by Amanda Scott
Brittany giggled. “You should have been attending, Cicely. We were discussing masculine fashions—those outrageous Cossack trousers, to be precise.”
The warmth in Cicely’s cheeks deepened, but her eyes frosted glacially. “I daresay ’tis all of a piece,” she said to Ravenwood. “I cannot even pretend to be interested in such idiocy. That is far more to your taste than it could ever be to that of any female of sense.”
“Cicely!”
“That will do, daughter.” The duke’s stern tones overrode the shriller notes of his wife’s exclamation.
Cicely faced each of them in turn, knowing she had once more let her temper carry her beyond what was pleasing. Something about Ravenwood set her off. Even now, as she apologized for her hasty words, he merely watched her lazily from under those drooping lids. The twinkle was back, but he showed no inclination to excuse her thoughtlessness.
It was Brittany who came to the rescue. “I think there must always be outrageous fashions,” she said gently. “People—some people—seem to enjoy making spectacles of themselves. Just think of that dreadful Oldenburgh poke bonnet two years ago! All because the Grand Duchess Oldenburgh wore such a thing when she visited Oxford.”
“Very true, dear,” smiled the duchess. “And why on earth anyone wanted to make a pattern card of that dreadful woman, I shall never understand, for a more underbred, bumptious female I’m sure none of us ever had the misfortune to meet.”
Harsh words from a strait-laced lady, but Cicely, who had been privileged to meet the grand duchess upon several occasions during that lady’s sojourn in London, could well understand the Duchess of Malmesbury’s strictures. Many said the woman had been involved in some sort of secret negotiations for her brother, the Czar Alexander. Others said she was simply a spy, perhaps even for Napoleon himself. Others thought she was on the catch for a royal husband. And still others, like Brittany, only remembered the bonnet with the huge, upthrusting poke front that had caused such a sensation. Whatever the reason for the grand duchess’s visit, she had caused quite a stir wherever she went.
Conversation passed easily enough to other topics, and in what seemed to be a short time, the duchess signaled to her daughters that they should leave the two gentlemen to their port. In the drawing room the duchess glanced once or twice at her eldest daughter, but if she had planned to say anything, she evidently thought better of it and requested the Lady Brittany to ring for a footman instead, giving orders upon his appearance to inform the younger ladies that their presence would be acceptable. Miss Fellows having insisted, upon notice of Ravenwood’s arrival, that she had entirely recovered her health, they had taken their dinner, as usual, by the schoolroom fire.
Their entrance coincided with that of the duke. He greeted Miss Fellows almost cordially, told Amalie that she might remain no longer than half an hour before taking herself off to bed like a good girl, scowled at Alicia, and suggested that Arabella might entertain them with her latest effort on the pianoforte. These amenities over, he turned to his eldest daughter.
“Ravenwood wishes to speak with you in my bookroom.”
Arabella, crossing the room to her instrument, paused and turned to stare at her sister. Amalie’s blue eyes widened, and even Alicia seemed to forget her own woes at these interesting words.
Cicely had stood up when he entered, of course, and now faced him uncertainly. “I am to see him alone, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, irritated. “No harm in that. The man’s a gentleman, after all. Just run along, girl, and see you don’t disgrace me.”
“Yes, Papa.” But her feet seemed leaden as she went down the grand stair to the ground floor. The hall was empty for the moment, but darkness was rapidly spreading itself across the landscape outside, and the candles in the wall sconces, though not the ones in the huge, hanging chandelier, had already been lit. Slowly she crossed the stone floor to the heavy oaken door of the bookroom, which had been left slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
A fire crackled cheerfully in the small Adam fireplace. She could faintly smell woodsmoke. At first she didn’t see him, for the curtains had been drawn and the room was not well lit. But then a movement caught her eye. He was standing in the east window. One hand was hooked in his waistcoat pocket; the other held the heavy curtain back just a trifle. He turned his head as she shut the door softly behind her.
“The moon is coming up with a lovely orange glow. I believe it thinks it has tumbled into autumn. Come and see.”
The last thing she wanted to do was to stand near him gazing at a misplaced harvest moon. She cleared her throat briskly. “My father said you wish to speak with me, Ravenwood. Perhaps it would be best if you did so at once.”
He let the curtain fall back into place and turned to face her, frowning slightly. “The Ice Princess again. I thought I had successfully sped her on her way.”
“You talk in riddles, my lord.”
“Don’t freeze me, Cilly. I—”
“I wish you will not call me by that ridiculous, childish nickname, sir. My name is Cicely. Not,” she added haughtily, “that I can remember having given you leave to use it.”
He bowed, then stepped a pace or two forward. She could not read his expression, but the drawling tone seemed more exaggerated than ever when next he spoke. “I protest, my lady, I meant no offense. I shall endeavor to be more circumspect. But perhaps you might find it in your heart to forgive a man overwhelmed by the emotions of the occasion. When I tell you—nay, when I fling myself upon my knees to kiss the hem of your elegant gown, to beg that you might find it in your heart to do me the honor—”
“Cut line, Ravenwood,” she demanded, regarding him suspiciously. “Farce does not become you. Moreover, my father has already explained his arrangement with you. How long before we must be wed?”
His eyes opened at that, but his expression was more quizzical than shocked. It occurred to her that it would not be unnatural for a man to become angry at such a brusque response to a marriage proposal. But Ravenwood was not angry. Indeed, it seemed that she must have stirred his ready sense of the ridiculous, for the damned twinkle was back in his eye. She gritted her teeth, irritated with herself for allowing such a small thing to annoy her.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said with a slight bow. “I should never have been so foolish as to think you would prefer the business done up with a romantic ribbon. I should have remembered your dislike of theatrics. Do you mind telling me precisely how his grace explained the matter to you?”
“Not at all, sir,” she replied, confident of her continued serenity despite the disturbing fact that he had taken a step nearer even as he spoke. “My father simply made it clear that he wishes, through us, to secure the succession in the direct line. I have always assumed that my marriage would be arranged by my parents, and I suppose you will do well enough as a husband.” Just put that in your pipe, she thought, giving him an icy look down her nose.
He frowned. “I see. A marriage of convenience.”
“Is that not how you see it yourself, sir? My portion, after all, is undoubtedly what enticed you to accept my father’s arrangement.”
“Your portion?” He looked puzzled for a moment but recovered himself rapidly—no doubt, she thought sardonically, because he realized she was not such a cawker as to think he didn’t know to the penny the amount of her marriage portion. After all, it would very likely be years before the duke died and Ravenwood would have access to the extensive rents and other income from the vast ducal estates. He brought his gaze back to her, letting it move from point to point on her body. “Your father,” he said in measured tones, “is sometimes a trifle too busy, I think. I daresay he was largely responsible for that very affecting letter I received from you some six years ago.”
She could not understand the sudden change of subject, but she nodded. “The words were mine, sir, but the sentiment, I fear, was his.”
“I never imagined for a moment that the sentiment was sincere, my d
ear. ’Tis as well for you, I think, that he does not know what occurred between us today.”
Her gaze flew to the bruise on his chin, visible even in the dim light, before she looked away again. “I—I was not nearly so violent the last time, my lord.” She looked back at him, unable to disguise a sudden flash of amusement. “And you provoked that incident as well, sir. A nasty toad in my sash drawer, culminating a fortnight of such pranks.”
“I disremember that bit, though I’ve no doubt you are correct,” he admitted with a teasing smile. “Nonetheless, though your attack then might not have been so violent as your action today, you will concede that it has been a good deal easier to avoid mention of a sore knee and chin than it was to conceal the evidence of an entire bottle of claret emptied over my head.”
A small choke of laughter escaped her. “It was a very good year for claret, my lord.”
“A fact that I doubt did a thing to mitigate his grace’s displeasure. As I recall, my last view of you that day was of an angry young miss striding off the field of battle in disgrace. But you left me to the fate of having a peal rung over my head before I was so much as allowed to change my clothes.”
“I hope you do not expect sympathy, my lord. The fact that you suffered a well-deserved rebuke for your ungentlemanly behavior scarcely atones for the thrashing I received shortly after your departure.”
“That, no doubt, had nothing to do with me,” he responded virtuously. “More likely, it was in honor of having broached a claret of such excellent vintage to no good purpose. The letter, in fact, was your punishment for the rudeness of the act itself.”
“It was certainly a far worse punishment,” she agreed. “I squirmed through every word of apology, I assure you.”
“I daresay.” He took another step toward her. “You have grown very beautiful, Cilly.” He seemed to have forgotten their conversation, and his gaze very nearly caressed her. Cicely suddenly felt an odd weakness creeping over her limbs. She wished he would speak further. Even more, she wished she could move away. But she seemed stuck to the floor. Her body seemed totally disconnected from her mind. She realized he had spoken, but she had no notion what it was he had said.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said haltingly. “You said …”
“I said, my dear, that I shall do my possible to see that you do not regret your so generous decision.” He stepped even nearer. Something was wrong with her skin, as if things were moving about upon it. It was a prickling sensation. No, she amended to herself, “prickly” denoted something unpleasant. This sensation was not at all unpleasant, merely disturbing. She remembered a similar feeling. It had occurred during the afternoon, when he kissed her. No doubt it was merely a sort of sixth sense that was warning her now that he meant to kiss her again.
He took another step. Her eyes widened. He was very close to her now, almost near enough to touch. But not that near. Not yet. She could not doubt his intent. But he was still too far away to touch her. So why on earth did she feel as if he were touching her already? She could surely feel his hands on her shoulders, feel his body against hers. Her soft curves seemed to submit to those hard muscles even as he watched her through lazy, drifting eyes. The languorous gaze drifted from her face downward, intensifying the sense that he was caressing her. Her breasts seemed to swell under that phantom touch, swelling until their tips pressed tautly against the material of her gown.
“Come here, Cicely.”
His voice was low. It was gentle. But there was a hint of command there, and despite the emotional chaos within, she remembered that he had been a military officer for nearly six years. He was, that note reminded her, a man accustomed to obedience from those he commanded. She glanced at him uncertainly, aware with every fiber of her being of the size and strength of his body. She caught the scent of Imperial Water mixed with that of the woodsmoke she had smelled earlier. He did not repeat his command. He merely waited, but it seemed as though he drew her nearer whether she would go to him or not.
He did not move until she stood directly before him. Then, gently, he placed two fingers under her pointed little chin and tilted her face upward. She complied unresistingly. For the moment all her resistance, indeed most of her conscious thought, seemed to have suspended itself. She was aware only of his touch, his gaze, his presence.
“Wet your lips, little one,” he said softly.
She obeyed, scarcely aware of his words, knowing only that time would be suspended until he ordered it otherwise. Ravenwood made no attempt to resist the invitation of those moist, softly parted lips. His initial touch was gentle, but as they met, there seemed to be a spark between them and with a sound very like a groan, he took her in his arms, crushing her body against his as he thrust his tongue between those yielding, velvety lips.
The invasion was a welcome one. Cicely felt him searching out hidden places, exploring the mysteries of her mouth, and she felt again that delicious tingling sensation emanating from the core of her body, perhaps from her very soul. As the tingling spread to the rest of her it seemed to intensify. Suddenly it was as though she could focus on a dozen things at once. She was aware for a brief moment that it was difficult to breathe. Then his arms relaxed, and his hands began to move over her body much as they had done earlier in her imagination. But as his fingertips moved lightly across her nipples he seemed suddenly to recollect himself.
His kiss became gentler, no longer exploratory. He kissed her cheek, then nibbled lightly at her ear before murmuring, “I hope you do not mean to teach me another lesson in the proper methods of feminine self-preservation.”
Cicely relaxed, then looked up at him, her expression completely candid, though he would never know the effort it cost her to suppress a sudden, unexpected twinge of shyness.
“’Tis perfectly proper for you to kiss me now, my lord. My father and mother would never have allowed us such privacy were that not the case.”
If he was disappointed by so casual a response, he did not allow it to show. In fact, all she could read in his expression as he gazed down at her, his hands now lightly upon her shoulders, was that ubiquitous spark of amusement.
“Confess, Cilly, you enjoyed that.”
She paused, pretending to consider the matter, then, summoning up her coolest manner, she said, “It was a new experience, sir, and not unpleasant. I daresay that in time I shall come to like it well enough.”
“Methinks the lady doth underrate herself,” Ravenwood mused gently to the ambient air. Then he looked at Cicely. “I daresay, my dear, that you are going to require delicate handling. But you may have every confidence in me. I shall not fail you. Now,” he added, seeming not to notice her quizzical stare, “shall we join the others in the drawing room?”
Numbly Cicely let him draw her hand into the crook of his arm. She was scarcely aware of anything beyond the light scent of him as he guided her from the room, his own composure completely unscathed.
5
FOR THE NEXT FEW days, although he was exceedingly polite to her, she found that she did not know what to expect from Ravenwood from one moment to the next. Though she might suddenly encounter that caressing gaze, he made no effort to kiss her again. Nor did he make the mistake of whispering sweet nothings into her ear, and for that much she was grateful, particularly after that one brief moment when she had feared he meant to insult her intelligence by pretending to carry a tenderness for her. She was certain the look in his eye that she found so disturbing was calculated on his part to do exactly that—to tease her—and so she made a studied effort of her own to pretend it did not affect her in the slightest. It would nearly always be replaced, as soon as she’d taken note of it, by that glint of lazy amusement, and if the latter expression was also disturbing to her emotions, it was nonetheless more easily dealt with. She would simply tilt her chin a trifle higher and pretend to ignore it.
The second day of his visit, the two of them went riding together, choosing a path that led along the lakeshore and through the H
ome Wood. On the way back, Cicely suddenly leaned over Connie’s neck and gave spur, then shouted a challenge to her surprised escort. But Ravenwood hesitated barely a moment before setting off in pursuit of her, his own mount straining to catch the flying Conabos.
Cicely heard the thunder of hooves behind her on the lake trail, but she held her lead until they neared the stableyard, when automatically she began to rein the gelding to a slower pace. At that moment Ravenwood seemed to spur his mount to greater effort, thus passing through the gates and into the yard ahead of her.
“That was unfair,” she said when they had dismounted.
“I don’t like to lose,” he replied. “And you set the pace, after all.”
“But I slowed down, and you did not, so if the stablemaster tells Papa that we thundered into the yard like a pair of heathens—which is just the way he would tell it—I hope you will be gentleman enough to shoulder the responsibility, sir.”
“Afraid we shall be sent to bed without our supper, Princess?” he teased.
She looked up at him again, the amusement in his eyes now reflected in her own. “A shabby thrust, my lord, though I suppose I should have guessed you’d find a way of throwing that business up to me again. How unhandsome of you! Moreover, if I recall that incident properly, only I was sent to bed. You dined in splendor.”
He chuckled again, clearly pleased that she remembered the incident. “Where was it that we went that day?”
“Squire Treedle’s,” she replied promptly. “And then the long way home through the Deer Park to find Papa pacing back and forth in the yard, muttering to himself about what he would do to us if we ever returned. We were dreadfully late.”
“A minor detail, as I remember it,” he pointed out, “since we had roused the squire to fury by racing our horses directly across his seedling cornfield. Your challenge, of course.”
