“Let us talk of more neutral topics,” she said shakily, taking another step back. “The papers. Jonathon’s papers. Are you any closer to locating them?”
The duke’s entire body seemed to vibrate with tension. The time he took to answer her told its own tale. Despite her own confusion, she sensed the disarrangement of his cool, smooth presence and found some small wonder in it.
He recovered soon enough. With only a slight strain in his tone, he said, “There are acres of attics at my house and it is many years since I ordered Jonathon’s papers to be stored up there. It is likely to take some time.”
Her disappointment must have shown, for he amended quickly, “However, if I don’t receive word next week, I’ll go myself. If that would please you.”
Anxiety made her throat tighten. If Ashburn read that dreadful letter she’d written to Jonathon, he’d have ample ammunition against her. He could smash her betrothal to smithereens. She must get to those papers before he did.
“I wish I could look for them myself,” she blurted out, well aware that she was practically inviting herself to his house.
He frowned, considering. Slowly, he said, “What if I gave an impromptu house party? Then you can help me look.”
When she hesitated, he murmured, “I’ll even invite Norland.”
She eyed him suspiciously. Why should he want Norland there? He was probably forming some Machiavellian plan to prevent their marriage, but she couldn’t think how he might do that without her cooperation. It was well known that the gentleman couldn’t break an engagement without ruining the lady.
Certainly, Ashburn was up to no good. But she needed that letter.
“You’d better speak to Montford, then.” She moved to the door.
She was so agitated, it took her several fumbles with the handle before she wrenched the door open.
“Cecily.”
“Yes?” She ought to admonish him for using her given name but she could not. Nor could she resist turning to look back at him. She saw a man hell-bent on a mission, determined in the face of insurmountable odds.
“When’s the wedding?” he said. “Is the date set?”
“Yes. Three weeks from now,” she answered. That might make him accept the inevitable.
He fixed her with a hard, vital stare that pierced her as cleanly as a sword point. “Then I have three weeks to make you change your mind.”
Chapter Ten
When Rand left the shelter of the summerhouse, he took a different path from the one by which Lady Cecily had fled. The last thing he wished to do was to compromise her. If he did, he’d fling her into her betrothed’s arms even sooner than she’d planned.
The wind had picked up and clouds scudded across the sky. A light drizzle fell, tiny drops sparkling in the moonlight as they powdered down. He quickened his pace and nearly collided with someone coming the other way.
He stepped back with an apology and made to proceed when a big, meaty hand fell hard on his shoulder. “Not so fast.”
“Who is it, Griffin?” A low female voice came from behind the massive male form. Rand couldn’t see her, but he assumed it was the man’s wife.
“Oh. It’s you.” Tregarth released Rand’s shoulder but he didn’t move aside. “It’s Ashburn,” he said over his shoulder.
Lady Rosamund peeked out from behind him, then edged around her colossus of a husband. She curtsied, seeming oblivious of the rain that misted down. A great beauty, the former Lady Rosamund Westruther. He’d danced with her many times in the past.
Rand bowed.
“Did you meet anyone down here in the garden, Your Grace?” asked Lady Tregarth. “Only I sent my cousin to the summerhouse to retrieve my handkerchief, you know. I wonder if you saw her.”
“I saw no one,” he lied. “But then I did not stroll as far as the summerhouse before it came on to rain.”
Lady Tregarth’s shoulders sagged just a little, as if she were relieved.
Rand smiled. “Well, I won’t detain you. I must get back to the ballroom.”
Tregarth didn’t even return his bow. He seemed eager to be off. Why was finding Lady Cecily so pressing? She was hardly in danger here.
Rand watched the couple as they continued on sedately down the path. Then there was a low growl from Tregarth and a smothered laugh from his lady. Tregarth caught her hand and pulled her to him and kissed her passionately.
Ah. So that was it.
With a stab of envy for a man who held the woman of his choice in his arms, Ashburn turned and walked back to the ballroom.
Inside it, he had no trouble locating Lady Cecily. He seemed to home in on her as effortlessly as a pigeon flew back to its loft. But he gained no satisfaction there. She was dancing, yet again, with her betrothed.
With the taste of ashes in his mouth, Rand sought out the Duke of Montford.
They exchanged a great deal of suave small talk before Rand said, “When last we spoke, you suggested I avail myself of the ministry’s services.”
“Yes.” Montford evinced no more than a polite interest in Ashburn’s opening gambit, but the air seemed to still around him. Montford would crow about this coup for years to come.
Well, that couldn’t be helped.
“I might be interested,” said Rand. “I’ll call on you tomorrow to discuss it.”
Montford inclined his head. “I should be most happy to receive you, of course.”
Rand smiled grimly to himself. Montford might not be quite so smug when he heard what Rand had to say.
* * *
Cecily spent the rest of the evening with her heart in an unprecedented state of agitation. The Duke of Ashburn did not leave after their encounter in the summerhouse as she hoped he might. He watched her all evening. She knew it without seeking him herself. She sensed his regard by the hot tingle at the nape of her neck.
The tension built inside her like a storm about to break. She had to laugh and flirt and dance and make inane conversation with that hum of anticipation thrumming through her body.
It was almost a relief when Ashburn finally approached her.
As she sipped lemonade with Beckenham and Lydgate, she spied the duke moving purposefully toward her. His tall, lean form sliced through the crowd like a knife through butter.
Quickly, she muttered. “Becks, I am engaged to you for this dance.”
He looked down at her with grave amusement. “No, you’re not.”
She turned to Lydgate, putting a hand on his arm. “Andy, then. You must partner me for the next waltz.”
Lydgate eyed her over his wineglass as if she’d run mad. “Dashed if I’ll stand up for a second time with my own cousin. I have a reputation to uphold.”
He turned his golden head to survey the crowd. “Whom are you trying to avoid?”
“But Andy—”
“Ah! Ashburn.” Beckenham bowed, cutting off Cecily’s protest. “Come to claim your dance?”
Cecily sent Beckenham a glare that promised retribution later.
Ashburn’s attention was fixed on her. “Indeed.” He held out his hand to her. “Lady Cecily?”
Andy plucked the lemonade glass from her unresisting fingers and made a shooing motion. “Don’t mind us, dearest cousin. Off you go.”
Outmaneuvered by her horrid relations, she had no choice but to lay her fingertips on the duke’s proffered arm. She placed them there gingerly, as if he were made of live coals.
Something burned hot in his eyes as he looked down at her. “I’m honored,” he said, and led her from the refreshment parlor.
This ball won hands down as the longest evening of her life. Her heart, which had been rocketing about in her chest since Ashburn appeared on the scene, took up a hard, steady hammer in her throat. She might choke on it if she spoke.
Why had she never registered before how intimate a dance the waltz was? She’d thought herself in danger in the isolation of the summerhouse. Here, in the ballroom with dozens of people looking on, she felt no safer.
When Ashburn’s arm encircled her, she became acutely aware of the solid power of his muscles, the heat and pressure of his gloved hand at her waist.
His other hand clasped hers lightly, but the latent strength and dexterity of his fingers, the size of the palm engulfing hers struck her anew.
And when she rested her hand on his shoulder and they moved into the dance, all she could think about was the circle their bodies made. Or rather, the space inside that circle. A no-man’s-land into which his legs might intrude as he stepped into a turn or her skirts might billow, but no part of their upper bodies would cross.
She contemplated that interesting, fraught space in silence, shamefully aware of her cowardice in avoiding his regard. Then she lifted her chin to look up into his face. And all she could think about was his kiss.
The yearning in her body was stupid and painful and traitorous. The more she fought it, the stronger it seemed to become.
So this was desire. How extraordinary. How confoundedly inconvenient!
She told herself it was a physical reaction, an appetite, the same as hunger or thirst. Hadn’t Jane explained to her long ago that men could feel desire with no corresponding affection at all?
Surely that must be true of women, too. For Cecily did not feel at all affectionate toward Ashburn. Particularly when he watched her in that insufferable, knowing way.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured in a pleasant, conversational tone. “People will talk.”
She jumped. “Like what? How did I look?”
“As if you can’t decide whether to kiss me or kill me,” he answered. “You might as well surrender to the inevitable, Lady Cecily. You will never marry Norland.”
She plastered a society smile on her face and spoke between her teeth. “Not only are you mistaken, you are impertinent. This conversation is highly improper.”
“Not half as improper as I’d like it to be,” he said. “But I promised to behave myself in public, didn’t I?”
“It’s a good thing for you we are in public or I’d punch you in the nose,” said Cecily, smiling relentlessly.
His lips twitched. “You will have ample opportunity to practice your pugilistic talents at my house party next week.”
“That’s if Montford approves.” She feared her guardian’s consent to the house party visit as much as she needed it.
“Oh, Montford will approve,” said Ashburn, whirling her down the room. “I’ll see to that.”
She eyed him incredulously. “You do not know the duke very well if you can be so sanguine.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I have long been acquainted with Montford’s methods.” She felt the slight shrug of his shoulder beneath her palm. “Handling His Grace is very simple. One has but to show him how his own interests might be served by agreeing to what one wants.”
She narrowed her eyes. She’d never met a man who could manipulate the duke, but it seemed Ashburn might make a decent attempt.
Rallying, she answered, “In politics, perhaps. But do you truly think he would put his own interests above my happiness?” She knew people saw Montford as a cold, unfeeling man, but that went too far.
“I think he will support my suit,” said Ashburn, neatly sidestepping the question. “You have called me conceited. That may be so. But anyone can see you will be happier as my wife than as Norland’s. Montford could wish that this had all transpired before your engagement to Norland was formally announced, but he will be fully alive to the advantages of changing grooms.”
She feared he was right. Oh, not about being happier with him. What nonsense! But Montford had urged her more than once to reconsider marrying Norland. He might welcome Ashburn’s high-handed interference.
She felt the ground shift beneath her feet. “You speak of our marriage as a foregone conclusion,” she said. “But I will not bend to anyone on this, not even my guardian. I will never marry you.”
He smiled down at her. “Would you care to wager on that?”
She wished that rare smile of his didn’t make her giddy, even when she was frustrated with him and his high-handed ways.
Between her teeth, she said, “Why can’t you leave me alone? Why, of all the ladies you could have, do you want me?”
“I don’t know.” His arms were like steel as he spun her down the room. “I only know that I do.”
Chapter Eleven
Cecily begged Rosamund to go with her to Ashburn’s house party as chaperone, but Rosamund expected a visit from her sister-in-law, Jacqueline Maddox, so she regretfully declined.
“So unfortunate!” said Rosamund as they walked together in Hyde Park. The sun shone from a blue sky, and a light breeze ruffled Rosamund’s golden curls. “I should dearly love to go, if only to see the sparks fly.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” said Cecily airily. “I shall behave with utmost propriety, as I always do.”
“Ha!” said Rosamund. “You could not even dance with him last night without fighting with him. I saw those dagger looks of yours, even if no one else noticed.”
“Nonsense! We engaged in lively debate about impersonal topics, that is all,” said Cecily. She could not possibly explain her association with Ashburn. Rosamund was a born romantic. She’d resume urging Cecily to reconsider her betrothal.
“I wonder what is behind the invitation?” said Rosamund.
“Behind it?” said Cecily innocently.
“Oh, come now, Cecily,” said Rosamund, laughing. “Ashburn was clearly smitten with you.”
“I’ll smite him,” Cecily muttered. She dearly wanted to smite something. “He sees me as a challenge because I am already spoken for. There is no true feeling there. Why, I hardly know the man!”
Rosamund frowned. “One would think he’d at least wait until the knot was tied between you and Norland before approaching you. I cannot like the way he is pursuing you so openly.” Rosamund gave her parasol a thoughtful twirl. “I confess I am surprised at him. I never thought he was the sort of man to prey on innocents.”
Rosamund thought Ashburn wished to strike up a liaison with Cecily? Startled, she put her hand on her cousin’s arm. “No, no, you mistake!”
She didn’t know why she felt the need to defend Ashburn’s honor. God knew he had little enough of it to pursue another man’s affianced bride, but …
“He—he wants to marry me,” she blurted out.
“What?” Rosamund stopped short, staring at her.
Cecily darted a quick glance around. “Ashburn asked me to marry him in the summerhouse last night. Well,” she amended pedantically, “he didn’t ask, precisely. It was more of a command.”
“And what did you say?” asked Rosamund in a hushed, awed tone.
“I said no, of course! What do you think I said? I’m engaged to Norland.”
“Yes, but…” Tact probably held Rosamund silent, but it was clear from her expression that she compared the two men in her mind—and Norland came a very poor second, no doubt. That made Cecily scowl all the more.
She erupted into speech. “You know, I think it very hard that I’m the only one of us all who hasn’t made the least fuss or bother about accepting the man chosen for me. Everything was going smoothly until Ashburn came along. And now you all want me to throw Norland over for that—that coxcomb of a duke!”
Rosamund’s astonishment gave way to a considering look. “Cecily?”
“Yes?”
“When did you meet the Duke of Ashburn? I didn’t know the two of you were acquainted.”
“We’re not. Well, we are only slightly acquainted.” Cecily tried not to remember that kiss, because it would make her blush and then what would Rosamund think?
“And the duke proposed marriage, just like that?” Rosamund frowned. “He must be in love with you. Or at least, he must believe himself in love.”
Love? The mere mention of it terrified Cecily. “Good God, no! Ashburn needs a wife and for some odd reason, he has decided I
will do. Like any man, once he gets a notion in his head, he won’t give it up for anything. Indeed,” she added, “I’ll wager he had no thought at all of marriage until the betrothal was announced.”
The perceptive way Rosamund eyed her made Cecily uncomfortable. “You make him sound quite stupid and pigheaded,” Rosamund said. “And yet I hear his intellect is extraordinary.”
“What has his intellect got to do with it?” said Cecily. “Lord knows when it comes to women, even the cleverest men do the stupidest things. Not that I accept he is clever. I have seen no evidence of superior intelligence in my dealings with him.”
“To be sure,” said Rosamund, blinking a little. “If that is your opinion of him, why are you going to this house party? Don’t you have engagements in Town?”
Cecily sighed. “The duke canceled them, giving out that I was fatigued by the season and needed country air.”
Cecily hesitated. “Rosamund? When Jonathon died, who told Montford the news?”
Her cousin took a while to answer her, and Cecily belatedly remembered that Rosamund had been very fond of Jonathon. He might have been Cecily’s brother, but he was Rosamund’s cousin, too.
“I don’t recall,” Rosamund said at last. “At least, I doubt I ever knew. The duke seems to hear these things on the wind. Why?”
Cecily shook her head. “Never mind.”
Rosamund gave her arm a comforting squeeze. And with a swiftness that took her unawares, Cecily’s throat ached. The pain of losing Jonathon was like an old wound that would never quite heal.
She couldn’t talk about it, so she smiled brightly and changed the subject. “But do tell me, dearest, since I shall not be there next week: What will you wear to Lady Bamfrey’s picnic?”
* * *
As soon as he returned from Lady Cecily’s ball, Rand wrote to the steward at his country estate, giving orders for his house to be prepared for a small party of guests.
He had no qualms about the ridiculously short amount of time he’d granted his staff to make the necessary arrangements. That’s what they were trained for, after all. That’s why he paid them such handsome wages.
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