Wine.
Wine was the answer. He signalled to a nearby footman and watched with anticipation as his glass filled with ruby-red oblivion.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Lord! Gentlemen can be so frustrating!’
Cecily looked up from her breakfast to raise a quizzical eyebrow at her friend. ‘How so?’
‘Tom was so drunk last night that I had to help the valet to get him out of his coat. He was trying to dance me around the bedchamber at the time!’ Nell giggled, belying her stated frustration. ‘Why do gentlemen enjoy so much drinking to excess?’
‘I know not!’ Cecily reflected on her own journey home in the darkened carriage. She and Nell had travelled together, along with Tom and Mr Carmichael, while the Earl and Mr Harting had waited for the smaller carriage. All of the gentlemen, from what Cecily could see, had been entirely drunk.
Castaway, disguised, foxed.
She ran the epithets through her mind. Even the Earl.
Quite why this was so disappointing to her, she was unclear. Perhaps she had hoped for more attention from him. Perhaps she had wanted to see whether the fire between them was still there. Perhaps she simply wanted to see how he would behave towards her following that momentous kiss on Mrs Standish’s terrace.
Was he already drunk when he kissed me?
As it was, no-one had been able to get a word out of him as they waited for the carriages, and Cecily had already been mounting the stairs when the second carriage had reached Hazledene.
She frowned, taking another sip of delicious chocolate. Had their embrace been as momentous to him as it had been to her? Perhaps he was used to such things. She was decidedly not. Indeed, she had never experienced anything like the passion that had flared within her when he had kissed her.
Jack. Jack kissed me.
The notion sent her heart fluttering, and a warm glow grew in her belly. Remembering his ‘Good God!’ and the way he had said her name sent her heart from fluttering to pounding. Her hands trembled. Carefully she set down her cup.
‘He is yet in bed, you know, sleeping as if he had not a care in the world!’
‘Excuse me?’ Shaking her head to try and dispel the image of a handsome, sleeping Jack, Cecily eyed her friend. ‘But it is afternoon! I had assumed the gentlemen were breakfasting in their chambers. I did not realise they might yet be asleep!’
Nell grinned. ‘My Tom is a champion sleeper—particularly after too much wine. Nevertheless, I expect the gentlemen will appear soon—and they will miss breakfast entirely!’
She proved to be right. Less than an hour later, they were all seated in the red parlour with the fire lit, for the day was cold. The gentlemen were all clearly nursing sore heads and feeling rather under the weather.
‘Lord!’ Carmichael sipped at his tisane, making a face at the noxious taste. ‘Nights out are all very well, but the after-effects of intoxication are most unpleasant.’
‘And yet,’ Harting added, ‘we never learn.’
‘I tell you sincerely, Harting, I shall choose never to learn for the rest of my days.’ Carmichael looked in earnest. ‘Even now, with blacksmiths pounding in my head.’
‘While I,’ Tom declared, ‘am determined to learn. I am no longer one-and-twenty, and wine seems to take its toll now in new and painful ways.’ He looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘I was drunk as a wheelbarrow last night!’
Nell had whispered to Cecily that Tom had been violently ill a short time ago, when he had finally awakened. ‘It serves him right!’ her friend had added, a glint of humour in her eye.
She glanced at the Earl. He looked unruffled, and as handsome as ever. However, he was even more taciturn than usual, and had, she noted, accepted a cup of the chamomile, mint and honey tisane brought by a housemaid on Nell’s instruction.
Well, I hope he is suffering!
Stung by his now clear avoidance of her, Cecily could not help feeling that all of the gentlemen deserved their headaches. Including Lord ‘Silence’ Hawkenden.
She sipped her own tea, enjoying the fresh flavour, and munched on a freshly baked sweetmeat. The Hazledene staff, once again, had proved their worth, for the food and drink remained uniformly excellent.
After the tea tray was removed, they all stretched, and shifted. Tom moved to take his usual place by Nell’s side and they began conversing, heads close together. The Earl glanced their way then averted his gaze.
Mr Harting, with a shy smile, came to sit with Cecily.
‘How do you, Lady Cecily?’
She gave him a bright smile. ‘Very well, Mr Harting. And you?’
‘Ah, I, too, am suffering from the legacy of overindulgence.’
She tutted. ‘Now, now, Mr Harting, you have only yourself to blame.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mr Carmichael moving to sit with the Earl, near the fireplace.
I’ll wager Mr Carmichael gets no conversation from him!
Mr Harting smiled ruefully. ‘True, true, and yet at the time it seemed an entirely reasonable thing to do.’ He sent her a sideways glance. ‘I must say again that you looked delightful last night—as you always do.’ He hastily added the last, as if concerned that she might misunderstand him. Looking decidedly anxious, he scanned her face. ‘You are always beautiful,’ he stated simply.
Sensing his sincerity, she felt herself flush. ‘Thank you.’ She dropped her gaze, unsure of what to say. Mr Harting was an amiable and pleasant gentleman, and she did not wish to hurt him or disappoint him.
‘Did you enjoy the dancing?’ His tone was more prosaic, and she lifted her eyes to reply.
‘I did! I love to dance.’ She could tell he was preparing to compliment her dancing skill, so she pressed on. ‘Do gentlemen, generally, dislike dancing? I sometimes have the impression they only take part because they are compelled to do so by determined hostesses.’
In the background, she could hear Mr Carmichael talking about ‘a unique opportunity’ that Hawk must surely be interested in.
The business proposition!
Despite herself, she could not help but be curious. Here she was, condemned to parry compliments and discuss nothingness, while the Earl and Carmichael had the felicity of discussing something stimulating, and interesting, and complex. The specifics were, of course, none of her concern, yet it galled her that gentlemen had opportunities that ladies did not.
Mr Carmichael was mentioning the library—perhaps referring to the conversation she herself had interrupted more than a week ago. Carmichael must not have yet had the opportunity he craved to speak fully with the Earl about his business proposition.
Now, would the Earl engage? Surely this was the one topic that might encourage him to converse? Or perhaps not. The morning after a night’s drinking might not be the most suitable time to approach a man about matters of business. She shrugged. That had been Mr Carmichael’s judgement, and he, presumably, understood his friend better than she.
‘I shall let you in on a secret, Lady Cecily.’ Mr Harting leaned forward to speak quietly in her ear, then sat back, his eyes smiling. A sudden pang went through her at the realisation that such an agreeable man could do nothing to her insides. No fluttering, no heat.
Such a shame!
‘A secret? Do tell!’
‘In truth, many of us enjoy dancing just as much as ladies do. When we protest, it is all bluster, I’m afraid.’ His eyes danced. ‘Although I should make it clear that I do not speak for all gentlemen.’
‘Indeed? This is useful to know, Mr Harting. Now, tell me...’ She touched his hand playfully. ‘How are we ladies meant to work out when a gentleman’s protestations are real, and when they are feigned?’
He laughed at that and leaned forward again. ‘That, I shall never divulge!’
They continued, easy, friendly conversation flowing like a babbling stream. No tension, no hidden d
epths. Cecily still occasionally caught snatches of that other conversation. The Earl had engaged, and was sitting upright, quizzing Mr Carmichael. He was replying with numbers, and dates. She strained to listen to Mr Carmichael, intrigued to learn more, but, frustratingly, she could not hear enough to catch the thread of their conversation. Unthinkingly she sighed, her frustration needing an outlet at that moment.
‘Lady Cecily? Are you unwell?’ Mr Harting was all concern.
‘Not at all.’ She flushed, fearing that others would notice their exchange. Forcing a smile, she added, ‘I am quite well, Mr Harting, thank you. Just a passing thought.’
‘Are you certain? I should hate for you to feel any distress.’
Moved by his genuine concern, she patted his hand. ‘I am sure.’ Inwardly, she was still intrigued to discover the details of Mr Carmichael’s proposal, and frustrated that she might never do so.
Why should gentlemen have all the opportunities to use their brains, with us women expected to speak of nothing and keep to our embroidery?
Somehow, hearing the Earl discussing these matters, yet excluding her, felt more than unfair. Oh, it was irrational to blame him, she knew, for apart from that one conversation at breakfast where she had shared with him her fascination with matters of commerce, how was he to know that she would be interested to join him and Mr Carmichael? Still, she could not help but feel cross, and frustrated, and—almost slighted by him.
* * *
Jack was experiencing quite the most difficult day of his adult life. His head was pounding, his stomach threatening to dispel its contents, and his heart was in turmoil. Last night—
Last night—or at least, that part when he had decided to douse his head in wine—was a haze of memory. He clearly recalled his decision to get drunk, and the enthusiasm with which he had encouraged the footmen to keep filling his glass. However, he had no notion how he had made it to the carriage at the end of the soirée, or to his chamber, or to his bed. He could only hope he had behaved appropriately.
Stifling a groan at his own foolishness, he sipped at the tisane. It was surprisingly pleasant and seemed to be settling his angry stomach a little. He glanced at his sister-in-law, who had instructed the staff to prepare the tisane.
Perhaps, after all, it is unhelpful to always surround oneself with gentlemen.
He shook away the thought. He and Tom had never needed ladies before—beyond the obvious, short-term desires—but, still, Tom should not have made such a hasty change, particularly without Jack’s approval. Recognising his own thoughts as churlish, he reminded himself that he was quite warming to Nell. So why was he so determined to be cross with Tom?
He considered the matter. Although he was learning to appreciate Nell’s good qualities, Jack’s simmering resentment at Tom’s unlooked-for marriage remained. It had the whiff of betrayal about it. Betrayal. Abandonment in a different way, yet still abandonment.
Things will never again be what they were...
The thought made his guts twist, enhancing the wine-induced nausea, so he quickly diverted his mind to other matters. Like the lady who was, as ever, dominating his attention.
As Carmichael prattled on, Jack barely heard him. His awareness, quite against his own wishes, was entirely devoted to the scene on his right, where Harting was successfully engaging Lady Cecily in light-hearted conversation. Lady Cecily was a picture of beauty, he allowed, grudgingly. Her amber day dress emphasised her beautiful eyes. He could not recall ever noticing such things in a lady before. His gaze dropped to her captivating mouth, and he looked away quickly.
Ignoring his visceral reaction to their whisperings, he reflected, sadly, that he himself was incapable of light-heartedness today. He had slept badly, waking every hour or two to drink cool, clear water and moan at his aching head. Nothing, however, could flush out the copious amounts of red wine he had imbibed. Or the memories of that embrace. That, naturally, remained astoundingly clear in his memory.
His head pounded, amplifying his sense of misery.
How could I have allowed myself to lose control so spectacularly? To abandon the habits of years?
He was not sure if he was referring to his drinking or his embracing Lady Cecily. Either way, there was nothing he could do about it. He would simply have to endure the effects of his foolishness until they decreased.
Wine. And punch.
There had been iced punch as well as wine, had there not? He and Lady Cecily had drunk some after returning from the terrace. He should have persisted with only wine.
Diverting his mind away from Mrs Standish’s terrace, and the events that had taken place there, instead he forced himself to ask Carmichael some questions about his proposal. It was, after all, the reason why he had invited Carmichael to Hazledene. He had known that the man had wanted to talk to him for days, but there had never, until now, been a suitable opportunity. They had had two or three half-conversations—including one in his library—but Carmichael had not yet come to the nub of his proposal.
I am not certain that today is suitable either.
But he should give his friend the courtesy of listening. And, besides, he was always interested in new business ventures. Hunger for wealth had been his inspiration ever since Papa’s death, after all.
He reached inside himself for the familiar vigour—one that had enabled him to hold business ‘meetings’ in unusual situations over the years. Memories flitted through his mind—on a yacht, while feeling decidedly unwell, in a tavern in York, half-drunk, even at a boxing match. Yet today his body and heart and mind seemed unable to focus on Carmichael. He gleaned enough to understand that Carmichael was seeking a significant investment for a shipping business ripe for taking over, and promising significant returns.
‘Very well.’ He cut the man short. ‘Let us speak of this further tomorrow. Might I ask you to do something for me, though?’
‘Of course!’ Carmichael’s face was red with pleasure.
‘Can you write some of this down for me? Numbers and sizes of ships, their condition, the goods they transport, and by which routes. Anything you know. I also wish to understand precisely how much this would cost me—would cost Tom and me—and what our returns would be.’
Carmichael looked a little crestfallen. ‘I do not have all of that information in my head, Hawk. But I shall write down as much as I am able.’
‘Thank you.’ His tone denoted finality, and thankfully Carmichael took the hint.
Nell, rising, excused herself and left the room. She looked serene, but Jack noticed how Lady Cecily’s gaze followed her friend, a slight frown of puzzlement on her brow.
Have the lovers quarrelled?
He glanced at Tom, who seemed his usual self. Well, that version of himself suffering from the delights of too much wine.
Despite his resolution to avoid the feelings that sprang up in him each time he looked at Lady Cecily, he could not resist looking back at her. Their eyes met, and hers slid away immediately.
Something about her response caused his instincts to come to full alertness. Where he had become accustomed to holding her gaze for an instant longer than was strictly acceptable, just now she had deliberately avoided him.
Damnation!
He might have known that their kisses last night would change things. While the physical memories for him held mainly delight—although the delight was unfortunately accompanied by some deeper, unsettling emotions—he had not stopped to think about how a sheltered maiden might view their encounter in the cold light of day. Yes, at the time she had been a willing—even an enthusiastic—participant. Yet it went against every rule that society made for unmarried maidens to do what Lady Cecily had done last night.
It had been no chaste embrace. It had been raw, and sensual, and filled with naked passion. For just a moment he indulged himself by allowing the memories to wash over him fully. Her face upturned f
or his kisses. Her tongue dancing with his. The feel of her delectable body pressed against him. Her passion, matching him breath for breath.
Lord, she is glorious!
Swallowing hard, he gazed into the fire, using every ounce of inner strength to regain mastery of himself. Once calmer, he diverted his attention to considering further how Lady Cecily might be remembering their encounter. He smiled ruefully to himself. He suspected she might never have felt intense desire before. Maybe it had frightened her.
He shifted in his seat, sensing something like terror at the edges of his own consciousness.
Have I ever experienced desire so intense before?
He was experienced in bedding women, and knew the delights of the flesh. But Lady Cecily inspired him with more than her beauty, more than her exquisite body. And that was, frankly, terrifying.
No. He could not allow his thoughts to veer in that direction. Instead he needed to divine how best to remedy the situation. Might Lady Cecily think he planned to ruin her? Society knew he was not seeking a wife. That may lead her to assume he was, instead, seeking a lover. He needed her to understand he was no rake and had not the habit of seducing and discarding virgins of any class. He glanced at her again. She continued to converse with Harting, but there was a different quality to her smile now. To him it looked brittle, as if she were masking some inner discomfort.
His heart sank. Never would he wish to cause her distress! His pulse skipped as he took in her beautiful profile, the elegance of her pose, the grace of her white arms, hands resting neatly in her lap. He also noted the continued slight frown on her brow, the fixedness of her smile.
Cecily!
Could no-one else sense her distress? He glanced around. Tom’s eyes were closed as he took the opportunity to doze in his armchair. Carmichael, seemingly intent on wasting no time, had made his way to the writing desk by the window and was even now sharpening a pen. Only Harting was focused on Lady Cecily, his gaze rapt as he looked at her.
And why should he not be? Jack’s insides twisted. After last night, she might believe that Harting’s civility is preferable to my savageness.
Captivating the Cynical Earl Page 16