Rescued from Ruin

by Georgie Lee

  * * *

  The last course was barely finished when Lady Ellington hustled Theresa from the table, all decorum abandoned in their eagerness to select Theresa’s gown for the garden party. Cecelia followed them to the dining-room door, then fell behind, forgotten and unnoticed as their excited chatter disappeared down the hall. Reverend trotted behind them, adding a loud yap to their discussion.

  ‘Theresa is so fond of Mr Menton. I hope distance hasn’t changed his feelings for her,’ she said as Randall came to join her, leaning against the jamb.

  ‘Mr Menton is a sensible man. If anything, the distance has only increased his affection.’ Randall pushed away from the wood. ‘Come with me to the library. I have something to show you.’

  Without question, she moved with him down the hall, past Lady Ellington’s prized Italian landscapes which now adorned the walls.

  ‘You were very gracious with Theresa at dinner.’

  ‘I enjoyed her conversation.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘I did. It’s refreshing to see someone so innocent and in love. It’s been a long time.’

  She found it hard to believe Randall possessed any admiration for love, or even innocence, but she held her tongue, enjoying the easy familiarity between them.

  They stepped through the wide library door, the tall bookshelves stretching to the high ceiling exactly as Cecelia remembered. The only thing different were the paintings. A regal selection of relatives now hung where the Roman men and their lovers with arms painted too long used to frolic.

  She stopped at a small table near the centre of the room, noticing a paper-wrapped parcel on the dark wood. ‘Did you buy a new book?’

  ‘No.’ He picked it up and held it out to her. ‘This is for you.’

  She raised her hands, refusing to take it. ‘Randall, you and your aunt have already been so generous. I can’t keep accepting gifts.’

  ‘Then make this the last. Please.’

  She took it, surprised by the weight. Laying it back on the table, she undid the string, then pulled back the paper with a gasp. ‘Daniel’s hunting book.’

  ‘I purchased it right after I saw you at the bookseller’s.’

  ‘But I told him, I told you I didn’t need it,’ she stammered, flustered by his generosity and her worry. ‘Why did you buy it?’

  ‘Because of how you looked when you sold it, as if you were giving away everything.’ He laid his hand on hers. ‘What’s wrong, Cecelia? Please tell me and let me help you.’

  Cecelia’s composure nearly faltered under the pressure of his skin against hers. The words began to form in her mind, but the memory of his face in the conservatory so long ago kept her silent, the fear of how he might react when he realised he was paying attention to a pauper keeping her silent. Guilt racked her. He’d asked for her honesty and friendship, but she couldn’t give it, not all of it, not until everything between Theresa and Mr Menton was settled.

  She slid her hand out from beneath his and gripped the book, the sharp corner biting into her skin as she forced herself to look light and cheerful.

  ‘Randall, you make it all seem so serious when I assure you, it’s not. I told you, I mismanaged my funds, but more will arrive from Virginia shortly and everything will be right again. In the meantime, I want you to keep this, as a thank you for all you and your aunt are doing for Theresa.’

  She held the book out to him and he shook his head.

  ‘No, it’s yours, it means something to you.’

  ‘Please. I want you to have it.’ She slipped it into an empty space on a nearby shelf, the book matching the others as if they were all part of the same collection. She stepped back, thinking how lost it looked among all the other leather spines, yet giving it up tonight didn’t wrench her heart like it had at the bookseller’s. Perhaps it was because Randall would have it and not some stranger. She turned, surprised to find him still staring at the book. ‘You look perplexed.’

  ‘It fits.’ He stepped up to the shelf and ran his fingers along the even row of spines. ‘I couldn’t find a place for it in London. Nowhere seemed right.’

  A sense of discomfort laced the comment, of trouble whispered instead of proclaimed, as if he needed to unburden himself but couldn’t, not without her drawing it from him. Tonight, she didn’t possess the courage.

  The clock on the large mahogany sideboard began to chime and Cecelia yawned, covering it with her hand, eager to avoid any more intimacies with Randall. ‘I think it’s time I retired. Tomorrow will be a busy day and the night a long one—Theresa’s first encounter with Mr Menton since London.’

  He glanced at the clock and she expected him to chide her about keeping early hours, but he didn’t. Instead he offered her his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you.’

  She hesitated. If he teased her upstairs as he had at dinner, there was nothing to stop them from indulging except her own will and she wasn’t sure it was strong enough to resist temptation. Either way, she couldn’t leave him standing like some footman waiting for an answer.

  She took his offered arm, the hard muscle beneath his coat shifting as he led her from the room.

  ‘How will you occupy yourself after your charge is married?’ he asked as they turned the corner into the wide hall, the sound of their shoes echoing over the marble.

  ‘I suppose I’ll live with the happy couple. I’m not used to living on my own.’

  ‘And what will you do all day while they moon about one another?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She’d given so little thought to anything but the present. ‘Perhaps I’ll take on the role of grandmama, help Theresa care for all the children which are sure to arrive.’

  ‘You’re too young to act like a grandmother and much too pretty.’ His free hand covered hers, the heat of it nearly making her trip as they reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘Then maybe I’ll use my beauty to snare another husband.’ She laughed, afraid to flirt with him in a dark and empty hallway so close to her bed.

  She needn’t have worried as his arm tightened beneath her fingers and his hand jerked away from hers to hang by his side. Apparently, the mere mention of marriage was enough to protect them both from an indiscretion. It seemed some things never changed.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked, her ego ruffled. ‘Have you a desire to take a wife and fill the nursery, or are you willing to let Falconbridge Manor go to some distant cousin?’

  ‘My distant cousin hasn’t annoyed me enough to consider denying him the title, nor has he sufficiently impressed me enough to secure it.’ He moved his free hand behind his back, something of the imperious Randall coming over him. ‘If it weren’t for Aunt Ella chiding me to settle the matter one way or another, I wouldn’t even consider marriage.’

  She stared straight ahead at the large painting of some past Marquess hanging at the end of the hall, the decision to keep her secrets justified. For all the tenderness he’d shown her at the bridge, for all his helping of her and Theresa, it was clear he intended to offer nothing more than friendship. She might enjoy this brief interlude of intimacy with him, but she couldn’t allow herself to expect more, nor should she. He owed her nothing beyond an apology for the past, but even this seemed too petty to expect in the face of his current generosity.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ he observed as they approached her room.

  ‘I’m more tired than I realised.’

  ‘Then you must make sure to rest.’ He stopped at her door, more the teasing London lord than the caring man who’d held her at the mill today. ‘I expect to be amused and dazzled by your wit tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Thank you again for everything.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’ He leaned in and brushed a small kiss over her cheek. Desire clashed with fear as she inhaled the be
rgamot cologne on his skin. She moved a touch closer, clasping the sides of her dress to keep her hands from sliding along the angles of his face and bringing his lips down to hers. He lingered close to her and she closed her eyes, yearning for his mouth to cover hers, her heart drumming a steady rhythm as his breath whispered along her temple. The fine cotton beneath her fingers wrinkled as she waited, anxious for him to either take her in his arms or move away.

  ‘Randall?’ she whispered in frustration, opening her eyes to meet his, ashamed at how much she craved his embrace. What did he want from her? It seemed to change every minute, shifting like light through a stained glass window at the end of the day.

  He straightened at the sound of his name and took one step back, his eyes burning with a want to match hers, but she caught the conflict beneath the flames—it echoed her own.

  ‘Goodnight, Cecelia.’ He walked off down the hall.

  She released her dress, her hands going to the hidden pendant. There was more to this than calculated manoeuvring, something deeper she felt within her heart, but refused to put into words or believe. Men like Randall did not love.

  * * *

  Randall didn’t remember the hallway to his room being so long. Behind him, he heard the click of Cecelia’s bedroom door, but didn’t look back. He couldn’t and expect to maintain the self-control pushing him away. She wanted him and the answering need clawed at his insides, but he fought it, hating the strength of it, especially when all the while she held a part of herself back. He’d seen the mistrust flicker through her eyes in the library when he’d asked about her finances. It was brief, but as clear as the longing filling them just now, though he wondered if it was longing for him or his title.

  He threw open his bedroom door and it banged against the iron doorstop behind it. Madame de Badeau and all her conniving be damned. He’d pursued Cecelia, he’d brought her here. If anyone was playing a game of conquest, it was him. Only it wasn’t a game any more.

  Randall took off his coat and tossed it over a chair.

  ‘Good evening, my lord.’ Blakely came in from the dressing room, unruffled by Randall’s brusque entrance as he collected the coat.

  Reverend lay on his chaise at the foot of the bed, his tail thumping against the pillows at the sight of Randall. He rubbed the dog between his ears, irked at Blakely’s silence and missing Mr Joshua’s easy conversation and humour. The valet was still in London, trying to learn something of Cecelia’s secret, though Randall didn’t hold out much hope of hearing any word from him. Not even he had been able to get at the truth of it yesterday. He’d spent the better part of an hour with Cecelia’s solicitor, trying to cajole and then bribe the man into revealing what he knew. All the solicitor would say was her inheritance payment was not made and he’d referred her to the services of Mr Rathbone. Randall had then paid a visit to the moneylender, but it proved equally fruitless. The man was away from town on business and not expected back for at least a week. Waiting grated on him, but he had no choice. At least while she was here she was safe and a few more days without news would make no difference.

  His hand paused over Reverend and the dog licked it until Randall resumed his steady strokes.

  Why won’t she trust me? Twice he’d asked her to confide in him and twice she’d lied, despite everything he’d done for Miss Fields, or the intimacies they’d shared today. It seemed even when he was at his most honest and forthright, she still held back.

  From the dressing room, the sweep of the clothes brush over the wool coat scratched at Randall’s nerves. He rubbed Reverend’s head again, but not even this calmed him. ‘That will be all for tonight, Blakely.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the man answered, then left.

  Randall pulled loose his cravat, unwinding the length of it from around his neck. He couldn’t blame Cecelia for being cautious. His initial reasons for pursuing her were less than chivalrous and she knew it. She’d guessed it when he’d given her the pendant, the token he had yet to see her wear.

  Randall dropped the cravat on the floor, the silence more irritating than the valet’s scratching brush. He pulled open the French doors leading to the balcony and stepped outside, the cool air cutting through his silk shirt. A wide expanse of grass stretched out from the house and a herd of deer moved over the short grass, their breath clouding above their heads. Beyond them, at the far edge of the lawn, stood the large ash tree and beneath its wide branches rested Uncle Edmund and Randall’s parents.

  He plucked an ivy leaf off the wall and ran one thumb over the smooth surface. Perhaps in the end his father was right: he wasn’t a man worthy enough for the affection of a woman like Cecelia.

  Randall crushed the leaf and tossed it over the railing. No, his father wasn’t right, he couldn’t be. The old man didn’t know him. Only Cecelia did and, despite his reputation and past mistakes, she was still willing to come here and be with him, to tell him her past sorrows and let him comfort her.

  He glanced down the line of the house, noticing the slit of light through the heavy curtains of Cecelia’s room.

  She’s still awake.

  He gripped the railing, the rough stone digging into his palms and stopping him from returning to her door. Despite the need dancing in her eyes before they’d parted, and the faint disappointment sweeping across her face when he’d pulled away, the idea of going to her now felt too much like all the other halls he’d trod at various country houses. None of those women meant to Randall what Cecelia did and he wouldn’t disgrace her by treating her like one of them. She might not trust him, but she hadn’t pushed him away. As long as she was here, there existed the possibility of burying all her doubts and his.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cecelia stepped outside, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sharp morning sun breaking through the clouds and cutting between the back portico columns. The crunch of boots over gravel joined the chirping of birds and the short gusts of wind as Randall walked up the long path from the stables, Reverend bounding through the tall grass next to it. He stood straight, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d experienced even a small measure of the conflict which kept her from sound sleep, he hid it well.

  Last night, the darkness had stretched out through the long hours as her mind ran in circles, working to tease out what Randall wanted from her. Every time he moved to cross the line of friendship, he drew back until she wanted to pull the pendant from her neck, hand it back to him and leave. Somewhere near midnight, all of Lord Strathmore’s obvious ogling had almost seemed preferable to Randall’s constant pursuing and retreating. At least the Earl was clear in his desire, unlike Randall.

  Cecelia started down the stairs, moving slower with each step that brought her closer to him, reluctant to spend the morning guessing at his intentions. Somewhere inside, Theresa and Lady Ellington were lost in their preparations for the assembly. Cecelia should be with them, not here, pulled in more directions than a mule team hitched together.

  Her foot touched the last step and she felt a pebble roll beneath her shoe. She lurched forward and Randall rushed to her. She fell against his chest, her hand clutching his coat. His arms clasped her, sturdy enough to balance her, but not the tripping in her heart.

  ‘Steady now.’ His voice rumbled through his chest and hers as he helped her regain her balance.

  ‘One would think after three months on a rocking ship, I could walk a straight line on dry land.’ She laughed nervously, aware of his heavy hands on her waist. She let go of his lapel and smoothed the wrinkled wool, her palm too firm against his coat, savouring the hard chest beneath. The memory of him as a young man emerging from the mill pond, fat drops of water sliding over the curve of his chest and catching in the sweep of hair in the centre, came rushing back to her.

  ‘Did you enjoy sea travel?’ His low voice drew her from the past to meet his eyes and an amused smirk.

  �
��No, not at all.’ She snatched back her hand, feeling a little too much like Lord Strathmore with all her pawing at Randall. ‘In fact, I’ll be happy to never set foot on a ship again.’

  ‘Then you have no intention of returning to your lands in Virginia?’ There was too much hope in his question, but not enough for her.

  If only she could.

  ‘Not at present. No. Perhaps some day. I don’t know.’ She stepped around him, making for the garden path, rattled by his innocent question, eager to escape it and the encroaching despair. Reverend trotted beside her, panting. ‘I want to see your uncle’s garden.’

  He hurried to catch up to her as they reached the entrance to the statue garden at the end of the walk. An iron trellis marked the gateway, adorned with a full rose bush heavy with pink blooms.

  ‘Are you sure a trip inside won’t be too dangerous to your reputation?’ Randall asked, teasing her happiness out from beneath her troubles. ‘I’ve heard there are marbles of a most scandalous nature in there.’

  She fingered a pink bud, unable to hold back a smile. ‘I think I may risk my reputation just this once.’

  ‘Then prepare to be stunned.’

  Side by side they passed under the arch and into the garden, Reverend following at their heels. Among the deep green of ivy, white marble glistened in the sun. Where once the naked bodies stood proudly in the centre to scandalise a virtuous maiden, now they lay hidden behind roses and honeysuckle and peeked out from wooded grottos. Around them the hedges rattled with another gust, but the wind blew softer in here.

  Reverend sniffed at the base of a half-naked goddess, the urn in her arms filled with cascading blue flowers which covered all but her bare shoulders. Then the dog found some unseen trail and followed it off through a tangle of high, feathery grass bending and rising with the wind.