Cecilia

by Bancroft, Blair

  They stared at him, mouths agape. Nick stared back. Noise erupted around him.

  “We just discovered you were gone . . .”

  “We thought you wuz upstairs . . .”

  “With the young miss . . . didn’t want to interrupt . . .”

  “And then she knocked on my door,” Charles Stark said. “Worried you might have gone off to confront Longmere.”

  “We wuz jes goin’ out t’find you,” Fetch cut in.

  Nick sucked in a deep breath. “Thank you. Now back to bed, the lot of you. I’m in one piece and so is Longmere. The matter is closed. Now go!”

  They scattered, all but Fetch, who lingered long enough to say, “She wuz cryin’, Guv. Feared you’d kill him and be hanged.” Nick flashed a skeptical look. “Truth, Guv, I swear it. It wuz you she feared for, not ’im.”

  “Go to bed.”

  “She’s waiting for you,” Fetch said, emphasizing his sincerity by enunciating each word with care. “If you don’t go up and speak to her, you’re not the man I thought you wa–were.”

  “Go.” Nick watched Fetch climb the stairs, disappear from sight. She was here. She’d stayed. There had to be some meaning to that, but for a man who deliberately fashioned a life with as few emotional upheavals as possible, it wasn’t easy to let a crack of hope shine through.

  When the last footstep had died away and the house had settled to silence, Nick mounted the stairs.

  Chapter 16

  Earlier that evening

  At first Cecy was so caught up in her own misery she never considered where Nick might have gone. But the silence finally penetrated—the silence of a house in hiding—with none of the hustle and bustle of the men drinking, playing cards or planning late-night forays to wherever Nick and his cohorts strayed on a London night.

  She assumed Nick had gone downstairs, joined the others in the drawing room . . .

  But what if he hadn’t?

  After covering both layers of her filmy nightwear in a warm woolen robe that dated back to her early days in The Aphrodite Academy, Cecy picked up a candle and tiptoed into the corridor and down the stairs, ears on the prick, ready to run back to her room at the first hint of sound.

  Nothing. It was as if everyone had vanished. So they had gone out. Too occupied in being sorry for herself, she’d simply missed it.

  Doggedly, she continued on to the bookroom. Just a peek through the door, a glimpse to see if he was there . . .

  And if he was?

  A lump jammed her throat, her heart pounded, yet some annoying part of her kept insisting she find him. One tiny peek . . .

  No need to worry about being seen. The room was dark.

  She stood for a full minute, gripping the door jamb, head down, dread rising like some vicious specter of the night. Nick had been in no mood for company, for partying of any kind. So if he’d gone out . . .

  He wouldn’t . . .

  Oh yes, he would. His anger could have propelled him straight to Cavendish Square.

  Cecy squeezed her eyes shut, sending prayers to the God she hoped was far more forgiving than the God her father held over the heads of his congregation each Sunday. If Nick killed a peer of the realm, not all the power he’d worked so hard to attain could save him. He’d hang. With half London turned out to see the spectacle.

  As shivers raced through her, she gulped for air. Surely she was being absurd. Nick and the others had gone out on their nightly rounds. There was no reason to panic.

  When she finally convinced her legs they could carry her weight, she climbed the stairs, pausing outside Charles Stark’s door. Knock, coward. He’s likely not there anyway. Her knuckles tapped lightly on the door.

  Almost instantly, the door swung open, revealing Charles’s anxious face, overlaid with dawning surprise as he saw her. Sixty seconds later the rush to find Nick Black had begun.

  So she’d roused the house, had she? Nick thought. Was she worried about him? Or worried that he’d kill her precious peer? Or only that she might lose the roof over her head if he was hanged?

  Women! ’Twas their lot in life to be dependent on men, so how could he blame her for the urge to feather her nest?

  Nick sucked in a breath, threw open her door without bothering to knock. And there she was in the dim light of a guttering candle, clearly aware of the commotion in the hall, of his return. Waiting. Wary. Still not sure if he’d returned with blood on his hands.

  Lord, but he was weary. Thirty years of fighting for survival, for power, for supremacy. And now that he had it, it was dust if he couldn’t take the final step to the thing every man coveted and any man could have, no matter how low his station, as long as he was willing to think of the needs of someone other than himself. Female companionship. Perhaps even love.

  But he’d been on his own for so long . . . built such a fortress around all his emotions, not just his heart . . .

  Cecy spoke first. “You didn’t . . .?”

  “We talked, nothing more.”

  A whoosh of breath. “Thank God. I so feared they’d hang you!”

  The hearts of the hard-hearted men of London’s Underworld never hiccuped, but Nick’s did at that moment. Maybe, just maybe . . .

  He stalked toward the fireplace, turned, and stalked back, running agitated fingers through his dark hair. Words chased through his head in a nonsensical jumble. Calm down, calm down. He reached for a word, grabbed and held it tight, reached for another. Finally, after several passes across the room, he came to a halt near the head of bed. He wanted to look pleasant, unthreatening, but he could feel the scowl that seemed fixed in place, refusing to go away.

  Because Nick Black, who had the right words for every occasion but the times he was with Cecilia Lilly, was about to open his mouth and make a fool of himself.

  “I used to watch you, shopping in Bond Street, driving in the park, at the theater with Longmere, gaming . . . I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Me, the man known for keeping clear of all entanglements. And then one foggy morning, there you were, dropped in my lap like a bright shiny present—”

  “A bloody present.”

  “Bruised inside and out.” Nick nodded his agreement. “Irretrievably damaged, or so I feared. Nothing for me to do but pick up the pieces and make do. And hope.”

  “It’s not easy for a woman to develop a tendre for a block of ice,” Cecy pointed out, her green eyes narrowed to slits.

  Giving no quarter, was she? Well, two could play that game. Nick sank down onto the bed beside her, hip to thigh. “I’m told ancient glaciers are slow to melt.”

  A flash of warmth surged through her, but all she said was, “As are damaged females.”

  They sat, heads down, eyes fixed on the rosy coverlet, each as unsure as the other, until finally Cecy said, “You’ve not gone far enough, Nick. If you don’t intend to toss me into the street for revealing the plot to Longmere, I need to know what you really want of me.”

  Nick groaned. “Merciless female,” he muttered, but his face had mellowed to something close to a smile.

  “Well?”

  And then the mask dropped away, and she saw the Nick Black she’d caught in fleeting glimpses over the past few weeks. Not Nick the Omnipotent but Nick the Man, lonely and vulnerable. Hoping for something besides money and power to brighten his life.

  At least that’s what she hoped she saw.

  Moving with care, using only one finger, Nick lifted her chin, looked straight into her eyes. “What I want is a companion, a wife. Children. A home in the country, if all goes well.” He paused, shook his head. “I’m still not doing it right, am I?”

  “You’re close,” she murmured, the light in her green eyes showing him the way.

  He huffed a breath, laughing at himself as he struggled with words he’d never said before. “I want to love and be loved. And nonsensical as it seems, I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, though at the time I thought it nothing more than lust.” Inexplicable but true. A small shake
of his head before he added, “So there you have it. We both have flaws, we both have pasts that shouldn’t be examined too closely. But the truth is, I love you, I want you for my wife. I want Cecilia Lilly, Chastity Singletary, and anyone else you might be. Will you stay with me, Cecy? Bear with my faults, and you do the same for me?”

  Joy threatened to choke her, even as fear chittered in the background. She wanted him—was so filled with longing for the vision he painted that she could scarcely breathe. But was it possible? Could the love in her heart conquer the terror in her soul?

  She owed him.

  She was strong.

  She would find out.

  Her fingers shook as she untied his cravat, tossing it onto the floor. He shrugged out of his tailcoat before she could give it the first tug. Her heart rate accelerated to the point her eyes unfocused and she could scarcely see the buttons on his waistcoat. Obligingly, the offending garment joined the dark blue coat on the floor with no more effort on her part. Panting now, she tugged his shirt from his waistband and helped shove it up over his head. As it joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor, her gaze was riveted on his chest, as if she had never seen a nearly naked man before.

  He attacked his boots and socks with a vigor that almost had her giggling, then skinned himself out of his slim trousers. His frantic pace slowed only long enough to peel away his drawers without maiming his protruding male part, which appeared even larger and harder than she had imagined after that shocking moment in the carriage.

  “Well?” he demanded, standing by the bed, fully naked and fully erect.

  “Idiot,” she chided softly. “Since you are so good at removing clothing . . .” She fingered her lacy nightrobe, sliding it off one shoulder.

  Twenty seconds later they were chest to chest, she as naked as he, her mouth being plundered in a kiss that had her frozen to the bed, fighting sudden panic. This was Nick. Nick! She owed him her life, the food in her belly, the roof over her head, the respect brought by the job he had given her. She squeezed her eyes tight, clenched her teeth, and hung on for dear life.

  Nick felt her go cold, pull back . . . take herself in hand. Hell and the devil! She was sacrificing herself, giving him what he wanted, no matter the cost to herself.

  And—nobility be damned!—he was going to take it. It was past time she got back on the horse that had thrown her—

  No! That would be Longmere.

  Nick rolled off, took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. “I’m sorry for it, my girl, but the fear stops now. I want a lover not a martyr.”

  “You think I want to cringe like a coward!”

  “Perhaps it’s just me. Would a royal duke be good enough for you?”

  He caught her wrist as she swung on him, his left hand holding her fast while his right arm scooped her up on top of him. Suddenly, shockingly, he realized his mistake. Gray eyes gleaming, Nick loosed her wrist, stretched his arms to his sides. “Go ahead, hit me, if it makes you feel better. Get it all out. The hate, the fear, the disgust—not that I can name what I’ve done to deserve it, but if that’s the price I must pay—”

  “Pay!” she cried, whacking him hard on the shoulder. “Is that all I am to you, a whore who must be paid?”

  Nick groaned. “Good God, woman, I’m no saint. Don’t try me too far.”

  Far from an innocent and plastered to his chest as she was, Cecy was well aware she’d gone too far. His male parts had gone as soft as her pillow. Hell’s hounds, she’d done it again, let her fears, her defensiveness, push him away. He’d confessed to loving her, he actually wanted her for his wife, mother of his children, and she’d done this to him.

  She lowered her head to his chest, squirmed the rest of her as tight against him as she could. For a few moments she simply clung, absorbing the feel of him, breathing in the scent of him, her lips curling into a smile as wisps of dark chest hair tickled her nose. She lifted her head, adding several gratuitous squirms as she wriggled upward until her lips were poised just above his. He blew out a breath, his eyes glazed. Soft, squishy flesh, rising rapidly, speared between her thighs. Moisture flowed, her body remembering the joy of passion even if her head refused the good memories along with the bad.

  She stared at the lips that so seldom smiled, then back into eyes in which she no longer found menace. Wonder, command, yes—but also a dash of pleading. “Every day you let fear grow, the harder it will be to break free,” Nick told her. “But I can see, this first time, you must do it yourself. Only you can set yourself free.”

  She puffed out a breath, blowing dark hair from his forehead, her lips following with a kiss. She moved down—earlobe, cheek, lips, throat, and back to his mouth, where she lingered, teasing his lips open to tangle her tongue with his. On down to his nipples, his belly button. He groaned and firmed his hand in her hair as her tongue ran up the side of his cock, licked moisture off the tip.

  “God, woman!” He pulled her back by the hair. “Have pity. Keep that up and I’ll go off like one of Congreve’s rockets. There’ll be nothing left for you”

  A smile lit her face as she wiggled into position, her knees on each side of his hips. He caught his breath, fighting for control, certain he was going to disgrace himself before they could come to a proper finish. She offered her hands and he took them, steadying her as she fitted herself onto him, her body, in spite of ample moisture, tight from weeks of celibacy. An inch . . . two. His body reared up, seemingly of its own accord, and impaled her to the hilt. Her eyes went wide. He bit back an apology, the urge to flip her over and pound into her the way he’d been doing in his dreams for weeks now. He had promised. This was the time, the place where she became a woman again. On her own terms. Hold back, hold back, let her do it.

  Not easy. There should be a medal for bedroom heroics, Nick decided. And then she began to move, and there was nothing but the two of them. Flesh to flesh, calling to each other. Promising pleasure, passion, love, laughter . . . comfort, children . . .

  Thought ceased as each sought to please the other in a time too short because they’d gone so long without. But the night was young, and they did better the next time, and the time after that.

  But when Nick woke with the morning nearly gone, so was Cecilia.

  Chapter 17

  “Nick Black offered you marriage and you ran away?”

  Cecy cringed at Lady R’s incredulous stare. ’Tis said you’ve done the same to Mr. Wolfe. More than once.”

  Juliana covered her face with her hands. Shoulders hunched, she slowly shook her head. “Touché, my dear.” After pressing her fingertips into her forehead, she heaved a resigned sigh and lowered her hands to her lap. “I hope you are not attempting to follow my example, Cecilia, for I assure you our circumstances are quite different.”

  “No-o,” Cecy returned slowly, “though I do so wish to emulate your independence.” She paused, clasping her hands under her chin, almost as if in prayer. “I panicked and ran, and only now am I attempting to understand why. “Nick and I . . . it’s so wrong, so different than what I’d planned. At first, I thought to be the grandest courtesan in London, in all England. Then I never wanted to be near a naked man ever again. And after that there was Nick, who was cold as ice but treated me like a lady. Nick who stirred feelings I’d sworn never to feel again. So—I must have been mad—I created a fantasy. Nick had no carnal interest in me because he was a molly man—”

  “He what?” Juliana Rivenhall appeared torn between shock and laughter.

  “Well may you laugh,” Cecy returned darkly. “But it was a comfort. A short one.”

  “I should say so! My dear, I am appalled that one of my graduates could be so blind.”

  Cecy huffed before continuing, “He saved my life, gave me worthy work to do, respected my intelligence, and still I considered him beneath my touch. I, the whore who had been under the protection of three men in less than two years, considered him a bastard and a criminal. When the truth was, he was far too good for me. I
owed him more than I could ever repay.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  Cecy’s head jerked up. “Of course not. Nick would never say such— Oh. You are teasing me.”

  “No. Just making a point. I suspect, though he may not show it, that Mr. Black is well pleased with the match. As you should be . . . unless you truly cannot care for him.”

  A soft cough from the doorway, and a maid said, “My lady, a Mr. Nicholas Black is making a great hullaballoo at the gate. He’s saying we must let him in or he’ll come back by boat with an army at his back.”

  Juliana eyed her guest. “Well, my dear, it doesn’t appear your departure has him declaring, ‘Good riddance.’ What do you suggest I tell him?”

  Cecy studied the half-boots peeking out from under her traveling gown. “At eighteen, far too late to mend matters, I thought I had thrown away all hope of marriage. That I can have it—the possibility of love, companionship, children, and helping others less fortunate, all rolled into one—seems a dream, too much of a kindness for a sinner like me.”

  “With joy within your grasp, will you let the tenets of your dour childhood win?”

  A rueful smile flickered over Cecy’s face. She stood up, leaning down to give her mentor a hug. “Thank you. I’m still terrified, but you’re right. Life with anyone but Nick is unthinkable.”

  A swift hug, and she was gone, leaving Juliana with very mixed emotions. If Cecilia Lilly could find happiness after all that had happened to her . . . why could not she, who was older and hopefully wiser, do the same . . .?

  Because she couldn’t. Which was why she so readily understood why Cecilia had run from a night of love. Pleasure could be insidiously misleading.

  The driveway from Thornhill Manor to the London Road was long and winding, framed by trees, bushes, and exotic plants from all over the world. On a gray-skied day in late March, however, with daffodils and tulips nothing more than green shoots poking up through the winter-hardened ground, it was bleak, only occasional fir trees adding towering spears of dark green. To Cecy , however, the day was bright, the sun shining, birds twittering, the dirt road paved with sparkles of silver and gold. She set out at a determined walk, her pace gradually increasing until she was running the last fifty yards. For she could see him now, standing with his nose to the towering black gate, his hands clasped tight around two bits of curved wrought iron.