Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr. Gray

by Janice Preston

  It wasn’t that she begrudged either Leo or Vernon their happiness. She was thrilled to see them both so wonderfully, ecstatically in love. And she liked both Rosalind and Thea. Very much. But Vernon’s marriage, coming so soon after Leo’s, had left Cecily...where, exactly?

  And now she could allow her innermost fears to float up to the surface and form into coherent thoughts, she could pin down the source of her greatest fear: these two momentous changes in the life of the Beauchamp family had left Cecily fast travelling down the road to that unenviable position: the unwed dependant.

  The maiden aunt.

  The recipient of pitying looks and the butt of snide jokes.

  No longer mistress of anything, but a supplicant.

  Her life had changed, through no fault of her own, and she had no power to prevent what would, inevitably, come. Her stomach clenched with resentment at the unfairness of the hand life had dealt her and she quickened her pace, as though she could outrun her shame at such mean-spirited and selfish thoughts and feelings. She reached the end of the path, turned a corner and thumped straight into a solid wall of flesh.

  ‘Oh!’

  Cecily teetered for a moment and two hard hands encircled her arms to steady her, the grip powerful and hot against her bare skin. Her heart thundered in her chest as she realised how reckless she had been, wandering around a strange place in the dark, with only the moon and stars to light her way, and she struggled to free herself. The man instantly released her, his hands falling to his sides, and her pulse steadied. She tipped back her head to see a pair of dark fathomless eyes set in a barely visible face, framed by a silhouette of straggling dark curls. The glint of a diamond in among those curls triggered recognition and her breath caught in her chest as her pulse rocketed once again.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Mr Gray. Good evening.’ Cecily smoothed her hair back with hands that trembled slightly. ‘I did not expect to see anyone else out here.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  ‘Yes. Well...’ Cecily glanced back towards the house, her heart skittering in her chest. ‘I really must be getting back.’

  ‘Is that what you wish to do?’

  ‘I...’ She stared up at him. ‘That is an odd question.’

  ‘Is it? It is simple to me. Either you wish to return, or you feel you must return. They are different.’

  Cecily’s brows twitched into a frown. ‘I shouldn’t be out here alone with you.’

  He ran his fingernails along his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the hush of the evening. ‘You think you are in danger from me?’

  ‘I... No. I did not mean that. It is not proper, however. I have my reputation to consider.’

  His teeth gleamed in a smile and he gestured at the expanse of garden between them and the house. ‘There is no one to see us. No one to question us. No one to condemn. And we are fellow guests, talking.’

  Put like that...he was right, but she found his logic infuriating. Did he not understand? But of course he would not understand...he was a gipsy. What did he know of etiquette and the strictures of society?

  ‘Let us walk a while. Tell me why you are troubled.’

  Cecily gasped at such impertinence. ‘Troubled?’

  Outrageous! She should walk away. Now. She should refuse to engage with him. But instead she laughed. It was intended to be a dismissive laugh, but it emerged as a high-pitched squeak and her cheeks grew hot. ‘I am not troubled.’

  ‘Then why do you walk out here alone?’

  ‘I needed some air. And you, Mr Gray?’

  He tilted his head to the night sky and inhaled. Instead of a tight-fitting neckcloth such as the other gentlemen wore, a simple blue cravat encircled his neck and was loosely knotted at his chest. His neck as he looked skywards was thick and strong, his shoulders wide and straight, his chest broad. The power of the man was undeniable and yet... Cecily consulted her instincts. She had no fear of him. Her only fear—no, that was too strong—her only apprehension was being seen. Mr Gray’s coat gaped open as his chest swelled with his indrawn breath, revealing an unbuttoned, brightly patterned waistcoat with a gold watch chain dangling loose from its top pocket and, beneath that, a pale shirt.

  ‘I, too, needed air.’

  He studied her once more. She saw again the glimmer of white as he huffed a quiet laugh and she suddenly felt rather breathless.

  ‘It is one thing we have in common then.’ His voice—warm and melodious—seemed to curl around her. ‘I thought there might be...something.’

  His eyes were fixed on her face and, her mouth dry, she moistened her lips.

  ‘I... I do not know what you mean.’

  He said nothing, but continued to watch her. Cecily shivered. She really ought to return. If her family realised she was missing, they would worry. She was jolted from her thoughts as Mr Gray shrugged out of his jacket and settled it over her shoulders. If she’d realised his intention, she would have refused the jacket, fretting about dirt, lice and fleas, and unclean practices. Her keen sense of smell, however, detected nothing more than the intermingled scents of woodsmoke, musky male and soap. She felt her tense muscles relax and she hugged the edges of the jacket across her chest as the warmth seeped into her chilled flesh.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are welcome, Lady Cecily.’

  ‘You disappeared after the breakfast. Where did you go?’

  ‘I am flattered you noticed.’

  ‘I believe Mr Markham remarked upon your absence.’ It was a lie, but she would not have him know she had been watching him. Or, in truth, been fascinated by him. ‘Is your...er...tribe staying hereabouts?’

  ‘No. I have come alone.’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  He stepped back. ‘I am a free man. I go where I please.’

  ‘Of course you are. I apologise. I did not mean this to sound like an interrogation.’

  He inclined his head, but said nothing further.

  Cecily frowned. ‘You do not sound like a gipsy.’

  ‘And how should a gipsy sound, in your vast experience, my lady?’

  She stiffened, her chin lifting, irritated by his readiness to take offence.

  ‘In my experience,’ she said, haughtily, ‘gipsies often speak with a foreign accent. I merely meant you sound as English as I.’

  She swung his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him. ‘Thank you. I am warm enough now. I must return to the party.’

  He reached and in one smooth movement took his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. He then grasped her hand before she could withdraw it, his warm fingers closing around hers.

  ‘I was born in England. And we prefer to call ourselves Romanies, or the Rom.’

  It was not an apology, but she was mollified nevertheless. Mr Gray gave the impression of a man not given to apologies or explanations.

  ‘I shall endeavour to remember that,’ she said, by way of appeasement.

  Although her brain instructed her to snatch her hand from his, she allowed it to remain—intrigued by the unexpected gentleness of his touch as he unhurriedly removed her evening glove, and strangely soothed by the caress of his thumb as it circled her palm.

  ‘And is your mind now trouble free?’ His intense gaze bored into her. ‘I watched you. In the church.’

  His words reignited her fears for her future as she had watched Vernon and Thea exchange their vows and her inner turmoil erupted anew. She pressed her free hand to her belly in a futile attempt to calm her nerves.

  ‘And now I ask myself why the sister of a rich and powerful duke should have any reason to be unhappy.’

  ‘Unhappy?’

  He shrugged, his thumb still circling her palm in that spellbinding way, and by concentrating on that motion her inner chaos subsided again. His free arm slid around her waist and his hand settled at the small of her back. With a gentle nudge, he turned her to continue to follow the path and she found herself walking side by side with Mr Gray away from the house and
deeper into the garden, even though his palm was no longer at her back and he had at some point released her hand. Cecily swallowed.

  I should not go with him. I really should not.

  ‘Walk with me. I will listen.’

  He halted and so did she. He touched his finger to her chin...such a fleeting touch. ‘I will not judge.’

  Then he began to stroll along the path again.

  And so did Cecily.

  Yet again, all the precepts of her upbringing screamed at her to return to the house. To surround herself with...normal...people. To do and behave as would be expected of her and as she expected of herself, as she had done her entire life. But the urge to unburden herself was stronger. There was nobody in her life she could confide in. Not about this.

  Maybe...

  She stole a glance at the man by her side. His expression gave away nothing of his thoughts, but it was relaxed. Not tense, closed off, secretive or eager, just...he was just...

  He is present...neither planning tomorrow nor brooding over yesterday.

  The words whispered out of nowhere and she recognised them as the truth. He was calm and unhurried. Not impatiently waiting for her to respond, like most men of her acquaintance would be—wanting to deal with whatever she was fretting about so they could then get on with their more important lives.

  He is content to wait and for me to speak or not speak as I choose. What harm can there be? He is a gip—Romany—and in a few days I shall return to my normal life. Our paths will never cross again.

  And, somehow, that freedom to choose, the magic of the night, the scent of the roses and Mr Gray’s calming presence combined to induce a trancelike state in which the normal rules by which Cecily always lived did not apply.

  ‘I was thinking about my future.’

  ‘And you see unhappiness ahead for you?’

  ‘I... Yes.’

  Silence reigned.

  ‘My brothers’ marriages...so close together... I did not expect...’

  Her throat tightened, holding her words inside. They had reached the end of the path, arriving at an open area paved with flagstones, bordered on the far side by a stone wall as high as a man, with an arched gateway. Cecily crossed the area to a raised pool set in the middle and gazed into the still, black water at the reflection of the moon—a silvery sphere that, as she trailed her fingers in the water, shimmered and danced. She turned to face Absalom Gray. Here was her opportunity to sort out her tangled thoughts and feelings—to speak her concerns out loud and to think over her choices for her future. Mr Gray remained at the edge of the square, but the weight of his gaze upon her made him feel closer. Gave a feeling of intimacy. Cecily took a breath.

  ‘I never expected my brothers to marry. Leo...he was married before and it was not a happy experience for him, although the marriage did give him two sons and a daughter.’ She paced across the square, and back again to the pool. ‘He is forty years old now and has been a widower for thirteen years. He has been pursued by endless females with the desire to be a duchess. I never...ever...’

  ‘You never expected he would fall in love?’

  There was no condemnation in his tone, but she felt her defences rise up.

  ‘I am happy for him. I love my brother and I liked Rosalind from the moment I met her. We became friends. But... I was seventeen when Leo’s first wife died. I raised his children and I ran our household. And now...and now...’

  * * *

  Lady Cecily’s voice faded into silence and Zachary Absalom Graystoke waited, content to allow her to unburden herself in her own time, knowing she would feel better once she had released whatever was troubling her. He was happy to help this duke’s sister to face up to and resolve whatever was troubling her. Beyond that, he had no intentions. No ulterior motives. These people were as far removed from his life as it was possible to be. Facts were facts and a half-blood Romany was no more acceptable to the society in which the high-born Beauchamps moved than a full-blood Rom, no matter who his father had been.

  Lady Cecily Beauchamp had fascinated him from the very first moment he set eyes upon her. She had arrived late in the church and had slipped into the back pew, next to him. Someone else had come in with her, sitting on her far side, but Zach had not the smallest interest in the young man, who was clearly related to the Duke. But the woman—he did not know her identity at the time—had captured his attention with her intoxicating scent and her tightly controlled emotions and her luscious curves. She sat there, next to him, all prim and proper and ladylike—a perfect lady—dressed in a gown the colour of bluebells, with a bonnet to match, and she did not see him. She had no concept of his presence until—with the need to move past her to go and help Daniel’s father into his carriage—he had touched her elbow.

  He had felt the jolt of connection deep in his gut: an emotional connection that continued to bridge the physical distance between the two of them even when they no longer touched, shimmering between them. And he had recognised then, and later at the wedding breakfast, the disquiet she was at pains to conceal from everyone around her, using her perfect, ladylike manners as a shield. And he had suffered another jolt, this time one of disappointment, when the Duke had introduced her as his sister, Lady Cecily. And although the distance between them had become a chasm, that connection lingered, even though Zach knew damned well he had nothing to offer any woman, given the way he had chosen to live his life.

  ‘And now...’ her voice as she continued drew Zach back to the present ‘...here I am, thirty years of age, and—as Vernon would say—at my last prayers.’

  He had thought her a similar age to him, but she was the older by four years. Another gulf yawned between them, but it barely mattered—a hundred such gulfs could make no difference.

  ‘I have never had a great ambition to marry, but then I thought I would always have the Abbey to run; I thought I would always be at the helm of the family, helping Leo.’ Her voice shook and she sucked in a deep breath. ‘I feel usurped. There. You asked why the sister of a rich and powerful duke should have any reason to be unhappy and now you know. You may see what a horrible person I am, beneath all this.’ She indicated herself with an abrupt sweep of her hand.

  ‘You fear the change your brother’s marriage will bring?’

  ‘Yes. And I know that is selfish. The strange thing is...Leo has been married a month already, so I knew everything had changed, but I pushed it from my mind. There was Olivia’s come out to manage—’

  ‘Olivia?’

  ‘My niece. Leo’s youngest. She made her debut into society this spring.’ She perched on the low wall surrounding the pool and trailed her fingers through the water again. ‘It was not until I saw Vernon and Thea together in the church that the truth hit me...’ She surged to her feet once more and again she paced. To and fro. ‘In my world—’ she halted in front of him, and he tamped down the urge to touch her; to soothe her ‘—if a lady does not marry, she eventually becomes...oh, I don’t know how to explain it...invisible. Unnecessary. She fulfils no useful function but to run occasional errands or to carry out the tasks nobody else cares to fulfil.’ She fixed him with eyes that glinted fiercely. ‘I do not want to be that supplicant living in other people’s homes; tolerated rather than wanted or needed; dependent upon others for her very existence.’

  ‘Let us walk.’ Movement would help him to resist her.

  She nodded, once, and glanced back towards the house. She turned, resolutely, and set off towards the archway in the wall. Through there was an expanse of meadow and a small ornamental lake that had been formed when a stream was dammed.

  ‘You believe that is what your future now holds?’

  ‘It is inevitable, but I cannot talk to my family about it. They would ridicule such fears—especially Leo and Vernon. They will reassure me that I am loved and that my home will always be with the family at the Abbey. But Rosalind is the lady of the house now and she, like me, is accustomed to being in charge, having raised her younger brot
hers and sister. And I value our friendship... I do not wish to clash with Rosalind over anything when we all return home for the summer.’

  ‘Do you have choices?’

  ‘Choices for ladies who do not wed are limited and they are neither enviable nor easy.’

  ‘But you would not have to earn your living?’

  ‘No.’ They strolled down the gentle slope of grass towards the lake. He heard her sigh. ‘No, I would not. Leo would give me an allowance. A generous one. And I am fully aware that makes me sound ungrateful for my life of privilege.’

  He sensed her eyes upon him, but kept his attention straight ahead, on the stretch of water ahead, gleaming in the light of the moon.

  ‘I am aware of how fortunate I am.’

  ‘Yes. You at least do have choices, unlike some.’

  Unlike Mama.

  His mother’s face materialised in his mind’s eye and a wave of grief rolled through him. He did not fight it, nor did he succumb to it. Grief was a part of life and living and he had learned to accept its appearance, knowing it would recede soon enough.

  They paused at the water’s edge.

  ‘It may help you to decide what to do if you speak your choices out loud.’

  There was a lilt of humour in her voice as she said, ‘You mean you are not going to advise me what my choices are?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You are a man. In my world, most men would fall over themselves to prove they know the best way for me to proceed.’

  ‘I am not most men.’

  There was a pause. ‘No. That appears to be true.’

  ‘So tell me then—in your world, what choices are there for an unmarried lady of your birth?’

  ‘For a respectable lady with a need to earn a living, she might choose the role of a companion or a governess.’

  ‘And for a respectable lady with no need to earn her living?’

  She sighed. ‘Nothing. There is nothing to look forward to but that slow descent into the role of dependent relative, as I said.’