She followed him. “Because I don’t believe you’re guilty. I don’t believe you would be stupid enough, even utterly drunk, to set fire to anything, let alone your own home.”
His brow twitched as he searched her eyes. “I’ve no idea where you find such belief in me. I’m touched and appalled at the same time.”
“Why appalled? Why are you so determined to take the blame?”
“Because the blame is mine,” he retorted. “If this is all you wish to talk about, you should go.”
“Yes, I probably should,” she agreed. “And yet, as you pointed out, here I am.”
“You are a very strange girl.”
“So my aunt says when I won’t do as she wants.”
“Does she really want you to marry Torbridge?”
“She thinks I could do worse.”
“Will he stand by you when you engage yourself to me and then throw me over?”
“I have no idea,” she said impatiently, for he had turned the subject too easily. “I heard a rumor the late Lord Verne, your brother, was insane.”
“It’s in the blood.”
And suddenly, several little pieces of information and opinion all came together. He had been devoted to his brother, covered for his spells of insanity. He hadn’t been the one to prevent Shilton going back into the blaze to try to save the others because far from drinking merrily in his own rooms, he was in his brother’s apartments trying to save him and his wife. Failing was the root of his guilt. Taking the blame was the fault of love.
“You’re still covering for him,” she whispered, sinking to the floor at his knees. “He started the fire and you let everyone believe it was you.”
He stared at her. The shock in his eyes was almost fear. “You’re wrong,” he said shakily.
“And no one guesses. Not Marjorie’s family, not even Isabelle. And they treat you like… Patrick, how can you stand it? Why?”
“Because he was defamed enough, and I had nothing to lose.” His expression grew fierce. “Leave it alone, Cecily. You are not to rake this up.”
His hands rested on his knees, gripping so hard his knuckles shone white in the candlelight. She pried one off, holding it between both of hers. “I won’t,” she promised earnestly. “But, Patrick, you do not need to punish yourself with the loathing of the world. You did nothing wrong.”
“Didn’t I? I left him there rather than send him to an asylum or even hire the right people to look after him. I did kill him, and Marjorie, as surely as if I’d set the fire myself.”
“And so you invite his mother-in-law around as a sort of flagellation?”
His breath caught. It might have been laughter, hastily choked off. “Something like that, yes.” His hand moved, gripping hers and dragging it to his lips. “But never think I am a good man, Cecily, for I’m not. I would still take you to bed.”
Her heart thudded. She thought they were both aware how easily he could persuade her if he put his mind—and his lean, tempting body—to the task. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm and then her wrist over the galloping pulse.
“But I won’t,” he said. “I am too churned up and I don’t think you know what you want.”
He was right. Some strange feeling, a deep, powerful emotion was struggling for recognition, but became so muddled with his pain and her own pity, she shied away from it.
“You should go,” he said, standing and drawing her to her feet. “Come. I’ll escort you to the top of the stairs.”
“I remember the way.” Quite unreasonably, she felt piqued he was sending her away, even though she would not have stayed. At least, she didn’t think she would. He confused her too much for sanity.
He smiled down at her, still holding her hand as he led her to the door. “Don’t ever change, Cecily.”
“Meaning I’m perfect as I am?”
He took up one of the candles by the door and gave it to her before collecting another. “I’ll leave such superlatives to Torbridge. But I do like you as you are—though most young ladies would not take that as a compliment from me.”
She considered him. “I don’t think you like many people.”
“I don’t.”
“Then perhaps I will accept it as a compliment.”
“Be still my heart.”
She glanced at him with suspicion as they began to climb the stairs. “More Shakespeare?”
“Homer,” he confessed apologetically.
She couldn’t help smiling. As they reached the landing, she turned. “For what it’s worth, my lord, I like being your friend.”
Startlement crept into his eyes. But he held onto her hand when she would have withdrawn it. “Then you might like to know that Isabelle did not stay with me last night. She merely passed through the library on her way to her own chamber.”
Her foolish heart leapt with pleasure. He took advantage of the moment, swooping to kiss her mouth, to the imminent danger of both candles.
“Verne!” exclaimed a shocked voice.
Gasping, Cecily sprang away, but he held onto her hand, turning without shame or even irritation to face Mrs. Longstone who was fully dressed and bore a branch of candles in one hand.
“Well met, ma’am,” he drawled. “You may be the first to congratulate me.”
“Congratulate you?” she said in outrage. “On abusing a guest under your roof?”
“You misunderstand,” he said gently. “I must be allowed to express just a little joy, for Lady Cecily has just agreed to be my wife.”
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Longstone wobbled. She stared from Verne to Cecily. “Is this true?”
It was the whole point of being at Finmarsh. Yet, everything in Cecily revolted against the lie, against anything so unsavory touching this strange friendship she’d found with Verne. Everything was so confusing, she wanted to run to her room and hide.
Instead, she managed a tremulous smile. “Yes, I have accepted Lord Verne’s offer. Of course, we need my brother’s consent, but I’m sure that is a mere formality.”
Mrs. Longstone walked up to them. “Good night, Verne,” she said sternly. “I shall escort her ladyship to her chamber.”
Verne bowed to her with sardonic amusement, before he turned to Cecily with the faintest wink, inviting her to share the joke. “Of course. Good night, Cecily. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”
As he descended the stairs, Cecily felt something akin to panic. The beauty of the evening was being spoilt with this lie she had to perpetuate on her own. But she merely walked toward the bedchamber passage, wondering how to apologize for her lapse in propriety.
In the end, she didn’t need to, for Mrs. Longstone said intensely, “Has that man coerced you into this?”
“Of course not!” Cecily exclaimed with such genuine shock that her companion seemed mollified.
“Forgive me,” she said. “But you are a young and lovely lady of the highest rank, possessed, I understand, of a considerable fortune. I know you are not short of suitors. I cannot understand why Verne of all people should have won you.”
“Neither can I,” Cecily replied, a little shakily. “But in truth, I have never met anyone like him.”
*
Cecily awoke the following morning with both happiness and excitement in her heart. It was not, of course, the normal emotion of a happy betrothal. The excitement came from the necessity of playing her part, of making the nonsense believable. It might be difficult and reprehensible but there was, she had to admit, a certain, childish fun in play acting.
Her happiness stemmed from something quite different. The thrill of Verne’s kisses and her own awakening desires. Even more reprehensible, of course, but there seemed nothing she could do about it, except to be sure to allow no further intimacy. For deeper than the sweet physical reaction to his misbehavior was the growing trust and deeper understanding, the connection of friendship between them. That was what she truly valued.
She rang for her maid early and
was fully dressed by the time she heard stirrings in the bedchamber next door. She went at once to warn her aunt of her betrothal.
“I imagine word will be all over the house by now,” she said, sitting on the edge of Lady Barnaby’s bed, “that I am engaged to Lord Verne.”
Aunt Barny shot her a look of undisguised suspicion. “I find that odd when you weren’t engaged when we last spoke!”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep and I ran into Verne. Mrs. Longstone saw us together in the upstairs hall and so we brought matters forward a little.”
“That was pure idiocy, Cecily,” her aunt scolded with a frown. “You have left yourself open to new scandal. What if Mrs. Longstone spreads this tale?”
“I doubt she would. I believe she welcomes the connection with a duke’s family.”
“Though she’d prefer it closer still,” Lady Barnaby said shrewdly. “You have noticed Henry Longstone has been dangling after you?”
“Only in a polite way, and possibly trying to protect me from Verne! But talking of politeness, there is the problem of Torbridge. I wish he had not come, just to be hurt by this.”
“Well, if he’s worth having, he will still be there when all this has blown over. And if he isn’t, it’s the price you pay for wandering about inns alone at night. Besides,” Lady Barnaby added, relaxing her self-righteousness, “you never seemed more than half-interested in him.”
“That doesn’t mean I wish to hurt his feelings or his pride.”
Lady Barnaby gave her a quick smile. “Did I bring you up to be so kindhearted?”
“You must have, because no one else did.” Cecily gave her aunt an affectionate hug and went downstairs to breakfast.
She was somewhat alarmed to find the whole party already gathered in the breakfast room, although the unexpected presence of Verne soothed her. Everyone rose to wish her happy with a kind of hectic enthusiasm that didn’t really speak for sincerity.
Torbridge pressed her hand, smiling, although his eyes searched hers rather more piercingly than she was used to. Henry Longstone bowed to her with a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. “I wish you luck with this reprobate,” he said with clearly false joviality. Everyone knew that reprobate was exactly what he thought of Verne.
Madame de Renarde regarded her with sleepy eyes. “I hope you have not bitten off more than you can chew,” she murmured.
“Why, so do I,” Cecily agreed amiably.
“Then I wish you happy.” She laid a very slight emphasis on the wish, as though there was very little likelihood of it coming true. She was certainly right in that.
Blushing, Cecily sat by Verne’s side. It was undoubtedly expected.
“So that is why you wish to rebuild the north wing,” Madame de Renarde said to him.
“It is certainly one reason,” Verne admitted.
“Will you live there?” Henry demanded.
“That will be up to my bride. She will order the house as she sees fit.”
Everyone looked at Cecily, who laid down her half-eaten toast. “I think there will be time enough to decide such things once the building work is done and it is habitable,” she said firmly.
“Quite right,” Mrs. Longstone approved. “And of course, we must not preempt his grace of Alvan’s permission. I trust you will write to him, Verne.”
“I wrote to him two days ago,” Verne replied unexpectedly.
Cecily blinked. “Did you?”
“Yes, and I should have waited for his reply before I addressed you, but there, it is done now. I shall just hope friendship will carry the day.”
“Good luck with that,” Henry murmured, dabbing his lips with his napkin.
“Thank you,” Verne said.
Lady Barnaby made her entrance at that point, and everyone watched her with unusual avidity—no doubt to see how she took the news of her niece’s engagement.
“I see you have all heard,” she remarked cheerfully, though with just a hint of disapproval in her gaze as it swept over Cecily and Verne. “Young people today! In my time, we did things in the proper order, not engaging oneself before the parental permission.”
“Sorry, Lady B,” Verne drawled. He turned to Cecily. “Would you care to ride after breakfast? I’ll show you some more of your new home.”
“You will need to take a chaperone,” Mrs. Longstone said anxiously. “Without his grace’s permission, you are not truly engaged.”
“Oh, I think as long as a groom is present, we may dispense with such niceties,” Lady Barnaby said. “I don’t believe Alvan will object. For some reason he likes Verne.”
“I thought you said he’d shoot me?” Verne murmured to Cecily.
She smiled for everyone else’s benefit. “He still might.”
*
Verne seemed a different man as they rode around his estate. His demeanor was lighter and more relaxed as he showed her the improvements he had made and the problems which still existed, including more marshland which he planned to drain. He introduced several of his tenants, none of whom seemed remotely frightened of the sinister baron.
On the way back, they talked of many things from politics to literature, until the subject of Lord Byron came up. Verne was not an admirer.
“I’m disappointed,” Cecily said. “I find it most romantic, dramatic, and appealing. In fact, when I first saw you at the inn, I thought immediately of Childe Harold.”
Verne looked thoroughly revolted, and Cecily laughed.
His eyes narrowed. “Is that because you found me dramatic or appealing? Or merely romantic?”
“Dramatic,” she said, flushing slightly, and hoping the breeze would cool her cheeks before he noticed. “And engaged upon nefarious deeds.”
“Such as abducting innocent maidens and riding off with them to my lair.”
“At least it was maiden in the singular.”
“Sadly, it was a slow night for maidens.”
“You are outrageous,” she said severely. “Come, I’ll race you over this hill.”
They returned to Finmarsh House in high, good humor, with Cecily’s groom toiling after them. The others were gathering for luncheon in great excitement because several letters had arrived from Alvan. Mrs. Longstone and Lady Barnaby had read theirs while Cecily’s and Verne’s waited for them on the table.
“He has agreed,” Lady Barnaby said at once. “In fact, he seems to desire to hold a ball in your honor.”
Cecily paused with her hand on the back of her chair, staring at her aunt. “A ball? Alvan?”
“Well, he is obliged to do something at the hall, you know, following his own nuptials. People expect it. Besides, I’m sure Charlotte would appreciate your support.”
“And I, hers,” Cecily said ruefully before pulling herself together and laughing. “How like my brother to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”
“But you will not wish to leave Finmarsh just yet,” Mrs. Longstone said anxiously. “I’m sure you would like to stay a few more days now that you are engaged.”
Cecily threw a glance at Verne and then at her aunt, who nodded. “Of course, we would love to. But only if it does not put you out to be here longer,” Lady Barnaby said. “For we can easily depart today or tomorrow as we originally planned.”
While Mrs. Longstone assured her nothing was more delightful to her than being at Finmarsh House with such charming guests, Cecily broke the wafer on her own letter and read it. It didn’t take long,
My dear Cecily,
What are you about now? You had better both come here and reveal all, for you must know I smell a rat. Please be good.
Yours etc.
Alvan.
PS: Charlotte sends her love.
“Typical Alvan,” Cecily said indignantly, folding the unsatisfying letter and tossing it on the table. “How can he demand to know everything and yet tell nothing?”
*
After luncheon, since it was a fine afternoon, the party took a walk in the woods, and almost immediately f
elt the less comfortable side to her pretend engagement, for Jane accompanied them and skipped along beside Cecily, smiling.
“Are you going to marry Uncle Patrick?”
The direct question offered little opportunity for evasion. “If he’s good,” Cecily managed, in what she hoped was a joking kind of way. There was little chance of him being good, after all. However, sticking to the letter of truth while completely ignoring its spirit did not sit well with her and she remembered why she had opposed this scheme in the first place.
Jane laughed and slid her hand into Cecily’s. “I’m glad. I think he’ll be less sad now.”
Since Verne had chosen not to accompany them but gone about whatever business was normal for him, Cecily asked blatantly, “Has he been sad?”
Jane nodded. “He hides it and always makes me laugh, but I know he isn’t happy. Or wasn’t.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Because of my parents, I suppose,” Jane said. There was an acceptance of tragedy in her voice, something she had long come to terms with. After all, she had been three years old when it happened and had lived more than half her life since. “But I think he is lonely, too. He and Grandmama quarrel, and no one else will speak to him. Apart from the Finmarsh people, of course, but they cannot really be his friends.”
“I suppose not.”
Jane bestowed a dazzling smile upon her. “But now that you are friends, everything will be better.”
“I hope so,” Cecily said, trusting her voice didn’t sound too hollow.
Henry stepped forward to help her over a stream. Jane leapt over it unaided and ran ahead to catch her grandmother.
“He told us he would marry you,” Henry said conversationally. “Having met you, I seriously doubted it, but it seems he was right. Or at least come that all important step closer.”
Cecily, having nothing to add to that, merely smiled.
“Forgive me,” Henry said abruptly. “But have you considered what marriage to such a man will mean? No one receives him and there is good reason for that.”
“I don’t believe there is good reason,” she said at once. “You should know, I don’t believe most of the accusations rumor throws at him.” She met his gaze. “Including his responsibility for the fire.”
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 31