She did not like the second option. Living with the harsh, ridiculing words of her younger self hanging over her head like a Sword of Damocles would not be pleasant. The letter had not been in Rand’s attics. There was only one place left to look.
Back in London, Cecily bided her time, then called on her cousin Lavinia when she knew the countess would be from home.
Reeves informed her as much, so she said, “Never mind, I shall try again another day. Perhaps I might pop down to the kitchens and say hello to Mrs. Palmer—”
She’d been stripping off her gloves as one who was sure of her welcome, but when she looked up, she realized the butler looked troubled.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, his mouth trembling a little. “My orders are not to admit you when the countess is from home.”
The poor man was clearly distressed and embarrassed at breaking this news to her, so she didn’t argue. “Oh, that’s quite all right, dear Reeves. I would not wish to get you into trouble.”
“If I might be so bold as to request you not to attempt to gain entry through any of the other staff either, my lady,” said Reeves. He made a helpless gesture. “We have all of us been threatened with instant dismissal if one of us so much as lets you past the hall.”
He looked so mortified that Cecily reached out to give his hand a quick pat. “Pray, do not concern yourself, Reeves. I’ll go at once. Do give Her Ladyship my regards. I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“Drat and blast!” muttered Cecily as she collected her maid and hurried back to Montford House. What was she going to do now?
* * *
Housebreaking had become quite a habit with her, Cecily reflected as she made her way to her cousin’s mansion that night.
This time, it was a house she knew well and there was no difficulty entering it. She knew Lavinia and Bertram were at a ball in Richmond and would not return until dawn. If a servant caught her, she’d merely explain she wanted to play a practical joke on her cousins.
All in all, it was the easiest bit of housebreaking she’d ever done.
Except for one thing. The Duke of Ashburn had insisted on coming with her.
How he’d known of her plans she’d no idea. Had he been watching her? When he’d appeared from the shadows, she’d been almost willing to believe in what the rest of the beau monde said about his omniscience.
“Have you ever broken into a house before?” she whispered as they watched from the mews at the back of the house until all the lights went out.
“Do you know, I don’t believe I have,” he replied, as if surprised at himself. “I am looking forward to broadening my experience.”
She rolled her eyes. “It would be safer if you kept watch. I can be in and out in no time.”
“And miss all he fun?” he said, an amused note in his voice. “Not likely.”
Scowling, Cecily moved off. “This way.”
Gaining entry to the house was not terribly difficult. Most of the servants had been given the evening off, due to their employers’ absence. It was a simple thing to use the key she’d never returned and let herself and Rand into the house through a back door.
She felt the heat of Rand behind her, heard the sound of his breathing as he followed her up the back stairs to a narrow servants’ passage.
She found the door she wanted and eased it open.
The moonlight leached all color out of Lavinia’s boudoir, making it appear more subtle, less garish than in the daylight hours.
“Stay there,” she whispered to Rand. “We don’t want to wake Pug.”
Swiftly, she crept over to the chaise longue where the small dog lay curled up, snoring.
Having assured herself that the pug didn’t stir, Cecily moved beyond the boudoir and into Lavinia’s dressing room. Without pause, she found the shelf where Lavinia kept her marquetry wooden box full of secrets.
“Key?” breathed a masculine voice in her ear.
She jumped, emitting a soft shriek. “Confound it, do you never do what you’re told?” she demanded in an exasperated whisper.
“Rarely,” he murmured back. “As I was saying…”
“No,” Cecily whispered. She didn’t want to waste time looking for the key. She took the box and, stepping around Rand, went back into the boudoir, where there was a little more light.
Extracting two pins from her pocket, she set to work.
It seemed to take forever to pick the lock. She was even more frustrated by her lack of dexterity because it was Rand’s presence that caused it. Or, at least, it was her reaction to his presence, a reflection that was even more humiliating than the clumsiness itself.
She wanted so desperately to appear competent in his eyes that she was all fingers and thumbs. Which was ludicrous. Honestly, why should she care what he thought of her?
She tried again, concentrating this time, and heard the telltale click. “There.”
Quickly, she opened the lid of the box.
Tempted as she was to pore over Lavinia’s illicit treasures, Cecily kept herself on track. She sorted through the few papers that lay inside but did not find her letter. Then she took out the false bottom and laid it aside.
She gasped. A familiar necklace gleamed subtly against the velvet interior.
“My pearls!” She stared at the necklace in growing anger. Lavinia hadn’t lost them at all. That wretch! Oh, she should have known Lavinia was leading her a merry dance. She’d been such a fool!
“The letter?” breathed Rand. He quickly sifted through the other contents of the box. Mostly, it contained jewels and love letters from men who were not, of course, Lavinia’s husband.
She replaced the false bottom. “It’s not there.”
Cecily took the pearls and kissed them before putting them in her pocket. Then she replaced the lid on the box and returned it to its hiding place.
Rand said, “She will know you have picked that lock.”
Cecily nodded. “Yes, she will also know that I took the pearls, since I shall wear them. But she will scarcely demand that I return what she stole from me.”
The effrontery of Lavinia, to claim she’d lost the pearls in play and all the time, there they were in her box of treasures! How could Lavinia have thought she’d get away with it? The necklace was renowned for its beauty; Lavinia couldn’t risk wearing it in public. Cecily would have been bound to hear of it.
Had Lavinia intended to sell the pearls? Or was it enough to deprive Cecily of them?
“Are you satisfied?” Again, he spoke close to her, into her ear. “We shouldn’t linger.”
With a slight shiver of awareness, she nodded. She was as satisfied as she could be that Lavinia didn’t have her letter.
“Yes, let’s go.”
She didn’t know what did it. Neither of them made a sound, but Pug was snoring one moment; the next he’d sprung to his feet and started yapping his wizened little head off.
Cecily dived for the dog and clamped a hand over his muzzle, but it was too late. Footsteps sounded close by.
Without a word, Rand grabbed Cecily’s hand and dragged her through the servants’ door.
They clattered down the steps and dashed through the empty kitchens and out the back door. They didn’t stop running until they were in sight of Montford House.
Cecily and Rand were both breathless and laughing when they finally halted. Cecily bent over and put her hands on her knees, dragging in painful lungsful of air.
“That was most diverting,” said Rand. “Let’s not do it again.”
She laughed up a him. “Craven,” she taunted, quite forgetting that she hadn’t wanted him along on this venture at all.
Something made him go very still as she lifted her face to his. Then he reached out, took her head in his hands, and kissed her, full and hard on the lips.
Her pulse switched from a canter to a gallop, thundering in her ears. She felt more alive than she had in months. The exhilaration of it swept through her, setting every nerve ending afl
ame.
It was the danger, she thought vaguely. A reaction to the thrill of nearly getting caught …
Then she lost the capacity to think altogether.
But his kiss was all too brief. Ashburn lifted his head and looked down into her eyes. His features were coldly beautiful in the moonlight but his eyes were hot and brilliant.
“Damn you, Lady Cecily Westruther,” he muttered. “Why did I have to fall in love with you?”
Suddenly, air seemed in short supply. Cecily struggled to fill her lungs. “But—but I…” Words wouldn’t come.
He gave a sardonic crack of laughter. “No, no, don’t say a thing. Your expression is so eloquent, you needn’t trouble yourself to explain your feelings. Those speaking eyes of yours betray you, my dear.”
He framed her face with his hands and his voice turned low and urgent. “I can’t let you marry him.” His thumbs stroked back her hair. “Not while your heart beats so fast against my chest when I hold you, not while your lips cling so sweetly to mine when we kiss. Not while there might be hope for us.”
She wanted—ought—to tell him there was no hope, none at all. That he offered her a life she did not want, had never sought.
But … He loved her? She couldn’t seem to speak the necessary words of rejection that would break their connection forever.
Rand loved her. The words, so stunning in their profound simplicity, seemed to have shattered her mind, scattered the pieces to the winds.
Before she could collect them, form some coherent response, Ashburn’s face hardened to granite. “I cannot let him have you, Cecily. I simply can’t.”
* * *
Rand, the Duke of Ashburn, loved her? Feeling wretched, Cecily did not even bother to undress but climbed into bed with her footman’s costume on.
She shivered uncontrollably beneath the covers. How had it come to this? How had she let Rand gain so much purchase over her emotions? He couldn’t love her. Men like the Duke of Ashburn didn’t know what love was.
He desired her. He wanted her to be his duchess. He was possessive, autocratic, insufferably sure of himself.
No, that declaration was a desperate last attempt to make her throw Norland over.
But she didn’t truly believe that. Ashburn was not the sort of man who played such games. She respected him too much to believe him capable of such a despicable piece of deception.
He loved her. Or at least, he genuinely believed that he loved her. The notion was a huge weight in her chest, a sick roil in her stomach.
Of course, she was drawn to him, no question of it. He was exciting and dangerous, attractive and, she suspected, highly skilled in the art of making love. He was intelligent and quick-witted and above all, he listened. The Duke of Ashburn was a difficult man to resist.
She had not done a good job of resisting his physical overtures. But if she’d the slightest notion his heart was involved in the business, she would have tried harder. It had been convenient, self-serving, and foolish to believe he had no heart to lose.
And now he said he loved her. Did that change everything? Or nothing at all?
Lying in her bed, wakeful and restless and horribly confused, Cecily wished most heartily that she’d never met the Duke of Ashburn. The life she’d mapped out for herself so long ago, the longed-for independence, would slip away if she threw Norland over and married Rand.
And what about her feelings? If she loved Rand, wouldn’t she leap at his proposal, count the world and all of her former ambitions well-lost? If she loved him, wouldn’t she allow Montford to find a way for her to break her betrothal to Norland without creating a scandal?
Yes, she’d been making excuses. She’d never intended to give Rand a chance.
The seconds crawled by until each minute seemed to stretch for hours.
Love.
Other girls fell in love with reckless abandon. They bandied that word about at the smallest provocation, flung their hearts after men who scarcely noticed them or remembered their names. The poets made falling in love look so easy.
But it wasn’t easy for her. Rand was right. To love someone—really love them—took an enormous amount of courage.
She wasn’t at all sure she had the fortitude to love Rand the way a man like him deserved to be loved. Wholeheartedly, without reservation.
Cecily had reservations. All too many of them.
But she was nothing if not tenacious. She’d always prided herself on her daring when it came to physical things, practical things. Could she take the risk of shining a light on her emotions? And if she discovered that what she felt for the Duke of Ashburn was love, what then?
Could she ever find enough courage to be his wife?
* * *
Getting horribly drunk after one had one’s heart trampled to pieces was a worn-out cliché and damnably ineffectual besides. Ashburn stared down into his brandy glass and resisted the sudden urge to hurl it against the wall.
Besotted. That’s what he was. In every sense of the word.
Hadn’t he learned the hard way that one cannot buy or barter for love? He’d been so determined not to love Cecily, hadn’t he? So sure that he could possess her and take her to wife without ever succumbing to tender emotions himself. His childhood had been a grim lesson in giving his love too freely. He’d thought himself hardened indeed until Cecily came along.
From the beginning, he’d known she was special. He’d pursued her madly, ignoring the signs that his heart was far too deeply engaged. Between them there was sympathy, a meeting of minds, shared dreams, ambitions, even a level of trust. And a world of desire and passion he ached to explore.
Cecily teetered on the edge of love; he was sure of it. Why couldn’t she let herself fall?
Rand took Montford’s letter from his pocket and smoothed it out. He stared at the elegant, precise handwriting.
If he had any sense of self-preservation, he’d cut his losses and walk away. She was so clearly convinced she’d be happier with Norland. Who was he to stand in her way?
But the mere thought of her saddled with that insensitive oaf for a husband made Rand’s blood race, thick and hot through his veins. His very soul rejected the notion of her marrying anyone but him.
He couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t let her make such a colossal mistake. She would think him high-handed and dictatorial, no better than the Duke of Montford. But by God, he loved her. He might not be able to command her love in return, but at least he could prevent her throwing any chance they might have away.
* * *
The Duke of Ashburn strode into the extraordinary meeting of the Ministry of Marriage as if he were the commander of this group of powerful aristocrats and not its prodigal son.
His big shoulders were shrouded in a drab greatcoat with a plethora of capes. A high-crowned beaver hat sat low on his head, its brim shadowing glittering eyes, a straight blade of a nose, and rapier-sharp cheekbones.
His well-formed mouth lifted a little at one corner, as though he was ever so slightly amused at the effect his sudden appearance had created. In his left hand, he gripped a long menace of a whip.
Ignoring the murmurs of surprise and disapproval that passed around the long dining room, the duke laid the whip on the long mahogany dining table and removed his hat. A casual flick of the wrist sent the hat spinning through the air, to land in a startled footman’s quick hands.
Ashburn took his seat at the head of the table, a place ordinarily reserved for the chairman of the meeting. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them down next to his whip, then picked up the meeting’s agenda.
The Duke of Montford watched this ostentatious entrance with mingled irritation and amusement. Ashburn had never set foot in one of these meetings, despite having the right as head of his noble house. Clearly, he meant his first visit to be a memorable one.
“Good God, sir! What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Lady Warrington.
One sleek brow quirked up but Ashburn didn’t raise his gaze
from the page. “My dear lady, I am here for the same purpose as you are.” He waved a nonchalant hand. “Do carry on.”
Having assimilated the agenda’s contents, Ashburn let it fall from his long, elegant fingers. Then he leaned back in his chair, dug his hands in his pockets, and looked bored. With his hooded lids drooping over those startling golden brown eyes, Ashburn reminded Montford of a well-fed lion contemplating a nap in the sun.
Montford said, “I am sure we are honored by your presence, Your Grace. Might one ask why so sudden an interest in the proceedings?” He knew, of course, but it would not do to appear complicit in Ashburn’s scheme.
With a mocking look, Ashburn said, “Do you think I mean to usurp your authority, Montford? Far from it.”
“I?” Montford said blandly. “I have no more authority here than the next person.”
“Ah,” said Ashburn with a low laugh. “My mistake.”
He cocked his head, then looked around at the rest of the ladies and gentlemen gathered around the table. Softly, he said, “But what do we wait for?”
The answer stood behind him, looking confused and more than a little put out.
Lord Delmere, the chairman of the meeting, had arrived in Ashburn’s wake. He hovered indecisively behind the seat Ashburn had appropriated, a frown multiplying the wrinkles on his high forehead. Clearly, Delmere wanted to order the duke to move but didn’t dare.
“There is a place vacant beside me, Lord Delmere,” said Lady Arden, smiling. “Do sit down and let us begin.”
The meeting proceeded more efficiently than usual, with comments and arguments kept to a minimum. Thankfully, the most cantankerous of their number was absent today: Lord deVere had been called out of Town on important business. Montford was relieved that his old rival had stayed away. Aside from Lady Arden, deVere was the most likely member of the ministry to smell a rat at Ashburn’s sudden appearance.
The anticipation built; everyone waited for the Duke of Ashburn to reveal the reason for his presence. Were they curious? Apprehensive? Or eager to enjoy a little blood sport?
A Duchess to Remember Page 18
