Miss Goodhue Lives for a Night (9 page)

9

T
he drive back to Berkeley Square was as quiet as the drive to the ball. More so, because Cee was not tapping her foot nervously or pushing back the curtains to peek at London passing by. Theo tread as gingerly as he could, sitting perched forward on the seat, his entire body tensed. Waiting. But she sat still, her eyes on her hands in her lap, the city rolling past unwatched.

“You should be happy,” he said gently. “You were right.”

She didn't answer, didn't look up from her hands.

“You found your cousin married and happy, just like you hoped they would be. Like you said they would be, even when I scoffed at it,” he said. “I doubted that you would ever find them. But you did, in less than a day.”

“I'm a fool,” she said quietly.

“No. Never. Hoping for the best doesn't make you a fool.”

“Not that,” she said. “I was a fool to think that I could write a better ending this time.”

“But your cousin
does
have a better ending,” Theo replied. Then, with a smile, “Although I have no doubt she'll be annoyed by her husband's penchant for saccharine overtures soon enough.”

“But I don't.” Her eyes came up. “My ending remains the same. I'm foolhardy and impetuous, and the only time my family talks about me I am a cautionary tale.”

“Damn them all,” he said. But she shook her head.

“I wanted . . . I wanted to prove that what I went through was worth something, at least. But it's not . . . if I had stayed home even one more day, no doubt the entire journey would have been canceled.”

She folded into herself. Retreating back into a person he didn't know, into a shell she had been living in for the past decade. And he knew he couldn't let her do that—because it was likely Cee—his Cee—wouldn't come back out again.

“And that would have been a tragedy,” he said. “What about me, Cee? You not only found your cousin today . . . you found me.” He leaned forward, gently lifted her chin and forced her eyes to his. “I was as lost as your cousin, even if I refused to see it. You woke me up.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said, her eyes becoming watery.

“It does. We both spent so long not knowing what really happened, and I could kill my uncle for his lies. And I could kill myself for believing them.”

“But you did believe them. And so did I. So knowing better now . . . it can't change our mistake. And our mistake has made us what we are. A bachelor with his life ahead of him, and a silly spinster with her life wasted.”

The carriage rolled to a stop before he could reply. They were back in Berkeley Square. And the driver had come down, opening the door and handing Cecilia down before Theo could think of a reply.

No . . . not think of a reply. He knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab her and not let her go. But he couldn't say that. Not while she thought everything about them was a lie.

“Cee,” he called out, stepping out of the carriage. “It wasn't a mistake.”

She paused, turning.

“Our running away together. It wasn't a mistake. It was how we felt about each other.”

She just looked at him and gave him a sad sort of smile. “It was good to see you, Theo.”

And she slipped quietly inside.

Theo stood there, on the street in front of Lord Ashby's townhouse, for he didn't know how long. It could have been seconds. It could have been hours. But night did not relent. It was as if he was stuck in time.

He
was
stuck in time. He was stuck in that inn, ten years ago. He was stuck watching what he thought was Cecilia walking away from him. And he did nothing about it. He let it happen.

He'd be damned if he let that happen again.

“Sir?” the driver said, still holding the door of the carriage open. “Is there someplace you'd like to go?”

“Yes,” Theo said under his breath. “There is.”

CECILIA SLIPPED INTO
the bedroom she had been given use of. A lamp had been left burning for her, and a banked fire kept the room warm, but luckily no ladies' maid was waiting up for her. And just as luckily, the house had gone quiet in the short hours that she had been gone, Lord and Lady Ashby—and presumably the baby—having retired for the evening.

Cecilia was relieved by it. She didn't know if she could handle seeing anyone just then. She could not say the banal things they would want to hear, describing the ball, or describing finding Eleanor, when this weight had settled against her chest, making her tired and sad.

She wanted to sleep, but she knew she wouldn't. She wanted to erase this day and wake up back in her little bed in Helmsley. She wanted to forget today, and still treasure every difficult moment of it.

Mostly, she wanted to not have the company of her own mind. Underneath her dull exhaustion, it was running constantly. Asking herself questions over and over again, hoping to get a different answer.

What have you been up to?
Her cousin had posed the question, looking at her with wide eyes, alight with the thrill of gossip to take back to the family, about its blackest sheep. And what
had
she been up to? Had she really come to London full of hope and carrying tasks and errands from her friends to find her cousin? Or was it to escape her own little exile, if just for a moment? Were her motives as pure as she stated them to be? At the beginning of the day she would have said of course they were, absolutely rejecting otherwise. But then, first thing, she saw Theo.

And everything changed. Everything focused on a different, long-forgotten point.

What about Theo?
her mind asked of her. He'd posed the question first. Telling her that she had woken him up.

He had spent the last decade as guarded as she. She'd spent it with guards on the outside. Her family's opinion, her sister's protection. But he'd worn his guards on the inside. Becoming quiet. Direct. Going through life alone.

Neither of them was allowed to forget. But secretly, neither of them wished to.

Oh God . . . had she done the right thing? Her hand clutched at the clasp of her cloak, caught in the decision of whether or not to take it off. Mere minutes ago, when she walked away from him, she had been so tired, so lost. She only wanted to be alone. To wear the weight of her mistakes again like a familiar robe. But that feeling . . . it didn't feel like it fit correctly anymore.

Before she could decide whether or not to take her cloak off and stay inside, or run out into the street chasing after a carriage that must long since be gone, the decision was made for her.

Creeaaaakkk—Crash!
“Oof!” was the sound that came from behind the draperies.

She muffled a scream, grabbing a fireplace poker. A large something—or someone—was trapped behind the drapes, struggling to get free.

“What the hell . . .” the definitely-someone said, and she lowered her poker, knowing just who that someone was.

“Theo?” she said, taking a half step forward (and still holding the poker—she wasn't a complete idiot).

“Yes, it's . . . hold on.” He worked his way out of the draperies, revealing an open window and a slightly damaged window frame behind him. He jerked down his coat and ran a quick hand over his hair.

Then he noticed just what he had tripped over.

“What is all this stuff?” he said, examining the piles of crates stacked in odd places throughout the room. “Did Ashby put you up in a storeroom?”

“No—that's mine. Sort of. It's tea.”

“Tea?”

“And those are bolts of fabric.”

“Well, then,” he said, straightening again. And turning to face her.

“You . . . You climbed in through my window,” she said, blinking. “How did you even know it was mine?”

“It's the only one with a lamp burning,” he said. “I took an educated guess. Which I'm very glad turned out to be correct, because if this had been Lord Ashby's room I don't wonder that Henry, Smithson, and Rowe would lose a valuable client.”

“But . . . we're on the second floor.”

“Columns. Drainpipe. There was a loose brick that provided a decent foothold,” he answered, coming forward. “I did this better when we were younger. Do you remember?”

“When you came to my window and we stole away in the night?” she said, letting a small smile play on her lips. “Of course I remember. You were very dashing.”

“I was very twenty and very nimble,” he grumbled. “Er, would you like to put the fireplace poker down?”

“Oh! Sorry.” Cecilia dropped the poker, and it clattered to the floor so loudly she jumped.

But even without the poker, every nerve ending was sparking with electricity.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” she asked when she found her voice.

“I was wrong before,” he said, taking a step forward. She found her feet unable to move—advance, retreat, she didn't know which way they would have chosen to go, so they stayed right where they were. “Minutes ago, downstairs. I did make a mistake, ten years ago.”

Something spiraled down in her stomach. Hope turning to lead. “Yes, we did.”

“Not,
we
, Cee. Me. I made the mistake. I made it in not believing in you.”

She found his eyes. Waited. Afraid to speak.

“I left you there, because I could not believe someone like you could love me. Could want me. I was too young and too willing to be cynical. My uncle played his part, yes, but it wouldn't have worked if I hadn't been so unsure—not of you, but of me.

“I never had the unconditional love that you gave. I had parents who sent me to school as soon as they were able. I was used to playing a bit of mischief to get people's attention. You were just a constant force and I could not comprehend it. Not then. But after a decade without it, I know its worth.”

As he spoke he took another step forward. Then another. Soon he was directly in front of her, able to reach down and take her hand in his.

“I loved you then, but I let other people dictate my happiness. And that's what you're doing now, Cee.”

“No, I'm not,” she said, but her voice was small and unconvincing.

“You let the way everyone else thinks of you tell you who you are. And that is keeping you from seeing how truly amazing and brave you are.” His hand moved up to her waist, his forehead came to meet hers. “No one else would have come after her cousin. No one else would have been able to build a life for herself out of the scraps of others'. And no one else would have been able to sit across from me all day and put her chin up and still believe in hope.”

She leaned into him, her back curving against his hand. She tentatively reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“You still haven't answered my question,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

He gave a slow exhale, and Cecilia realized he was nervous. “You know that mistake I made all those years ago?”

She nodded.

“I'm here to rectify it.”

His lips came down to meet hers, and she drank him in eagerly. Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he could hear it. She wanted this so very much. And until that moment—until he had appeared tangled up in her curtains, disheveled and risking everything—she hadn't been sure enough to allow herself the delicious joy of wanting.

She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her whole body against him. He wrapped his arms all the way around her, lifting her off her feet.

His mouth danced against hers, then her eyes, her temples, her hair.

“I love you,” he whispered against his ear.

“I love you too,” she replied, hiding her smile in his neck.

He pulled back, looked her in the eyes. “So you'll say yes, then?”

“Yes?” she asked, dazed. “To what?”

“Eloping, of course.”

She blinked. “Eloping?”

“We only made it part of the way to Gretna Green last time. This time, there won't be anyone to stop us.” He grinned, and growled, “This time I'm not letting go.”