“Bradbury.” Grace didn’t need even a second to think about it before answering—and without a question mark. It was no guess. She knew. “But do be honest now—did you really wish to marry Mr. Eastman? And pray—and I do mean this in the nicest possible way—do not say that is entirely beside the point.”
Cecily fought the urge to slump down on the edge of the bed in exasperation. “With all due respect, you’re as—well, I don’t wish to say you’re as bad as he is, but—you’re very like him.”
Grace furrowed her brow. “Like whom? Like Mr. Eastman?”
“No, like Bradbury. He always seems to know what I’m about to say before I can say it. And you just did the same thing.”
“You were going to say that whether you truly wished to marry Mr. Eastman is entirely beside the point?”
“That, and the point is that His Grace the Duke of Bradbury seems to get me into some kind of trouble every time our paths cross—beginning with the very first time we met, when I was only eleven years old.”
“Goodness! That far back?”
Cecily told Grace about The Treehouse Incident, leaving out the more salacious details about Harry’s role.
“But that was hardly the duke’s fault,” said Grace. “Are you absolutely certain he told Lady Sanford about you and her son?”
“He denies that he did. He says someone else must have seen me with her son at the same time—perhaps even Lady Sanford herself.”
“Then he may well be right.”
“I believe that now. But he was the one who caught us and said something—both to her son and to me.”
“What did he say to you?”
“That we were not meant for each other. That Lord Sanford’s son was meant for Miss Trent. And he was right. It’s just that—” The events of the past two days finally overwhelmed Cecily as tears sprang to her eyes, and she felt herself swaying. It took all of her strength not to flop back on that bed that was just behind her.
Grace took both of Cecily’s hands into hers. “Do sit down. I’m so sorry, Cecily. I never meant to distress you so. But it’s obvious that Bradbury cares about you. And I think he’s always cared about you.”
Cecily finally plopped down on the edge of the bed, taking deep breaths to keep her sobs at bay. “Yes, but why would he care about me? I’m no one.” Hot tears finally dropped from Cecily’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
Grace sat down beside her and squeezed her hands. “Cecily, I think the real question is why do you doubt your own worth? You’re not no one. Not to him, obviously, or he wouldn’t always be there whenever you’re in trouble.”
Cecily bristled at that. “But—”
“No, my dear, I do believe you have it backwards. It’s not that you always happen to fall into trouble whenever he appears. It’s that he always happens to be there when you do. Don’t you see? He’s not the reason for your mishaps. I daresay it’s a definite sign of something splendid that he tends to show up whenever you have one. I don’t believe he would ever intentionally hurt you, Cecily. Not the way others have, such as your own kin, Hugh and I excluded. Would you be here at Ashdown Park now, if not for Bradbury?”
“No,” Cecily had to admit.
Of course it wasn’t Dane’s fault that Harry stranded her in the treehouse. If not for Dane then who knew how long she might have languished there? She might still be up there, a cobwebbed skeleton by now. Granted, she might not have fallen into the ha-ha had she not fled Bradbury Park when she thought he was going to proposition her. But he was the one who happened to find her there and help her home again. If not for Dane, she might still be lying there in the mud, or at least still trying to crawl home.
But if not for Dane, she might never have written that horrid book. She’d written it partly because of her wrong assumptions about him. Wasn’t that why she didn’t want to see it published? Because she knew, deep down in her heart, that none of it was true?
Yet people would read about the Duke of Madfury and make the same wrong assumptions. She couldn’t let it go that far. It was one thing to write it for her own private amusement or catharsis. She’d hurt no one by keeping it to herself.
But how many would she hurt if she let it be seen by others?
A light tapping at the door, then several maidservants came in with a tub and jugs of steaming water. Grace stood up. “I should leave you to your bath. I hope you’ll feel well enough to join us for dinner.”
Cecily hoped so, too. After she was left to her own devices, she rose from the bed and wandered over to the dressing table to survey her reflection.
She looked as if she’d been crying muddy tears.
She locked the door, disrobed, and sank into the steaming water, cupping it in her hands and splashing it over her face. She scrubbed herself until she was red all over. She propped her foot with the stubbed toe on the edge of the tub, for the water made it sore, almost burning.
She dunked her head to wet her hair and wash it. When she saw the duke again, she wanted to be squeaky clean and sweet-smelling, inside-out and from head to toe—well, maybe not the one that was stubbed.
A maid helped her dress and even dry and coif her hair. Cecily thought her hair had always been a haphazard mess, but now she looked perfect, if such a thing were possible. Her gown was of deep violet, trimmed with golden lace around the scoop neckline and the puffed sleeves. The maid pinned up her chestnut hair in a smooth topknot circled with a fillet of primroses, and used tongs to create ringlets that dangled over each of her ears.
She fancied it might be worth marrying the duke just to have someone to coif her hair for her every day.
If only he loved her.
As she surveyed her reflection in the mirror, she wondered if he’d even recognize her.
Cecily gingerly made her way downstairs, as if the slightest misstep might bring her curls and that topknot tumbling down. Voices and laughter wafted from the drawing room, and she entered only to stop short at the sight of not the duke, but cousin Harry, who wasn’t even dressed for dinner. If anything, he looked as if he’d just arrived after a hard ride.
But where was the duke?
“Ah, there she is,” said Lord Frampton, and everyone turned to the doorway.
Everyone but the Duke of Bradbury, who wasn’t there. Then it occurred to Cecily that as the duke, he would likely be the last one to come downstairs.
Harry eyed her up and down, from that topknot to the toes of her kid slippers. “And who might this be?”
“You don’t recognize your own cousin who’s lived with you for so many years?” Grace chided him.
Harry squinted. “Cecily?”
“By Jupiter,” said Hugh, Lord Ashdown, who stood in front of the fireplace with his hands folded behind him. “The family resemblance is quite uncanny. You’re a much prettier version of me, Cousin Cecily.”
Alarm jangled over her. “Where is the duke?” she blurted.
“Bradbury? He sent his regrets and said he couldn’t join us. But not to worry—Armstrong is here to make up numbers at the table.”
His words hit Cecily right in her middle, hard enough to make her step back. Hard enough to make her as queasy as she was this morning.
Bradbury had left her here!
If he really wanted to marry her, he surely wouldn’t have done that. Alas, he’d only been toying with her on the journey. Making a fool of her. As usual. As always. What Grace had told her upstairs about how much he cared was just a lot of faradiddle.
But oh, how Cecily longed to believe the faradiddle.
“My Aunt Flavia would be so pleased about this,” Grace was saying, though her voice sounded to Cecily as if it were coming from another room. On another floor. In another house. “She’s quite severe about keeping even numbers at dinner and house parties.”
That devil of a duke had left Cecily here without saying good-bye. Without claiming that kiss. Without—
“Cecily, do come in and join us,” said Grace. “Dinner should be announced shor
tly.”
Harry harrumphed. “In which case, why should she even bother to sit down?”
Cecily had to concede, albeit grudgingly, that Harry had a point. She crept into the drawing room, trying not to hear Lady Frampton as she regaled Harry with what happened the last time the Duke of Bradbury came to Ashdown Park and proposed to her own daughter.
“Yes, my lady, I know that story,” Harry said, as he threw a smirk at Cecily. “And then she jilted him at the altar for his own brother.”
Lady Frampton languidly fanned herself with a large ostrich feather. “And right after everyone thought I jilted him for Lord Frampton here. But—”
“Makes one wonder what is wrong with him,” Harry said. “No doubt that book has all the details.”
“What book is that, Mr. Armstrong?” queried Grace.
“A book about the Duke of Bradbury, written by one who claims she ought to be his duchess, forasmuch as he repeatedly ruined her.”
Cecily did not find the topic of this conversation as diverting as she had at Tyndall Abbey. She folded her hands in such a way that she could press against her wallowing stomach without looking as if she were doing so—or so she hoped.
Grace ventured a step toward her, concern etched on her face. “Cecily, are you feeling quite the thing?”
“Oh yes. I’m just famished. I’ve only had a bit of stew today.” That, and the duke had left her here!
No sooner did she have that thought than the butler appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was served.
The surprises never stopped rolling out, for Harry offered her his arm. “May I?”
“What are you even doing here?” she whispered.
“Offering to escort you to the dining room,” he answered, while the others marched ahead of them out of the drawing room.
“No, I mean why are you really here? Your presence has nothing to do with either me, that book, or even the duke, does it?”
“If you must know, it does.”
“Since at least two of those things have to do with me, of course I must know,” she snapped. “Indeed, I should have the right to know.”
“Bradbury plied his ducal powers to halt the publication of the book.” Resentment curdled Harry’s voice. “I went to London to inquire about an advance payment, only to be informed that the contract was canceled at the behest of Bradbury’s solicitors.”
Bradbury somehow managed to do that in this short span of time, and never said a word to her? Then why had he insisted all this time that he would not stop the publication?
Cecily could only gape at her cousin in disbelief. “Why would he do that?”
Harry scowled. “Isn’t it obvious? You wrote some dreadfully scurrilous things about him, beginning with the very title. He must have been afraid of what was in that book. That can only mean he’s hiding something unspeakably heinous, and maybe you would have been doing society a service by bringing such sordid details to light.”
Cecily scoffed and stalked away from him. “As if you don’t reside in a house of glass. Where are you going after this?” She hoped to heavens he wasn’t spending the night here.
“To Bath in pursuit of a wealthy widow,” he said flatly. “I only stopped here because I needed a place to spend the night and told Ashdown that I’m your cousin as much as his, and ergo we’re all family. So here I am. I didn’t even know you happened to be here.”
Cecily’s heart, having already tumbled at the news that Bradbury had continued on his journey, somehow managed to plummet even further, this time around the vicinity of her knees that suddenly felt very wobbly.
She quickened her pace, entering the dining room alone. She was already in her chair by the time Harry made his sullen entrance. She hoped he felt out of place in his rumpled, soiled traveling clothes, for Lord Ashdown mentioned that in the country they preferred not to stand on ceremony unless they had certain guests—such as dukes or Grace’s parents, who were particular sticklers for propriety.
“Don’t see why he shouldn’t have to change, since I did,” Lord Frampton grumbled. “And I’ve been traveling all day, too.”
“He arrived too close to dinner, my lord,” Ashdown said.
“Then why not send up a tray to him, too?” Frampton demanded. “After all—”
“Dearest,” Lady Frampton gently admonished, as she placed her hand over her husband’s, as if that might restrain him from leaping out of his chair and attacking Harry for the reprehensible crime of not dressing properly for dinner.
Too bad. Cecily might have relished the spectacle.
As the footmen brought serving platters around the table a la français, Grace steered the conversation back to the topic of That Blasted Book. “So what of this infamous book about the duke, Mr. Armstrong? Do you know the author? Who claims to be Bradbury’s rightful albeit wronged would-be duchess?”
“We discussed this at Tyndall Abbey last night,” said Lady Frampton. “According to my daughter, who resides in London, it’s widely believed to be the Widow Frey. Unlike me and Evie—his more recent fiancées—he actually had a formal understanding with Mrs. Frey. And she did show up at Evie’s wedding to object to their marriage.”
Cecily wondered if Mrs. Frey was the wealthy widow Harry hoped to pursue in Bath.
“’Twas indeed all the talk of London, as I’ve just been there myself,” Harry said. “But now ’tis rumored the duke has moved to prevent its publication. Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because the book is full of fustian,” Ashdown replied.
“Or maybe ugly truths,” Harry retorted. “And now everyone will wonder what he’s hiding.” He shot Cecily his signature look—a triumphant sneer.
She lowered her gaze to concentrate on her dinner. By now she was famished and meant to enjoy her meal. And she would, too, if only the others would talk about something else.
“Or here’s a novel concept,” Grace piped up. “Mayhap he did it from a heartfelt desire to protect the author. Maybe he did so out of love for her. If she wrote the book because she believes he broke her heart—”
Cecily dared not look up from her plate. Grace could guess, but she couldn’t possibly know for certain that the author was right here at her table.
“No, he ruined her,” Harry insisted.
“No, Mr. Armstrong,” Grace countered. “Something tells me the duke only broke her heart.”
“That woman’s intuition nonsense?” Harry sneered again—or he was sneering still. He always sneered.
“I’m saying he did it not for himself, but for her,” Grace clarified. “Perhaps he’s been in contact with her since he heard about it.”
Harry waved his fork. Unfortunately, he failed to stick himself in the eye with it. “But if she’s doing it for money—”
“Then he must be settling quite a sum on her,” Ashdown said. “Besides, he’s a duke—whatever she claims could have no deleterious effect on him. Do you honestly believe all of society will cut him dead because of unsubstantiated allegations in a book written by nobody knows whom?”
Bradbury had indeed told Cecily, time and again, that he had no fear of being ruined by whatever might have been written in That Book. All he had to do was waggle those huge fingers on those huge hands of his, and conjure the necessary ducal powers that would protect him from the vagaries of non-ducal mortals.
But what Grace said—could he truly have done it for Cecily? For her?
And to think she’d managed this coup without having to surrender her virtue—or even give the appearance of having done so, as she recalled the previous night. But at what point had he waved his ducal wand in Cecily’s favor? He certainly hadn’t talked as if he had. Perhaps he meant to surprise her.
In which case, maybe that was why he’d continued to London without her. He must have been hoping to see how far she would go, what she was willing to do to dissuade him from letting it be published. She should have been irate with him for that alone, for such an idea wasn’t too differe
nt from Harry’s own machinations.
To think she’d seriously considered seducing the duke tonight, borrowing Lady Cordelia’s tactics! After their scandalous discussion in the barouche earlier today, Bradbury must have suspected what Cecily had in mind—for he did have that uncanny, annoying knack for reading her mind—and he must have thought it best not to stay at Ashdown Park tonight.
For once she looked perfect—no mud, no ink stains—and he wasn’t here to see it.
Lady Frampton, bless her soul, changed the subject to her infant grandchildren. Grace was all too eager to pursue this topic, since she had a baby and another on the way.
Lord Frampton, seated next to her, jabbed into Cecily’s melancholy reverie. “You’re being dreadfully quiet this evening, my dear.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never been much of a conversationalist.”
“Then I’ll wager you’re quite the ardent reader?”
“Indeed, I am. Lady Ashdown has already told me that one of the greatest libraries in Northamptonshire is right here in this house.”
“Then no doubt you’ll be searching for a book to read later this evening?”
She smiled. “If not this evening, then certainly on the morrow—especially if the earl happens to lock his library after a certain hour, as was done at Tyndall Abbey.”
Everyone gathered in the drawing room after dinner, and there everyone remained until evening’s end. As the others made their way up the long, curving staircase, candles in hand, Cecily made a quick detour to the library located across the front hall from the drawing room.
It was locked. No reading in bed tonight. Crestfallen, she followed the others upstairs. No sooner was she in her bedchamber than someone scratched on her door, and she opened it to reveal a maidservant who held up a large brass key.
“Miss Logan? His Lordship asked me to give this to you. It’s the key to the library, in case you’d like to go back downstairs to search for a book. He asked me to convey his apologies for not leaving the library unlocked for you.”
“No apology necessary,” Cecily said, as she took the proffered key. “That was very kind of him. Thank you.” Lord Ashdown must have noticed her trying to gain entry into the library while he was on his way upstairs. And perhaps Lord Frampton had told the earl of his conversation with Cecily at dinner.
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