidian pools that she could lose herself in—that she
had
lost herself in, time and time again.

He brushed his finger across her bottom lip. “Don't cry, kitten.”

Her hand came up, fingers splayed wide. His head jerked to the right as he allowed the crack of her palm across his cheek.

“Don't call me that,” she said, clutching her hand to her chest. He noticed it was trembling. “And I thought your name was Thomas.”

“It is.” He reached up, caught a tear with his fingertip. How beautiful she was, even furious and miserable. “Thomas August William.”

“What is this?” Lord Marwick stepped forward. “What cause did you give her to slap you? She knows you by your Christian name? Why are you touching her so familiarly?”

August tore his gaze from her face—reluctantly. His cheek burned from the imprint of her fingers, yet he knew he deserved all of her wrath. “Oh, I doubt she hardly needs a cause. And we are well acquainted, my lord. I've met Lady Cecily a number of times.”

“Yes, of course. You danced with her at the Mayberry ball. But I was under the impression that—”

“Is this the man we owe?” Cecily stepped back, away from his touch. He curled his fingers into his palm, then lowered his fist to his side. He had expected her surprise and anger. Though her withdrawal was an unwelcome move, he had expected that as well.

The earl looked back and forth between them for a moment, his expression grooved and hollowed in concern. He nodded. Cecily turned to the vicar. “Please continue, then.”

“Cecily.” August wrapped his hand around her upper arm. He tried to pull her away . . . closer to him. “I don't want you to marry me because you feel obligated.” Yes, he did. He wanted her any way he could have her, although gladly would be best.

“Do you not?” she asked with a sharp jut of her chin. “Didn't you coerce Father into agreeing that I marry you in exchange for your financial support?”

“I gave him the money at the beginning. He could have said no.”

“But you knew he wouldn't!” She paused, her eyes lowering, then lifting to his again, shuttered now. “Just as you knew you could make me want you.”

“Cecily!” Lady Marwick sputtered nearby.

“Sedgwick.”

August raised a brow. The warning note in the earl's voice was most impressive.

“Go on,” Cecily commanded the vicar.

“My lord? Shall I—?”

“Yes,” August and Lord Marwick answered at the same time.

They were married in less than three minutes. Vows spoken, rings exchanged. The woman he'd coveted for more than two years was finally his. August reached for her hand. For the first time since he'd begun his seduction, he couldn't find any words. Should he attempt to soothe her? He might attempt a kiss—

She glanced at him, then lifted her hands and plucked out the pins holding her veil in place. The headpiece fell to the floor. “Good day, husband,” she announced, then turned and strode back up the aisle.

Chapter 5

Her new husband followed her. Out of the church and into her family's carriage where he ordered the coachman to take them to his house.

“My parents will need a conveyance,” she snapped as he settled comfortably in the opposite seat.

“They can use mine.”

“I don't wish to go to your home.”

“Where else would you go? We are married now.”

And God help her for the thrill that shivered down her spine at those words. More so now than ever, she shouldn't want to be his.

When they arrived at his town house he followed her through the door. She greeted the butler and the footman who waited at the front, servants she knew by name due to the number of times she had visited the Sedgwick residence to let him seduce her with words and touches. Or rather, she supposed now, to let him toy with her.

He followed her down the hall and up the staircase, followed her down another corridor and into the bedchamber she'd used to straighten her attire in the past. It was the room adjacent to his—the bedchamber designed for the mistress of the house.

He strolled toward her. Unlike her he moved unhurriedly, his breathing even, not chasing her as much as stalking her like a predator after his prey.

Or, watching her as a chessmaster guarded his pawn. There were so many analogies she could use to describe how much of a bastard he was.

Cecily climbed onto the bed and tumbled onto her back, her arms and legs spread wide as she stared at the ceiling.

She heard a strangled sound. A stifled laugh? A groan?

“Well?” she said. “Come and take me. This is why you pursued me, is it not? Why you pretended to be two different people so you could make sure you won me either way?”

He approached soundlessly and sat on the bed beside her. She didn't sink toward him, but the fact that she still wanted to caused her face to flame with shame. His arm lifted and he reached out, drawing a finger from her cheek down to her throat.

“I understand you're angry at me, kitten.”

“I believe I asked you not to call me that.” The nickname had been a welcome endearment from a man she l—could possibly have loved. He was no longer that same man.

“You have every reason to be furious,” he said, using that dark, calm voice he'd employed so well in the past to seduce her to his every wish.

“Go to hell,” she replied, just as calmly. She paused, searching for more vulgarity to fling at him. “But first fuck me so we can get this done.”

He didn't even raise a brow. “Perhaps you might consider an annulment,” he suggested.

Cecily swatted the finger away he held at her pulse and sat up. “What do you want from me?” she pled.

He said nothing, only watched her.

“Do you not want to be my husband? My lover? Is this not what you planned and schemed? To have me at any cost?” She narrowed her eyes, her next thought bringing her more misery than before. “Or am I simply a means to another end?”

“No.” He reached out again and cupped her cheek. “You are all I want.”

Cecily jerked away. “And yet you used me,” she whispered.

His hand lowered until it covered hers on the coverlet. “My darling. Can you not see the truth? Can you not understand how I waited for two years, biding my time? Catching your gaze across the room first, then speaking with you to make you comfortable with me. Asking you to dance, making jests to hear you laugh. Our first kiss. Our first touch. I waited and I waited, even while I made the arrangements with your father. I only set the wedding date because I could be patient no longer. And then when you discovered Lady Wriothesly's death and you would not let me comfort you, I—” He broke off and inhaled deeply. Lifting her hand to his lips, he turned it over and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. It was only one of the many vulnerable, secret places of her body that she hadn't known needed to be kissed until he had revealed it to her.

Cecily shivered as his lips gently plied her skin with more whispered caresses. “Do—” Her lashes fluttered upward, tangled with his heated black gaze. “Do you love me?” she asked. She immediately wanted to take the words back, certain of her own foolishness.

He moved her hand, pulling it away from his mouth and drawing it toward his body. Her fingers brushed against the soft woolen cloth of his waistcoat. Her palm settled over the left side of his chest. Beneath her hand, she could feel the wild, frantic beating of his heart—perhaps even faster than her own. “Madly.”

Cecily swallowed and tried to draw her hand away. Slowly, as if he were reluctant to release her, his fingers slipped one by one from hers until she was free. Yet even then her palm remained pressed against him, and his eyelashes fell, half-lidded, awareness of her need for him again filling his eyes.

She snatched her hand away and darted her gaze across the chamber to focus on the door, anything but him. “If I requested it, you would permit an annulment?”

From the corner of her eye she saw him rise. “As you've probably concluded by now, I'm not a particularly honorable man. I did not refuse to take your virginity when you begged me simply to save you for your unnamed, unknown fiancé.” He strode to the door, pausing to look over his shoulder. “I did it, my love, in order to give you options.”

Then he walked quietly out, leaving Cecily with her hand outstretched and her lips parted, wondering whether she'd meant to call him back to explain more or simply because she couldn't bear for him to leave.

Her maid unpacked the trunks. Cecily went to the library, selected a random book from the dozens of shelves, and pretended to read for the new few hours. She could have stayed hidden away in her bedchamber while her things were put away, but the sight of her clothes and belongings being stowed away seemed too permanent. Yet she didn't intend to permit an annulment. Foolish though she was, devious though her husband might be, she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him.

Simply knowing that they were now in the same house, that she could go to him and speak with him, could touch him any time she liked, comforted her with a peace she hadn't known since he'd first appeared in her life.

Anticipation. Desire. Want and need. Comfort and peace. Odd that he should bring her all of these; odder still that she should trust him despite the fact that he deceived her.

August. It was no longer the name of an aging man, but of a man who walked with silent steps, a man who pierced through her defenses with one glance. No matter his name, he would always steal her breath away.

“Cecily.”

She startled. The book fell from her grasp, settling with a broken binding and crushed pages below the window seat. She glanced behind her, then up. August stood there, staring down at her, his expression inscrutable. The door behind him closed. She swallowed, determined to disguise the immediate need which threatened to overwhelm her. “How may I help you, my lord?”

He moved to sit at her feet. Even with her legs bent in the narrow space he was still too close, her feet tucked against his outer thigh. “I have a confession to make to you.”

She raised a brow and shifted, trying to curl into herself so that he couldn't weaken her any further by his touch. “Another revelation so soon? Shall you tell me all of your secrets in one day?”

His mouth curved into a dark half-smile—part wicked, part self-derisive. “I will tell you whatever you wish. But I would ask one thing of you first.”

“Yes?”

“Stay with me.” His smile fell, his lids lowering as he stared into her eyes. “My confession is this: I tried to seduce you because I know I can sway you with my mouth, with my hands. I can give you pleasure. I know how to make you breathless, mindless with passion. The truth is, however, that I don't have anything else to offer you. I'm not the man your parents would have chosen for you freely. I am not a man of talent. If I were, I would have composed a symphony to your beauty. I am not a man proficient with words—all I can speak of is my love for you, and the devastation you would damn me to for the rest of my life should you leave. It's true I have wealth. I will give it all to you. I will give you everything you wish, everything I can give—every hour of the day, every breath from my lungs—if you will stay with me. Don't leave.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Slowly, she straightened and leaned forward on the window seat, her eyes roving over him. How still he sat, his posture stiff and his gaze guarded. Cecily reached forward and lifted his hand where it lay clenched upon his knee. She turned her face and laid his palm against her cheek. He stared at her, and she willed him to see her own silent confession, the truth that had been evident all along if only he had tried to see it.

“Is this the hand you would seduce me with?”

His chest expanded with breath. He gave a short, terse nod, his black eyes flaring.

“And this?” She leaned farther still, reaching to trace the outline of his lips, her fingers trembling at the first touch. “Is the mouth you would use to make me mindless with passion?”

He kissed her fingertips, then lifted his other hand to capture hers. Holding her captive, he parted his lips and drew both fingers inside. The hot, sensuous pull of his mouth stirred an ache between her thighs. Her breath rushed from her lungs, her skin heating in turn from her own need, his touch, his dark gaze which claimed every beat of her heart as his.

Withdrawing her fingers, she knelt and circled her arms around his neck. “I accept,” she whispered. “I will take all of you, everything you will give me. Your heart, your soul, your body. Just as you have mine.”

“I fear even your heart, soul, and body will never be enough,” he said against her lips. “I will always want you, always want more of you. I will never be content with what you can give me. You must understand, Cecily, for I will not leave you alone. If you take me now, you take me knowing that this fire will remain unquenched, this desire something that I wish to consume you also.”

“You speak as if you are the only one who wants. Do I not love you as well? Do I not need you as desperately?”

“You have not said—”

“I love you. I loved you from the first. I—”

He kissed her hard, sealing his lips to hers, tangling his hands in her hair and holding her to him with such strength that she couldn't move. But she didn't want to move. She couldn't get close enough to him. Her clothes were too constricting, unbearable boundaries shielding her from the heat of his skin, the touch of his flesh against hers.

Unlike their previous encounters, he didn't leave her lips. He tore at her buttons, her lacings. He shred the gown from her shoulders and shoved her corset aside. He ripped her drawers and chemise apart and she was naked before him, all but for her shoes and stockings, and still he kissed her.

She tugged at his jacket but he moved her arms again to encircle his neck. In a frenzy he removed his own clothing, their lips parting for seconds only to find each other a moment later. He laid her down upon the window seat and moved over her.

“I shouldn't take you now,” he said, each syllable a caress as his mouth brushed over hers. “Not here, not like this. Tell me to stop, kitten. I need you to tell me—”

In answer she smoothed her hands over his shoulders and down his back, pressing him against her, opening her thighs to cradle him. “Now,” she whispered. “No more waiting. Please, August.”

On a moan he entered her, unable to control himself. She cried out his name again.

“August.”

He shuddered as he stroked inside, again and again. A thousand words could not have described the glorious heat of her body as he moved within her. He searched for her pain, cursed himself for taking hours and hours to prepare her over the past two years only to abandon all pretense of control at the moment he needed it most.

With relief he found that her features wore only an expression of passion. She stared up at him, when he'd expected her to close her eyes as she'd always done in the past when pleasure overtook her. He watched her as he moved inside, needing to see the moment that she, too, realized that all the words they had spoken and all of their previous caresses were finally confirmed in this moment, this consummation.

They moved together, silent. Words were needless now when every time he entered her, each tightening of her legs around his hips, every second that passed between them as they stared into one another's eyes was like a vow.

Neither looked away. Not when her lips parted with breathless pants, not when she clenched around him, not when he reached between their bodies to push her first to release. She bowed beneath him, the most beautiful image he'd ever seen, coming apart in his arms. Burying his face at her throat, August poured himself into her, his entire body trembling with the effort after every time they'd met and he'd given her pleasure while taking none of his own.

Afterward her heartbeat thudded beneath his ear, and she clutched him tightly, her arms and legs still wound around him as if she could keep him inside her forever.

“I understand,” she said quietly.

Reluctant to have even one inch of his skin leave hers, still he pushed himself onto his elbows. He drew a line from the corner of her eye where a wet trace showed a tear had spilled, moving over the crest of her cheek and down to her chin. He turned her gaze toward his.

“Tell me,” he urged.

Her eyes burned into his, and for the first time, August realized she was finally allowing herself to see him as something that wouldn't soon disappear. At last, she understood that she was the one who possessed him heart, body, and soul.

“I always thought that I would be satisfied, that this would be the conclusion to your kisses and caresses that kept me longing for you these past two years. Yet you have just made love to me and already I want you again. Is this how you intend to consume me?” she asked.