ToLoveaLady (12 page)

“You keep your dirty mitts off Nick. He’s not interested in the likes of you.”

“He’s not going to be interested in you, either, if you keep on mooning after him when you think no one can see and coming on all vinegary to his face.”

Alice raised her chin. “Who says I want anything to do with Nick Bainbridge?”

Estelle stood and came to stand beside Alice. “You may be fooling some people, but you don’t fool me. I mean, look at you.” She put her hands on her hips and studied the woman before her. “You’re a pretty thing but you dress like an old woman and twist your hair up in that unattractive knot.” She reached out and began pulling out hairpins.

“Here now!” Alice tried to ward her off, but Estelle ignored her, combing her fingers through Alice’s hair, unbuttoning her collar, discarding the prim white apron.
 

Cecily watched, fascinated, as her maid was transformed from plain spinster to young beauty. “There, that’s much better.” Estelle stepped back and smiled with satisfaction.

Alice put her hands to her collar, then to her hair, her face flushed, her eyes worried. “A woman in my position can’t look like a Jezebel.”

“Looking attractive isn’t the same as looking like a Jezebel.” Estelle shook her head. “Whoever told you that was full of humbug.” She glanced back at Cecily, who nodded in confirmation.

“I think you look very nice, Alice,” Cecily said. “I won’t mind if you want to try to look more attractive, to dress more fashionably. In fact, I’d be pleased to help.”

“There, you see.” Estelle nodded. “It’s obvious you know a thing or two about hair and clothes, if Lady Cecily’s looks are any clue.”

Alice brightened at this praise. “Well, I’ve certainly never been one to give short shrift in that department. A lady’s maid takes pride in seeing that her mistress always looks her best.”

“I’d think a lady would want her maid to look her best, too,” Fifi said. She laid aside her slate and rose also. “In fact, I’m thinking Estelle and I might be able to repay you, Lady Cecily, for the reading lessons.” She glanced at Estelle. “Even if it is hard work, I want to keep at it. I’d like to learn to read the stories in that paper, and others.”

“I’m happy to teach you, Fifi,” Cecily said. “But you needn’t repay me.”
 

“Fifi’s right. We can’t take charity, but we can make a trade: your reading lessons for the lessons we can give you.”

“What could the likes of you teach Lady Cecily?” Alice asked.

Estelle smiled. “We could show you how to get a man’s attention – and keep it. You pay attention and Nick Bainbridge – and Charles Worthington – will be on their knees with ring in hand in no time at all.”

Cecily twisted the engagement ring she already wore on her finger. Charles had presented it to her at the dinner at which their betrothal was announced. Though the jewel had meant the world to her, it had apparently been little more than a trifle to Charles. Ever since the afternoon when he’d brought her home from Abbie Waters’s place, he’d kept his distance from her. Oh, he was polite and charming as always, but he was careful never to be alone with her, and he’d certainly made no move to kiss her again.

His coolness only served to increase her longing for him. She’d dreamed of his kisses, of the intoxicating feeling that had rushed through her at his touch. How could he have held her that way one day, and act the next as if nothing meaningful had ever happened?

“Yes, I’d like to learn whatever you have to teach.” She sat up straight in her chair. “Please, let’s begin right away.”

Estelle smiled and clasped her hands together. “First, to capture a man’s attention, you want to look inviting. Soft. Soft hair. Soft clothing.”

“Sensuous fabrics that cry out to be touched, like silk.” Fifi sauntered across the room, hips swaying, silk petticoats whispering provocatively.

“I’m sure you’ve been told it’s not polite to stare, but a woman who wants to signal to a man that she’s interested looks directly into his eyes,” Estelle continued. “So he can read there what she hasn’t put into words.”

“And touch him. Little touches, whenever you pass.” Fifi trailed her hand lightly along the back of Cecily’s chair, fingertips barely grazing her shoulder.

“But don’t fawn,” Estelle cautioned. “You want to be a little aloof. Men like to be the pursuer. Let them think they’re chasing you and they’ll run right into your trap.”

“But I don’t want to trap Charles!”

Estelle smiled. “Not even if he wants to be caught? Trust me
, cher
, do this right and he will be your most willing captive.”

* * *

By the end of the week, Charles was congratulating himself on successfully keeping Cecily at a distance. He felt he’d almost recovered from the effects of their last kiss, and would soon be able to deal with her as if she were any other attractive woman, instead of one who was a danger to his future plans.

He still felt this confidence when he came down to dinner Friday evening and discovered the table set for two. Halting in the doorway to the dining room, he considered the twin place settings, then looked to Cecily, who stood by the sideboard. She was wearing a dress of some gauzy material that seemed to float around her body, yet somehow at the same time cling to every curve. The effect was both enchanting and disconcerting. “Good evening, Charles,” she said. “Would you like a drink?” She took a glass of sherry from a tray on the sideboard and glided toward him.

“Where are Madame LeFleur and the others?” he asked, still fixed in the doorway.

“They went into town for the evening.” She handed him the sherry, her fingers caressing his knuckles, sending a jolt of awareness shuddering through him. Her gaze met his, lingering until he looked away.
 
If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said her expression was calculated to be seductive, but then, of course Cecily knew nothing of such things.

He drained the sherry and marched to the sideboard to refill the glass with whiskey. She followed him, stopping close enough that her skirts brushed his leg. Her rosewater fragrance enveloped him, cutting through the sharp tang of the whiskey. “Did you have a busy day today?” she asked.

Good. Keep the conversation mundane. He assumed a nonchalant expression and turned to face her. “Just the usual. Payday for the hands is tomorrow, so there was book work to see to, mail, that sort of thing.” He had received another stern letter from his father, but no need to mention that to Cecily. “And you? What did you do today?”

“I went riding with Nick this morning and had lessons with Fifi and Estelle this afternoon. They’re coming along very nicely.” She arched her back, stretching. “I must say, I’m quite weary, though.” The movement pushed her breasts out in front, their rounded swells threatening to spill out of her gown. Charles’s mouth went dry.

“Perhaps you should rest.” He set aside his glass and reached for his handkerchief to blot his forehead. It had suddenly become very warm in the room. “I could have a tray sent up.”

She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “How thoughtful of you. But really, I’ll be fine down here.” Her voice grew husky. “I’m looking forward to spending the evening alone with you.”

He could feel the warmth of her fingers through the fabric of his jacket. He quickly moved to her chair and pulled it out for her. “We should get started, or Mrs. Bridges will complain.”

He pushed in her chair after she sat, then made the mistake of looking down. His gaze fixed on the sight of her breasts, framed in the floaty material of her gown. His temperature rose another few degrees and he forced himself to turn away.

He sat and rang the bell for Mrs. Bridges. She arrived with the first course on a tray: turtle soup. Charles stared at it in amazement. He had not seen this favorite since arriving in Texas and his one attempt to request it from Mrs. Bridges had been met with a look of horror and mutterings about ‘not cookin’ any of them varmints.’
 
“It. . . it looks delicious, Mrs. Bridges,” he said.

“Lady Cecily gave me the recipe.” The cook seemed not the least bit perturbed by this trespassing in her territory, which made Charles wonder if Cecily had found a way to bribe her. Or perhaps it was just a matter of a woman’s touch.

“I’m sure it will be excellent, Mrs. Bridges. Thank you.”

When they were alone again, Charles tried to think of some topic of conversation that would keep things on a polite, but impersonal level. “The weather has been unseasonably warm lately,” he said, after he’d savored his first spoonful of the soup, which was indeed delicious. “It’s the one thing I can’t get used to about this country. The weather is constantly changing.”

“It’s been perfectly lovely thus far.” She raised a spoonful of soup to her mouth, her moist lips closing around the silver utensil.

Charles swallowed hard. Obviously, he had been celibate too long, if the simple act of eating had such an effect on him. “Y. . . yes, it is much colder in England this time of year,” he stammered.

She smoothed her hands along the shoulders of her gown. Candlelight burnished her smooth skin to the color of old ivory, and kissed her hair with gold, like some Botticelli painting. The Cecily he recalled from their engagement party was a lithe, green girl. When had she ripened into such a beauty? “I’ve managed to cope by adopting the local practice of wearing fewer clothes.”

A bit of turtle meat lodged in his throat and he had to gulp water to keep from choking. The image of Cecily in decidedly less clothing was not one he dared contemplate. He looked to see if she had calculated this effect on him, but her expression remained impassive.

“Are you going into town tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded. “I go every Saturday, as a rule.”

“Then I’d like to come with you. I really haven’t seen much of Fairweather, except for that first evening.”

Even then, she’d seen more of the jail than anyplace else. Charles still shuddered at the memory of Cecily in that place. “I have a lot of business to take care of, but I’m sure Nick or Gordon could take you in.”

“No, Charles. I want to go with you.”

The firmness of her voice surprised him, as did the determined expression on her face. But then, he’d encountered that stubborn streak before, hadn’t he? He shrugged. No sense arguing. “All right. But you’re liable to be bored.”
 

“I think you underestimate me.” She regarded him over the edge of her wine glass. “I’m not some empty-headed doll with no interest in anything but fashion and frippery.”
 

Then what
are
you?
 
She obviously wasn’t the child he’d played with in his own youth. He’d thought her simply a malleable pawn in the game their fathers played, but in the two weeks since she’d arrived here, he’d begun to see that was not an accurate picture either. In fact, when he looked across the table now, he realized the woman before him was a stranger: a titled lady who befriended prostitutes; a green foreigner who nevertheless kept her cool when lost on the prairie; and a pampered, wealthy woman who managed to charm crotchety Mrs. Bridges.

He leaned forward, studying her closer. “Why did you come here, Cecily — really?”

She raised her chin and met his gaze, a troubled look in her eyes. “I came because I was tired of other people living my life for me. I saw a chance to make my own choices for a change, and I took that chance.”

He stared at her, the shock of recognition washing over him. Her words might have been his own thoughts, echoed back to him. “So you feel other people have made your choices in the past?” The way his father had chosen what Charles would do and be.

She pushed aside her soup plate and planted her fists on the table in front of her. “The last time I feel my life was my own, I was twelve years old, riding about the estate with my hair in plaits, climbing trees and playing seek and hide with you and your brothers. One day I was a carefree child, the next I was trussed up in a corset and seated in the schoolroom, crying over a horrid piece of embroidery.” She smiled faintly. “My poor mother had decided it was time I learned to be a lady. Though I hated it, I loved her, and I could see it was for the best. But I never stopped wishing I could take a break from obligation and just have fun.”

“So you came to Texas to have fun.”
 

She smiled. “I suppose you could put it that way. I came because you were here, but also. . .” She paused a moment, considering. “I also think I came because I knew here I wouldn’t be ‘Lady Cecily Thorndale, only child of the Earl of Marbridge’ to everyone I met. Most of the people I met wouldn’t know my family or my title. They would just look at me and see . . . me.”

He frowned. “Does this mean you really don’t want to marry me?” He ought to have felt relief at the idea; instead, pain knifed through him at the thought that all her talk of love had been a lie.

“That was the one thing I
did
want.” She reached out and took his hand, then bent to kiss his knuckles.

Her tenderness shook him more than harsh words could have. He turned his hand to cup her cheek, to prolong the contact between them. But Mrs. Bridges saved him from that error by arriving with the main course of roast beef. He stared down at a platter of meat. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?” He looked up at the cook. “Mrs. Bridges, you’ve outdone yourself.”