The Virgin Who Vindicated Lord Darlington

by Anna Bradley

  But if he was twitchy, he knew just who to blame for it. If he hadn’t spared much thought for his betrothed since he’d last seen her in London, he could lay his shameful inattention squarely on Cecilia’s shoulders.

  She was as distracting a nursemaid as she’d been a housemaid. Worse, Isabella adored her and insisted on her constant presence, and so Cecilia seemed to be everywhere he looked, with that playful smile and that musical laugh that filled all the empty spaces inside him. Even when he couldn’t see her, he could hear her through the connecting door, singing those improper lullabies, making Isabella laugh—

  “Look sharp, Darlington,” Haslemere muttered. “They’re nearly here. Oh, and do stop looking as if you expect someone to shoot at you at any moment, would you?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I told you, I’m not twitchy. I’m simply…breathless with anticipation.”

  Haslemere snorted. “Well, I urge you to fix a more anticipatory expression on your face before you frighten Miss Honeywell to death with that black scowl of yours.”

  “She’s made of sterner stuff than that.” Still, Gideon did his best to rearrange his features into a more welcoming attitude as the carriage rounded the curve in the drive.

  It wasn’t that he wasn’t delighted to see Miss Honeywell. Of course, he was. Her lovely face would brighten up this grim castle. She was just the sort of mistress it needed with her sunny disposition and pure, uncomplicated beauty.

  Not like Cecilia Gilchrist, with her deep, dark eyes and argumentative tongue, and her maddening tendency to appear in the least likely places. He’d never imagined one small woman could wreak such havoc, but he’d hardly had a wink of sleep since she’d arrived. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, he’d imagine her creeping about, sticking her pert little nose into every private corner of his castle. Or worse, he’d recall how she’d looked in her night rail, the filmy white fabric swirling around her bare calves, a breathy cry on her lips—

  “Lord Darlington! Hello, Lord Darlington!”

  Gideon snapped to attention just in time to stop himself from slapping his hands over his ears. He drew the line at shouting a return greeting across the drive, but he managed a polite nod for the lady fluttering her hand at him from the open carriage window.

  “Good Lord, Darlington.” Haslemere’s smile didn’t falter, but he glanced at Gideon from the corner of his eye. “Who the devil is that creature hanging out the carriage window, flapping her arms about and shrieking at you?”

  Gideon sighed. Miss Honeywell was an ideal bride, but…well, a man couldn’t expect to have everything he wished for in his matrimonial affairs, could he? “That, Haslemere, is Mrs. Priscilla Honeywell. Miss Honeywell’s mother.”

  Haslemere stared at her, speechless with horror.

  “This is Darlington Castle?” Mrs. Honeywell sniffed, as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the entrance. “I confess I expected something a bit larger and grander. Something more like Windsor.”

  Gideon exchanged a glance with Haslemere.

  Windsor? Haslemere mouthed, raising an eyebrow.

  “But a castle is still a castle, I suppose.” Mrs. Honeywell clambered down from the carriage in an avalanche of bright pink silk trimmed with a mountain of white ostrich feathers. “Even if it is terribly cramped.”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so much pink silk on one lady before, and such an unusual shade of pink, too. It’s as if the drapes in my mother’s bedchamber have come to life. I’m certain to have nightmares,” Haslemere whispered to Gideon with a shudder.

  “Be quiet,” Gideon whispered back through gritted teeth. “She’ll hear you.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry if I were you, Darlington. I doubt she can hear anything over the sound of her own chatter.”

  “For God’s sake, Haslemere, will you hush?”

  “Miss Honeywell is perfection, Darlington. At least that’s some recompense for every second of misery the mother’s going to cause you.” Haslemere followed Gideon as he stepped forward to hand down the young lady just emerging from the carriage.

  “Oh, good day, Lord Darlington!” Mrs. Honeywell bustled forward, her pink skirts dragging across the ground. “Come along, will you, Fanny? His lordship is waiting for you.”

  “Mrs. Honeywell, and Miss Honeywell. How do you do?” Gideon bowed to Mrs. Honeywell, then took Fanny’s hand and drew it through his arm with a smile. “Welcome to Darlington Castle. I hope you had a pleasant journey from London?”

  “Certainly not. It was perfectly wretched.” Mrs. Honeywell tossed her headful of stiff yellow curls, and the tiny pink hat smothered in pink ribbons perched atop her head wobbled precariously.

  Gideon blinked. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry to hear—”

  “It’s terribly trying to be obliged to hurry off to Kent when all the fashionable people are in London for the season! Why, my poor, dear Fanny will be desolate, moldering away in this dreary old castle! I daresay you might have seen your way to marrying at St. Paul’s, my lord, as all the best society people do.”

  Gideon gave her a tight smile. “Alas, madam, I’m afraid hundreds of years of tradition demand I marry at Darlington Castle. Pity, but there it is.”

  Mrs. Honeywell had wanted the wedding to take place at St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a grand wedding breakfast afterward so she could lord her daughter’s good fortune over anyone unwise enough to accept an invitation. She’d been dreadfully disappointed to find the nuptials would have to take place in fusty old Kent, but she’d consoled herself with assembling an extravagant trousseau of silks and laces for her daughter, as befitted a future marchioness.

  Miss Honeywell darted a coy look at Gideon as she stepped daintily across the drive. “I think this is a lovely place for a wedding ceremony.”

  “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped, but really, my lord, it’s excessively tiresome you should live so far from London. It took ages to get here, and it was so cold I fear poor Fanny has taken a chill. She suffers from a fragile constitution, as you know, Lord Darlington, but then the Honeywell ladies have always been unusually delicate.”

  This was too much for Haslemere. He was a darling of the ton, and thus nearly always behaved as a charming, gallant gentleman should no matter how trying the circumstances, but he was obliged to smother a snort.

  Gideon shot him a warning glance over the top of Mrs. Honeywell’s head. “Yes, of course. I regret the journey proved so uncomfortable, Mrs. Honeywell. We’ll be certain to take extraordinary care with your health and Miss Honeywell’s.”

  Mrs. Honeywell drew herself up with a flounce of her skirts. “Well, I should think so.”

  Gideon cleared his throat. “May I present my friend, Lord Haslemere?”

  “Mrs. Honeywell, and Miss Honeywell. How do you do? Lovely day for February, isn’t it?” Haslemere bowed to each lady in turn.

  “What, another lord? But how wonderful! How do you do, Lord Haslemere.” Mrs. Honeywell batted a pair of bulging blue eyes at Haslemere, then swept into an elaborate curtsy. “The more lords, the merrier, I always say. Are you a marquess as well, Lord Haslemere?”

  “Only an earl, I’m afraid.” Haslemere bowed over Mrs. Honeywell’s hand.

  A girlish giggle burst from Mrs. Honeywell’s lips. “Well, we’re still very pleased to meet you, my lord. Aren’t we, Fanny?”

  “Indeed, Mama.”

  Haslemere turned with considerably more enthusiasm to the blushing young lady at her mother’s side. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from Lord Darlington, Miss Honeywell, but even his extravagant compliments don’t do you justice.”

  Miss Honeywell offered her hand, the pretty shade of pink on her cheeks deepening when Haslemere’s lips brushed her glove. “How do you do, my—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m certain he does very well, Fanny,” Mrs. Honeywell interrupted crossly, as if peeved the attent
ion had been diverted from herself. “He is a lord, after all. Mightn’t we venture inside the castle, Lord Darlington? This wind is making a dreadful mess of my feathers, and I’d welcome a cup of tea.”

  “Ruffled feathers? How shocking. We can’t have that, can we?” Haslemere glanced down at Mrs. Honeywell’s hand, which had curled in a proprietary manner around his arm, and arched a brow at Gideon. “Lead the way, Darlington.”

  Gideon recognized the wicked grin twitching at the corner of Haslemere’s lips, and rushed to distract the ladies. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Come and warm yourselves, and I’ll ring for tea.”

  As he spoke, Gideon led the party through the front door. Miss Honeywell cast a curious glance about her, taking in the entrance hall, but paused on their way toward the drawing room, a surprised exclamation on her lips. “That young woman, Lord Darlington. Is she one of your housemaids? I’m certain I’ve seen her before.”

  Gideon knew at once which young woman Miss Honeywell was referring to, before he even followed her gaze. The same young woman who always seemed to be at the center of every disturbance.

  Cecilia Gilchrist.

  His teeth snapped together. “Which young woman is that, Miss Honeywell?”

  “That one, just there, with the dark hair, cleaning the glass lanterns.” A thoughtful frown furrowed Miss Honeywell’s smooth white brow. “Her face looks familiar.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Honeywell,” Haslemere interrupted hastily, “That young woman isn’t from London. Now, shall we adjourn to the—”

  “Don’t be absurd, Fanny. How should you know her? You don’t keep company with housemaids.” Mrs. Honeywell gave a disdainful sniff. “Lord Haslemere is right. You’ve taken her for someone else.”

  Miss Honeywell shook her head. “Indeed, you’re mistaken, Mama. I do know her. I can’t quite think how, but I know her from London.”

  Gideon’s gaze narrowed on Cecilia. It was odd, indeed, Miss Honeywell should recognize Cecilia from London, when she’d never ventured beyond Lady Dunton’s remote country estate in Warwickshire.

  Unless she’d been lying to him since she arrived at Darlington Castle. He’d suspected it, of course, but somehow it rankled more now than it had before. “Cecilia!” Gideon’s tone was harsher than he’d meant it to be, and Miss Honeywell jumped beside him.

  Haslemere frowned. “Is this really necessary, Darlington?”

  “Oh, what nonsense.” Mrs. Honeywell clucked impatiently. “I beg you won’t trouble yourself with it, Lord Darlington. Fanny is forever mistaking one person for the next.”

  “It’s no trouble, Mrs. Honeywell. Come here, if you would, Cecilia.” Gideon struggled to appear casual, but if the tight look on Haslemere’s face was any indication, he failed.

  Cecilia was at the far end of the hallway, well out of the way of the guests, polishing the glass in one of the lanterns. She hadn’t seemed to notice them at all, but at Gideon’s command she turned her head toward them.

  He was watching her closely, and was likely the only one of the four of them who noticed the slight hesitation in her step when she saw Miss Honeywell. It happened so quickly he’d have missed it himself if he’d happened to blink.

  Still, when she reached them, there wasn’t the slightest hint of apprehension in her face. She offered them all a calm, graceful curtsy, then turned a distant look on Gideon. “Yes, my lord? How may I help?”

  “This young lady here says she knows you, Cecilia, from London.” Gideon emphasized the last word, so as to leave Cecilia in no doubt as to the import of his question. If she thought he’d forgotten she was meant to be from Warwickshire, she was very much mistaken. He hadn’t forgotten a single word Cecilia had uttered since the first moment she arrived at Darlington Castle.

  He studied Cecilia’s expression, but she was looking at him as if she’d never laid eyes on him before, nothing but polite enquiry on her smooth, blank face. “Oh, no. I beg your pardon, miss, but I’ve never been to London. If that’s all, my lord?”

  “Yes, I think we’ve kept Miss and Mrs. Honeywell standing about in the hallway long enough, Darlington. Now, shall we have our tea? You may go, Cecilia.”

  Haslemere waved her back toward the other end of the hallway, but Cecilia hadn’t taken more than two steps before Miss Honeywell stopped her. “No, I’m certain it was you. Perhaps I’ve seen you walking in Hyde Park, or—”

  “A housemaid, promenading through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour?” Mrs. Honeywell gave her skirts an important twitch as she looked down her nose at Cecilia. “I hardly think so, Fanny.”

  Cecilia ignored this ill-tempered remark, and smiled at Miss Honeywell. “I imagine there are a great many young women in London who look like me.”

  “No, there aren’t.” The words fell out of Gideon’s mouth before he realized he was going to say them. Indeed, even before he realized he’d thought them.

  Haslemere pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be absurd, Darlington. There must be hundreds of young women in London with dark eyes and dark hair.”

  “There are, indeed,” Mrs. Honeywell snapped. “Nothing special in that.”

  “No. Not like Cecilia’s, there aren’t.” Gideon stepped closer to her, with his gaze still locked on her face. There might be thousands of young ladies in London with Cecilia’s coloring, but no other young woman in the world could be mistaken for Cecilia.

  Her eyes were dark, yes, but it was a warm, velvety, bottomless darkness, unlike any other dark eyes he’d ever seen, and her hair…Gideon’s fingers twitched with the sudden need to touch it, run his hands through those rich, mahogany-colored locks. And her mouth, the plump pink curve of it, the hint of vulnerability in that tender bottom lip, the surprising sweetness he hadn’t noticed until just now—

  “I know!” Miss Honeywell, who seemed utterly oblivious to the sudden tension in the air, let out an excited squeal. “I recall where I’ve seen you before. You’re a friend of Lady Gray, are you not?”

  “Lady Gray? What, you mean the countess? My dear Fanny, you’ve gone mad! What in the world would a friend of a countess be doing cleaning Lord Darlington’s castle? It’s absurd.”

  “But I’m certain I saw you walking with her one day in Hyde Park—”

  Miss Honeywell was interrupted by an explosion of shattering glass, followed by a cry of distress from Cecilia. “Oh, no! Oh, Lord Darlington, I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “Clumsy girl! If you were my servant, I’d have that out of your wages!”

  Mrs. Honeywell’s face had turned red with outrage, but it wasn’t until Cecilia dropped to her knees on the floor that Gideon realized what had happened.

  She’d been carrying her polishing cloth and the glass globe from the lantern when she came into the hallway. When Miss Honeywell mentioned Emma Downing’s name, Cecilia had dropped the glass, and it now lay in a pool of shards on the flagstones at their feet.

  “Oh, dear. I can’t bear the sight of blood.”

  Miss Honeywell turned toward Gideon as if to hide her face in his chest, but he dropped her arm and knelt down next to Cecilia. “No, don’t try and pick up the glass. Don’t touch it again.” He caught her wrist to keep her from gathering up the shards. “Let me see your hand.”

  He gently turned her hand over, revealing an ugly gash on the fleshy part of her palm. It was deep, with blood already gushing from it. For a moment Gideon stared down at her hand, transfixed by the sight of her pale, tender skin, the dark red blood welling in her palm, and his much larger hand cradling hers.

  When he raised his gaze to her face, he found her dark eyes wide with alarm, and her lower lip trembling. “It’s all right, Cecilia.” Gideon released her hand, but slid his palm under her elbow to help her up. “We’ll go find Mrs. Briggs. She’ll know how to bind it properly.”

  “I’ll take Cecilia to Mrs. Briggs.” Haslemere shot Gideon
a warning look before nudging him firmly aside. “Take Mrs. Honeywell and your betrothed into the drawing room, Darlington, and have a footman fetch them their tea. I’ll join you there soon.”

  Gideon glanced from Mrs. Honeywell’s splotched face to Haslemere’s pained one. Mrs. Honeywell was already apoplectic with rage at the suggestion her daughter might be cast aside for a mere housemaid, and poor Haslemere was doing his best to prevent further damage.

  Gideon snatched his hand away from Cecilia’s arm and let it drop to his side. “Er, yes. Very well. Join us when you’re able. Miss Honeywell? Mrs. Honeywell? May I take you into the drawing room?”

  Miss Honeywell offered him a gracious nod, but it was going to take more than one lump of sugar and some superior tea cakes to restore Mrs. Honeywell to good humor. He escorted them to the drawing room, but paused after they passed through the door to watch Haslemere lead Cecilia down the staircase to the kitchens below.

  She was holding her injured hand in the palm of her other one, and Haslemere still had ahold of her elbow to keep her steady. He towered over her, his shoulders twice the width of hers, and Cecilia looked small and fragile next to him.

  Gideon clenched his fists at the sight of them so close together, with Haslemere’s auburn head bent protectively toward Cecilia’s, murmuring something, as if the two of them were sharing a secret.

  Before he had a chance to prod at this startling reaction, he was interrupted by Mrs. Honeywell’s voice, lamenting the smallness of the drawing room, the fact that it faced east rather than west, and complaining about the lack of heat emanating from the fire.

  Gideon followed the ladies into the room with a smothered sigh. He managed to remain courteous toward Mrs. Honeywell, and he took a tepid sort of pleasure in Miss Honeywell’s beauty and good humor, but his mind was elsewhere.

  When Haslemere joined them in the drawing room, he quietly reassured Gideon Cecilia’s injury had been attended to, but that didn’t stop Gideon’s mind from drifting toward her again and again throughout the afternoon. As soon as his guests retired to their bedchambers to rest before dinner, he went in search of her.