by Kruger, Mary
“And don’t think I don’t know what Mr. Driver’s really like, Jem. But he wouldn’t have let us come to any harm.”
“Who is this Mr. Driver?” Alex said, biting each word off.
“The man you threatened, sir.”
“The man I threatened?”
“Yes!” She faced him with a gaze as cool as his own. “We were doing quite well without you, sir. There was no need for you to interfere in what wasn’t your business.” And what was he doing in such a neighborhood, anyway? Perhaps visiting his mistress. A most lowering thought, though Cecily wasn’t quite sure why it should be.
“I see,” Alex said, his voice very quiet. Seated beside him, Parsons could feel the rage emanating from him. He’d seen his master in this mood before, and it surprised him that St. Clair wasn’t letting his rage go. What surprised him even more, however, was the way the young lady was reacting. Parsons looked from one to the other interestedly. Not only was she not afraid of St. Clair, but she was actually standing up to him. Parsons leaned back, thoughtful. If what he suspected was happening, it could complicate matters considerably, though he’d never before known his master to be interested in a young innocent.
Alex broke the tense silence by reaching up to pound on the roof. After a moment, the driver looked in the window, starting to expostulate about his recent experiences, and Alex held up a hand. “Spare us. You will be well-recompensed. In the meantime you may bring us to—” His gaze turned to Cecily, and his brow knotted.
“What?” Cecily said, puzzled.
“Lord, my lady, you can’t go home looking like that,” Jem said, and Cecily glanced down. Her pelisse was covered with mud, and, worse, there was a rent in her frock, making her look more disheveled than usual. Why, oh why must she always look so mussed when she was with St. Clair? Dismayed, she looked up at him, and he returned her gaze without expression.
“Piccadilly,” he said to the driver.
“Sir, is that wise?” Parsons said, and he and Alex exchanged a long look. Some kind of wordless communication seemed to pass between them before Alex turned back to Cecily.
“Your servant is right. You cannot go home looking like that, though God knows you should, and face the consequences of your actions.”
Cecily put up her chin. “I was doing nothing wrong, sir. And where are you taking me?”
“To my lodgings. Oh, don’t worry,” he said, at her startled look. “You’ll be perfectly safe. We will contrive it so that your reputation is not ruined.”
“I see.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “And what of your reputation, sir? If such kindness becomes known no one will believe you a rake anymore.”
“Be quiet, Cecily,” he said, tiredly. Cecily subsided, after glancing towards Parsons. St. Clair’s servant, she supposed. Now why was he looking at her with such interest?
The hackney pulled up into the stable yard of the building where Alex lived. After making sure no one was about, they smuggled Cecily upstairs, her bonnet pulled well down over her face to disguise her. Cecily couldn’t prevent the little thrill of excitement that went through her, at this extension of her adventure, and at actually being in the apartments of such an infamous rake. Not just any rake, though. Somehow she knew she was safe here. Any danger St. Clair posed her would come from another direction.
Parsons showed her into a sparsely-furnished bedroom and, after laying out a dressing gown for her, took away her pelisse to clean. She would mend her frock herself, she assumed, glancing about the room. At first she thought it was Parsons’ own chamber, so bare was it, but a glance at the books on the bedside table proved her wrong. The flyleaf of each was signed with “Alexander Darcy,” in a strong, bold hand. So this was his room, his most private place, the only place, perhaps, where he could be himself. Curious, Cecily turned ‘round slowly, determined to learn all she could about him.
The furnishings were of good quality, but plain. The four-poster mahogany bed was without bedcurtains, and the dark green drapes hanging at the window were simple, with neither pelmet nor cornice. The top of the dresser was neat to the point of starkness, holding only a highly-polished box, as well as some silver-backed brushes. No pictures hung on the wall, no carpet was laid on the wide board floor. Except for the books and the brushes, the room was completely devoid of any personal touches. Cecily’s heart ached. Who would ever have expected that a man so given to the pursuit of pleasure would live in such Spartan surroundings?
Swallowing an absurd lump that threatened to choke her, Cecily unhooked her gown and tossed it on the bed. The dressing gown Parsons had left for her made her giggle. In contrast to the plain furniture, it was a splendid affair of crimson brocade, so large it nearly wrapped around her twice. His dressing gown, she thought, rolling up the sleeves and tying the sash in a tight knot. His, and it held his scent. She turned her head into the lapel, breathing it in, clean and refreshing after Edgewater’s cloying sandalwood. If anyone were to see her now, wearing St. Clair’s clothes, her reputation would be ruined for sure. Somehow the thought bothered her not at all.
Opening the door, she stepped into the sitting room. To her relief, it was empty. Like the bedroom it, too, was plainly furnished. London’s most notorious rake appeared to live in a small, cramped apartment, with only one servant to look after him. She wondered why.
Parsons came in carrying a tray, from which rose a fragrant steam. Tea! Cecily was suddenly ravenous, and she smiled up at Parsons as he set the tray down on a table next to a comfortable-looking armchair. “Thank you, Parsons. You must find all of this strange goings-on.”
“Not at all, my lady,” Parsons said, his face wooden, his eyes averted.
Cecily couldn’t resist the impulse to tease, though she wasn’t certain where it came from. Nor did she understand why she was so enjoying an experience that should surely make a proper young miss swoon. Had there always been a more forward, adventurous girl hiding under her practical exterior? “Then it is usual to have strange females in the viscount’s sitting room?”
“No, miss, it ain’t!” Parsons straightened with more than necessary energy. “For all they say of him, the viscount’s a good man.”
“I know he is, Parsons.” Her voice was soft. “Forgive my impertinence.”
“It’s all right, my lady.” Parsons’ tone was wooden again. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t tease him. He’s in a rare taking. He really was worried for you.” He paused. “I haven’t seen him like that often.”
“Have you been with him long, Parsons?”
“More years than I care to remember. And—”
“Is everything settled, Parsons?” Alex paused in the doorway and then strolled in, apparently at ease, though Cecily had only to looked at his squared shoulders and his set face to know that he was still angry.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you may leave us.”
Parsons hesitated. “It ain’t right, my lord—”
“Leave us, Parsons. And none of your Bible-thumping disapproval, either.”
“Yes, my lord. I’ll get you a needle and thread, my lady,” Parsons said, and left, his face expressionless.
Alex turned towards his unwelcome guest. Somewhat to his surprise, she was gazing at him unwaveringly, the straightness of her glance distracting him a little from the fetching picture she made in his dressing gown. It was much too big for her, of course, and, wrapped in its folds, she looked absurdly young and absurdly small, the bones of her wrists tiny and delicate, the line of her neck slender and pure. His gaze softened. “Well?”
“That wasn’t necessary, sir,” she said. “He cares about you.”
“Spare me such caring,” he said, his voice clipped, and sprawled into the armchair facing her. “Now, miss. You will tell me why you were in that slum.”
Cecily took a sip of tea before answering. “No, I don’t think I will. I might,” she went on, quickly, “if you were to ask me, but the only man who has any right to speak to me so is my father.”
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“Who would not be best pleased with you just now,” he shot back.
“No, he wouldn’t. But he won’t learn of it. Will he?”
“I believe that’s up to you.” His gaze softened again. “What were you doing there, Cecily? Don’t you realize how dangerous it was?”
“Of course I do. And I might add that I wasn’t in any danger until you interfered.”
“Interfered!” Rage rose within him again at this description of what he felt had been quite an heroic effort.
“I admit it looked bad,” she said, candidly, “but once I found out that one of the men is the father of a child I teach, everything was fine.”
“A child you teach.” Alex’s brow knotted. “Where?”
Cecily looked surprised. “Why, at the orphanage, of course. No, you wouldn’t know that. You see, I go to the orphanage to teach some of the children to read and write.” She set her cup on the tray. “You won’t tell, will you?”
“I should,” Alex said slowly, testing her words for truth. Unless she was an extraordinarily fine actress, she sounded sincere. “It’s not safe. Yes, I know, you knew one of the men. But suppose you didn’t? Have you thought about what could happen to you?”
“If I hadn’t, I certainly would have found out today.” Ill at ease under his searching gaze, she fidgeted with the sash of the dressing gown. “Please don’t tell. The children need so much. Papa lets me help at the school at Marlow, but if he finds out about this, he’ll forbid me to go anymore.”
“As well he should. God’s teeth, Cecily, why does it have to be you?”
“Who else will do it? Sir, something has to be done for those poor people.” She leaned forward, unmindful of the way the dressing gown gaped open at her throat. “They have nothing, and most of the time it’s not even their fault! Someone has to help, and it should be us. We have so much, it doesn’t seem fair sometimes.”
Alex leaned back, tearing his gaze away from the soft, enticing skin the dressing gown revealed. “You really care about this.”
“I do.”
Alex rose and paced over to the mantel, his fingers stroking his upper lip. A fine actress, or an honest girl. Which?
“Haven’t you ever felt that way?” she went on. “Hasn’t there ever been anything you believed in so much that you would do anything for it?”
“Once,” Alex murmured, remembering a time when he, too, had been so foolishly idealistic, eager to serve his country in any way possible.
“What happened?”
“I came up against reality.” The reality of spying, of a world peopled by strangers one automatically feared, friends one didn’t dare trust. He had no reason to believe anything had changed. “As you nearly did today.”
“As I already have,” she said, and Alex’s startled gaze swung towards her. “I’ve always known there was danger involved. I thought it was worth it.” She looked down at her hands. “I think I’m not the proper miss everyone thinks I am.”
Alex sat down again. “Does your fiancé know about this?”
“No.” She frowned. “And I don’t know what he’d think if he did. Yesterday we saw a soldier, maimed in the war and—well, never mind. But I do hope he’ll let me continue helping the poor in some way.”
Alex leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. The room was so small that his face was scant inches from hers. “Maybe he’s not the right man for you.”
“Maybe he’s not,” Cecily agreed, mesmerized by his intent blue gaze. “What would you do, sir?”
“If?”
“If you had a wife who did something you didn’t approve.”
He sat back, grinning. “Judging by today, lose my temper. And then I hope I’d calm down enough to listen to her reasons.”
“You’re a most unusual rake.”
“Am I?” He was leaning very close, so close that she could see the blue vividness of his eyes, smell his fresh, unique scent, feel the strength and warmth emanating from him.
“Yes. You think about people.”
“I know.” His smile was self-deprecating and totally charming. “A terrible habit, I know.”
“I don’t think so.” She searched his face. “I think you care a great deal more than you let on.”
“Do you?” He caught her hand in his and studied it. “You bite your nails.”
Cecily’s fingers clenched. “Yes, I cannot seem to stop.”
“I had a mustache once. Sometimes I still reached up to touch it.” Laying her hand down, he reached out to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, letting the silky strands flow between his fingers. Cecily’s eyes briefly closed against the sensations his touch evoked. “I think about you, you know.”
Her eyes opened. “Do you? Why?”
“Because you are a most unusual girl. A beautiful girl.” Because she had reached him as no one had in a very long time. Innocent she might be, but not naive; young, but strong in her own way, and caring. She almost made him believe in life again.
“I’m not beautiful,” she protested, softly.
“Of course you are. Rakes know these things.”
Her eyes sparkled with the mischievous laughter he was coming to like very much. “Oh, pardon me. I meant no insult.”
“None taken.” His eyes went, of their own volition, to her lips, soft and full and slightly parted. Somewhere in his mind an alarm bell began ringing, and though he had always obeyed this signal of danger before, this time he ignored it. He knew only that this girl was bringing him back to life, and he no longer wanted to fight it. Engaged or not, conspirator or not, she drew him to her in a way he could not fathom. For the moment, she was his.
“Cecily,” he murmured, and brought his lips down on hers.
Chapter Seven
Heavens! Two kisses in two days! Cecily thought, before Alex’s lips met hers, blotting out all other concerns save him. Her hands came up of their own accord to clutch his shoulders, and her head tilted to accommodate him, while a sweet, aching sensation began to spread through her. Mindlessly she pressed up against him, and felt his arms go about her, pulling her close against him as the kiss lengthened, deepened. His mouth opened over hers, and this time there was no revulsion. This time her mouth opened in response, and when she felt his tongue touch hers she melted against him. There was no time, there was no place. There was only now, only him, as much a part of her as she was of him, together, inseparable, forever.
Alex lifted his head and gazed down at Cecily’s flushed cheeks, her closed eyes, her lips, swollen from his kisses, parted invitingly. Almost he took up the invitation and the challenge that they offered, but that little alarm bell jangled in his head again. God’s teeth, what was he doing? He was supposed to be investigating her for possible involvement in a dangerous conspiracy; he had just found her in a suspicious place, a place where no girl of her station should be. No matter that her explanation was plausible. Without proof, he couldn’t accept it. He’d gotten soft, that’s what had happened. He’d lost his instinct for survival, the edge that had kept him alive in a dangerous world, a world no less dangerous now that he was in England. Until he knew better, Cecily was the enemy, a woman engaged to one man, yet kissing another. And he had thought about trusting her? He must be mad.
Cecily’s eyes fluttered open, and then closed again. She didn’t want to leave this new world she had found; she wanted to stay, safe and warm, in his arms forever. She wanted him to kiss her again. She tightened her grip about his neck and lifted her face, nestling against him confidingly. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes again. Alex was regarding her coolly, his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips held tight. “Is that how you kiss your fiancé?” he said.
Cecily recoiled. “Wh—what?”
He pushed her away and rose. “Did you enjoy kissing a rake? God, you like to play with fire, don’t you?”
Cecily stared at him in bewilderment as he strode around the room. “I wasn’t playing!”
A mocking smile spread acro
ss Alex’s face. “But I was.” Cecily recoiled again. “My dear, I can have any woman I want. As I believe I just proved.”
Cecily rose abruptly, her torn frock falling unnoticed to the floor. “I think I want to go home.”
“By all means, my dear.” Alex made her a mock bow. “Parsons will see to your clothes.” And with that he turned and strode away, into his study, so that he would no longer have to see the hurt, blind look in her eyes. It was better for her that it end this way, and absolutely necessary for him. She saw a side of him that didn’t exist anymore, if it ever had. If he gave into his impulses and crushed her against him, kissing her, keeping her safe from the dangerous world outside, he would end by hurting her. He was not the man she thought.
Parsons came into the study a little while later to see Alex standing by the mantle, staring into the fire. “They’re gone, sir.”
“I know. I heard.” Alex’s tone was clipped, and Parsons turned away. He knew his master well in this mood, and knew enough to avoid him. There was, however, one thing that needed saying.
“Sir,” he said, and Alex looked at him from beneath his brows. “You got a problem.”
Surprisingly, Alex did not rip up at him. “I know, Parsons.” He sighed and kicked at the fender. “God’s teeth, I know.” Bending his head, he stared into the fire again, not acknowledging Parsons as he left the room. He had a problem, indeed. What did he do now?
“Cece!” Diana bounced into the bedchamber where Cecily was lying upon her bed. “Oh, wait until you see the bonnet I bought, it is a Kendal bonnet, like Princess Charlotte’s, and it is the most charming thing! Is your headache gone? Heavens, why are you wearing that old rag?”
Cecily put her hand over her eyes. She didn’t know how she had made it home from St. Clair’s lodgings. Nor did she know, or care, if anyone had seen her enter her house. A blessed numbness had wrapped around her, sparing her, for now, the pain of rejection. “Diana, do go away.”
“Heavens, someone is in the mopes today!” Diana bounced upon the bed, swinging her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees in a most unladylike manner. “We had the most fun today. We met Mr. Carstairs, oh, and Lord Edgewater, too. He asked for you specifically, and when we told him you were ill he seemed quite concerned—”