Cecilia: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  Isabel raised her brows, smoothing the skirts of the dress she had laid upon the bed. "Perhaps not—if you had ever sought out my company before today." She shot a teasing glance at Cecilia. "And offering to gift me dresses you dislike? It is all quite unprecedented, Cecy."

  Cecilia slumped down onto the bed, surrendering to dramatics. "Izzy, you can have no notion how many things have happened since you left! And I am quite done up trying to decide how I am to go on."

  Isabel's eyes flitted over to her. "Is this about Lady Caroline?"

  "You know?"

  Isabel shrugged. "I presume everyone does. We were at Charles's father's earlier today, and we had hardly been there an hour before the subject came up. It sounds quite shocking."

  Cecilia clasped her hands, rubbing her fingers along her skin. "It was. And Mama insists that I have nothing more to do with her."

  "And what do you think?"

  Cecilia sighed. "I am not sure what to think. Which is why I have needed you so much. Lady Caroline is my friend, but there is no denying that her behavior is, more often than not, very shocking and indiscreet."

  Isabel didn't meet her eyes as she placed a pair of gloves in the armoire. "Do you worry that you will be tainted by association with her?"

  Cecilia frowned. "It sounds quite terrible when you phrase it in such a way, but I suppose the answer is yes."

  Isabel turned to look at her and then came to sit down beside her. "Why is Lady Caroline your friend?"

  Cecilia stared at her sister. "What ever do you mean?"

  "Simply that," she said blankly. "Why did you befriend Lady Caroline—or accept the friendship she extended to you?"

  Cecilia squinted, as if it might help her understand what her own thoughts and intentions had been when it had all started. "Lady Caroline appeared quite unexpectedly in my life at a time when I needed her influence." Seeing Isabel begin to speak, Cecilia waved her hand to stop her. "I don't mean her social influence. I mean her confidence, her unconcern for society's opinions. I had never met anyone so very free, you know? And with such a desirable life—married to the future Lord Melbourne, brought up in Devonshire House, madly in love with Lord Byron, doing just as she pleases." She let out a large breath.

  Isabel smiled sadly at her. "I can see how she must have appeared very enviable to you. But I think it is quite apparent that she is not at all happy in her life. In fact, it all seems very tragic."

  Cecilia nodded. Lady Caroline's marriage had been an advantageous one, but it had clearly not brought her happiness.

  For so long, Cecilia had acted under the assumption that, if she were able to acquire enough influence, she would somehow reach a pinnacle of contentment where she would remain for the rest of her life, subsisting on the admiration of others. But such admiration and influence had come to seem fickle and fleeting, holding much less interest for Cecilia than the prospect of a life beside someone she loved.

  "Mama and Papa are very set upon my marrying Lord Retsford," she said, staring down at her hands.

  Isabel's head jerked back. "The marquess? He is quite old isn't he? And a bit of a rake, I thought."

  Cecilia only grimaced.

  Isabel took her hand in hers. "But you have always wished to marry a peer, Cecy. And you can hardly do better than a marquess." She squeezed Cecilia's hand and winked at her.

  Cecilia smiled wryly. "Perhaps a duke?" She laughed softly. "I did always wish to make as brilliant a match as I could. But I suppose that I never anticipated that I would fall in love." She stole a glance at Isabel, whose eyes widened considerably.

  "In love?" She scooted closer to Cecilia. "You must tell me everything, then, of course. From the very beginning."

  "Didn't you tell Charles you would be down shortly?"

  Isabel waved a dismissive hand. "He and Tobias are surely entertaining themselves well enough."

  Cecilia felt a tingling warmth fill her chest. How had she been ignorant for so many years of her sister's sweet nature? It had taken Isabel's marriage for Cecilia to appreciate her.

  She recounted, from the beginning, meeting Lord Moulinet—his apparent disdain for her, his blatant criticism of the affectation he perceived in her manner, and the slow shift that had taken Cecilia from pique to respect to love. When Cecilia recounted what had occurred at the prize fight, Isabel's hand flew to her mouth.

  "Good heavens, Cecy! He put himself at great risk for you and Lady Caroline—but how very awkward it all is." She stood and paced the room. "It is very unfortunate, for absent Lord Retsford, I think Mama and Papa would be very happy indeed to give their blessing to your marriage with a French nobleman."

  Cecilia nodded. "It is even more unfortunate than you know, Izzy, for I think that Lord Retsford has tired of me—undoubtedly due to some failing of mine, Mama will say—and that he only pays me any attention as a way of revenging himself upon Lord Moulinet."

  Isabel made an expression of disgust. "How terribly vindictive of him. And risky! What should he do if you had fallen in love with him and had come to expect his offer?"

  "I suppose he knows well enough that I have no real interest in marrying him."

  Isabel's mouth twisted to the side, and she put a fist to her mouth. "But as long as he continues to show any indication of interest in courting you—however shameful his reasoning for doing so—Mama and Papa will hold out hope for a match." She straightened. "If we can rid them of that hope, though, I think they would look kindly upon Lord Moulinet's suit, would they not?"

  Cecilia tilted her head from side to side. "There is an English Viscount who has paid me no little attention—and I think they might prefer him to a French Vicomte, particularly since the Revolution has so drastically changed the fortunes of French nobles."

  "Good gracious, Cecy," said Isabel with a laugh, "you may as well have the entire English peerage courting you." She came to sit down again beside her. "I am afraid that it may come down to a choice for you—and an undesirable one."

  Cecilia swallowed but inclined her head to invite Isabel to continue.

  "You may have to choose between pursuing your own desires and satisfying Mama and Papa." She clenched her teeth. "Papa may writhe and yell and threaten to withhold your dowry, but it is you who, at the end of the day, has to live your life by the side of your husband. If he is someone you love and respect, I believe you might weather any storm together and still be happy. If he is someone you despise even now"— her shoulders came up and then slumped down —"you may end up as torn and desperate as Lady Caroline."

  She clasped Cecilia's hands between her own for a moment and then stood, walking to the door.

  She paused at the threshold and looked over her shoulder at Cecilia. "One more thing, Cecy. You said that Lady Caroline came into your life when you needed her most. Perhaps it is your turn to return the favor."

  18

  Jacques had considered fleeing. The thought of making it harder for the marquess to carry out his plans—for Jacques harbored little doubt that he would remember where he knew them from—of avoiding the repercussions that would be most harsh in town...it was appealing. Or would the marquess simply use what he knew as a means of intimidation? As a way of ensuring that his path to Miss Cosgrove was free of Jacques?

  But in the end, Jacques couldn't bring himself to cower and hide. Not from the marquess. It would give the man too much satisfaction—to make him feel as though he had won.

  They only had a week left in town, in any case. And for Jacques and his father to absent themselves from the dinner party the Broussards were hosting would be to give great offense to a family Jacques cared for deeply.

  No, they would carry on as usual and fight for their dignity.

  So it was that, as he dressed for the dinner party, Jacques's hands only trembled slightly as he tied his cravat. He was resigned to his fate and determined to spend whatever time he had left showing his gratitude to the people he had come to love. His greatest hope was that, after the shock wore off, they woul
d remember him with fondness rather than disgust.

  His resolution wavered only once, when he saw Miss Cosgrove walk in, preceded by her parents, flanked by her brother, and followed by her sister and her sister's husband.

  Miss Cosgrove looked magnificent in her pale blue crepe evening gown, with a simple white riband woven through her hair. Without even being near, he could imagine the jasmine scent which clung about her wherever she went.

  What would she think of him? He wanted to keep her from the truth for as long as he could, and yet he was anxious to see her reaction. Would she be disgusted to learn of his humble origins? Grateful to have avoided marriage to him? Or would her eyes water with betrayal and hurt?

  Jacques was hardly surprised when the Marquess of Retsford arrived, but he swallowed as he saw the victorious tilt of the man’s chin, his air of calm self-assurance, and the knowing glance he cast at Jacques.

  Jacques straightened himself and held the marquess's eyes. What would have happened if he had never stirred the marquess's anger? If he had not involved himself at the prize fight?

  But Jacques could hardly regret saving Miss Cosgrove's reputation.

  The marquess approached him with a slight nod. "Good evening, Lord Moulinet."

  "Good evening," Jacques replied, ignoring the mocking tone.

  "I hope that you will enjoy this evening," Lord Retsford said, a slight sneer tainting the smile on his mouth. He leaned in toward Jacques and whispered. "Rest assured, it will be your last such opportunity."

  Jacques's muscles tensed, but the marquess walked away, giving him no opportunity to respond, even if he had found something to say.

  So this was it? The marquess intended to reveal what he knew tonight? Jacques had wondered if Lord Retsford wouldn't have preferred the wider audience afforded by a ball or some other public gathering. But apparently not.

  Jacques looked around at the company in the room—at everyone whose opinion he cared for, all the people he had come to love as his own family.

  The marquess could hardly have chosen a more poignant audience.

  He knew a new impulse to run, to escape. But he had to face the Broussards—surely he owed it to look them in the eye after the years of life they had shared together. And he had to face Miss Cosgrove.

  He walked to his father and whispered, "The marquess has come with one aim alone. You had best prepare yourself, Father."

  His father nodded, the same determined expression on his face that Jacques imagined was on his own. "Then I shall need a drink," his father said, walking in the direction of a bottle of brandy.

  "Lord Moulinet." The voice came from behind him, slightly tentative, painfully familiar. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and took in a fortifying breath—laced with jasmine—before turning toward Miss Cosgrove.

  Her smile for him was different this evening. It was shy and almost conspiratorial, as if they shared a secret of mutual affection but she was unsure if she had understood properly. And her eyes? They looked at him with the warmth he had seen growing for weeks.

  It was enough to make him reckless—to give rise to a desire to take her by the hand, tell her everything, and ask her to run away with him, somewhere where the marquess couldn't hurt them.

  But Jacques blinked, and the vision was gone. It was impossible.

  "I wished to introduce you," said Miss Cosgrove, "to my sister and her husband, Mrs. Isabel Galbraith and Mr. Charles Galbraith. They are in town breaking their journey for a few days."

  He bowed politely, very aware of the direct, measuring gaze of Mrs. Galbraith.

  There was a drawn out pause after the introduction, until Letty bounced over to them, putting a hand on Jacques's arm. Mr. and Mrs. Galbraith were approached by Aunt Emily and turned away.

  "Jacques," she said, "I had no idea that you and the marquess were acquainted before! You never said a word."

  Jacques stiffened slightly.

  "Perhaps you had forgotten," Letty suggested, "for he said that you were only a boy, just arrived from France. And I can't say that I blame you if that is the case"— she leaned in toward him with her mischievous smile —"for who would wish to remember him?"

  Jacques's eyes darted to the marquess who was watching Letty with satisfaction. He was taking no small pleasure in taunting Jacques.

  "I had not remembered, to be quite honest," said Jacques truthfully, "but it was a tumultuous time."

  Miss Cosgrove was looking at him with raised brows. "Does his dislike of you stretch back that far?"

  He looked down at her, scanning her face, hoping to take in every detail—her deep blue eyes, her soft pink lips and matching cheeks, the way one stray curl had dropped onto her forehead—before the intimacy of her demeanor disappeared. "I imagine his dislike of me stems from the moment he began to see me as a competitor for your affection."

  She laughed softly and swallowed, meeting his eyes with an intensity that made the hairs on Jacques's neck stand on end. "The marquess never stood a chance against you,” she said.

  Jacques's heart felt at once somehow heavy and light, and with everything inside him, he wished to take the woman in front of him in his arms and show her how he felt.

  "I should think not," Letty said. "For not even a marquessate can make up for all his disagreeableness and insufferable behavior."

  The dinner bell rang out, and the company began moving toward the door.

  Miss Cosgrove looked up at Jacques, the side of her mouth turning up. "Well, my lord," she said in a timid voice, "are you going to accompany me in to dinner, or shall you leave me to go in alone—or worse, on the arm of Lord Retsford?"

  Jacques chuckled. "I would be honored, Miss Cosgrove." He performed an exaggerated bow, eliciting a delighted smile from her, and then extended his arm. The niggling discomfort and guilt he forcefully suppressed. He could not resist Miss Cosgrove this evening, no matter what she asked of him.

  The marquess looked on from the other side of the room, his nostrils flared but his mouth drawn out in a mocking smile.

  Lord Retsford sat next to Mrs. Broussard near the head of the table, while Jacques helped Miss Cosgrove into the seat beside him. The looks they exchanged with each interaction would surely haunt Jacques forever—emblazoned on his memory as a reminder of what almost was but could never be.

  Somehow that knowledge made her lashed looks, her intimate smiles, and the brushes of their arms against one another all the more sweet—achingly so.

  If only he could have explained himself to her—or let her know how he felt. He never wished her to doubt that his feelings for her were real, even if nothing else was.

  "Perhaps this is not the place for it," said Miss Cosgrove in a low voice, "but we were never given the chance to finish our conversation at Lady Heathcote's ball. You wished to tell me something important, did you not?"

  His heart sank. "Yes," he said, glancing at Lord Retsford, "but I think that it is perhaps too late."

  Her forehead wrinkled. "Too late?"

  He clenched his fists, the feeling of powerlessness descending upon him and smothering him. He clenched his eyes shut. "I wish I could explain everything to you, but you must know that what I feel for you is real. Promise me that you will not forget that."

  She blinked rapidly, her eyes alert as she nodded. "You alarm me," she said with a swallow.

  Aunt Emily stood at the head of the table, signaling the women to follow her to the drawing room.

  Miss Cosgrove leaned in toward Jacques and said in a whisper. "Meet me in ten minutes in the alcove down the corridor."

  Jacques stiffened, hesitating. A clandestine meeting would hardly be wise, particularly when he felt the eyes of the marquess on him.

  "Please," Miss Cosgrove said urgently as she stood.

  Realizing that Miss Cosgrove was the only one remaining at the table and would likely attract attention if she remained any longer, Jacques nodded once, grimacing, and she left with a small smile of relief.

  He shut his
eyes. How in the world would he manage to leave the room without attracting undue attention? And what if they were discovered? Once Miss Cosgrove discovered the truth about him, the memory of such a meeting would only add insult to injury.

  He debated within himself, torn between two unpalatable options. He could hardly leave her to await his arrival in the corridor when he had agreed to meet her there. But the thought of going felt wrong, too.

  He heaved a sigh. He would simply have to meet her to say that he didn't wish to compromise her at all by engaging in secretive conduct—particularly in his aunt's home.

  The hands of the tall clock seemed to tick at half-speed for the next few minutes as he sat at the table, forcing himself to drink the port in front of him despite the complete lack of appetite for it.

  When ten minutes had passed, he leaned over to his father and excused himself.

  As Jacques rose, he noted how the marquess's eyes watched him leave the room.

  Jacques's mouth drew into a grim line as he walked down the corridor. It was tempting to use the opportunity to explain things to Miss Cosgrove—to prepare her for what she would no doubt hear, whether from the marquess or from someone else.

  He caught sight of Miss Cosgrove, standing in the alcove next to the tall damask curtains, her hands clasped in front of her.

  "Miss Cosgrove," he said, coming before her, "I cannot think this wise—"

  She dropped her hands and closed the final gap between them, reaching her hands up to his face and pulling his lips down to hers.

  Stunned, Jacques froze for a moment, knowing he should pull back, should stop such an imprudent action, but feeling the warmth of her hands on his cheeks, the softness of her lips pressed to his.

  And before he had even consciously decided anything, his arms were wrapped around her, pulling her closer, his mouth moving with hers in concert, urgent and imperative, as if he could say everything he needed to say without any words at all.

  He finally pulled back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as he closed his eyes in an effort to right the world around him which seemed to be spinning. "We cannot...I cannot..."