“Eleven.” She took another deep, quivery breath and pressed a hand to her brow, as if to shield her eyes from any blaze that might be emanating from Dane. And it just so happened there was a blaze, too—one of rage at Harry. “I did what he wanted, and then he detached the ladder anyway and left me stranded there until you came along.”
Dane pondered her phrasing. I did what he wanted. That could have meant anything from lifting her skirt to putting her hand on Harry’s bits. Either way, the very idea of doing that to a frightened eleven-year-old girl made him sick and outraged.
She went on, “After you brought me home and left, I was punished for what happened.”
“What about Harry? Was he punished at all?”
She shook her head. “He denied everything, and so was off the hook. I was accused of making up the whole thing—after all, I liked to write fairy tales, didn’t I? That was all the proof anyone needed to know that I must have imagined the whole thing—and even then, I couldn’t tell them every little thing that happened, because I didn’t know how to describe it. I didn’t know the words.”
Words like fondle and abuse and penis, Dane thought in simmering ire. Words innocent young girls weren’t supposed to know, to make it easier for their tormentors to target them. Words ladies weren’t supposed to say even if they did happen to know or they wouldn’t be considered ladies.
She continued, “And I remember Uncle saying, ‘Well, you fancy yourself a writer. You should know the words. But you don’t. Because it never happened.’ They decided I trapped myself in the treehouse just to get attention from you, only to blame Harry because I didn’t like him. And things became worse, at least when Harry wasn’t away at school.”
Surely she wouldn’t have mentioned that last if she didn’t intend to elaborate. She wanted to tell Dane. Or at least someone who would believe her. And he wanted to know. But he also knew better than to press her. He resolved to give her as much time as she needed to open her heart to him. Because that was exactly what she was doing.
“Once he got away with that, he would use it to blackmail me,” she said. “I know Your Grace isn’t bothered by blackmail.”
“Not if it’s against me,” Dane clarified. “But if someone is blackmailing an innocent person such as yourself, then yes, that bothers me.”
She took another deep breath. “He would demand that I give him my diary or my latest story, or tell him where it was hidden. If I refused, he would ransack my bedchamber until he found what he was looking for. Then he would read it, and if he thought it was the sort of thing that would get me into trouble, he would threaten to show it to the others, unless...”
He patiently waited, but she said nothing more. Yet he was fairly certain how to finish her last sentence. Unless I let Harry repeat what happened when I was in the treehouse with him.
She almost curled up on the sofa, keeping her head down, her shoulders hunched, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. “Oh, never mind, Your Grace. I can’t tell you. You’d only despise me for it.”
“I think I can guess, just as easily as I guessed from the outset that you’re the author of that book. And I don’t despise you for that, Cecily. Pray, why would I?”
“Because my aunt and uncle did.”
“They knew what he was doing?” A fresh blade of outrage spiked through Dane.
“They knew, of course, that he was reading my diary and helping himself to whatever I wrote, because he was using it against me. They said if I didn’t want that happening, then I should stop writing altogether and take up that embroidery and those watercolors. Otherwise, I was just asking for it, and ergo deserved whatever he did.”
And even if she managed to convey to them how Harry was blackmailing her, they never would have believed her, Dane thought furiously. Because she was a writer who made things up. Whose word would always be suspect as a result.
He had to marvel that there were any writers of fiction in the world, if this was how they were all treated. The women, at any rate. No wonder many of them remained anonymous.
He set down his snifter hard enough that it was almost but not quite a slam. “Well, who’s to say that no one would have made sport of your embroidery or watercolors? I’ve seen more than my share of hideous paintings and tapestries in my lifetime. And as for not fitting in, maybe that’s because of your particular family situation. Have you ever considered that?”
She cocked her head up with a sharp look that could have pinned him right where he sat. “You know about that?”
“Of course I know about that. We’re neighbors. And my uncle upstairs is also your uncle, isn’t he? He was once married to my father’s sister. Odd, we have two uncles in common, Frampton and Willard. Frampton had two sisters, your mother and Thea. After your parents died, you were left in the care of Thea, probably because she and Willard already had two daughters, whereas Frampton and Ashdown, on your father’s side, only had sons. Either of those families should have taken better care of you.” But then she might never have written a book about the Duke of Madfury. Dane might not know her as well as he did now.
And he might not be falling in love with her.
“I don’t think Lord Frampton even knew I existed, until today,” Cecily said. “I receive a small allowance from his man of affairs. Has he ever mentioned me to you before? Have you ever mentioned me to him?”
“I can’t say either of us has ever had occasion to do so,” Dane replied, feeling just a bit guilty about that now. Everyone had treated Cecily as if she were insignificant.
And yet she’d written a book. Maybe that insignificance was why she wrote the book.
Still, he had to ask, “Whatever possessed you to write that particular book in the first place? How did I inspire you, Cecily? I know it wasn’t to lure me into some trap.”
“I believe I will try some of that brandy now,” she said. “Just a splash, please.”
He rose from the chair and made a beeline to the credenza for another snifter. “Just a splash is probably all you should have, if you’ve never had it before.” So saying, he moistened the bottom of a clean snifter with what amounted to a single swallow of brandy. He returned to the loveseat to find her wrapping her discarded stocking around her foot. “Bleeding again?”
“Just a little, but I don’t want to risk staining the rug,” she said, sitting up and looking much better, to his immense relief. One might argue she didn’t need brandy after all, now that she’d weathered the worst on the strength of nothing but her own courage, but she accepted it anyway. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I’m really not so much like the devil of your book,” he ventured with a smile. “Seems to me it should be about Harry, but then I suppose a duke would sell more copies than the son of a second son of a duke. I would never do to you any of the things he’s done.”
“Oh, no? Not any of them?”
“No. What makes you think...?” Maybe it was the pain in her toe, but he thought he detected a scowl on her face.
Cecily held the snifter to her lips, tilted her head back, and downed the splash. Her eyes bulged. So did her cheeks. She pursed her lips. For a moment Dane thought she was going to spit it out. She gulped, gasped, and set down the snifter. Her lips parted. Her cheeks no longer bulged, but her eyes still looked ready to pop.
Then, to his further astonishment, she stood up. Dane had the sudden, strange sense that he may have just created a monster. And the monster was about to go on a rampage.
“Were you not listening to me as I opened my heart? This evening you did the same thing Harry’s always done. He’d find my diary or a story I wrote, and if I tried to get it back from him, he would hold it up over his head and taunt me with it.”
Dane’s mind raced back to the inciting event. “I never taunted you with that letter. I only—well, it was addressed to me, anyway.”
“That, Your Grace, is entirely beside the point. You did exactly what he always did—made me run in circles and jump up and down as if I
were a dog hoping to snatch the bacon from your hand. And you thought I planned all of this. Is that why you brushed off the dowager countess—because you were hoping to take advantage of me, instead?”
Dane was so flummoxed by this unexpected attack that all he could do was just stand there with his mouth hanging open. Not a good look for a duke.
She raged on, “Would you have surrendered the letter had I lifted my skirt—or put my hand on your—” She gestured to the fall of his breeches, where all remained soft and limp and maybe even shriveled up in abject fear. “Whatever that thing is?”
Honestly, he didn’t know what to say except the truth: “It never occurred to me.”
“Even so, you brought it all back to me.” Snifter in hand, she hobbled over to the credenza and helped herself to more brandy.
A lot of brandy. That was more than a splash. That was almost a deluge. Not even Dane ever filled his snifter that full. He remained where he was. “I’m not sure you want to drink that much, Cecily, unless your plan is to throw all of that into my face.”
Brandy sloshed over the rim of the snifter as she brought it to her lips and sipped. Again the eyes and cheeks bulged, along with the pursing of the lips. Dane did not move, though he was tempted to pull out his pocket watch and time how long she managed to hold the stuff in her mouth. Any moment now—
She swallowed and gasped again. Her eyes watered. That much he expected.
She turned her head to survey him. He didn’t dare budge. Anything was possible now, save for some form of rational behavior.
“Do you know why else they punished me for that incident in the treehouse?” she asked. “Because you brought me home. You insisted on bringing me straight into Uncle Willard’s house, instead of just stopping your horse at the gate and letting me down there.”
“It was practically dark by then,” he countered. “I wasn’t going to leave you at the gate like some abandoned foundling.”
“I was already that. The house was right there. All you had to do was wait until I was inside and then ride away. They never would have had to know you were involved.”
“You’re vexed with me because of that? And that, I suppose, is why you didn’t want me taking you home after I found you in the ha-ha? The people you should be angry with are the junior branch of my family, Cecily. Not me.”
“I am angry with them. But you’re also the one who had me dismissed from the only governess position I ever had.”
“What are you blathering about?”
“You asked what inspired me to write that book.”
“I may have inspired you, but I’ve never had you dismissed.”
“You were there. ’Twas the Marquess of Sanford’s house party, a year and a half ago.” She took another quaff of brandy. This time her eyes and cheeks didn’t bulge as much. The vixen was acquiring a taste for the stuff. Thank God she wasn’t throwing it in his face. That would have been a terrible waste of good brandy.
But he clearly recalled Marquess of Sanford’s house party. “Oh, where you were the governess for his heir’s children? And I happened to see his younger son flirting quite madly with you under the staircase? What was his name? Lord Sixtus?”
“Septimus, and so what if he was flirting!” she said heatedly. “If anything, he was the only gentleman, unless you count Mr. Eastman, who ever showed me any kindness.”
“Foxed and fully sprung already. Clearly you don’t count me, either,” Dane said, a little more churlishly than he intended.
“He was nothing at all like Harry. All he wanted was one kiss before he returned to his regiment, and he asked so politely. He never once threatened me.”
“I believe that. But surely you’re aware—or you would’ve been before all that brandy—that Septimus already had an understanding with Lord Trent’s daughter and her five thousand pounds?”
She glowered. “I do recall you mentioning Miss Trent and her five thousand pounds to Lord Septimus that day.” Followed by another sip. “You may as well have said to him, ‘Don’t bother with Miss Logan—she has no money, or she wouldn’t be your nieces’ governess.’ He marched off without the kiss. Later I was called before none other than Lady Sanford herself. She said I was seen by the Duke of Bradbury with her younger son—as if being seen was the equivalent of—of—well, I think you know what. You yourself just said that you ‘happened to see’ us. And right then and there, I was dismissed from my position without a reference. I was accused of using that position—as well as my own, seemingly tenuous relationship to another marquess—to trap her little boy. You must have told her.” She sipped more of the brandy, and wavered like a stalk of pink hollyhocks in a stiff spring breeze.
“No, you must have been seen by someone else who assumed worse than I did.”
“You were the only person who saw us that day. And hours later, I was ordered to leave. Lady Sanford mentioned your name. A duke’s word carries a great deal of weight.” Swill. Swallow. Sway.
Dane patiently said, “Then someone else must have seen me talking to you and her son. Possibly Lady Sanford herself. Upon my solemn word, I told no one of what I saw, Cecily, mainly because there was nothing to see. Besides, I believe you know what happened to him. The same thing that happened to my brother Linus, also a second son, who was killed at Corunna. Lord Septimus was a soldier who left for the Continent shortly thereafter, only to be killed at Waterloo.”
Her eyes looked a bit bleary now. She seemed to be making an effort to focus her gaze on him. “Then I ’turned to Uncle Willard and Anthea ’cause I’d nowhere else to go. Nashurally they blamed me for wha’ happened and almos’ turned me out jus’ as Lady Sa’ford did. I think the only reason they didn’s ’cause Becca still needed a compasherone sis’er, I mean, since her sis’er Marianne jus’ married.” Guzzle. Gulp. Gyrate. “But tha’s when I sa’ down and started writing tha’ book.”
“Inspired by a misunderstanding,” said Dane. “How splendidly inglorious! I suppose you’ll never believe now that I interrupted your flirtations with Septimus precisely to keep you out of trouble? And yet I caused you trouble anyway, but not for the first time. And probably not for the last, I daresay. No wonder you believe I’m a devil, but let me assure you, Cecily—”
Tipple. Topple.
Straight to the floor if Dane hadn’t lunged forward and caught her in time.
He couldn’t leave her here for the night. He’d have to carry her upstairs, but he had no idea where her bedchamber was. He only knew the location of his own. He’d been given none other than the earl’s own bedchamber. He rang for a footman to assist him, but the footman had no idea where she was assigned for the night.
“The housekeeper would know, Your Grace, but she’s already retired.”
“Very well. Then light the way to my own bedchamber.”
The footman did, and that was where Dane took her. The bed was already turned down. He didn’t dare undress her.
“I’ll sleep in the adjacent bedchamber,” he said, giving the footman a gold guinea and a stern look. “I trust I can rely on your discretion?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”
He waited till after the footman departed, then ventured through the connecting door to the bedchamber usually occupied by the countess.
By the light of the candle, he saw someone already asleep in the countess’s bed.
Cordelia, the dowager Lady Tyndall.
Dane wasn’t about to sleep or, God forbid, do anything else in that bed.
He returned downstairs and retrieved her letter, thinking he might go into the library and read himself to sleep. He could always sleep in the carriage on the morrow.
But it was almost impossible to sleep after the way she opened her heart and bared her soul to him this evening. And while she wouldn’t have to forfeit her soul to any devil, this duke was now tempted to claim her heart in exchange for his own.
Chapter Eleven
Cecily opened her eyes to stark blackness an
d the realization that she was in bed with no memory of how she got there. The last thing she recalled was looking at the Duke of Bradbury and then—nothing.
Maybe he carried her back to her bedchamber? No, he was a duke. More likely he summoned a servant or two to do that.
Her hair was down—she usually braided it before going to bed—yet she was wearing the same pink frock she wore last night. And one stocking. The other was bound rather snugly around her foot, and that’s when she remembered stubbing her toe on that suit of armor.
She peeled off the stocking still on her left leg and yanked the other off her right foot, tossing them aside as she wiggled her sore toes in the cool, open air. After working her way out of her dress and stays, she fumbled around for the chamber pot. She tossed her drawers aside, used the chamber pot, shoved it under the bed, and then crawled back beneath the covers in nothing but her shift. She felt dizzy and dazed, as if a thick fog swirled around inside her brain, while a more severe weather system rumbled in her belly. She curled up into a ball, wondering if she should pull out the chamber pot again, but then everything went blank.
Next thing she knew, she opened her eyes to blurry daylight and the thudding of shutters being opened. “Good morning, Your Grace,” said a man’s voice.
Cecily gasped and swiftly unfurled herself, bolting upright to receive an arrow of horrible pain right between her eyebrows. The arrow pierced her brain and punched out the back of her head. Her stomach twisted. She clutched one hand to her head and the other to her middle. At least her feet weren’t hurting for a change.
“Beg your pardon, miss,” said the disembodied voice. “I had no idea. His Grace must have risen already for an early morning ride. Or walk. Or...”
“Out!” Cecily wailed, as another arrow shot into the side of her head, in one ear and out the other. She flopped back down on the pillow, bending her knees as she struggled to focus on where she was and why there was a man in the room who thought she was the duke.
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