by Anna Bradley
He needed to banish Cecilia from his mind and put his attention where it belonged.
On his betrothed.
She’d be here in a matter of days. A week after that she’d become his marchioness, and this strange fixation he had on Cecilia would wither like blighted fruit on the vine.
It would, because he wouldn’t allow it to be otherwise.
Until then, he’d simply make a point of keeping away from Cecilia. There was no reason for her to remain in Isabella’s bedchamber when he spent time with his niece. He was perfectly capable of tending to her on his own. He’d always done so before, and there was no reason to change his habits now, even if his masculine urges reared up in violent protest at the thought.
Especially then.
And reared up they had, damn them.
This morning’s protest was more violent than usual, and it took longer than it should have for Gideon to wrestle his body into submission. So long when he crawled from his bed at last, he found the water in the basin had gone freezing cold. He splashed a handful on his face anyway, hoping it would douse the flames in his belly and knock some sense into him, then he donned his riding clothes.
He and Haslemere had agreed to have a ride this morning, and Gideon fancied a good, hard one before the sky released the snow that had been threatening for days, and they all found themselves trapped inside the castle.
Haslemere offered no objection, and so the two of them rode for hours, until Gideon’s heart was pounding with exertion, his thighs ached, and sweat poured off him, plastering his shirt to his chest and back. If he hadn’t quite managed to silence the lingering notes of “The Irish Girl,” it echoed less insistently now, allowing other thoughts to drift into the places Cecilia had seized inside his head.
When he arrived back at the castle, he took the stairs two at a time, stripping off his coat and cravat as he went. He discarded both along with his riding crop and hat, a smile hovering on his lips as he strode toward the connecting door. It was nearly teatime, and there was nothing Isabella adored more than being permitted to have tea in the drawing room with her uncle.
“Good afternoon.” Gideon forced a smile as he paused beside the door, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest when he saw it was Amy, not Cecilia with Isabella. “Do you fancy having tea with me downstairs today, Isabella?”
“Oh yes, Uncle!” Isabella climbed down from Amy’s lap, excited at the rare treat. “But we have to wait for Miss Cecilia, so she may come with us, too.”
“Where is Cecilia?” Gideon asked, on Isabella’s behalf only, of course. It wasn’t as if he wanted to know where she was.
Amy was sitting in the rocking chair with a storybook open in her lap, but she leapt up, a guilty flush rising in her cheeks. “She, ah, had an errand to run, my lord. I daresay she’ll be back soon. May I send her down to the drawing room when—”
“She’s in the attics!” Isabella cried, clearly taken with the novelty of anyone venturing into such an exotic place.
“The attics?” What the devil was she doing there? Gideon raised an eyebrow at Amy, who was looking more uneasy with every passing moment. “I can’t think why. She does know that part of the castle is closed, doesn’t she?”
She did, of course. Mrs. Briggs made certain all the servants did. To Gideon’s knowledge, none of them had ever ventured up there, but then Cecilia wasn’t anything like his other servants, with her talent for poking her nose into places it had no business being.
Amy was biting her lip. “Mrs. Briggs said she might go up to the old schoolroom to search out some storybooks for Isabella, my lord.”
“She said she’d look for some pretty paper to make me a crown, and a stick, too!” Isabella jumped up and down with excitement. “A stick with jewels, like a king has.”
“Did she? How…resourceful of her.” Gideon gave one of Isabella’s curls a playful tug, but his eyes narrowed on Amy, who was shifting from one foot to the other, and looking very much as if she’d rather be anywhere but here.
Somehow, he doubted Cecilia was only looking for storybooks and paper. “Please see Isabella is readied for tea in the drawing room, Amy.” Gideon turned on his heel and strode to the door. “I’ll fetch Cecilia myself.”
* * * *
It began innocently enough. Or at least as innocently as anything else at Darlington Castle did, which is to say, not innocently at all.
There was nothing innocent about a murdered marchioness and a missing portrait, and Cecilia would do well to remember that, instead of mooning over how handsome Lord Darlington looked in the firelight. Silly romantic notions were all very well in novels, but despite the crumbling castle and the White Lady, this was no Gothic fiction.
Cecilia was no swooning virgin, and Lord Darlington no brooding hero.
If there’d ever been a time to put sentiment aside in favor of facts and evidence, it was now. So, here she was, in the last place she should be, poking about among centuries of Darlington family secrets. If she didn’t quite like it—if being here left a bitter, guilty taste in her mouth—she’d just have to choke it back, wouldn’t she?
This was what Lady Clifford had sent her here to do, and she was running out of time to get it done. Each day that passed brought Fanny Honeywell ever closer to Darlington Castle, and marriage to Lord Darlington.
A man who might, or might not, be a murderer.
Cecilia had taken a cursory turn through the schoolroom and found a few books and some sheets of pretty marbled paper that would do for a crown and scepter for Isabella, but she’d come up to the attics in search of something else. Something she hoped she’d find here, buried somewhere among a castle’s worth of discarded furnishings, each hulking piece covered with a sheet turned gray from years of accumulated grime.
All but the portraits, that is. Cecilia wasn’t certain why they’d escaped without shrouds, unless it was there were simply too many of them. Whatever the reason, the portraits had long since been abandoned to their dusty fates, propped up against the walls and each other, what little light there was glinting off their dulled gilt frames. Dozens upon dozens of past marquesses and their wives and children, one dead Darlington ancestor after another, reaching back generations.
All except one.
Lady Cassandra, the seventh Marchioness of Darlington, was missing.
She wasn’t in the small picture gallery, or among the row of unsmiling aristocrats lining the hallway outside Lord Darlington’s study. Nor was her portrait hanging in the formal portrait gallery that stretched from one end of the castle to the other, along the east wall on the second floor.
She wasn’t…anywhere.
Cecilia leaned the portrait she’d been examining back against the wall, her heart plummeting. She’d thought…she’d hoped she’d find Lady Cassandra here.
It wasn’t until Cecilia discovered the portrait appeared to be truly gone that she realized how badly she’d wanted to see Lady Cassandra’s face, how desperately she’d wanted her…not to be missing. Because surely, surely an absence such as this bespoke a guilty conscience? A husband who couldn’t bear to look upon his late wife’s likeness, couldn’t bear to stare into the eyes of the wife he’d—
“Mrrar.”
“God in heaven!” Cecilia jumped back as something scurried under the hem of her skirts. She didn’t panic, as she recognized the dark, furry body at once, but she did scold the cat when it darted back out again. “Seraphina, you wicked beast! You nearly frightened the life of out of me! How in the world did you get into the attic?”
Seraphina wasn’t ever much inclined to explain herself, and this time was no different. She didn’t deign to offer another mew, but padded over to a trunk in a corner of the attic and, with one graceful leap, settled herself on top of it like a queen before turning her expectant green gaze on Cecilia.
“A royal summons, Seraphina? You truly are
the haughtiest creature I’ve ever…” Cecilia frowned, her voice trailing off as she noticed something strange. Pale light peeked through a cracked window shutter, casting an eerie glow over that corner of the room, and it looked as if…
Cecilia drew closer.
Yes, it was.
It was subtle, just the faintest outline of a pathway through the dust. If the light hadn’t fallen on the floor just right, she wouldn’t have even noticed the bare patch. Cecilia met Seraphina’s glowing eyes, and a tremor passed through her. “If I didn’t know better, Seraphina, I’d think you came here to lure me to that trunk.”
It was impossible. Of course, it was just mere coincidence Seraphina should be here, and have leapt on top of that particular trunk. But as Cecilia drew closer still, she saw something else that made her pause.
The lock on the front of the trunk was broken. It had nothing to do with the trunk’s age—the lock wasn’t just cracked, or hanging by a rusty hinge. It had been struck with something heavy. The bits of wood and splintered iron scattered on the floor caught in the hem of Cecilia’s skirts as she knelt in front of the trunk.
Seraphina hopped down, winding herself around Cecilia as she raised the lid. A length of white sheet had been folded on top to protect the contents, but it had been disturbed, revealing some of what was underneath.
Kid gloves, painted fans, a fashionable blue silk parasol, a comb with a pretty vine pattern etched into the silver handle, a handful of jeweled hairpins, what looked like dozens of pairs of flocked silk stockings, a crystal scent bottle…the items inside were too fashionable and costly to belong to anyone other than a marchioness.
Cecilia lowered the lid again and ran her hands over the top. The Darlington crest had been carved into the wood. The trunk must have belonged to Lady Cassandra, then, but who had been so eager to get inside it they’d broken the lock?
She sat back on her heels, her mind turning over the possibilities. Hadn’t Amy said Isabella’s previous nursemaid, Mrs. Vernon had been banished from the castle for theft. She might have known where to find Lady Darlington’s trunk, seen her chance to fetch a pretty bit of coin, and taken something.
But that had been months ago, hadn’t it? Surely the dust would have settled again by now. It looked as if someone had been here more recently than that, but Cecilia couldn’t imagine who.
She closed the lid and rose to her feet, but she stood over the trunk for some time, hands braced on her hips, thinking. Amy had said Lord Darlington closed the third floor a year ago, right after Lady Darlington’s death. Had Mrs. Briggs been up here since then, searching for something?
Or had it been Lord Darlington? Had he come up here and snatched something from his late wife’s trunk? It seemed unlikely a man who couldn’t even bear to look at his dead wife’s portrait would want her fans and stockings, and in any case, why would he break the lock? Surely, he’d have a key to the trunk—
“This isn’t the schoolroom, Cecilia,” said a deep voice behind her. “Are you lost again?”
Cecilia whirled around, startled. “I—”
“Wait, let me guess,” Lord Darlington drawled. “A cat lured you up here.”
She whirled back around again, but Seraphina, who’d been there only moments before had vanished, leaving Cecilia alone to explain herself. Again. “Since you ask, I did in fact follow—” That was as far as she got before she inhaled a cloud of dust kicked up by the swish of her skirts, and fell into a sneezing fit.
“Oh, for God’s sakes. Don’t expire now, Cecilia, before you’ve had a chance to peek behind every corner.” Lord Darlington strode forward, the thud of his riding boots over the old wooden floorboards sending another cloud of dust into the air, and offered her a handkerchief.
Cecilia took it and pressed it delicately to her nose. “I beg your—”
“Pardon. Yes, you’re good at that. Not quite so good at following my orders, however.”
Cecilia, who was blinking down at the handkerchief in her hand, said nothing. Dear God, how could one tiny scrap of linen smell so intoxicating? She’d never smelled anything more mouthwatering in her life.
“Well? Let’s have it then.” Lord Darlington crossed his arms over his chest. “If it wasn’t a cat, what was it? Is there some other animal running wild in my attics?”
Cecilia gaped at him with wide eyes, her throat going dry. His white linen shirt hugged his muscular arms and pulled tightly across his chest. He wore no coat, no waistcoat, and no cravat. Just white linen, slightly damp, and beneath it, disturbingly visible, inch after inch of smooth, golden skin. His dark hair, also a bit damp, curled against his neck, and he wore sinfully tight breeches and tall black boots.
He’d been out riding. The handkerchief still clutched in her hand must have been pressed close against his body, absorbing the delicious scent of leather, and clean, masculine sweat. It was still tickling her nose, stealing her breath.
His scent.
Cecilia swallowed. Oh, this was worse than the coal scuttle incident, when she’d been struck speechless by his open shirt. Much, much worse.
Lord Darlington didn’t seem to notice she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his chest. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Cecilia.” He beckoned to her with a lazy twitch of his fingers. “What are you doing up here, scurrying around like a curious little mouse?”
“You never said a word about the attics being forbidden.” It was a feeble excuse, but it was the best Cecilia could manage with the dark shadow of his nipples peeking out at her as they were. Why, he might as well not be wearing a shirt at all!
“Mrs. Briggs told you the third floor of the castle is closed, didn’t she?” He raised one dark, imperious eyebrow at her.
That arrogant eyebrow broke the spell his chest had cast over her, and not a moment too soon. It was a lucky thing he was such a demanding, overbearing tyrant, or she might never have come to her senses. “Yes, Mrs. Briggs told me. You know very well she did.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand it’s being closed meant you shouldn’t come up here?” he asked, with exaggerated patience.
“I understood.” Cecilia’s eyes were still watering from the dust. His scent was addling her wits, and she tried not to inhale as she dabbed at them with a corner of his handkerchief.
“Yes, I thought you had. Imagine my surprise, then, when Amy said I could find you up here. Four days ago, you were nearly dismissed for sneaking about the castle, yet here you are, where you’re not meant to be.”
Cecilia’s shoulders slumped. “Am I dismissed again?”
“No. Dismissing you wasn’t a wise choice the first two times I tried it, and now you’ve made yourself indispensable to Isabella, it’s less of one now. I’ll tolerate a good deal of nuisance for my niece’s sake.”
“Nuisance?” Cecilia’s lips pressed together. “Are you calling me a n—”
“You’re a housemaid who drops the coal scuttle, a nursemaid who doesn’t know a single proper lullaby, and a servant who hasn’t the vaguest idea how to follow a simple command.” Lord Darlington’s lips quirked, as if he’d begun to enjoy himself. “Yes, Cecilia, you’re a nuisance.”
“When you put it that way, you make me sound awful, indeed, but I hardly think that’s an accurate description of—”
“It’s entirely accurate.” He chuckled at her expression. “You’ve been a nuisance since the day you arrived, and I found you throwing rocks into Darlington Lake for no better reason than you were curious.”
Oh, he was enjoying himself, all right. Insufferable man. Cecilia shot him a resentful look. “Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t know curiosity was such an unforgivable—”
“Come with me.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gave a little tug. “We’re wasting time.”
“Wasting time? Where are we going?”
“To your bedchamber.”
“My bedchamber?”
“There’s no need for you to look so appalled, Cecilia. Isabella is waiting for us there. The three of us are going to have tea together in the drawing room.” He glanced down at her with his lips curved in a mocking smile. “I’m a gentleman, and betrothed to another lady. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Her chin hitched up. “I told you before, my lord. I’m not afraid of you.”
“No? Well then, you have no reason not to come with me, do you?” Lord Darlington didn’t wait for a reply, but led her from the attic, the floor creaking under his boots, his long, warm fingers curled around her wrist.
Later that night, it would occur to Cecilia she’d told him the truth.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
And she’d lie awake for hours, wondering why.
Chapter Eleven
Gideon gulped in a deep breath of frigid air, then winced as it sliced a raw strip from his lungs. It hurt like the devil, but painful respiration was preferable to unconsciousness.
He couldn’t suffocate. Not today. Another cleansing breath, then another…ah, that was much better. He could feel the tension draining from his—
“For God’s sakes, Darlington,” Haslemere hissed. “She’s your betrothed, not your executioner. Smile, will you?”
Smile, yes. That was a good idea. Gideon pasted what he hoped was an engaging smile on his lips as he and Haslemere watched the Honeywells’ carriage make its way up the drive. He’d been awaiting his betrothed at Darlington Castle for the past fortnight, yet somehow Miss Honeywell’s arrival had taken him unawares.
Rather like an upended glass of wine, or a fall down the stairs—
“Bloody hell. Never mind the smile, Darlington.” Haslemere glanced at him and blanched. “You look as if you’re about to cast up your accounts. What the devil ails you this morning? Why are you so twitchy? Are you ill?”
Gideon blew out the last of his calming breaths in an irritated huff. “What are you going on about, Haslemere? I’m not twitchy.”
