by Rebecca Ward
Lord Brandon said nothing, and the night seemed very still except for the mutter and pound of the sea. “You have said many times that the world is a stage,” Cecily continued. “Now the drama is over, and we must go our separate ways.”
She started to turn away from him, but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her back. “Celia, what maggot have you taken into your head? You heard me tell my father that I hoped to marry you, didn’t you?”
“The duke,” she pointed out, “suggested that you had gone mad. I am persuaded that you spoke without thinking, that on reflection you cannot have meant what you said.”
“Why? How?” The hands on Cecily’s shoulders tightened. “And don’t quote what the duke said—speak for yourself. Why do you think I do not really want to marry you?”
She drew a deep breath and prepared to point out, reasonably and logically, that a duke’s son and a penniless young woman of no rank could hardly suit. Instead, she heard herself whisper, “Because you have not once told me that you love me.”
Brandon heard the catch in her voice, and his own voice was husky as he replied, “No, I haven’t. Why need I tell you that I love you when I can’t think of life without you? You are my heart of hearts, my sun, my morning light.”
The little glade was silent, and in that silence Cecily could hear his breathing and the beat of her own heart. Looking up into his eyes, she said simply, “I love you, Trevor.”
“And I love you with all my heart,” he replied, “and I most humbly ask for your hand in marriage.” His voice held tender humor as he added, “Your father isn’t alive, so I can’t ask him, and in any case, he would tell you to make up your own mind.”
Cecily drew a long, shaky, happy breath. She was so full of joy that she could hardly bear to stand still. Her body as well as her spirit wanted to dance. As seriously as she could, she said, “I shall marry you as soon as I am certain that the duke was wrong and that you are in your right mind.”
“In my right—what the devil do you mean?”
“Well, we are standing in a patch of verbena, which Delinda says is used in a love potion—”
“We don’t need any damned love potion,” Brandon interrupted. “Come here.”
Their lips met again, and again there was silence, and in that silence Cecily knew that she had come home at last.
The sound of voices within the cottage interrupted them, and the lovers drew apart reluctantly. Brandon said, “The meeting seems to be over.”
The door of the cottage opened, and the sentries saluted smartly as a dozen armed men emerged. They formed a bodyguard for two gentlemen, both of whom were cloaked and muffled to the eyes.
These gentlemen shook hands. Then one of them, together with his entourage, began to walk down the path that led to the Widow’s Rock. The other man and his escort—among whom Cecily recognized the commanding figure of the Duke of Pershing—remained where they were.
“What are they all waiting for?” Cecily whispered to Brandon.
There was a rattle of wheels, and a carriage came up the sea road. It stopped beside the cottage, and once again the sentries saluted as the second gentleman began to walk to the carriage.
Stepping forward, Brandon bowed deeply. Cecily curtsied. The unknown gentleman nodded to them and moved on. As he did so, Cecily heard Pershing say something in a respectful tone.
Wide-eyed, she rounded on Brandon. “Trevor, can it be true? Could that gentleman possibly be—”
His fingers on her lips stopped her words. “No, love,” he warned.
“But I distinctly heard the duke call him by his name,” Cecily insisted. “Tell me this—am I wrong?”
His face was grave. “No, you are not wrong.”
Tightening his arm about her waist, he drew her back into the shadows. From there they watched Pershing escort his companion to the waiting carriage. The carriage, Cecily noted, was a plain one without ornament or crest. The coachman wore black, and the horses, too, were black. If anyone from the village should chance to see this carriage passing through the woods, they would doubtless hide in fear.
“Now I understand how high the stakes were,” she murmured. “Oh, Trevor, Trevor, what a weight you have had on your shoulders! If anything had happened to—to him, it would have been a disaster for England.”
“No one must know he was here.” Brandon kissed Cecily again before adding with a flash of his old, foppish drawl, “But heart up, Miss Verving, all is not lost. No doubt he’ll come to dance at our wedding.”