“I don’t know,” she admitted miserably. “I don’t think I’m being led anywhere, actually. I feel very ... lost. And like I don’t know who I am, or even who I want to be anymore! It’s as if my entire life thus far has been naught but an act!” She sighed, letting the heat of her emotions pass. “Do you think me a farce?”
“Not in the least,” he answered immediately, emphatically. “You are actually quite noble for tempting Father Perry’s curiosity. A lesser woman would have gone ahead, even while under such a heavy heart. You are purer than you realize, Lady Cecily. There is nothing at all wrong with a woman choosing marriage over the convent, even if it is not the path she always thought her life would take. And a simple kiss ... well, most girls have that out of the way before their years number a dozen.”
Cecily was still for a moment, and then threw back her head and laughed, tears coming into her eyes. The vicar thought that she and Oliver Bellecote had done nothing more than kiss.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her eyes. For some reason she felt like weeping now more than ever. “I’m not laughing at you, only at the notion you suggested.”
He smiled at her. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“What shall I do, Vicar?” she asked, her smile fading.
“You should spend an inordinate amount of time with me, I do think.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I will tell Father Perry that I am counseling you intensely. When you feel you are able, you may decide on a confessor and put the whole lot behind you, once and for all.”
“What about Oliver Bellecote, though?”
“If he remembers, there is little you can do about it save for lie, and that I do fear would only buy you a small amount of time, and perhaps an even larger consequence to bear. If he is not heartless or stupid, perhaps the pair of you can come to an agreement that your transgressions will not be mentioned outside your shared history. I’m certain you have no wish to hurt his betrothed.”
“No.”
“And he is well known for his dalliances, so I do feel that he will adapt to discretion more readily than you.”
Cecily winced inwardly at the reminder of Oliver’s prolificacy as John Grey continued.
“I do hope that you will be wise enough, though, to make the time you must spend with him as brief and impersonal as possible. Intimacy with a man of that sort is ... well, it is dangerous.”
“And well I know it,” Cecily muttered. She looked up at him sheepishly. “You will make a fine priest, Vicar.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He looked into her eyes, and Cecily saw something there, something more than the courteous respect previously apparent. A softening, an intrigue, as he looked at her. “Will you call me John, in private? In truth, I am not actually a vicar, and ’tis my father and older brothers who are titled.”
“I will call you John, if you will in turn call me by my given name.”
“I would be honored.”
Cecily looked at the sun. “He’ll be asking for me soon.”
“Yes. And I must be on my way back to Hallowshire.” The regret was plain in his voice. “I’ll return soon enough, though. Will you see me again ... Cecily?”
She smiled at him. “Of course. John.”
He helped her to her feet, and after he had gathered up the blanket and affixed it to his horse’s saddle, Cecily rashly grasped his right hand in both of hers.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
His fingers tightened around her own, so lightly that Cecily could barely feel them. Then he pulled away, a strange but pleasant smile on his face.
“Let’s get you home.”
Chapter 11
He waited for her all day. At every knock on his door, he held his breath, hoping for her gentle voice to inquire as to the state of his decency. But it was only a chambermaid, or a kitchen servant, or old Graves. He wondered if she would ever step foot inside the chamber again.
Oliver remembered.
He and Cecily Foxe had made love—Saint Cecily Foxe!—that night at the old ruin. He now understood why her presence had vexed him so. Each moment she was near him had been like a constant state of déjà vu. But what troubled him now was that, knowing the root of his intimate knowledge of her, his desire to see her had grown exponentially. Every thought in his head was related to her. Every waking moment, every ache in his broken bones whispered her name deep in his core, taunting him, laughing at him.
The scoundrel in him should have been triumphant. He had succeeded in making love to the most beautiful, unavailable woman in all of England. But he did not feel prideful at his half-remembered, drunken pawing of her. And neither was he so chivalric that he feared he had ruined her. He only burned to see her again.
Which was another point of contention within himself. Never had he thought longer of a woman, especially after he had already made the conquest. The chase was enough of a preoccupation for him, the game. Once the prize was tasted, the excitement also fled, leaving him searching for his next prey. He tried telling himself that it was only because he had not been sober enough to savor Cecily Foxe when they had made love, but he knew that was only a rather ineffective balm for his pride. His thoughts were not consumed with seeking out her body again so that he might be fully aware of the treasure of her sexuality.
He simply wanted to look at her, talk to her. Be in her presence. He wanted to ask of her future. Would she go through with her plans to enclose herself at Hallowshire? The old vicar’s intentions in visiting with her were blatantly obvious—he was recruiting her. Wearing on her sense of honor. Oliver could just picture the stooped, gray-haired priest kneeling at Cecily’s side, the two of them praying fervently for her discernment. Had she been spending such an amount of time with any other man—be he married, single, or eunuch—Oliver was certain that he would have been mad with jealousy.
Oliver didn’t have a plan. But then again, he rarely had. His brother, August, had planned out his entire life, and look where that had gotten him, how short that very well-planned life had actually been.
So he didn’t want to plan. He just wanted Cecily Foxe, in his room, an hour ago.
His midday meal was cold and mostly untouched by the time she finally arrived, entering his chamber without the benefit of a knock or a greeting. And unlike the other times she had visited him, when she had either been pale and fatigued, or nervous, or quiet, her cheeks were now rosy blooms, and her hair was wild down her back, the sides caught back behind her ears.
It was the first time he had seen her hair both unbound and uncovered, and it mesmerized him as it swung at her waist while she turned to close the door. She was like a fairy creature, clothed in rippling ebony.
His eyebrows rose when she threw the bolt on the door. She stood there a moment, her back to him, as if composing herself.
She turned, and her eyes widened as they landed on him.
“You’re dressed,” she observed.
“And more properly bathed,” he added with a smile. “I could no longer stand myself, much less impose my malodor upon you.” He didn’t bother to tell her that the freshly laundered shirt he wore was the only clothing he now possessed. Fallstowe’s maids had effectively destroyed his only pair of breeches.
She took a handful of hesitant steps toward the bed, her fingers strangling each other at her waist. “Was it very painful?”
He wrinkled his nose and gave a slight shrug of his left shoulder. It had been excruciating.
Her eyes narrowed, but she did not challenge his statement. She took another pair of steps. “How are you feeling now?”
“Much better, now that you’re here.”
He saw her chest rise in a deep breath, and she looked at the floor, her lips rolling in on themselves. In the next moment, she had claimed the wooden chair at his bedside, and now looked at him directly.
“Let’s get it over with then,” she said grimly.
He relaxed fully ag
ainst the headboard and waited. Had he been in possession of two working arms, he would have crossed them over his chest authoritatively. “All right.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, what?” he encouraged.
“Yes, we did.”
Still, he waited.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What is it you want from me?”
“Why did you lie to me?” he asked. “You let me believe I was losing my mind!”
“I thought you wouldn’t ever remember, since you didn’t right away!” she reasoned. “Why would I volunteer information about an incident that I am quite embarrassed about, even if no one else knew it but I?”
“You’re embarrassed regarding making love with me?” Oliver asked, wounded more than he would have ever admitted. “I’ve never thought of myself as hideous.”
“Of course I am embarrassed! I am unmarried, discerning the convent, and I had an affair at the Foxe Ring with”—she threw her hands toward him—“Oliver Bellecote!”
“Well, of course, I do understand the unmarried scenario and how that would give you pause,” he granted. “But I am offended that you would think to even keep it from me, when I would never use such gossip to slander you.”
“I don’t know that, though, do I?” Cecily challenged him. “You are quite free with tales of your conquests. I have no desire to be added to the list of them.”
“Ah, but who conquered whom in our little scenario, Lady Cecily? Or am I not the only one for which the details of our night together remain somewhat blurred?”
“What on earth do you mean?” she demanded, her face going scarlet.
“You lured me into the ruin.”
“You followed me,” she gritted out between her teeth.
“I was drunk, I didn’t have my wits about me,” he said easily. “I was little match for your wiles.”
“My wiles?” she choked. “I was a virgin!”
Oliver felt his head draw back as if he’d been slapped. “That’s not possible.”
“I don’t believe I have earned the moniker saint as a form of sarcasm,” Cecily said with a wry lift of her eyebrow.
“But, a virgin ...” He felt his own cheeks reddening. Dammit! “There is usually some evidence left behind, after ...” He trailed off, circling his hand in the air as if to encompass the situation.
“There was,” she stated. “I took care of it. After you passed out.”
His eyes widened, but he could not think of anything else to say. Not only had he slept with Cecily Foxe, he had taken her virginity!
“Thorough, weren’t you?” he asked at last.
“I tried to be, yes.”
“All right, that was a shock, I admit,” Oliver said with what he hoped was a gracious tilt of his head. “But I accept it, and I forgive you completely.” He ignored her outraged expression. “So, how would you have us proceed? Shall we call on Sybilla for advice?”
She stared at him for a moment, as if she was unsure whether he was serious or not. “No, we should not call on Sybilla. I would have you recover quickly so that you might leave Fallstowe as soon as possible. Without telling anyone of our ... indiscretion, of course.”
“You’re worried the vicar will find out, aren’t you?” he guessed.
“The vicar already knows,” she answered swiftly and calmly, although her eyes darted away as she said it. “He was sent as special counsel to me—as well as an aid to Hallowshire—by the bishop. I told him this morning, straightaway.”
“Oh, so you can boast of your conquest but not I?”
“I can assure you that there was no boasting involved, and I told you when last I left you that I was going to confess. Unfortunately, Vicar John has returned to his post at Hallowshire Abbey, but if you feel that your actions are weighing on your conscience, I will be more than happy to summon him back for you.”
“Oh, Vicar John, is he?” Oliver remarked snidely, surprised at the rising of jealousy he now felt. The man was a priest, for God’s sake! “I have no need of confession, for the difference between us, my lady, is that I am not at all sorry for what we did.”
She paled. “You’re not?”
“No. In fact,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster, “had I to do it all again, the only thing I would change is that I would be sober, so as to recall it in greater detail.”
Her face went from white to red as she stood. “Are we finished?”
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“Well, I think we are,” she challenged him. “In keeping with the sage counsel I was graced by this morning, the two of us shall have as little contact with each other as possible. We should both soon be able to carry on with our respective lives. Agreed?”
“No,” he refused her again.
She stamped her foot, and Oliver wanted to laugh out loud so charmed was he by the uncharacteristic gesture.
“But I will cooperate with your wishes to a reasonable extent, if you will agree to but one thing,” he conceded.
Her expression grew warily hopeful. “What is the one thing?”
“I want you to kiss me.”
Cecily didn’t know whether to laugh or slap Oliver Bellecote’s handsome face. He was demanding that she kiss him? She could barely restrain herself while in the same room as him, as it was!
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am very serious,” he affirmed.
“I am not going to ... kiss you!” she stammered.
“All right,” he said with a conceding nod. “Then come a bit closer so that I may kiss you. I’ve never gotten the chance to thank you properly for saving my life.”
“I didn’t—” She broke off, thinking twice about refuting his claim, not wishing to be drawn into a deeper argument with him. “You’re welcome. There. Now, may I please examine your arm?”
“No kissy, no looky,” Oliver said somberly, belying his childish words. “That is our deal, and I will not allow you to default on it.”
“I didn’t make a deal with you!”
“All right then, we can call it my requirement, if you wish.” He looked her up and down while Cecily continued to stammer, her face heating. “Did you know there was talk of a betrothal between the two of us when we were children?”
“Yes. But my mother put an end to it, saying that you were too wild for me, even when you were no more than ten.”
“Ah-ah.” Oliver waggled a finger at her. “Not so. My mother put an end to it, not wishing one of her sons to be married into a family of witches.”
Even to Cecily’s own ears, the sound that came out of her mouth was an indignant squawk.
He continued nonetheless. “So you see, if things had worked out differently between our families, we would be married now, and kissing me would be no grand event.”
“I’m sorry if it offends you, but I wouldn’t consider it a grand event, any matter,” she lied.
Oliver threw back his head and laughed. “I have never imagined this side of you, Cecily,” he chuckled, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her. “I’m not certain anyone has. I quite like it.”
“So glad I can amuse you,” she gritted out through her teeth.
“Kiss me,” he requested again.
“No.”
“Please? There, I’ve said please. Now you can’t refuse me on grounds that it would show poor manners.”
“I hardly think that there needs be any facade of courtesy between us at this point.”
“All right then,” he conceded in a low voice, and it was as if the light in the chamber dimmed in that moment, wrapping them in an evening sunset, hushing and warming the air around them.
“Then kiss me because I cannot stand a moment longer with my lips not touching yours; because whenever you leave, I search the coverlet, the bandages for your scent. When I close my eyes, I see you at the Foxe Ring on the night we met; I hear your voice in my ear, whispering for me to take you harder, faster.”
Cecily drew in a sharp breath.
His words were having a physical effect on her, as much as if he were stroking her bare flesh. But he was not yet done.
“Kiss me for what might have been those many years ago, had our families joined us in marriage. Before you became frightened of yourself and went away to hide behind the cross, and before I realized how far short I fell of August’s greatness. Kiss me as if we were two new people, only having just met, with our entire future laid before us, free for our making.”
Cecily noticed with a soft inhalation that there were tears in her eyes. “If only that could be true,” she whispered.
“It can be,” Oliver said. “Look at our circumstances, Cecily: I am lord of Bellemont, my family’s wealth and power behind me now. You have not yet committed to the abbey, have you?”
She shook her head slightly. “No.”
“Then who would tell us that we cannot do as we wish? That the two of us, you and I, cannot be for the other what each of us truly needs. What do you need, Cecily?” he asked earnestly.
She felt mesmerized by his voice, his reasoning. It sounded so simple, the way he put it. So simple and so precisely opposite from what John Grey had advised.
“I—I don’t know. Oliver, you are still ... you. And I am still me. We are ill-suited to each other.”
“I don’t think so,” Oliver pressed. “Let us rediscover each other, for who we really are—who we want to be. I am different now, because of you. Perhaps you are different, too?”
Cecily was stunned into silence for several moments while her mind tried to make sense of the outrageous things he was suggesting to her.
“Come here,” he commanded softly, patting the mattress with his left hand. Her wary frown must have been quite obvious, for he buffered his order with a little grin. “I shan’t attack you.”
Cecily walked around the end of the bed as if she was in a dream, not at all certain it was the wise thing to do, but unable to do anything else. She perched her hip on the edge of the mattress.
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