by Holly Newman
He anticipated discovering answers at this house party. She could not as assiduously avoid him in company here as she did in London. However, he would neither startle her with his attentions, nor allow her to ignore his presence. It was really a stroke of genius that led him to accompany the Cresswells to the Houghton estate. He knew it allayed Mrs. Waddley's fears, yet he hoped it also piqued her. His wry smile broadened as he approached her. He found himself wondering which way his absurd little rabbit would jump.
Cecilia knew she had to get herself in hand. Her breathing was much too fast and the beating of her heart sounded abnormally loud in her ears. There was no logical explanation or reason for the heightened physical manifestations she experienced around Sir Branstoke. She couldn't help it. It was like he looked into the depths of her soul every time their eyes met. That frightened her. She didn't—no, couldn't allow anyone to get that close.
Branstoke also bothered her because she was certain he knew things he wasn't willing to share, and that he derived a secret amusement at her expense. He was an obnoxious gentleman, a society gadder, a parasite whose existence thrived on the idiosyncrasies of others! One best left in the hands of the likes of Philomel Cresswell, she decided decisively as he and that woman and Mrs. Cresswell approached. Unfortunately, her mental harangue did not ease the flutterings in her stomach.
She tossed her head and pulled a tight, bright smile upon her face.
"Mrs. Cresswell, Miss Cresswell, so delighted to see you," she cooed in a voice oddly shrill. "Coming to the country is such a nice break from the pressures of the season, don't you agree? Please, won't you come this way?" she babbled, not giving them time for response. She hooked her arm in Mrs. Cresswell's and drew her before the others, all the while steadfastly ignoring Sir Branstoke. "So beneficial to one's health, too—coming to the country, that is. I swear I have not suffered half so much as I do in the city. All that coal smoke, most likely, and that rackety noise from the streets at all hours. It makes my head ache just to think of it!"
Lady Meriton pursed her lips in disapproval then turned to smile at Miss Cresswell and Branstoke. She murmured polite words of greeting as she ushered them through the door. Behind her came the Duke and Duchess escorting Lord Soothcoor, a dour middle-aged gentleman whose plain carriage contrasted sharply with that of the flashy Cresswells.
"—Depend upon it, we shall have a comfortable time of it," they heard Cecilia say as they entered the mansion.
"A comfortable time of what, Mrs. Waddley?" Sir Branstoke drawled, deeming it time she formally recognize his presence.
She glanced at him, then away, then back. "Oh! Ah, the company, the informality." She coughed, a slender white hand raising a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief to her lips. "I beg your pardon. A touch of congestion, the cold air—" she suggested, trailing off while smiling wanly, anxious to divert Branstoke.
"Nonsense!" boomed out the duke's Voice. "I'll have none of that missish twaddle from you, gal."
Cecilia winced and fought a rising tide of color. She'd forgotten her grandfather's attitude toward illness. He didn't believe in it—that was unless he was ill.
"Just a temporary problem," she said blithely. She was taken by surprise at a true huskiness in her voice. She cleared her throat and smiled again. "Ah, here is Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper. Mrs. Cresswell, Miss Cresswell, she'll show you to your rooms."
"When you've changed and rested from your journey, we shall all meet in the salon," the duchess interceded smoothly. "Lord Soothcoor, Sir Branstoke, Stephen will show you to your rooms," she said, indicating a nearby footman.
Cecilia felt the tightness in her chest ease as she watched Branstoke mount the stairs. Somehow it felt more comfortable to see him walk away than toward her. She relaxed and turned toward her grandparents.
The duke was scowling at her. "Cecilia!" he demanded, his overly loud voice reverberating in the open entrance hall. "Been right as rain for days. What's the matter, company got you spooked?"
Color rose in her face again. Instinctively she looked up the grand staircase to see if Branstoke could have heard. He had. He looked down over the banister, a hand lightly resting on one of the carved oak allegorical animals surmounting a newel post. When he saw her flushed face glance upward, his thin lips kicked up in a wry smile and vague salute; then he turned and continued up the stairs after the footman and Lord Soothcoor. Exasperation thinned Cecilia's lips as she stared after him She would not let him irritate her further. She was stronger than that, of this she was resolved.
"There you are, Cecilia. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to cry off this evening," Lady Meriton said crisply, an arch note in her tone.
Cecilia paused in the doorway to the salon, slight color staining her high cheek bones. She nibbled on her lower lip. "It was overplayed, wasn't it? I can't explain it; but something about maintaining polite chatter brings out the true ninny hammer in me," she said breezily. Mentally she modified her statement, replacing polite chatter as the cause, with Sir James Branstoke. Cecilia had been shocked by the strength and suddenness of her reaction to the man. So shocked that she spent the intervening hours since his arrival determinedly honing her ability to control those wayward feelings he roused.
She crossed to her aunt's side, sitting on the red brocade sofa next to her: She sighed dramatically and dimpled roguishly at her aunt. "I shall have to depend upon you to protect me from the error of my ways."
"La! I'll have none of your cozening ways," Lady Meriton scolded.
Cecilia knew Jessamine's heart was not in her reprimand and laughed gaily back at her.
"Ahem—I trust I am not intruding, ladies?" Sir Harry Elsdon asked from the open doorway. A frown creased his lightly freckled brow and the light in his brown eyes dimmed. "We were told to meet in the salon, were we not? I mean, this is, where we are gathering before dinner?"
At the sight of one of her quarries, Cecilia Waddley rose gracefully from her seat next to Jessamine and glided toward him. "Yes, yes it is. We three seem to be early, that's all. I expect the room will fill swiftly. But please, won't you sit down?" She guided him to a vacant sofa set at a right angle to the first.
"Nothing but sit and sit and eat and eat!" he declared dramatically. Then he grinned at her. "Petruchio, one of my favorite characters."
Lady Meriton laughed at her niece's obvious confusion. "You will soon discover, Cecilia, that Sir Elsdon is a devotee of the stage. Lines and allusions constantly fall from his ready tongue."
Cecilia clapped her hands together, looking at him wide-eyed. "La, sir, you fascinate me! Lamentably I am not well versed in plays, my husband preferring opera. I would like to learn. Please, before company arrives, tell me of your favorite plays, roles, and lines."
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when noisy chatter was heard in the hall and the door opened to admit a large group. She made a moue of disappointment spawning indulgent laughter from Sir Elsdon. Reluctantly she made her excuses and went to greet the guests. Mentally she reminded herself to contrive more time with him at a later date.
She was all smiles and charming affability as she greeted the guests. Not even Miss Cresswell's appearance as it neared the dinner hour ruffled her unduly—even though Philomel Cresswell did enter draped on Sir Branstoke's arm. Cecilia knew her nervousness and trembling of hours before were safely buried. That knowledge eased an unaccountable tightness in her mus-cles that she hadn't been aware existed.
Relaxed, Cecilia Waddley moved fluidly through the growing crowd of guests, stopping to chat briefly with this person or that. A gentle touch, a brief empathy, she had them all smiling like bemused idiots. Sir Branstoke watched, his brown eyes alert behind heavy lids, as she manipulated this person then that, leaving in her wake a growing trail of laughter and goodwill. This child-sized woman, a fragile willow wand, moved among the company like an evangelical did among an avid flock. Though she clutched one of her ever-present handkerchiefs in her hand, she did not use it to reinfo
rce any of her illnesses. A lace end fluttered and swayed before her, exaggerating rapid hand motions as she talked.
Branstoke eased himself away from the growing circle of gentlemen surrounding Miss Cresswell and set an interception course for Mrs. Waddley. It was his, desire to put her at ease and work further toward acceptance and trust. Under her current demeanor, he foresaw an opportunity for success.
"Mrs. Waddley—" he began formally.
Cecilia turned swiftly, startled at his approach. For a heartbeat she gauged her reactions. When her pulse remained relatively stable she knew instant relief. She smiled questioningly up at him, her royal blue eyes catching the light of the brilliant crystal chandeliers and reflecting it back.
Branstoke paused, thunderstruck, then he raised an eyebrow while his eyelids drooped lower and his mouth quirked upward at the corners. "May I be permitted to say, Madame, that it appears the country air agrees with you."
Cecilia's smile broadened and her eyes twinkled.
"More'n likely it's being among her own kind that agrees with her," declared the duke, coming up behind them. His loud voice caused several heads to turn in their direction.
"Grandfather!" protested Cecilia, torn between laughter and exasperation.
The old duke patted her shoulder though he addressed Branstoke. "Glad to see her easy in company. Was a time, you know, she had some damned silly notion of inequality. Had it since she was a child and Haukstrom blew his wad. Veritable court card my daughter married. I won't have him here, you know. Not after he married Cecilia to that damned merchant fellow?'
Cecilia's sense of humor vanished. A cold arrogance chilled her eyes to blue ice. "Grandfather," she said slowly, "I'll not allow you to say one word against Mr. Waddley. Because of him, I do not have to live my life as some parasitic charity case grateful for whatever crumbs are thrown my way!" Her voice was low yet quavered with painfully suppressed emotion.
Lord Cheney laughed. "Listen to her, like a she-wolf protecting her cub," he said indulgently. Around them, a growing number of people stopped talking to unabashedly eavesdrop.
A rare anger flared in Cecilia, shaking her to the core. She stamped her foot. "Mr. Waddley was good to me," she insisted.
"Aye, I'll grant the man was a good enough sort, but not good enough for a Cheney."
She threw her head back and glared challengingly up at him. "Then it's fortunate that I am a Haukstrom and not a Cheney!" she declared frostily.
The room was as unnaturally still as the air before a storm. The duke's bushy brown and gray brows clamped down over his eyes.
"Mrs. Waddley, I have been curious about these wall hangings," Branstoke said placidly, as if totally unaware of the palpable anger coalescing in black clouds above Cecilia and her grandfather, threatening to explode in lightning fury. He hooked his arm in hers and turned her toward the closest wall hanging. "Are they Mortlake tapestries?" he asked, raising his quizzing glass to study the elegant weavings. Behind them, the seething duke stumped away.
Mrs. Waddley's chest rose and fell rapidly in the wake of the anger coursing through her. Branstoke allowed her time to recover, pretending an absorption in the detail work of the tapestry.
"Yes—yes, they are Mortlake tapestries," she managed. She tossed her head to clear it of lingering anger and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Grandmother had this room redecorated some years back to display them to better advantage." She touched her handkerchief to her lips, a delicate shudder rippling through her body.
Branstoke looked at her closely, then noncommittally steered her toward the next tapestry hanging on the walls.
"This room was originally known as the Great Parlor. Of recent years it's been called the Tapestry Parlor, or identified by the modern term—the salon," she continued neutrally as they circumnavigated the room. "As a child I spent many hours staring at these tapestries, making up stories to complement each scene." Finally, she dared look at Sir Branstoke, her breath coming out on a long sigh, a gentle, wistful expression on her face. "Thank you," she murmured.
He smiled. It was a pleasant, non-threatening smile. "Occasionally fribbles such as myself have their uses," he said. He casually swung his quizzing glass by its riband. "Actually, I believe we may be the best sorts for routing dragons. So unexpected, you see."
Cecilia froze at the word "dragon."
Branstoke looked at her pointedly, waiting for her reaction. He could see her battling inwardly with some emotion. Color came and went on her face leaving dark blue eyes blazing out of a pinched countenance. She blinked rapidly and her face cleared. She simpered and clutched her handkerchief to her chest.
"Would you mind if I left you to your perusal of the tapestries by yourself, Sir Branstoke?" she said weakly. "I must sit down a moment. I feel one of my dreadful headaches coming on. So unfortunate for I have been much better here. It is my nerves. I know it is just that, but la! little good does knowing do me," she prattled on and laughed shrilly, edging toward a vacant chair.
Branstoke allowed her to escape while maintaining a phlegmatic expression on his face and perfunctory words of consolation on his lips. Mrs. Waddley needed to come to terms with his intuition and to learn he was not a threat. He would not pursue her further tonight, merely allow her time to assimilate this knowledge. It was a chancy game he played; nevertheless, he'd wager an intelligent woman hid behind that social ninny hammer.
Dragons! What could he know of dragons? She sat down weakly and delicately mopped her brow with a shaking hand.
Coward! The accusation rang in her head, yet the part of her that instinctively reacted to Sir James Branstoke was clamoring loudly. No longer could she continue to confine the jangling nerves and hollow flutterings. They exploded free, leaving her limbs trembling.
Why did he have to look at her like that? That sleepy, bored expression he habitually wore concealing a keen discernment in those brown-gold eyes. Why did he have to turn that discernment in her direction and look at her more intently than anyone ever did, including her own family? For years she'd been safe within herself, no one bothering to delve into her thoughts or feelings other than on a superficial level. She was able to keep herself inviolate and private from others and therefore safe and in control of her life. Sir James Branstoke had an uncanny ability to blast open those hidden doors and pull her out into the light. She didn't like that. It knocked her out of control. Worse, it forced her to acknowledge a burgeoning attraction for this enigmatic peer. Ruthlessly she forced those feelings aside.
That attraction, she decided, probably grew from some insidious weakness or desire within herself to turn her problems over to another to solve. She would not allow herself to fall back into such weakness. She could and would manage her own life. She would discover Mr. Waddley's murderer and display before society the seamy underbelly of its glittering, superficial existence. Then she would hire as companion a woman who did not desire to spend her life as a charity case at her relatives' beck and call, sell her holdings in London, and retire to the country.
Her decisive thoughts did much to ease the jangling nerves. Carefully she tucked away the last of the besetting emotions. A small smile curled up the corners of her mouth. It was certainly comical that she feigned irritation of the nerves, yet when actually afflicted, she worked hard to dispel the complaint. She did not understand why anyone would actually submit to wild emotions. It left one so out of control and vulnerable. So inelegant, too.
She counted herself fortunate to have escaped the emotional, nerve-wracking feelings until her present age. The maturity of age allowed her to dispassionately examine the sensations and place them in their proper perspective. She did wonder why she was now experiencing these emotions. Why was she spared until her five and twentieth year? And there was not only her reaction to Branstoke to consider; there was also her unnatural burst of anger with her grandfather.
All in all, she supposed she should own to a modicum of gratitude that she was finally experiencing emotional uphe
avals. It gave her an understanding of the concept of crimes of passion.
She wondered to what extent Mr. Waddley's death was due to his murderer being in the grips of some uncontrolled emotion. Truthfully, she hoped his death stemmed from a spontaneous, emotional rage versus a planned, cold-blooded murder. Somehow, it wouldn't seem so hideous then.
She looked up to search out Sir Branstoke, to see if he was still watching her. He wasn't. He was back, comfortably ensconced amongst Miss Cresswell's coterie. Loud laughter from the vicinity of the door drew her attention in that direction. It was Randolph, late as always, entering with the Honorable Mr. Rippy and Lord Havelock.
She rose gracefully, switched her skirts into place, then moved to the doorway to greet her brother and his friends.
"Randolph, I fear I'd despaired of your ever coming down before dinner," she said, gliding up to his side and laying a hand on his arm.
"Dash it all, Cecilia, a man needs time to set himself to rights. Especially after traveling on horseback to get here. Don't know why I let Rippy here talk me into bearing him company instead of traveling by coach."
"But Randy, old fellow, said yourself this was great riding country," protested Mr. Rippy.
"So it is, but ain't good riding to," Randolph stubbornly complained.
"I fear the close confines of a carriage over that abominable road would have been worse," drawled Lord Havelock, closing his eyes. Boredom with a topic that had obviously been discussed before was evident in his tone. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down his nose at Cecilia. "Randolph, as you love me, please introduce me to this fair creature who stands before us.
"Oh, right! Right at that. Yes, ah—Cecilia, this is Charles Dernly, Marquis Havelock. Havelock, this is my sister, Cecilia, Mrs. Waddley, you know."
The marquis bowed punctiliously over her hand, granting it a chaste salute. "I would not have dreamed my friend Randolph could have sprung from among angels," he said smoothly, keeping hold of her hand a moment longer than was seemly.