“Nothing,” Cecily said. “I’m too excited to sleep. Besides, I’m afraid if I do, I’ll wake in the morning to discover tonight was a dream.”
Charlotte sat on the window seat beside her. “He obsesses you.”
Cecily nodded without shame. “Was it like that for you, too? With Alex?”
Charlotte flushed slightly. “It still is, if you want the truth. If you love him, if he loves you, everything intensifies with marriage.”
“It’s a little bit frightening, isn’t it?”
Charlotte gazed at her. “You don’t look frightened. You look like the cat with the cream.”
Cecily laughed and hugged her. “I am. I never thought he would come. I never thought he loved me.”
Charlotte returned the embrace and released her. “He is a troubled man,” she warned lightly.
“I know. But I think I understand him… partially, at least. I can help him banish his ghosts. Finmarsh is full of them.”
Charlotte hesitated until Cecily said bluntly, “You want to ask me about the fire and if that does not trouble me.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Cecily shook her head. “Not in the way you mean. I don’t believe the truth of the tragedy has ever been told, or even fully known. But I know Verne was not responsible. He tried to save them.” She gave herself a little shake. “I don’t want to think about that. I want to think about the future. And remember dancing…” And kissing. God help her, she had never imagined kisses like those, intimate caresses like those. Her body flushed at the intensifying memory and she could not help touching her lips. They still seemed to tingle. She smiled again.
“I see you are a hopeless case,” Charlotte observed, rising to her feet. “I shall leave you to your dreams, but please don’t forget to go to bed or you will sleep through his visit tomorrow.”
Cecily laughed. “Worse, I shall have huge bags under my eyes and look like death and he will try to wriggle out of it.”
“I doubt that,” Charlotte said, smiling back. “It took a lot for him to come here.”
“I know.” Cecily’s eyes strayed back to the window but at last another thought penetrated her fog of selfish happiness and she turned back to her sister-in-law. “Charlotte? You were the perfect hostess tonight. You managed it all wonderfully.”
Charlotte cast her a fleeting smile. “Thank you,” she said fervently, and went out.
*
Although Verne wasn’t expected until the afternoon, he took everyone by surprise by sauntering into the breakfast room before midday. As usual, he looked dark and windswept and inherently disreputable, and Cecily’s heart gave a delicious leap that deprived her of breath.
His gaze swept around the room, alighting first on her with a quick smile that managed to be somehow both tender and predatory. But she was sure he had taken everyone in before he bowed over Charlotte’s hand and apologized for interrupting breakfast.
“Not at all,” Charlotte insisted. “Please join us. We are having a long and lazy breakfast as you see, after our night of dissipation! Do help yourself from the sideboard.”
“No, no, I thank you. I breakfasted at the inn. Though I’ll happily accept a cup of coffee.”
Lord Dunstan, who was seated beside Cecily, stood up. “Sit here, Verne. I have eaten my fill and must be on my way.”
“Dunstan,” Verne said with apparently surprised pleasure. He even thrust out his hand, which Dunstan shook with unexpected cordiality. They were both friends of Alvan, so it was not surprising they should know each other. “How come I didn’t see you last night?”
“I saw you. But I believe your eyes, like your mind, were elsewhere!”
To Cecily, it seemed bizarrely symbolic to have her first suitor giving his place to her new betrothed. Perhaps it was all part of Dunstan’s apology for his youthful folly which had led to years of estrangement from Alvan and herself. At any rate, Verne’s large figure settling beside her seemed to bring a blast of fresh air from outdoors, and a powerful physical awareness. She could barely smile and wish him a civil good morning.
But then, Verne also seemed quite distracted. He said little after his arrival, merely drank coffee and gazed at his fellow guests.
“I do not see Henry,” he murmured at last.
“The Longstones left early for Sussex. I could only wave to them from my bedchamber window.”
He spared her a quick, wicked smile. “Another bedchamber window,” he observed. “Did the Renardees go with them?”
“No, but they have not yet come down. Why?”
“No reason.” His gaze now was on the apparently oblivious Torbridge.
Alvan’s hand dropped on Verne’s shoulder. “I have to bid farewell to my guests,” he murmured. “But we can talk afterward, in the library.”
*
Enjoying a gentle stroll with his betrothed had its own powerful charms. But Verne made a point of hanging around either the entrance hall, which was being denuded of its now drooping flowers and greenery, or the front terrace so he could observe the departing guests.
He was irritated to have missed Henry, but in truth, his distant cousin was unlikely to have attacked him in person anyway. He would have hired some bully to do it for him. Of course, the same could be said of Torbridge, whose pristine hands and face he had already observed at breakfast, or Pierre de Renarde.
With Cecily, he walked across the terrace to bid the Renardees farewell before they climbed into their slightly shabby carriage.
“We’re going to London,” Isabelle said gaily. “The ball has given us a taste for dancing!”
“It has given my wife a taste for dancing,” Renarde said dryly. “As you may have observed, I still possess two left feet. Goodbye, Lady Cecily. My lord.”
Verne casually thrust out his hand, but Renarde did not remove his glove to shake it. Nor was there any visible mark on his face.
Isabelle was embracing Cecily. “You did not heed my warnings,” she murmured.
“No,” Cecily agreed with a faint smile. “I did not.”
“I wish you both very happy.”
“Thank you,” Cecily said, her smile more genuine now, and then Verne took Isabelle’s hand to help her into the carriage before her husband.
They stepped back to join the duke and duchess, and let the horses spring forward. Then he and Cecily walked back into the house.
In the hallway, they met the Overtons, Charlotte’s parents, and one of their beautiful daughters, who were about to depart. Cecily appeared to have a fondness for them, so Verne stood civilly aside, However, Lord Overton followed him.
“Sorry we haven’t met since I came home from abroad,” Overton said pleasantly. “Had a few things on my mind, you know! But if you don’t object, I’ll call on you very soon about a few local matters.”
“I look forward to it,” Verne said. Betrothal to Cecily Moore seemed to have bestowed some respectability upon him, although not so much that he was invited to Audley Park where there was still at least one unmarried daughter.
As Overton collected his wife and daughter, urging them toward the door, Verne found himself face to face with Lord Torbridge.
This close, he looked no more damaged by fists or falls than he had at breakfast.
“So, your engagement resumes,” Torbridge observed.
“As you say. I shall take better care of it this time.” Casually, he offered his hand.
Torbridge looked at it for so long it seemed he meant to offend, and then he took it, raising his eyes to Verne’s. And suddenly, they weren’t remotely prim or amiable, but hard and distinctly menacing.
“You had better be kind to her,” Torbridge said softly. “Because if you break her heart, I will most assuredly break you.” He dropped Verne’s hand and strode away.
Verne blinked after him. Well. Is that a glimpse of the real Torbridge? Or a momentary aberration caused by thwarted love?
*
With the last of the guests gone, Verne followed Alvan
into his magnificent library.
“Tell me,” he said, as Alvan seized the decanter and poured two glasses of brandy, “do you have any violent madmen in these parts who might be willing to attack your guests?”
Startled, Alvan met his gaze. “Do you wish to engage someone for the position?”
“Of course not, idiot. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of an incident last night. It is probably related to my own doings, but I need to rule out random attacks if I can.”
A frown tugged at Alvan’s brow as he gave him one of the glasses. “I can’t imagine any of my people behaving in such a way, and certainly not to my guests. What happened?”
Verne told him succinctly.
“It sounds like someone with a grudge against you,” Alvan said. “Which may not narrow down your list! Longstone? Torbridge? The husband of some woman you have debauched?”
“I don’t recall debauching any women in Lincolnshire,” Verne retorted. “And ladies of quality have been rather above my touch recently.”
“Apart from my sister.”
“I have not debauched your sister. And I trust your accusation does not mean that it was you who flew at me screaming last night.”
“You would not have got off so lightly,” Alvan retorted. He waved one hand at Verne’s skinned knuckles. “All the same, I don’t like this. Are you in trouble, Verne?”
Verne shrugged. “I’m not sure.” But he’d been glad to get Cecily away from him at Finmarsh, in case whatever threatened him touched her instead. The same applied here. He should go… only, if it was a family grudge, if someone—Henry or his half-insane mother—wanted to be sure he never produced an heir, might they not attack Cecily now as an easier target than himself?
His blood ran cold. His being here, which had brought about such a wonderful result, could trigger a greater tragedy. The engagement was confirmed before her family and was now much more of a threat to Henry’s position.
The door opened and Cecily came in with her aunt and Charlotte.
“If you’re discussing weddings,” Cecily said firmly, “then I should be here.”
“I planned to leave the contracts largely to our respective men of business,” Alvan said. “But if you wish to be involved in such dull stuff, then by all means, let us begin.”
“You know perfectly well she meant the wedding, not the marriage contracts,” Charlotte scolded. “How soon do you wish to be married?”
“Tomorrow,” Verne said promptly, and Cecily blushed adorably.
“It can’t be tomorrow,” Lady Barnaby said. “We’ll need a month to have the banns read and Cecily’s trousseau ordered.”
“Actually, we only need a day,” Charlotte argued. And as everyone gazed at her in surprise, she added hastily, “Not that I’m suggesting you marry quite so quickly! But the banns have been read twice already, remember? To reinforce the truth of your engagement. We cancelled them for tomorrow, but a message to the vicar will have them read a third time, and then you could be married on Monday.”
Verne stared at her. The day after tomorrow, he would have her safe where he could protect her. Leaving her here, with Alvan only half-understanding, surely would not be right.
“No,” Alvan said firmly.
“No,” Charlotte agreed.
“No, indeed,” Verne said regretfully. “It smacks of unnecessary speed and will only cause scandal.”
“Around you, my lord?” Cecily mocked. “Surely not.”
Verne cast her a quick grin. “I have no objections to a week on Monday. Have you?”
“So soon…” She met his gaze, searching his eyes with a hint of wildness in her own. Then her expression calmed, and she smiled. “So soon,” she repeated. “A week on Monday sounds perfect to me.”
Chapter Fifteen
They were married quietly in the tiny chapel that was part of Mooreton House. Mr. Norris, the local vicar, officiated. Alvan gave the bride away while Julius stood as groomsman, and Charlotte as Cecily’s matron of honor. Mrs. Neville and the other servants cheered as she walked down the short aisle on her husband’s arm and threw handfuls of grain over them.
Laughing, Cecily threw some back and passed on, leading the way to the dining room where the wedding breakfast was set out.
“Whatever am I to do with myself now that both my birds have flown their nest?” Lady Barnaby mourned. She had wept copiously throughout the short marriage service, although she denied it.
“Relax,” Julius advised, “and enjoy your freedom. Besides, I’ll need somewhere to go whenever they send me down from Oxford in disgrace.”
“I shall be glad to accommodate you,” Lady Barnaby retorted. “I hope you will be just as glad to listen to my homilies on the benefits of study and moderate behavior.”
Julius grinned. “Perhaps I’ll go to Verne’s instead.”
“You’ll be welcome,” Verne said, “We could use extra help rebuilding the north wing of the house.”
“I’m your man,” Julius declared.
“He was joking,” Cecily pointed out “But I hope you will all come and stay—after we’re home, of course!”
They were going to Scotland for their wedding trip, staying at one of Alvan’s lesser houses.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cecily had asked when Verne had accepted the offer. “I know you have things to attend to at Finmarsh—the building, and this other business…”
“No, I would not miss this. Three weeks alone with you away from all the troubles of real life…”
They set off in the afternoon in the traveling coach which Verne had had sent up from Finmarsh along with other things he needed for his long stay, and Daniel, of course. Cranston and Daniel travelled in the coach behind, with the baggage.
They expected to make good time, since Alvan had made his horses available for changes on the road north, but in truth, such things did not matter to Cecily. She sat close beside the man she loved beyond all reason, his warmth seeping into her shoulder and thigh, their joined hands resting half on his leg, half on hers. The intimacy was unimaginably sweet and they talked of many things from the changing scenery to politics and the war—Bonaparte had finally led his troops into Russia—to music and books and people they both knew or wished to know.
They refreshed themselves at the various inns where the horses were changed and moved happily on. In York, they paused so that Cecily could show him the beauties of the minster which Verne had never troubled to visit before, and then travelled through the town to the posting inn just beyond, where they were to spend the night.
The delicious little tingle of excitement which had been present in Cecily all day, deepened as they entered the busy establishment. The innkeeper welcomed them and had his maid show Cecily to the bedchamber she would share with her husband. The heavily-curtained bed seemed to loom much too large, and she hastily averted her eyes while her baggage was brought in.
Cranston helped her wash and change into her favorite evening gown of the season, a turquoise muslin with embroidered silk ribbons banding the high waist and hem, which was lifted at the front to reveal the paler blue petticoat beneath. With it, she wore the turquoise earrings which were Verne’s wedding gift. After a brief hesitation, she decided to wear no other jewels, save the gold and diamond wedding ring that felt new and unfamiliar on her finger.
With her hair appropriately dressed, she followed Cranston across the room to the inner door, which opened into their private parlor, where dinner was already set out.
Cranston stepped back and closed the door behind her.
Verne rose from the table, where he had been lounging with a glass of wine. “I thought we could serve ourselves, so I sent the servants away.”
“What a good idea,” she said in relief. It would have been too uncomfortable to have other people in the room, knowing this was her wedding night.
Verne poured her a glass of wine and brought it to her. As if he couldn’t help it, he bent and kissed her lips before he re
leased the glass. The deepening tingle in her belly spread lower.
“To us,” he said softly, touching his glass to hers.
She inclined her head and raised the glass to her lips. As he turned back to the table, she took another, sizeable mouthful of wine to steady her nerves.
Verne served them soup from the terrine on the table, and they settled down to eat. At some point before the meat course, she relaxed back into his company. This was no different to the time she had spent with him at Mooreton Hall, or in the carriage this afternoon. This was Verne, her fascinating friend.
Her friend whose gaze grew increasingly heated and predatory and left her less and less. A strange glow, almost like a flame, burned in his darkened eyes, at once thrilling and frightening her. As night drew in and he rose to light the candles, his movements seemed deliberate and controlled. And yet, as he paused behind her, his breath came too fast. His lips closed on the soft, sensitive skin of her nape and she gasped. Suddenly, she ached to be in his arms, to take this excitement as far as it would go.
But he moved away, returning to his seat. “A little more wine?” he offered.
She shook her head and he half-filled his own glass. He was being very moderate by the standards she had witnessed at Finmarsh. She raised her gaze to his face, so full of shadowy hollows in the candle light. Darkness and brilliance, she mused, like the man himself. Some of that darkness would always be there, but she longed to banish the worst of it, to let him shine.
But she was growing fanciful, when there was nothing remotely fanciful about the man now holding her gaze. She forgot to breathe.
“Do you want to spend the night with me, Cecily?” he asked softly. “In my arms?”
Her whole body flushed. “Of course,” she managed. “I am your wife.”
His mouth curved into a rueful little smile. “Is there no other reason? Beyond what law and custom dictate, you must want to please me.”
“That is the reason I became your wife in the first place.” She lifted her chin. “I love you.”
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 39
