The Virgin Who Vindicated Lord Darlington

by Anna Bradley

  “I’m not alone. I knew you and Lord Haslemere were out here—”

  “But we didn’t know you were!” Relief gave way to a dread that robbed him of his breath. “Damn it, Cecilia. When I saw someone moving in the garden, I thought you were…” Gideon dragged a frantic hand through his hair. “I might have hurt you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’d never intentionally hurt—”

  “Don’t you understand? I’d have done it thinking you were someone else.” Gideon covered his eyes with his hand. “I told you to stay in your bedchamber, but you followed us out here onto the grounds even after I’d forbidden it—”

  “You never forbade me to—”

  “Stop it, Cecilia! You know damn well I don’t want you out here. Why do you think I put Duncan on your door? To keep you and Isabella safe! I shouldn’t have to tell you not to sneak about the grounds at night, alone, in the dark. Haven’t you any sense at all?”

  Cecilia’s fingers curled into his coat. “I wasn’t—”

  “But you’re not accustomed to following orders, are you? You’re no servant.” Gideon jerked her into his arms and tugged her against his chest, the last vestiges of his control dissolving like mist in the frigid night air. He was no longer betrothed, and she was in his arms. warm and soft and tempting…

  Her scent enveloped him as his lips skimmed her temple, and he couldn’t stop himself from burying his face in her hair again. “I knew it the first moment I saw you. I should have sent you away then, but I couldn’t…couldn’t bear to…”

  “What?” She gazed up at him, searching his face. “What couldn’t you bear?”

  “To let you go.” He’d told himself over and over he was betrothed, that it was wrong of him to want Cecilia. That he could never have her. He’d tried to stay away from her, not even to look at her, but with every day that passed, he only wanted her more. “Why did you come to Darlington Castle? What do you want from me?”

  She braced her hands on his chest, her eyes dark and wild as she gazed up at him. “I just want the truth, Gideon. I want you to tell me the truth.”

  His eyes dropped closed at the sound of his name on her lips, and for that one blissful moment, when her body was pressed against his, he wanted to tell her everything.

  Everything he knew, everything he suspected, everything he wished he could forget. He wanted to take her to his bed and lose himself in her until her gasps and cries chased the darkness from his mind and he could pretend he was like any other man, if only for a few hours.

  But his truths were twisted and ugly, and they his alone to bear. “No, you don’t. You don’t know what you’re asking for. You don’t want that darkness in your head.”

  “What darkness?” She tore free of him then with such suddenness, Gideon was left with his arms still out, clutching at air. “What’s happening at Darlington Castle, Gideon? Who did Miss Honeywell see from her bedchamber window? Was it a ghost? The ghost of your dead wife? Or is she not really dead, after all?”

  “What?” He stared at her, shocked. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “Is your marchioness truly dead, Gideon, or have you been chasing her all this time?” Cecilia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Is her death a lie, or part of some twisted game? Is it true, what the villagers in Edenbridge whisper about you?”

  “Are you asking if I’m a murderer?” Gideon’s arms fell to his sides, his body going still. “Do you… do you truly believe that of me, Cecilia?”

  “No, I…I don’t know! I don’t know what to believe anymore, but I know something is terribly wrong at Darlington Castle. The villagers say no one ever saw Lady Darlington’s body. They say you murdered your wife and denied her a proper burial. Is she hidden in the walls of Darlington Castle, Gideon, as the villagers claim she is?”

  The air seemed to grow darker and colder around Gideon then. A chill rushed over his skin, skeletal fingertips that left a thin layer of ice in their wake. It didn’t occur to him Miss Honeywell—his betrothed, the woman he’d intended to marry—had accused him of the very same crime a day earlier.

  She didn’t matter. Miss Honeywell, her mother, his broken betrothal…none of it mattered. The ugliest of the rumors he’d heard whispered in the village, the appalled glances of the ton in London, even the nickname the Murderous Marquess—he’d borne them all without a murmur.

  But nothing—nothing—had ever hurt him as much as Cecilia’s words did. They flayed him open like the strike of a whip, tearing through the scars there and opening the raw, bloody flesh beneath. All the ugliness, all the lies and loss of the past year, the grief and the pain and the betrayals came oozing out of the gaping wound, threatening to drown him.

  And this time, it did matter. Because this time, it was her.

  So, for the first time since Cassandra’s death all those months ago, Gideon clawed his way free of the blackness. With quick, jerky movements he stripped off his coat, draped it around Cecilia’s shoulders, then took her hand. “Come with me.”

  Cecilia’s eyes went wide. “What? Where are we going?”

  “You said you wanted the truth.” Without another word, Gideon led her from the kitchen garden gate into the rose walk.

  “Gideon, where are you—” Cecilia broke off with a gasp as she stumbled against him in the darkness. Gideon didn’t slow, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, leading her farther and farther into the grounds, the grass crunching under their feet, their steps seeming endless to Gideon until at last the rough outlines of Darlington chapel emerged from the darkness, the tall, narrow spire rising into the sky.

  They passed under the arch with the enormous cross at its peak, then through the stone gate. Gideon’s throat closed as he led Cecilia through the tiny churchyard to the neat row of graves at the back, where centuries of Darlington marquesses and their families had been laid to rest. Each one was marked by a tombstone with the deceased’s name and the dates of their births and deaths carved into the white marble.

  Here lies…departed this life…in loving memory…

  “Read them,” Gideon commanded, his voice low and hoarse.

  “Nathanial Theophilus Rhys, the fourth Marquess of Darlington.” Cecilia turned to him uncertainly, and he nodded at the next gravestone. “Diana Caroline Rhys, the fourth Marchioness of Darlington.”

  Her voice was so hushed Gideon had to lean closer to hear her. “My aunt and uncle, my father’s elder brother and his wife. Who else, Cecilia?”

  “Nathanial Theophilus Rhys,” Cecilia read, her voice not quite steady. “Fifth Marquess of Darlington, and Frances Isabella Cornelius Rhys, fifth Marchioness of Darlington.”

  “My mother and father,” Gideon said tightly. “All the firstborn males in the family bear the same name. Keep going.”

  She gazed at him with those dark eyes, eyes that seemed to see all the way down to his soul, before turning back to the gravestones. “Nathanial Theophilus Cornelius Rhys, sixth Marquess of Darlington.”

  The chasm in Gideon’s chest grew wider as he stared down at Nathanial’s grave. “My brother,” he said quietly. “My father added my mother’s maiden name to his.” Gideon’s lips felt numb, his mouth dry. “The next grave, Cecilia. Whose names are carved onto that headstone?”

  Cecilia’s gaze followed his, moving over the names carved into the marble, and he knew it, could see in her sudden stiffness and the pained sound that ripped from her throat the moment she saw it, and realized the truth.

  “Read the names, Cecilia. Read them aloud.”

  She gazed down at the headstone, lines of pain and grief etched into her pretty face, and then to Gideon’s shock, she knelt down on the frozen ground, heedless of the cold, hard surface abrading her knees, and traced one finger over the names carved into the stone.

  He watched, mesmerized, as her dainty fingertip traced his late wife’s name. Cassandra’s stone was a pure
, untouched white still, the carving clean and smooth, her grave so recently dug Gideon could still see the edges where the ground hadn’t yet healed.

  “Cassandra Elizabeth Belmore Rhys,” Cecilia murmured, but she didn’t stop there. Unlike with the other names, she read each word carved into the marble in a broken voice that made Gideon’s throat close. “Seventh Marchioness of Darlington, beloved wife of Gideon Theophilus Rhys, born November 9, 1769, died October 2, 1793.”

  Her voice faded, and the finger moving over the words stilled.

  Gideon didn’t need to hear the rest—the dates of both deaths were forever burned into his heart, into his soul—but they’d come this far, and now they’d finish it. “What else does it say? Read it to the end, Cecilia.”

  “Nathanial Theophilus Cornelius Rhys, born October 2, 1793, died…” Cecilia let out a shuddering breath and whispered, “Died October 2, 1793.”

  Her words fell into a silence that might have gone on forever, but after a struggle Gideon found his voice. “I named my own son after my brother—Nathanial Theophilus Cornelius Rhys. He and his mother were laid to rest in a private ceremony, right here, and not inside the walls of Darlington Castle, no matter what the villagers of Edenbridge say.”

  “The roses?” Cecilia reached out a hand to caress the frozen white petals of one of the dozen roses lying on top of the grave. “You have them placed here for them?”

  “Every week since they…” Gideon cleared his throat. The dark green leaves were furred with a light layer of frost. He reached out to touch one, and the thin sheet of sparkling ice melted under his fingertip. “These white roses were her favorite. It’s so cold now, they freeze as soon as they’re laid here.”

  “They’re beautiful still.” Cecilia caressed the ruffled edges of the white blooms with gentle fingers. “Even frozen, they’re exquisite.”

  “Yes.” Frozen at the height of their bloom, lovely still, but no less dead for all their beauty. Gideon stared down at the icy petals, and he felt drained, empty. His limbs trembled with exhaustion, threatening to send him to his knees beside the grave that held everything he’d once loved, everything he’d cherished. But the truth was here, in this graveyard, buried in the frozen ground, and it had taken him so long to get here, to come this far…

  “My wife isn’t still alive. She isn’t a ghost haunting Darlington Castle seeking revenge for her murder. She became ill, and she and my son died many years before either of them should have. It isn’t as thrilling as a murderous marquess and a vengeful White Lady, but the truth never is. This truth, Cassandra’s truth, is tragic and…final.”

  Cecilia was quiet for a long time before she rose to her feet. She faced him, her dark eyes holding his, then she drew in a deep breath and let it out again in a ragged sigh. “Come back to the castle with me, Gideon. It’s too cold for you out here.”

  Gideon blinked, dazed. It was the first time anyone other than Haslemere or his servants had shown the least bit of concern for his welfare. And so, he went with Cecilia without a word of protest, her hand curled around his arm, guiding his steps when he would have stumbled.

  When they reached the castle, they met Duncan coming from the direction of the library. His face darkened when he saw Cecilia. “Ye lied to me, Miss Cecilia. Ye promised me ye were only going to the…” Duncan paled when he caught sight of Lord Darlington beside her. “My lord. I beg yer pardon for—”

  “It wasn’t Duncan’s fault. I did lie to him.” Cecilia darted an apologetic glance at the footman. “I’m sorry, Duncan.”

  “Go to your bedchamber, Cecilia.” Gideon nodded toward the staircase. “Unless the castle catches fire, I don’t expect you to leave it again tonight.”

  She gave him an uncharacteristically meek look and moved toward the stairs, her hand dropping away from his arm. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Come with me, Duncan.” Gideon beckoned, and Duncan followed him down the corridor to Gideon’s study, dragging his feet with every step. It was some time before Gideon could persuade Duncan he wasn’t angry. Duncan wrung his hands and begged Gideon’s pardon a half-dozen times, but once he understood he wasn’t being dismissed, he composed himself and went off to his bedchamber.

  By then, Gideon was ready to drop where he stood, but he managed to drag himself to his bedchamber, where he tugged off his boots, stripped off his coat and shirt, and lay down on the bed. It made no sense he could be so exhausted in mind, body, and heart, yet be unable to sleep, but memories and regrets twisted inside him, and his eyes refused to close.

  He couldn’t have said how long he’d been lying there with his arm over his face before he heard the soft scrape of a latch releasing. He dropped his arm and turned his head at the sound, his heart crowding into his throat.

  The door opened slowly, maddeningly so, inch by torturous inch, until she was inside his bedchamber at last. Not a ghost, and not a dream, but real and alive, a woman of warm flesh and flowing blood.

  Gideon took in the long, dark curls trailing over her shoulders and down her back as she hovered in the doorway of his bedchamber. She was still clad in her night rail with the thick shawl around her shoulders, which she was clutching to her neck. “What are you doing here, Cecilia?”

  “I came to…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze caught on the portrait of the dark-haired lady hanging in a recessed alcove opposite his bed. She drifted closer, just the barest outline of her visible in the darkness as she paused by the window.

  “Why did you come?” Gideon asked, his voice hoarse.

  Cecilia remained still, staring up at the painted face. “I’ve been searching for her,” she whispered. “I looked through every portrait in the attics, searched in every room but this one.” She turned, her face half in shadow, the other half illuminated in the dim stream of moonlight coming through the window.

  Gideon swallowed. “You thought I’d taken it. Hidden it, or destroyed it?”

  His words seemed to break the spell Cassandra’s face had cast over Cecilia. She turned, her dark eyes meeting his, and slowly shook her head. “No. I didn’t realize it until I saw her face, but I…I think I knew all along you hadn’t.”

  Gideon’s heart leapt with hope at her words, but he said only, “Why did you come to my bedchamber tonight, Cecilia?”

  Cecilia’s lips parted as he rose from the bed. Her gaze moved from the linen shirt he’d tossed over a chair to trail over his bare abdomen, his chest and his shoulders, until Gideon was forced to swallow back a groan.

  Her eyes darkened as she took in the movement of his throat. Her teeth sank into her pink lower lip, worrying the plump flesh there until it turned a deep, distracting red.

  “I asked you a question.” Gideon couldn’t stop himself from moving a step closer to her. “What are you doing in my bedchamber?”

  She was so close he could feel the warm drift of her breath over his neck, her scent of soap and clean linen teasing his nose. “I was worried about…Duncan. He didn’t do anything wrong. I misled him into thinking—”

  “You’ve no need to worry about Duncan. I’m aware you lied to him. Is that all, then? Or is there some other reason you entered my bedchamber?”

  She jerked her gaze away from his body, her eyes finding his, but by then it was too late. He’d seen the flush in her cheeks, the catch of her breath, the way her pulse quickened in her throat. Her dark eyes moved over his skin like a caress, and God forgive him, but he wanted her eyes on him.

  He wanted her to look at him, to see him.

  Wanted her to want him…

  “I…I thought I should return your coat.” She held up her hand, the coat he’d draped over her shoulders earlier hanging from her fingers. “Just in case you were cold.”

  He drew closer still, so close she might have touched him, her soft fingertips dragging over his bare skin, and took the coat from her hand. “I don’t sleep in my coat, Cecilia.
”

  “No, of course not. Nor your shirt, either.” She flushed and backed toward the door, as if preparing to flee if he moved another step closer to her. “I-I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just…I beg your pardon, Lord Darlington.”

  She turned away, but Gideon moved quickly, catching her wrist in his hand. “No. Don’t go. Please. Tell me the truth, Cecilia. Did you come here for Duncan, or…did you come for me?”

  Her slight body was trembling, but she met his gaze bravely, her dark eyes burning. “For you. I came for you.”

  Desire, passion, the last year of grief and loneliness, the fierce yearning he felt for this fragile, dark-haired woman with her sweet voice and sharp tongue all exploded inside him at once. He drew her against him, his breath catching at the drift of her hair over his skin, her curves against his body.

  She settled her hands on his chest, her palms warming his bare skin, and Gideon caught his breath as that warmth flowed over him, through him, touching every part of him, inside and out. He went still, closing his eyes, savoring the feel of her soft hands on his chest, his shoulders, his neck and face—

  “Gideon. Look at me.”

  Gideon’s stomach jumped at that sweet voice, a voice he’d come to crave, lower now than when she sang, with a hint of huskiness. He opened his eyes to find she’d risen to her tiptoes, and was gently urging his face down, closer to hers, her dark eyes on his lips…

  He caught his breath on a moan when her lips found his. Her kiss was hesitant, shy, as if she’d never kissed a man before and wasn’t quite sure how to do it, but the soft, damp drag of her full mouth against his made his lower belly clench with want, and nothing mattered then but getting closer to her.

  “Your mouth is so sweet, Cecilia.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her against him so he could take her mouth more deeply. Her shawl fell to the ground, leaving her in just her night rail, and he gathered her closer, a broken groan tearing from his lips.