“I was listening,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “And I believe I meet all of your requirements. I’m taller than you. I’m reasonably attractive. I dance well. I’m an accomplished horseman. I don’t need your money. I’m kind.”
“Harrumph.”
“I won’t gamble away the family fortune.”
“I can attest to that,” Stratton muttered. “He’s the devil’s own luck at the tables.”
“I appreciate your intelligence,” Rand continued. “If you truly want to read Shakespeare or Chaucer I have no objections as long as I don’t have to read them, as well.”
She rolled her eyes. “How remarkably generous of you.”
Rand sighed. “What will make you happy? I’d rather have you agreeable to the suit than not.”
Her bottom lip edged out a bit and her jaw clenched. “If you must ask, you obviously haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I believe that’s why I asked,” he replied with exasperation.
“You’re only willing to marry me because you need to marry someone and I’ve been compromised.”
"I would much prefer to not dwell on that particular aspect of this situation,” her brother muttered.
“Then don’t,” she snapped. “And we can all go about our merry way. Have you stopped to consider that maybe he’s far too old for me? There’s thirteen years between us!”
Something sounding similar to a bark came from Stratton’s chest. He bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s the same age as I am. It isn’t as if we’ve reached our dotage.”
Several moments of silence passed before Rand sighed heavily and spoke. “I do care for you, Cecelia. Very much.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you, now? But for how long? What happened to I’ve come to terms with the need to marry but I don’t expect to marry for love. And with luck we won’t grow to hate one another.
He grimaced at the memory. “I didn’t have you in mind when I said that. I didn’t have anyone in mind. I was still reeling over the news.”
“That offers very little comfort,” she retorted. “I suppose we shall have to wait and see whether we will grow to love one another or hate one another.” She glared at both of them before rising from her chair. “Very well. I’ll marry you, Lord Clarendon, as it appears I have no other choice. In the meantime, I’ll retire to my chambers and await my fate.” She curtsied formally. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“Good day, Cecelia.” Rand held the door as she swept out of the room then glanced over at Stratton. There seemed little more to discuss. “Are you still contemplating murder? If so, I suppose I should take my leave. I’ve been battered and abused enough as it is this week.”
Stratton nodded grimly. Grateful to have escaped with his life, the Marquis of Clarendon left.
Chapter Five
Cecelia frowned at the tangled knot she had just stitched into the corner of a white lacey handkerchief. “Blast,” she muttered. “I’ll never get the hang of this.” She looked over at Priscilla who was embroidering a floral design along the border of a small coverlet. “You make it look so easy.”
“It’s taken years of practice. I was by no means a natural in the beginning. I tended to prick my finger and bleed all over whatever I was working on. And you do so many other things really well. Whether or not you’re accomplished at needlework is of little consequence.”
Cecelia set her embroidery to the side and said, “I’d much rather be outside riding Penny than spending my time embroidering handkerchiefs. I think it’s dreadfully unfair that Eugene won’t let me ride unless he has the time to accompany me. I feel as if I’m in prison.”
Priscilla lifted her brows and shot Cecelia a knowing smile.
“Well, maybe it isn’t unfair,” she conceded. “Under the circumstances, I suppose he didn’t have much choice. And I doubt that Reston is anything like Newgate, but I don’t still don’t like it.” She leaned her head back against the settee and closed her eyes. She had to admit, however, that she did like spending time with Priscilla in her sitting room. It was a pleasant room, fragrant with the scent of roses and filled with warm, golden sunlight. The blue and cream upholstered furniture was comfortable, if slightly shabby and the rhythmic ticking of the Alpine clock on the mantle was soothing. But more than that, she enjoyed her sister-in-law’s company. At least she wouldn’t be moving too far away. She remembered very little about Bryony Hall. Most of her memories were of the Danfield’s townhouse in Mayfair.
“You have a caller, my lady.” Reed’s voice penetrated her thoughts and she wondered vaguely who Priscilla’s caller might be.
Priscilla nudged her. “He means you, Cecelia.”
Cecelia’s eyes flew open. “Oh.”
“Lord Clarendon is awaiting you in the drawing room,” Reeds informed her.
“Oh.” She glanced over at Cecelia. “Would you care to come with me?”
Priscilla quickly shook her head. “Dear me, no. I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Please?”
She continued to shake her head. “No.”
“Very well.” Cecelia left Priscilla to her embroidery and headed toward the drawing room. In truth, she would be glad to see him, but she dreaded the apology she must make. After three days of sulking she realized how rude and childish she had been. This was more a result of her actions than his and now she must accept the outcome. If he could do so gracefully, then so could she.
When she entered the drawing room he was gazing out the window with his back to her. He was as tall as her brother, though slightly less bulky. His shoulders did an admirable job of filling out the brown velvet jacket, and the buckskins he wore fit his lean muscular thighs like a glove. She could do worse.
She cleared her throat. “Hello.”
He turned around and smiled at her. Even with the bruising around his eye, he was a handsome man. “Hello, yourself.” He came forward and took her hand. “Your brother has informed me that you are no longer sulking.”
She flushed slightly. “It proved to be rather dull, so I gave it up.”
“Good. I would have called on you sooner, but I was denied the privilege until Stratton thought you would be agreeable.”
“I...” She faltered. “I must apologize for my behavior. I was rude and childish and I have no reasonable excuse. It’s only that I was… I was simply surprised by it all.”
He cocked a blond brow and grinned. “It was rather surprising, wasn’t it? Personally, I like surprises.”
“I...” She faltered again as he brought her hand up to his lips.
“I’ve been granted permission to take you for a stroll in the garden. I believe it’s called courting. Now run along and fetch your bonnet.”
A short while later her hand was neatly tucked into the crook of his arm and they were ambling along the flagstone path that wandered through the various colored beds that made up the formal gardens of Reston Manor.
“So this is courting.” she commented.
“So I’ve been told.”
“But haven’t you forgotten something?”
“Since you’ve found it necessary to bring it up, it appears that I have forgotten something. Am I correct in guessing a small token of my affection?” When she nodded he asked, “Would you have preferred chocolates or flowers or both?”
“Chocolates,” she responded. “Though, both would have been acceptable.”
He stopped. “Wait a moment. I just thought of something.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small blue velvet box and flipped open the top. A delicate gold bracelet studded with amethyst glittered in the sunlight. “Would this do instead?”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” she exclaimed.
He chuckled as he clasped the golden bracelet around her wrist. “I realize it isn’t quite as tasty as chocolates, but I thought it might do.”
She held out her wrist admiring how the amethyst sparkled against her skin. “I suppose.” She grinned. “Thank you. I love
it.” They resumed their stroll. “So how many times have you courted a young lady?”
“Truly?”
She nodded. “Truly.”
“Never.”
“Never? I find that difficult to believe.”
“I’m afraid most of my wooing has been of a um… different nature.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “There seems to be a great deal of activity going on. Servants are dashing about, the window washers are busy, painters are touching up the trim, gardeners clipping away at the shrubbery. Is anything of note happening?”
She smiled. “I believe there’s to be a wedding in two weeks time.”
“Anyone I know?”
“A marquis and the daughter of an earl.”
“Damned aristocrats. Probably very full of themselves. They all are, you know. Do you suppose we’ll be invited?”
“I imagine so. Everyone for miles around is invited.”
They walked in companionable silence. “By the way,” he remarked casually. “Did you know that we’re being followed?”
Cecelia looked over her shoulder to see one of their footmen trailing behind them. “Oh, good heavens,” she grumbled. “Eugene can be so vexing. I don’t really see the point of it. It’s a bit like closing the barn door after the cow has already escaped.”
He chuckled. “There’s an easy enough answer. Propriety.”
“I suppose.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “He’s rather portly and it doesn’t appear as if he’s very swift on his feet. If we ran we could lose him.”
“You’re not appropriately attired. If you were in breeches it might be a possibility.”
“A woman doesn’t wear breeches.”
“Mores the pity. You would look quite fetching in them.” He was gratified to hear her laugh. “Have you managed to accept the inevitable? It could be quite pleasant you know. We wouldn’t have footmen on our tail all the time if we were married.”
“There is that.” She nibbled at her bottom lip as she considered next her words. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you.” She paused. “Is your reputation well deserved?”
“That depends on which reputation you are referring too,” he said rather quickly. “I’ve a number of them you know. For instance, it’s been said that I have a good head for business. That’s a well deserved reputation as it’s quite true. We won’t starve and you may buy as many frocks as you wish.”
“That’s terribly reassuring, as I don’t have near enough frocks. But that’s not what I was referring to.”
“I’ve a reputation as an accomplished pugilist. That’s also true, but regretfully your brother is much better than I.” He touched the swollen area around his eye. “Particularly when he has the element of surprise on his side.”
“Does it still pain you?”
“A bit. I’m hoping my mother and sister don’t arrive before the bruises have faded. I thought I might tell them that I tripped over one of Lady Fitzberry’s dogs and hit my eye on a doorknob, but as a number of souls have already fallen victim to the four legged creatures it sounded trite so I quickly discarded that notion.”
“You could tell them you fell off your horse.”
“Bite your tongue, my girl! Anyone who knows me would never think that. I do not fall off horses. My reputation as a brilliant horseman is known far and wide.”
“That’s also not the reputation I was referring to.”
“I’m a member of the Four Horse Club. I can drive the highest of the high-perched Phaetons with incredible skill.”
“Must I spell it out? Exactly how many women have you bedded?”
He scowled as he groaned. “Good Lord. You don’t mince words do you? The inappropriate comments that fall from your lips are astounding.”
“How many?” she persisted.
“Why even ask? I’ve made no bones about my life. I been a rake and a scoundrel and I’m afraid I haven’t kept count of the number of women I’ve been with. I’m sure I don’t want to know and I can promise you that you don’t.”
“I can’t remember a single ball we both attended that you didn’t sneak off with someone or another. I would always try to guess who you might choose. At the time it seemed a lark, but now I’m afraid that no matter where we go there will always be an ex-lover in the vicinity. Maybe more than one. It’s bound to be uncomfortable.”
“It’s likely,” he conceded. “I can’t change things, but my past liaisons are simply that. In the past.”
“But you’ll be tempted and I won’t share a husband, Rand,” she said with a sudden heat. “I’m not made that way. You’ve spent half your life seducing woman. How do I know you can stop? How do you know you can stop? And how do I know you won’t come to hate me for it?”
He stopped walking and turned to her. “I could never hate you, Cecelia. Never.”
“You say that now.” Her voice faltered.
“Listen to me. You are a beautiful, passionate woman. I will show you all that I can and we will enjoy each other immensely. There will be no need to go elsewhere. I promise you.” He held her gaze with an intense look. “But damn it all, I’m not accustomed to the waiting. Two weeks seems an eternity.” He reached over and touched an errant russet curl. “That night, at the lodge. Your hair was drying in the firelight. It curled and glowed as if it were a part of the flames and I thought you were the most enchanting creature I had ever seen. I wanted you so much that it hurt. I still do.” He pulled his hand away and to her amazement she saw that it was trembling. “I will wait. But we should get back now before my resolve leaves me.”
She hauled in a steadying breath. Then remembering their shadow, her mouth twitched with annoyance. “I do wish Eugene would stay out of this. I don’t like being followed.”
“He’s protecting you as he should. Until we marry, you’re his responsibility. After we marry, you’re mine.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. It made her feel like a child. “And what is my responsibility?”
“I realize that it’s come up a bit sooner than expected, but you’ve been bred to take up the responsibilities of a titled household. You should ease into the role without great difficulty.”
“Is that it?”
He appeared nonplussed and then answered, “Our children, of course.”
She was quiet. His answer was both reasonable and correct and she couldn’t understand why it disturbed her.
“Cecelia?”
It took a moment before she realized he was speaking to her. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “About anything important? You looked somewhat disconcerted.”
She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Do you think it’s possible that our children won’t be little heathens?”
He broke into a smile; his hazel eyes bright with laughter. “No,” he said definitively. “It isn’t even within the realm of possibilities.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for.”
“Ice water in hell would be more likely,” he drawled.
The uneasiness lifted and by the time they reached the house she was laughing as he told her of the time he and her brother had nailed Lord Mallory’s boots the floor when schoolboys at Eton.
Paris, France
Marcel André had remained secluded in his apartments since Napoleon’s banishment to St. Helena. There were rumors of another escape, rumors that he had already escaped to the Americas, rumors that he had been poisoned and was dying a slow painful death. It mattered little. He no longer cared what happened to the little Corsican. He no longer had interest in anything but the deep malignant bitterness that ate away at him, bit by bit. He sat in a deep upholstered chair in his drawing room, nursing his hatred along with his port.
“Monsieur, the post has arrived.” His manservant approached him bearing a silver salver stacked with letters. André waved his hand at the table wincing at the twinge in the muscles of the lef
t side of his chest. It pained him every time he raised his left arm or turned from the waist and had done so for over three years. The pain ensured that his bitter memories never left him. And he remembered those moments with remarkable clarity. He’d been shot in the chest and left for dead. His beloved Marguerite slain only a short distance away. He’d tried to crawl to her, to hold her in his arms, but it had been impossible. He was too weak from the blood loss and in too much agony.
He closed his eyes a moment, remembering the look and feel of her. In no way had she been a beautiful woman. Some might even see her as ugly. She was as small and wiry as a young girl. Her complexion was dark, her nose too long and sharp; her thin lips were often twisted with cruelty. And she was cruel. At times, he had cringed at her bloodlust. But she had dark liquid eyes that mesmerized him and a passion that had inflamed him to a point beyond all reason. He had turned over much of his fortune, killed the Corsican’s enemies, done all that she asked. All for her. Never Napoleon. It was always for her. And given the opportunity he’d do it all over again. She’d been dead for over three years and scarcely an hour went by that he did not think of her. It was no way to live. He should have died. If some drunken lout hadn’t stumbled over him he would have.
Picking up the post he absently shuffled through the stack until one caught his eye. The handwriting was that of Bernard Monet, a man he had engaged over a year ago to discover the identity of the English bastard who had murdered his Marguerite. This was a personal mission and initially, he had tried to find the man himself, but unearthing information had always been Marguerite’s talent, not his, and he had failed. He stared at the missive. The edges were carefully folded and secured with wax, ostensibly to secure its contents. Had Monet finally come through? He sliced through the wax with a knife and took out a folded piece of news sheet. It was an announcement regarding the marriage of Cecelia Marianne Rutherford, the daughter of the seventh Earl of Stratton to Thomas Randolph Danfield, the twelfth Marquis of Clarendon. The accompanying note simply said, Lord Clarendon is the one you seek. Meet me at noon, Thursday in Calais at the Rouge Inn.
The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) Page 9