Captivating the Cynical Earl

by Catherine Tinley

  He lived for their walks, their conversations, and for the looks that occasionally passed between them. Lived for them, and yet at the same time resented them. He, who prided himself on rationality, on detachment, was in danger of losing his sanity. There was safety in separateness, peril in passion. At least with Cecily, who had somehow sneaked past his usual defences to cause him untold torment.

  His heart lurched as he recalled them standing together in the nursery last week, and how she had seemed to pry open heavy iron doors inside him that he had thought shut many, many years ago. Danger, his mind had shrieked. And so he had run. Away from Lady Cecily, away from the memories, away from that infernal carved knight. In those brief moments, years of careful control had been shredded. He had spent the hours and days since carefully rebuilding the armour of logic, of reason, of detachedness. He could not risk leaving himself vulnerable to abandonment ever again.

  And yet, somehow, his obsession with Lady Cecily was now as much a part of him as breathing. Each time he tried to rebuild the walls that kept him safe, she eased her way through them, as fine as mist, as subtle as breath.

  Deliberately, he pulled his gaze away from her, although it made little difference, for he could see her yet in his mind’s eye. With something akin to desperation, he turned his attention elsewhere, but his damnable mind replaced one frustration with another, for it settled upon Tom and his bride, who were probably even now enjoying some form of marital relations in the other carriage.

  His new sister-in-law seemed reasonable enough, he supposed, and there was nothing to criticise in her demeanour and her manners. Indeed, if he were forced to admit it, he would allow that she was pretty-behaved, attractive, and not bird-witted, as he had first supposed. Indeed, he was finding himself developing something of a liking for her. The fact that Lady Cecily was so fond of her meant something too, for Lady Cecily had wit and discernment.

  Nell also had, it was clear, a genuine tendre for Tom. Quite why it troubled him so much to see her devoted attentions towards his brother, he did not know. Yet each time he noticed evidence of her caring for his brother, some stab of pain went through his gut. Perhaps it was simply that it underlined his own estrangement from Tom. Or that their togetherness emphasised his ultimate solitude.

  ‘I think we have arrived!’ Carmichael, stating what was obvious to them all. As the carriage slowed and the candlelit windows of Rywell House came into view, Jack wrenched his thoughts away from Tom, and Nell, and Lady Cecily, and braced himself for the horrors of Mrs Standish’s soirée.

  * * *

  Two hours later, and he was searching in his mind for a more accurate epithet. ‘Horror’, as it turned out, was too strong a word, for Mrs Standish had, surprisingly, put together a reasonable evening of entertainment. The food was a little over-elaborate, as was Mrs Standish’s feather headdress, but the wine was excellent, the house unexceptional, and the company not unreasonable. He and his two friends had enjoyed a few rounds of Hazard with some of the local gentlemen, and the Standish servants had been on hand to unobtrusively refill their glasses at every turn.

  Standish himself had been gruffly welcoming, adjuring them to consider their own comfort above all. ‘After supper,’ he had confided, ‘Mrs Standish plans some dancing, but you must not feel compelled to participate, no, indeed!’

  Jack appreciated the sentiment, but understood that it would be the worst of social solecisms to fail to dance with Miss Standish. Which meant he would also be forced to dance with the ladies of his own party, as not to do so would be seen as a snub. Sighing inwardly, he finished his light supper, then abandoned his place at the card table with some regret, making his way to the large salon that had been cleared for dancing.

  ‘My lord!’ His hostess had been hovering near the entrance to the salon, and glided forward to greet him in a bustle of orange satin, nodding feathers and effusiveness. ‘I do hope you are entertained by our simple soirée. As I said, nothing formal, just a few local families coming together to honour your presence in our midst!’

  Since there were at least fifty guests at the soirée, all sparkling in fine gowns, evening coats and glistening jewellery, Jack found himself momentarily at a loss to respond to Mrs Standish’s description. He need not have worried, for she had enough empty utterances to fill both sides of the conversation.

  ‘I see you enjoy your cards, my lord. While I myself am partial to a little whist on occasion, I have not the patience for prolonged attention.’ He was unsure what to say to this. Should he agree? Disagree? Sympathise? Thankfully, she had already moved on. ‘Let me get you some wine.’ She signalled to a footman, who approached with a tray of wine glasses. Jack took one, noting absently that the glass was well cut and that the ruby-red liquid within was reflecting the glow of the hundreds of candles in the salon.

  ‘If you wish to dance then your timing is superb, my lord, for the dancing is about to begin.’ She indicated the musicians on a raised platform at the far side of the room, seemingly awaiting a signal, for they were all regarding her fixedly. At her nod, they struck up a strain that sent a murmur of excitement around the room.

  Jack knew his duty. ‘Might I secure the hand of Miss Standish for the first dance?’ he offered politely.

  Mrs Standish seemed to grow two inches at this. ‘Well, of course you might. Lucinda!’ Lucinda, her eyes round as saucers, hurried towards them.

  Avoiding gazing at Miss Standish’s gown, which was in an unbecoming shade of yellow, and which made her look even more sallow than usual, Jack focused instead on doing what he could to put the girl at ease. She murmured a polite acceptance of his request for the first dance and allowed him to lead her to the dancing area in the centre of the room. Throughout the figures, he kept up a string of easy platitudes, which she responded to without animation, seemingly focused on remembering the steps of the dance.

  How is it that both Miss Standish and Lady Cecily are in yellow-gold gowns, and yet the one looks sallow and the other glowing?

  He had been about Town long enough to know that Lady Cecily’s taste was much more refined than that of poor Miss Standish’s mother, and yet there was more to it. Had the gowns been reversed he was certain he would still prefer Lady Cecily. But, then, at this point he should probably prefer Lady Cecily even if she were attired in rags.

  Harting had beaten Carmichael in the race to secure Lady Cecily’s hand for the first dance, and Jack’s portly friend was currently glowering at them both from near the fireplace. Tom was, naturally, and in contravention of current convention, dancing with his own wife.

  For the second dance, they performed as might be expected. Jack took his sister-in-law to the dance floor, and was pleased to discover she danced well, looked well, and held up her end of the conversation with, it seemed, no difficulty. This could not fail to impress him, as they both knew he continued to disapprove of Tom’s hasty wedding and had been anything but welcoming to Nell.

  Yet she behaved with grace and propriety throughout, and he could not help feeling a glimmer of unexpected pride in her. Almost as if she somehow was becoming part of the Beresford family. He sighed. Yes, the wedding had been hasty, but the marriage was permanent. While he still struggled to understand Tom’s speed, he was gradually accepting that Nell was now a permanent fixture.

  My sister-in-law.

  A female in the family.

  Will she leave him someday? If so, how am I to support him?

  There was no logical reason that he knew of to assume that Nell would go, or that Tom would suffer the agonies of bereavement or separation, and yet the irrational being in Jack’s gut was terrified for his brother’s sake. The legacy of Mama’s death and Tilly’s betrayal was like a scar that would never fully heal.

  The emotions this generated were both unwelcome and deeply unsettling, so he distracted himself by allowing his gaze to fall briefly on Lady Cecily, currently navigating the dance flo
or with a beaming Carmichael.

  My, she puts all these other ladies in the shade! Like a golden moon in a sky of pale stars.

  Such a thought was hitherto unknown to him. Never had he indulged in poetic nonsense about women. His gut was suddenly tight with vexation as he endured a wave of inner mortification at his own thoughts.

  He returned his focus to the present. Despite his determination to resist the unlooked-for fixation with Lady Cecily, he now had a new challenge. The next dance should be hers.

  I shall dance with her, and be unmoved, he told himself, knowing he was lying.

  Approaching her was not difficult, for Nell asked to be taken to Lady Cecily as their dance ended. Tom met them there, and immediately secured his wife’s hand again for the next dance. ‘For we have been apart for too long, my love,’ he added, making Jack’s face twist cynically.

  Unable to help himself, Jack met Lady Cecily’s gaze. Her eyes danced with humour and he knew without asking that she was experiencing a similar response to Tom and Nell’s sentimentality. She agreed with alacrity to his invitation to dance, and led the way to the centre, giving him a brief yet delightful view of her back, her white shoulders and the nape of her neck.

  I should like to kiss her there.

  He pictured himself bending to touch his lips to her delicate skin, imagining the feel of it—

  ‘My lord?’ She had turned and was eyeing him curiously.

  Abruptly, he slammed his usual expressionless mask into place, hoping that he had not revealed anything of his thoughts to her. ‘Lady Cecily.’ He bowed, for the musicians were striking up the tune.

  The next few minutes went by in a haze. He completed the familiar steps unthinkingly, his attention completely caught by the woman in front of him. Her beauty enthralled him, her character captivated him, and some part of him decided, just for these moments, to abandon his inner resistance to her. He could always recover his control after the music stopped. As the whirling melody surrounded them, he allowed his fingers to drift upwards, until he achieved the merest contact with her smooth skin. Dimly, part of his mind was aware that he was allowing himself to feel things that could turn him into just the sort of fool that Tom had become, but at this moment he simply did not care.

  She did not speak, which was something of a relief, for Jack doubted he would have been able to create anything like a sensible conversation. Instead, they moved together and locked gazes when they could, and he gave himself over to the joy of being near her, of being the focus of her attention.

  The room was now very warm, which might account for the flush on her cheeks. It did not, however, explain the heat in her gaze as her eyes met his.

  She feels it too!

  Suddenly it became imperative that he find a way to be alone with her. As the music came to an end, and they bowed and curtsied to each other once again, he cleared his throat and asked if she was feeling uncomfortable at the heat in the room. She confirmed it, and he led her towards the terrace. The servants, on Mrs Standish’s instruction, were serving iced punch, and a number of people were drifting out through the three sets of double doors, glasses in hand, seeking relief from the warmth of the ballroom.

  Jack and Lady Cecily stood together at the very edge of the terrace, where candlelight gave way to the darkness of the gardens. He did not dare suggest a walk in the wilderness, much as he wished to. They avoided speaking, simply enjoying the cool spring air and ignoring the conversations of the others. Their shared gaze was turned to the heavens, and as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the stars began to show themselves alongside the newly risen half-moon. Ursa Major. The Pole Star. Cassiopeia.

  Jack’s heart was thundering in his chest, and the haze of Lady Cecily’s witchcraft still surrounded him. The music, somehow, was still playing in his head. He remained acutely aware of her, and all his senses seemed sharpened. He tracked each party of guests as they turned and went inside, until, finally, they were alone. At any moment, more guests might drift outside.

  Now is the time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Cecily.’ His voice cracked.

  Tension apparent in the line of her shoulders, she turned to him. No further words were needed, for they were, it seemed, as one in their desire. He could not say whether he had reached for her or whether she had stepped towards him. He only knew that she was in his arms and now, finally, they would kiss.

  The conflagration within him threatened to overwhelm them both, so, using every ounce of his self-restraint, he forced himself to meet her lips gently at first. Her starlit face was upturned to his, and as his eyes drifted closed the imprint of it stayed with him. At this moment, he believed it would stay with him forever.

  His arms snaked more tightly around her, pulling her close, even as his lips met hers. Their first touch was feather-light, almost questioning, but before long all notions of restraint were lost as they devoured each other, hunger matching hunger. He could feel the length of her body pressed against his, sense the outline of her shape through her thin gown. His hands stroked her back, from the nape of her delicious neck down the track of her spine.

  Daringly, he flicked his fingers over her bottom briefly and she reacted as if stung, pressing herself towards him. With a groan, he slid his hands back there, this time pressing, grabbing, kneading. A gasp escaped her as her hips pressed against his, and her arms tightened across his back. Their tongues were dancing now, adding to the sensual delight as they both gave themselves up to each other.

  Leaving her mouth briefly, he trailed kisses across her cheek and along the line of her jaw. Cat-like, she raised her chin to allow him access to her neck, and his heart thundered at this continued evidence of her enthusiasm.

  ‘My lord,’ she murmured, ‘what is it that you are doing to me?’

  ‘Jack,’ he muttered. ‘I am Jack.’ He needed to hear his true name on her lips. His inner name. His childhood name.

  She duly obliged. ‘Jack.’ She pulled back to look at him, bringing both hands up to his face. ‘Jack.’ This time, it was she who swooped on his mouth. He waited, enjoying the delicious anticipation, and when their lips met he felt as though he were a drowning man breathing air again.

  The kiss ended, the only sound that of their ragged breathing. ‘Good God, Cecily!’ Never had he felt anything like this, and he had had his fair share of escapades.

  Dimly, he sensed one of the ballroom doors opening, the noise from inside abruptly increasing. As one, they moved apart, turning their backs on the ballroom, seemingly fixated on the sky.

  ‘That bright one is the Pole Star, is it not?’ The tremble in Lady Cecily’s voice would, he hoped, not be apparent to whomever was joining them on the terrace.

  ‘It is. And can you see Cassiopeia?’ His own voice sounded alien even to himself. How could he pretend that all was well after such a thunderous embrace?

  ‘Ah, there you are, my lord!’

  Jack turned, sensing Lady Cecily moving with him. It was Mrs Standish. Behind her, another three or four people emerged onto the terrace, exclaiming about the relieving coolness. They moved to the right, away from where he and Lady Cecily stood. There was already a couple there—presumably the first to emerge following his brief tryst with Lady Cecily.

  ‘They are to play another set shortly, and I would not want you to miss out.’

  ‘Thank you. I certainly would not.’

  ‘I do hope you were not too warm.’ She tittered. ‘I believe I am the victim of my own success, for everyone of note is here tonight, so it is a sad crush!’

  Through the far door another couple of people emerged.

  Why, it was as busy as Rotten Row during the midday parade! They were lucky to have secured a moment alone just then.

  ‘Indeed, and an excellent evening’s entertainment it is,’ he offered smoothly.

  ‘Lady Cecily, might I offer
you some iced punch?’

  ‘Er...yes, of course. That would be delightful.’ The slight tremor in Lady Cecily’s voice was barely noticeable now, but it thrilled him nevertheless.

  ‘I should enjoy some, too. Although punch is not typically my beverage of choice, the notion of ice will reconcile me to it.’

  What on earth am I babbling about?

  Mrs Standish beamed. ‘Our icehouses are renowned in the district, my lord. Should you ever suffer a want of ice, I should be most happy to oblige!’

  As they walked back to the house, Mrs Standish looked around the terrace, her gaze inspecting the various parties outside together in the cool darkness. It was clear she had no idea that he and Lady Cecily had been alone. A wave of relief went through him as he considered the alternative. To have risked compromising Lady Cecily was unforgivable.

  He had stolen kisses on many occasions over the years, but only rarely with society maidens. Everyone knew that such kisses were only permissible if they remained secret. It would have been mortifying to both Lady Cecily and to himself if they had been discovered in a passionate embrace at a soirée. He groaned inwardly, remembering his hands on Lady Cecily’s exquisite bottom. There would be no arguing that it had been a chaste salute on that evidence.

  I must stay away from her.

  He voiced the thought inwardly, needing it to counter the instinct to remain glued to her side for the remainder of the evening. He had no wish to compromise her, no confidence in his ability to resist doing so, and a need to escape from the whirlwind of emotions that was even now swirling through him.

  Instead of seeking her out, he danced twice more with ladies suggested by Mrs Standish then, his duty done, he forced himself to return to the card room, away from even a glimpse of Lady Cecily. The run of luck he had experienced earlier seemed to have left him—possibly due to the fact he found himself strangely unable to concentrate.