“No, and I have no smelling salts, either. You shall have to put her on the nearest sofa—there are two here in the library, on either side of the fireplace, or you may take her into the drawing room across the way.”
“I’ll wager she doesn’t like libraries,” Bradbury said with a grunt. “So I shall take her into the drawing room. I do know the way. It’s the same room where Lady Milner swooned in my embrace once upon a time.”
Cecily followed him into the drawing room. He didn’t so much carry Lady Tyndall as lug her, and it seemed to take all his strength not to drop her onto the sofa.
Having laid out the dowager countess, he dusted his hands and turned to face Cecily. “She, unlike you that day I rescued you from the ha-ha, had good reason to fear I might drop her. ’Tis a good thing she swooned.”
“But then you wouldn’t have had cause to carry her in here,” Cecily pointed out. “And if I could have swooned in your arms from fear of being dropped, I might have done so, but alas, I just couldn’t make myself do it.”
He cast a glance at Lady Tyndall, then back at Cecily. “You believe she made herself do it?”
“Do you believe she really swooned? Do you believe Lady Milner really swooned? They pretend, Your Grace—they all pretend just so you can catch them and carry them off to your devil’s lair where you can have your wicked way with them.” The words slipped out before she realized she’d just borrowed from the book he still didn’t realize she’d written.
He arched his brows. “Indeed? You sound rather indignant about that. Why have you not tried a similar trick? And if I am indeed a devil, then why would any of them need to pretend?”
That was a good question, especially since Cecily thought she might swoon right where she stood as she drank in the sight of him. (In which case, perhaps the others never had to pretend, after all.) For he didn’t look like a devil, with that thick, leonine mane of golden hair, those broad shoulders, and muscled legs tucked into tall black boots with feet too big to be cloven hooves.
If anything, he looked a prince with a glass slipper in his pocket. And Cecily longed to lift her skirts and hold out her foot so he could take it into his hands, just as he had the day she fell into that ha-ha.
Then she had to sternly remind herself that he was the reason she was stuck here, though she was acutely aware there were many places worse than Derbyshire. He was the reason she was in trouble—again.
And there seemed to be no escaping it.
Maybe if he didn’t look like such an irresistible, golden-haired prince, she wouldn’t keep getting lured into endless trouble.
She shifted her gaze to Lady Tyndall, whose eyes were now wide open, gazing at the duke’s back—no, not his back. Her eyes seemed to be focused a bit lower. She was studying his backside.
“Looking for his long, pointed tail, my lady?” Cecily asked.
The duke spun around. “Ah! Glad to see you’re all right, my lady.”
“Oh! Your Grace!” Lady Tyndall managed to sit up. “Upon my word, I know not what came over me. This is so unexpected. What brings you here this time?”
“I’m on my way to London, and was hoping to impose on the earl for a bed for the night, but I gather he’s already in London himself.” He turned to face Cecily. “But what I find so unexpected is your presence, Miss Logan.”
Cecily said, “I—”
“Oh, you mustn’t mind her, Your Grace. She’s only my companion.”
Cecily said, “Oh, real—”
“Bring some hartshorn before I faint again, girl!” Lady Tyndall chided with another annoying flick of her hand.
Cecily fought the very real urge to swat back, and not the air, either. “I have no hartshorn. And I am not my lady’s companion. You told me after my relatives left me here that I was to remain out of your sight at all times until they came back for me—which I do not believe they have any intention of doing.”
Lady Tyndall’s eyes bulged. “Oh—ohh! Merciful heavens! Such insolence! And in front of His Grace, too. No wonder they left you here. Such—ohh!” And she flopped back down on the sofa again, this time enhancing the dramatics by throwing an arm across her eyes.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, while I go downstairs to see about some hartshorn,” Cecily said. “And if they don’t have any, then I shall see about a bucket of water.” She turned to march out of the drawing room.
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Suppose I just kiss her?”
Cecily lurched to a halt.
Her jaw dropped.
Her eyes widened.
It was in this state that she pivoted to face him. “Wha—I beg your pardon?”
He all but blinded her with his smile. “Maybe that’s another reason they pretend to swoon. They want me to kiss them.”
A shrill little cry escaped Cecily’s throat. “Why—who—”
“The Duke of Bradbury, that’s who I think I am,” he said.
Still struggling for speech, Cecily gasped, “How—”
“How did I know that’s what you were going to say? That, I can’t explain, except most of society tends to be exceedingly predictable in word and deed.”
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Your Grace, but I’m not exactly part of society, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Then why are you here? How do you come to be the dowager Lady Tyndall’s companion—or are you really her companion? There seems to be some dispute about that.”
How to tell him it was partly his fault, for telling Uncle Willard that he burned her letter? Then again, he always seemed to know what she was thinking, so why should she have to tell him at all? Surely he already knew. Surely he wasn’t going to make her explain.
Surely, “I think you must know why, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps I must, but it just so happens I don’t,” he replied. “I’m not—”
“Oh yes, you are a mind reader,” she countered.
He glanced back at Lady Tyndall, who still pretended to be unconscious, then back at Cecily. He huffed out a sigh. “Then it’s true. It’s because of me that you’re here.” With long, swift strides, he stalked past her and out of the drawing room.
Now what? Why did he say that and abruptly leave? What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t leave Lady Tyndall like this—assuming she wasn’t pretending this time. The dowager still had an arm across her eyes, but her lips were unmistakably puckered.
“One bucket of water, coming right up,” Cecily muttered, and she trotted out of the drawing room, stopping short at the sight of the Duke of Bradbury just standing there in the middle of the front hall, as if he were waiting for someone.
For her? Or for a servant to show him to his bedchamber?
“I’m pleased to see your ankle has mended nicely,” he said. “In which case, won’t you show me the gallery?”
Bewildered, she could only say, “Gallery?”
“There is a portrait gallery stretching half the length of this house that looks over the garden,” Bradbury said. “I might suggest you show me the garden, but since it’s starting to rain, perhaps you might show me the gallery instead.”
Cecily stole a glance through the open doorway to the drawing room. Lady Tyndall’s arm hung down, while her head was up, eyes open and lips not only unpuckered, but parted. Cecily stepped out of the dowager’s sight and said, “I don’t know where the gallery is, Your Grace. We only came here yesterday to spend the night, the same as you intend for tonight. I’ve not yet seen the gallery.”
“Ah. Then allow me to show you the gallery, Miss Logan.” Why, oh why did he not say something like, Then allow me to show you the gallery, Cecily—if I may call you that? “And you needn’t walk behind me, unless you’re scheming to reach under my coattails and yank on my long, pointed tail. Do walk alongside me, Cecily—if I may call you that.”
She really needed to learn patience. Her treacherous heart continued to eagerly jump up and down as she came abreast of him. She halfheartedly reminded herself that he c
ould never have the same romantic designs on her that Madfury had on Catriona.
He turned his head to regard her with a questioning look. “Then I may not? I suppose you’re angry with me because I got you into trouble again?”
She couldn’t help herself. “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Your Grace, but—”
“Be assured there’s nothing to forgive. I would rather you speak bluntly to me, so there are no further misunderstandings. Now, what were you about to say after the word but?”
They stopped at a pair of double doors. He threw them open as Cecily tried to recall what she was saying before he interrupted her.
“‘Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Your Grace,’” he reminded her, “‘but—’” Again that questioning glance. “But what?”
All Cecily could do was stand there feeling like a speechless fool. This was another reason she’d rather write.
“Before that,” he said, stepping through the doorway, “I surmised that you must be vexed with me because I caused you trouble again.”
“All the slings and arrows of my outrageous misfortunes seem to come from your direction,” she said, and he smiled at that. “But thank you for reminding me of what I was about to say. After begging your forgiveness—”
“Which I assured you is not necessary, and I hope I didn’t just baffle you anew...”
What Cecily said next came out so fast it might have been one very long word. “How do you keep doing that all the time?”
“Getting you into trouble? Frankly, I have no idea how I do that. It’s certainly never been my intention to do so.”
She crossed the threshold to see a long gallery stretched before them, windows on one side and portraits on the other. “No, I mean—you always seem to know what I’m about to say, or what I’m thinking of trying to say.”
“Oh, you mean the mind-reading trick? ’Tis no trick at all. You’re just as predictable as anyone else.”
Cecily’s previously bouncing heart wasn’t bouncing so much now. To be told by the duke that she was predictable shouldn’t be considered a setdown. Then why did it feel that way?
She certainly wasn’t like anyone else she knew. No one else she knew liked to write. Or maybe they did, but kept it secret, as she’d endeavored to do all these years.
He gazed at her earnestly. “Allow me to say what must be said. You think I burned your letter of apology.” It wasn’t a question. He stated it quite matter-of-factly, without apology of his own.
“So Uncle Willard told me after he returned from church last Sunday. He stated that you approached him after church and told him so—and that Your Grace never wished to see such a letter from me ever again.” To her dismay, Cecily’s voice was trembling, and the threat of tears smarted her eyes.
“Rang quite the peal over your head, did he?” Bradbury thrust a hand inside his dark blue coat.
Cecily averted her gaze and focused on the nearest portrait, one of Lord Tyndall’s ancestors in a long, curly periwig, placing the subject some time in the latter half of the seventeenth century. “Why did you tell him that, Your Grace?”
He thrust something under her nose. She stared at the object he held out, recognizing it immediately as the letter of apology her uncle had made her write to the duke.
“Then you never burned it?” She finally glanced up at him, and he smiled.
“I wished to impress upon him that I don’t want to see any more forced letters of apology from you, because they are not necessary.”
She swallowed, thinking of the unfinished letter still lying on the earl’s desk in the library. “What about voluntary letters of explanation?”
“If you feel you have something to explain to me, then you may explain it to me now, if you like. This would seem the perfect time and place.”
No, now was not the time and place. She still preferred the written method.
He added, “Perhaps, you might explain how you happen to be here at Tyndall Abbey? I gather you’re here against your will and that of the dowager countess?”
“You gather correctly. Uncle Willard and Aunt Thea thought she might need a companion. She thinks differently, and so do I.”
“In addition to Willard’s belief that you cause nothing but trouble for me, I don’t suppose the ever-evolving intentions of Mr. Eastman play a part in your being left here?”
Cecily still felt a dull ache in her middle whenever she thought of that. At least the pain wasn’t as sharp as that from Willard’s assertion that Bradbury had burned her letter of apology and brusquely informed him that he had no wish to see such a thing ever again—as if the duke had no wish to ever see Cecily again.
This time she moved on to study another portrait, that of a Tyndall ancestor who was all ruffs and puffs, placing him in the times of the Tudors.
“Likely the same ancestor who took possession of this abbey after it was seized by the Crown,” Bradbury remarked, “only to lose his head because in those days, it didn’t take much to do so.”
“It’s a wonder I still have mine,” Cecily said. “I suppose it won’t surprise you that my family blames me for Mr. Eastman, too.” She shot another glance at the duke. He wasn’t smiling now. “You know that he switched his affections from me to Rebecca?”
“So he informed me.”
Heat flared in Cecily’s cheeks as she moved on to the next portrait, that of a woman in a French hood made fashionable by Anne Boleyn. “Then you must not have given your blessing, since his living is in your gift, and my uncle and aunt still insisted on taking Rebecca to London—also against her will, because she’s already found the husband she wants.”
“No, I told Mr. Eastman it was up to Lord Willard until she turned one and twenty, just as I told him only a week earlier that it was up to you if he wished to marry you—because you are past one and twenty.”
“My uncle was the one who wanted me to marry Mr. Eastman.”
A crease appeared in the duke’s brow. “Are you saying you didn’t want to marry him?”
Cecily struggled to suppress an anguished sigh. “I only agreed because I had no other place to go. Uncle Willard has said time and again that if I’m not married by the time his youngest daughter weds, then I shall be cast out on my ear. Alas, the vicar offered for Rebecca instead, and her parents are furious with me about it.”
“Why do they blame you for Eastman’s change of affections? Why don’t they blame Rebecca for luring him away? Or—better yet—why don’t they blame him?”
Ire spiked through her as her eyes blazed into his. “They don’t blame Rebecca because she’s an innocent who doesn’t know any better, or so they believe. As for Mr. Eastman...” She nearly sputtered in scorn. “When has any man ever taken the blame for the misfortune he caused a woman, Your Grace? No, I must have done something to repel him. Rebecca’s only hope is to avoid marriage to someone else until she turns one and twenty in another fortnight. I would have been happy to help her in that regard, for she and Mr. Eastman are in love. I’d help them elope if I could, though I suppose it might jeopardize his living. That may be another reason they left me here instead of letting me continue to London with them.”
“Maybe they won’t have to elope,” the duke said thoughtfully. “There are other ways for them to achieve their hearts’ desire. So you don’t wish to marry Mr. Eastman, and you don’t wish to be here at Tyndall Abbey?”
She glanced from one end of the gallery to the other. Despite the row of windows, it was getting darker in here with the threat of rain. “I’d rather not be where I’m not wanted, and I don’t want Mr. Eastman if he doesn’t want me.”
“Ah, but did you ever want him?”
“That matters not.”
“Oh yes, it does.” He widened his eyes again. Those turquoise orbs seemed to be the only color in this dismal place, for even the paintings were veiled with decades of smoky residue from candlelight and the gallery’s one fireplace. He lowered his voice. “Tell me what you really want, Cecily.”
The words came out in a murmur that was warm and seductive. They slowly swirled around her in an invisible shroud of pulsating heat that set her heart and another body part throbbing with a strange longing that in turn made her knees go weak.
“You can’t give me what I really want,” she whispered back.
He smiled gently. “Try me. Just ask.”
I don’t want That Book published.
“Name it, Cecily.” His voice was low, not quite a growl, but almost...a purr.
She swallowed. “I want...you...to...”
He slowly arched his brows.
“To kiss me,” she quickly blurted.
He cocked his head to one side. “That’s what you want more than anything?”
“Well, at this moment,” she blurted again, and he chuckled.
Oh, dear God. What did she just do? Well, she said it. Only, what did she just say?
“I don’t suppose I can take it back?” she asked.
“Why would you want to do that? Would you like me to kiss you, Cecily?”
“Only if you want to kiss me,” she said, feeling like an utter goosecap.
He slid his fingers under her chin, gently lifting it. “It just so happens I do. I wanted to that day when you came to Bradbury Park, hoping to persuade me not to let that book be published.”
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I ran away.”
“Because you didn’t want me to kiss you then? But you do now? What happened?”
How to explain to him that he’d behaved almost like Harry? Harry always demanded a kiss—and sometimes more—in exchange for not showing something she’d written to Uncle Willard. What would Bradbury think of her if he ever learned about that? It might confirm his belief that she was a lightskirt—and maybe she was, if she was asking him to kiss her now.
In that case, what difference did it make?
She met his piercing gaze. “I don’t want to be kissed to stop a book being published.”
“Then you want me to kiss you only if I desire you? And if you desire me?”
Well, wasn’t that why she wanted him to kiss her? Because she desired him, even though he was a wicked devil who did nothing but get her into trouble? It was as if he tempted her and no one else, and Cecily could never resist the temptation that was the devilish Duke of Bradbury.
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