The Virgin Who Vindicated Lord Darlington

by Anna Bradley

  God, it was maddening, the way her rounded hips fit into his hands and the line of her delicate thighs pressed against his. Did she know what it meant, that he was this hard for her? “Cecilia. Wait, sweetheart.”

  But Cecilia didn’t wait. She pressed a kiss behind his ear, then trailed her lips lower, her teeth grazing his neck before she pressed an oddly chaste kiss to the vulnerable notch of his throat.

  Gideon sank his hands into her hair, stilling her as he opened his mouth over hers, his kiss deep and wild and fierce. She gasped when he sucked her plump lower lip into his mouth, and her fingernails dragged over his sensitive flesh as her hands curled against his chest.

  “Shhh. Let me…” He dragged his tongue over that pouting mouth once more before he slipped it between her lips. Cecilia gasped, straining to get closer as he devoured her, his hands slipping from her waist down to the firm curve of her bottom.

  He didn’t realize he’d lifted her against him, his erection cradled snugly against her soft belly until he heard her gasp. He lifted his mouth, dazed, and realized his hips were moving sinuously against hers.

  “Cecilia, wait.” A despairing groan tore from Gideon’s lips at the loss of her, but he took her gently by the shoulders and set her away from him. “We can’t…I shouldn’t be…you need to go back to your own bedchamber.”

  She gazed up at him with dark, searching eyes before shifting her hand over his heart. “Aren’t you tired of being cold, Gideon? Here.” She patted his chest. “Aren’t you tired of being cold here?”

  He stared down at her, his heart beating a wild rhythm under her palm.

  How did she know?

  He’d been cold for so long, so long, and he was tired. God, he was so tired.

  No one had touched him since Cassandra’s death—not his body, and not his heart. All that time his heart had been like those icy white roses, frozen inside his chest. Months and months had passed, and all that time, he’d never once been warm.

  He didn’t need to say so. Cecilia saw the answer in his face.

  “Come with me.” She took his hand, drew him toward the bed, and eased back the coverlet. “Get into bed, Gideon.”

  He wanted to. God, he wanted to, but he wouldn’t take advantage of the only woman who’d shown him any kindness since the Murderous Marquess was born.

  “Just to sleep.” She nodded at the bed. “I don’t want you to be cold tonight.”

  Gideon gazed into those sweet, dark eyes and God help him, he couldn’t say no. He wanted it too much. Wanted her next to him, her warm body curved against his.

  So, he did as she bade him. He climbed into the bed and held his arms out to her. The coverlet rustled, the bed beneath him dipped under her slight weight, and then she was there, curled against him, her head resting on his chest.

  “Go to sleep, Gideon.”

  Gideon closed his eyes, and for the first time since he’d lost his wife and son he slept throughout the night, dreamless and warm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cecilia dreamed of anguished blue eyes and frozen white roses. The dream was disturbing in a way she didn’t understand, in a way a dream never had been before, and she woke with a start, her night rail damp and a gasp on her lips.

  She lay still for long, uneasy moments, struggling to remember where she was, but then Gideon shifted beside her, and she knew. She hadn’t intended to join him in his bed, much less fall asleep beside him. She’d only meant to wait with him until the dreadful cold that had seeped into his body and soul passed, then return to Isabella.

  But he’d wrapped his arm around her waist and gathered her against his hard, warm chest. He’d fallen asleep at once, his deep, even breaths brushing against the back of her neck, and she couldn’t bear to wake him, this man who’d lost so much, suffered so deeply.

  She slid out from under Gideon’s arm as quietly as she could, but before she could slip back into her own bedchamber, she found herself pausing, something she couldn’t name luring her back, her footsteps silent against the floorboards. It drew her closer, the hem of the blue silk bed hangings brushing over the tops of her bare feet. In a daze, she reached out and rested her fingers on the heavy gilt frame of the portrait.

  She hadn’t come here for her. When she’d entered his bedchamber, she’d thought only of Gideon. It wasn’t until she saw the portrait that she realized of course…of course, she’d be here. It was, of every other place in Darlington Castle, the only place she belonged.

  Lady Cassandra, the seventh Marchioness of Darlington.

  Cecilia edged closer, staring up at Lady Cassandra’s face. Had she seen it before? There was something familiar about her features, as if Cecilia were looking into the face of a friend, not a stranger.

  Cassandra was fair-skinned and blue-eyed, with high cheekbones, a slender nose, and a determined jaw that was just a touch too square to be considered strictly pretty. She hadn’t been a beauty like Lady Leanora, who was without dispute a dazzling, glittering diamond of the first water, with a face so perfect it almost hurt to look at her.

  Not Cassandra.

  The firm jaw, the kindness in those blue eyes…there was nothing about Cassandra’s face that could ever hurt a soul. Lady Leanora was a blinding diamond, but Cassandra was softer, subtler, more easily overlooked, perhaps, but her beauty was deeper than her skin, like a ruby with a banked fire at its center.

  Cecilia stared up into the blue eyes, speechless. She felt as if she knew her.

  As if she’d always known her.

  And Gideon…she turned to look at him, her heart twisting at the vulnerability in his face, his defenselessness. The shadows in his eyes were hidden from her now, the deep lines of pain etched about his mouth relaxed in sleep.

  It wasn’t the face of a man who’d murdered his wife.

  She padded on bare feet back to her own bedchamber, ready to collapse with fatigue, but it wasn’t just her body that was exhausted. It was her heart, too. It gave a miserable lurch in her chest when she recalled the look on Gideon’s face last night as he stood above the white marble headstone that bore his wife and son’s names.

  Her heart might not be so heavy now if she’d done what it had urged her to do then—beg his pardon, plead for his forgiveness for her careless words—but she hadn’t known what to say, what to do, and now it felt as if the moment were gone.

  As if she were too late.

  It was still dark outside—not more than an hour or two had passed since she fell asleep. Isabella was still tucked in her bed, her small fingers wrapped around the crown of marbled paper she and Cecilia had made several days earlier.

  Cecilia didn’t sleep any more, but sat in the rocking chair with Seraphina curled in her lap. She’d banished the troublesome creature to the castle grounds at least a half-dozen times. Once she’d even taken her to the stables, thinking Seraphina could occupy herself by chasing some nice mice and rats, but the cat had returned that night, scratching at the door that connected Cecilia’s bedchamber with the late marchioness’s until Cecilia gave in and opened it.

  It was a mystery how the devious feline kept finding her way back inside the castle. One mystery of many. Why, despite Gideon’s insistence, did the door connecting Cecilia’s bedchamber to Lady Darlington’s never seemed to be locked when Seraphina demanded entrance?

  “How are you getting into Lady Darlington’s bedchamber? Are you a ghost yourself, Seraphina?” It wasn’t the first time Cecilia had demanded answers about Seraphina’s mysterious comings and goings. She stroked the cat’s sleek, black fur, but Seraphina wasn’t any more forthcoming than she’d ever been. One bored green eye opened a slit—just wide enough for Seraphina to hint she found Cecilia very tedious indeed—before it closed again.

  When Isabella woke hours later, Cecilia hurried her through their morning tasks. Not because she wished to avoid facing Gideon—certainly not, nothing
like that—but because Cook had promised to let Isabella help make tartlets this morning. It was also Mrs. Briggs’s half day, and after they’d finished the tartlets, the housekeeper was taking Isabella with her to Edenbridge for a visit with her mother, and well…it was just a busy day, that was all.

  It hadn’t a thing to do with Gideon’s having kissed her.

  Cecilia raised her hand to stroke her fingers over her lips, shivering at the memory of the press of his full, warm mouth against hers, the hot slide of his tongue between her lips.

  Dear God. She’d never been kissed before, but she’d considered herself to be at least somewhat informed on the matter, given how many gothic romances she’d read. But reading about a kiss and being kissed yourself wasn’t, as it happened, at all the same thing.

  Gideon’s kiss hadn’t been anything like she’d expected it to be. She hadn’t known she’d feel a man’s kiss everywhere, from her lips all the way down to her curled toes. Just the memory of it tugged an ache into her lower belly and raised delicious goosebumps on her skin.

  But none of that meant she was avoiding him, even if she did keep an ear open for any sounds of movement from his bedchamber.

  “Here you are, then!” Mrs. Briggs said when they entered the kitchen later that morning. “Cook’s got the first pan finished already, Isabella.”

  Isabella clapped her hands. “Will we have any apple tartlets? Apple is my favorite.”

  “Since cook has a mountain of sliced apples prepared, I think so.” Mrs. Briggs gave Isabella a fond pat on the head, then turned to Cecilia with a cheerful grin. “We’ll be back after supper. I’ve sent Amy to the second floor to gather linens and air out the guest bedchambers.”

  “Yes, of course.” Cecilia waved as Mrs. Briggs and Isabella went to join the cook on the opposite side of the kitchen, then turned her attention to the young man sitting at the table. He appeared much less enthusiastic to see her. “Good morning, Duncan.”

  No response. Duncan was sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of fresh apple tartlets before him. His back was to Cecilia, and he didn’t turn around.

  Cecilia rounded the table with a sigh and seated herself across from him. “I’m sorry about last night, Duncan. I shouldn’t have misled you. Lord Darlington doesn’t blame you. I told him it was all my doing.”

  Duncan reluctantly met her gaze. “It’s all right, Miss Cecilia.”

  It didn’t sound as if it was all right. “I truly am sorry, Duncan. What can I do to make amends?”

  His face colored, and he glanced up at her from under thick, ginger-colored lashes. “That book ye mentioned last night…it’s a romantic book?”

  “Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho? Oh, yes, it’s terribly romantic, and also wonderfully terrifying. Why do you ask?”

  Duncan dropped his gaze. “Young lasses like romance, don’t they? Do ye suppose Miss Amy might like that book?”

  “I daresay she would, yes.” Cecilia struggled to hide her smile. “You might even like it yourself, Duncan.”

  Duncan’s cheeks burst into flames. “Ach, well, I only asked on Miss Amy’s account, but if ye had a mind to read that book aloud to her, mayhap I could listen, too?”

  Cecilia reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Duncan. You’ll be outside my door again tonight?”

  “Aye, Miss Cecilia. His lordship said so.”

  “Very well, then. We’ll fetch Amy and read a chapter tonight after Isabella falls asleep, shall we?”

  Duncan beamed at her. “Right then, Miss Cecilia. I’ll see ye tonight.” He stuffed the rest of his tartlet into his mouth, then snatched two more off the plate and shoved them into his pocket before ambling out of the kitchen, whistling under his breath.

  Well, that was one problem solved, anyway. Cecilia sat at the kitchen table for a bit, eyeing the plate of tartlets and willing her stomach to cease its uneasy roiling before giving it up for lost, and going in search of Amy.

  Amy wasn’t upset with her as Duncan had been, but she was nearly expiring with curiosity, which was much worse. “Duncan says Lord Darlington brought you back to the castle himself last night after he caught you creeping about the grounds, and he looked angrier than Duncan had ever seen him. Is it true?”

  Cecilia dropped the pile of linens she was carrying on the settee at the end of the bed with a sigh. “I wasn’t creeping. I was…” Sneaking, or prowling, or spying? “…innocently looking around.”

  Amy snorted. “Were you, now? Is that what you told Lord Darlington?”

  Cecilia hadn’t had much time to tell Gideon anything, but she kept her lips stubbornly sealed. The less information Amy had about last night’s, er…activities, the better.

  Amy took up a sheet from the pile on the settee. “I did warn you not to follow him and Lord Haslemere out there, didn’t I? Honestly, Cecilia, I can’t think why you’d want to prowl about in the first place. What did he do with you once he caught you?”

  Kissed me senseless.

  “Brought me back to the castle, just as Duncan said.”

  Amy snapped the sheet open over the bed with an impatient gesture. “What, that’s all? There must have been more to it. What did he say? Did he scold, or lecture, or—”

  “Threaten to dismiss me? No.” Cecilia paused, her hand clutching a corner of the sheet. Now she thought of it, why hadn’t he threatened to dismiss her? He’d done so before, and for a far less drastic infraction. Instead he’d taken her to his wife and son’s grave. He’d confided in her, and let her comfort him.

  Amy cocked her head to the side, considering this. “Lord Darlington’s not one for threats. If he was going to dismiss you, you’d be gone by now, and I’d be making these blasted beds all by myself.”

  Cecilia tried to return Amy’s crooked grin, but everything she thought she understood about Gideon had tipped sideways in her head until she could no longer make sense of anything.

  “Here, give me that.” Amy pulled the end of the sheet from Cecilia’s slack hand. “What were Lord Darlington and Lord Haslemere doing when you found them?”

  Cecilia shrugged. “Chasing the ghost, I presume.”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “There is no ghost, for pity’s sake. You can’t truly believe otherwise.”

  Cecilia didn’t know what she believed anymore. “What about Miss Honeywell’s claim a ghost in a white gown with a deathly white face was lurking beneath her window? Do you suppose she invented it?”

  “Who knows what she saw? I’ll tell you what, that one’s pretty head is as empty as a bellows. Like as not she had a bad dream, but whatever it was she thought she saw, it wasn’t a ghost. Of all the rumors the villagers in Edenbridge have put about, that’s one of the most foolish. Not the most foolish, mind you, but close.”

  “Oh? What else do they say?” Cecilia didn’t care much what the gossips claimed, but just this once, she welcomed the distraction.

  “They say Lord Darlington’s the Murderous Marquess. Pure nonsense, put about by that awful Mrs. Vernon. You’d think they’d have more sense than to listen to a wolf in sheep’s clothing like her, but there’s people who always want to believe the worst.”

  Cecilia couldn’t help but agree. The Edenbridge villagers must be more foolish than most, to believe the word of a servant who’d been dismissed for theft.

  “You’ll hear any number of other wild stories,” Amy went on. “The villagers like their gossip, you know, and every rumor is more outlandish than the one before. Like, some say as Lady Darlington’s buried in the castle walls, but others claim she’s at the bottom of the moat. Then there’s that bit of foolishness about Lord Darlington being in love with Lady Leanora.”

  “In love with Lady Leanora?” Cecilia gripped the edge of the mattress to stop herself from falling face first into the bed. “In love with his brother’s wife?”
<
br />   Amy snorted. “Yes. The way they tell it, Lady Leanora fled the castle when he tried to make her marry him after Lady Cassandra died.”

  Cecilia gasped. “Marry his brother’s widow!”

  “Hush!” Amy shot a wary glance at the open door. “They say as he always loved her, and after his brother and wife both died, he saw his chance to have her, and he took it.”

  “If he always loved Lady Leanora, why would he have married Lady Cassandra? Any man scoundrel enough to pursue his dead brother’s wife is scoundrel enough to do it before that brother has turned cold in his grave.” Lady Leanora was already a widow when Gideon returned to Darlington Castle. If he’d wanted her, he might have chased her. Instead, he’d courted Cassandra.

  “Well, it’s nonsense, isn’t it?” Amy made a disgusted noise. “Mind, these are the same people who think there’s a white ghost drifting about in the woods. I don’t believe a word of any of it, myself.”

  Cecilia fell heavily into the chair beside the bed. No, it couldn’t be true. She’d seen for herself the grief on Gideon’s face as he’d stood by his late wife’s grave. That kind of despair couldn’t be feigned. Amy was right. These were the same villagers who claimed the late Lady Darlington had been buried inside the castle walls.

  No. It was impossible, unthinkable, unbearable. Everything inside her recoiled at the thought, or…was it just her heart that recoiled? She imagined Gideon caressing Lady Leanora’s flawless white skin, running his long fingers through her silky, midnight tresses, and gazing into her beautiful blue eyes.

  Her stomach churned with nausea, but she choked back the bile crawling into her throat. Lady Clifford had sent her here to discover the truth, but she’d never get to it if she insisted on letting her emotions overrule her logic.

  Very well, then. Logic. Logically speaking, it was difficult to imagine any man who’d seen Lady Leanora’s face hadn’t fallen in love with her.