by Anna Bradley
“Yes, Mrs. Briggs.” Cecilia left the kitchen in a daze. Somehow, she’d overlooked the fact that becoming Isabella’s nursemaid meant she was obliged to sleep close to—and within easy reach of—the Marquess of Darlington.
It wasn’t a comforting thought. Between the ghosts, secret bedchambers, a haunted cat, and a mysterious, brooding marquess, it would be a miracle if she ever got another wink of sleep again.
The tea she’d had sloshed sickeningly in her stomach as she made her way up the staircase. She hadn’t eaten enough today. After beating carpets, dusting up cobwebs, and scrubbing floors, food had been the last thing on her mind, but now her head was bobbling uncertainly on her neck, as if deciding whether to stay attached or topple off and tumble down the stairs into the entrance hall.
She dragged her aching body up one step to the next, then paused at the second-floor landing and glanced around, searching for the portraits Mrs. Briggs had mentioned. The long, narrow hallway to the left didn’t lead anywhere, but ended at a large window at the far end.
It might have been another dreary space in a dreary castle but for the intricately carved white plaster ceilings. They were high enough to lend an airiness to the space, and barrel-shaped, with chandeliers set at regular intervals. The candles weren’t lit, but Cecilia could see they’d been carefully arranged to emphasize the ceiling’s pleasing curve.
It was a lovely place. Rather surprising, really, given the atmosphere in the rest of the castle. She wandered down the hallway toward the first painting, but stopped in her tracks when her gaze landed on a stunningly beautiful face set off to perfection by an extravagant gilded frame.
This wasn’t one of Lord Darlington’s grim ancestors.
“My goodness,” Cecilia breathed. She moved a step closer, drawn by the ravishing vision before her. The lady was dressed in a blue silk gown that had been the height of fashion eight or so years earlier. It flattered the deep blue of her eyes and her thick, rich brown curls. Her eyelashes were as dark as her hair, her lips as red as the deepest red rose petals, and her skin so fine, white, and flawless it didn’t look real.
Cecilia had never seen a more magnificent lady in her life, not even Emma, who was an exquisite beauty. Emma’s beauty, though, was that of a mere mortal, not a goddess like the lady in the painting. She cocked her head to the side, studying the bewitching features. For all the lady’s spectacular beauty, Cecilia found herself unmoved by that face. There was something unnatural about such flawless perfection. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a storybook, a fairy tale.
Yes, that was the trouble, wasn’t it? She didn’t look real.
There could be no doubt who this lady was, but Cecilia ventured another step closer and squinted at the tiny gold plaque underneath the painting to read the inscription.
“Lady Leanora. My late brother’s widow, the sixth Marchioness of Darlington.”
Cecilia whirled around, her heart rushing into her throat. “Lord Darlington, I didn’t—”
“Didn’t see me? No, I thought not.” He strolled down the hallway and joined her in front of the painting, the thud of his boots on the carpeted floors echoing in the lofty space.
How had she not heard him approach? His heavy steps sounded like gunshots in the narrow hallway. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Mrs. Briggs mentioned there were paintings here. She said I might come see them, but I didn’t intend to sneak about.” He had, after all, accused her of that very thing last night, and Cecilia didn’t fancy a repeat of that argument.
Lord Darlington took her meaning at once, and a trace of a smile drifted across his full lips. “Of course, you did. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Never mind,” he added. “I never said you couldn’t come here. There isn’t a locked door between you and the picture gallery.”
It was on the tip of Cecilia’s tongue to protest there hadn’t been a locked door between hers and Lady Darlington’s bedchamber, either, but she held her tongue, choosing instead to stroll farther along the hallway, pausing to study the portraits as she passed.
A few Darlington aunts and uncles, all of them handsome, and then…
“Oh, my.” She stopped at a painting close to the end of the row, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush.
“That’s the usual reaction people have when they see my brother for the first time.” Lord Darlington joined her in front of the portrait. “Even if only the painted version of him.”
Cecilia felt her cheeks heat, and a soft laugh rumbled from Lord Darlington’s chest. His laugh was the same as his voice, deep and dark and rough at the edges, and like his voice, it made an unwelcome shiver dart down Cecilia’s spine.
“My brother was a striking man, but he and Leanora together were…well, you can see for yourself. Together, they were…haunting.”
Haunting. Cecilia thought it an odd choice of word.
“My elder brother favored our father, as you’ll see.”
Lord Darlington gestured toward the painting on the other side of his brother’s, but Cecilia stayed where she was, studying the handsome face before her, the painted blue eyes holding her gaze. “Isabella doesn’t look much like her father, does she? I do see a resemblance to Lady Leanora—all but the hazel eyes.”
“She favors her mother.” Lord Darlington’s tone was curt.
When he didn’t offer anything more, Cecilia moved to the next painting, and found another handsome, dark-haired Darlington gentleman gazing down at her from his perch on the wall. It was Lord Darlington’s father, the fifth Marquess of Darlington. “You and your elder brother both resemble your father, my lord.”
“In some particulars, yes.” Lord Darlington’s broad shoulders moved in a shrug. “Not as much as we once did.”
Cecilia studied the man’s features before taking in the portrait of his wife, Lord Darlington’s mother, who was fairer than her sons, but with the same bright blue eyes that had caught Cecilia’s attention when she got her first close look at Lord Darlington.
“You and your brother have your mother’s eyes,” she murmured.
“We do, yes,” Lord Darlington replied, sounding surprised.
Cecilia turned to him, a slight smile on her lips. “Did you suppose I hadn’t noticed the color of your eyes, my lord? They’re rather distinctive. You and your brother look very much alike.”
Both gentlemen had strong features with prominent cheekbones, angular jaws, and high, proud foreheads. The current Lord Darlington was as handsome as his elder brother had been, but there was nothing of Nathanial’s carefree happiness in the man who stood beside her now. Grief had stolen the joy from his face, and painted lines of regret in its place. “Were you and your brother close, my lord?”
Lord Darlington didn’t answer right away. He was staring up at the painting still, an expression Cecilia couldn’t read on his face. “Yes,” he said at last. “We were, particularly when we were boys. Less so once he married, though we spent a good deal of time together in London in the few years before he died.”
“Did he…did he fall ill?” Nathanial Rhys’s death was none of her concern, and she half-expected Lord Darlington to tell her so, but he answered with a frankness that startled her.
“No. He drowned in Darlington Lake.”
Cecilia whirled to face him, a soft gasp on her lips. “I…but how terrible to lose him so tragically. I-I’m truly sorry, my lord.”
He drew in a quick, hard breath, but he said only, “I am, too. I can’t tell you how sorry.”
They were both quiet for a time, staring up at the handsome face, then Lord Darlington moved to the end of the row, and nodded up at the last portrait. “It was taken a decade ago.”
Cecilia followed after him, but froze when her gaze locked on the painted version of the man who stood beside her. It was beautifully done, the delicate brushstrokes as exquisite as the face of the young man gazing back at her, but if she
hadn’t known him to be the current Lord Darlington, she might not have recognized the two to be the same man.
Lord Darlington was about twenty-five in the portrait, a breathtaking young man with a mop of wavy dark hair and a devilish glint in his startlingly bright blue eyes. His posture was easy, relaxed, and though he wasn’t smiling, there was a hint of amusement around the corners of his mouth.
Cecilia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. With Lord Darlington standing so close to his likeness, she could see with stark, heartbreaking clarity the toll grief had taken on him. Whatever had happened in this castle a year ago, Lord Darlington wore the effects of it on his face as surely as he wore his coat or his cravat.
“Amazing, is it not, the ravages unkind years can wreak on a face?” Lord Darlington’s voice was light, but there was a note of sadness that made Cecilia’s heart clench with pain for him. She turned to look at him, wishing she knew what to say in reply, but he wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring at a space on the wall beside his portrait where the portrait of his marchioness should hang. It was empty. Cecilia could see by the pale, rectangular patch in the wood paneling someone’s portrait had once hung there, and been recently removed. “What of your marchioness, Lord Darlington? Where is her painting?”
It was natural she should wonder, but Cecilia saw at once this was the wrong question to ask. Lord Darlington turned on her, his mouth tight. “I told you once curiosity isn’t a desirable trait in a servant, Cecilia. Have you forgotten?”
“Have you ever noticed, Lord Darlington, the more secrets one has, the less desirable curiosity becomes? No, I haven’t forgotten what you said. I have quite an accurate memory. Is that also an undesirable trait in a servant?”
His gaze jerked to her face. “You did warn me you had excellent aim,” he muttered with grudging admiration.
Cecilia wasn’t sure what to make of this cryptic comment, so she said nothing.
“It’s nearly my niece’s bedtime,” Lord Darlington said. “Have you quite finished strolling about the picture gallery?”
“Yes, my lord.” A dozen more questions rushed to Cecilia’s lips, but Lord Darlington’s hard expression made it clear their brief moment of sharing confidences was over.
“Very well.” He stepped aside, and waved her toward the stairs.
Cecilia edged around him, but he followed so closely behind her she could feel the heat of him, hear the soft sound of his breaths, and her skin tingled with awareness. “Is there something else you need, my lord?” she asked, when she reached Isabella’s door with Lord Darlington right on her heels.
He leaned a hip against the door frame, a smirk on his lips. “I thought I’d bid Isabella goodnight. That is, if you don’t object?”
“I—no, of course not, my lord.” Cecilia’s cheeks heated. What had she thought he was doing? Following her?
She opened the door and found Amy seated in the rocking chair with Isabella fussing on her lap. She looked up in relief when Cecilia entered. “Oh, thank goodness you’re back, Cecilia. I hope you’re ready to sing yourself hoarse, because the poor little thing’s been fussing since—”
Amy’s words faded to silence when Lord Darlington stepped into the room behind Cecilia. He took one look at Isabella’s tear-streaked face, strode over to the rocking chair, and held out his arms. “Give her to me, please, Amy.”
“Yes, my lord.” Amy rose to her feet and held Isabella out toward her uncle. “Here you are.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried to the door, her wide eyes meeting Cecilia’s for a fleeting glance before she went out, leaving Cecilia alone with Lord Darlington.
Cecilia stood awkwardly by the door, but she might as well not have been there at all for all the notice Lord Darlington paid her. All his attention was focused on Isabella. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Why all the tears?”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” Isabella said, with a pathetic sniffle.
“Well, then. Let’s finish our story first. Would you like that?”
Isabella rubbed the tears from her eyes with her little fists. “The story about the snow castle?”
“That very one.”
“Yes, please.” Isabella’s mouth was still trembling, but she snuggled against her uncle’s chest.
Lord Darlington tucked the child’s head under his chin and began his story, his tone low and soothing. Cecilia couldn’t hear what he said—something about building a castle in the snow—but it didn’t matter. It was the deep rumble of his voice that caught her attention, the drift of his long fingers through the golden-brown locks of Isabella’s hair.
She perched on the edge of her cot, watching the firelight play over Lord Darlington’s features, gilding him, blurring his harsh edges. She searched his face for any hint of cruelty, any trace of the brutality of which he’d been accused.
There was nothing.
There was just him. Big, gentle hands, dark hair curling against his neck, his long eyelashes shadowing his cheeks, the curve of his jaw and the vulnerable pulse at this throat, the movement of his full lips as he made his whispered promises to Isabella.
Cecilia couldn’t take her eyes off him.
How could such a man as this, a man who touched a child with such care, who spoke to her with such tenderness, be guilty of murdering his wife?
For that one instant, in that one suspended moment, it seemed impossible to Cecilia Lord Darlington could have committed such a crime. If he hadn’t, if the malicious gossip was false, and he was innocent, what must his life have been like this past year?
The man in the portrait, that young, handsome man, his face glowing with anticipation and promise, to have had his future stolen from him, his every hope dashed by ugly rumors. The misery, the wretchedness and pain of such a thing made Cecilia’s breath catch hard in her throat. She tried to choke back the sound, but Lord Darlington heard it, and his gaze jerked to her face.
They didn’t speak. Not a single word passed between them, but even as Cecilia told herself to look away, his dark blue eyes, eyes full of secrets and shadows, held her trapped. The fire crackled, and Isabella sighed in her sleep. Warmth flooded Cecilia’s belly and rushed over her skin, and her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.
Still, their gazes held.
Her lips parted. For an instant his eyes dropped to her mouth, and Cecilia felt her tongue creep out to touch her bottom lip. He followed the movement, and a sound tore from his throat, a growl or a gasp.
He rose from the chair and took a step toward her, his eyes darkening to a turbulent blue when she didn’t back away from him. “Don’t…look at me like that.”
Cecilia swallowed, but when she spoke her voice was so breathy, she hardly recognized it as her own. “How…how am I looking at you?”
His heated gaze swept over her, lingering on the curves of her hips and breasts and tracing the lines of her neck. “As if you want—”
But Cecilia never found out how she looked, or what she wanted, because Isabella stirred, mumbling something in her sleep. Lord Darlington blinked, then jerked his gaze from her face to Isabella’s.
The tension between them snapped, and the moment was gone.
He turned away from her, settling Isabella in her bed and dropping a kiss on her pink cheek. When he straightened from the bed he stood there awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, he gave her a curt nod, avoiding her eyes.
Cecilia rose uncertainly to her feet. “Good night.”
He nodded again, and then…then he did something that shouldn’t have sent a shiver over her skin, followed by a confusing rush of searing heat.
But it did.
He strode to the door that connected Isabella’s cozy room to his own bedchamber, opened it, and closed it again behind him. He was so close she could hear him on the other side, the soft thud of his footsteps moving across the floor.
Chapter Ten
Four days later.
Gideon opened one eye as his bedchamber door creaked open, the notes of “The Irish Girl” drifting through his head. Had he dreamed of that song again? Of the sweet, clear voice that sang it, each silvery note falling like soft raindrops against his skin—
His other eye flew open, a grimace twisting his lips. For God’s sakes, had he really just compared Cecilia Gilchrist’s voice to silvery raindrops?
Yes. Yes, he had.
He dragged the pillow over his face with a soft groan. There was no reason that song, in her voice should still be echoing as clearly in his head as it had since the first notes left her lips. He’d heard dozens of voices sweeter than hers sing dozens of songs much prettier than that one.
Gideon listened to the soft scrape of the brush against the hearth, the chink of coal, then the strike of flint against steel as Amy lay the fire. At least, he assumed it was Amy, as the business was concluded tidily, with no deafening crashes.
Once she’d left him alone in his bedchamber he sat up, plunged a fist into his pillow, and fell back against it with groan. Every night for the past four days, he’d dreamed about Cecilia Gilchrist. If it wasn’t her voice, it was her wide, dark eyes. If not that, then it was her affection for Isabella, or her seemingly endless supply of inappropriate ballads.
He was preoccupied with her, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Only the worst sort of scoundrel lusted after his servants. He was a man with potent physical urges, but never in his life had he cast a lascivious glance at any of them—not before his wife’s death, when there’d been dozens of housemaids roaming about the castle—and not afterward. He’d confined his masculine attentions to his wife, and he’d do the same again when he and Fanny Honeywell were married.
