by Georgie Lee
Then he laid his hands on her shoulders and one thumb slipped beneath the fabric, his touch as soft and gentle as the weight of the pendant. She closed her eyes, gripping the chair cushion as she waited for him to slide his hands down her arms and lower his face to hers so she might know again the feel of his tender lips.
‘Now, let me see it.’ His deep voice plucked the tension building inside her before his hands slid over the curve of her shoulders as he slowly moved away.
She opened her eyes and allowed herself to breathe again. Pushing against the chair’s sturdy arms to steady herself, she rose and turned, surprised by what she saw.
His eyes were serious and unsure, like the moment before he’d first kissed her at Falconbridge Manor. She felt it, too, the wanting mixed with the fear of risking too much and being rejected. Her heart caught in her chest, the pendant heavy around her neck.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, all his London airs gone.
She lifted the necklace, running one finger over the finely etched ivy clinging to the brick. ‘Yes, it’s lovely. It reminds me of the old mill at Falconbridge Manor and the way the sun used to strike the bricks in the afternoon.’
‘Yes, I thought so, too.’ His words were so quiet, she almost didn’t hear them. ‘It suits you.’
Her eyes met his and it was as if they were alone again in the little boat, the ripples from the mill wheel pushing them into the centre of the pond, away from everything and every problem waiting for them on the shore.
He reached out and lifted the pendant from her fingers, the metal catching the light behind him and sending a slash of gold across his cheek. In the soft sweep of his hand over hers, she knew there was more to this gift than simple friendship and more to Randall than the jaded Marquess. He was just a man standing before her, hoping she treasured his gift.
‘If only you could be this kind with everyone all the time,’ she offered, trying to draw out more of the considerate man, the person he struggled so hard to hide.
He laid the pendant gently against her chest and she tensed, eager for the soft press of his fingertip against her skin, but he was careful to avoid touching her this time. ‘Not everyone deserves it.’
She glanced at the grate with the letters to Paul smouldering inside, disappointment replacing her anticipation. ‘No, some people don’t.’
‘Do I?’
She wanted to trust him and in this moment she almost did, but the charred papers in the fireplace and the bills littering her desk made her hesitate. ‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Then perhaps some day soon you will.’ He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back, and the old Randall was gone, leaving the man of London standing before her once again. ‘Now, I have to go.’
‘Must you?’ It surprised her how much she wanted him to stay.
‘I’m afraid I have other business to attend to today.’ He bowed, then made for the door, fleeing more than leaving, and she wondered who he feared more, her or himself.
‘Thank you for the present, Randall.’
He stopped, his stiff shoulders relaxing. ‘It was my pleasure.’
Then he left.
She paced the room, her steps taking her close to the window before she whirled around and walked away, refusing to watch him leave. The carriage equipage jangled and the rhythmic clop of hoofbeats began. She turned to see the dark green carriage pass by outside, nothing inside visible through the leaded glass. He was gone, but his absence didn’t put her at ease, or answer all her lingering questions. One moment he was the rake she detested, the next he was the man she’d first fallen in love with. She wished he’d choose who to be so she might know how to behave. Though it was possible he no longer knew the difference between the real Randall and the fake.
* * *
‘I’ve come to settle my debts,’ Lord Westbrook announced. He stood before the wide oak desk in Randall’s office, his appearance as neat as expected for such a meeting. However, heavy circles hung beneath the Baron’s light eyes and Randall tapped the wood, realising how much the debt must be weighing on him.
‘Have you now?’ Randall motioned for him to take a seat, then lowered himself into his own chair, waving at Reverend to lie down on the floor beside him.
‘A gentleman always pays his debts.’
‘Even when they’ll ruin him?’
Lord Westbrook studied the floor. ‘Yes.’
Randall leaned back against the leather, seeing something of his young self in the Baron’s discomfort. He’d taken the same idiotic risks his first year in London, daring the ghost of his father to strike him down for doing everything the old man used to rail against, and more. If Lord Westbrook’s reasons were as shallow as Randall’s, he deserved this punishment. ‘Why did you wager so much?’
Lord Westbrook met Randall’s question with a defiant look. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
Randall laced his hands over his stomach. ‘Try me.’
‘I did it for love.’ Lord Westbrook sat up straight, showing a bit of pluck for the first time since he’d sat down across from Randall at the card table. ‘My income is not substantial and, though my title assures me certain privileges, the family of my intended raised objections to the match. I’d hoped to win enough to allay their fears.’
‘But instead you lost everything.’
‘Everything was already lost.’ Lord Westbrook ran his fingers through his straight hair, his anguish over losing the woman he loved greater than the pain of losing his estate. ‘Now, may we proceed with the formalities? I’ve brought the deed.’
He pulled a yellowed paper from his coat pocket and laid it on the desk. Randall eyed it, but didn’t move.
If only you could be this kind with everyone all the time.
He looked across the polished oak at Lord Westbrook, whose one leg bounced nervously. No, not everyone deserved his kindness, but not everyone deserved to be crushed simply because he could, especially when their motives were more noble than any of his had ever been. ‘Let me offer you another proposition.’
‘You have everything of mine. What more do you want?’ Lord Westbrook cried, jumping to his feet, as panicked as a rabbit caught in a snare.
‘Your time and patience. Please, sit.’ Randall motioned the man back into his seat. ‘Despite a well-cultivated reputation, it’s not my desire to ruin young lords new to London. Therefore, I’ll return your land to you along with your winnings on two conditions.’
Lord Westbrook’s jaw fell open in surprise. Randall could understand his disbelief. He barely believed what he was saying.
‘First, you leave London today and not return for at least three years. That should prove sufficient time to make society forget about you and your losses and believe whatever story you decided to concoct about how you regained your fortune.’
‘And second?’ Lord Westbrook asked, hope colouring his voice.
‘You don’t make public what I’ve done. If you do, I’ll spread such malicious rumours about your ungentlemanly conduct regarding the debt, you’ll never be able to show your face in society again. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes, I do. Thank you, Lord Falconbridge.’ Lord Westbrook stood and extended his hand across the desk. Instead of taking it, Randall picked up the deed and laid it in the Baron’s palm.
‘Allow me to suggest, instead of gambling, an investment in the Maryland Trading Company. I have it on good authority it will turn a profit. Go to their offices and speak to a Mr Preston regarding the matter. Tell him I sent you with discretion.’
‘I will indeed, my lord. Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.’
Yes, I do. ‘Good day, Lord Westbrook.’
Randall rang the hand bell on his desk and a moment later the butler appeared and escorted Lord Westbrook out of the room.
&
nbsp; Randall stared at the closed door, noticing the scratches at the bottom where Reverend had pawed to get out. No doubt the youth was practically singing in the street with joy. As long as he kept his end of the bargain, Randall didn’t care what Lord Westbrook did.
He looked down at Reverend, who stretched, then came to sit beside him. Randall scratched behind the dog’s head, making the dog’s nose point in the air. ‘I suppose you think Cecelia had something to do with my decision.’
The dog’s ears shifted forward.
‘She didn’t. I simply have no desire to maintain a house in Surrey.’
Despite what Cecelia thought of him, this wasn’t the first kindness he’d performed since she’d last known him. There were others, legions of them, but not for the men or women of society. It was the rare one who deserved it.
Including Randall.
He moved to the table near the window. A ceramic jar sat on it next to a decanter of brandy he kept for guests and as a reminder of his strength in refusing it. He ran his hand over the top of the cold crystal stopper, the old unease pushing him to remove it, pour himself a deep draught and savour the burning flavor. It would kill the regrets and confusion churning inside him, just as it’d killed his innocence and his father.
He jerked his hand away and snatched up the lid to the jar. The clink of the porcelain brought Reverend to his side, his wagging tail making the fringe on the carpet flutter. Randall took out a couple of hard biscuits, then replaced the lid.
If Cecelia learned of his kindness to Lord Westbrook, would she consider him worthy of friendship, or search for something more selfish in his motives?
‘Sit.’ The dog obeyed and Randall tossed him the treat. Reverend caught it in midair, then eyed him, waiting for more, and Randall tossed him another.
Cecelia wasn’t going to learn about it. If he told her the story and it got out, every man he’d ever played would be at his door begging for their losses back and people like Madame de Badeau would laugh at his lenience.
He turned the last biscuit over in his palm. At one time, Madame de Badeau’s skill with gossip had added to his reputation, helping him cultivate the image he craved, the one which kept everyone at bay. Now he felt the mistake in letting people like her define him.
He tossed the last biscuit to Reverend, then marched to the French doors and threw them open. The dog shot past him and down the stairs, scaring up the birds picking through the grass.
A breeze shook the pink roses growing along the edge of the portico where Randall stood. The blush of the petals reminded him of Cecelia’s smooth skin beneath his fingers when he’d clasped the pendant around her neck. Her shoulders had teased him as they had in Sir Thomas’s studio, only this time there were no reprimands to keep him from feeling the heat of her skin, despite the risk of her pushing him away.
Then she’d stood and faced him. In her full, parted lips there’d lingered an anticipation he could almost touch, and he’d realised it was no longer his ego driving him to capture her attention. He wanted her friendship, as much as he’d once wanted the adoration of society, and he craved the freedom to take her hand, draw her down on the sofa and reveal how memories of his father sometimes haunted him at night.
She, more than anyone else, would understand.
Reverend bounded up to him with a stick and Randall took it and flung it across the garden, sending the dog running after it. What did it matter if she understood or not? He wasn’t about to throw himself on her sofa and moan over his father like some weak fop. Instead, he’d enjoy the peace and tranquillity of her house and the brief respite it offered from all the machinations of society and people like Madame de Badeau.
Chapter Eight
Cecelia fell back against her chair, tossing the letter down next to the grocer’s bill that arrived with it in the morning post.
Theresa looked up from her breakfast. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘I should have saved my shilling instead of mailing the letter to Paul. He’s already sent us more excuses as to why he can’t pay my widow’s portion.’ She shoved the letter across the table to Theresa, who scowled at the contents.
‘I hope the crops fail,’ she blurted, the letter shaking in her hand. ‘I hope another hurricane flattens the house and all the fields. I’d rather see it in rubble than know he has it.’
Cecelia agreed, but didn’t say it, afraid of what other hate might spill from her if she let even this little bit slip out. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, or we may never see a shilling.’
‘I don’t see how we will anyway.’ She snatched up a piece of toast and began to butter it.
‘Perhaps one of our future husbands will be kind enough to hire a solicitor to press our case.’ She rose from the table, weary after another long night of fitful sleep.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Upstairs to fetch the books. I have an appointment with the bookseller.’
‘So early?’
‘It’s my best chance to sell them without being seen. Few in society rise before noon.’
Theresa’s hand tightened on her knife and butter dripped on to her plate. ‘You’re going to sell them all, even Daniel’s?’
‘It’s the most valuable of the lot.’ She patted Theresa’s shoulder, trying to offer her the courage she fought to rouse within herself. ‘It’s only a book. We still have our memories.’
Theresa looked down at the toast, but not before Cecelia caught the shimmer of tears in her cousin’s eyes. Cecelia squeezed her shoulder, then headed for the stairs, pausing at the sight of Mary waiting there, her fingers twisting her apron.
‘Mrs Thompson, might we now discuss my unpaid wages?’
‘Not now, but I’ll have some money by this afternoon and can offer you something.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Thompson. Oh, and the baker is demanding his pay or he’ll give us no more bread.’
‘I’ll see to him as well when I return.’
Cecelia started up the stairs, each step heavy on the treads. Paul’s letter was nothing more than she’d expected from him, but seeing his refusal to pay written in a plain hand made the cut deeper.
On the upper landing, exhaustion settled over her like the darkness in the hallway. Pushing open the door to her room, she eyed the chest, then walked past it, sitting down in the window seat, reluctant to open the lid and look again on her dwindling possessions and all the sad reminders of her past.
She touched the pendant resting on her chest beneath her dress, tempted to sell it and keep the books, but she couldn’t. In the warm gold she felt the first kindness she’d experienced since coming to London. Randall wanted her friendship and the wounded woman in her wanted to curl up next to him on the sofa and cry out her troubles. For a brief moment yesterday, she felt he would have listened, put aside all his airs and schemes and arrogance, and comforted her the way Daniel used to during the nights when she awoke, thinking she’d heard the faint cry of her buried little son.
Sobs tore at her chest and the tears burned her eyes as they rolled down her cheeks, dropping on to her lap.
Why is Randall doing this to me? Why is he bothering me? She balled her hands against her temples, bending forward beneath the weight of her pain and slamming her fists into the cushion. He wanted her to open herself up to him, lay herself bare once again and hope he didn’t crush her. How could he ask such a thing of her? Doesn’t he know what I’ve been through?
He didn’t know. No one did except Theresa.
She pushed herself up, the tears falling silently as she sat in the window, weak and drained, wanting only to lie down and close her eyes and not rise from the cushions again. It was too much, all of it: the loss, the worry, the memories and how even those were being torn from her by poverty or faded by time. Daniel’s face was no longer clear, not even in dreams, a
nd she’d tossed last night, struggling through the mud of the dark images to see him again. The memory of Randall’s hands on her shoulders had finally pulled her from the cloying dream, but even this comfort proved fleeting as all her worries rushed in to fill the night silence. They tormented her as much as the longing to accept Randall’s kindness and the unspoken peace it offered.
Peace, she sniffed, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hands—for all the peace Randall was likely to offer, she might as well tell society the truth and expect them to rush to help her. No, trusting him was like trusting Paul, fruitless and futile.
The sun peeked over the top of the house across the street. It was getting late and there was still an appointment to keep.
* * *
Randall entered the quiet bookshop, thankful to leave the bright sun out on the street for a while. Another early morning kept him from his bed, the need to do something, anything, driving him out of the house when most of society was still asleep.
‘I brought these with me from Virginia.’
He heard her voice before he spied her at the counter. Cecelia stood with a small stack of books, watching the bookseller thumb through a large one with interest. Randall moved along the edge of the room, enjoying the way the light from the large windows fell in patches on the yellow cloak draped over her back, making the amber threads in her hair shine. Beneath the subtle waves, a sadness not even the sunlight could reach darkened her expression and he noticed the redness of her eyes. She stared at the book the merchant held, as if saying goodbye to a child and not a bound collection of words.
Why is she selling her books? It wasn’t unusual for young lords to satisfy gambling debts by exchanging books for coins, but there seemed little reason for a wealthy widow to do the same. He’d seen her gambling at Lady Thornton’s. Perhaps she’d wagered too much.
He thought of slipping out before she noticed him. Whatever her reasons for being here, they were none of his business and there was no reason for him to interfere. Let her handle her affairs as she saw fit, they did not concern him. However, the deep furrow above her eyes and the tight line of her pretty mouth kept him from leaving. He edged closer, listening to their conversation, careful not to draw attention to himself.
