by Tamara Gill
“What are you doing here? The duchess never informed me that she was inviting you this evening.”
Cecilia raised her brows, nonplussed. “And she has to inform you of everything she does? I think not. Excuse me,” she said, making for the door.
He pulled her back, and she caught the stench of whisky on his breath. “Already in your cups, my lord. How very original of you.”
Lord Aaron swallowed, running a hand over his face and pulling off his mask. “I was going to call on you.”
She narrowed her eyes, staunchly ignoring the butterflies taking flight in her stomach. “And why would you do that? We are not friends nor do we circulate in the same Society. I’m only here by invitation by the duchess. And I can promise you, after tonight, I will not be attending another ball near any of you people.” She would exclude the duchess of course from this, but everyone else could go hang.
“Lady Morton is an old friend of my family, a woman who’s been brought down financially by her late husband. Being the younger son of a penniless duke, they were never flush with cash. She merely asked me for assistance in helping her re-establish herself in London. There is nothing romantically happening between us if your prickly attitude toward me has any explanation.”
She sucked in a very audible breath. “Excuse me, Lord Aaron I am not prickly in any way. And if I was rude about your friend, it was merely because she was very impolite. I’ll not be talked down to from anyone, least of all a woman who smells as strongly of liquor as you do.”
A muscle on his jaw clenched. “May I remind you that your continual reminders and sly remarks about my intake of alcohol are not acceptable. Not by anyone.”
She shrugged. “I care not what is or isn’t acceptable. You, Lord Aaron, are always foxed, slurring your words, and bringing women of questionable morals to balls. Do you not see how unacceptable that is? If your friends will not try and help you see a better way forward than being in your cups all the time, caring for nothing but folly and how you can spend your precious money on unimportant things, then I shall. There is nothing lost if we are not friends.”
His lordship stepped in front of her when she went to make another escape. What was the man’s problem! She glared up at him. “Move out of my way.”
“Nothing lost? Do you mean that?”
“You continue to prove my point. No man who was not drunk would ever ask a woman so forward a question. You are practically asking if I like you, and you should not and would not if you weren’t so drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk,” he said, swaying a little toward her.
Cecilia crossed her arms. His gaze veered to her bosom, slightly pushed up because of her stance, so she dropped her arms at her side.
“I think there would be a great opportunity lost if you walked out of my life.”
“You made me feel like a fool. I kissed you and then you arrive at a ball with another woman. I know you’ve made no promises to me, and I have no expectations, but you should at least, as a gentleman, act with some sensitivity. Now if you’ll excuse me, Lord Aaron, I wish to leave.”
Hunter swallowed the panic that coursed through him at Cecilia’s words. He’d not thought she would be at Lord Leighton’s masked ball. He’d only brought Lady Morton this evening to reintroduce her to a Society she’d been absent from for some years. No harm in that.
Stupid mistake seeing Miss Smith was in attendance, and it made him look like he had women at his beck and call. Brought them to balls and parties without thought to women, or to at least one woman who’d he’d kissed with abandon only last week.
“You may be right, I may drink more than I ought, but know this. There is nothing between Lady Morton and myself. I will admit to having relations with her during her marriage, which is not my proudest moment I grant you, but I have not, and I am not looking to renew those relations anytime soon.”
Hunter clasped her chin and brought her crystal blue eyes back to look at him. Hell, she was pretty, with a mouth that begged to be kissed, and damn it, he wanted to kiss her again. Had thought of little else since last week.
“If you must know the truth, I think of you. Of your opinionated self, of your intelligent conversations and witty repertoire. Of your beauty both in and out. Your charitable personality that leaves me to shame. You are the only woman who’s not throwing themselves at my feet, and it is literally driving me to distraction.”
She did look at him then, her perfectly straight teeth clasping her bottom lip and driving him even more obsessed with her person.
“I think about you all the time. I think about kissing you all the time,” he murmured.
“You wish to kiss me again, Lord Aaron?”
He nodded before caution could halt his reply. “Yes, I do,” he said, not willing to hide anymore his feelings toward the woman before him. Not wanting to, if he were honest. She would be the perfect mistress, keep him interested and never bored. Blast it all, he wanted to taste her again if she’d allow.
“If you ever wish to kiss me again, my lord the price you need to pay is the liquor you’re so fond of. Do not touch a drink at any event up until you see me again, and I shall grant you such a boon.”
His gut clenched at the thought of not having brandy in front of his fire at home, or a lovely, well-aged whisky at events such as this. “Am I allowed wine?”
“No, tea and coffee are acceptable, along with fruit punch, so long as it’s alcohol-free. And if you are then, my lord, still interested in kissing a woman half your rank, a bluestocking well on the shelf, sober of course, then I shall allow you to kiss me,” she said, with a stubborn lift of her chin.
“You think I only want you because I’m in my cups? Which by the way, I’d like to point out I’m not that drunk.” He hated that she was thinking such things. It couldn’t be more from the truth. There had been many times he’d thought of her, wanted her and had not taken one ounce of drink.
“I do think that.”
He frowned. “Well don’t, because when I win this war, and I’m standing before you sober, you will experience and see just how much I want you for you, not because of any liquid courage.” And then he would ask her to consider being his mistress, allow him to pamper and care for her in a mutually satisfying manner.
His life up to the point when he’d met her was filled with nothing but self-gratification. Cecilia was a pure soul, made him want to be a better man. Due to her rank, he could never look at her as anything other than a lover, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make her life sweeter, make his own life worth more than how it currently stood. With such a lifestyle she could continue her charity work and never have to worry about marrying anyone to keep a roof over the children’s head that she cared for.
She gazed up at him, innocent and yet there was a strength, and intelligence that lurked in her cerulean orbs and he wanted that for himself. He wanted her in his life. Hunter straightened his back and bowed. “I will ensure you’re invited to the next event the duke and duchess attend, and there, Miss Smith, you shall lose this wager.”
She reached up and clasped his jaw, and he stilled at the feel of her touch. At some point, she’d removed her gloves, and her soft hand was warm and comforting, making his gut clench. “No, Lord Aaron, don’t you see, I shall win either way and so too will you.”
“Will you dance with me?”
Cecilia nodded. “Yes.”
They made their way back to the ballroom to the orchestra playing a waltz. Cecilia spied Katherine dancing with another masked stranger, and the duke and duchess too were partaking in the risqué dance.
“Do you like to dance, Miss Smith?” the marquess asked, twirling her quickly and making her laugh.
“I do, although we do not go out as much as we used to during my debut. If it hasn’t passed your notice, I’m quite on the shelf.”
“You never wished to marry?” he asked her, watching her so closely that heat spread through her veins. Did he like what he saw? Did his questionin
g of her mean he wanted to get to know her better?
“I was courted, but I never found any gentleman whom I cared for enough to give myself to. And so I threw myself into charity work, found a new love, that of the children who rely on me. I’m not concerned if I never marry, no matter what my father may think. I’m quite content with my situation in life.”
He shook his head at her words. “You’re so confident in your direction. I fear I have little. I suppose I truly do look like a fop who does nothing with his life, other than spend it unwisely.”
His hand tightened about her waist during a turn, and her heart thumped in her chest. She swallowed. “You do not have to live in such a way. You’re a powerful lord, think of all the wonderful things you could do if only you wished to.”
“Give to charity, you mean? Not build my gentleman’s club,” he asked grinning.
She chuckled. “Not just that, you could pursue other venues to help others, like enter the house of Lords and seek change for the poor. Stop children from having to work and instead send them to school. Better housing for the poor, better water supply, drainage, and heating for their homes.”
He shook his head. “I’m in awe of you, Miss Smith. I do believe you’re born before your time. Never have I ever met someone with such determined, good opinions. A steadfastness to try and make others’ lives better. You shame me.”
“No,” she said, not wanting him to think in such a way. “I’m far from perfect, like you I have my flaws. I’m opinionated and judgemental, as you’ve seen. Not everyone has the stomach for the work I do, and I should be more understanding of that, not condone and condemn.”
“Sometimes, as with me, it’s appropriate, but I know, with your help I can change, possibly make changes in my life and others.”
Cecilia smiled, having not thought she’d ever hear his lordship state such. He’d been so impossibly blind to others that she’d placed him in the box of no hope. “I know you can.”
Chapter 8
The following week Cecilia sat in her father’s library, crafting letters to his clients on their updates and progress as per her father’s notes. It was an occupation she enjoyed and since her hand was more legible than her father’s it was something he allowed her to do for him.
A loud, knock sounded at the door, and Cecilia placed her quill down as the voice, speaking quickly to their butler was familiar. The library door swung wide, and the Duchess of Athelby strolled into the room, her usually serene countenance, reddened by exertion and marred by worry.
Cecilia stood. “Your grace, is everything well?”
The duchess came to stand before the desk, shaking her head. “You must come with me. The Marquess of Aaron is in a terrible state. Now, before you say anything, hear me out.”
The duchess paused, and Cecilia nodded her approval.
“He mentioned to the duke that you’d made a wager with him, one that he has taken very seriously over the last seven days. So much so, that he’s become very unwell.”
A warmth flowed through her veins that the marquess had gone through with his promise. Did it mean he cared for her, maybe saw her as someone to spend the rest of his life with, have a family of their own? Is he someone she would want to spend the rest of her life with? Cecilia gestured for the duchess to sit and took a seat herself, dismissing the thought. Never had the marquess stated anything of the kind, other than wanting to kiss her he’d made no promises to her. She shouldn’t get ahead of herself. “May I speak, your grace? Plainly, if you will allow.”
“Of course, but this is not all I have to tell you.”
“I think I know what the rest of your words will be, but may I tell you what I know?”
The duchess nodded, wringing her hands in her lap. “Of course.”
“Working in the charities that I do, we see similarities with people who suffer from different afflictions. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I fear the Marquess of Aaron cannot control himself when it comes to wine or whisky, drinks of that nature. To brutally say it, he is a drunk, your grace. A very well spoken and dressed one at that, but even so, he has barrel fever. Our wager was for him to cease drinking, and he is now having repercussions due to his choice. It is not pleasant, and it will take time, but he will get through this.”
The Duchess stared at her a moment before she said, “While I admit to being aware somewhat of this affliction, what is happening to him now is not at all good. He’s very unwell, and he’s asking for you. Will not allow anyone else to see him. Cameron is worried sick, and even though what I’m asking you to do is beyond proper, will you come with me. Help me, help him.”
Cecilia stood, not needing to be asked twice. The thought of Hunter suffering made her stomach recoil. “Of course, I’ll help. Let me pack a small valise. When I go to visit the orphanage in the country, I always sleep over. I’ll leave a message for papa stating that is where I’ve gone. He’ll not assume I’ve gone to the marquess’s home instead.”
The duchess clasped her hand. “You’re very good, and we will keep your name and your visitation to the marquess’s home secret, I promise you that. We’ll not allow anyone to know that you were there.”
It wasn’t long before the duchess’ unmarked carriage pulled into the mews at the back of the marquess’s home on Berkeley Square. A stable hand came out and helped them down, before going through the back garden to ensure they weren’t seen arriving and headed indoors.
The home was not what Cecilia had expected. For some reason, she’d assumed the house would be dark, mysterious just like it’s owner, but instead, it was brightly lit, wax candles burning in every room and hallway. There were well-kept carpet rugs and highly polished floorboards. The staircase that sat centre in the entrance hall too was well lit, and from the base of the stairs, Cecilia could see that the first-floor landing housed many portraits, possibly of past family members.
“Shall we go up?” the duchess asked, stepping toward the stairs.
“Of course. I’ll follow you.” They went upstairs, and the duke met them on the landing.
“He still will not allow me to enter.” The duke bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Smith. I do apologize for our intrusion into your day, but we would not have done so had we not thought it the most important.”
Cecilia curtsied. “Do not tax yourself, your grace. It was my silly bet with the marquess which has brought on his current symptoms, it is only right that I try and alleviate them in some way.”
“You’re too kind,” the duchess said. “Hunter’s room is the third door on the left. We shall go downstairs and order some tea. Please have a servant fetch us if there is anything we can do to help. There is one outside his door at all times. Unfortunately, it is not us the marquess was asking for.”
“I shall,” Cecilia said, making her way to the room and placing her bag beside the door. She stood there without making a sound while she watched the duke and duchess head downstairs. Taking a deep breath, she knocked hard twice.
“Lord Aaron, will you let me in? It’s Miss Smith.”
No sound came from the room, and just before she was about to knock again, the lock turned, and the door swung wide. He was worse than Cecilia had imagined, and without saying a word, she entered the room, leaving the door ajar just the slightest.
Taking his lordship’s hand, she walked him over to the fire, which was nothing but coals and sat him down. Turning to the hearth, she added some more coal, then wood, and blew on the embers that still glowed red, but no longer formed any heat. She concentrated on her task, creating a draft with the fire, and thankfully a few spots of the wood took light, and the fire started to burn.
“You are the most accomplished woman I know. You can even create fire.”
She laughed, standing and taking a seat across from him. “Growing up we didn’t have a lot of servants, and even though we are able to afford them now, it was not always the case. And so yes, I learned how to do many things. I can wash clothes, cook food, dust and clean,
even make fires. Not what your Society would call accomplished, but I think they’re excellent life skills that everyone should have.”
He stared at her, his eyes glassy, and dark-ringed with tiredness. His hair was matted and looked in need of a good wash. He was a right state, and she frowned, guilt pricking her soul. “You know why I’m here don’t you, my lord?”
The marquess cringed, turning his attention to the fire. “Call me Hunter, please. You’re seeing me at my worst, I do not deserve the name of a gentleman in this condition.”
“I shall call you Hunter, but you are worthy of the title, my lord. Your condition does not make you who you are. It is simply a symptom of what you’ve been doing to yourself.”
If broken had a face, the marquess would be a portrait of it. “I feel like horse dung, and I do beg my pardon on the use of such a word, but I never felt so ill in my life. But even so, my desire to be worthy of your kiss overrides my misery.”
Cecilia’s heart did a little flip, and she fought not to go to him, to wrap him in her arms and give him what he wanted. What she wanted. But not yet, first they had to vanquish this inner demon he fought against and beat it. The pain she read in his eyes made her question her decision, not that to help, but to keep at a distance. Maybe she would be a better addiction for him than the one he now fought.
Against her better judgement, she kneeled at his feet. Clasping his stubble roughened cheeks she pulled him toward her, kissing him gently on the mouth. The feel of him so close, the touch of his breath against her lips left her longing for more. Even in his state, both physically and mentally, she wanted to kiss him. Allow him to lose himself in her, anything but allow the need for more of what he’d been imbibing himself in for however many years he’d been drinking.