“But he needs something he can read now.”
“I’m afraid I’m all out of primers. I never thought to add something like that to my collection.”
“And how did you imagine anyone would teach Jeremy with nothing easy for him to start on?”
He gave a half shrug. “I expected the governesses would provide their own.”
“Clearly you were mistaken.” She derived an odd pleasure in pointing out his shortcomings. “You can’t know much at all about governesses, seeing how you’ve run all the others off.”
He pushed away from the case to step toward her, his walking stick clicking on the hardwood floor with a finality that made her pulse throb in her neck. Part of her acknowledged that she was glad she’d provoked him, if it enticed him to come closer. “And you’re not afraid I’ll run you off?”
She smiled. “No. I’ve proven my worth by doing what the others could not. You’d be mad to turn me out now.”
Step-thump, step-thump. “There are those who claim I am mad.”
He might very well drive her mad before they were through with each other, the way his mere gaze melted her insides. Odd, how he still held that power after all these years, but she’d only become aware of it since he kissed her. As it had last night, a healthy bolt of lust fired through her veins.
Step-thump.
But on the next step, he faltered. His bad leg gave out, and his walking stick clattered to the floor. With a cry, Cecelia lunged toward him. She caught him about the waist before he went down. A sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead, and his color turned from healthy to gray.
“Are you all right?” she asked. This close, she could hear the rhythm of his breathing, louder than usual, an uneven hiss. He was gasping as if he’d run ten miles.
“I’ll be fine,” he grated. “Damned leg. All that riding today…”
As she helped him to the nearest chair, what he’d left unsaid echoed through the still air. The extra effort of making sure Jeremy didn’t fall from the saddle had no doubt overtaxed him. Most likely he ought to be in bed, or at the very least sitting with his leg propped.
“Is there anything I can do? Send Mrs. Carstairs for some laudanum?”
“Nothing’s any good for it beyond a stiff drink or five, under normal circumstances. I’m not certain I’ve got enough brandy in the house for this.” Jaw set, he clutched his thigh with both hands.
The agony that laced his tone—the echo of it gripped Cecelia’s heart. Good heavens, she couldn’t just stand here and bear witness. She had no business touching him, but boldly, she stepped forward and set her hand on his thigh, below his. Beneath the fine wool of his trousers, the muscle lay in a hard knot.
“What…” He could say no more. Even that one word came out strained.
“Let me help you.” Her voice was low and soothing, or so she hoped.
“But you—”
“Show me what you need.” She dug her fingers into his flesh, and he let out a breath with a hiss. “Does that hurt?” Heaven help her, she understood pain.
“Yes,” he grated.
She eased back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“Keep going.” He placed his hands over hers. “Do your worst. If it’s to get any better, it has to hurt.”
His very words caused a cold trickle to snake down her spine. Cecelia knew far more about pain and its infliction than any gently bred society miss ought, enough to understand she far greatly preferred the infliction of pleasure. But she couldn’t come out and state as much without inspiring Lind to ask too many delicate questions. So she gritted her teeth and gave in to his demands.
He couldn’t know. No one knew. Not unless Eversham…But no, he couldn’t have contacted Lind. Lind would have sent her packing, no matter what she’d done for Jeremy. Lind still would if he learned the truth.
Gritting her teeth against the memory, she dug her fingers into the knot of muscle, flexing, kneading, worrying at the mass until Lind writhed and panted like a dog in the midday sun.
“Yes, keep going,” he whispered.
She shouldn’t look at him. She should concentrate on the movements of her fingers, but she had to know. She raised her eyes to his. He watched her, misery etched on his features, but slowly, as the muscles beneath her fingertips eased, his expression changed. His eyes darkened.
She ought to take the hint and stop. She knew very well what was happening. If she dared, she might even move her hands a few inches upward and feel for herself the evidence of his growing arousal.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered as if he’d read her mind. “Don’t stop.”
Blast it all, she ought to disobey. She shouldn’t encourage this attraction. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fitting. If anything, it was downright scandalous, but she’d already behaved in far more scandalous ways than this. Rubbing his thigh was innocent and pure next to what Eversham had demanded of her.
“What is it you want?” Her voice, too, had changed, its timbre deepening to settle into her throat. She’d be purring next, like a contented cat.
He held her gaze, and raised his fingertips to trace along her jawline in the most fleeting caress. “God forgive me, it’s been forever since a woman touched me.”
“You want my touch?” Thank the heavens. She could give that part of herself. That part of herself was just as starved for affection. Indeed, she’d never truly known it.
He cupped the nape of her neck and drew her face even with his. “I want your kiss.”
His lips hovered less than an inch from hers, but he did not move to close the gap. He was offering her the chance to complete the contact if she wished. A choice. And when had she ever been given as much? How could she refuse such a gift?
She set her lips against his, softly, easily, in wonder at what was happening to her. Never had a kiss been so simple—not even last night. She angled her head and leaned in closer, tracing the contour of his lower lip with her tongue. With a groan, he wrapped his arms about her waist, and deepened the contact. She opened for him, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Liquid heat pooled in her midsection, and her knees trembled.
But no, she shouldn’t sit on his injured leg. She could, however, kneel. As she lowered herself, her hands slipped higher on his thigh.
His breath hitched.
She froze. She hadn’t meant to overstep, even if her mind had already headed in that direction. She imagined him, straining over her, filling her not only with his body and his passion but also erasing the hollowness inside. That awful emptiness like a gaping wound that Eversham had created within her.
He held her gaze, nostrils flaring, while the moment stretched between them. Until the tension became unbearable. The muscles beneath her palms twitched. By her reckoning, she stood an even chance of gaining his acquiescence or scandalizing him completely.
His fingers encircled her wrist. “You dare much.”
“I only sought to ease your discomfort.” There, that sounded innocent enough. Her intentions were innocent, until he’d set his lips to hers. “Do you desire only my kiss and not my touch?”
She continued to gauge his expression, desperate for some clue as to what he wanted from her. Oh, the growing evidence was there, just an inch or so beyond her grasp, but would his rigid moral stance permit carnality to take over?
He steeled himself. “I should not desire either one. If you wish to keep your position here, you will leave me. Now.”
Chapter Eleven
For a long time after Lind heard the click of the library door, he stared at the ceiling, specifically the far corner where the wall abutted his study. Lydia’s bedchamber lay just above. His thigh still throbbed from the cramp, but that pain was minor compared to the ache a few inches higher.
So close. Cecelia had been on the verge of giving him the relief his body clamored for, and yet, like an idiot, he’d turned her away. He’d had to, though. No choice there. He required the highest moral standing from his staff, and so he
himself must measure up to his own standards.
She’d offered. Hardly the action of an innocent.
He knew. God, he knew, but how could he fault her when his baser instincts had fairly screamed for him to give in and give over? So he’d taken the high road and was now paying the price.
He dropped his gaze to the decanter of brandy sitting on a table along the far wall. Out of reach for now. After the exertions of today’s ride, the extra effort required to keep an inexperienced rider in the saddle, he couldn’t bring himself to expend the necessary energy to serve himself a drink.
Good God, and the boy. Jeremy. What had possessed him to allow the child to spend the entire morning in his company? To exchange small talk with his tenants beyond the necessities of making sure their dwellings remained safe and snug. Not only that, he’d set Regan to seeking out a suitable mount for a five-year-old boy and asked Mrs. Carstairs to make sure he lacked for nothing in the way of quills and ink and paper.
That was Cecelia’s doing. All of this was. She’d done something to him. One kiss, and something had dislodged inside him like the initial heaving of an ice jam at the spring thaw. Another inch or so, and the entire clog would give, releasing a torrent of freezing water and pain on an unsuspecting countryside. Only, with him it would happen internally.
Ever since Lydia, he’d kept his private agony carefully locked away. Why on earth should Cecelia possess the power to unleash it?
I’m all you have at the moment. Yes, she’d told him as much—ages ago, it seemed now, rather than a few days. All he had. But hadn’t he proven to himself a governess was replaceable? He ought to get rid of her the way he had the others, but somehow he couldn’t summon the will to call her back in here. Given his luck, she’d think he’d changed his mind.
Hell, one sight of her and he might yet do so.
No, now was most definitely not the time to discuss such sensitive matters with her. He had only to ensure he never allowed her to touch him on such a level again. As for what she’d already let loose, he’d simply have to rein it in. If he could manage to keep away from her and her doings, he’d maintain his control.
—
Cecelia stared at an uneven spot in the ceiling. It ought to be barely visible in the dark, but her eyes had long since adjusted. As it had for the past few days, her mind whirled with thoughts of Eversham, how he’d tracked her down, how long he’d been lurking. In turn, her stomach churned at the idea of him coming upon her alone, somewhere on Lindenhurst’s vast property. As beneficial as it had been for Jeremy to spend the mornings riding before his father about the grounds, she hadn’t accompanied them in recent days. She would continue sticking close to the house.
That is, if she intended to stay on. It might be best if she tendered her resignation and left before she came face to face with Eversham. But before she could do that, she had to find out one thing first.
Another image passed through her mind. The ledgers she’d spotted that first day. They contained a clue as to what might have happened between Lind and Battencliffe. Information of interest to her brother. If she could only find that much out, she could leave without feeling the endeavor was a complete loss.
She pushed back her covers, tied her dressing gown over her night rail, and slipped into the passageway.
The entire house lay shadowed in darkness. Cecelia padded into the corridor, one ear cocked; silence blanketed the upper story. It was too soon for the servants to stir, and with any luck, Lind would be fast asleep. If she wanted to get a proper look at the papers littering his desk, this would be her last opportunity.
She’d seen enough to confirm he was trying to drive his former friend to ruin, but picked up no hint of the reason behind it. If she was ever going to find out something useful to pass along to Alexander, now—when the chances of anyone catching her were next to nil—was the time to act.
Clutching the lapels of her dressing gown, she crept barefoot down two flights of stairs to the ground floor. Carefully. At one time, she’d become adept at sneaking out at night—at Eversham’s behest. A shudder passed through her, both at the memory of what he’d coerced her to do and her naiveté for always answering his summons. But that had been a different, familiar house. In Lind’s manor, she’d not yet had the chance to learn which floorboards creaked.
In the passage, she peered into the shadows ahead. All quiet, all clear, all dark. The door to the library lay closed on her right, with Lind’s study farther along the corridor. That door, too, was closed, and she hesitated. If Lind truly had something to hide, he’d keep his study locked.
She bit her lip. She had no hairpins at hand, having arisen with her hair still braided for the night. Dash it all. She’d either have to go back and hope she recalled an efficient method of picking a lock or sneak into Mrs. Carstairs’s quarters and fish for the keys. No, she couldn’t put Mrs. Carstairs in such a position, not when the housekeeper had already risked her job to tell Cecelia of Jeremy’s past.
A hairpin it was. She turned and headed back the way she’d come.
At the top of the landing, a door stood closed on her right. According to her recollection, it was the door that opened to Lindenhurst’s mother’s apartments once upon a time. Logic dictated that Lind had placed his wife there after their marriage.
Certain things in this house are not to be touched. Lind’s statement echoed through her mind. Those certain things—Lydia’s things—must surely lie behind this door.
Curiosity stirred inside her, like a caged lion pacing endlessly. And like the lion, it was ravenous. Lind’s chambers lay farther along the passage, and no doubt a sitting room buffered Cecelia from the bedroom and the adjoining door. If she was very, very quiet, he’d never know. And perhaps she might even discover something useful.
The brass door handle was cold beneath her palm. Not a single squeak broke the night’s silence as she turned it, and the heavy panel swung open. Whatever else Lind required of his maids, they kept the hinges well oiled.
The thickness of a plush rug cushioned her bare feet when she slipped inside. As long as the floorboards didn’t groan, she might explore to her heart’s content. And given the state of the hinges…
She smiled into the darkness. Her younger self had considered Lydia a rival of sorts. She’d been impossibly beautiful in an unattainable way that made men turn their heads when she walked by. That aroused their competitive natures. That made them vie for her attention like very polite stags. Only their antlers took the form of fencing foils, and they rushed about on horseback to gain her notice.
At fifteen, Cecelia had craved to be the center of masculine attention the way Lydia was. Most especially, she’d wanted Lind to look on her in the manner he looked at Lydia—with heat and knowledge in his gaze, a self-assuredness that proclaimed to the world, I will possess you. Whenever she was about, he fairly oozed masculinity, which in turn aroused longings Cecelia barely understood. All she knew was she’d do anything to assuage them.
This shadowy room was her opportunity to learn more about a woman who had at once been her rival and her idol.
The moon shone through lacy curtains to barely illuminate a sitting room. And why hadn’t she thought of bringing a candle with her? She’d have to go back downstairs to retrieve one, and hope to light it from the remains of yesterday’s fire. No, she wouldn’t chance it. She’d have to make do with what light she had.
The graceful curves of the room’s furnishings shimmered in moon glow. A side table gleamed faintly with gilt. A touch revealed velvet upholstery on a chair, and where Cecelia expected to encounter the grit of dust, the wood surfaces were perfectly smooth. The very air carried the freshness of furniture polish.
“Good heavens,” she murmured to herself, “does he require the maids come here and clean on a daily basis?”
So it seemed. The entire space gave the impression of a room whose mistress had left it for a mere afternoon of social calls. A sheet of paper lay on the writing desk next to a p
ot of ink and a sharpened quill, waiting for the lady of the house to return at any moment and take up her neglected correspondence.
Lower lip between her teeth, Cecelia advanced toward the far wall, where the white panels of the bedchamber door contrasted with the color of the walls, but even they had to be some pale shade. In this light, they appeared to be a dull gray, but the room possessed none of the heavy décor of the rest of the house.
She pressed her fingertips against the door handle, and it eased open under the slightest of pressure. Here, the glow from the moon silhouetted a massive bed with gauzy hangings, its coverlet turned down, ready for the mistress to rest there this night.
“Like a shrine.” The thought rose to her mind and the soft words emerged before she could stop them.
On the opposite wall, another paneled door stood, paler gray against the walls. Lind’s bedchamber. At this hour, he was no doubt sleeping. Her blasted curiosity stirred. What would he look like with his head in the middle of a plush pillow, the strands of his black hair mussed, with just enough beard sprouting to steal the boyishness from his face? Lord, maybe he’d look peaceful for once. That dark air that hovered about him would be stripped away to leave nothing but pure masculine beauty.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the coverlet might not be drawn up. Might he sleep bare-chested? Good Lord, she wanted to see that just once more in her life. If she couldn’t touch, at least she’d have another mental image to add to the first.
She took a step toward the door.
And froze.
A thin line flickered at the edge where the wood panel met the floor.
Her heart somersaulted into her throat. Good heavens, he was still up, and she’d nearly burst in on him. Once more the shrine-like nature of his wife’s chamber struck her. And what if he actually slept in here? Perhaps that was the reason why the servants kept these quarters clean.
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