Never Seduce A Scoundrel

by Heather Grothaus

  Father Perry laughed. “Although demonic possession is really naught to make sport of, I do highly doubt that your soul is the ideal breeding ground for evil.” His chuckles died away, but left a serene smile as a reminder of his mirth. “Are you in love, then?”

  Cecily was surprised. “I don’t know. Perhaps. Although if this is what being in love is about, what it feels like, I’d really rather not.”

  “If you’d rather not, then I’d say you are in love,” Father commiserated. “Love doesn’t give you a choice. I know him, don’t I?”

  “Yes,” Cecily said hesitantly. “But not well, I don’t believe. In truth, I don’t know him very well myself.”

  “A nobleman?”

  Cecily nodded. “But, until recently, no one of consequence. He is not his family’s firstborn.”

  Father Perry was looking at her keenly now, a knowing light in his eyes. “Could he commit to you? Is he willing?”

  “No.” Cecily looked away for a moment, toward the glowing ball of orange in the sky. “I don’t know.” She shrugged.

  “Anything is possible,” Father Perry said lightly. “Of course, you would be unable to join Hallowshire as a married woman.”

  “I’m not worried that he would want to marry me, thus making me ineligible for the veil,” Cecily said wryly. “I am more afraid that he does not wish to, and that my time with him has ruined me. Ruined the plans I had for my life. That the brief time in which I have known him has given me a glimpse of something both terrible and wonderful at once, and now nothing else will ever fulfill me as he has.”

  “That is troublesome,” Father Perry agreed. “But only because when we look to another human being to fulfill us, they always fall short. They are always a disappointment. Each of us falls short of God’s glory. Only He is perfect, and so only He can fulfill us.”

  “I know,” Cecily whispered.

  The kindly priest smiled at her. “I know you know.” He drew his horse to a stand and Cecily was prompted to follow suit. “Which is why I am not at all concerned for the state of your soul. Don’t think that I have not noticed your absence, for I have. Greatly. But I do believe with all my heart that you are being led in the way He has prepared for you, whether that be at Hallowshire, at Fallstowe Castle, or ...” He shrugged.

  “I went to the Foxe Ring,” she blurted. It was as close to a confession as she was able to make to the man, like an uncle to her.

  “Did you, then? Well.” He smiled, nodded, and looked over her shoulder. “I go there often myself. Very peaceful place for meditation, I have found.”

  “I didn’t go to meditate though,” Cecily began in frustration. But before she could try to elaborate on her sins, Father Perry turned a widening smile to her.

  “It seems as though we will have some company on our mission this day, Lady Cecily. Company I believe will please you.” He nodded in the direction that lay behind her.

  With a frown Cecily turned in her saddle, wondering who on earth would be game enough to be about the frozen land at sunrise, to minister to the sick and poor with a ruined noblewoman and an old priest.

  “A bit tardy this morn, are we, Lord Bellecote?” Graves asked dryly as Oliver neared Sybilla Foxe’s chamber door. The dusty, walking corpse was standing watch to the side of the corridor opposite the portal.

  “The sun’s just come up,” Oliver muttered. “Had I been any less tardy, it would still be night. Is she awake?”

  “Think you I would dare chastise a man of your impeccable manners for his tardiness were Madam not ready to receive you?” Graves countered.

  “You are a cheeky one, aren’t you, old codger?” Oliver growled, narrowing one eye and looking at the steward sideways.

  Graves mirrored exactly Oliver’s expression.

  Oliver sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “If my lord will follow me?” The servant at last moved across the corridor and knocked discreetly on the thick wooden door before engaging the latch and swinging it wide.

  Oliver moved past the man, expecting him to remain in the corridor, but Graves was close at his heels, shutting the door with barely a sound and sliding the bolt home.

  Sybilla Foxe was completely dressed for the day, including her coif and crispinette, sitting on a tufted chair at a large, plain desk on the far side of the room before a bank of windows. Her mouth was covered by her hand, her elbow resting on the tabletop, and she seemed lost in the misty view before her.

  In the center of the desk was the large crystal cluster from her table the night before.

  “Sybilla,” Oliver said.

  She didn’t start at the sound of her name, only continued to stare out the window. She slid her hand down to her chin. “Good morrow, Oliver. Did you sleep well? How is your arm?”

  “Good morrow. No. And I believe it’s still broken.”

  She raised her slender eyebrows briefly; her mouth turned down, and then she nodded.

  Oliver glanced over his shoulder at Graves, who seemed as though he was paying no attention to them whatsoever. In fact, the old man had turned his back toward them and appeared to have a hairbrush in his hand, grooming his thin, gray hair in a small mirror.

  “I thought we were to speak in private,” Oliver said in a low voice.

  Sybilla at last turned her chin away from her hand to look at him. “Graves, you mean? I can assure you that we are more warranted our privacy with his presence than without.”

  “Very well,” Oliver said grudgingly. “So I’ll just come out with it then. I received a missive from Edward, mustering Bellemont’s due at Midsummer.”

  She laid her arm along the edge of the desk. “Of course you did.”

  “Because my brother cared for you so deeply, I would spare you such unpleasantness was it within my power to do so. But there is no gentle way to say this, Sybilla. The king is going to march on Fallstowe.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? You seem very calm about it.”

  “I’ve had more time than you to become accustomed to the idea.” She gave him a faint smile. “The king warned my youngest sister, Alys, himself. And August told me of Edward’s plans when Bellemont’s service was first summoned, while your brother was still lord.”

  She hadn’t said “when your brother was still alive,” or “before he died,” and Oliver was unsure whether he should be offended by her lack of empathy or saddened by the idea that she was unable to bring herself to say the words.

  “Are you to surrender?” Oliver asked.

  Sybilla wrinkled her nose while she shook her head slightly, and behind him, Oliver thought he heard old Graves snort.

  “No, I don’t think I shall surrender,” Sybilla said coyly. “August and I had been working on a plan. Obviously, that’s gone awry.”

  Her words put his idea that she might be saddened over losing August to rest. Oliver felt the aching blood in his arm pound harder, until his vision seemed to tremble with each clenching of his heart. Was this woman so cold, so heartless, as to speak of his brother’s death as an inconvenience? The roaring in his ears was nearly deafening.

  “But I do believe I have come up with a way to partially implement August’s ideas, any matter,” she continued. “As well as possibly secure you a vast fortune for Bellemont in the process. The king acknowledged your lordship of Bellemont and its holdings, did he not?”

  “He did. But why would you care to secure me of anything?” Oliver demanded. “It was August who was in love with you, Sybilla, not I. And I don’t think you were ever in love with him, so why should you give a damn not only about his younger brother, but about pitiful little Bellemont?”

  Her blue eyes pierced his, hard, sparkling, and with a seriousness that made Oliver’s throbbing blood run sluggish and cold. “Your brother was the best friend not of my own blood that I have ever had,” Sybilla said quietly. “Present company excluded, of course, Graves.”

  “How could I think otherwise, Madam?” the old steward muttered mildly. He
came to stand nearby, juxtaposed between Sybilla and Oliver, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes trained somewhere on the still dark ceiling.

  “I care very much about Bellemont’s welfare, and your own, for reasons that you will discover as soon as I am able to tell you,” Sybilla continued. “In the meantime, I need you to trust me, for I desperately need your help, Oliver.”

  “You desperately need my help?” Oliver sneered. “With what?”

  Sybilla’s chest rose slightly as she drew a deep, silent breath.

  “I need you to propose to Joan Barleg.”

  Although she had always enjoyed being among the villagers and their simple life, Cecily had never experienced a more gratifying day of service as the one she was spending with Father Perry and Vicar John Grey.

  They had passed out sacks of meal and dried fruit, as well as crumbly little ropes of seaweed. Cecily had brought an enforced arsenal of salves and potions, tinctures and powders, bandages, and herbs for teas. Before the noon meal she had lanced and dressed three wounds, treated an old man for ague, and mixed a special tea for a new mother and her tiny newborn baby, both bedeviled by a nasty case of thrush. Father Perry was kept distant and busy hearing the confessions of the villagers before the celebration, and so Vicar John became Cecily’s handsome and merry attendant.

  He was the best of assistants, drawing on his experiences at various religious enclosures that often served the ill and dying. He was no stranger to sickness and misery, and yet his training thus far combined with his vocation ensured that he exuded a kind of gentle calm to Cecily’s patients. He was not uncomfortable with their poverty or their ignorance, and indeed, he seemed to enjoy conversing with villagers of all ages.

  Cecily was particularly touched by the way he held the new babe, she thought perhaps like a father would hold their own child, cradled in his hands, his face bent low over the infant’s, a peaceful smile on his mouth and in his eyes as he whispered a happy prayer of blessing near the baby’s ear. The sight caused her to pause in stirring the mother’s tea.

  He looked up at her in just that moment, his smile deepening as their gazes met. Her cheeks tingled as she tore her attention away from the handsome vicar and handed the mug to the woman with a smile, but she could feel the weight of John Grey’s lingering gaze on her back.

  The mass celebration was simple but beautiful, held in the largest of the cottages. Even then, the overflow of faithful knelt in the dirt beyond the open door. She glanced sideways at John Grey once, from beneath the hem of her long veil that hid most of his profile, but she could glean nothing from his closed eyes and bowed head.

  They made their way from the cottage together among the crowd of people, saying their good-byes, and Cecily felt strange when John Grey lightly took her elbow to lead her to where a lad held their mounts at the ready. It was past midday, and the ride would be a long one to gain Fallstowe before dark.

  Once at her horse’s side, she turned to thank John Grey for his aid and company, but he spoke first.

  “I fear our duties this day left us little opportunity for conversation,” he said, regret clear in his tone.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But your appearance was such a pleasant surprise. I couldn’t have treated as many as I did without you.”

  “How fares your ... patient at Fallstowe?” he asked in a low voice, glancing around as he said it.

  Cecily shrugged and dropped her eyes to her hands, where her fingers were twisting the ends of her veil. “Today has been the first time in a week that I’ve felt at least marginally sensible,” she said on a breathy laugh, but in her heart she feared that she was speaking naught but the truth. She looked up at John Grey, surprised at the intensity with which he was regarding her. “Would that you were closer to Fallstowe, John. Your advice seems so rational, and kind. You have not judged me as I fear others would.”

  “What have I to judge?” he asked sincerely. “Even I could not enter into the sacrifice today because I was in need of penance.”

  Cecily frowned. “I would think there to be no shortage of confessors available at Hallowshire.”

  “Indeed,” John acquiesced, and his eyes sparkled. “But I fear my encounter with sin only occurred since my arrival at the village this morn.”

  Cecily swallowed with a gulp.

  “Are you unhappy with your circumstances at Fallstowe, Lady Cecily?” John Grey asked.

  “I suppose I am,” she answered. “If only he would leave, perhaps I could return to some sense of clarity.”

  John Grey nodded, as if her answer was exactly what he had expected. “If he will not leave, then come on to Hallowshire with me.”

  Cecily frowned. “John, I ... I have yet to decide—”

  “Not to take the veil. Only to do what you have here, in this village, today. Mother would delight in a visit with you, and perhaps it would give you the distance you require from your ... problem.”

  Cecily turned her face to the south, as if she could see Fallstowe from where she stood, see Oliver Bellecote standing at the window looking for her.

  “But I must confess to you that my intentions are not completely noble,” John Grey said. “Would that I, too, had you closer at hand. I have been unable to concentrate fully on my duties since the afternoon of our first meeting, Cecily, as I have been contemplating a great number of personal decisions. I ... I would like very much for us to have time together. In a place—for you, perhaps—not so tainted.”

  Father Perry came upon them just then, and his presence reminded her that she was to accompany the aging man over the land to their home.

  “Thank you, Vicar,” she said, smiling weakly. “But my sister will be expecting me, and I would not have Father Perry journey alone.”

  “What is this about then?” Father Perry inquired with a curious smile.

  “I’ve just asked Lady Cecily for a short visit with Mother,” John Grey said easily. “Alas, her devotion to her home is too great to indulge me.”

  “Nonsense,” Father Perry said, his eyes crinkling merrily as they glanced from Cecily to the vicar. “I’m certain Lady Sybilla would not begrudge you a day or two at the abbey where you are contemplating spending the rest of your life. And I am no invalid, young woman—I have trod beside fighting men in many a battle. A simple ride over my homelands will give me much needed time to speak to the Lord about matters on my own heart.”

  John Grey looked back to Cecily. “I would not press you, my lady. If you have no desire to carry on to the abbey, please feel no obligation to accept my invitation.”

  Cecily could tell that the vicar meant every syllable of every word he spoke, and she realized suddenly that there was little hope the bishop would win John Grey for the priesthood. He had made it clear in his own respectable and completely honorable fashion that he wanted her to accept his invitation to Hallowshire. He wanted her company, and she had no fear that John Grey would attempt to further compromise her already secretly battered reputation.

  Which brought her thoughts, inexplicably, back to Oliver Bellecote.

  Whenever you’re near to me ... I’m not quite sane.

  I simply cannot stop thinking of you.

  This has never happened to me before.

  The greatest scoundrel in all the land, and he was preoccupied with thoughts of Saint Cecily.

  Oliver was waiting for her at Fallstowe. As weak as it sounded, she knew she could not withstand his advances. It did not ease her mind that he had disavowed any intention of making Joan Barleg his wife; in truth, that only made things worse. It clearly showed that Oliver Bellecote would go to any length for a conquest. Would stoop to whatever depth necessary to maintain his scoundrel’s reputation. He had admitted that he possessed no desire to wed Joan, or Cecily, or any other woman. Cecily could not allow him to make such a fool out of her. Or her to make such a fool of herself.

  Perhaps if she did not return to Fallstowe, Oliver Bellecote would then go, taking her shame and weakness with him. Cecily
could only hope that he would not also take her heart when he left. It was the only thing she had left that truly belonged to her, now that he had taken her body. The only thing she had left which could still be given away with forethought and intent.

  John Grey glowed in the bright afternoon sun, his straight hair glinting with the beams of light that seemed attracted to him. She was reminded suddenly of the tender way in which he had held the newborn peasant babe.

  A handsome man.

  A titled man.

  A man who had himself said that one needn’t take vows to be of service to God. He was convincing.

  He was not betrothed.

  The man was as far removed from a scoundrel as could be, and Cecily knew she was safe in his presence. Even from herself.

  Cecily looked to Father Perry. “Would you give Lady Sybilla a message for me?”

  Chapter 14

  Oliver could not recall a time when he had been more cross.

  He was seated at Sybilla’s table for supper again, but this time he sat to the woman’s left, in the chair that Cecily had occupied only last night. Thankfully, Joan Barleg was seated on the other side of the Foxe matriarch, leaving Oliver to concentrate on pretending to eat his food.

  Why had she not yet returned?

  Oliver had been completely befuddled by Cecily’s disgust of him before she’d abruptly left Fallstowe with the old priest, but he was determined that she should have no doubt of his intentions toward her. He wanted her—only her. And he was willing to go to whatever lengths she determined to be necessary to win her. Once that was established, they would go to Sybilla together and Sybilla could detail her insane theories to Cecily herself.

  It made little sense still to Oliver. But Sybilla had sworn that the thing she asked of him was somehow tied to the plan his brother had instigated to help Sybilla Foxe retain Fallstowe, and she had promised to pay him handsomely for his cooperation. Oliver was certain that, once Sybilla explained it all, Cecily would understand. Oliver wanted Cecily ... he only needed to become betrothed to another woman, first.