by Georgie Lee
‘What happened to the old mill?’ she asked with disappointment. ‘I was looking forward to seeing it.’
‘The river overflowed its banks during a storm a few years ago. The mill was badly damaged and had to be rebuilt.’
‘I suppose nothing stays the same.’ She sighed.
‘Some things have.’
‘Such as your uncle’s garden? I have yet to explore it.’
He ran his fingers along the edges of his lips, trying to hide his embarrassment. It was not an art collection he was proud of and, unlike the paintings, much more difficult to dispose of. ‘I’ve made some changes, but the spirit is the same.’
‘Yes, Lady Ellington told me about it. I’m going to have quite a time keeping Theresa from such scandalous figures.’
‘Let her see them. Best she learn a few things now. It’ll give her an advantage.’
‘I know I shouldn’t agree with you, but I do.’
‘That’s because you’re sensible. Now come along and I’ll show you the new building.’
They guided the horses to the flat area in front of the mill, stopping at the post. Randall dismounted and wrapped the reins of both horses around the knotted wood. He reached up to help her down and she held his shoulders as she slid from the saddle. Her stomach and breasts brushed against his chest and he closed his eyes, struggling not to groan at the pressure of her body against his. She continued to lean into him as her feet touched the ground and he opened his eyes, his hands lingering on her waist, just above the curve of her hips. The light falling through the trees played along the arches of her cheeks and his fingers tightened on her waist, matching the taut grip of his desire as he struggled to keep from pressing his lips to hers. Though her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, her hesitant expression made him step back and let go, fearing their fragile friendship might slip away like the water pouring under the bridge.
‘This way.’ He swung his hand at the wooden mill door.
She reached for the handle, but it didn’t budge. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Mr Robson must have gone to fetch something. Shall we wait?’
‘Yes.’ She stepped over to the small railing overlooking the waterwheel. Her fitted habit pulled tight over her round buttocks as she leaned over to look into the water. The simple material and lack of design enhanced her curves and he opened and closed his hands at the memory of her firm body between his palms. When she turned to him and pointed to the reeds, he caught a teasing glance of the smooth skin of her breasts beneath the open V of the bodice. He was so mesmerised by the sight of her, he almost didn’t hear the question.
‘Is that the boat?’
He pulled himself from his trance and looked to where she pointed. Deep in the tall reeds along the bank, almost hidden by the foxtails, the grey and weathered bow of the wooden boat stuck out just above the surface of the water, a perch for a fat green frog.
‘It is.’ Something inside him dropped. ‘I guess it didn’t survive the storm, either.’
‘Pity. I was looking forward to rowing again.’
‘It wouldn’t be proper for a rake and widow to be alone on the water,’ he teased, driving away the gloom settling between them.
She rewarded him with an agreeing smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose it would.’
They started down the dirt path to where it dipped close to the pond before rising up to the stone bridge spanning the wide waterfall. Reverend romped in the water along the shore as Randall and Cecelia crossed the bridge. They paused at the centre and leaned over the railing to watch the green moss dance in the current below. The slope of the land was longer here and the water didn’t spill as fast or as loud over the rocks.
Across the pond, Randall noticed the boat again. The sight of it sunken and ruined dragged on him like the tumbling water pulling down leaves and twigs, reminding him of all their lost time together.
‘Were you happy with Daniel?’ he asked.
She straightened, looking more surprised than when he’d appeared at her house yesterday with Reverend. He expected her to chastise him for asking something so private, but she only folded her hands together and faced the pond. ‘Yes. He was a kind and generous man.’
A knot of jealousy twisted his insides. If she’d told him the man was cruel, he’d have cursed him to Hades, but hearing her speak fondly of him did not ease Randall’s mind. Few would remember him so kindly. ‘Did you love him?’
She traced a groove in the capstone, the outline of her wedding band just visible beneath the fitted kidskin glove. ‘I was fond of him at first. He was so sweet and kind. Only later, after we’d struggled with Belle View and so many other things, did the love come.’
The pain of realising again how completely he’d lost her rose up in him before he pushed it down. He wouldn’t be jealous of a dead man, not when she was standing beside him. ‘And there were no children?’
Her fingers curled on the edge of the stone, the answer evident.
Randall laid one hand over hers, squeezing it tight. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the pond. ‘There was a child our second year together. A beautiful little boy, but a fever took him. It almost took Daniel, too, but he recovered. After the illness, there were no more children. The midwife said it can happen when a man catches the fever so late in life.’
Her voice faded away, lost to the rushing water, and he wrapped his arms around her. She didn’t cry, but clutched his coat as she buried her face in his chest. He rubbed her back, the gesture inadequate for the depth of her suffering and he wished there was something, anything he could do to free her of this loss. He closed his eyes and laid his cheek on her hair, tightening his arms around her and trying to shield her from a soul-wrenching grief he knew too well.
They stood together, the water flowing beneath their feet, the plunk of the frog jumping from the boat into the water joining the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He held her until she relaxed against him and her arms slid around his waist beneath his coat.
‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I only want you to be happy while you’re here,’ Randall whispered, the pressure of her arms on his waist worth more than any embrace he’d ever known before.
‘Don’t be sorry. This isn’t the first time we’ve been here and shared something so private.’ Her thumb caressed the small scar on his back through his shirt, the faint movement tearing through him like a gale wind. There was a trust in her comfort, the same one he’d felt ten years ago in the boat when she’d touched his cheek.
‘Do you still struggle?’ he asked, testing the new bond between them, hoping she might share more of her secrets and troubles.
Instead her thumb stopped and she leaned back, sliding her arms out from around him. He caught her hands, refusing to let her completely pull away or to build higher the wall he was working so hard to scale. ‘We all have difficulties to face.’
‘Are yours behind you, or is there something more?’ He watched, waiting for her to confide in him so he could help her and make some small amends for all his shortcomings.
Her hand tightened in his, as if accepting his touch, but still weighing his trustworthiness.
Then the crack of twigs and the fall of footsteps drew their attention up the path. Randall turned to see Mr Robson, the miller, returning from town with a sack slung over one shoulder. He opened his hand and hers slid out, the warmth and comfort gone.
Randall waved to the man. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Robson.’
The miller stopped and laid down his sack. ‘Lord Falconbridge, I didn’t know you’d returned.’
‘Just this afternoon.’ He took Cecelia’s elbow and drew her back up the path. ‘This is Mrs Thompson—you might remember her as Miss Fields. She spent the summer here once.’
The miller’s ruddy face beamed. ‘How could I forget? I was always chasing after the boat when you two were done. How are you, Mrs Thompson?’
‘Well. And how is your son?’
The miller’s thick chest puffed out with pride. ‘Peter’s a doctor now with his own practice in York. I can’t thank you enough, Lord Falconbridge, for everything you did for him. If it hadn’t been for the money you gave him for school—’
‘Of course, it was my pleasure,’ Randall cut the man off, feeling Cecelia’s wide eyes boring into him. To his shame, the London rake in him knew Mr Robson’s slip was to his advantage. However, like his arrangement with Lord Westbrook, he preferred not to announce to everyone his generosity, not even to Cecelia. ‘Mrs Thompson is eager to see the inside of the new mill. Perhaps you might show her.’
‘You’re not joining us?’ she asked.
‘No, I have business with the estate manager and I must see to Reverend before he tracks mud inside the manor. Aunt Ella forgives a great many of my sins, but not ruined carpets. Until dinner.’
He tipped his hat to her, then headed for his horse, calling Reverend with a sharp whistle. A second whistle brought the dog running from the edge of the pond, his dark fur dripping with water.
Randall mounted his horse as Cecelia paused at the mill door, watching as he left. While he rode, he tried to think about what he needed to discuss with the estate manager, but he could think of nothing except the pain on Cecelia’s face when she’d stared into the pond, unashamed to reveal her old grief. It touched him to know she could trust him with her sorrows, all except one.
Randall flexed his fingers, missing the feel of her small hand in his. In the soft caress of her thumb, in the slight pressure of her cheek against his chest, he’d felt the faint flicker of something more than friendship. He kicked the horse into a canter, refusing to name it, afraid to bring it into the light and see it wilt like a seedling planted too early.
Chapter Twelve
Cecelia pushed the cooked pheasant around her plate. Despite the tempting smell, she had no appetite tonight. Lady Ellington and Theresa sat across from her, deep in conversation and plans for the assembly tomorrow night. Every once in a while, Theresa tried to draw her into the conversation, but Cecelia offered only the slightest of responses, unable to share in her cousin’s excitement.
After leaving the mill, Cecelia hadn’t returned to the manor. She’d let the horse wander along a trail by the river, trying to recapture some of the peace she’d enjoyed before Randall had joined her, but it proved as elusive as the mist lying between the low rocks.
She’d struggled so hard not to cry when he’d held her, afraid of releasing even one tear for fear the heartache of the past two years would come tumbling out. He’d cared enough to comfort her, but still she wasn’t ready to be so weak in front of him.
‘Cecelia, Randall told me you saw the new mill,’ Lady Ellington said from across the table, snapping Cecelia out of her musings.
‘Yes, it’s lovely and the miller says it’s made quite a difference to the farmers and villagers.’
‘It has. They’re most grateful to Randall for rebuilding it.’
There it was again, Randall’s kindness, always hidden from her. She glanced at his empty plate rimmed with gold, wondering why he kept such things a secret, or why it embarrassed him to be so generous and considerate.
‘Cecelia, you didn’t tell me Lord Falconbridge arrived this afternoon,’ Theresa said, motioning for the footman to refill her wine.
‘I’m not sure you would have heard me even if I had.’ Cecelia laughed, waving the footman away from Theresa’s glass.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have missed something so important.’
‘A gentleman returning to his own home is not important.’
‘It is when you’re one of the first people he sees,’ Lady Ellington countered, sliding her full glass of wine to Theresa, one ring clinking against the crystal. Theresa snatched up the glass and took a sip, shooting Cecelia a smug look that had more to do with Randall than the forbidden drink.
Apparently, Theresa’s and Mr Menton’s match wasn’t the only one occupying their minds. If Cecelia thought spending too much time with Randall was risky, she could only imagine the danger of spending so much time in this conniving couple’s presence. Lady Ellington would have the modiste here again and it would be Cecelia standing on the stool and stuck with pins.
As if his ears burned from hearing himself talked about, Randall strode into the room, Reverend trotting along beside him, and what remained of Cecelia’s appetite vanished. He wore a dark coat, the collar stiff against his angled jaw, the line of his hair curling just above it. As he approached the table, he didn’t look at the others, but focused on her, moving with all the confidence of a sturdy ship cutting through still water. Cecelia’s hands tightened on the silverware, desire gripping her like a tangled bedsheet and she took a deep breath, but it failed to calm the quiver deep inside her.
‘I apologise for being late. What have I missed?’ He took his place next to Cecelia, Reverend sitting on the floor between them, looking back and forth from one plate to another.
‘Nothing, only women’s talk,’ Lady Ellington assured him. ‘In fact, I’m afraid if it weren’t for Cecelia’s company, you might find your time here in the country incredibly dull.’
Lady Ellington shot Cecelia a telling look and Cecelia nearly dropped her fork.
If Randall noticed, he didn’t reveal it, turning to Theresa. ‘Miss Fields, you’re looking lovely tonight. It appears being in love does wonders for you.’
Theresa blushed, dipping her head in a rare moment of embarrassment.
‘Don’t tease the girl, Randall,’ Lady Ellington chided, laying her hand on the gold locket with her late husband’s miniature pinned to her dress. ‘Just because you picked up Edmund’s habit of sneering at love doesn’t mean the rest of us do.’
‘I’m being quite serious.’ Randall leaned back as the footman placed a plate of food in front of him. ‘In fact, I’m late tonight because I was in the service of love.’
Cecelia touched the pendant hidden beneath her dress, thinking of the gelding in the stable and wondering if the woman who rode it was the same one who’d kept Randall from dinner, and her.
‘I’ve just come from Hallington Hall,’ he announced.
‘Mr Menton’s estate?’ Theresa squeaked and Cecelia dropped her hand, relieved to know it was the Mentons who had made him late and not some country paramour.
‘Sir Walter and I are on very good terms,’ Randal explained, cutting into his meat. ‘He told me about a garden party Lady Menton is hosting in a few days and I’ve secured us an invitation.’
Theresa let out a squeal to shatter the crystal while Lady Ellington clapped her hands, her rings clanking against each other. Cecelia could only stare at Randall, who took a bite of pheasant, watching with satisfaction as Theresa and Lady Ellington fell into a fit of rushed words over what Theresa should wear.
‘You don’t share their enthusiasm?’ Randall asked, slicing through a stalk of asparagus.
‘I’m stunned. I’ve wouldn’t have taken you for an assistant to Cupid.’
He speared the asparagus with his fork. ‘I can’t lie to you. Securing the invitation wasn’t difficult. Sir Walter was candid enough to tell me how Lady Menton would be beside herself to have a Marquess at her little gathering. Though he suspected it had more to do with bragging to her friends than a desire to be a good neighbour.’
‘You still didn’t have to do it.’
‘Of course I did.’ He bit the vegetable, his silver fork catching the candlelight before he lowered it.
Cecelia fingered the stem of her wineglass, noting the absence of one from his setting. ‘It’s a shame you don’t let more people see this generous side of you.’
He sliced another asparagus, the knife grating across the china. ‘I prefer to keep silent about my business.’
‘The good business, you mean?’
‘I’m not the one who spreads tales of my nefarious deeds. Madame de Badeau and others are quite content to do it for me.’
Cecelia answered his frown with a challenging smile. ‘Then perhaps I’ll counter their influence and spread more illustrious stories about you.’
‘Such as my horticultural skills?’ His eyes met hers, heavy with suggestion. ‘You should see how I’ve laid out the beds in Uncle Edmund’s garden, there isn’t a flower in them unopened.’
She took up her knife and fork and carefully cut the end off a carrot. ‘Unless the heat has wilted them.’
He dropped his head, his voice sliding to her in a whisper. ‘The heat never wilts my stalk.’
‘Even when it’s wet?’ she breathed.
‘Especially when it’s wet.’
She crossed her ankles beneath the table, the low tenor of his suggestion curling through her like a vine.
‘Lord Falconbridge, you must tell me all about Mr Menton’s parents and Hallington Hall,’ Theresa begged, her voice like cold water on the fire building between them.
Over the quick tempo of her heart, Cecelia listened while Randall answered all of Theresa’s questions about the Mentons, humouring and teasing her like a favourite uncle. She took up her wineglass, willing her arm to move slowly as she raised it to her lips, the tart liquid sliding through her and easing the tension low in her stomach. She set the wineglass back on the table, Randall’s deep laugh beneath Theresa’s giggles comforting like a bell on a foggy day. More than the wine, it eroded Cecelia’s defences, the ones which had nearly come crashing down today beneath the weight of Randall’s embrace. He made it so hard to maintain her distance, especially when he’d held her tight, drawing her into a deeper intimacy she feared. Watching Theresa turn red as Randall teased her again, Cecelia knew she must be more guarded in the future in order to better protect their secret and her heart.
