She took a deep breath and knocked softly on the second door, realizing too late that she had not thought up an excuse to use if somebody other than the cook answered. To Cecily’s great relief, her knock was met by silence. Better yet, the door was unlocked. Cecily slipped in and looked around the small sitting room. There was nothing to tell her whether it was the right room. Maybe something in the bedroom would tell her what she needed to know.
“Sykes’ll have my skin if she catches me taking a break this time of day.”
Cecily stopped breathing. The woman’s voice came from behind the slightly open bedroom door.
“Don’t worry about Sykes. No housekeeper is a match for me.”
That was definitely the cook. At least now Cecily knew she had picked the right room. She took a step back, or at least that was what she meant to do. Somehow her feet took her closer to the bedroom door. Three more silent steps and she could peer through the narrow opening. It wasn’t the best of views, but she could see enough to keep her riveted to the spot.
Cecily didn’t recognize the naked woman, but she guessed that she was one of the army of maids that kept Weldon House running smoothly. Right now, she was standing with her back against the cook’s naked chest, her arms reaching up behind her to grab onto his short hair.
The cook’s hands were on the woman’s breasts, squeezing them so hard she cried out. It looked to Cecily like she tried to twist away from him, but he held her too tightly against him. She arched her back and rubbed her bottom against him. Then the cook slid his hand down her body. His fingers disappeared between her legs and she went still, except for the slight movement of her hips as her lover stroked her.
Cecily pressed her hand against her mouth to keep silent. Her body had responded so intensely to what she was seeing that she wanted to moan in frustration. She wanted to be that woman. She wanted to know what it felt like. The longing was so sharp, it was almost a pain that spread through her, making it hard to breathe and hard to think. She wished she had never stumbled across Aunt Alice’s books.
She wanted to leave, but she could not tear herself away. She watched as the woman turned around in the cook’s arms and pushed him down onto the low bed. For a second, Cecily had a clear view of his cock. It was like the drawings in the books and yet nothing like them. It was like a live thing, growing and straining. The drawings had not captured that.
The woman knelt down in front of the cook and laid her hands on his thighs. She smiled up at him briefly before lowering her head and dropping a light kiss on the tip of his cock.
Cecily could hardly breathe. She had spied on lovers before, but it had never made her feel quite like this. Maybe it was because of her state of mind. Maybe it was because she had been flirting with Perry and the prince. Maybe it was the full moon.
Whatever the cause, it was more than she could bear. Cecily backed silently away from the bedroom and fled. She was out the door and down the hall before she realized she was still holding the letter for the cook. She retraced her steps and slipped the letter under the cook’s door. Her mission accomplished, all she could think of was escape.
But she didn’t have the time to escape. She was expected in the drawing room, along with everybody else, to wait for the dinner bell to ring. Oh why did she have to think of Perry while she stood there spying on the cook and his lover? And why couldn’t she stop thinking about Perry’s hands and the way his fingers had so briefly dug into her arms when she stumbled on the stairs? For an insane second she had wanted to press herself against him and now she wished she’d had the courage to do so. Maybe he would have put his arms around her and pulled her closer. Maybe he would have kissed her. If she were braver, she would not have cared who saw them. She just wanted to touch him and to feel him touch her.
She could not even shake the thought while she sat next to Franco at dinner. Amelia kept winking at her, probably thinking Cecily must be so pleased to be seated next to him, but Cecily could hardly focus on what he was saying. Her attention kept wandering across the table to Perry, who was regaling one of the Cunningham ladies with the tale of a disastrous fishing expedition. Every now and then he glanced her way and something in his eyes would shift, as if she was getting a peep through a curtained window. It was hardly fair. After all her hours of practice, Perry, who at first glance appeared to be so pleasantly shallow and easy to understand, was the one who was turning out to be mysterious. And he probably didn’t practice at all. No, it wasn’t the least bit fair.
Chapter Eleven
Something was wrong with Cecily. Her face was flushed and tense, as if she was barely restraining—what? Perry could not read the emotion flashing in her eyes and threatening to break through her social mask. He did understand the way she kept looking at him, though. But no, he must be misinterpreting that. No proper young miss could know how to express such raw desire in a glance. Maybe it was just a fever. Or indigestion. Perry didn’t think the lobster bisque was sitting quite well in him either. Then again, Cecily wasn’t a particularly young miss. And, come to think of it, she wasn’t entirely proper. There was that book, after all.
He could not let himself think about that book. Especially not when Lady Cunningham’s unslippered foot kept making friendly forays in the region of his ankle. If he moved his feet any farther away from her, he would bump into Wilfred on the other side.
He made his escape the first chance he had after the meal. His host saw him slipping out a side door when the gentlemen moved to join the ladies in the drawing room and gave him an approving nod, no doubt assuming that Perry was off to engage in a touch of counterespionage, not nipping out to find a bit of something as mundane as fresh air and quiet.
Once he made his escape, he sat on the steps that led down from the terrace to the lawn. The cold of the stone penetrated his clothes and he got back up and strolled toward the lawn. It was a crisp night, with just a hint of frost in the air, raucous with the sound of birds and frogs. He even heard an owl hooting in the woods. No, it was closer than that. Perry strained his ears for the source of the sound and heard an answering hoot, soft and tentative, from fairly close by. The next hoot seemed to come from the oak that stood midway between the house and the woods. Its silhouette stood out dark in the moonlight.
It was an ancient tree, at least as old as the house, he guessed. Its immense branches would probably have stretched from end-to-end of the grandest ballrooms Perry had danced in. Some of the lower branches drooped all the way down to touch the ground and then grew back upward seeking the sunlight.
Perry peered at the tree, waiting for the next hoot. Although the ground all around the tree was littered with leaves, there were still enough on the branches to make it difficult to spot even a large bird. When the next hoot emanated from much lower than Perry was expecting, he shifted his search to the lower branches. He would have thought an owl would be roosting high, poised to watch the entire expanse of lawn for a potential meal scurrying about, but then he was no expert. But even somebody who had never seen so much as a drawing of an owl would have been surprised by the size of the creature Perry spotted standing on one of the lowest branches and hooting.
For a moment Perry stood frozen, enchanted by the vision of Cecily looking up into the branches, waiting for the owl to answer. He knew he had to turn and leave before she saw him. Somehow, though, while his sincere intent was for his feet to carry him back to the house, they ignored his command and took him the wrong way across the lawn, at such a brisk pace that before he got them back under control he was standing under the outermost edge of the tree’s branches. He thought he still might sneak away. Cecily’s back was to him but then he saw her stiffen and cock her head and he knew he had been discovered.
“It’s only me. Pericles Munk.”
Cecily hopped from her tree branch and took a few steps toward him. “Good evening, Mr. Munk.”
Perry sighed and stepped closer to her. She sounded different than she had at dinner, but still nothing like the
woman he had met in garden that first day. She seemed giddy, maybe a little drunk, but Perry knew she had hardly touched her wine at dinner. For that matter, she had hardly touched her dinner. Maybe it really was indigestion.
“Having a chat with a new friend?” he asked.
“Barely an acquaintance. The owls in this neighborhood are a bit reserved.”
“Compared to what?”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “The owls in my neighborhood, of course. They tend to be especially talkative in the spring, but we have nice chats all through the year.”
“Really?” Perry watched her walk back and forth along a branch that grew for several feet along the ground.
“Would I lie to you, Mr. Munk?” she said, pausing long enough to raise an eyebrow at him.
“I don’t know. Would you?”
She regarded him from her perch but didn’t answer.
“You make a habit of moonlit walks?” He asked when he realized he wasn’t going to get an answer from her.
“I love nothing more than wandering the hills and dales late at night when respectable ladies are supposed to be safely locked up indoors. Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Well, no, I don’t think I’d call it shocking.”
“Good. Give me your hand.
Perry obliged, too surprised by the request not to. Cecily gripped his hand and hopped up to another low branch, which didn’t quite graze the ground. She held on to Perry’s hand and began to walk up the gently sloping branch. After a few steps she let go and turned slowly, then trotted down the branch and sat down on it.
“I don’t really wander alone,” she explained. “I go with my father and only during lambing season.”
“You—you take an interest in your father’s sheep?” He was dumfounded. He had never met a woman under the age of fifty who would admit to an interest in farming of any sort.
“I’m not interested in them the way my father is. I don’t care about bloodlines and all that, but I do like working with them. Not because I’m especially fond of sheep, mind you. It’s just the only time I ever get to do anything.”
Perry could only stare at her.
“Now you’re shocked,” she said with certainty.
“No. I understand.”
“Oh. You do?”
“Yes. Entirely.”
Cecily stood up and walked toward the trunk of the tree.
“I even helped with the shearing one year,” she told him.
She leaned back against the tree and Perry was surprised to find himself standing just a few steps away from her. He had followed her without even being aware of it.
“That was years ago, of course. My mother would have a seizure if I tried it now. I suppose I might if I thought she wouldn’t find out. I felt so wonderfully sore all over the next day.”
Perry tried hard to not think about Cecily’s sore parts.
“I still have a scar,” she said proudly. “My cousin Wilfred was there. He almost fainted when I cut myself. I was afraid I’d ruin the fleece by bleeding all over it. Look,” she said, holding out her left arm.
Somehow, without knowing he had moved, Perry was barely two steps away from her. He peered down at her extended arm, but all he could see was how soft it looked.
“I don’t suppose you can see it in this light.” She sounded disappointed. “It’s faded, but you can feel it if you run your fingers over it.”
Perry stared at her. Had he heard her correctly? Was she inviting him to touch her?
“It’s my mark of honor, you see. Proof that I once did something out of the ordinary. Proof that if I had the chance, I wouldn’t be useless.”
“Useless?” Perry felt entirely out of his depth. Cecily was so far from being ordinary, how could she possibly think she was useless?
“It’s important that you know I’m not useless, Mr. Munk. I don’t know why, but it is.”
Cecily raised her arm up on a level with Perry’s chest. He licked his lips. Her proximity had him so befuddled he had already forgotten what she was talking about. He could see, though, that it was something very important to her, and the last thing in the world that he wanted to do at that moment was disappoint her. So he wrapped his hand loosely around her arm and turned it this way and that, trying to see the scar.
“Here, let me show you,” she said.
She reached for his free hand and placed the tips of his fingers very lightly on her forearm, just below the inside of her elbow. He ran his fingers across her arm and felt a slight ridge.
“There,” Cecily whispered. “Do you feel it?”
Her eyes had locked on his and he wondered if she was talking about feeling more than just her scar. Because he was definitely feeling something. He looked down, uncertain of what it was she wanted from him and fighting against what he knew he wanted from her. He traced the scar’s path almost down to her wrist, where it ended.
“How old were you?” Perry asked, trying to direct his thoughts away from her warm skin, even though he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching it.
“Twelve. It bled terribly but I was very brave.”
“I’m sure you were,” Perry said as he bent his head and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“I didn’t even cry,” she added in a husky whisper as he kissed a path along the scar.
Perry opened his eyes to see her breasts rise with a deep, shaky breath.
“Damn.”
He knew he should have turned and left the minute he saw her walking along the tree branch. Speaking to her had been the point of no return. And now it was too late to turn back. His mouth was on hers and he was digging his fingers into her hair to keep his hands from going where they should not. He was a bigger fool than he’d ever imagined but that hardly mattered now. The only thing that mattered was the way one of Cecily’s arms had snaked around his neck while her other hand gripped his sleeve. She actually seemed to be trying to pull him in closer, bless her heart.
Perry happily obliged, pressing her against the tree trunk.
“Wilfred, come back here! You are not going to climb that tree. I’ll tell Mother if you do.”
Perry’s initial reaction was to leap backward but Cecily’s grip on him was too strong. She looked up at him with wide, alarmed eyes. Even in the moonlight he could see that her face was flushed and her lips wet from his kisses.
“Amelia,” she whispered.
Perry put a finger to her lips and stepped away from her to cut off Wilfred, who was advancing on the tree with more determination than Perry had thought him capable of.
“I say,” Perry drawled as he left Cecily hidden on the opposite side of the trunk. “How far does a fellow have to go to get a little peace and quiet?”
Chapter Twelve
Cecily stayed hidden behind the tree while Perry convinced Wilfred to return to the house. Until she saw him turn back into the fop, she had not realized that with the moonlight washing out the color of his clothes he had seemed like any other man. But not really like any other man. Any other man would not have understood what she had tried so clumsily to explain. Any other man would have told her she should stick to her embroidery and watercolors and be grateful for them. Even most women would tell her that.
Cecily peeped around the tree trunk and watched her cousins and her—what was he?—disappear into the house. She could strangle Wilfred for interrupting, but that could wait until tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was to go to her room, climb into bed and sleep. Or maybe think about Perry and that kiss for a while before she slept.
She crept into the house undetected. Sounds of laughter and music came from the drawing room. She took a path to avoid passing through the light spilling out of the open doors but the way to her room was blocked. Franco stood in the entrance hall, moving in and out of the shadows near the staircase. He looked like he was waiting. No, not waiting. Lurking. There was no other word for it. He was probably watching out for her, wanting to know if she had delivered his letter. Well, she ha
d told him she would and he would just have to take her at her word. The last thing she wanted was a conversation.
Cecily crept back out through the breakfast room and in again through a window in Uncle Reggie’s study. She felt her way through the dark room and took a candle from the sconce in the hallway. She would have to take a roundabout way to the old wing of the house, up to the gallery and back across to her room.
She paused outside the door of the Queen Elizabeth room and went in. The heavy curtains were still opened from Amelia’s house tour and the light of her candle paled in the moonlight. Before this afternoon it had been years since she had been there. Was that really just this afternoon? After years of waiting for something interesting to happen, it seemed like things were happening too fast for her to pause and think about them. Probably a good thing, she decided. If she thought too hard, she might end up doing something sensible and miss a rare opportunity for romance and adventure. She sat down on the old throne chair. The quiet and stillness soothed her frayed nerves. It was early still. It would do no harm to lie down for a little while. Maybe then she would feel like returning to the party. And see Perry again. She wanted to know if he would look any different to her after that kiss.
Cecily stood up and untied the heavy curtains secured to the tall bedposts. Even though the room had not been slept in for years, no dust billowed down as she shook out the curtains and pulled them closed. Weldon House was too well kept for dust. She climbed up onto the bed and pulled the curtains on the other side closed. One narrow band of moonlight found its way between the curtain panels and cast a pale bar across the bed. This had always been one of Cecily’s favorite places. It made her feel hidden and secret, like something undiscovered.
Trinidad West Page 11
