A Gentleman's Daughter: Her Choice (19 page)

He watched Cecilia at dinner; to see her so downcast was almost worse than watching her flirt with other men, though either made him feel as though someone strangled him with the cloak of propriety he wore. And still she was so beautiful, her hair dark against her rosy face, her features slightly girlish, her figure the perfection of woman. He stared after her as she left with the other ladies to change for the dance. He must speak with Mr. Wilcox.

This conversation brought no satisfaction on either side. Mr. Wilcox, as was his younger brother Captain Wilcox, was an amiable but astute man, a man of considerable resolve when warmed to his cause, which at the moment was his daughter.

“I have made myself clear, sir,” Mr. Wilcox said as they stood facing each other in his study. “I do not appreciate your repeated entreaties to speak with my daughter alone. My brother will arrive soon. I would like to discuss the matter with him, as I have also told you. However, I am ill inclined to assent to your proposal when I see how unlike herself my daughter has been, as well as your propensity for arguing with each other. I begin to agree with my wife that she will need a husband who will rein in her behavior, not encourage her.”

“I am sorry I have proven a disappointment, sir,” Mr. Thornhill said, barely able to keep his temper; his hands strained against his gloves. If he were home, he would go outside, walking, feeling the cool night air on himself. Of course, were he at home, he would not be in such a foul mood. Still, he would not be himself. He had not been since meeting Cecilia. Or perhaps she made him too much himself, the self he had tried to deny.

“I do understand your predicament, but I must protect my daughter above all, however much sympathy I may feel for anyone else.”

“Can you still give me some hope?”

“Yes, I suppose, though as things stand, I believe it will be some months before she is ready to become engaged,” Mr. Wilcox said. Mr. Thornhill clenched his jaw, unable to respond.

“Very well,” he said finally in a strangled voice. Mr. Wilcox bowed.

Mr. Thornhill left the room and strode upstairs. Surely he would go mad. Some months. From the last two months, he was already in a rage of jealousy and doubt. He must speak to Cecilia.

Chapter Eighteen

“
T
hank you, Tilly,” Cecilia said, dismissing the doe-eyed young maid. She could not be more than sixteen, but she did have a talent with Cecilia’s hair. Coiled in back with loose ringlets framing her face, gold braid woven throughout contrasted and doubled the sunny hues in her chestnut hair. She wore again the beautiful new white muslin gown she had the night Mr. Thornhill proposed. Perhaps by some good fortune, her father would relent and approve their engagement. She hopped up at a knock, hopeful. But only Felicity entered, bold in a thin Indian muslin gown of bright red, a deep leaf pattern along the hem, pointed scarlet slippers poking from beneath.

“I have come to fetch you down,” Felicity said. “We shall make an entrance, Snow White and Rose Red.”

Cecilia laughed. “Jane wrote to me of your fondness for the German tales. Is not Snow White the quiet, demure one? Do you imply something?”

“No, you are proper enough.”

“No one else thinks so.”

“I suppose you mean Mr. Thornhill. Humph. Has he even kissed you yet?”

“Felicity! We are not engaged.” Cecilia placed her hands on her cheeks, but her hands were as hot as every other inch of her.

Felicity chuckled and rolled her eyes. “So? Do you say you have never been kissed?”

“Have you?”

“Oh yes.” Felicity danced a wild-armed jig around the floor. “Well?” She stopped and peered at Cecilia, who sat on her hands at the edge of her bed.

“Mr. Mainmount and Mr. Cateret both kissed me, but I wish they hadn’t.”

“Why? Were they unskilled?”

“It was not unpleasant, but it has not made things easy with Mr. Thornhill.” Cecilia could not face her cousin, wondering how many men Felicity had embraced.

“Ah, he knows?” She scuffed before her.

Cecilia nodded and brushed her hand across her throat.

“All the more reason he should kiss you. Something must be wrong with him. I would not want such a man.”

Cecilia stood. “And you cannot have him.”

“You begin to bore me. Let us see how the others fare.” Felicity held out her arm like the most polite gentleman and bowed.

Cecilia giggled. “Forward girl.”

“You sound like your mama.”

Cecilia tweaked her cousin’s ear and ran out before the gesture could be returned.

Still traipsing down the stairs at too fast a pace, Cecilia was again caught by Mr. Hookham.

“You ought try not to be so easily ensnared,” he said as Felicity ambled up behind them. “Unless you enjoy it, of course.” His smile held a wicked tinge and he commandeered her down the stairs.

Mr. Thornhill paced at the bottom, eyes blazing when he saw them. He strode away, toward the drawing room. Laughter and chatter drifted around Cecilia. She tried to remove her arm from Mr. Hookham’s grasp, but he pulled her arm under his and held out his other for Felicity, who took it.

“I will be the envy of every man here, with you two on my arms.”

“Do not count on us. We intend to make the rounds,” Felicity said.

Mr. Hookham’s laughter shook Cecilia. “I hope I may have a dance apiece.”

They both assented as they entered the drawing room, which had been transformed for the dance. The doors to the adjacent reception room were open, all furniture and carpets either removed or pushed against the wall, musicians stationed in the far corner by the pianoforte, candelabras glowing from near every available surface. A cool breeze swayed in from the open French doors, which led to the sloping lawn, dark and shadowy beyond, the trees looming tall and indistinct before the hazy sky.

Dazed, Cecilia rounded the room with Mr. Hookham. Felicity had deserted her to join Mr. Drake and Miss Taylor. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor sat near them with Mrs. Partridge while Polly and Wil stood by the doors with the Fordhams, conversing in the easy way they had together. Cecilia’s parents laughed with Mr. and Mrs. Hookham and old Mr. Farnham, while Miss Hookham sat in a far corner with the Misses Neville, her dark head between their two bobbing light ringlets. Jane smiled in the attention of Mr. Allenby and Mr. Holden while her parents looked on contentedly. Cecilia’s throat tightened further upon glimpsing the last grouping: Mr. Thornhill flanked by Miss Jenner, in a white lace-encrusted ball gown, a pearl cross dangling from her slender throat, and Mrs. Carter, also in white, but cut in a revealing, intriguing fashion, with Oriental gold filigree along the neckline and low back. The music began.

“May I?” Mr. Hookham asked. Cecilia nodded.

Mr. Hookham was silent, concentrating on his steps. Cecilia could not have spoken in any case, seeing Mr. Thornhill in a set with first Miss Jenner and then Mrs. Carter. Still, Cecilia danced every dance, berating herself for hoping Mr. Thornhill would claim her. Wil led her from the floor after their dance. She asked him to leave her by the far sofa, where Miss Hookham had been sitting earlier. The corner was more quiet, as most of the guests crowded into the drawing room end of the space. Cecilia clasped her hands and closed her eyes, weary with the party.

“May I join you?” Mr. Thornhill’s unmistakable deep voice asked.

Opening her eyes, she tingled as if waking from a deep sleep but managed to nod. His blue dress coat was dark against the lighter tone of the cushions, and his eyes, all clear waters. She balanced on the edge, wishing to plunge in. He smiled as Cecilia looked at him, a tiny crease between her sparkling eyes.

“I had hoped…” she said, stopping to glance at the others. Her parents and the Hookhams drifted closer. She lowered her voice further. “I find it is difficult to speak of what I would.”

“Yes.” Mr. Thornhill leaned over to her, whispering near her ear. His scent, sharp as oak leaves yet soothing as fresh waters, entrapped her. “Can you not meet me? There must be somewhere we might be alone.”

“I shall try, but the last time…” Cecilia faltered.

“Last time?” he hissed. “You have tried to meet someone secretly before. Ah, I should have guessed, Mr. Cateret.”

“Please, do not misunderstand.”

“I understand all too well, thank you,” he said, standing and bowing.

Cecilia grabbed his hand. “Please wait. Please sit.” She kept her voice low. He did not move. “I did not meet him. I did not understand his intentions. He has been our friend so long. I never thought to mistrust him. Please.”

“May I have this dance,” he said in his usual tone. Her parents were quite close.

She rose and hooked her arm in his, smoothing her gloves.

“The library,” he whispered. Warm waters surrounded her, pushing away all thought, only the silken lingering heat remained.

“Yes, you may have the next as well,” she said when they passed her parents.

The country dance left no opportunity to speak, but Cecilia hoped he understood to meet her during the next set.

She left him at the door, first making sure none saw her, and ran down the hall into the darkened library. She stood by the long drapes, ready to hide lest the wrong person should happen into the room. A few moments later, the door opened but Cecilia heard the rustle of a gown and stepped behind the curtains. Soon after, Mr. Thornhill’s sure steps entered, the door clicked behind him.

“Greyton,” Mrs. Carter’s smooth, cool voice said.

“Are you alone?” Mr. Thornhill said.

“As you see. I had hoped to speak with you--”

“I said all I had to say in London. Why have you chosen to defy me?”

“You do not rule me. Is that not what entices you?”

Cecilia’s hands closed around the curtains, her face nearly smothered in their thick folds.

“You remember how it was between us--”

Cecilia’s ears rushed. So Mr. Thornhill and Mrs. Carter had known each other before. Cecilia wished she had never gone to London, never discovered such affairs existed.

“How you betrayed me with another?” Mr. Thornhill’s voice sounded calm, almost disgusted.

Mrs. Carter sighed. “You did not make our exclusivity known.”

“It is implied for any decent woman.”

“Any decent woman would not be found in your bed lest she was your wife. It did not seem to bother you at the time. As I recall, you took great pleasure in repeatedly being of service.” Mrs. Carter laughed, low and throaty.

Cecilia labored to breathe. Her head buzzed, dizzy and dim.

“I have no use for you.”

“You shall if you marry such a girl as Miss Jenner or Miss Wilcox. They will not be able to satisfy.”

“Get out of my sight,” Mr. Thornhill said.

Cecilia sucked in a breath, afraid the noise would uncover her.

“Very well, Greyton. Perhaps I will return to London tomorrow. You know where to find me--”

“Get out.” His words cut into Mrs. Carter’s, a sharp blade which also sliced Cecilia’s composure to shreds.

The door pulled shut. Mr. Thornhill sighed. “Cecilia?”

She stumbled out from her shroud.

“I am sorry you heard that.” He moved toward her, extending his arms as if to catch her.

“I am not.” Her voice choked, only then did she realize her cheeks were streaked with tears.

He reached out and caressed her face. “It was all well before we met.” He encircled her in his arms. “I love only you.”

“I love you,” she whispered. “I long for you.” She leaned into his embrace, so strong and sure.

“And I you,” he said, his voice deep. He kissed her, his lips caressing, then capturing. Cecilia’s legs wobbled, weak as a newborn colt’s, and she leant herself into his chest for support and to hide her pleasure in his embrace.
What have I to hide from him?
She gazed up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck; he kissed her again before pulling away.

“Now, Cecilia, no more sir shall it be. Will you not call me by my given name?” he asked, smiling down on her. She settled into his arms, which enclosed her as if they had been ordered for the purpose, snug and tailored as the best garment.

“Yes, of course, Greyton,” Cecilia said. “Though Wil would warn you against it, for I may be apt to forget propriety and address you so around others.” She grinned playfully.

“I will take my chances, though I would thank you to remember I have a reputation to uphold,” he responded in kind.

“What, as the lion of politeness, defender of innocence against impudent young pups?” Cecilia said with mock grandiosity.

“Yes, Miss Impertinence, so be on guard lest I should devour you.”

Cecilia blushed and gazed up at him again. Now the hungry look in his eyes invigorated her; she cared for nothing but that he should be near.

“I should go,” he said, unmoving.

“Please, do not leave me,” she whispered. He caressed her cheek and drew her closer to him. As he kissed her again, her thoughts were obliterated; she only knew his warmth and strength. He would keep her safe and loved. His lips teased her neck and she let out a small sigh.

“Yes, Jane, I am certain the book is here,” Wil said, opening the door, a bright candle in hand.

Cecilia ducked her head into the crook of Mr. Thornhill’s shoulder.

“Sir, kindly step away from my sister. You are not engaged.”

“She shall be my wife,” Mr. Thornhill said. Cecilia gazed at him. Her body grew pleasantly heavy. He still supported her.

“I do not like your tone. Jane, please fetch my father.”

“No, please, Wil,” Cecilia said. She tumbled toward her brother. Mr. Thornhill caught her and took her arm, steadying her. “We have done nothing wrong. Please do not tell Papa. He will not understand.”

“Nor should he.” Wil’s brow crumpled.

“Surely there is an innocent explanation,” Jane said. “My cousin knows better than to behave improperly. And Mr. Thornhill seems a gentleman.”

“Please, brother,” Cecilia said.

“Very well, but I do not like it. I make no promises. Jane, I will find the book for Mr. Holden. Please walk with Cecilia and Mr. Thornhill back to the drawing room.”

Jane nodded and waited while Mr. Thornhill and Cecilia passed into the hall. Once in the crowded room, Jane rejoined Mr. Holden.

“There is more I must tell you,” Mr. Thornhill said. Her father approached. “Come to my room tonight, love,” he whispered.

Cecilia inclined her head and met his eyes, affirming her answer in her steady gaze. “Thank you for the dance, sir.”

Mr. Thornhill bowed and moved away.

“Child, are you well?” her father said.

“Quite,” she said. Never had she been weaker. But she did not care.

***

At the stroke of midnight, Cecilia got up, dressing herself as best she could. She had slept in little stretches, never hearing a sound. Taking a deep breath, she went to her door, turning the knob. Someone had locked it again and she had never found the key. She took a hairpin, pushing it into the lock, but it did not click; she had not thought it would. Sinking to the floor, she let the tears flow now, the tears she had suppressed since Mr. Thornhill left her side. She shook, despairing at their parting, the unsaid, unknown words. They must be of vast import for him to break his usual strident adherence to propriety.