by Joan Smith
The group went together to the refreshment parlor. "I didn't see you at the park today, Miss Cummings," Lady Gloria mentioned.
Pincombe answered again, assuming that in the normal way this would annoy Cecilia. "Miss Cummings had to do a little errand for my aunt," he explained. "We had planned to drive out together, but my old Aunt Lavinia Dicaire needed some work done on her diamond bracelet. I asked Miss Cummings to attend to it, as I had to see my barber."
Wickham looked to see how Miss Cummings liked being used as an errand boy. She smiled demurely and said nothing about it. "This is a lovely rout, Lady Gloria" was her comment.
"Enjoy it, my dear," Pincombe said, with a doting smile. "You must get your fill of waltzing, for next year you will have weightier matters to fill your time. I should like to have at least one crib in my nursery filled by next year."
Cecilia allowed a little chill to creep into her tone. "I would remind you of that old saw about not counting your chickens, Nigel."
He laughed good-naturedly. "You've danced enough years, my dear. It is time you learned to enjoy the comforts of domesticity."
"I am not tired of dancing yet," she said saucily.
"Then I shall ask Lord Wickham to give you the next set. You will be safe from harm with Lord Wickham." He turned to Lady Gloria and sought her company. Sensing that Cecilia desired privacy with her victim, he took Lady Gloria's arm and led her away.
Wickham surveyed Cecilia through narrowed eyes, looking for signs of that quick temper that he knew her to possess. She smiled docilely. "It was presumptuous of Sir Nigel to assume your complaisance in standing up with me, Wickham," she said.
"I should have said the fault was in his choosing your partner for you, ma'am," he parried.
"It is his notion of protecting me. He seems a trifle high-handed to be sure, but he means no harm."
"I had not thought you were a lady who required that degree of protection."
"You are referring to my vast, though vicarious experience in the marital arena, I collect? You need not fear for me, Wickham. If I find something I dislike in my husband, I shall change it."
"That is easier done before the wedding, ma'am."
She gave him a saucy look. "But then one runs the risk of frightening the prey away."
"You are referring to my wretched performance at Laycombe," he said, with a touch of embarrassment.
"That was unworthy of me, but it was my meaning, I confess."
"You must feel a strong attraction to Pincombe, as you are willing to accept from him what you refused in me."
Cecilia allowed a troubled frown to pleat her white brow. "Perhaps you were right after all. There is much to be said for a marriage of convenience. I daresay all marriages sink to that in the end. It is just that one could wish to see them at least begin on a more romantic note," she said wistfully.
She felt the very air palpitate with his disagreement, knew he wanted to contradict her, and knew as well that the refreshment parlor was too public a spot for any powerful show of emotion. "We had best go back to the hall," she said, and gave another wistful smile. In her eyes was reflected a nostalgic memory of his offer and even something for her regret at having refused it, as she was sunk to a marriage of convenience in the end. If he had an atom of gallantry, he would find a way to reclaim her.
"I see no reason why romance should be limited to the beginning," he said, and placed her hand on his elbow. They strolled slowly from the parlor out into the hallway. Across the hall a door showed them a small, private room. It looked like a ladies sitting room. There were comfortable chairs before the fire and two workbaskets on a table. "The music has not yet begun," Wickham said. "May I talk to you for a moment. Miss—Cecilia?" His voice softened as he spoke.
"For a moment," she agreed, in a breathless voice.
When they were alone, the mood was uncomfortable. Wickham knew it was abominable for him to proceed with his own offer when she had given every indication of accepting Pincombe's. She knew he knew it and feared he would let gentlemanly scruples stand in the way of their happiness. Being no gentleman herself, she knew the first move was up to her.
"Oh what should I do, Wickham?" she asked helplessly.
"If your mind is quite made up, I cannot attempt to dissuade you," he said through clenched lips, but he looked very much as if he wanted to dissuade her.
She made a pretty moue and tossed her head. "It is not made up," she said crossly. "I would not ask for advice if I had already decided. But I have chosen my confidant poorly. You, I know, are not against marriages of convenience."
It was enough. All his anger and frustration came blurting out. "I loathe and despise them! You should box Pincombe's ears and send him packing. I cannot imagine what you are about, to smile and smirk at that puppy's insolence! Limiting you to one glass of wine and telling you who to dance with. To speak of you as though you were some weary drudge who should submit to becoming a brood mare for him."
"He hasn't suggested anything different from what you said, or at least meant, when you made me an offer."
"To my shame. But your good sense treated that offer as it deserved. Good God! I had more respect for you when you combed my hair with your riding crop!" he said belligerently. His color was high, and anger flashed in his dark eyes. "What has changed your mind? What has changed you?"
His anger acted as a catalyst to hers, and she shot back, "Age and experience have changed me, sir. I see that all men are alike. Arrogant, overbearing, selfish, stupid—beasts!"
His complexion heightened from pink to red. "Then why are you marrying him?" he demanded.
"I haven't said I am. And in any case, he is no worse than the rest."
"Do you love him? It must be love. Nothing else could make you behave so foolishly." His eyes, staring into hers, looked impenetrable, but on the surface she read the gleam of fear and was hopeful.
"No, I don't," she said softly.
"Then why? If you only want a husband, any husband, have me. I offered first." He grabbed her hands and spoke ardently. "Cecilia, I was an idiot. I didn't know what I was saying. I had decided to marry; you were there—I spoke on the impulse of the moment, thinking and saying only what was to the advantage of myself. I married for love once—it was a disaster. But that wasn't love's fault. It was an ill-advised match from every point of view. I knew we would suit better. My pride was wounded when you refused, but I soon learned the greater blow was to my heart. I felt desolate without you. I came scrambling to London for the sole purpose of apologizing, of telling you I love you."
The color drained from her face, leaving her pale and giddy with happiness. "Oh! But why didn't you do it?"
His hands slid up her arms, drawing her close. "Because I thought you must despise me. I had to soften your anger first."
"And set about it by courting Lady Gloria!"
"I wasn't courting her! You were running about everywhere with that jackanapes of a Pincombe. He had already come bounding down to Laycombe after you. I was afraid the matter was all arranged." His arms went around her, and she laid her head against his shoulder.
"You wrong Nigel. He was of great use to me," she said softly in his ear.
He lifted her head and saw the laughter glinting in her gray eyes. A reluctant smile softened his harsh expression to tenderness. "Cecilia Cummings, you are a born schemer! I half suspected last night when he came ranting at me like something out of the last century. You put him up to it!"
A throaty gurgle of laughter issued from her cherry lips. "I had to do something. You were so slow in taking all the leads I tried to give you."
"You'll have to marry me. It isn't safe to leave you loose on the town, coercing innocent fools into marriage. My mind is already made up. You can do me no harm."
"Can I not, Wickham?" she taunted, and was kissed soundly for her impertinence. The kiss was no gentler than the first one received in his meadow. The same strange swelling inside occurred, till she feared she would burst. His li
ps clung hungrily to hers, till at last she pulled back. It seemed wise to set out her terms before she was entirely senseless.
"I want it fully understood that I am not to be sequestered at St. Martin's while you gallivant the Season away without me," she said, with trembling breath.
It was Wickham who noticed the door was open and went to close it. He led her to a sofa before the grate and sat beside her, pulling her head to his shoulder. She lifted it and gazed at him. "Whither thou goest, Wickham," she warned.
He gazed into her eyes. "The Adriatic is just that shade when the sky is stormy," he said dreamily.
"If I happen to be increasing next spring, I shall expect you to stand by me."
His hand caressed her cheek, then rose to ruffle her hair. "Like black silk," he said, rolling a curl around his fingers.
"As to my fortune, it will be entailed on my—our son, in case anything should happen to me, and the use of it will be my own in the meanwhile."
"I was used to think you had a perfectly English face, but I see something Gallic in your smile," he mused.
"It is best to get all the details hammered out beforehand, you know." She realized he was paying not the least attention and said, "And of course I shall want a cicisebeo, to be in style in London."
Wickham gave a knowing smile. "You will not be abandoned at St. Martin's, whether you are increasing or no. What you do with your fortune is your own affair, but as to a cicisebeo—not while I have life and breath in me, madame. No one will have the opportunity to do—this but me." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately.
* * * *
In Laycombe, Mrs. Meacham received her mail with no particular interest, till she recognized Cousin Cecilia's writing. Then she tore the letter open eagerly and glanced through it. "Why, Cousin Cecilia is getting married!" she exclaimed.
Martha removed her finger from her mouth and said, "Who is she marrying. Mama?" She had won her beau and could revert to all her bad habits.
"Lord Wickham! Can you beat that? I always suspected there was a little something between them." She rose and hastened from the room. "Where are you going, Mama?" Alice asked. "Over to tell the Gardeners," she crowed, and emitted a most unladylike cackle of laughter.
Copyright © 1990 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (044921785X)
Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.