B006DTZ3FY EBOK

by Farr, Diane

“I’ll meet you wherever you say, whenever you say.”

  “Nowhere! And never.”

  She tried to sidestep him, but again he blocked her path. This time he backed her slowly toward the wall. “You won’t escape me,” he told her, his voice low but forceful. “You know you won’t escape me. I’ll haunt you, Cynthia, as you have haunted me. You don’t know what I have suffered, these three years.”

  She came up against the wall and, perforce, halted. “I do know,” she whispered. Her face was white and drawn. “I suffered too.”

  Her nearness was maddening. He wanted to crush himself against her body. He wanted it so badly he felt himself shaking from the effort to not touch her. “Meet me tonight.” He loomed over her, his voice rasping from the tightness in his throat. “I don’t care where.”

  He saw her eyes dilate. He could see her pulse jump in the hollow of her throat. Her lips parted. She whispered, as if in a trance, “At the top of the stairs. I’ll meet you at the top of the stairs.”

  “When?”

  “Midnight. No—a quarter to twelve. I’ll meet you at a quarter to twelve.”

  “I’ll be there.” He took a breath and straightened, breaking the spell. Cynthia raised a trembling hand to her cheek, seeming horror-struck at what she had promised. Then she turned, ducked beneath his outstretched arm, and fled.

  He smiled at her retreating form. Victory sang in his veins; he wanted to shout and leap and punch the air. “Which stairs?” he murmured aloud, but the passage was empty. Derek grinned. “Never mind,” he told the absent Cynthia. “I’ll find you.”

  Chapter 9

  Cynthia laid the seven of diamonds face-up on the table before her, neatly covering all save the top half-inch of the eight of clubs. Derek groaned aloud and Hannah cried, “Cynthia, you wretch!”

  “Now, then, now then,” chided Mr. Ellsworth, chuckling. “She’s only playing the game, you know.”

  “Yes, but must she play the game so frightfully well?” Derek looked at his own cards with apparent disgust. “I shall never be rid of this lot.”

  Cynthia permitted herself a tiny smile. “It’s only a game, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “One I am destined to lose, as usual. Have you done all the damage you intend to do, Lady Cynthia?”

  She surveyed the pattern of cards laid on the table, carefully comparing them to the hand she held. It was difficult to concentrate on the rules of the game with Derek so near. She decided it was better to hazard a guess than to think it all out; everyone’s eyes were upon her, and she could not bear close scrutiny tonight. “I believe so,” she said, feigning a tranquillity she did not feel.

  The play passed to Derek. He pretended to curse under his breath, comically moving his cards this way and that, as if they might magically change into playable cards when viewed in a slightly different order. Time passed. Twice he selected a card from the unwieldy stack fanned out against his palm, and let his hand hover over the table as if about to drop it into place. Both times he returned the selected card to his hand, shaking his head and muttering furiously. Hannah eventually began to giggle, and Mr. Ellsworth ventured a good-natured protest: “I say, dear chap, play or draw. Play or draw.”

  Cynthia could not laugh. She dared not drop her guard that far. She watched Derek from under her lashes, her mask of utter calm firmly in place. Beneath her outward poise, she could feel her heart galloping. She was able to spend the evening at Derek’s side, her knee a few inches from his beneath the card table, only because Hannah and Mr. Ellsworth were rounding out the foursome. She scarcely dared meet her mother’s eyes tonight; she was deliberately trying to give the impression that it was Mr. Ellsworth she was encouraging. But she knew, in her heart, that her newborn rebellion was alive and kicking. In fact, the urge to defy her parents and follow her heart seemed to grow hourly stronger.

  She must nip this dangerous impulse in the bud. This, she told herself firmly, was the real reason why she had agreed to meet Mr. Whittaker tonight. Not for any illicit purpose. Merely to set matters straight, once for all. She would explain everything to him, and he would understand. And even if he didn’t understand, he would leave her alone in future—once she had made it perfectly plain to him that he must. For his own sake as well as hers, she reminded herself. She would be doing him a favor by rejecting him plainly. Irrevocably. Hope was a deceptive emotion that led only to greater pain. She would spare him pain. She would leave him no hope.

  Of course, she thought she had done that once before. It was terrible to have to do it twice. The first time, at the embassy ball, had been hard enough. She had wept until dawn that night. This night, she promised herself, there would be no weeping. She had no time for regret.

  The porcelain clock on the mantel chimed ten. Derek gave no sign that he heard it, for which she was deeply grateful. Every tick, every chime, every reminder that their rendezvous inexorably approached, seemed to send a flicker of sudden heat through Cynthia’s veins. Was it fear or excitement that had her so on edge tonight? Both, she thought, and she could not decide which thrill dominated.

  Not that it mattered. Both emotions were completely beside the point. More than irrelevant, they were inappropriate. She had nothing—nothing—to feel either excited about or fearful of. She was going to have a discussion with Mr. Whittaker tonight. A private discussion, but a discussion; no more. She would clarify a few points—gently, but firmly—and withdraw.

  Why did she have to keep reminding herself of that resolve? It was almost as if ... as if her mind were not irrevocably made up. Which it was. Of course it was. It had to be. It was.

  Cynthia suddenly became aware that she was clutching her cards in a death-grip. She forced herself to take a calming breath and loosen her hold. Nothing to be afraid of, she told her hammering heart. Nothing to get excited about. And still her unruly emotions boiled and sang, rattled and hissed and hummed. Anticipation thrummed through her, making her feel as giddy and sick as if she were running a fever. Thank heaven it would soon be over. An hour and forty-five minutes from now... no; an hour and a half.

  At that realization, she had to take another deep breath.

  As far as she could tell, Derek was behaving in a perfectly normal, unconcerned fashion. She hoped she was matching his excellent example. She was never very chatty in a group, so perhaps no one noticed her preoccupation. Her mother would surely see something amiss, if given the opportunity to observe her, but the card game had removed Cynthia from Mama’s orbit. And she had deliberately chosen a seat that turned her back to the rest of the room.

  Under the cover of Hannah’s playing her turn, Cynthia sneaked a covert glance at Derek. Every time she looked at him, another flicker of heat shot through her. To Cynthia, he was masculine perfection, beautifully displayed in a coat of blue superfine set off with spotless white linen. Nothing ostentatious; nothing extreme; just the simple, elegant cut of a London tailor that showed off his tall, well-formed person. Candlelight gleamed on the dark waves of his hair. His profile was perfect, his mouth well-cut and firmly muscled. His cheek bones... the line of his jaw... the shape of his hands, strong and clean... everything about him made her dizzy with desire.

  But handsome didn’t begin to describe him, she thought, her heart aching. He was so much more than a collection of pretty features. There was strength and confidence in his bearing, an aura of command tempered with self-deprecating humor. Leadership came so naturally to him, he seemed unaware that his vitality was anything out of the common way. His modesty was as endearing as his strength. And, most important, most attractive to her, there was deep kindness in his warm, brown eyes.

  Oh, this was torture. She dropped her eyes back to her cards, trying to ignore Derek’s overwhelming presence. But it was like trying to ignore gravity. He pulled and tugged at her consciousness no matter what she did or where she tried to turn her mind. The more she knew of him, the stronger her conviction grew that he was exactly what he had seemed to be, that long-ago night in London: the man of
her dreams. And the harder it was to face her future... a future that would not have Derek Whittaker in it.

  The clock ticked. The cards were laid and drawn and shuffled and dealt. Laughter and chatter surrounded her. Cynthia felt as if she were wrapped in cotton wool, suffocating beneath the duty of smiling and talking and following the game. Just as the last hand of their game was ending, eleven o’clock chimed. Three quarters of an hour from now. Cynthia’s pulse rate kicked up another notch.

  She sneaked another peek at Derek. It was a silly thing to do; had he been looking at her, their eyes would have met and her carefully constructed wall of composure might have crumbled. However, he was not looking at her. He was looking across the room, an absent frown clouding his brow.

  She followed the direction of his gaze and saw that he was watching his sister. She was still registering this fact when she heard the scrape of Derek’s chair as he stood, tossing his cards down. He excused himself pleasantly from the table, promised he’d back in time for the reckoning—“you will all have a chance to abuse me, and tell me what an abysmal player I am”—and walked away, strolling casually up to the group surrounding Lady Malcolm. She saw him bend and whisper to Lady Malcolm for a moment. Lady Malcolm nodded, looking a little embarrassed. Derek straightened and caught his brother-in-law’s eye, giving him an almost imperceptible signal; a tiny jerk of the chin to direct Lord Malcolm’s attention. Lord Malcolm’s gaze immediately swivelled round and fixed on his wife, a frown of concern gathering on his face. He lost no time in making their excuses and removing his wife. In less than a minute, Lady Malcolm was gone, ushered lovingly out of the room and off to bed.

  Cynthia felt her throat grow tight with unexpected emotion. She must be more overwrought than she knew. Why would witnessing that simple little scene touch her so?

  Derek returned to the card table. Cynthia dared not look directly at him for long, but she did glance up as he seated himself. “I hope your sister is not unwell,” she ventured.

  “She looked tired,” said Derek. His swift smile forced Cynthia to look away. It was painful to refuse to smile back at him—but Mama’s eyes were on her now. She had felt them on her when she turned to watch Derek cross the room.

  “You are a good brother.” The words felt pulled from her. She hadn’t meant to say them. She hadn’t intended to say anything more than she already had. Cynthia bit her lip, staring wretchedly down at her hands. She could not lift her face.

  “Natalie is a good sister.”

  Well. That wasn’t so alarming. He had sounded perfectly off-hand. She must try to match his nonchalance. Since she still could not look directly at Derek, she aimed her smile at Hannah and Mr. Ellsworth. “Lady Malcolm is fortunate, I think, to have two men guarding her with such care.”

  “She doesn’t think so.” Derek sounded amused. “Natalie calls it an embarrassment of riches. She often begs us to stop fussing over her.”

  Hannah giggled. “I think it would be lovely. You may both transfer your fussing to me, if you like. I shan’t complain.”

  Cynthia thought it would be lovely, too. She could not imagine her own brothers noticing if she looked tired, let alone taking action on her behalf. Not even if she were in the family way. Would she, someday, have a husband who tenderly cared for her? The prospect seemed dim.

  The thought made her glance automatically at John Ellsworth. She was struck, again, with how poorly he compared to the paragon across the table from him.

  But she mustn’t think about that.

  She watched him for a moment, trying, for the dozenth time this evening, to ascertain the state of Mr. Ellsworth’s affections. Irritation rose in her. He did not seem particularly interested in her, she thought. If anything, he seemed rather afraid of her. She had tried to moderate her natural coolness in his presence—especially when Mama was around to observe it—but Mr. Ellsworth was one of those souls who hid an innate shyness behind a genial, overly hearty manner. Such people were very difficult to read. She could not perceive any sure signs of attraction to herself—but, on the other hand, he did not seem especially drawn to Hannah. He was, in fact, bafflingly unresponsive to any and all lures cast in his direction. And Cynthia hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry.

  Her mind would clear, she told herself, once she had rid herself of Mr. Whittaker’s attentions. She could not concentrate with Derek distracting her.

  Of course, he was scrupulously not paying attention to her tonight, and she felt more distracted than ever. She sighed, and returned her attention to the new hand being dealt.

  Ten more minutes crawled by. By a quarter past the hour, Cynthia’s churning anxiety had reached a fever pitch. Would the evening never end? But when the duchess finally rose from her place by the fire, signaling the party to break up, it suddenly seemed to Cynthia that the interminable evening had flown past in an eyeblink. She walked off with her mother, carefully keeping her eyes on the floor to prevent them straying to Derek.

  Arm in arm, Cynthia and her mother mounted the stairs with a stately slowness that, tonight, Cynthia found excruciating. Mama’s maid, Lucy, was asleep in her chair but jumped up when they entered. Mama and Lucy disappeared into Mama’s room. Cynthia ducked into her adjoining bedchamber and checked her reflection in the glass, nervously tucking her hair into place and praying that her upcoming escapade would avoid detection. With luck, Mama would not even know she had gone.

  Half past eleven. Still too early to slip away. Perhaps it was just as well; it would be awkward to encounter Lucy in the hall. She would wait, and hope to put off her departure until Lucy was safely upstairs.

  Twenty minutes to twelve. Lucy finished brushing Mama’s hair and came, yawning, to Cynthia’s room to offer her assistance.

  “Thank you, Lucy, but I think I can manage for myself tonight.” Cynthia hoped that her reassuring smile was convincing enough. “You may go to bed if you like.”

  Lucy looked mildly surprised, but dipped an obedient curtsy and scurried off. As the door closed behind her, Cynthia heard her mother’s voice raised in anxious inquiry.

  “Cynthia? Did you dismiss Lucy?”

  Cynthia’s heart sank. “Yes, Mama. Was there something else you wanted?”

  “No, my love.”

  But Cynthia heard the bed springs creak and knew her mother was snatching up her dressing gown to come and check on her. Lud! She seated herself hastily at the little vanity table in her room. By the time Mama appeared in the doorway, Cynthia was digging aimlessly through the vanity drawers. She met her mother’s eyes in the mirror, trying to appear guileless. Mama’s eyes were cold with suspicion.

  “What are you doing, Cynthia? You are not ready for bed.”

  “I’m not sleepy tonight. I thought I might read for a while.”

  Mama frowned. “What has that to do with—”

  “And I think I’ve left my novel downstairs in the library. So vexatious! I shall have to go and find it.”

  “You should have sent Lucy for it.”

  “I couldn’t, Mama. I am not entirely sure where I left it. And it is so late that I didn’t like to keep her longer from her bed.”

  “And will you go alone to the library, in the dark, at this time of night? Everyone else has gone to bed. I do not like it.”

  Cynthia forced a little laugh. “Nonsense, Mama. I shall carry a lamp. What harm could possibly come to me?” She rose and picked up a lamp as she spoke, hoping to make her actions seem reasonable.

  Her mother did not smile. There was wariness in every line of her face. “I do not like it,” she repeated.

  Cynthia tried to look exasperated. She didn’t feel exasperated; she felt guilty. “Shall I take a dagger with me?” she asked, trying to make a joke without appearing disrespectful. “Really, Mama, you are being overly cautious. I don’t think I will encounter many desperate characters at Oldham Park. None between here and the library, at any rate.” She bestowed a light kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Good night.”

  “
I shan’t go to bed until you return,” said her mother grimly. “If you do not return in ten minutes, I shall ring for help.”

  Dismay shook her. Ten minutes! She couldn’t say all she needed to say in ten minutes. And what if Derek came late to the rendezvous?

  She patted her mother’s sleeve coaxingly, as she used to do when she was a little girl. “Oh, pray, Mama. I thought I might read in the library for a while. It would be more comfortable there.”

  “No,” said her mother, with great finality. “Absolutely not. Come directly back, Cynthia Fitzwilliam, or I shall raise the entire house to search for you.”

  She would do it, too. Cynthia knew she would. She dropped her hand and gazed at her mother, appalled. “Pray do not do anything to make us look ridiculous,” she begged. “I will try to hurry. But I may be back in ten minutes, or I may not.”

  “Ten minutes is more than time enough for such an errand.”

  “And what if the book is not where I think it is? Allow me twenty minutes, Mama.”

  “Fifteen. And not a second more.”

  “’Tis a very large house. And I might have left it anywhere!”

  “If you do not find it, come back without it. I give you fifteen minutes, Cynthia.” The hall clock chimed faintly; it was a quarter to twelve. “Be back here by midnight.”

  She could not waste more time in futile argument. Cynthia carefully unclenched her jaw. “Very well, Mama. Midnight. Or shortly thereafter.” She made good her escape before the anger she felt showed in her eyes, fearing it would lead to still more questions, still more restrictions.

  A husband’s rule could hardly be worse than this, Cynthia thought resentfully. It would almost be worth it to marry—to marry anyone!—just to be rid of Mama.

  The disloyal thought came unbidden, and immediately Cynthia was swamped with guilt. What a bad daughter she was: unfilial, secretive, disobedient, ungrateful! What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she be good?

  She could be good, she promised herself, and would be good. Fifteen minutes from now, her dangerous feelings for Derek Whittaker would be over and done with. Or, at the very least—since she did not seem able to control her feelings where he was concerned—the temptation to encourage him would be over and done with. She was about to discourage him, in no uncertain terms. And once she had done that, it would no longer matter what she felt.