Henry looked away, swallowing hard. “He cannot be exonerated. It may or may not have been deliberate, but by God, he bears the blame. Don’t you know he was dead drunk when it happened? That he was in there with them? And yet, only he got out.”
“And Jane,” Cecily reminded him, although she was shaken.
“And Jane,” Henry allowed, clearly reining in his passion. “You want to think well of him, believe him to be a changed man, and I hope you are right, but please, my lady, remember me if you need a friend.”
This offer both touched and irritated her. She managed to mumble a few words of thanks.
Mrs. Longstone, thankfully, seemed to have been distracted from Verne’s iniquities by Alvan’s invitation to Mooreton Hall and asked Cecily a lot of questions about the house and land, and how many people would attend the ball, and how many would stay at the hall. Cecily was almost relieved when Isabelle de Renarde stepped up on her other side, and Lord Torbridge guided Mrs. Longstone around a muddy puddle in the path.
“I suppose everyone is telling you what a bad idea your engagement is,” Isabelle said with a slightly cynical if sympathetic smile.
“Apart from Jane.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Isabelle said, apparently amused. “I’ve said my piece already and have no intention of adding to it. Just remember engagements can be broken. Marriages are for life. I should know.”
Cecily regarded her with curiosity. “You are referring to your own marriage?”
“I should have known what was in the wind,” Isabelle mused, not answering directly. “That marriage was on Verne’s mind. He has been urging me to go back to my husband.”
“You live apart?”
“Informally, by mutual choice. It is wiser to make such decisions before one makes the mistake of marrying.”
“You are cynical.”
“I have cause to be. Verne, however, is not Renarde. Nor is he the bad man many people will claim. But neither is he an easy man. My only advice to you—which I know you will not heed, because no one ever heeds well-meaning, unwanted advice—is to understand what and who you are getting in such a husband. And now, I shall say no more.”
Thank goodness, Cecily thought. At least her aunt was doing a good job of keeping Lord Torbridge away from her. She suspected he had dashed down here in the hope of avoiding just this event, which made her even more uncomfortable. But Torbridge made no effort to buttonhole her during the walk, and when they returned to the house, Cecily took herself to the bright morning room on the first floor, where she set about writing a few letters to make sure everyone knew about her engagement. To keep it quiet would be to cause the sort of talk she was trying to avoid.
Half an hour later, Torbridge eventually found her. He strolled into the room remarking how pleasant it was and how fine the light.
Cecily set her pen it its stand and turned to regard him.
He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. I haven’t come to question your decision or try to talk you out of it. I imagine you have had enough of that. I can understand why you like him.”
“But with everyone else, you believe he will make me a terrible husband?”
Torbridge dragged a chair closer to her and sat down. “What do you think?”
Cecily’s eyes widened. “About Lord Verne?”
“Yes. What sort of a man is he? In your opinion.”
It was an odd question, but then Torbridge was an odd man, for all his conventional propriety. “In my opinion, he is a troubled man but a good one,” she said defiantly. “He has been charged with no crime and yet the world has convicted him with no right and less cause.”
“Then you believe in his honor?”
He had abducted her under a misapprehension, but however reprehensible that act, he now put himself through this social torture in order to make things right again. She lifted her chin. “Yes, I do.”
But even as she said it, she realized she had never fully established exactly who or what he had imagined her to be when he’d thrown her into the saddle and ridden off with her. A “hussy” was somewhat vague. Surely one had no need to abduct such women to obtain their favors? The true mystery of that night had got lost somehow in her own difficulties.
Torbridge was gazing at her with that unexpectedly sharp perception she occasionally found in him. “Is that what your engagement is about? Honor? Or love?”
Cecily raised one eyebrow. “Are the two mutually exclusive? I hope not.” She turned back to her letter, reaching for the pen. After a few moments of silence, she heard him rise and imagined him bowing to her back before he walked away with a murmured “Excuse me.”
“My lord.” She twisted around to face him once more, and he halted politely. She said, “I hope we are still friends.”
“I shall always be your friend. I think you know that.”
The idea of marriage with him had occasionally crossed her mind. For some reason, meeting Verne had clarified the impossibility of such a union from her point of view. She did not love Torbridge. And yet somewhere, she was sorry she did not.
*
Since Verne did not appear for tea, Cecily sought him out in his library. She invited Jane to go with her, but to her surprise, the child hung back.
“Oh no,” she said earnestly. “He does not like to be disturbed if the door is closed.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll risk it on my own,” Cecily said with a quick smile.
“You’re very brave,” Jane blurted, and bolted back to her grandmother.
Cecily thought it an odd thing to say about merely knocking on a door. After all, although he appeared to use the library as an extension to his own rooms, Verne had often said anyone who wished was welcome to use it.
The door was indeed closed. Cecily knocked and, receiving no answer, walked in. But the room was not empty as she had assumed.
Lord Verne sat at the desk with his back to her. “The door was closed,” he snapped irritably.
“And now it is open,” Cecily observed.
He sprang up, knocking the chair over in his haste. He had not been reading or writing as she had assumed. Instead, the brandy decanter and a glass stood there, as though he had been systematically drinking himself into a stupor.
He groaned. “Not you! Why are you here?”
“You told me I should laugh at your jokes and show a preference for your company. I assumed this was to work both ways, so I’ve come to keep you company and be laughed at.”
“I’m not sure you know the right kind of jokes.”
At least his speech was not slurred. “I probably don’t,” she agreed. “How much have you had?”
He regarded her with more curiosity than irritability. “Not enough for my purposes. Too much for yours. You should go.”
“I shall, in just a little.” She walked further into the room and began to look around the bookshelves.
He watched her, frowning. “Why are you not more alarmed? Or appalled?”
She shrugged, plucking a book off the shelf at random. “I’ve seen you drunker than this,” she said frankly.
“And look what that led to!”
“Well, yes, but you didn’t actually touch me.”
He moved toward her. “We were not engaged, then.”
“We’re not engaged now.”
“The world believes we are.” He halted so close beside her she could smell the brandy on his breath. “I’m almost expected to ravish you.”
“Because of your reputation?”
“That and the fact you’re so damned alluring.” He raised one hand, pushing a stray strand of hair off her neck.
“I don’t believe you’re drinking because I’m alluring,” she argued.
He laughed. “That’s exactly why I’m drinking.” His fingertips strayed across her cheek and lingered on her lower lip. Her breath caught. She seemed incapable of moving away. She remembered last night’s deep, sensual kisses and was shocked by how much she wanted him to repeat them.
His hand fell away. “You should go,” he said abruptly. “Cry off before Alvan’s wretched ball. You don’t want to find yourself leg-shackled for life to me.”
“I expect I will. Cry off, I mean,” she added hastily. “But I came to ask you another question. You abducted me because you thought I was merely some hussy. What hussy? Who did you think I was?”
The last vestiges of softness vanished from his eyes, leaving them like flint. Worse, a glint of cruelty took her by surprise.
“To be honest,” he said deliberately, “I didn’t much care.”
She held his gaze, just to prove she could. Then she walked away from him to the desk and picked up the decanter before marching to the door.
His mocking laughter followed her. “I’ll only fetch another.”
“And who knows?” she replied sweetly. “In the time it takes you to do so, you might have realized what a stupid idea it is.”
She shut the door behind her with a decided click. It was quite satisfying, only now she was left carrying a decanter of brandy and had no idea what to do with it. It wasn’t something she particularly wanted the Longstones or anyone else to see.
She turned toward the kitchen, and by chance encountered the ubiquitous Daniel emerging through the baize door.
“Ah, Daniel,” she said briskly. “Take this away, if you please, until a more suitable occasion.”
Daniel’s mouth fell open. “How did you manage that, my lady?”
“I took him by surprise,” she said honestly.
Daniel took the decanter and cast her a quick, crooked smile. “You know he’ll only fetch up another.”
“So he told me. But it’s a start.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He turned and vanished back through the door to the servants’ domain.
Since she still carried the book, she decided to take it up to her bedchamber and read until it was time to change for dinner.
Chapter Nine
Verne stared at the closed library door with some astonishment. After a moment, he let out a breath of wry laughter. While he admired her style and her courage, the removal of one decanter could make no possible difference to his intentions.
His intentions. He wasn’t even sure what they were, except to stop himself from thinking. From feeling. But he hadn’t truly meant to be bosky before dinner. Nor could he refuse to attend and make a nonsense of his own scheme to persuade the world that he was at Cecily Moore’s impetuous little feet. The trouble was, he’d begun to suspect it was true and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
Touching her last night had been a mistake. It had been giving in to impulse… and desires that had haunted him since he’d first seen her. It had been sweetness itself. And unforgivable weakness. It was no use telling himself he had been vulnerable when she had found him. He had simply taken advantage of her nearness because rightly or wrongly, desire was one of the ways he blotted out the pain. But she was no whore, nor even a sophisticated lady who understood the rules of illicit liaisons. She was an innocent and his friend’s sister whom he had already wronged. But for a moment—be honest, Patrick, for many moments!—her unique combination of compassion, purity, fun, and latent passion had been irresistible.
He had almost ruined everything. What if someone other than Elvira Longstone had seen them and initiated the gossip he had begun this masquerade to avoid? He had to draw back from the intimacy he had initiated, and never, ever repeat it. Because the truth was, he could never have her in reality. Even if he could win her—and God, her response made him dream of possibilities—he was too soiled, too mired in lies and madness and sheer bad behavior. He could not visit that upon her.
His plan, for her to appear to be taken in by him, engaged to him, and then, discovering his true nature, jilting him, still seemed the only available solution. He should not be making that harder for either of them.
Still, he kicked the side of the bookcase, because she’d taken away his damned brandy. And then he laughed and walked out through the garden door.
*
They were all gathered in the drawing room—a motley group of people, all of whom he had wronged in some way and yet who, for various reasons, were happily accepting his hospitality. Cecily’s gaze flew to him at once, as though she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He smiled at her, and she smiled back with relief. He bowed to the company in general and exerted himself to be at least a pleasant host.
Lord Torbridge came up to him. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m still here! Mrs. Longstone invited me to stay longer.”
I’m sure she did. She would be hoping that if Henry couldn’t cut Verne out with Cecily, then perhaps Torbridge could at least make her think twice.
“Very glad of your company,” Verne said civilly.
“Did I offer my congratulations on your betrothal?”
“I believe you did.”
“We are old friends, Lady Cecily and I.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I suppose you’ve also been told that I wish I stood in your shoes as far as she is concerned.”
“You never asked her.”
“I didn’t think she would say yes. A more decisive man has stepped in and won her.”
Verne regarded him. “Don’t hold back on my account. We both know I am not the better man. But before you appeal to my honor, no, I shall not give her up.”
He would, of course, but it did his heart good to pronounce the denial.
“Why not?” Torbridge asked unexpectedly. “No one ever imagined you were hanging out for a wife.”
“I wasn’t until I met Cecily.”
“But I thought you were a family friend who had known her since childhood.”
Verne shrugged. “It was not until we met again more recently that I noticed her as more than Alvan’s little sister.” He met Torbridge’s gaze. “It makes no difference, you know. She won’t marry you.”
“I know,” Torbridge said ruefully. “The trouble is, I’m not sure she should marry you either.”
“Meaning if I had any honor left, I would release her? Sadly, I don’t.”
This appeared to flummox Torbridge, until Cecily rescued him with more polite conversation.
*
After dinner, since there was a precedent, Verne again invited Cecily and anyone else who cared to accompany them for an evening stroll.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured so only she could hear. “I will be good.”
Her lustrous eyes betrayed a rare hint of uncertainty. Either she did not wish to be reminded of last night, or he had aroused desires he should not. The latter idea set his pulses racing. But tonight, he would not give in to temptation.
“Just ten minutes, Cecily,” Lady Barnaby instructed. “The evening feels damp and chilly and I don’t want you catching cold.”
Clearly no one wished to play gooseberry to a newly engaged pair, and since most of the garden was visible from the drawing room window, there was little to object to in the way of propriety.
“So,” Cecily said, wrapping her shawl tighter around her as he opened the side door for her, “you did not fetch more brandy.”
“No, you were right. I resorted to a brisk walk and a pint of cold water instead.”
She waited until the door was closed behind them, then took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry you are in this intolerable position. I think my aunt and I should leave the day after tomorrow for Mooreton Hall. Then you may return to your peace.”
“Thank you,” he replied without enthusiasm. “Such peace is overrated. Do you plan to give me my congé by letter? Or shall we quarrel publicly at Alvan’s party?”
She shuddered. “I could not do that to Charlotte at her first ball as duchess. I shall write to you first, then to all the friends I have just informed of our engagement.”
“I shall cry into my brandy. Very publicly.”
“Then I shall take the brandy with me!”
He laughed. “I wouldn
’t put it past you. My advice would be to wait a week after you reach Mooreton Hall. That way it looks as if Alvan and the rest of your family talked you out of it.”
“What an excellent notion,” she approved. She appeared to brighten. “And then when you come to the ball, we may gaze at each other broken-heartedly across the room. Without ever speaking, of course.”
“Couldn’t we speak in stilted, tragic tones?”
“I think I might spoil everything by laughing.”
“Hysteria, poor girl,” he told an imaginary person beside him. “She’ll never get over me, never.”
“Not before supper, at any rate,” Cecily interpolated.
“It is a pleasant prospect,” he observed. “But sadly, I won’t really be there.”
Flatteringly, Cecily frowned. “You won’t? Why not?”
“No point,” he said brutally. He should have averted his eyes so he didn’t see the sudden hurt in her face. “Cecily—”
He broke off, for a rustling sound in the darkness ahead distracted him. He halted, grasping her arm as she tried to hurry ahead. She glanced up at him in outrage, and he put a finger to his lips, moving softly in front of her.
They were almost at the corner of the house, at the edge of the formal garden where the lights did not reach. Panting breath, the quiet thud of feet in the earth, the rustling of leaves, all shrieked sudden, unexpected danger, for this was no small animal. At least one man lurked ahead.
“Go back to the house,” Verne ordered urgently. “Now.” He lunged forward just as a grunt and a heavier thud reached him, as though someone had fallen, and then more sudden rustling and a black figure darted away at the edge of the dark. Verne broke into a run to catch him, but his foot caught on something soft, eliciting a groan from the man on the ground.
Verne dropped down beside the fallen man, one fist poised as his other found the man’s shoulder. There was wetness.
The man was lying on his front, his head turned to the side. Verne moved, allowing the distant light to penetrate. Two large, pain-wracked eyes stared back at him. Jerome.
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 32