by Anna Bradley
“I’ve got you now, and I’ll have some answers.” He backed her into the stone wall, then seized her chin in merciless fingers and jerked her head up so he could see her face. “Do you understand me? This ends here—”
He broke off, choking on his words. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see when he turned her face up to his, but what he found landed like a ferocious blow to his gut.
The eyes gazing back at him were dark, familiar, and the lips opening and closing as she struggled for words were the palest pink, not a ghastly crimson. “I-I b-beg…” she tried, but trailed off with a whimper, her body slumping against the wall as panic caught up to her.
It was enough, though. It didn’t take more than those whispered words for Gideon to recognize the same sweet voice that had sung The Irish Maid to Isabella tonight.
Cecilia Gilchrist. He’d attacked Cecilia Gilchrist.
Gideon snatched his hands away from her and stumbled back a step, shame, heavy and bitter, lodging in his throat. How had he not known her? God knew he’d spent enough time gawking at her tonight to recognize the wide dark eyes and dark hair, the narrow shoulders and slight frame. That, and the white garment she wore wasn’t a gown at all, but a night rail.
“I-I beg your pardon, Lord Darlington,” she managed at last, her voice quivering.
She begged his pardon?
Gideon stared down at her, stunned. Her chin rose a fraction, and his chest tightened at the little display of courage, but though her eyes remained dry her lower lip wasn’t quite steady, and she was trembling like a frightened animal.
Good Lord, he must be losing his mind, to have grabbed a woman in such a threatening way. He’d never been so ashamed of himself in his life. He was about to beg her pardon when to his surprise, she spoke again.
“I shouldn’t have come in here.”
Gideon blew out a breath, some of his anger returning. No, she bloody well shouldn’t have gone into Cassandra’s bedchamber. He’d forbidden it, and that should have been the first thought to occur to him when he found her here. Somehow, it hadn’t been, and that only made it worse. “No, you shouldn’t have, so why did you?”
His voice was harsher than he meant it to be, and mortification flooded over him again as she shrank away from him, pressing closer against the wall, and all at once he became aware of the way he towered over her. The top of her head only reached as high as the middle of his chest.
“I thought I heard—” she began, but Gideon interrupted her.
“How did you get in here? The door to this bedchamber is always locked.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “No, my lord. It wasn’t locked.”
Gideon dragged his hands roughly through his hair. “It must have been locked, Cecilia. Every servant in this castle knows they’re never to enter this room. I’ve given explicit instructions to that effect, and ordered the doors be locked at all times.”
“Well, someone must have come in, and forgotten to lock it when they left.”
“Are you accusing my servants of negligence?” Gideon’s voice was cold. “If so, I’ll remind you that you’re the newcomer here. I’m far less likely to credit your account of the matter than any of theirs.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Darlington. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I don’t like to disagree with you, but the door was most decidedly not locked. If it had been, how do you suppose I got in here? Slid under the crack at the bottom?”
Gideon raised an eyebrow at her tone and the flash of temper in those dark eyes. Ever since their disagreement over the blue ribbons she’d been careful around him, confining herself to yes, my lords, and no, my lords, but her sharp tongue was back again.
“You haven’t answered my question, Cecilia.” Gideon fixed a stern gaze on her. “What are you doing in my late wife’s bedchamber?”
“I’m trying to tell you, my lord. I heard a strange noise, and came to see what it was.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed on her face. Had someone been sneaking about in Cassandra’s bedchamber before she came in? “What sort of noise?”
“It was a scratching sound, like fingernails on wood, or so I thought. It turned out to be claws. There was a cat trapped in the clothes press in the dressing room, and it was clawing at the door to get out.”
“A cat?” How in the world would a cat find its way into a sealed bedchamber? It seemed a flimsy story. “I don’t see any cat.”
“Well, no, my lord. She’s gone now. She fled when you broke down the bedchamber door.”
Gideon glanced at the broken lock lying in pieces on the floor. It would have to be repaired at once. He wouldn’t have people traipsing about Cassandra’s bedchamber.
“It’s terribly cold in here.” Cecilia wrapped her arms around her waist with a shiver. “I noticed it as soon as I entered. It’s much colder than it should be, isn’t it?”
Gideon stared at her, becoming uncomfortably aware she was wearing only a thin night rail, and though the bedchamber was dark, he could see the gentle rise and fall of her bosom under the filmy fabric in the muted light from the hallway. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in a thick, dark cascade of waves over her shoulders, and her feet were bare. Her dainty, naked toes looked strangely vulnerable, and the way her night rail swirled around the long, pale line of her legs was oddly riveting.
Sudden warmth pooled in his lower belly and his skin prickled with heat as he realized how near she was, how tempting the smooth, pale skin under the thin covering of her night rail. It was only the impropriety of their situation that made him notice, of course—the lure of the forbidden that heated his blood and stirred long-dormant urges he’d thought gone forever.
He averted his gaze, shifting uneasily. It was scandalously improper for him, a betrothed man who claimed to be a gentleman, to be standing alone in a darkened bedchamber with his housemaid, who was clad in nothing more than a sheer night rail. Gideon took a hasty step away from her, clearing his throat. “I wish to speak to you in my study, Cecilia. Dress yourself, and attend me there at once.”
He didn’t wait for her to reply, but turned his back on her and passed through the connecting door and into his niece’s room. Isabella was tucked safely into her bed, her cheeks flushed with sleep, her thick curls wild around her head.
Gideon’s heart clenched with the tenderness he always felt when he gazed at his niece. Isabella didn’t resemble his late brother at all, but when Gideon looked at her, he thought only of Nathanial, the brother he’d loved and still missed with the same sharp ache as when he’d died more than three years ago.
But Gideon didn’t linger over Isabella this time. He passed into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and made his way back down the stairs to his study, his stomach tight. He had some business with Cecilia, and the sooner it was done, the better.
Chapter Seven
“Dismissed?” Cecilia’s thoughts ground to a halt, her mind going blank.
She shouldn’t be as shocked as she was, but somehow it wasn’t what she’d expected Lord Darlington to say. He had every right to be angry with her, of course. She’d broken the rules of the house by entering the late marchioness’s bedchamber. She hadn’t expected he’d be pleased about it, but for all his glowering, she hadn’t thought he’d dismiss her before giving her another chance to explain herself.
But the man who’d been waiting for her on the other side of the study door tonight was not the same calm, forbearing gentleman of this morning. The patience he’d shown over the coal scuttle incident had vanished, leaving the Lord Darlington with the icy blue eyes in his wake.
This was the other Lord Darlington, the one she met the day she arrived. The black-clad avenging fury who’d crept out of the woods and accosted her beside Darlington Lake. This was the Lord Darlington who’d called her a liar.
He was a dozen different men in one body, it seemed, each version co
ntradicting the others. Murderer or doting uncle? Cold spouse or loving husband? Kind, generous employer, or haughty arrogant marquess? No sooner would Cecilia begin to suspect he was a cold-blooded killer than he’d do something like rock his niece to sleep, and it would set her wondering.
And now he was dismissing her—again—without allowing her to utter a single word in her defense.
It took some moments of private fuming before Cecilia realized she was truly angry. She shouldn’t be. She hadn’t grown any fonder of Darlington Castle in the day she’d been under its roof. It remained as grim and sinister as it had since she’d first passed under that dreadful portcullis. If she were in her right mind, she’d turn on her heel without another word, run upstairs to pack her case, and demand to be taken away tonight.
So, no one was more surprised than she when she did precisely the opposite, but her temper was roused now, and there was no way she’d end her time at Darlington Castle with another timid yes, my lord.
Instead, she remained where she was. “No, my lord.”
He gaped at her. “No? What do you mean, no?”
Cecilia crossed her arms over her chest. “I realize I wasn’t meant to enter the late Lady Darlington’s bedchamber, but—”
“That’s right, you weren’t. I specifically ordered you to stay away from it, and now I’ve caught you sneaking—”
“I wasn’t sneaking. I’m trying to tell you what happened. I heard a noise, and—”
“I explained the rules to you, and you broke them,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And I don’t think you’re being honest with me about how you got into that bedchamber.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Lord Darlington.” Cecilia’s anger was rising with every word out of his mouth. It was the blue ribbons, all over again. “The door wasn’t locked.”
“The trouble, Cecilia, is I don’t believe you.” He was toying with the silver letter opener on his desk, moving it between his long fingers, but his gaze remained locked on her face. “I did warn you a foray into my late wife’s bedchamber would result in your immediate dismissal. You chose to ignore that warning.”
Cecilia bristled. “I did not enter Lady Darlington’s bedchamber on a whim, my lord. I told you. I was concerned for your niece’s safety. I never would have gone into the marchioness’s bedchamber otherwise. Given the circumstances, you have no reason to dismiss me.”
Lord Darlington gave her an incredulous look. “I’m the Marquess of Darlington, Cecilia. I may do as I choose, for whatever reason I choose.”
Cecilia wasn’t argumentative in general, preferring to leave such unpleasantness to Georgiana, yet there was her mouth, opening once again. “I’m simply asking you to consider—”
“There’s nothing further to consider. I must trust my servants, and I don’t trust you. That isn’t going to change.”
Cecilia considered him in silence, her eyes narrowed. Perhaps he hadn’t murdered his wife, but he was certainly hiding something. Innocent men didn’t require blind loyalty from their servants, nor did they lock empty bedchambers in their castles. He was the most secretive man she’d ever encountered, and there had to be a reason for it.
But whatever he was hiding, she wasn’t likely to find it out.
Cecilia thought of Isabella, of the child’s wide, sweet smile, and her stomach twisted with worry. If Lord Darlington truly was the Murderous Marquess—if he was wicked enough to have murdered his wife—what was to prevent him from hurting his niece?
As much as she might wish to leave Darlington Castle and Lord Darlington behind, she couldn’t abandon that lovely little girl to the machinations of a sinister uncle. And what of the marchioness, who by all accounts had been as kind and loving a lady as ever lived? Didn’t she deserve justice?
Cecilia didn’t know if she could find justice for the marchioness, but she was suddenly as desperate to remain at Darlington Castle as she’d been to flee it only moments before. How was she to persuade Lord Darlington to let her stay, though?
Beg his pardon.
Her hands clenched at the thought. She wasn’t easily roused to anger, but she had a proud, stubborn streak, and she didn’t like to beg pardon when she didn’t think she’d done anything wrong.
That is, she knew she had done something wrong, but…well, perhaps she didn’t like to beg Lord Darlington’s pardon for anything at all. But she’d do it, for Isabella and Lady Darlington’s sake. She’d beg as prettily as she knew how, then scream her frustration into her pillow later.
Cecilia drew in a deep breath to calm her temper, and forced the words through gritted teeth. “I beg your pardon for disobeying your orders, Lord Darlington. I didn’t intend to cause any harm. If you’d give me another chance, I can assure you it won’t happen again.”
“I don’t give second chances.” There wasn’t a hint of softness in Lord Darlington’s face. “There’s no point. Once my trust is broken, it can’t be regained. It’s too late for you to leave tonight, but I want you gone from Darlington Castle tomorrow.”
For all that Cecilia wasn’t a lady, or an aristocrat, or anything special at all, really, she wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to in such an insulting way, as if she were a liar or a thief. It stung, and her hold on her temper disintegrated like wood burned to ashes. “Very well, Lord Darlington. I wish you luck in finding my replacement. I daresay it won’t be easy, given the…challenges of the position.”
Cecilia didn’t enumerate them, but Lord Darlington’s black scowl showed he understood her perfectly: a dead marchioness, a marquess suspected of murdering her, and a vengeful ghost haunting his castle and the village of Edenbridge.
He wasn’t a bit pleased at the reminder. He tossed the letter opener aside, sprang from his chair and came around the desk. “That will do, Cecilia.”
Cecilia leapt to her feet as well. Her knees wobbled, but she resisted the urge to take a step backward. They stood toe-to-toe, facing each other, both of them short of breath. She’d managed to put out of her mind how powerful he was physically, but with him looming over her, his massive chest heaving and his angry heat searing her skin, she was suddenly drowning in the memory of his big hands on her tonight, burning through the thin linen of her night rail, his muscular arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her still against that hard chest, and the rasp of his voice in her ear.
What do you want? This ends here…
“Tonight, when you grabbed me.” She tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “You thought you knew who I was, didn’t you?”
His eyes dropped to her arched neck, then skittered away again. His expression hardened. “No. I knew you didn’t belong in my wife’s bedchamber. That’s all.”
“No. You said, ‘This ends here.’” Cecilia gripped the back of the chair beside her, her wobbly knees now threatening to buckle. “You acted as if you already knew.”
Warm fingers cupped her elbow. She glanced down at the place where his big hand cradled her, then back to his face. Oh, he was angry, truly angry, but his touch was gentle as he steadied her. “I just told you I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.” Without thinking, Cecilia grabbed a handful of his coat. “I think you suspected I was the White Lady.” It would explain his extreme reaction, but if he had thought so, didn’t that mean he was guilty of murder, and believed his dead wife’s ghost was haunting Darlington Castle?
His hand slid from her elbow down her arm. “Do you believe in ghosts, Cecilia?” He laughed softly. “I thought better of you than that.” His long fingers curled around her wrist and jerked her hand away from him.
Had he thought she was someone else, then? “If not the White Lady, then who?”
“I will no longer speak on this subject.” His voice was soft and controlled, but no less menacing for it. “You will prepare yourself to leave Darlington Castle first thing tomorrow morning. You may take a
meal in the kitchen beforehand.”
“Did you think one of the villagers had sneaked into the castle?” That had been Cecilia’s first thought. Perhaps he didn’t have a guilty conscience, and was only concerned for Isabella, as she had been. “Would they go so far as to—”
“Stop it, Cecilia.” His voice was harsh, and his eyes had darkened to a stormy black.
She began to shake her head, but to her shock he caught her chin in his hand to still her. She gasped at the press of his fingertips, the heat of his touch. “My lord—”
“No. Listen to me. Tomorrow you will go back to Stoneleigh, or London, or wherever it is you’re from.”
Cecilia jerked her chin out of his grip. “What were you afraid of tonight, Lord Darlington?”
“Leave me.” He nodded once at the door to his study, then turned his back on her and strode to the tall window behind his desk. He didn’t speak again, but stood gazing out into the darkness, waiting for her to leave.
The frigid note in his voice chilled Cecilia to her bones. She stared at that stiff, broad back, his big, white-knuckled hands gripping the windowsill, and her shoulders sagged. How could she persuade him to let her stay if he wouldn’t even look at her?
Who was she to argue with a marquess?
No one who mattered. No one at all.
That was it, then. She’d been summarily and permanently dismissed.
She turned on her heel without another word and made her way from the study down the hallway and past the row of Lord Darlington’s grim ancestors, who seemed to watch her every step. Her feet dragged as she mounted the stairs to her solitary bedchamber on the second floor of the house.
She closed the door behind her and dropped down onto the edge of her bed. How would she explain herself to Lady Clifford, and Sophia, Georgiana, and Emma? They’d been so proud of her, so encouraging. This had been her chance to prove herself worthy of Lady Clifford’s faith in her, but here she was, returning to London in disgrace after only a day at Darlington Castle, having learned precisely nothing.
