“Planning?” Curiosity jabbed Cece. “What ever do you mean? Surely this is no more than a cordial gathering?”
“I wonder…” Jared paused and continued to watch his mother. Olivia caught his eye and nodded pleasantly. “My mother never does anything without a great deal of forethought. And this assembly is not what I would have expected of her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just a suspicion…” Jared pulled his gaze from Olivia and back to Cece. “Cresswell and his daughter are not among my mother’s most intimate friends. I would have thought them far too brash for her. And discretion is not a term one would apply to Sir Humphrey. They are acquaintances, nothing more. Nigel is an old friend of mine and, as such, his presence here is not unusual. But Linnea…while I have always been fond of her, I would never have imagined my mother felt the same. Linnea is rather—”
“Overwhelming?”
“Exactly.” He shook his head, as if to clear the uneasy thoughts. “It’s extremely odd…perhaps attributable to Mother’s long absence from entertaining.”
Cece cast him a wry smile. “You must admit, though, it does seem to be an intriguing assembly. I can scarcely wait to see how we all get on together.”
Jared laughed and reached for his goblet. Cece took a quick sip of her wine to hide her own grin.
Linnea turned toward her, a gleam in the older woman’s eye. “So, I gather Jared will be your first husband?”
A sputtered cough erupted from Jared and Cece struggled to swallow without choking.
Linnea nodded with satisfaction. “I thought as much. Rumors are flying.”
“Rumors?” A tolerant smile played about Jared’s lips, as if he didn’t care one whit about gossip. Well, if he could act rational and nonchalant, so could she.
“Yes, indeed,” she said sweetly, “what rumors?”
Linnea shook her head condescendingly. “It’s been quite obvious. Everywhere you go, Jared shows up. The two of you have been seen together in the park and elsewhere.” She shrugged a satin-covered shoulder. “People do talk, you know.”
“What exactly have you heard?” Quentin said idly.
She cast him a withering glance. “My dear boy, if you would pull your head out of that machine of yours every now and then, you too would be abreast of the latest gossip, scandal and speculation.” Linnea leaned toward Cece in a manner of one confidant to another. “Quentin is attempting to build horse less carriages.”
Cece’s gaze flicked to Jared. He adopted a patient, slightly bored look, as if to say he had heard this conversation before. “A horse less carriage? How very interesting.”
“How very absurd, you mean. It’s quite ridiculous, a grown man occupying his time with something far more suitable as a child’s plaything than a vehicle for adults. Nothing will ever come of it.” Linnea sighed dramatically. “You might as well try to fly.”
Cece pulled her brows together in annoyance. While this woman’s views on life in general might well be stimulating, she obviously could not see the potential in Jared’s automobile. Or, for that matter, in the future. “Surely, with the onset of the twentieth century, the motorcar and numerous other machines will become more and more—”
“Miss White is quite enamored of the future,” Quentin said with a grin.
“And dear Linnea is more than a little fond of all things past.” Jared lifted his glass in a teasing toast. “From history to husbands.”
“Yes, well…” Linnea appeared distinctly uncomfortable for a moment. She eyed Jared thoughtfully but addressed herself to Cece. “You know, he’s not at all unattractive. Really quite handsome in a rugged, youthful sort of way.”
“Thank you,” Jared said modestly.
Cece stared in amazement. While extremely entertaining, this was not at all the sort of dinner conversation she expected. Was the discussion at Lady Olivia’s end of the table anywhere near this uninhibited and intimate?
“Still, I wouldn’t choose him as a husband, my dear. He’s simply too young and far too healthy. He should last an inordinately long time. No”—Linnea shook her head firmly—“Jared would never do as a husband. However, I should think he’d make an excellent lover.”
Jared grinned.
Quentin choked.
Heat rushed up Cece’s face.
The Cresswell girl reddened, reached for her glass and knocked it over. Servants hurried to her side.
Goodness, did Lady DeToulane have no sense of propriety at all? Cece was well known back home for her outspoken candor, but even she realized there were certain boundaries one didn’t cross. The slightest hint of such indiscretion was unthinkable, no matter how very provocative the idea might be.
All attention focused on the servants mopping up the mess before Cresswell’s daughter, but Cece’s gaze strayed to Jared. He watched the proceedings with a slight, crooked smile of amused disbelief. One strong, tanned hand rested lightly around the stem of his goblet, the other out of sight in his lap. He drew a quick swallow from his glass and responded to a comment of Quentin’s with a nod and a light laugh. The wine moistened his lips with a faint, inviting sheen that begged to be tasted, savored, relished.
“If the rumors are to be believed—and I daresay only a fool would discount London gossip—then the boy’s made quite a suitable match for himself,” Sir Humphrey said, leapfrogging the conversation back to the somewhat personal question of her real or imagined relationship with Jared.
“Thank you,” Jared said, a little less modestly this time, with just a touch of annoyance in his voice.
“Yes, indeed.” Sir Humphrey nodded toward her father at the other end of the table. “She’s bloody rich and dammed pretty too.”
Sir Humphrey slanted her something that tottered between a grin and a leer, no doubt the result of one too many glasses of claret. She returned his expression with a polite, noncommittal smile and turned back to the others.
“…and then he said, ‘Well, my dear, if one finds it necessary to actually tally the score, one should never play in the first place.’ And I said, ‘I quite agree, my lord. Still, it never hurts to know exactly where one stands or, if you prefer, where one…’” Lady DeToulane chatted engagingly to a captive audience of those seated around her. No doubt the tale was amusing, but Cece’s unfamiliarity with the subject or the main characters lent a certain difficulty to following the story.
A slight draft ruffled her gown at her knee. She ignored the tickling sensation and concentrated on Lady DeToulane’s lighthearted banter. The draft returned, almost a caress this time, and she shifted her leg in mild irritation. Once more the fabric of her gown stirred. A hand clasped her knee.
Cece started slightly and stared at Sir Humphrey. This time there was no mistake; the expression on his face was definitely a smirk. She glared and he winked and removed his hand.
Cece glanced at Jared. Still engrossed in Lady DeToulane’s clatter, he seemed not to have noticed the interchange between her and Sir Humphrey. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she held. Jared would not take the older man’s attentions to her lightly, and she preferred to avoid any kind of scene between the two of them, especially with Lady Olivia at the table.
“Damned pretty.” Sir Humphrey’s warm, wine-fumed breath puffed against her ear, and once again his hand grasped her knee.
She shoved it away firmly but without undue attention, dropped her linen napkin on the floor and bent to retrieve it. Sir Humphrey too leaned down.
“Sir,” she whispered stiffly, “if you touch my person once more, I shall be forced to deal with you quite harshly.”
“American girls have such spirit.” A lecherous glint shone in his eyes. “I do so love spirit.”
She glared and jerked upright in her chair. She refused to so much as glance in Sir Humphrey’s direction, and minutes passed without incident. The old fool had no doubt received her message. The tension in Cece’s shoulders eased and she joined eagerly in the ebb and flow of the conversation.
A pithy comment from Quentin prompted laughter all around. In the midst, Sir Humphrey’s chubby hand once again settled on her knee and squeezed.
This was quite enough. Obviously the despicable man needed something more to the point to make it perfectly clear she had no interest in his amorous antics. She cast around for a suitable weapon. They were well into the meal, but a sterling dessert fork shimmered invitingly before her. Cece slipped the fork into her lap and, with the next gale of laughter, plunged it into the back of Sir Humphrey’s flabby fist.
Sir Humphrey yelped in a most satisfying way, and Cece smiled smugly. He sputtered. He coughed. He choked, finally turning a most interesting shade of purple. Perhaps it was the color of the man’s plump little face that finally drew the attention of the others. Or perhaps it was that horrible strangling sound emanating from him. Either way, Cece had no intention of going to his aid.
“Do you think something disagreed with him?” Cece said innocently, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“Good God!” Jared sprang from his chair and rushed to Sir Humphrey’s side, Quentin a step behind him.
“Papa!” The Cresswell creature clapped her hands to her face and rose to her feet.
“I say, can I help?” Nigel Radcliffe called from the far end of the table.
“Smack him,” Linnea said firmly. “Smack him sharply on the back. And don’t be afraid to put some force into it.”
“Oh yes, Jared,” Cece nodded eagerly. “A good belt is precisely what he needs.”
Sir Humphrey’s eyes bulged, whether at the women’s directions or his apparent lack of air, Cece wasn’t sure. Jared and Quentin flanked him, traded swift glances, and then, in a stalwart effort to prevent what appeared to be his eminent demise, Jared pulled his hand back and let it fly.
The resounding smack reverberated in the great hall, and even Cece winced at the painful sound. The force propelled Sir Humphrey’s bloated body forward like a full sail with a sudden gust of wind and an unidentified piece of half-chewed fare exploded from his mouth and soared across the room.
Stunned silence filled the hall.
Sir Humphrey gasped with exertion.
His daughter appeared appropriately mortified.
Cece stifled an irresistible impulse to giggle.
Shock colored the faces of nearly everyone at the other end of the table.
“I told you.” Linnea favored the group with a superior smile. “A good smack on the back always works. Usually it’s not quite so dramatic or—” she threw Sir Humphrey a disdainful look—“revolting.”
“Sorry, my dear,” Sir Humphrey muttered, his color gradually returning to its normal ruddy tone. “My apologies all around.”
“Think nothing of it.” Jared nodded. He and Quentin returned to their respective places.
“Most unfortunate,” Sir Humphrey mumbled and sank into his seat. A quick angry glance shot toward Cece from narrowed eyes.
She smiled pleasantly and turned away, her gaze catching Jared’s mother’s. A hint of a smile quirked the corners of Lady Olivia’s lips, and she nodded slightly, as if she approved of Cece’s action.
Cece’s eyes widened, unease tinging her smile. Lady Olivia turned away to speak to Cece’s father. Surely Olivia could have no idea of what had occurred here? Cece had been extremely discreet. There was no conceivable way Olivia could even suspect Sir Humphrey’s embarrassing moment had been the direct result of a fork imbedded in his hand prompted by his disgraceful actions. Unless…
Cece studied the older woman thoughtfully. It was difficult to believe Olivia was unaware of the man’s obvious penchant toward licentious behavior and his apparent attraction to young women. Anyone watching the man for more than a moment or two could easily discern that. But why on earth would Olivia seat Cece next to him? Wouldn’t she expect some kind of incident?
No, Cece was letting her imagination run rampant. Even if her farfetched thoughts were true, what possible motive would Jared’s mother have to place Cece in such an awkward situation? She shrugged off the disquieting idea and turned to join in the banter around her.
She waited until once again her companions were distracted by laughter and, surreptitiously, slipped her fork back into place.
With the corner of her mind Olivia reserved for social niceties, she chatted pleasantly with the guests at her end of the table. She could not resist a slight satisfied smile.
Granted this wasn’t much of a first test for the American girl, but it had served its purpose. Olivia did not know the precise details but was astute enough to realize that Sir Humphrey had been up to his old tricks, precisely why she had seated him next to Cecily in the first place.
Any hostess would doubtless come up against men of Sir Humphrey’s ilk now and again. It took a special touch to discourage them firmly while not creating a spectacle. Of course, in this case Cecily’s response had triggered that disgusting display of choking, but even Olivia could not blame that on the girl.
No, Cecily had not created a scene. She had not called for her father or Jared to defend her honor. And, most importantly, she had not disrupted a social occasion. That charge fell squarely on the chubby shoulders of Sir Humphrey.
Olivia nodded to herself approvingly. This was proceeding quite nicely. She almost hoped the girl would succeed. Cecily had already leapt the first hurdle Olivia had set for her.
But could she leap them all?
Chapter Eight
Cece tossed and turned and turned and tossed until the fine linen sheets knotted about her legs and her pillow bunched beneath her head. No matter what contortions she performed in an effort to find an acceptable spot, sleep evaded her like an incessant insect buzzing just out of reach.
It wasn’t as if she had fallen into bed reluctantly. On the contrary, between the trip from London, Jared’s so-called driving lesson and the scandalous goings-on at dinner, the day had been extraordinarily busy. And tomorrow promised to be just as full. A hunt was planned for the morning and, while she had no interest in that activity, Jared, as host, insisted on attending. He only reluctantly agreed to meet her beforehand at the stable, where she expected he would do his level best to avoid instructing her in the operation of his precious automobile.
It wasn’t the fault of her surroundings. The room allotted her in the castle’s west wing was exceedingly comfortable and even quite charming in an old-fashioned sort of way, with massive antique furniture and wall hangings, and ceilings that seemed to soar perilously close to heaven itself. Even the mattress on the huge four-poster bed was as soft and inviting as a whispered caress. No bulges, bumps or lumps here.
She gave the pillow an unwarrantedly vicious punch, flipped over on her back and stared at the ceiling high above her. In the moonlight that filtered from the window she couldn’t make out the intricate coffered design, only shapes and shadows that seemed to undulate in and out of her vision. At this moment, did sleep elude Jared as well? Did he too lay awake, staring at a ceiling very much like this one?
For not the first time she considered this very odd emotion called love. It was not the blissful, unquestioned happiness described by poets. Instead, it was much more like a constant state of anticipation punctuated by periodic bouts of frustration, annoyance and longing. It was that unquenched yearning for something still unknown that caused her restlessness to night.
Every moment spent in his presence seemed to weaken her resolve to make him work for her hand. With every word, every glance and, Lord help her, every kiss, she seemed to fall more and more under his spell. And the chaste kisses they’d shared since Paris were simply not enough.
Cece prided herself on being a modern woman and as such was well aware of the physical intimacies that lovers shared. But it had always sounded somewhat odd, definitely awkward and just a touch distasteful. Now, her opinions faltered.
More and more in moments like this she wondered what it would be like to share newfound passions with a man. With Jared. His kiss
alone had given her a glimpse of sensations she never dreamed existed. What more could she expect when his lips refused to linger on hers and instead drifted down her neck to taste the sensitive flesh that even now trembled at the thought of his desire? When his strong, tanned hands refused to rest discreetly and instead explored the hills and valleys of her increasingly receptive body? When his hard chest crushed her breasts with an insistent demand she had never—
Cece gasped and sat upright, heat flashing up her face. She threw off the sheets and swung her feet over the side of the bed. This was quite enough. She stood decisively and grabbed her wrapper. Swiftly, she donned the silken robe and stalked to the door. She refused to spend the rest of the night mooning over Jared and succumbing to indecent thoughts, intriguing though they might be. A good book would occupy her traitorous mind. She grit her teeth and pulled her door open. At this point even a boring book would help. Anything to put herself, as well as images of Jared, to rest.
The gaslights in the broad hallway were turned down low and no one stirred in the corridor. Cece had only seen the castle’s library while on a brief tour, but she’d always been quite proud of her unerring sense of direction. Courses and routes, whether in buildings, city streets or on open roads, seemed to stick forever in her mind. Once shown a direction she never lost it. It was admittedly an unusual gift, but Cece considered it a practical talent nonetheless.
Silently she slipped though the halls, down the stairs and into the library. She lit a lamp and gazed around the book-edged room. Volumes lined shelf after shelf; rows of tomes reached to a ceiling that disappeared in the shadows above. She perused the shelves nearest her and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Chaucer, Balzac, Milton. Nothing of any interest whatsoever. No treatise on the rights of women. No publications detailing the latest inventions of Mr. Edison. No Twain, no Melville, no Alcott. How frightfully boring. She sighed. At least the writings she’d discovered thus far would not keep her awake. She couldn’t imagine the words of Samuel Pepys capturing her attention to the point where she would not want to put it down.
The Princess and the Pea Page 14
