“Loving someone does not make you weaker, darling,” said Rosamund gently.
Cecily flinched. She couldn’t help it. Oh, but she detested the pity she saw in Rosamund’s heavenly blue eyes. For a bare instant, she felt the urge to hit back at her cousin, to inflict a commensurate amount of pain.
But she no longer gave in to such childish impulses. Rosamund did not mean to wound her. And the last thing Cecily would ever do was deliberately hurt her dearest cousin.
That hadn’t always been the case. After losing Jonathon, Cecily had fought hard enough against forming an attachment to her Westruther cousins. She’d been prickly and wayward and difficult.
But even when Cecily was at her worst, Rosamund, Jane, and the boys had refused to leave her alone in her grief. They’d teased her, tormented her as if she were one of them, shown rare, precious moments of kindness. A group of privileged children who’d stood together because there was no one else in the world to show them love or tenderness.
They were hers and she was theirs. They were the only people in the world she loved. The bond they shared was the only thing in the world she trusted.
That, and the Duke of Montford.
Dredging up her old nonchalance, Cecily shrugged. “If I ever fall in love, it will not be with a man who has ultimate power over me, body and soul. I am simply not made that way, Rosamund. I couldn’t endure it.”
“Do you know, Tibby said something similar to me the day I married Griffin.” Rosamund hesitated. “It is true that many gentlemen exact blind obedience from their wives. But do you think Griffin exercises such tyranny over me? Or that Constantine does over Jane?”
Privately, Cecily thought her cousins’ respective marriages were a kind of mutual enslavement, but she knew better than to express that idea to Rosamund.
Thankfully, before she could frame a tactful reply, their discussion was interrupted by the butler announcing Cecily’s guests.
Cecily shot Rosamund a triumphant glance. “Will you show them to the drawing room, Wilson? Thank you. Lady Tregarth and I will be down directly.”
“Wretch!” said Rosamund with feeling. “Mark my words: When you least expect it, I shall make you pay.”
* * *
Ordinarily, Cecily looked forward to her betrothed’s weekly call without interest or enthusiasm. Today was different. She was determined to glean what she could from Norland about the Promethean Club. Better yet, she would persuade him to aid her in a new scheme.
The notion had leaped into her brain in the early hours of the morning when, once again, she hadn’t slept for stewing over her encounter with Ashburn.
“Your Grace. How delightful,” said Cecily, moving forward. “How do you do?”
Norland was a tall, barrel-chested man, fair of coloring and complexion. A high forehead and a rapidly receding hairline emphasized the ovate shape of his head. All the more room for his gigantic brain, she supposed. Rosamund was correct: He did have a slight paunch, but then Cecily was no waif herself. Who was she to take exception to a little avoirdupois in her spouse?
“Lady Cecily.” Norland bowed with a jerky dip from the doorway. He saluted Rosamund and Tibby in the same fashion.
That had never bothered her before, but now it occurred to Cecily that she and Norland had fallen into a rather dismally formal mode of greeting each other. Not that she wished him to kiss her hand. Or any other part of her, for that matter.
The memory of another man’s kiss streaked across her senses like forked lightning, shocking her pulse into a frantic race.
Oh, this would never do! Exasperated at Ashburn’s continual intrusion on her musings, she shoved all thought of him aside.
Norland’s touch did nothing to raise her temperature or make her heart beat faster. That was exactly how it should be.
He smiled but the expression in his gray eyes was distant, as if he regarded something beyond her that he found troubling. She turned, half-expecting his attention to be riveted to Rosamund. Norland was a man, after all.
But no, it was only Tibby whose movements had caught his eye as she took up the shirt she’d been mending for Andy and bowed her head over her work.
Cecily smiled. Norland looked forward to his intellectual discussions with Cecily’s former governess. Today, however, Tibby had positioned herself firmly in the background, perhaps in deference to the presence of the duchess. Her Grace was known for her stern views on paid companions knowing their places.
Then and there, Cecily resolved to make a point of including Tibby in the conversation at every opportunity.
“Won’t you sit down, Your Grace?” said Rosamund, indicating the sofa.
“Ah, no. At least, not yet. Er, Mama will be along directly. Must see to her, you know.”
They exchanged the usual meaningless pleasantries while they waited for the familiar stomp on the stairs that heralded Norland’s mama.
The Duchess of Norland entered the room, aided by two footmen, on whose arms she leaned heavily.
With a deep curtsy, Cecily said, “How do you do, Your Grace?” She was determined not to let her future mother-in-law provoke her this time. “We’re so happy you could call on us.”
The duchess was a heavyset, irascible lady, who was usually to be found reclining on some couch or other with a vinaigrette in one hand and hartshorn in the other. She was the terror of her family, particularly her eldest son, for despite her inertia, she ruled both them and the ducal estate with an iron fist.
Cecily had little patience with the duchess and her megrims, for Norland assured her that his mother’s health was, in fact, excellent. This astonished Cecily. Why would anyone lie about all day if they weren’t forced by illness or infirmity to do so?
“Do sit down,” said Cecily, gesturing to a group of chairs by the window. “I’ll ring for tea.”
“Are you mad, gel?” said the dowager faintly. “If I sat so near to that drafty window, I’d catch my death. But I suppose that would suit you to a nicety, wouldn’t it? By the hearth, if you please,” she snapped, perversely shaking off her footmen as they tried to assist her. “Norland, build up a fire. I’m likely to freeze in this cavern.” She sniffed. “The place reeks of damp.”
Cecily might be prepared to ignore the aspersion cast on what was in truth an elegant and comfortable salon, but she detested the way her prospective mother-in-law ordered her son about as if he were a lackey.
Norland didn’t seem to mind, however, and dutifully settled on his knees on the hearthrug, wielding fire irons and bellows until he’d conjured a blaze.
The bald spot on his crown was clearly visible beneath straggling strands of sandy hair as he bent to his task. His scalp glowed pink; the rest of his face was similarly ruddy as he rose to dismiss his liveried footmen and guide his mother to a chair.
He was a good son, Cecily thought. It wasn’t as if he believed in his mother’s condition, yet he indulged her every whim.
Tactful as always, Rosamund said, “Are you not feeling quite the thing, Your Grace? The exertion of this visit has fatigued you, I daresay.”
The dowager duchess’s grim features softened slightly. She patted Rosamund’s hand. “You are a good, sweet child, Lady Tregarth. How I wish I had you for a daughter.”
In other words, she wished Rosamund and not Cecily was to wed her son.
Unable to stop herself, Cecily rolled her eyes at Norland. She ought not to have done that, for his eyes lowered and his cheeks reddened all over again. “Mama, please.”
Taking pity on him, Cecily indicated the sofa. “Won’t you sit down, Your Grace? I’ll ring for tea.”
The dowager duchess let out a bloodcurdling moan. “Tea? Are you trying to poison me, girl?”
Her brows snapping together, Cecily opened her mouth to respond, but Rosamund hastily intervened. “Would a tisane be more acceptable?” she suggested. “That might suit Your Grace’s constitution better.”
“Or perhaps a posset?” said Cecily sweetly. “A mustard ba
th? Some laudanum drops?” An entire bottle full of them, if she had her way.
The dowager closed her eyes as if the mere sound of Cecily’s voice pained her. “A tisane would be adequate. Thank you, Lady Tregarth.”
While her kindhearted cousin fussed over the dowager, Cecily seated herself next to Norland.
In a low, thrilling murmur, she said, “The duke has made a fascinating addition to his collection of rare fungi. Would you like to see it?”
She felt as if she were casting out improper lures to him instead of appealing to one of his many intellectual passions. Indeed, he reacted as most men would if she’d offered to show him her garters. The mere mention of a botanical discovery made him straighten, a spark of interest brightening his eye.
“Well, by Jove! I’d no notion Montford was a keen mycologist.”
Airily, she waved a hand. “Oh, His Grace is very fond of mushrooms.” Sautéed with cream and a dash of brandy. “The collection is in the conservatory. Would you like to see it?”
Norland huffed in disapproval. “The conservatory, you say? No, no, that will never do. Fungi should be kept out of the light. A cool, dark environment suits them best, you know.”
“Oh, but he’s not growing them,” said Cecily, mendacity oozing from her pores. “They’re, ah, mounted. In a case.”
Did people mount fungi in cases? She had no idea. But as the case itself was nonexistent, she needn’t concern herself about that.
Still shaking his head, Norland said, “I shall certainly have a look. Perhaps I might advise Montford on how better to preserve the specimens.”
“Oh, would you?” said Cecily, rising. “The duke would be most appreciative, I’m sure. Do come along.”
Norland leaped up with the alacrity of a man promised a high treat.
“And where do you think you’re going?” demanded the dowager duchess.
Rosamund clearly wanted to ask the same. Cecily sent her a pleading glance and received a look of resigned exasperation in return. Rosamund would exact payment in full later. A price Cecily would happily pay.
“Lady Cecily is showing me her specimens, Mama,” explained the duke without a hint of double entendre. “My lady, lead the way.”
Stifling a snort of laughter, Cecily did as she was bid.
“I am glad I had the chance to speak with you alone, Lady Cecily,” said Norland unexpectedly as they proceeded down the stairs. “I have something particular to propose to you. That is to say, I’d like to know your opinion…”
Cecily looked up at him in surprise. “What is it?”
“You are the last of your cousins to be wed and it occurred to me that Tibby … er, Miss Tibbs, I should say…” He cleared his throat. “Well, it occurred to me that Miss Tibbs might not wish to find employment elsewhere once you are wed. Do you think she would like to remain with you after we are married?”
Cecily blinked. “What a splendid idea, Norland! I should like that of all things. Tibby has forever said she will live with her sister in Cambridge when I marry, so I suppose I never thought of asking her to make her home with me.”
She put her hand on his arm. “What a kind man you are. Even if she chooses not to come, she will appreciate such a generous offer.”
Norland blushed and disclaimed. “Will you present the idea to her? I think it would be best coming from you.”
“I will do it this very day,” she promised.
When they reached the conservatory, Cecily halted. “And now I must speak with you about something of vital importance.”
He glanced down at her and then at their surroundings. With a gleam of humor he said, “Not fungi, then.”
She laughed in surprise. On the odd occasion when he emerged from his abstraction, Norland could be quite engaging.
“No,” said Cecily. “Do forgive me. I fear that was a ruse.”
“Oh? Pity. What is it, then, Lady Cecily?” he said pleasantly. “Having second thoughts, eh? Well, well, nothing has been announced yet. Not too late to call the betrothal off, you know.”
“Good God, no!” she said, frowning. “Nothing like that. But there is something I would ask of you. Something very particular.”
He had the sense to look wary. “Indeed? Happy to serve, as ever, Lady Cecily.”
She fixed him with her most guileless expression, which any member of her family would know spelled trouble. “I wish you to tell me about the Promethean Club.”
His face blanked. “The Promethean Club?”
He looked for a moment as if he’d deny all knowledge of the organization.
“Yes,” she said hastily. “My brother belonged to the club, as you are no doubt aware. I read his diary and he—he mentioned you.” That was a lie, but she couldn’t admit she’d been at Ashburn House and identified Norland by his singular laugh.
“Did he?” Norland’s expression turned thoughtful. “Ye-es,” he said slowly. “I am a member, as it happens. Though I can’t quite see what it has to do with you.”
In a rush, she said, “Would you take me to one of their meetings, Your Grace?”
His head jerked up as if she’d slapped him. “Certainly not.”
Cecily stared at her fiancé, utterly disconcerted. She’d never heard him express himself so decidedly before. If he stood up to his mother this way, he’d lead a much more comfortable life.
She couldn’t believe he’d refuse her, not on a matter so important. “But—but surely—”
With an impatient shake of his head, he cut in. “The Promethean Club is for men of science, men of philosophy. We discuss new ideas and inventions. All dull stuff to you, but to us…” He puffed out a breath. “Oh, you would never understand.”
His dismissive attitude stung but she refused to let him provoke her into a heated response. Evenly, she said, “How do you know what I might understand, Norland? You have never asked me about my interests or my education.”
“Ha! Furbelows and folderol. That’s all you young ladies care about.”
A flare of anger nearly made her lose sight of her objective. But she’d run up against such prejudice often enough to know that argument would gain her nothing.
“I am interested in science and advancement and ideas,” she said, striving for calm. “I didn’t receive a formal education, but you may be sure that I am far from ignorant. How could I be? I am Jonathon Westruther’s sister. Just because I do not wear my knowledge on my sleeve like a bluestocking or thrust it down other people’s throats, just because I happen to like beautiful things, that does not make me an empty-headed ninny.”
Blotches of pink swarmed Norland’s cheeks as his choler rose. “I’ll not have it, I tell you! The meetings of our society are not spectacles to be gawked at by frivolous young ladies with nothing more amusing in their social diaries.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was adamant. And more than a touch contemptuous. Cecily realized—rather belatedly, if she were honest—that even a man who was in general mild and compliant might have one conceit. Apparently, Norland’s was his intellect. And intellect, unfortunately, didn’t preclude stupid, blind prejudice.
Frustration consumed her. She had been the stupid one, in this instance. She’d approached the matter too bluntly. She’d underestimated his arrogance and his resolve, and now she paid the price.
Trying to retrieve her false step, she said. “Please, Your Grace. Give me a chance to show you I am in earnest.”
“No!” But as he looked at her, he must have seen the pain and longing in her eyes, for the fire gradually died from his expression.
Avoiding her scrutiny, he waved a hand. “Your interest in our society might not be frivolous but it is far from earnest. You wouldn’t even think of joining us if you weren’t curious about your brother. I deeply regret his death and I am truly sorry for your grief. But you won’t find whatever you’re looking for at the Promethean Club.”
Cecily refused to give up. “Would you at least tell me about what goes on there?” sh
e said. “There are so many things I want to know.”
“I will not!” Now his words had a bluster to them. She had the oddest impression that he was deliberately fueling his own anger. He stabbed a finger at her. “Y-you and I agreed we’d live separate lives, Lady Cecily. If you don’t want me poking my nose into your business, do not interfere with mine.”
Norland puffed out his cheeks. “Now, forgive me if I say that on this subject, I do not wish to hear another word. Indeed,” he said, looking at his pocket watch, “indeed, I think it’s best for both of us if I take my leave before we say things we might regret.”
He snapped out a bow. “Good day to you, my lady.”
Without giving her time to reply or even return his courtesy, he spun on his heel and strode from the conservatory.
Stunned and bewildered by this change in her betrothed, Cecily watched him go.
Seconds ticked past before she could marshal sufficient of her wits to think. She’d never dreamed the man would turn out to be so stubborn. Norland left her in no doubt of the firmness of his refusal. Ordinarily, she’d wheedle and cajole him into agreement, but the steel in his demeanor just now told her she would not succeed this time.
Who would have thought it? Her supposed milksop betrothed had a backbone. How inconvenient, how bewildering that he should show evidence of it now.
Indeed, it seemed she’d have far more success gaining information from the Duke of Ashburn. Oh, the irony of that realization.
A hot, urgent sense of desperation surged through her, a feeling of anticipation that was not precisely fearful but not at all pleasurable, either.
If she wanted to find out more about the Promethean Club, not to mention retrieve that confounded letter, she knew what she must do. Against her instincts and her better judgment, she must attend the duke’s masquerade tonight.
Chapter Five
“Tibby?” said Cecily as she passed her former governess on the stairs. “Might I have a word with you before we dress for dinner?”
A Duchess to Remember Page 5