“Excellent,” Verne drawled. “Shall we have him up? Or will Alvan shoot him, too?”
Henry frowned. “Why would his grace shoot him?”
“He wouldn’t, of course,” Cecily said hastily. “You must do as you wish, my lord.”
Verne searched her face, glanced at Lady Barnaby, then shrugged. “Show his lordship up, Daniel. And you’d better get them to lay another place for dinner.”
Lord Torbridge all but burst into the drawing room, wrenching the door out of Daniel’s hold as though he expected it to be slammed in his face. He paused for a moment, dramatically sweeping his gaze around the room as though ready for any iniquity. It crossed Cecily’s mind that he had expected to discover some kind of orgy, and instead, found himself confronting two thoroughly respectable middle-aged ladies and a fashionable young matron along with at least one unmistakable gentleman. The other, Verne, strolled toward him, one hand held out with supreme casualness.
“Lord Torbridge, is it? I’m Verne. What can I do for you?”
Torbridge’s jaw dropped. He took Verne’s hand mechanically and then, looking quite annoyed with himself, all but snatched it free. “I am searching,” he declared, “for Lady Cecily.”
“Felicitations,” Verne said sardonically, bowing him in Cecily’s direction. “You have found her.”
“Thank God,” Torbridge exclaimed. For a horrible moment, Cecily thought he was going to hurl himself at her feet, but he contented himself with clasping her hand and gazing at her like a desperately worried cat who’d mislaid her newly born kitten. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“As soon as you heard what?” Cecily asked, bewildered.
“That you were here, of course. I—”
“Once you have remembered your manners,” Lady Banbury interrupted sternly, “you may tell us what you heard and from whom.”
Torbridge flushed to the roots of his hair. Genuinely mortified to have been found so wanting, he dropped Cecily’s hand and bowed to her aunt in a slightly jerkier movement than was usual for him.
“Allow me to present your hostess, Mrs. Longstone, who was mother-in-law to his lordship’s late brother. And Mr. Longstone, her son. And their cousin, Madame de Renarde.”
Under their slightly bemused gazes, Torbridge bowed gracefully to each and said all that was proper, apologizing for arriving unannounced and uninvited. Verne presented him with a glass of sherry, which appeared to startle him more than anything else.
“Drink up,” Verne said. “We’re about to go in to dinner.”
“Let us go in now,” Mrs. Longstone suggested with unexpected discretion. She set down her glass and stood up. “And Lord Torbridge may discuss his business with their ladyships before joining us. They will show you the way, my lord.”
“You are kindness itself, ma’am, but I could not possibly intrude,” Torbridge assured her. “I can easily dine at the inn—”
“Verne won’t hear of such a thing,” Mrs. Longstone said firmly, while Verne regarded her with sardonic amusement. “Your place is already set. Henry, your arm.”
When they had left the room, Henry sank into the chair closest to Cecily and her aunt and leaned forward anxiously. “Are you truly well? How do you come to be in this place?”
“Of course we are well,” Lady Barnaby said crossly. “And though it’s none of your business, we are here because one of the carriage horses went lame and Lord Verne came to our aid. And then we decided to stay a few days longer.”
“Yes, but… dear Lady Barnaby, do you not see what harm accepting the hospitality of such a man, a stranger—”
“He isn’t a stranger,” Lady Barnaby interrupted. “He is an old friend of Alvan’s. And of course, I am always careful of Cecily’s safety and her reputation!”
“I did not mean to suggest otherwise,” Torbridge said hastily.
“Oh, but I think you did.”
“Cheer up, my lord,” Cecily urged. “Aunt Barny had quite the same reservations as you, until she met Mrs. Longstone and her family. They are very civil people and even you, Torbridge, could find no fault with the propriety of the household. What I want to know is what you heard and from whom to send you flying down here to find us.”
“I called in Grosvenor Street just as your servants were leaving to join you. I could not believe their destination. Of course, I knew it would look too odd if I travelled with them, so I came on my own a day later, and here I am.”
“Well at least you had that much sense,” Lady Banbury allowed. “Your dashing down here could easily have caused exactly the sort of talk we all wish to avoid. The world knows you’re dangling after Cecily.”
“Aunt!” Cecily objected.
But Torbridge did not appear to mind. He merely smiled. “Well, I am. But I fully acknowledge I have been granted no rights.”
“I have a perfectly capable brother to take care of me,” Cecily pointed out. “And if he has no objections to Verne’s friendship, I see no reason for yours.”
“Of course not,” Torbridge said humbly. “I was not aware of his grace’s friendship, or the fact you were at all acquainted with Lord Verne.”
“They were at school together,” Lady Barnaby said. “And kept up the friendship ever since. And now that we have established all the proprieties and facts, can we please go and eat? I’m famished.”
“No, you aren’t, Aunt,” Cecily said, standing. “But we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”
“One more thing,” Torbridge said, offering his hand to Lady Barnaby to help her rise. “He—Verne—has not pursued you in any way, has he?”
“You are being ridiculous,” Cecily said coldly. “What’s more, it is disrespectful to me, to my aunt, and to your host.” She stalked out of the room, leaving the others to follow.
Poor Torbridge, she thought ruefully. Although she had less intention than ever of marrying him, there was something about him she had always rather liked and she did not wish to hurt him. Perhaps they could get rid of him tomorrow, before her false engagement to Verne was announced. She couldn’t really take him into her confidence. Besides, the betrothal might cure him of his silly infatuation for her.
*
Inevitably, Lord Torbridge was persuaded to spend the night at Finmarsh House rather than put up at the Hart. His man and his luggage were sent for, he was the perfect dinner guest, and in all, Cecily spent a more pleasant evening than she had expected to since his arrival.
Lord Verne again vanished after dinner, no doubt to say goodnight to Jane, but this time, he returned to the drawing room. He seemed restless and more silent than ever, brooding into the flames of the fire lit against the evening chill or pacing up and down the room.
When she and Lady Barnaby retired, he presented her with her night candle in the hallway. His eyes were more intense than ever as they met Cecily’s, glittering with some deep emotion she could not fathom. Or it may have been the trick of the candle flames.
“Good night,” he said abruptly.
“Good night.” She inclined her head and followed her aunt across the wide hall to the passage. Her heart was beating too fast without reason. He always had some strange effect on her.
He also seemed to have communicated his restlessness to her, for when she had left her aunt, she found she had no desire to sleep. She let her maid undress her, then sent her to bed while she herself went to the window seat and gazed out into the darkness. Last night, she had witnessed some promised intimacy between Verne and Isabelle in the garden below. But there was no sign of anyone tonight. Were they together again? She should not care, except she would look foolish when the engagement was announced. She wondered who else knew about Verne and Isabelle.
She was unsure how long she sat there, gazing into the night, watching the stars wink between scudding clouds. With her knees tucked under her chin, she rested her head against the window pane. From this position, she could make out the edge of the ruined wing, and wondered about the late Lord Verne and his wife, about
Verne’s declared guilt and her own belief in his innocence—of that crime, at least.
Perhaps this was her form of insanity. His wife’s family, his lover, all believed in his guilt. According to Isabelle, he had admitted it to her. Cecily had no reason to hold him innocent, and yet she did. Wishful thinking, because the man had kissed her and made her laugh. He made her skin tingle when he touched her, caused her heart to gallop and her breath to vanish whenever he was near. It did not feel like fear, and yet the feeling itself both frightened and thrilled her.
Lust. Desires of the flesh, such as young ladies were not meant to know about, let alone entertain, least of all for men whose reputations were soiled beyond any level of marriageability.
Marriage! Where had that word come from? Engagement, even a false engagement, was quite bad enough.
Her train of thought was interrupted as the figure of a man appeared below. She hadn’t noticed where he had come from, but he carried a lantern which cast an eerie glow over him. Visible only for an instant, he seemed to vanish into the ruined walls like a ghost.
Cecily sat up, both intrigued and alarmed. Lifting the sash as quietly as she could, she stuck out her head and peered toward where she had last seen the man. The breeze lifted her hair and cooled her cheeks, but she could see no sign of anyone… unless that was a faint glow coming from inside the ruined part of the house? The lantern?
Why would a ghost carry a lantern? Of course, it was no ghost, but a person, only why would anyone enter the ruin at night? She frowned. In fact, how did anyone enter the ruin from the front of the house? There was no doorway.
Thoroughly curious now, she drew her head back inside and closed the window. For a moment, she sat still, trying to talk herself out of it. This kind of impulsive investigation was what had got her abducted by Verne in the first place. But this case was different. She was not in a public inn. She no longer believed Verne would harm her, or allow harm to come to her. And he, surely, was the greatest danger in the county.
With a breathless laugh, she sprang up and swung her voluminous travel cloak around her before stuffing her hair inside the collar. She lit a larger candle from the now-tiny one, slid her feet into slippers, and crept out into the passage.
All was quiet and dark. By the pale light of her candle, she found her course to the hallway in front of the drawing room and the formal dining room. From there, she took the other passage leading toward the ruined wing. A bolted door blocked her. This must have been the door she had seen Shilton peer through that first morning.
Transferring the candle to her left hand, she used her right to slide back the bolts. They moved easily, almost silently, and she pulled open the door. At once, the draught hit her, making her shiver. She shone the candle around, trying to make out what was left of the floors and walls. To her surprise, enough remained that she could make out the layout of the rooms. There were large holes in many of the floors and some of the walls had partially tumbled, so without moving very much, she could see through this floor to the one below and the one above.
She turned to peer toward the back of the house and something moved near her feet. She gasped as it loomed suddenly upward, resolving into the figure of a man. A man with Verne’s face.
“Marjorie,” he whispered.
Alarmed, Cecily stumbled backward. “It’s Cecily,” she got out and then her foot went straight through the floor and she lost her balance. The candle fell and went out. Her stomach dived as she began helplessly to fall.
Strong hands seized her, jerking her to safety against his hard body. She could see nothing, hear nothing except the pounding beat of her own heart.
“For God’s sake, what are you doing here?” he whispered into her hair.
“I saw a light.”
A choked sound escaped him. It might have been laughter. “Were you looking out of the window again?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know it was you.”
“Who else was it likely to be?” he demanded. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Frightened?”
She nodded.
“Don’t be. I have you safe.”
“We have no light,” she reminded him shakily.
“I don’t need one. Cecily…”
She drew back enough to look up at him, though she could see nothing except deeper darkness where his head should be. A groan escaped him and then the blackness surged and his lips slid along her jaw to claim her mouth.
He kissed her with fierce, abandoned passion. Overwhelmed to the point of fright, she reached up to make him stop, found his soft, tangled hair, and the rough, damp skin of his jaw. She gasped into his mouth, her fear lost now in the wonder of his kiss, and in distress because she understood the wetness running still down his face.
“What is it?” she whispered against his lips, stroking his cheek, his hair. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” His mouth gentled with the movement of speech. “Absolutely nothing. Kiss me.”
She couldn’t help it. This was what she had wanted ever since the first time he had done it. In total surrender, she threw her arms around his neck, glorying in the hardness of his body pressed against hers. Her lips yielded and parted for his, as she kissed him back with shy yet ever-soaring passion. Her heart, her stomach, her whole being was in utter turmoil and she loved it.
In the end, it was he who ended the kiss. “This isn’t a safe place to make love,” he said hoarsely. “Stand still while I light the lantern.”
She nodded dumbly, and he released her to crouch and feel behind him. She heard the clank of the lantern and the scrape of the tinder box, and then light flared, casting its wavery glow over the sculpted lines and hollows of his face. He rose and took her hand, leading her the few paces to the door she had entered by.
“How did you get in?” she asked, remembering.
“Through the ground-floor window.”
“Did you climb up?” she demanded, watching him close and bolt the door.
He lifted his finger to his lips. “Yes.”
“Is it safe?” she whispered.
“Not very, but I didn’t much care at the time.” He took her hand again. “Come.” He urged her along the passage toward the staircase and they ran down it silently, hand-in-hand while the lantern bobbed, casting wild, ever-changing shadows up the walls and bannister.
At the foot, he led her across the hall to the room she remembered only too well—the library. As he opened the door and light spilled out, sense began to return to her and she hesitated, staring up at him.
He doused the lantern and placed it on the floor before taking her in his arms and kissing her again, this time with soft, devastating sensuality, seducing her mind, body, and soul.
He lifted her, swinging her into the room, and kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot.
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered. “I couldn’t. But I can’t leave you alone either, not yet. You are so soft and sweet and beautiful…”
“I’m not. I’m proud and stubborn and overly-curious. Why did you go there, Patrick?”
He smiled, cupping her cheek. “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”
In spite of everything, she flushed. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“Yes, I am, because I don’t have an answer. I’m drawn there at high times and low times, just to remember what I’ve lost.” Letting her go, he swung away and paced across the room. “And who I’ve destroyed. Why are you here with me?”
“You asked me. Without words, admittedly.”
He cast her a wicked glance over his shoulder and heat surged through her whole body. It was a good question. Why was she here? This man, this situation, was not safe.
“Come here,” he said softly.
He had been crouched alone in the corner of his burned-out ruin, silently weeping. He had called her Marjorie as though he’d thought her his sister-in-law’s ghost. He was in pain. That was why she came. She could not
leave him alone with such agony.
“You called me Marjorie. Do you see her ghost?”
He stared at her. “In my mind. Along with my brother’s.”
“But I was real.”
“I didn’t know that until you almost fell. Are you going to come to me, or shall I come back to you?”
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Because you’re beautiful and I want you.”
“And I was there.”
“It is difficult to kiss someone who isn’t.”
“And last night, Isabelle de Renarde was there.”
A frown flickered across his brow. “Not much escapes you, does it?” He began to walk back toward her, slow and predatory. “And if you are right, would it bother you?”
She lifted her chin. “You are free. As I am.”
“And here you are,” he murmured, devouring her with his hot, turbulent gaze. Lifting his hand, he cupped her cheek and softly, deliberately, kissed her mouth.
Every inch of her wanted to hurl herself into his arms and surrender, to discover the true meaning of the passion, the desire coursing through her. Resisting the temptation was the hardest thing she had ever done in her pampered life, for his kiss was sweet and thrilling and blatantly seductive.
Very gently, she detached her mouth from his and caught his wrist. “Are you trying to seduce me now? After we have gone through all this to convince people you didn’t do so three nights ago?”
His lips curved. “I’ll grant you it makes no sense, but then desire rarely does. Are you going to threaten me with Alvan again? Or Torbridge?”
“No. I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“What devastates you still about the fire.”
He stared down at her. “What do you think?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “There is more than grief and loss in you. More even than the horror. Everyone believes it is guilt.”
He sighed and released her, turning away to throw himself on to the sofa. “There you are. Why won’t you leave it alone?”
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 30
