‘But are we not here for hunting?’ he asked. ‘Indeed, when I invited you both you declared you could not wait to take to the saddle!’
Harting waved this away. ‘Hunting must wait, for we now have more important considerations. We may ride out on the next day—unless, that is, you have made a commitment on our behalf?’
Jack had to admit there was no such engagement, and could not help but bristle at the humour he saw in Lady Cecily’s eyes.
‘I should like nothing more,’ she declared, ‘than to walk in these woods with you all tomorrow. What a delight it is to be in the countryside, and in such a fine house!’
Normally, praise for Hazledene would have soothed Jack’s pride. He had a secret affection for the house, which was entirely unbecoming in a man of business such as himself. Affection could have no place in his life, particularly if it risked poor decision-making. Hazledene, he reminded himself, was simply a useful place for persuading gentlemen to engage in business arrangements that would be to their mutual advantage. The fact that he had spent a near-fortune repairing and restoring the place had therefore been a sensible undertaking, and a wise use of his funds. Nothing to do with childhood memories, painful or otherwise. Of course not. That would be nonsensical.
Briefly, recollections of happy summers here flashed through his mind, setting off an old ache in the region of his chest. Mama, Jack, Tom and their nurse, Tilly, enjoying sunshine and freedom while Papa visited friends... Turning away from the memories, he instead listened with half-pleasure as the party discussed how beautiful and wonderful Hazledene was, before becoming embroiled in a conversation about how it had fallen into such disrepair, and the efforts it had taken to restore it.
‘Lord, do you remember the time the chimney pot fell down, just when we were standing outside, Jack?’ Tom asked, seemingly forgetting momentarily that he was at odds with his brother. ‘Dashed near killed us both!’
‘I remember how much that fellow charged us for the replacement,’ Jack growled. ‘Not to mention the roof repairs!’
‘Well, I think it was work well done,’ said Tom’s wife softly. ‘It is a beautiful house.’
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Was she seeking to suggest it would do for her and Tom? Well, he wasn’t going to let her have it. But, no, Hollamby had said she had a house of her own in Kent—the house that Tom had wished to purchase. He had got it anyway, through marriage. Meeting his brother’s gaze, he realised that Tom had read his expression and was now glaring angrily at him.
He maintained a defiant stare, until Tom’s wife broke the sudden silence by rising to ring the bell for tea.
Lady Cecily, he noted, was eyeing him evenly.
She is very bold, he thought. Too bold. It is unbecoming.
It did not occur to him to notice that he was judging her by standards different from those he normally demanded of anyone, man or woman. Indeed, confidence and clarity of thought were qualities he generally admired.
After tea, the card table was brought out, and they all played a couple of hands of Commerce. It was clear before long that everyone was rather fatigued, and so they said their goodnights. Jack had the misfortune to be following Lady Cecily up the stairs. A scent of delicious perfume reached his nostrils, and his ears were attuned to the rustle of her skirts. Every sense was focused on her and only her, while inside his head his mind was desperately fighting this unwelcome fixation. Unfortunately, the fine form of her hips and bottom was directly in his eyeline as he followed, three stairs behind.
Normally, such a sight would please him, as it would any red-blooded male, but his enmity with Lady Cecily meant that the more he desired her, the more frustrated he was about doing so. Harting and Carmichael were just behind him, and were no doubt making the most of the delightful sight of Lady Cecily’s backside gliding up the staircase in front of them.
Further behind, Tom and his bride were strangely silent. Without thinking, Jack glanced back. They were stopped on the third stair, kissing. Jack rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth and stomped on.
Chapter Eleven
Well! Cecily reached the sanctuary of her room and exhaled in relief. Finally she could rest. Leaning against the door, she slipped her feet out of her satin evening slippers and began loosening her stays. She felt both exhausted and strangely invigorated, and her insides were churning with myriad feelings.
Lord Hawkenden, arriving at the house, had been forced to bite his tongue on realising that Nell’s unwanted friend was already in residence. She had easily read his surprise at her appearance. Did he think her such a poor creature that his words on Lady Jersey’s terrace that night would be enough to frighten her away from her dearest friend? He now knew that she was made of sterner stuff.
But if I had known he would arrive, would I still have come?
Banishing the thought, for she much preferred the notion that she would have accepted Nell’s invitation regardless, she nodded firmly.
Of course I would.
Even better, whatever he might have wished to say to her about it had been suppressed, simply because his own guests were with him. How frustrating it must have been for him not to give her the sharp side of his tongue! She giggled, finally giving way to the mirth that had been bubbling up inside her all evening. The more she had sensed his frustration, the more comical it had seemed.
Oh, but you deserved it, for you should not tell any lady whom she may choose for her friends.
He had glowered every time she had opened her mouth to speak, and every time she had received attention or compliments from his friends. During the meal Mr Harting had been an entertaining companion, and sensing the Earl’s irritation had simply encouraged Cecily to flirt and sparkle in a way that was most unlike her.
Afterwards, in the drawing room, Mr Carmichael had been equally attentive, while the Earl had become more and more morose as the time had gone on. By the time they had agreed to retire, his face had become as immovable as granite. He was clearly very, very angry with her. The thought, instead of being frightening, was strangely elevating. Perhaps seeing him simply as Tom’s brother, rather than a monstrous ogre, had its advantages. And perhaps he could not, after all, banish her from Nell’s life.
Her fear had gone, and with it her anger. Now she saw only obstinate brothers, as bullheaded as each other, and battles that hopefully did not run deep. Tom’s optimism, as well as his kind words about his brother, had given her hope that all would, somehow, be well. And instinctively she knew that the Earl was not indifferent to her. There had been a certain look in his eye when Mr Harting had been flirting with her... The thought made her want to dance, to skip, to fly.
Being in the Earl’s company was challenging, fascinating and exhilarating, at once. Pausing for a moment, she recalled one of the dark looks he had sent her earlier, and her expression broke into a grin. Still smiling, she crossed the room and rang the bell for the maid.
* * *
Jack stood in the Long Gallery, frowning. Carmichael and Harting had said their goodnights and entered their chambers, and he himself was paused near the portrait of his parents,
Lady Cecily had entered the Blue Chamber, and even now might be disrobing as she prepared for bed. Averting his thoughts swiftly, Jack instead made his way to the large Gainsborough featuring the Seventh Earl and his Countess. Mama was as beautiful as he remembered, but even at the time of this portrait, painted to celebrate their marriage, there was a sadness about her eyes. Deliberately, Jack looked at his father. The master painter had caught his essence—pride, arrogance, a hint of cruelty.
I am not the same as him. Not the same.
Not the same.
Unclenching his fist, he picked up a branch of candles from the nearby side table and made his way up the narrow staircase to the attics.
In the nursery, his valet was waiting, disapproval writ in the stiff lines of his figure. The man was clearly di
spleased that he was being forced to work in an attic nursery.
As if I am content to be sleeping here, Jack thought wryly.
As the man worked, Jack’s focus returned, as it had on dozens of occasions this evening, to the conversation he’d had with Lady Cecily on Lady Jersey’s terrace. Now that he knew her true identity, it was clear to see that she had been bewildered by his unwarranted verbal attack on her, yet had managed the situation with a coolness that had to be admired.
Each time he’d looked at her tonight, he’d been subjected to a whirl of conflicting emotions. Although his mind knew she was not Tom’s wife, and had not trapped Tom into marriage, his gut was rather slower to catch up with this new knowledge. Meanwhile, his eye and his body generally were just as taken with her as before. The whole thing was entirely unacceptable!
The valet offered him one last, small glass of brandy, and he savoured it slowly. The man left quietly, discreetly, being careful not to disrupt his master’s pensive mood. As soon as he had gone, Jack ran a hand through his hair, finally letting go of the social mask he’d been forced to wear all day.
Lady Cecily Thornhill. Quickly, he reviewed what he knew about her. She was Ash’s ward, probably because her mother, Lady Fanny, was too flighty and unreliable for such responsibility. Lady Fanny was accepted everywhere, and generally well-liked, yet no-one could claim her to be anything other than bird-witted. How had he never noticed her daughter before?
He shrugged. Because, generally, he did not notice young ladies at all—except to admire a neat figure, plump bosom or pretty face in an almost abstract way. As he was not yet seeking a wife, society virgins were generally of little interest to him. It had never occurred to him to learn their names or even notice them fully. He would in future have to attend to such things.
He squirmed slightly, remembering Lady Cecily pointing out that they had met before. She had known exactly who he was. He should have verified her identity, he acknowledged ruefully, before beginning his tirade against her. He had been rude towards her, and knowing it gave him considerable discomfort.
And now she was a guest in one of his houses—the smallest of his houses, in fact, and he foresaw he would be forced to bear her company for the next few weeks. Was she, even now, regretting his arrival? He did not normally care overmuch what others thought of him. But he had behaved badly towards her, and it seemed important that he make things right.
Setting down his glass, he made for his bed. Being in his old nursery was playing havoc with his control over old memories. Here, he and Tom had slept, and eaten, and played. Here, Tilly had cared for them. Here, he had cried silently, night after night, after Mama had died and Tilly had gone away.
He sighed and blew out the candles. He did not expect much sleep tonight.
* * *
The housemaid who had been assigned to look after her had returned to assist Cecily in preparing for bed. A plump, middle-aged woman, she was warm and helpful without being pert, and as unlike a coolly efficient London housemaid as it was possible to be. Her name, she had informed Cecily, yesterday, was Molly.
Cecily sat before the mirror, now clothed in her nightgown. The maid began removing the pins from her hair, then brushed it out before dampening her side curls and wrapping them in rags, ready for the morrow. Cecily let the woman do her work, her eyes glazing over as her attention focused inwards. Her thoughts, as before, were entirely on one man.
Why am I not frightened of Lord Hawkenden any more?
She checked inwardly. There was nervousness, yes, but also excitement. The fear that she had carried before today was simply no longer present. Had she ever been truly afraid of him? Perhaps, for a moment when she had thought him to be mad, on the terrace.
Her change of heart had been partly due to Tom’s reaction to the tale, she realised. If he could see the humour in it, perhaps the Earl was not so dreadful, after all. And Tom, presumably, knew the Earl better than anyone. They did look very alike, and Cecily could not help but wonder if they were alike in character. Tom had demonstrated a warmth and humour earlier that had impressed Cecily, despite her hitherto more negative impression of his brother.
At that very moment the maid dropped the hairbrush, which clattered off the fireplace with a resounding rattle. ‘Oh, dear, miss,’ she said loudly, suddenly all bustle and chat. ‘Look what I’ve done, and you just getting all sleepy and ready for your bed. Now, you’re all done, so let me pull back the covers for you. I put a warming pan in earlier, just like Miss Tillot used to always do for the boys, for who does not like a warming pan on a cool night such as this? Not that it is as cold as it can be in winter, naturally. But even in spring the nights can be cold. Why, I’ve seen snow at Easter, you know!’
She ushered Cecily towards the bed, all noise and fuss, and Cecily found herself between the sheets, the warming pan at her feet and a wax candle on her bedstand. Molly shuffled out with a cheery goodnight, and Cecily finally drew breath.
In the silence that followed, Cecily stretched out in the comfortable bed and allowed the events of the day to flit through her mind. Abruptly, the picture in her mind shifted to herself and Lord Hawkenden. Briefly, she tried to imagine him lying alongside her. The thought created a strange mix of emotions and made her insides churn in an alarming manner, so instead she pictured him as she had seen him earlier, lost in morose irritability. She stifled a giggle. Somehow, the exhilaration was still with her.
Blowing out the last candle, she turned on her side to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Cecily entered the breakfast room with some trepidation, relieved to find only the footmen present. It was, she supposed, hardly surprising, since the gentlemen had probably all been a trifle bosky last night—she had noted the numerous bottles of wine they had collectively consumed at dinner—while no doubt Nell and her husband would rise late, as was apparently their usual habit.
Cecily herself had slept surprisingly well, but had awoken without that brazen confidence that had carried her through the evening. Nervousness had gripped her—perhaps because it was dawning on her that she would be constantly in the Earl’s company for many, many days, and the advantage she had gained from catching him unawares yesterday was now gone. If he remained opposed to her friendship with Nell, then he might continue to show his disapproval throughout her stay.
She had expected a relaxed, quiet visit with Nell and her husband, enjoying the freedom of being away from Mama’s scrutiny, but overnight the visit had become a house party. The smallest, the most intimate house party she had ever experienced. Normally there were at least a score of guests at such gatherings, and she could hide behind her mother’s vivaciousness and the sheer numbers of people.
This time they were a party of six. Nell and Tom. Mr Harting and Mr Carmichael. The Earl and Cecily. The six of them would come to know each other well over the coming weeks, so she needed to be ready to adjust to new challenges.
How would he behave towards her today? And why, for goodness’ sake, did it bother her so much? Already she could see that Mr Beresford—that Tom—was more than a match for his older brother in some ways, certainly from the dealings she had had with them so far. Tom seemed determined to protect his marriage from criticism, which Cecily had to admire. He would also, Cecily knew, assert Nell’s right to maintain her friendship with Cecily, whom he now considered a sister.
As she nibbled her way through eggs and buttered toast, and sipped tea that was satisfyingly hot, the tightness in Cecily’s shoulders began to loosen a little. Cool morning light was glowing through the multi-paned window, illuminating the rich wood panelling and the landscapes that adorned the walls. Outside, birdsong and breezes provided a soothing harmony.
The door opened, and the Earl strode in. He was the picture of health, good looks and vigour, and on sight of him, Cecily’s stomach began its now familiar fluttering.
He bowed. ‘Good day, Lady Cecil
y.’
‘Good day, my lord.’
Thank goodness for the presence of the footmen! As the Earl helped himself to eggs, beef and sausages, and was served tea, he and Cecily made idle conversation—about the pleasant weather, the prettiness of the house, and their plans to walk out today. There was no sign of his suffering any ill-effects from last evening’s rich food and fine wines. Indeed, he looked...he looked frustratingly good.
‘Where are we to walk to, my lord?’ She kept her tone light. Strange how they could seem so polite on the surface. The footman could have no clue of the history between them.
‘We shall not be able to climb Thursley Hill today, I fear.’ His tone was flat. ‘I have already been out and the hilltop is beset by fog.’
‘That is a shame,’ she returned, despite having no idea of the location or significance of Thursley Hill. ‘Your brother mentioned a woodland area?’
‘Crow Wood, yes,’ he returned. His gaze became unfocused. ‘Tom and I would play there as children.’ He shook his head slightly, as if trying to rid himself of the memory. ‘It is an agreeable spot, and if the day remains dry we may wander there for quite some time.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me, but I cannot see you tolerating such purposeless idleness.’ Lord! She regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth. She should not be commenting on his character!
His dark eyes widened briefly, then, as if despite himself, the ghost of a smile hovered at the edges of his lips. ‘Why should you say so, Lady Cecily?’
There was no getting away from it. An answer was required. ‘I—You seem so...so vital, somehow, that purposeless wandering just does not...’ Her voice tailed away. He was eyeing her directly, and the swirling in her stomach had increased to a point where she momentarily felt quite breathless. Quite why this man above all others should have such a potent effect on her, she had no idea.
Captivating the Cynical Earl Page 9