“Cook informed me of this.” Flavion blinked in confusion. “If somebody is trying to kill me, then why would they not put the poison in my soup? It’s my favorite kind, you know.” He snapped his head around and then added, “Did you know there is a monster in the kitchen? Practically as big as a horse. Damn near gave me an apoplexy!”
“Language, Flave. And the dog’s name is Chadwick. Lady Kensington has adopted him.” He made the statement matter of fact before bringing his cousin’s attention back to the subject at hand. “We are discussing poison in the soup. Poison in the countess’ soup.” He did not look at Cecily as he spoke.
Flavion finally glanced over at her. It was obvious he resented her presence.
Then, placing one hand upon his cousin’s shoulder, Flavion admitted, “I was frightened that you had come to harm, Stephen. Are you certain you are well?”
Cecily watched them curiously. She’d been wrong. Her husband did not love only himself. He loved his cousin. Flavion was genuinely concerned for the other man’s welfare.
Mr. Nottingham gestured toward Cecily.
“I’m fine, Flave. But Lady Kensington’s bowl was poisoned as well.”
Flavion turned to look at her, finally. She knew she was partially hidden by the darkness. “Well, of course I’m concerned. You’re all right, aren’t you, Cecily?”
She shrugged, confused to see anything good in her husband “I’m fine. How are you? Did you take some willow bark? That might help with the swelling.” This was the most cordial exchange they’d shared since their wedding night.
He cautiously touched his swollen nose before turning back toward his cousin. “I took some earlier. Shite, Stephen. Why’d you have to hit me so hard? It’s not fair to take a fellow by surprise like that.” He glanced back toward her. “He’s angry with me. He thinks I’m not doing enough to protect you. Told me you require my protection while out in Society.” Her husband sounded like a petulant child.
Cecily raised her eyebrows at this information. She had not realized Flavion had been injured because of her.
Why would Mr. Nottingham think Flavion wasn’t doing enough? Oh, it must have been because of her fall near the produce cart. “Because of the incident on Bond Street? It never would have happened, Mr. Nottingham, but for my own carelessness. It was my fault for sending the footman away with my purchases. Otherwise I would not have been alone.”
It was a noble gesture, upon the part of Mr. Nottingham, but she knew that nothing could affect her husband’s indifferent feelings toward her. And if Flave didn’t care for her, he would not change the way he treated her — in public or otherwise.
Flavion did what Flavion wanted to do.
“See, Stephen.” He pounced upon her explanation. “Even she concedes her troubles are not my fault.”
Well!
Flavion didn’t have to be such a blockhead about it! “Don’t bother… darling. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your regular… entertainment.” She didn’t intend to sound churlish, but she was being reminded that she did not like her husband at all. The more she got to know him, in fact, the more she wondered at how gullible she had been. He was not a nice person at all. How had he hidden his true nature from her for so long? Had she been so shallow as to be blinded by dashing good looks and romantic overtures?
Apparently so.
Again, they were arguing in the presence of a guest. “Do forgive us, Mr. Nottingham.” She sighed. “It’s just that…” She found herself at a sudden loss for words. What could she say? It’s just that I hate this man for ruining my life? It’s just that your cousin is a bastard of the worst kind? It’s just that… all I want is to be free of him?
When she didn’t complete her sentence, Flavion turned back toward Stephen. “I do hate it when we are out of sorts with each other, Cousin. How can I get back into your good graces?” His words seemed sincere.
Cecily was amazed by the strange sort of hero worship Flavion held for the other man. It was touching, somehow.
Mr. Nottingham gestured toward Cecily again. “I should think an apology is in order for the countess. That would be a noble gesture on your part, anyhow.” His voice was gentle but firm.
Suddenly Cecily wanted to cry. It was stupid, really. An apology wouldn’t change anything. Would it? It might be nice though, to hear it out loud. It would be nice to hear even a trace of remorse in Flavion’s voice for the way he had treated her. It would validate this pain, somehow, for him to acknowledge the ruthlessness of what he’d done.
Flavion rose to his feet and stood before her. Like an actor, his eyes transformed. They were once again the eyes of the man she’d been courted by, the eyes of the man who had professed to love her.
“Cecily,” he said in all seriousness, “my lady… I am sorry for any pain that I have caused you. When I decided to marry you for that stupendous dowry of yours, I did not stop to think that you would engage such great affection for me.” He ran a hand through his beautiful golden hair and grinned sheepishly. “I did not realize that the removal of my attentions would cause you such heartache. Will you forgive me?”
What did one say to such an apology?
“Flavion, all I want is to be free,” she said earnestly. “I can forgive you, but won’t you divorce me? Please, please? Or can we consider an annulment? I’ll do anything.”
Flavion turned to regard his cousin as though he would have a solution. But Mr. Nottingham merely shook his head, leaving Flave no choice but to formulate his own answer. He frowned deeply. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Cece, but I really cannot.” And with that, he backed away from the gazebo before turning on his heel and going back into the house.
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER FLAVION’S DEPARTURE, Stephen watched Lady Kensington’s profile as she gazed off into nowhere. She was something of a fighter, he was coming to realize, but on the heels of Flavion’s bald statement, she looked defeated.
“I am feeling sorry for myself again,” she said with a voice that trembled slightly. “You will wish to run far away from me before I do something silly, like cry.”
When Flavion had looked to Stephen for a satisfying answer to give his wife, Stephen had felt utterly helpless. Helpless for them both. Helpless that he couldn’t inspire Flavion to be a better man and even more helpless in that he could not free Flave’s countess so that she could recapture her dreams.
It made one think long and hard about committing to marriage; that was for certain.
“Did you cry much as a child?” he asked her abruptly.
She looked over at him and blinked a few times before answering. “Oh, no. My father would not abide by it.”
“And what of your mother?”
“I never knew her. She died in childbirth.” And then, as though remembering, she fell silent for a moment. “Papa gave me a good childhood though.” The countess lifted her chin. “I never lacked for anything — food, clothing, even attention. If I ever felt lonely, I could go into my father’s office and he would hold me on his lap and include me in whatever discussion he was having at the time. He encouraged my opinion and ideas. He always said it was only a shame that I wasn’t his son. That if I were, I would do well to take over the business from him.”
“But you could not do that as a woman,” Stephen said. It was not a question. A woman would not be taken seriously in the male-dominated world of shipping and industry.
“No,” Lady Kensington agreed solemnly. “And then, one afternoon when I joined Pa in his office, an elderly couple was with him. The woman suggested that I ought to be at home, learning how to be a lady. She gave Papa the names of a few governesses that she recommended, and within a week, my life turned completely upside down.”
“How old were you?” Stephen didn’t want to picture her as a young sprite of a girl. For in his mind, that young girl was laughing and smiling. She seemed not to have a great deal to be happy about recently.
She lifted one side of her mouth into a halfhearted smile. “
Fifteen… My first governess, Mrs. Crump, discouraged me from visiting Papa’s offices after that. She threw out all of my old clothing and dressed me in muslin and lace from that point forward.”
“Did you hate it?”
She shrugged. “I liked some of the new clothes. In case you haven’t noticed, I do appreciate a well-designed dress.”
Her eyes sparked with mischief. She was joking with him. For some strange reason, this put a lump in his throat.
“But,” she continued, “I did not like being told what to do every second of every day.” Holding up her hand, she began making points for each finger. “I do not crochet. My singing is atrocious and only slightly better than my playing of the pianoforte. I cannot draw, paint or sketch, except for dress designs, and I shall never, ever understand why a gentleman would prefer to talk with a lady who has no opinions.”
“An utter failure then?” Stephen teased. “What can you do, my lady?”
And then, ah, yes. A very real smile. A smile that was simply, incredibly… Cecily Nottingham, or perhaps, in truth, Miss Cecily Findlay.
“I design gowns. For all occasions; daytime, evenings, riding, even for sleeping. When I am not devising methods for killing my husband, I am imagining new ensembles that I would draw. I assisted the modiste in almost all of my trousseau. Half the designs were mine, and I ordered the fabric for my negligees shipped all the way from China.”
Stephen had every intention of mentally picturing her in a day dress, but his baser urges were stronger. Instead, he’d somehow conjured up an image of her in that red nightgown she’d worn the other morning, sitting astride him, the skirt pushed up to her waist. In his imagination, her hair, the color of a setting sun, was unbound and cascading down her back. And those lush lips, mmm… soft and open. The memory of her touching him earlier did little to help cool this unwanted stirring.
“What else can you do?” His voice sounded gravelly to his own ears.
“I am quite clever with numbers. Occasionally, Papa still brings me the books to look over when they don’t balance. I understand contracts and negotiations and — hmm… let me see, oh yes, I am an excellent dancer.”
At that, he laughed. “Ah yes, as I was witness to the other night.”
She pouted at him. She really was something of a flirt. And then, after blinking a few times, her eyes dropped. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. “I hadn’t danced since the wedding.”
Considering why she hadn’t danced, Stephen nodded solemnly. “If your papa were here right now, what do you think he would tell you to do?”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“Profoundly,” he said. “In your situation, what advice would he give you?”
“My papa,” she began cautiously, “would tell me that if I really wanted out of this marriage, I could find a way. He would tell me,” she continued with growing conviction, “that I would probably have to make some sacrifices… nonetheless… if I truly wanted to be free of Flavion. My papa would remind me that I always have choices.”
Stephen raised his eyebrows at this, although it didn’t surprise him to hear that Thomas Findlay would teach his daughter thusly. The man himself had beaten all odds by raising himself to phenomenal wealth and power.
“What would your choices be?” He enjoyed watching her think, which was odd, because in the past he’d been annoyed by women who took it upon themselves to think.
“I could resign myself to my predicament and make the most of being a countess. I’m certain this is what Flave would wish me to do… and I could use my money and position to punish those who did not give me respect or I could remove to the country and ignore them all or I could remain a victim and continue allowing those who disapprove of me to dictate my attitude.”
“All valid options,” Stephen said.
“Or…”
Uh, oh. The tone of her voice warned him as to something outrageous. Stephen did not like outrageous. He preferred normal and proper and methodical.
“…I could do something that would force Flavion to divorce me. Something so horrendous his pride would not allow him to stay married to me.”
Oh, hell. She faced him full on now. In her eyes, her face lit up with an excitement he hadn’t seen there before. It concerned him, and yet his heart lifted at her sudden animation.
“There would be a considerable price to pay if you were to become a divorced woman. Have you considered what all it would include?” He tried to sound stern but found himself instead noticing that her lips looked plump and inviting when she pouted.
“Of course I have.” She pushed her bottom lip out even farther.
“And?”
“It is my opinion that the benefits outweigh the other consequences.” She smiled weakly before speaking again. “We are talking about the same thing, aren’t we?”
“Cuckholding your husband?”
The minx blushed. “Well, not in truth.” She rushed to get the words out. “But if he thought he had been cuckolded, and the whole of the ton thought the same thing, then there is a good chance, don’t you think, that he would divorce me?”
Stephen turned and fell backward onto the concrete bench. Lying on his back, he found himself looking straight up into the sky. Unconsciously, his mind began noting the various constellations. He’d done a lot of sailing, even captained his own ship for a while, and a clear sky such as tonight’s was generally very soothing. Bending his knees, he lifted his booted feet, planted them on the end of the bench and sighed. Even the stars could not soothe him tonight.
And then she was kneeling beside him, imploring. “You did say you would help me.”
“I know.” He wanted to help her get out of her marriage, but at the cost of his relationship with Flavion? What was that relationship worth, anyhow? He was beginning to wonder if Flave’s life could ever be brought to rights. Stephen brought up one arm and laid it across his eyes, blocking her from his view. He wished he could either hate Flave or love him. Why must he feel both?
“Why did you leave before? Why did you leave England?” she asked. It was almost as though she read his mind.
“What does that matter? What does that have to do with any of this?” She could certainly be annoying. He pulled his arm off his face and scowled at her.
“Well…” she said hesitantly. “…you seem to be very… protective of Flavion, and yet you did not return when his father died, at a time when I think he probably needed you most. I think you must have quarreled horribly for you to have left the country for so long.” And then she shrugged, that pretty little shrug of hers that was so unaffected. “I just wondered… that’s all.”
Stephen pulled his arm back up to cover his eyes. She was a pestilence. “Its ancient history,” he said in hopes that she would leave it be.
“I love history,” she responded patiently, her voice sounding closer than it had before.
He lay completely still. A wind rustled through some nearby trees and an owl hooted. He could feel her beside him, kneeling on the ground, patiently waiting for his answer. What woman did that? What woman could remain silent for this long?
“I left after my betrothed jilted me to become Flavion’s countess — which she nearly did — but Flave would not be caught.”
“Oh.”
“I told myself it was because of the title, but I don’t really think it was. Flavion has a certain, je ne se qua, so to speak. He’s always possessed a special charisma. The lady’s romantic soul was caught up by Flavion’s fearless lifestyle… curricle races, fisticuffs, gambling. He was much more exciting than I… She liked him better.” And just when he thought he’d finished telling her all this tripe, he added, “I tried to remain with my uncle… and with Flave, but it grew increasingly uncomfortable. My uncle chose to completely ignore what happened. He told me it was simply the way of the world. The way of our world, anyhow. Flave would someday be the earl. It was my duty to stand by and assist him. Always.”
“How long did it
take before Flavion threw her over?” Yes, she understood Flavion Nottingham, the fifth Earl of Kensington, all too well now.
At this question, Stephen turned his head and looked at her from under his arm. “Barely long enough for me to have left the country.” He grimaced. “My uncle wrote to me and begged me to return. He said he needed me to provide a steady presence for Flavion. He said he realized Flavion was not going to be diligent with the properties. It was my duty to keep ‘the boy’ in check.” He let out a long, pent-up breath. “But I was bitter and angry with both of them. I never wrote back.”
“And when your uncle died, you still did not return,” the countess said.
“Right.”
“And, having ignored your guilt for so long, you think to atone by helping Flavion now.”
“Perhaps.”
She rose from her knees and made to sit down on the bench. Stephen bent his knees further so that she had room, but still, her skirts fell on and around his boots. She turned toward him and rested one of her arms atop his knees. “So you will not do it?”
Her nearness surrounded him. “I have not said that. You are certainly quick to put words in my mouth.”
She began drawing invisible circles on his knee with one of her fingers. Stephen had to force himself to think. This plan of hers, in reality, was quite innocent. The repercussions were not. He was not even certain it would work. If Flavion’s lack of affection for his wife was anything to go by.
And yet, Flave would not appreciate being made to look a fool before all the ton.
“But you have given yourself the task of watching out for Flavion, of protecting him.” Was she now attempting to talk him out of helping her?
“Perhaps that includes watching out for Flavion’s wife, protecting her,” he said quietly. And then he sat up, putting one foot down on each side of the bench, straddling it and facing her. He reached up a hand and gently tugged at a wayward curl. “I have the feeling that if I do not assist you with this plan, then you will find some poor devil who will. And I prefer to have at least a modicum of control where you are concerned.”
Hell Hath No Fury (Devilish Debutantes Book 1) Page 8