B006DTZ3FY EBOK

by Farr, Diane

  He stood so close it made her dizzy. His shirt front gleamed in the dim light. He smelled good. Everything about him shot pleasure through her, from the strong planes of his handsome face to the expression in his eyes when he looked at her. His eyes... so dark, so compelling. She stared into them, her heart soaring and breaking simultaneously, and saw them fill with compassion. Tenderness.

  The bitter stranger who had shared his horse with her was gone. Before her stood Derek. Her own Derek, the man she had dreamed of and longed for, despite all her efforts to forget him. Her secret love.

  * * *

  She seemed to glow in the semi-darkness, pale and pastel and shimmering. She was a creature of ether, fragile as gossamer, insubstantial as illusion. If he tried to touch her, would she shatter?

  No matter. He was going to touch her, if the contact splintered them both. Angel or phantom, shadow or solid, he must touch her.

  He reached for her. He had to. The impulse to reach for her was stronger than his pride. And she swayed toward him as if in a trance. They came together like magnet and steel, caught in a mutual, spontaneous, pull and dragged into each other’s arms as if by an irresistible force.

  There was nothing gentle about this kiss. Nothing tentative. Derek saw Cynthia’s features swim out of focus as she dreamily lifted her face, heard the sharp intake of his own breath through his nostrils, and then crushed her mouth beneath his. The instant their lips met, insanity seized them both. Years of desire denied, of emotions suppressed, burst their confines and exploded.

  He plunged into the kiss, famished. And she responded, incredibly, with a hunger that outpaced his. She met him move for move, clinging to him, frantic with need. Her eagerness urged him to greater and greater madness. Spurred by his own amazement—for this was Cynthia, beyond all hope, beyond all imaginings, Cynthia in his arms—he dived into the flood of sensations and willingly drowned.

  It could not last, of course. He lost all sense of time and place, but knew, even through the swirling emotions pounding him, that it could not last. Eventually she tore her face away, gasping, and hid her features in the breast of his coat. She pressed her forehead against the broadcloth the way she had pressed it against the wallpaper, earlier—as if hiding her face could make the world disappear.

  Deep, shuddering breaths wracked her. His own chest was heaving. For a few moments, neither of them could speak or move. Then Cynthia, with what seemed a Herculean effort, pulled herself out of his arms and turned away from him. She lifted a shaking hand to her mouth, as if checking to make sure her features were still in place after that ruinous kiss.

  “Cynthia,” said Derek hoarsely. It was as far as he got. She lifted her hand in a sharp, urgent gesture, palm out, imploring him to be silent. Begging him to keep his distance.

  He waited quietly, watching her averted face. It was obvious to him that she was trying, pathetically, to reassemble her fractured composure. She was still struggling for breath, but soon she would fight her way back to normalcy.

  And once she regained her poise, she would undoubtedly try to belittle what had just occurred. He could not allow that.

  He stepped forward, ignoring her gesture of supplication, and placed his arm around her. She threw her head back as if in agony, sucking in a ragged gulp of air.

  “That’s enough,” he said, with quiet authority. “You have tormented yourself long enough. And me,” he added.

  Cynthia gave a strange little moan, shaking her head. “You don’t understand,” she said, in the thread of a voice.

  Well, that was true. He didn’t.

  “Come,” he said gently, leading her resistless body to a settee against the wall. They sat, and she sagged against his body in defeat.

  “Oh, this is terrible.” She seemed to be speaking to herself; her voice was barely audible. “What shall I do?”

  “Marry me, I should think.”

  He could have kicked himself. What an idiotic, flip thing to say. The problem was, it was impossible to behave properly while his heart was singing with joy. Cynthia was in his arms, and he didn’t care why, or how she got there. He was drunk with happiness.

  His absurd proposal had no discernible effect on Cynthia. She neither stiffened in outrage nor turned her face up for another kiss. She merely sat there, expressionless, as if she had not heard him. Then she sighed.

  “We must go back,” she said tonelessly.

  “Not yet,” said Derek firmly. “You can’t ignore a chap’s offer of marriage. Granted, I did it badly. But the words have been said. They require a response.”

  She gave him a wan little smile. “I wasn’t sure I heard you properly. I—I’m not thinking very clearly.”

  “Nor am I.” He sat up and took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. Her expression was woebegone. He longed to wipe the unhappiness from her face. He cradled her cheek in his palm, his fingers gentle as they curved against her soft skin. “But I’m thinking more clearly every minute,” he whispered. His throat felt thick with emotion. “Cynthia. I love you.”

  She flinched, her eyes darkening with fear. “No.”

  “Yes.” He was completely sure. “I don’t pretend to understand it. But I love you.”

  “Then you must stop.” She shivered, pulling away. “You must stop loving me,” she repeated dully. “As I must stop loving you.” She took a deep breath and faced him again, trying to smile. “It can’t be that hard. We don’t even know each other. Our lives have never touched. We can go our own ways, and never miss each other.”

  He searched her eyes and saw that she was serious. His brows knitted in consternation. “But that’s rubbish. I know we haven’t had a chance to become well acquainted. But whatever has sprung up between us is real. It can’t be set aside. It can’t be ignored.”

  “Then it must be forgotten.”

  “I tried for three years to forget it.” He spoke with unaccustomed vehemence. “Didn’t you?”

  She closed her eyes against the pain. “Yes,” she whispered. She sighed again, rubbing her forehead tiredly. “What a shambles I’ve made of my life.”

  Down the passage a door opened, spilling light and sound into their sanctuary. Lady Ballymere emerged, peering about like Diogenes, lamp in hand. When she saw Cynthia and Derek sitting side by side in the darkness, apprehension flitted across her features. “Cynthia? Are you unwell?”

  Derek rose politely. “I found her leaning against the wall a moment ago,” he said. “I thought she should sit down. But I think she’s better now.”

  “Yes,” said Cynthia, a bit unsteadily. “Thank you, Mr. Whittaker.” She allowed him to help her rise.

  “Good heavens.” Lady Ballymere’s eyes darted suspiciously from Cynthia’s pale face to Derek’s, and back again. “Good heavens,” she repeated, moving forward to take her daughter’s arm. “My poor darling.” She touched Cynthia’s forehead with the inside of her wrist, checking for fever. “I wondered earlier if you felt unwell.”

  “Just a touch of headache, Mama. Perhaps I should go upstairs and lie down.”

  “Certainly, my love. An excellent idea.” Lady Ballymere pulled Cynthia gently away from Derek, then glanced over her shoulder at him. The temperature in the passage instantly seemed to drop ten degrees. “I wonder if you would make our excuses for us, Mr. Whittaker.”

  He bowed. “Of course. I hope Lady Cynthia feels better by morning.”

  “I’m sure I will be myself again,” said Cynthia tonelessly.

  Derek caught her hidden message. Feeling better, and feeling like herself again, were not necessarily the same thing. Perturbed, he watched them head for the stairs, Lady Ballymere holding the lamp high and guiding Cynthia’s steps with a firm arm round her waist.

  How strange. He had confessed his love, and had been told that his love was returned. This should be a joyous moment. And yet his predominant mood was one of disquiet. He didn’t like the way that Cynthia allowed her mother to lead her. There was something passive and listless
about it. Something that he knew, instinctively, boded ill for him.

  As he watched Cynthia ascend the stairs, each slow step she took moved her farther and farther out of his reach. The light went with her, and Derek was left alone in a place that seemed darker and colder than before.

  Chapter 7

  “Drink your chocolate, my love.” Lady Ballymere, her dressing gown billowing round her, sank onto the spindle-legged chair near Cynthia’s window. The morning sun streamed in behind her, bathing her daughter’s bed in a blinding light.

  Cynthia winced, shading her eyes with one hand. “It’s terribly bright this morning. Mama, would you mind—?”

  Lady Ballymere hesitated, tapping one nail on the arm of her chair. “Very well,” she said at last. She rose and, with obvious reluctance, drew the draperies back across the window. “Although I think the sunshine might do you good.”

  Cynthia felt she had scored a small victory. Being forced to face her mother, pinned by harsh light while Mama sat with her own face shadowed, would have definitely put her at a disadvantage. She relaxed against her high-piled pillows and sipped obediently at the edge of the porcelain cup. “Thank you, Mama.”

  Lady Ballymere returned to her chair. Now that Cynthia was no longer blinded by the undraped window, she saw that her mother appeared unusually tense. When she spoke, her voice was taut. “I trust you are feeling well enough to face the day?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Her fingernail tapped rhythmically against the chair arm. “You worried me yesterday.”

  “I am sorry, Mama. It was nothing. I was just a trifle out of sorts.”

  “It was not your headache alone that worried me.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “If you are truly feeling better, I feel I must speak to you. I hesitate to voice my concerns, Cynthia. I hope I am mistaken.”

  Cynthia felt her pulse jump. Here it comes. She said nothing and kept her eyes firmly on the cup and saucer she held, refusing to alter her docile expression.

  “It seems to me that Mr. Whittaker, in the brief time he has been here, has... well, I hardly know how to put this. He has not taken liberties, precisely. At least, I hope he has not.” Lady Ballymere paused, one eyebrow delicately raised.

  She was plainly inviting Cynthia to confirm or deny this. When Cynthia said nothing, her mother’s expression darkened. “Well. Be that as it may, it seems odd that within the space of a few short hours he managed, first, to take you up before him on his horse. And, second, to seclude himself with you in a darkened passage. Very odd indeed.” When Cynthia still said nothing, her voice became sharp. “I hope you will put my mind at ease, Cynthia, and tell me that these incidents were coincidental.”

  “They were coincidental, Mama.”

  “Were they harmless?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “He took no liberties?”

  Indeed, he had taken no liberties. Cynthia had given freely. “None, Mama.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Lady Ballymere looked far from satisfied. “I must take your word for it, of course,” she said peevishly.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  Her meekness was not producing the desired effect. Lady Ballymere looked even more dissatisfied.

  “Cynthia, I wish you would be open with me,” she exclaimed, pressing her palms together for emphasis. “We have had this discussion before. I thought you understood that we cannot afford to take you to London, Season after Season, with no results. It is imperative that you marry this year.”

  “I know it, Mama.”

  “Very well. Then you also know that we must, we absolutely must, guard your reputation. You cannot allow even the appearance of impropriety. The slightest whisper of gossip would be fatal.”

  Cynthia almost choked on her chocolate. She replaced the cup carefully in the saucer, trying not to laugh aloud. “Mama, it is far too late to fret over that, surely? I have been the target of malicious gossip for years. Since I first made my curtsy, in fact.”

  “Pooh. The gossip you speak of is the type that arises from jealousy,” said Lady Ballymere scornfully. “I do not regard it. A girl with your degree of beauty must always cause a sensation. That is not the sort of gossip I fear. If anything, it adds to a man’s interest in you.”

  “It has been hard to endure, nevertheless,” said Cynthia. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “And—forgive me—I do not agree that the gossip about me is idle talk. Nor do I think its source is jealousy. Not all of it, at any rate.”

  “What do you mean, child?”

  “I did not understand, at first. All the whispers and the stares. I did not know what I had done to bring such censure down upon my head. But now that I have been abroad in the world a trifle, I realize how... how inappropriate some of our choices have been.”

  Lady Ballymere shifted restlessly in her chair. “Nonsense. Do not try to change the subject, Cynthia. We are speaking of Mr. Whittaker. I am cautioning you to keep him at a distance.”

  The saucer had begun to tremble in Cynthia’s hand. She set it on the bedside table before the rattle of the teacup could betray her agitation. She was conscious of an impulse to speak her mind, for a change. Did she dare? Her mother had asked her to be more open. Very well. She would try a little openness, and see how Mama liked it.

  “I am not changing the subject,” she said, trying not to sound defiant. It went against the grain, to contradict Mama. “We are speaking of the dangers of gossip. You told me I must avoid the—what did you call it?—the appearance of impropriety.” She took a deep breath. “I am saying that, in my opinion, we have given the appearance of impropriety for the past three years. And especially during my first Season.”

  Lady Ballymere goggled at her. “What, in heaven’s name, are you saying?”

  She wished she could stop trembling. What she was about to say had bothered her for so long! It was high time she said it aloud. She must say it aloud. It was childish, it was cowardly, to feel such morbid dread of incurring her mother’s displeasure.

  “Mama,” she said carefully, “I understand why you thought it necessary to bring me out at seventeen. I realize the exigencies of our financial situation. In hindsight, however, I think it was wrong to dress me so frequently in gauze and tiffany. I must tell you, I believe many of the gowns you had made up for me were immodest. Almost indecent.”

  Surprise held Lady Ballymere silent for a moment. She blinked once. Twice. “It was the fashion,” she said at last.

  “Not, I think, for very young girls.”

  But her mother’s moment of feeling nonplused was over. She rallied, waving a dismissive hand. “One must follow the mode. Would you have me dress you like a dowd? I think not. Trust me, love, your innocence shone through. And even in your first Season, your conduct was irreproachable.”

  “Oh, exemplary! My behavior was so circumspect, in fact, that I became known as the Frost Fair.” Cynthia looked ironically at her mother. “You know of that nickname, do you not?”

  Lady Ballymere seemed to be hiding a smile. “It came to my attention once or twice,” she admitted.

  “I adopted the guise early, and maintained it in part because I was still a child, and unsure of myself,” said Cynthia softly. “And in part to defend myself against the impression created by my gowns.”

  “Pooh!” scoffed Lady Ballymere. “What a to-do about nothing. The soubriquet did you no harm. In fact, my love, I can tell you now that my choice of style for you was deliberate.” She sat up, growing animated as the discussion shifted to matters of dress. “I own, I still think it was an inspired choice! The combination of your Nordic coloring, your extraordinary beauty, the revealing clothes, and your naturally off-putting manners—well! I cannot but think that we owe your success to the juxtaposition of these elements.”

  Cynthia stared, amazed, as her mother’s eyes grew dreamy. “You were very lovely,” Lady Ballymere explained. “But you had a great deal of natural reserve. Had we dressed you just as all the other young girls were dre
ssed, you might have been overlooked. I could not take that chance.” She laughed gently. “It’s astonishing how much of a woman’s appeal is determined by her personality. Many of the females who pass for beauties are no such thing! They merely have charm. You, my dear Cynthia, have true beauty.”

  “But no charm,” said Cynthia woodenly. Was this what her mother thought of her?

  Lady Ballymere made a little moue of disagreement. “I did not say you had no charm. But you lack vivacity.”

  “I see.” She took a breath to steady herself. “So, in order to stand out from the crowd, I had to reveal as much of my body as possible.”

  No wonder she had attracted the notice of every rake in town. The painful truth grew clearer every moment. Her mother had dressed her like a doll, and then set her out as bait for men who wanted a pretty toy.

  Lady Ballymere prattled on, seeming oblivious to her daughter’s growing horror. “Mind you, I could not have put you in those clothes—beautiful as you were in them—if you were vivacious. That would have created a very ‘off’ impression. But since your demeanor was so perfect, so utterly unapproachable ...” She shrugged lightly. “You took your rightful place among the most sought-after females in London.”

  Cynthia had to glance away; she could not bear it. “I certainly attracted a great deal of attention.”

  “That you did.” Lady Ballymere sounded pleased with herself.

  “Including the attention of Sir James Filey.” Cynthia’s hands fisted as she remembered. She forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. “I attracted his attention almost immediately.”

  Lady Ballymere’s pleased expression faded a little. “Yes. Well. In hindsight, that might have been unfortunate, I grant you.”

  Cynthia covered her face with her hands. “Unfortunate. Oh, Mama. How could you?”