by Amanda Scott
The footman did not announce her, of course, and for a brief moment Cicely thought her father, seated at the huge library table, surrounded by newspapers, was unaware of her presence. But when she drew breath to speak, he stopped her with a small gesture. There was another moment’s silence before he put down his paper and peered at her through his quizzing glass. She straightened her shoulders.
“Papa, I’m sorry about Charlie.”
“Never mind that,” he said brusquely, waving toward a chair opposite himself at the huge table. “Sit down, Cicely.” She obeyed, not taking her eyes from him. He clearly didn’t intend to scold her for anything, but he looked like a man determined to take the bull by the horns, and she was very curious. “Your mother is right,” he said suddenly.
“She is?”
“Don’t be impertinent, my girl. She very often is, as I’ve discovered over the years. But this time I fancy I’ve got the jump on her.” Did Cicely imagine it, or was there a glint of satisfaction in his eye?
“H-have you, sir?” Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she executed a rapid mental review of the conversation in the breakfast parlor. She could imagine only one solution to the problem outlined by her mother—short of her own early demise, at any rate.
“Damned right I have,” he growled now. “M’ duchess wants you married before she fires that chit Brittany into the beau monde, so married you’ll be, and there’s an end to it. ’Tis all arranged.”
“Married! Arranged!” Cicely stared at him, her senses all on end. “How?” Astonishment vied with awakening excitement, but only a deepening of the roses in her cheeks betrayed her. The duke’s eyes narrowed.
“Wouldn’t it be more to the purpose to ask ‘who’?”
Cicely took a deep breath and folded her hands more tightly in her lap. “Of course. I beg your pardon, Papa. ’Tis merely that this takes me by surprise. I daresay no one suspected—”
“No reason they should suspect a thing. I believe in playing my cards close to my chest. But it has been in the works for a good many years, and now’s the time to bring matters to a head. And so I’ve done, and without your mother’s advice, at that. But she’ll be well enough pleased, I’ve no doubt.”
Cicely only nodded. She was completely confused now. She was also surprised to feel no anger, only shock and that rising sense of excitement. And why she should be excited there was no telling. For all she knew, her father meant to marry her off to some wealthy decrepit or even to one of the Royal Dukes. The fact that he’d been working at it for some time certainly made the latter a possibility. Both thoughts were equally distasteful. But for some reason she felt no fear, only anticipation. “Who is it, Papa? Do I know him?”
“Aye, you know him,” he responded, regarding her enigmatically. “’Tis Ravenwood.”
The name fell between them. Cicely frowned, searching her memory. There was something familiar, something that nagged at her, but she couldn’t pin it down. She tilted her head quizzically. “I’m sorry. You’ll think me foolish, but—”
The duke snorted. “More like, I’ll think ye daft, girl. ’Twould do you good to pay more heed to the family names. He’s your cousin, Gilbert Leighton, now Viscount Ravenwood. More important than that, he’s my heir.”
“Gilbert Leighton!” Her mind was suddenly possessed by the vision of a tall, thin boy of nearly twenty summers with overstarched shirt points and a wicked gleam of mischief in his eye.
The duke was still watching her, and his expression indicated momentary expectation of fireworks. Cicely remembered now that Gilbert’s father, the duke’s first cousin, had been called Ravenwood, but from the circumstance of her never having laid eyes upon him, it was no wonder to her that the fact had slipped her mind. She had, however, laid eyes upon Gilbert Leighton. Those same grey eyes narrowed now at the memory.
“It has been some six years since the occasion of his visit to us,” the duke said now, “but you do remember him, do you not?”
“Oh, I remember him,” she said musingly. “A skinny fop who took his pleasure from teasing children.”
“No doubt you will find him changed somewhat with the passage of time,” said the duke acidly. “He strikes me as a man of sense and one who is well able to fill my shoes.”
“You have seen him?”
“Not for four years. He has been dancing attendance on Wellington, you know. One of Sir Charles Stuart’s lads. But when I first broached the subject of a match between you, I expected him to snap at it.”
“And did he not?” Cicely was astonished by a surge of indignation. Could it be that he hadn’t wanted her? After her experiences of two London Seasons, such a thing seemed quite absurdly impossible. She was, after all, the duke’s eldest daughter and would bring to her marriage a portion of approximately ten thousand pounds per annum.
Her father’s eyes gleamed in response to her tone. “Thought you wouldn’t like this match above half yourself, girl. And don’t tell me you formed a passion for the lad at the tender age of fourteen, for I don’t recall it that way myself.”
She flushed under his gaze as his words brought back the final day of Gilbert Leighton’s one and only visit to Malmesbury. It was not a memory she cherished. “Of course I did no such thing. It would merely surprise me to learn that he had refused such an offer. I cannot think of another gentleman of my acquaintance who would do that.” The chilly glaze that had iced her expression throughout two Seasons descended now as she remembered various incidents arising from the greed her suitors, to a man, had seemed to possess.
“Well, Ravenwood—or Leighton, as he was then—certainly did. Said he’d never seen the slightest indication that you held him in affection, and that he wouldn’t consider the match until you’d had at least one Season and an opportunity to meet other eligible young men. Thought him daft myself, but there was no persuading him to any other course.”
“Perhaps he thought he could do better for himself. He is heir to a dukedom, after all.”
Malmesbury shook his head. “Can’t see that m’self. Name’s never been linked with any particular female, though considering the life he’s led on the Continent, I can’t say it would have surprised me. Quite a social set, the Stuart contingent was.” He grimaced slightly. “Besides, he ought to want the money.”
Cicely remembered such details as a clouded cane and a handkerchief that wafted sweet scent as its owner made airy, affected gestures. She smiled wryly. “Perhaps he preferred the gentlemen of Sir Charles’s party to the ladies,” she murmured unthinkingly.
There was silence. Glancing up to find the duke’s expression dark with anger, Cicely swallowed carefully but didn’t look away.
“I trust you will keep such opinions under your tongue, miss,” he said grimly.
“Yes, Papa. I beg your pardon.”
He grunted. “I trust as well that you’ve no intention of making difficulties over this business. You have not, as it happens, formed an attachment for any of the gentlemen you met in London, despite the fact that I—most reluctantly, I might add—gave several of them leave to address you.”
“None of them was the least interested in me, Papa.”
“Nonsense. They were all sufficiently interested to approach me for permission to court you.”
“Not one of them saw beyond my rank and fortune, sir. It was daunting, to say the least, but I promise you, I would prefer a man who disapproved of everything I said and did over one who would be hard pressed to repeat a single opinion of my giving. They never listened. They were interested only in agreeing with everything I said, no matter how outrageous, just to show how they cherished me. It was humiliating, sir.”
“Drivel,” retorted his grace. “No female’s got two thoughts worth rubbing together, let alone listening to. You should be grateful instead that so many paid heed to you. There are dozens of young women out there who’d give all they possess to be in your shoes. Not,” he added more blandly, “that I’m not pleased you didn’t form
an attachment. I’ve a mind to see my own grandson sporting the ducal strawberry leaves.”
“Well, you’ll scarcely see that, sir,” Cicely responded more sharply than might ordinarily have been consistent with wisdom. “You’ll be six feet under long before that event should come to pass. Before your grandson may inherit, not only must you die, but Ravenwood as well. Assuming I do marry him, of course, and assuming we do have a son,” she added thoughtfully.
“Well, you’re going to marry him,” the duke said firmly. “He’s agreed to it, and he’s coming down from London to discuss settlements and to sign the marriage contracts. As for sons, I’ll leave that to him. Your comments notwithstanding, I daresay he will know precisely how to go about it.” He paused, shooting her a penetrating look. “I hadn’t meant to discuss this with you so soon. It was my intention to await his arrival in hopes that you might find him to your liking. But I cannot have your mother in a twit. And once I’d decided to impart my plan to her, it became necessary to explain it to you, lest she spill the gaff in her usual fashion.”
Cicely nodded. It was an accepted fact that the duchess was constitutionally incapable of keeping a still tongue in her head. Therefore, they had all learned to tell her nothing that was not meant for the public domain.
Cicely took a deep breath. “You said you hoped it would be to my liking, sir. What if it is not?”
His features hardened. “’Tis of no account. You have been indulged beyond permission as it is, and for that you may thank that popinjay Napoleon for keeping Ravenwood occupied, thus permitting you an extra Season. But the time has certainly come to be getting on with the matter at hand. ’Tis my duty as your father to provide you with a suitable husband, and ’twill be Ravenwood’s to secure the succession. I prefer that it be secured in the direct line, if at all possible. ’Tis a shame your mother found it impossible to beget healthy sons. Still, ’tis folly to rail against fate, and far wiser to hedge one’s bets. You will obey me, Cicely.”
His gaze was direct, his voice harsh. She sighed. “Yes, Papa.” There was nothing else to be said. It was her duty to obey him, and there could be nothing but unhappiness to be gained by defiance. If her spirit rebelled against so casual a disposal of her future, then that same spirit gave her the strength to conceal the fact. She needed time to think, time to digest this sudden turn of events. She had often wondered, during her two unsuccessful Seasons, at her father’s uncharacteristic display of patience. One might have expected to be summarily ordered to wed the most eligible applicant for her hand. Instead, although her mother had indulged in occasional fits of pique over what she’d termed “Cicely’s stubbornness,” his grace had seemingly ignored it. Not that he had never scolded her, of course. That would have been a great deal too much to expect. But he had reserved his temper and his lectures for those occasions—and there had, unfortunately, been several—when she had gone beyond the line of what was pleasing. A stolen visit to the Haymarket in order to see for oneself what “Haymarketware” looked like, a costume ball with a too-forward escort resulting in rescue by a stalwart hackney coachman, a tipsy venture into the forbidden realms of Dionysus—each had resulted in a prodigiously uncomfortable interview with the duke. But not one word had he said against her continued indifference toward a veritable army of eligible suitors. Now she knew why.
Her thoughts were interrupted at this point by the opening of the bookroom door. She looked over her shoulder to see the footman in the act of closing that same door behind a rather pale-faced Lady Alicia.
“I-I beg pardon, Papa, if I am intruding, but you said I was to come to you at eleven o’clock, and ’tis a few minutes past that hour now.” Her chin was up and her hands were firmly at her sides. After that first hesitation she had taken control of herself, and now faced the duke bravely.
“You may be excused, Cicely.” She got quickly to her feet. “I trust,” he added pointedly, “that you will not disappoint me.”
“No, sir,” she replied, carefully calm. “I know my duty.”
“Very well.” His gaze dismissed her, then shifted to her sister. His voice sharpened noticeably. “Now then, Alicia, I shall be most interested to hear how you mean to defend your despicable conduct at breakfast this morning. Pray step forward, miss.”
Cicely fled.
2
WITH THE EXCEPTION OF A housemaid polishing candle sconces and the footman seated in the high-backed porter’s chair, the great hall was empty when Cicely emerged from the bookroom. Her slippered feet made no sound as she hurried across the stone floor to the swooping marble stairway. From the carpeted gallery above, she passed through a suite of elegant saloons to an antechamber with a staircase that led to the upper reaches of the huge ducal mansion.
Amazingly, she managed to reach the sanctuary of her own bedchamber without encountering any of her sisters or her mother. Miss Fellows, of course, was safely laid down upon her own bed. Cicely was grateful to find the bedchamber empty. Her abigail, Meg Hardy, had threatened a general turnout of her wardrobe in order to make a final inventory in preparation for the upcoming London Season, but she had either finished or not yet begun, for the room was as neat as a pin.
The sunlight streaming through the high arched windows set sparkling dust motes dancing and touched the heavy blue velvet bed hangings with glints of silver gilt. A crimson-and-indigo Turkey carpet covered most of the floor, and several petit-point cushions, created by skillful hands to reflect variations of the carpet pattern, were scattered about on the bed and on the simple Adam settee between the two windows.
The duchess had several times suggested redoing the bedchamber in colors more suited to Cicely’s pale complexion and silvery hair, but her daughter had firmly resisted all such attempts. The vivid colors did not seem at all overpowering to her, whereas the pink and silver suggested by her grace was certain to be of an insipidness past all bearing.
Her spirits lifted now as they always did when she entered the cheerful room, but she knew she could not remain there. It had been an instinctive thing to seek out the one place she could truly call her own. But either Brittany would come to find her or Meg Hardy would bustle in to get to her task. And although Brittany might easily be sent away again, Meg Hardy was a more formidable opponent. Having been raised at Malmesbury and begun service there as a between maid before being trained first as chambermaid and later as Cicely’s dresser, she had the familiar manners of a longtime servant and would not hesitate to set her mistress to work counting lace collars and net mittens or trying on dresses, for that matter. Cicely shuddered.
Suddenly she needed space and freedom. The papered walls with their wide-spaced red pinstripes seemed to hover about her, making her feel suddenly small and helpless, a pawn on a giant chessboard about to be captured by the opposition. She wanted to throw something or, better yet, shoot something … or someone.
On the thought, she hurried to the wardrobe and snatched out a light-grey velvet riding habit trimmed with emerald-green braid. Discarding her morning frock and tossing it haphazardly on the bed, she stepped quickly into the velvet skirt, fastened it, and drew on the matching spencer directly over her lacy shift. It occurred to her as she unearthed her shiny black leather boots that she ought to don knit stockings in place of the silk ones she was wearing, but she was in too much of a hurry for such details. Nonetheless, she could not go out with her flaxen tresses streaming down her back as they were. That would be to invite the sort of comment that most distressed the duchess. Accordingly, she searched out a green net snood and stuffed the long, straight hair inside before binding it at the nape of her neck with an emerald ribbon. A jaunty little grey felt hat was soon pinned into place atop her smooth head, and picking up her whip and black kid gloves, she hastened back downstairs and out to the stables.
Connie, her dappled gelding, was soon saddled, and Cicely accepted a leg up from her groom before curtly ordering him to remain where he was.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady, but ye know f
ull well ’is grace said I was t’ go wi’ ye when ye ride. ’Twill be ’avin’ me ’ead on a platter, ’e will.”
“Not today, Toby. I want to be alone. If his grace comes down heavy, I’ll stand the nonsense, I promise. But today I want to be by myself. I need to think.”
“’Tisn’t fittin’, m’lady,” the thin, grizzled little man pointed out stubbornly, pushing his well-worn cap farther back on his head. “Even if ye stay t’ the woods, there be the danger o’ poachers.”
“Nonsense, Toby,” she chuckled. “No self-respecting poacher would so demean his calling as to enter Papa’s woods in broad daylight. Mr. Kennedy and his muscle-bound sons would dispatch such a fool right quickly, and well you know it. Besides,” she added hastily, in an attempt to forestall further opposition, “I’ve got my pistol in the saddle holster. You know I do, for you put it there yourself as you always do.”
“And a right daft thing, too,” he muttered with the irascible irreverence of a servant who has known one since one sat one’s first pony. “A female wi’ a barker. What’ll they be up to next, I’m wonderin’.”
“I’m a better shot than most men, Toby Wilder, and well do you know it. So we’ll have no more of your impertinence, if you please. You will stay here as you are bid. I want to hear no more about it.”
“Aye,” he responded promptly, “I’ve no doubt o’ that. No more doubt than I’ve got that we’ll the both o’ us be hearin’ more on’t ere the day is out. Thanks be, ’is grace be a fair man. Me ears may ring a bit, but I doubt I’ll be losin’ m’ place over it.”
Cicely chuckled again. “You are a foolish old man, Toby Wilder. But I mustn’t stay to chat.” Just as she moved to turn the gelding she thought of something else. “Did the Lady Amalie come down here?”
“Oh, aye.” His eyes twinkled. “Like a wee chick escapin’ the coop, she was. She be long gone toward the river. Not to worry, though. Dickon went with ’er. She at least knows better than t’ flout ’is grace’s orders,” he added with an air of trying for the last word.
