by Amanda Scott
Cicely stared at him. A twinkle lurked in the deep blue, hooded eyes, and she felt no fear, though she felt a good many other things. She looked down again quickly. His hand on her shoulder seemed unnaturally heavy. His waistcoat was very near, and she was astonishingly well aware of the rise and fall of the broad chest underneath it. Was it imagination, or did the pace of his breathing increase under her very eye?
Slowly she let her gaze drift upward to the lace-edged neckcloth—such an affectation—then to that firm chin. Almost reluctantly and with a slight, jerky motion, she brought her gaze to linger on his lips, soft now and slightly parted, revealing just a hint of even white teeth behind. She forced herself to look into his eyes again, only to see the twinkle darken to something warmer. Mesmerized now, she watched as his eyes came nearer. The hand on her shoulder moved to the small of her waist, drawing her to him, while his other hand gently curved under her chin, tilting her face up to let his lips meet hers. Cicely was aware of the smooth leather glove against her soft skin, aware of the warm scent of the leather itself, but the sensation was brief, for suddenly every sense was focused upon the kiss itself.
She had often imagined what it would be like to be kissed by a man, but her imagination seemed to have fallen far short of the reality. His lips felt incredibly soft against hers, yet the sensations that spread through her whole body belied such softness. Her knees felt weak, and without his hand securely against her back, she must surely have crumpled at his feet. And the tingling! It didn’t start where his lips touched hers but a good deal lower, nearer to the center of her body. And from there it spread to her toes and fingertips, numbing her and at the same time stimulating every nerve.
When he set her back on her heels again, she continued to gaze up at him, swaying slightly, astonished that she could even stand upright unaided. But when the lazy smile dawned again, she remembered his taunting words and came sharply to her senses. Color suffused her cheeks as anger claimed her, and she drew herself up haughtily.
“I had thought myself in the company of a gentleman, sir, but since I find I much mistook your status, I assure you I know precisely how to deal with the matter.” And with that, she snatched her skirts out of the way and delivered a swift kick to his left kneecap with all the force of her small body behind it.
The gentleman yelped with pain and automatically bent to grasp his injured knee, whereupon Cicely doubled up her fist and dealt him a stunning roundhouse blow to the chin. He staggered sideways, caught completely off guard, and disdainfully she turned her back on him and stepped with angry pride toward the patient Connie. But her opponent’s recovery was quicker than she had any reason to expect, and without warning, she suddenly found herself scooped off her feet and into his arms.
“You little vixen,” he muttered wrathfully, “you deserve to have your backside soundly smacked for that little trick. Don’t worry,” he added with grim restraint when she gasped indignantly, “I shan’t do anything so ‘ungentlemanly’ this time. I know I provoked it.” He strode with her in his arms, not so much as a slight limp betraying any pain he might have felt, until he came to her horse. Then, lifting her easily, he plumped her down on her saddle with enough force to make her teeth snap together. Gathering her reins, he handed them up to her, but when she would have wheeled the gelding away, she found to her chagrin that he still held Connie’s bridle.
“One moment, my lady,” he said evenly. “You deserve that I should keep you here until that constable arrives and then leave you to explain to your father how it comes about that you were involved in such an incident as this.” Cicely caught her breath. She had quite forgotten the awkwardness of her position, but his words brought it back to her with a vengeance. She saw that he was watching her closely, and once again, there was nothing lazy about the look. Her sudden stillness and loss of color seemed to satisfy him, however, for he stepped away, loosing her bridle. His voice was gentle. “I shall not mention your presence, ma’am, but you must give me your word that you will go straight home.”
She could not seem to speak, so she merely nodded. Her gaze seemed somehow locked with his. The twinkle returned to the aquamarine depths.
“Good girl,” he approved. “Now get along with you and stay off the road.” Slowly she turned the dappled gelding toward the woods path. A sudden chuckle from behind made her straighten her shoulders and wrap herself in dignity. “Chilly,” he said softly.
She snapped her head around to stare at him over her shoulder.
“I still have your letter,” he grinned.
3
ALTHOUGH HER SISTERS ALL had nicknames, only one person had ever called Cicely Cilly. Heat rushed to her face, and with a small cry much like that of an angry kitten, she jammed her heel into Connie’s flank and leaned low over his neck as he charged with startled haste into the woods. She kept up the mad pace until she was halfway home. But then common sense reasserted itself, and she reined the gelding to a walk. It would not be wise to return him to his stable with his sides heaving and his coat lathered.
She touched her hat and was amazed to find it still in place—probably the only thing about her that Ravenwood had not disturbed. She knew now that the elegant gentleman was none other than her cousin Gilbert Leighton, Viscount Ravenwood. Indeed, though she had stubbornly suppressed the notion, she had suspected it from the outset. But this Ravenwood was too unlike her image of the ineffectual fop for comfort. Therefore, she had wished the suspicion away. But it had been useless, merely wishful thinking. It was he. None other. And he still had her letter. That dreadful, humiliating letter.
Her youngest sister was in the stableyard overseeing the grooming of her bay pony when Cicely rode in. Amalie waved.
“Is it not a splendid day?”
“Indeed it is,” Cicely smiled, allowing one of the undergrooms to assist her to the ground. She was perfectly capable of springing down unaided, but she knew they felt privileged to help her. Also, she thought, inwardly grimacing, she was expected to act in a manner befitting a duke’s daughter. Only a hoyden or other such underbred creature, according to her mother, leaped to her horse’s back without making use of the mounting block or slid gracelessly down again when the ride was over.
“Are you coming up now?” Amalie asked anxiously, pulling the red knitted cap from her glossy curls. “Cook said she would make gingerbread, and I mean to see if she’s finished it yet.”
Cicely chuckled and put an arm around her little sister, her good humor restored. “To be sure I’ll come.” She followed the skipping child to the house, where she allowed herself to be tempted into a generous slice of fresh-baked gingerbread, still warm from the great oven, before going up to change her dress. Lady Brittany intercepted her in the corridor, her violet eyes alight with curiosity.
“You have been an age, Cicely, and I wish to know what Papa wanted with you in the bookroom.”
“Come with me, then,” Cicely said. There was no one in the long corridor, but she had long since learned to be careful. Servants always seemed to know one’s business better than one did oneself, but there was no sense to making them a gift of one’s private affairs. She led the way to her bedchamber, and once inside Brittany shut the door and folded her hands expectantly at her breast.
“Well?”
Cicely could see no reason to prolong the matter. “He wants me to marry Viscount Ravenwood.” Brittany looked perplexed. The name was clearly no better known to her than it had been to Cicely. “Our cousin—actually, our second cousin,” she corrected. “Gilbert Leighton. Surely you remember.”
“That awful popinjay who folded my bedsheet and put Bella up in the great oak? The one you—” She broke off, staring guiltily at Cicely.
Cicely grimaced. “The very same. He’s even still got that awful letter Papa made me write. But I don’t think he’s precisely a popinjay anymore.”
“How on earth can you know that when you’ve not clapped eyes on the man in five—no, it’s six years, isn’t it? You surel
y don’t take Papa’s word in such a case.”
Cicely felt the warmth rushing to her cheeks and turned quickly away, but Brittany, although far from being the most intelligent of the five sisters, was easily the most sensitive to the others’ moods. She moved quickly now, laying a gentle hand on Cicely’s arm. Cicely turned back, a rueful smile tugging at her lips.
“You must say nothing, but I’ve seen him.”
“Where?”
“On the road. Just now. He’s coming here, I expect. Papa said he would come.”
“But how did you know it was he? Does he look the same? How close were you?”
“He called me Cilly. But I didn’t recognize him at first. He’s changed, Tani. He’s changed a great deal.”
“How?”
“Oh, bigger. Not taller, for he was always tall, but heavier, more solid. And he no longer looks like a boy playing dress-up. He’s … he’s elegant. Very handsome.” She remembered his touch, his dark blue eyes staring deep into her own, his kiss. Blushing a fiery red, she turned away again.
“But how came he to speak to you?”
Patiently Cicely managed to sketch the scene without going into great detail. She made no mention of her own part in the action except as a bystander, saying simply that a highwayman had been killed and that in the course of determining the proper procedure to be followed, she had come to recognize Ravenwood.
“Well, I think it sounds most romantic,” Brittany said when she had finished. “Nothing so exciting ever happens to me. Though I daresay,” she added with frowning honesty, “that if someone were to shoot off a pistol anywhere near me, I should in all likelihood faint dead away and miss all the fun. Is he really handsome?”
Cicely qualified the word this time, saying merely that she supposed he was well enough. “Very tanned and masculine, you know. And though he still smiles a good deal and affects a rather easy manner, I think he likes to get his own way about things.”
“Well, what man does not?” Brittany asked practically. “But it sounds as though the match might do very well. At least Papa’s not proposing to sell you off to settle his gaming debts like that poor girl we heard about last Season.”
Cicely chuckled and began searching out something to wear, but she could not rid herself of the notion that her marriage might not be quite so convenient as she had previously thought.
“At least now Mama will not continually be harping upon the problem of your disposal,” Brittany said musingly, “and will be able to concentrate upon me completely. That has never previously been the case, you know.”
Cicely’s attention came back to her sister at once. She, who had had a good deal of her parents’ attention by virtue of being the eldest child, as well as having required at least a modicum of notice throughout her two Seasons, suddenly realized that her sisters had spent much more time with their nannies and governesses than with either the duke or his duchess.
“Do you feel that you have been neglected in the past, Tani?”
“Oh, no,” she responded with her gentle smile. “How could I be so ungrateful as to feel neglected when I have been continually surrounded by people who love me? ’Tis merely that to spend so much time in Mama’s company—indeed, even so much as I’ve spent in the last month—is a new experience for me.” Her eyes twinkled. “Did you fear I had been pining away in the schoolroom? I promise it was no such thing. I had my music, and though Miss Fellows quite despairs of ever teaching me to speak Italian properly, I have much enjoyed her company and her efforts on my behalf.”
“I should have joined you at your Italian lessons.” Cicely’s voice was muffled, for, having discarded the velvet habit, she had flung a cream-colored muslin gown over her head. After a moment’s wriggling, her head emerged once more and the gown slid into place. She moved toward Brittany and turned her back. Obligingly the younger girl began to do up the many tiny, satin-covered buttons on the pleated, high-necked bodice. “I might have done so, had I wished to remain indoors,” she added, “but I prefer to be with my horses. Indeed, I felt restricted enough this past year just being in mourning dress and having to stay at home.”
“You could have gone visiting with Mama to the cousins and to Grandmama Satterthwaite’s,” Brittany pointed out.
Cicely responded with an expressive grimace, then, realizing her sister couldn’t see her face, said brusquely, “I’d rather have died, thank you. All that gloom and gossip is not for me.”
“Well, I think I should have enjoyed it. There!” She finished the last button with a satisfied smile. “Which sash will you wear?”
“The lavender satin, I think.” Cicely found it in her sash drawer and discovered two narrower, matching ribbons folded with it. “These Meg usually twists through my hair. Where is she, do you suppose? I had expected to find her here tossing things about and making lists. She’s the only one who can do my hair so that it doesn’t all fall down again.”
Brittany laughed and nodded pointedly at the bell rope near the bed. “I daresay she hasn’t forgotten how to come when you call, dearest. Or shall I pull the bell for you?”
Cicely wrinkled her nose. “Wretch. I’ll do it myself.” While Brittany went on idly outlining plans for the future, Cicely suddenly found herself wondering if the constable had arrived yet and what tale he had been told. She remembered the sight of True perched uneasily on the broad bare back of the splendid carriage horse, the reins of a utilitarian spare bridle in his hand, and hoped he had run into no difficulty. She doubted his master would be patient with delay. True had looked a trifle worried about a possible reprimand anyway, no doubt because he had failed to scotch the highwayman’s attack himself. But since he had clearly been unarmed, Cicely was certain he need not have worried. His master would be fair.
Now, why on earth, she asked herself, did she believe that? For all she knew, Ravenwood might be entirely capricious, the sort who would look for a scapegoat whenever anything unpleasant occurred. Why, then, was she so instinctively sure he was not anything of the sort? She smiled. Undoubtedly it was because he seemed too sleepy ever to deliver a proper rebuke to an underling. But then she remembered his quick action after she had struck him, those harsh words snapped into her ear as he carried her to her horse and sent her on her way. Definitely there was more to Ravenwood than mere laziness and sartorial splendor.
Brittany’s accusation that she was not attending interrupted her train of thought, but Meg Hardy’s bustling entrance at the same moment spared Cicely from having to respond. Meg, a plump, mouse-haired, wholesome-looking young woman, had a sharp tongue that was quickly put to use while she surveyed the scene before her.
“And just what have you been about, Miss Cicely, not to have sent for me the moment you returned from your ride, I should like to know? Not but what that dress will do, I suppose, if you haven’t wrinkled it past decency with your usual wriggling and yanking. But your hair is a proper disaster, m’lady, and no mistake. And what with a gentleman in the house which is hopeful to see you again after six long years, ’tis time and more we set you to rights. Not,” she added with a wry twist of her mouth, “that there’s need to rush, for the top-lofty gent what says he’s his lordship’s valet only just arrived, though his master’s been here nigh onto half an hour already, little though he appears to be the sort who would hurry himself. Still, it’ll be an hour and more, no doubt, before his lordship’ll be fit for viewin’. I know his sort well enough.”
As she delivered these strictures she fairly pushed her mistress across the room and into the dressing chair, waving comb and brush to punctuate her words. Brittany moved toward the window seat, clearly intending to be entertained. It was not to be, however.
“Just what might you be doing, miss?” Meg demanded tartly. “You’re to dine in company tonight, you are, and that good-for-naught, Sarah Basehart, needs a precious good bit of time if she’s to turn you out in style, though it’s as well she’ll be getting some practice, I’m thinking. I don’t mind telling you,
” she stated unnecessarily, “I doubt she’s up to snuff yet for the rigors of a London Season. But we’ll manage, never you fret. Just you run along now and let her try her hand at getting you ready for dinner with his lordship.”
Brittany was no match for her and fled without protest, leaving Cicely to grin into the mirror at her tirewoman, who was frowning thoughtfully as she drew the silvery tresses through her fingers. Cicely chuckled. “You are a wicked fraud, Meg Hardy,” she said with mock sternness. “You know perfectly well that Tani’s Sarah was with Lady Colton before she accepted Mama’s offer. Her references are impeccable, and Mama has been prodigiously pleased with her.”
“Be that as it may, miss,” Meg uttered righteously, “we all of us have room to improve ourselves, particularly those of us who forget our place and think to come it over our betters.”
“Ah,” said Cicely, understanding the matter more clearly. “So Sarah has attempted to snub you. Without success, I’d wager.”
“Wager, would you? I’ll have you know, Miss Cicely, that I’ll thank you to do no such godless thing on my account. Nor be it necessary. That baggage knows her place well enough, though she be a hoity-toity bit of goods at best. Saying she was accustomed to being called Miss Basehart, if you please. Just puffing off her consequence, of course, not but what the servants at Colton Hall, not knowing better, might have been bullied into calling her so. I’m not one to doubt another’s word. But it’ll do her no good to be putting on airs in this establishment, for we do know the proper way of things, and so Miss Fortescue told her.”
Cicely could well believe it, for the duchess’s formidable dresser was a good deal higher in the instep than the duchess herself. If Fortescue had seen fit to deliver a setdown, Cicely would not have been surprised to hear that Miss Sarah Basehart had withered into oblivion as a result of it. In that ducal household only one tirewoman could be honored with the title “Miss.” And it would not be the wench who served the household’s second daughter, no matter who her previous mistress might have been. Not that a baron’s wife would cut much ice with the Malmesbury servants. The most Sarah could aspire to, as long as she remained in this household, at least, was to be called Basehart by the others. It had not been until Cicely’s come-out, in fact, that Meg had achieved sufficient status to be called by her full name.
