Trinidad West

by Cecily’s Secret

  “Who is she?” were the only words he could force from his suddenly parched throat.

  “An old maid bluestocking by the name of Alice Bettencourt,” Lily said, peering around Perry.

  “Old maid? Hardly that, I think, though I suppose she doesn’t look fresh out of the school room.”

  Lily nudged Perry aside to get a better look. “Oh the young one. Some member of the family, I suppose, though I couldn’t say for certain. Goodness, I think I detect mischief in her eyes even from this distance.”

  Perry cleared his throat. He intended to turn away from the window and reclaim whatever dignity a man in a vermilion suit could pretend to have, but he didn’t have the willpower required to make such a move. He continued to watch as the family group, for it must be that, turned away from the street and walked up the steps to the house. He felt himself going stupid, watching those rounded hips as the young lady walked up the steps. Then the man, her father, Perry supposed, moved behind her, blocking Perry’s view. In another second they were all inside the house with the door shut behind them. Perry imagined he heard the bang of it closing him out.

  Now Perry did turn around. He leaned against the window sill and took a deep breath, then another, and ventured to look at Lily, who was grinning at him like an inquisitor about to swoop down upon a heretic.

  “It’s about time,” she said. “I was beginning to think I’d have to go out and find a woman for you myself.”

  Chapter Three

  Amid the dust of a stuffy bookseller’s shop, George entreated his friend yet again on a subject he had been railing about for over a week now.

  “No arguments, Perry. You’ve got to find some way to meet her. You can’t let her get away without finding out what you’ll be missing.”

  “And when did you become such a romantic, Georgie?” Perry asked, scanning the dimly lit shelves. “I can’t find a single volume about sheep. Be a good lad and help me find something on sheep, will you?”

  “Dreaming about being a farmer again, eh?” George’s voice was rich with cynicism, but he dutifully began to read the spines of the books. “How about A History of the Fabric Industry in England? That’s wool.”

  Perry turned to look down his nose at George and returned to the books.

  “Hasn’t Lily ever met this neighbor of hers?” George asked, returning to his original subject with an enthusiasm he didn’t seem to be able to feel for sheep and books about them. “Couldn’t she pay a call and get an introduction?”

  “Aha!” Perry pulled a tattered book from the top shelf and opened the cover. “Blast, I have this one.”

  The proprietor strolled by, one arm loaded down with books, the other popping them onto the shelves in whatever empty spaces he could find. He paused to glance down at the book in Perry’s hands.

  Perry winked at George and whispered, “Mustn’t be giving the wrong impression.” Then he added in a louder, aggrieved tone, “Good Lord! Is that a dust mote on my sleeve? Let us remove ourselves, sir, before this grime destroys my clothes.”

  *

  Cecily gazed unseeing at the books on the sagging shelves in front of her, a volume of sonnets held open in her hands.

  A footstep sounded next to her and she turned.

  “Lord Byron!”

  “You must be Miss Bettencourt.”

  “How…?”

  “Your lips,” he answered, letting his gaze linger like a caress on her mouth. “They’re just as the poems describe them. Come.”

  He led her out through the store and to the street, where a carriage stood waiting.

  “Where are we going?” Cecily asked once she was settled on one of the plush seats across from Lord Byron.

  “Does it matter?”

  The way he smiled at her, like he had been planning this moment for ages, sent a shiver through her body. She realized how close they were to each other, their knees almost touching, and how hidden they were from the world in the dim privacy of the carriage.

  “Sometimes,” he continued. “It’s the journey that’s most important, don’t you think?”

  Cecily didn’t know what to think. She didn’t want to think at all, especially not now that Lord Byron had moved to sit next to her and she could feel the press of his leg along hers, from hip to knee.

  “Shall it be a long journey or a short journey?” he asked.

  “Long,” Cecily answered in an unfamiliar purr. “Let’s make it last as long as we can.”

  Byron smiled and turned toward her. He unbuttoned her pelisse and pushed it down off her arms. He unfastened the buttons that ran down the front of her dress. It appeared that she had again forgotten to put on any undergarments, because when he opened her dress, he exposed her breasts to his ardent gaze. He took them in his hands and squeezed, and Cecily arched toward him.

  He lowered his head and drew a nipple into his mouth. Cecily could not believe her good fortune. These were Lord Byron’s chestnut curls that she was digging her fingers into, Lord Byron’s voice making those happy little sounds against her breasts.

  But a sophisticated woman like Cecily would not sit quietly while the greatest poet in the world worshipped her body. A woman of the world like Cecily knew how to give a man pleasure. She had read all about it. She reached down and felt her way up Byron’s leg until her confident fingers found his erect cock, just as described in Aunt Alice’s books.

  Byron moaned and Cecily smiled. She knew exactly what to do to keep him coming back for more. After all, she had reread it three times last night in her little bedroom in Aunt Alice’s house.

  She unfastened his pants and wrapped her fingers around his cock—Lord Byron’s cock.

  “Oh, Cecily,” he murmured.

  “Good Lord, is that a dust mote on my sleeve?”

  Cecily sighed and looked down at the book in her hand. What’s he doing looking at old books if he’s concerned about dust? she wondered. As she was about to return the book to the shelf, she was distracted by a blur of color as two young gentlemen hurried out of the shop. She didn’t see their faces, but she saw enough to notice what an odd pair they made, one a colorful fop and the other somberly clad.

  Cecily peered around the end of the shelf as the two men scuffled with each other to get through the narrow door and out into the afternoon drizzle. The sound of their boyish laughter brightened the atmosphere of the quiet shop until the door closed behind them. She ventured a glance at her mother’s abigail, who arched an eyebrow at her. Teresa didn’t think much of English men to begin with, frequently referring to them as washed-out weaklings and simpletons. Seeing an English man express distress over getting his hands dusty could only lower the species further in her regard, but Cecily had liked the sound of that comradely laughter. It made her wish for a house full of brothers—but not brothers like the one she had. Not brothers who were the reason she was being dragged to a house party to pick out a husband. One of those was more than any sister needed.

  “Did you find anything?” Cecily asked.

  “The only Italian under this roof is Dante and Dante is far too gloomy. This weather is gloom enough for one day,” Teresa declared.

  “I’m not finding anything either,” Cecily said.

  “On to the shop of that false French woman, then. That’s what we’re here for, after all.” Teresa tied her cloak and readied her umbrella as if she was priming a rifle.

  “You don’t think Madame Fleuret is really French?” Cecily asked as she buttoned up her pelisse. She thought of Lord Byron’s hands unbuttoning it in her daydream. All she really wanted to do now was sit down someplace quiet where she could close her eyes and continue the fantasy.

  “Pah! If she was French, do you think she’d be reminding us of it every ten minutes?”

  The moment Cecily reached for the door, it was thrown open by a man who stalked in, hunched against the rain, which had become considerably more than a drizzle.

  “Beg your pardon, miss.”

  Cecily and Teresa both
gasped.

  “Sebastian Bettencourt, what on earth are you doing in London?” Cecily demanded. “You’re supposed to be in Scotland.”

  Every head in the shop swiveled around to stare at them.

  Sebastian gulped, turned and bolted.

  “Oh no you don’t. Come back here!” Cecily shouted as she ran after Sebastian.

  The rain slowed her down but it slowed him down too. Teresa lagged behind but Cecily didn’t care. Teresa was resourceful. She would find Cecily if they got separated. Nor did Cecily care about the looks she was attracting. She wanted to know why Sebastian wasn’t lying low in Scotland as he was supposed to be doing.

  “Don’t try to run away from me, you scoundrel,” she shouted, hoping somebody might take him for a thief and knock him to the ground. Cecily didn’t know what Sebastian was up to, but she knew him well enough to know that a hard fall in a puddle was probably no more than he deserved.

  Just when she thought she had gained a few yards on him, she got tangled in a knot of people, all of whom appeared to be determined to bring her to a standstill. The stout lady she bumped into almost knocked her off her feet and the old gentleman who caught her by the arm to steady her would not let her continue until she assured him no damage had been done. Next were three young swells walking arm in arm, making way for nobody, so that all the other pedestrians had to step into the street or into a doorway to let them pass.

  At least they would have slowed Sebastian down too, but they had not slowed him down enough. Once Cecily had a clear view of the street, Sebastian was gone. She ran up to the corner but she could not see him down the next street either. She was standing there, hands on hips and a determined scowl on her face when Teresa caught up with her and unfurled her umbrella.

  “Well that’s that,” Teresa said.

  Cecily didn’t move. She was thinking.

  “Let’s go on to the dressmaker’s, Miss Cecily. You’re beginning to become a spectacle.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cecily said, shaking the rain off her clothes. “I’ll find him anyway. I know who his friends in London are.”

  She was about to turn around when two hands reached from behind and covered her eyes.

  “Guess who,” she heard a gleeful voice say.

  “Unhand me, Sebastian Bettencourt,” she said with all the bruised dignity she had at her command. “You’re a wretched excuse for a brother. You’re certainly not worth chasing down the street in the rain.”

  Sebastian released Cecily and took both her and Teresa by the elbows, leading them to the doorway of a shop a few yards from where they had been standing. With Cecily and Sebastian standing with their backs against the shop door and Teresa’s umbrella sheltering all three of them from the rain and the passersby, it made a cozy, if rather odd, location for a family meeting.

  “First you run, then you sneak up behind me. What’s going on, Sebastian?” Cecily launched right into the heart of the matter. She didn’t like to waste social niceties on a mere brother.

  “I ran because I value my life. I let myself be found because I felt sorry for you.”

  “You what?”

  “I was standing right here all along, you see. I saw you run by.” He paused to enjoy Cecily’s scowl. “I heard every word you said to Teresa. Silly Cee. You knew my London friends when I was sixteen. I move with a different set now. I couldn’t let you go and make yourself look foolish in front of people I haven’t spoken to in years.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s very kind of you. It also implies, I think, that you intend to tell me the truth.”

  Teresa snorted but refrained from comment.

  “Yes, I’m supposed to be in Scotland. But give me one good reason why I should spend an entire month rusticating with Papa’s old Eton friend in some crumbling castle.”

  “I’ll give you two good reasons,” Cecily said, gathering herself up to her full big sisterly stature. “For one, you’re in disgrace. For another, they’re trying to marry me off because you got arrested.”

  Sebastian’s face furrowed impressively as he tried to make sense of this. Apparently unsuccessful, he declared, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” and Cecily felt inclined to believe him.

  “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t been in jail?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as that. But no, I’ve not been in jail recently, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And you weren’t arrested for associating with Luddites?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Luddites? Good Lord, no! Of course, there was that father who ran me out of a village near Manchester. There were some whispers about him, but it wasn’t him I’d been associating with, was it? What are you thinking, Cee?”

  Cecily leaned her head back against the door. “I’m thinking our parents will say anything to get me to do what they want.”

  Cecily listened to the rain and the street sounds, but it all sounded oddly muffled as the realization crept over her—her parents had tricked her. They’d been hinting for months that they’d been remiss in their duty to her and that it was past time they found her a husband. She felt like a fool for missing the warning signs, for not noticing the tell-tale glances her parents had probably exchanged as they baited their trap the afternoon they told her about Sebastian’s supposed arrest and her aunt’s party. She had not for a moment believed them capable of lying so outrageously to achieve their ends.

  Teresa cleared her throat. Cecily cast her a look meant to convey that whatever anybody had to say, she no longer cared. She didn’t care what happened to the dresses that were waiting at Madame Fleuret’s for a final fitting or even about the slim chance of sighting Lord Byron at a bookseller’s shop.

  “All I know is this,” Sebastian said. “About a month ago Papa gave me a hundred pounds and a list of people he knew in Scotland who he’d written to, letting them know to expect me. The only instruction he gave me was that I was not to breathe a word of this to you, Cee.”

  “And you went along with it? No questions? There’s a fine example of brotherly loyalty.”

  Sebastian glanced over his shoulder as if he was watching for a chance to escape.

  “What else did he offer you, Sebastian?” she asked.

  “A horse.”

  “A horse! You betrayed your only sister for a horse?”

  “Keep your voice down, Cee. You don’t know how gossip travels in this town. I’m sorry. I didn’t suspect Papa would do you any mischief.”

  “No, why would you?” Cecily said wearily. “I didn’t, after all.”

  “So what’s this all about, anyway?” Sebastian wanted to know. “What does you being in London and me being sent to Scotland have to do with Luddites?”

  Cecily gazed out into the street and launched into the tale her parents had woven to get her to agree to looking over a house full of prospective husbands.

  “You really believed I’d be having Sunday dinner with the whole family?” Sebastian asked when she finished. “That’s just not how it’s done, Cecily.”

  Cecily groaned. So much for being a woman of the world.

  Chapter Four

  The party was so crowded and the guests so noisy that nobody noticed when a man wrapped his arm around Cecily’s waist and pulled her through a hidden door. Before she realized that maybe she should protest, he had blindfolded her and secured her hands behind her back in an unyielding grip.

  “I’ll release you if you ask me to,” he said softly, his mouth a hair’s breadth from her ear.

  “Lord Byron?”

  A chuckle was his only reply.

  Cecily smiled. Who else would it be? He had been sending her love poems for weeks and staring at her every time they found themselves in the same room.

  His lips brushed against her temple and something in Cecily’s stomach fluttered.

  “I have a treat in store for you tonight,” he whispered. “But you mustn’t uncover your eyes until it’s time.”

  Cecily
nodded. “I promise.”

  He released her hands and stepped away from her.

  “Now,” he said. “Let me watch you undress.”

  Cecily breathed a sigh of relief. She had begun to worry that this wasn’t what he had planned.

  It should have been difficult to get out of her evening clothes without somebody to help her with all the laces and tiny buttons but she managed as if she had done it a hundred times before. Within a minute, she stood naked before Lord Byron. He was so quiet that she had no idea where he was standing, but she could feel his eyes on her and she was eager to feel his hands on her as well.

  When she did feel them, it wasn’t what she had expected. He took her hands and bound them together with something that felt like the sash from a dressing gown, or a wide hair ribbon. Then he raised her hands up over her head and hooked them over something hanging from the ceiling.

  “There.” he said. “Now I can do whatever I like with you.”

  The sound of his footsteps circled her slowly.

  He had not even touched her with desire yet, but Cecily felt aroused beyond endurance. She felt flushed and feverish, and she almost wanted to beg him to touch her, to put her out of her misery, but she forced herself to stand still while he looked at her. She was determined to at least act like a self-controlled woman of experience, even if she didn’t feel like one.

  He stopped behind her and moved closer, his clothes brushing against her skin. Two hands reached around her and closed over her breasts. Another hand seemed to appear out of nowhere and pulled the blindfold from her head.

  Cecily found herself staring in shock at Lord Byron. She looked down at the hands on her breasts and tried to turn around to see whom they belonged to.