by Anna Bradley
Mrs. Honeywell gave her daughter an impatient look. “My dear child, you’ve quite missed my point. If Lady Isabella had been a boy, he’d be the heir. Since she’s a girl, your own son will become the Marquess of Darlington.”
Miss Honeywell, who’d caught on at last, glanced uneasily at Lord Darlington. “Mama, I don’t think you should say such things.”
Mrs. Honeywell ignored her daughter. “Don’t be absurd, Fanny. Lord Darlington is no fool. Of course, he wants his own child to inherit the title and fortune.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Honeywell. My affection for my late brother’s child is absolute, regardless of gender.”
Cecilia shuddered at the look on Lord Darlington’s face. Never before had she seen a man more coldly furious than he was. He looked as if he’d been carved out of stone.
“I only mean to say, my lord, that it’s fortunate it turned out as it did. Lady Isabella seems a rather small, sickly-looking child to me, but it’s neither here nor there, no one being much interested in what happens to girls—”
Cecilia turned on Mrs. Honeywell, aghast. A fury unlike anything she’d ever felt before swept through her, and the next thing she knew she’d stepped forward and, without a single word, snatched Isabella away from Mrs. Honeywell.
Mrs. Honeywell gasped. “Why, you impertinent chit! How dare you presume to—”
“She’s cold,” Cecilia bit out. She whirled around, turning her back on Mrs. Honeywell, and turning Isabella’s face into her shoulder. “There we are, dearest. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“I demand your servant apologize to me this instant, Lord Darlington.” Mrs. Honeywell’s voice could have frozen the remaining water in Darlington Lake. “Once she’s begged my pardon, I insist you dismiss her at once.”
Cecilia hid her trembling hands under the guise of fussing with Isabella’s coat. She, who never lost her temper, suddenly understood what her friends meant when they described being so enraged their skin felt too tight for their body. She was so angry she could hardly think, but at the same time she was aware of a sense of impending doom.
God in heaven, here she was again, one word away from being dismissed from Lord Darlington’s service. She’d have to return to London and explain to Lady Clifford she’d lost her temper, and insulted one of his lordship’s guests.
“Cecilia.”
Cecilia went still at the commanding note in Lord Darlington’s voice, but she kept her chin high as she turned to face him. Let him send her away, then, because nothing—nothing—would make her beg that wretched woman’s pardon. She’d sooner jump in the lake than beg Mrs. Honeywell for anything.
“If you still wish to have your walk, you’d better get on with it. It’s growing colder, and it looks as if it might snow.”
“Lord Darlington!” Mrs. Honeywell was so furious she actually stamped her foot.
Lord Darlington said nothing, but he gave Mrs. Honeywell a look that silenced her at once. “Go on, then.” His voice was quiet, but his blue eyes were soft.
She gaped at him, stunned, but he turned away from her to smile down at Miss Honeywell. “Do you still wish to see the rose walk, Miss Honeywell? Or would you prefer a warm fire and a cup of tea?”
Miss Honeywell blossomed under his attention like a flower opening up to the sun. “The rose walk, please, my lord.”
“This way, then.”
Lord Darlington led Miss Honeywell down the pathway without another glance at Cecilia. It was the most thorough dismissal she’d ever experienced in her life, but it didn’t appear to be a permanent one. She’d have to content herself with that.
She told herself to turn away, to get on with her walk, not to watch them go, but against her better judgment, she found herself staring after them. Lord Darlington’s head was bent toward Miss Honeywell as she said something to him, and the beauty of the two of them caused a pang in Cecilia’s chest. They were lovely together, perfectly suited to each other in looks, with Lord Darlington’s dark coloring complementing Miss Honeywell’s golden fairness.
Not that Lord Darlington’s handsomeness made the least bit of difference to Cecilia, who hadn’t been sent here to gawk at him like a schoolgirl. His handsomeness was not, after all, any proof he wasn’t a murderer. If Cecilia was obliged to remind herself of this more than once as she paced the narrow pathways of the kitchen garden with Isabella…well, no one else had to know about it.
Isabella was subdued for a time after the incident with Mrs. Honeywell. Cecilia kept a close eye on her, being of the opinion that children—particularly bright, thoughtful children like Isabella —were a great deal more sensitive than adults suspected they were.
Isabella soon forgot the incident, however, and skipped between the neat rows of flower beds, pointing out her favorites to Cecilia. They wandered about, with Cecilia pausing now and again to admire a shrub, or try and guess the origin of the plants she didn’t recognize.
Which was, admittedly, most of them.
She was fond of flowers, but she hadn’t had much opportunity to learn about them, there being only a very small garden at the Clifford School, and all of them too busy to spend much time in it.
The Darlington Castle kitchen garden was a large one, surrounded by a high stone wall to keep any animals from nibbling the vegetation. It was tidy despite its size, and pleasant to wander in, with its gravel pathways and rows of carefully tended plants, though there wasn’t much greenery in evidence, everything having been trimmed and tucked away for the winter.
“My mama took me here sometimes.” Isabella stopped near the back wall of the garden, near a large patch of lavender in a corner, rather pretty still with its slender gray leaves, though the purple spires had long since bloomed their last.
“Your…mama?”
“Yes. Her name is Leanora, and she’s very pretty.”
This was the first time Isabella had ever mentioned her mother to Cecilia. She was a bit taken aback, but she said only, “I daresay she is, Isabella. Shall we go and see if this lavender has any scent?”
Isabella gave an eager nod. Cecilia waded into the patch of lavender with Isabella at her side, and leaned over a clump that looked a trifle heartier than the rest. She inhaled, and got a faint hint of the sweet floral scent. “Oh, that’s lovely.”
“Lovely,” Isabella echoed, burying her face in the lavender and taking a deep sniff.
Cecilia smiled, then rose and brushed the dirt from her skirts. “It’s time we returned to the house, Isabella.” They’d been wandering in the garden for an hour or more, and it was growing colder.
But Isabella was still rooting around in the lavender patch, and after a bit of digging about, she emerged with a peculiar look on her face. “These flowers smell like my Auntie Cassandra.”
Cecilia took the stalk Isabella held out to her and gave it a sniff. “It smells like mint.” She moved the patch of lavender aside and found a plant she didn’t recognize growing against the stone wall. “It looks a little like lavender, but I think it’s spearmint.”
“It smells like my auntie did, before she died.”
“It’s a distinctive scent. I’m not surprised you remember it.” Cecilia let the stalk drop to the ground, and held out her hand. Isabella took it and scrambled to her feet, and they made their way around the perimeter of the wall. When they reached the tall iron gate, they found Lord Darlington standing there, waiting for them.
“Lord Darlington! I didn’t see you there.” Cecilia patted her chest to calm the sudden wild thud of her heart. “You, ah…you startled me.”
“I beg your pardon. Come here, Isabella.” Lord Darlington leaned down, scooped Isabella into his arms and gathered her tightly against his broad chest. “Did you have a nice walk with Miss Cecilia?”
“Yes.” Isabella wrapped her arms around her uncle’s neck with a contented sigh. “Ever so nice. Miss Cecilia kn
ows all about flowers.”
“Does she?” Lord Darlington met Cecilia’s gaze over the top of Isabella’s head.
“No, not particularly,” Cecilia said with a laugh. “I can recognize lavender, roses, and daisies, and…that’s pretty much all, really.”
Lord Darlington was rubbing Isabella’s back, but his gaze remained on Cecilia. “Not so much then, but Miss Cecilia knows a good deal about other things.”
He was watching her, a slight tic in his jaw, his gaze uncertain, but also oddly…tender?
No, surely not. The shadows were playing tricks on her.
“Things that matter more than flowers,” he added, the softness from earlier back in his eyes as he studied Cecilia’s face.
Cecilia stared back at him in confusion. She couldn’t make sense of his peculiar expression until he tilted his head subtly toward Isabella. Oh. Oh. Now she understood. He was pleased with her for shielding Isabella from Mrs. Honeywell earlier.
It wasn’t tenderness, but gratitude.
The realization caused a strange, sinking sensation in Cecilia’s chest, but she forced a smile to her lips. “I’m not dismissed, then?” she murmured, too low for Isabella to hear.
He tilted his head to one side as if considering it, and a crooked grin curved his lips. “Not today, no.”
Cecilia’s foolish heart fluttered into her throat at that boyish grin, and she was obliged to clear it before she trusted herself to speak. “No promises for tomorrow, though?”
“There’s no telling what might happen tomorrow.” He held her gaze for a moment longer before pressing a kiss to Isabella’s forehead. “Come, it’s getting dark.”
Dusk was descending, the pale glow of the sky deepening to a slate gray, but it was light enough still to see the whorls of silver frost making patterns on the ground. It was beautiful, in that soft, silent way winter sometimes was, and so still they might have been the only three people here. The thought was…peaceful, Cecilia realized in surprise, as she fell into step beside Lord Darlington.
How strange that it should be peaceful rather than disturbing.
When they reached the entrance hall, they found Lord Haslemere just coming into the hallway, looking harried. “Ah, there you are, Darlington. I wondered where you’d got to.” His gaze darted between the two of them, and a slight frown appeared between his brows. “We’re waiting for you to join us in the drawing room for tea.”
“Yes, of course.” Lord Darlington ruffled Isabella’s curls, then handed her over to Cecilia. “I’ll come to say goodnight later. Be a good girl for Miss Cecilia, and maybe we can coax her into singing one of her…unusual lullabies for us.”
Before Cecilia could reply, Lord Haslemere waved an impatient hand toward the drawing room. “Come on then, Darlington. You don’t want to keep your betrothed waiting.”
He followed Lord Darlington down the hallway, but before he disappeared into the drawing room, he glanced back at Cecilia over his shoulder with an appraising look that made her cheeks burn.
Chapter Thirteen
“I know what you’re doing, Darlington.”
Gideon peered over the top of his port glass at Haslemere, who was slouched in a chair near the fire, his legs sprawled out before him and his own glass dangling from his fingers. “I’m pleased one of us does.”
He’d woken this morning to the soft murmur of Cecilia crooning to Isabella, her husky voice weaving a spell around him until he’d drifted back to sleep, and dreamed of wide, velvety brown eyes, plump pink lips, and a stubborn, pointed chin. He’d been hard when he woke, his cock twitching insistently against his stomach, his entire body flushed with arousal.
It had been months since he’d felt even a twinge of desire for any woman, much less the dizzying rush of this morning. No, it had been longer than that—more than a year, since Cassandra had become so ill. If his betrothed had been the cause of such an eager erection Gideon might have rejoiced at it, but it wasn’t Miss Honeywell who’d inspired him to such unexpected rigidity.
It was Cecilia. Always Cecilia.
Cecilia, with her unpredictable tongue and those unexpected flashes of fire in her eyes. Such a pleasant, agreeable young woman, right up until the moment she wasn’t. She’d completely forgotten her place yesterday, and acted every inch the impertinent chit Mrs. Honeywell had accused her of being. A wiser man would have dismissed her for her insolence toward his betrothed’s mother, yet Gideon had let Cecilia stroll off without a word of reprimand.
And now there was the matter of this wholly inappropriate erection of his. Since its inconvenient appearance this morning, he’d struggled with alternate bouts of irritation, frustration, and yearning until he was half out of his head and couldn’t focus on a single thing.
His betrothed, for instance.
Haslemere snorted. “Oh, I think you know well enough what you’re about. There’s no sense denying it, Darlington. Anyone can see the way you look at Cecilia, and draw the obvious conclusion.”
Gideon’s face heated. “If you recall, it was you who urged me to keep Cecilia on instead of dismissing her.”
“I did, yes, but that was before I realized you’d developed a tendre for her.” Haslemere took a sip of his port. “Your infatuation with her is inconvenient, given you’re meant to marry another lady in less than a week’s time.”
“I’m aware of my obligations to Miss Honeywell, Haslemere.”
“Being aware of your obligations and reconciled to them are not, alas, the same thing. Your betrothed doesn’t seem to notice it, but I think Mrs. Honeywell has drawn her own conclusions about Cecilia. She’s a spiteful, vulgar, ill-mannered woman, but she’s not an utter fool.”
Gideon didn’t bother arguing the point. He’d caught more than one outraged glance from Mrs. Honeywell over the past few days. As for his betrothed, she either didn’t care, or didn’t notice his preoccupation with Cecilia.
It was difficult to tell with Miss Honeywell.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Haslemere.” Gideon let his head fall into his hands. Perhaps he shouldn’t have become betrothed again. The business of living what remained of his life had been a great deal easier from behind the walls of Darlington Castle.
Easier, but lonelier, and not really a life at all. Not for him, and not for Isabella. She needed a mother, and hopefully, in time, brothers and sisters.
Haslemere toyed with his glass, his gaze on the swirl of ruby red port. “Tell me, Darlington. Are you in love with Miss Honeywell?”
Gideon’s head snapped up. Love? No, he wasn’t in love with her. He’d chosen Miss Honeywell as his bride for a number of reasons, but not one of them had been because he loved her. He was under no illusions she loved him, either. Theirs was a ton marriage in every sense of the word. “She’s a decent lady, lovely both in face and temperament, and I believe she’ll be an affectionate mother to Isabella.”
He needed a wife, and Miss Honeywell wanted a fortune and a title. That was all. Gideon no longer expected anything more from a marriage than that.
“Ah, but that’s not what I asked you, Darlington.” Haslemere set his port aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I asked if you’re in love with her.”
Gideon ran a weary hand down his face, and wondered when everything had become so confusing. “No, I don’t love her, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. This marriage is a matter of practicality, not passion. She’s uncomplicated, Haslemere, and her presence brightens up this dreary place.”
“I see. You’re determined to marry her, then?”
“Of course I am. Do you suppose I’d court and then offer for a lady I wasn’t prepared to marry?” A bitter laugh fell from Gideon’s lips. “I’m a murderer, Haslemere, remember? Not a scoundrel.”
“Damn it, Darlington, will you stop saying that? We both know you’re neither. I only ask because I
can’t imagine anything less than love would induce me to marry a lady with such a mother. But none of that matters. No, the issue here is that Cecilia is distracting you from your betrothed, and it’s bound to make a mess of things. I’m amazed it hasn’t already.”
“Are you suggesting I dismiss her?” Cecilia did distract him, more so every day, yet Gideon couldn’t bear the idea of letting her go.
“I’m suggesting you find another place for her, yes. I’ll take her on, if you like. Oh, she’s a bit of a termagant, but I’m rather fond of her all the same. One can’t help but admire a lady who puts Mrs. Honeywell in her place.”
Haslemere grinned, and for some reason it set Gideon’s teeth on edge. “Fond of her, are you? How fond? Improperly fond?”
It was a bloody unfair question, and one Gideon knew he had no right to ask. Haslemere might be one of London’s most dashing rakes, but at his heart he was a gentleman. There were certain lines he wouldn’t cross, and trifling with a servant was one of them.
But if Haslemere was offended, he didn’t show it. “Fond enough to offer her a place at Haslemere House. I can take her over there myself tomorrow morning, and have her out of Mrs. Honeywell’s way before breakfast. You must see you can’t keep Cecilia at Darlington Castle after you’re wed—”
“No. Cecilia stays here.” Gideon was cursing his own foolishness before the words were out of his mouth, but he just…he couldn’t let her go.
“No?” Haslemere stared at him. “Why the devil not?”
Why, indeed? It was the ideal solution, really, the perfect way to get Cecilia out from underfoot without depriving her of a place, which would be unfair of him. It wasn’t her fault she drove him to distraction, heated the blood in his veins, haunted his dreams—
Yet as perfect as it was, Gideon found himself desperately floundering for a believable explanation for why it wouldn’t do. “I can’t let her go now, Haslemere, not when Isabella’s so attached to her.” He was half-ashamed of using his niece as an excuse, but then again, it was the truth, wasn’t it?
