Never Seduce A Scoundrel (10 page)

Read Never Seduce A Scoundrel Online

Authors: Heather Grothaus

BOOK: Never Seduce A Scoundrel
6.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
The blond man stepped forward with a polite clearing of his throat. He thrust forth his right hand. “Lord Bellecote, at last we meet. I have heard much about you.”
Oliver looked down at the man’s hand as if it was a serpent, and then swung his gaze back to Cecily’s expectantly, blatantly ignoring the blond man’s gesture of good will.
The shimmer in her eyes was gone, replaced with a steely sparkle. “Lord Oliver Bellecote, John Grey.”
 
 
Oliver’s eyes bulged, and a terrible choking sound came from his throat as his head swiveled from Cecily’s direction to John’s, and then back again.
“J-John Grey?”
Oliver stuttered, and Cecily was more than a little surprised at the passion that seemed to have possessed him. “
Vicar
John Grey?” He held out his left arm, pointing directly at the man’s face, his forefinger stabbing twice in the air for emphasis. “
This
is the
vicar?
”
Cecily swallowed and managed to nod dumbly. Why did she feel like the guilty party?
“Well, I’m not really a vicar,” John amended humbly, his tone an obvious attempt to rescue her from the awkward display Oliver was presenting. “It’s only a courtesy title from the bishop, actually.”
“Oh, it’s only a courtesy title from the b—” Oliver broke off his snide words and then shook his head abruptly. “You’re not even a
priest?
”
“Oliver!” Joan chastised. “How could you be so rudimentary toward Lady Cecily’s intended?”
To Cecily’s horror, Oliver spun on the pretty blond woman—now his betrothed, she was forced to remind herself.
“Shut. Up.
Joan
. This in no way concerns you.” He looked away for a second and then seemed to think better of it, turning back to the slack-mouthed woman. “And that is
not
how the word
rudimentary
is used!”
Joan’s face reddened and a breathy squawk came from her rounded lips. She fled past them all and disappeared up the stairs.
“Enough!” Sybilla pushed into the center of the little knot they had created, and for the first time in Cecily’s life, she found herself thanking God for her older sister’s brazen wielding of power.
“Lord Bellecote, it must have escaped my notice the amount of wine you consumed this night, for certainly you had no intention of insulting not only an honored guest of Fallstowe and my future brother-in-law, but also your own betrothed.”
“I was led to believe that this man, with whom your sister was spending so much of her time, was a man of God!” Oliver challenged her, pointing once more at John.
“Aren’t we all men of God, Lord Bellecote?” John suggested.
Cecily saw Piers Mallory approach, and he quietly took Alys’s arm and led her from the hall against her struggle and whispered protests.
Sybilla stepped into the space separating Cecily and Oliver, her frosty words were meant for Oliver alone, but Cecily heard her sister clearly.
“Control yourself, Lord Bellecote, I beg you,” she said, and although the words were a calm request, her tone conveyed the sincerity of her demand. “I must see to Lady Joan before she convinces herself that you are so boorish that she must escape Fallstowe to be rid of you!”
“I most desperately hope that she does!” Oliver shouted.
Sybilla spun on her heel to face John. “Vicar, I apologize for leaving you in such poor company. I do hope Lord Bellecote’s atrocious behavior does not reflect too poorly on Fallstowe’s charity, as a whole. Please excuse me.”
And then it was only Cecily, Oliver, and John left in the hall.
Cecily could not hold her tongue any longer. Although the emotions she was feeling at the moment had turned her logic to the mutterings of a lunatic, she would not allow Oliver to slander John Grey.
“Do you dare insinuate concern for my honor with this man?” she accused him. “I spent more time with you when you first came to Fallstowe, Oliver, and you most certainly are neither chaste nor honorable! Where was your concern for me when you were demanding my presence to serve you?”
Oliver looked at her again, and although he no longer shouted, Cecily sensed that his anger had not diminished. Nay, it had multiplied.
“How could you do this?” he accused her, ignoring her questions.
“How could
I
do this?” Cecily shot back. “Why, I have no idea! Perhaps you could ask
your betrothed!
”
John intervened. “Lord Bellecote, I do understand that you and Lady Cecily had a brief ... ah, romantic episode, and so this announcement may be somewhat of a shock to you.”
“A shock?” Oliver shouted on a laugh. “A shock?” He turned to Cecily again. “You leave Fallstowe with no word to me, without anything between the two of us resolved. You’re gone two weeks with a man you led me to believe was an aged old priest.”
“I told you no such thing,” Cecily argued quietly.
“What else was I to think?” Oliver demanded. “And this entire time that you are away—
supposedly
on the pretense of doing God’s holy work,” he added snidely, “you have been cozying up to a title-less dandy, soliciting an offer of marriage!”
“Lord Bellecote,” John said in a low voice. “I warn you, my sympathy for your state has a threshold.”
“I did not solicit anything,” Cecily said. She had to stop Oliver immediately, before any more damage was done to any of the three people now gathered together. “John and I developed a friendship. I value him above any other man,” she said pointedly, ignoring the way her heart squeezed when Oliver flinched.
Oliver took a step back and his chin thrust forward, tilted. “A friendship, eh?”
John drew closer to Cecily’s side, and his hand grasped her elbow. “Lord Bellecote, I am giving up the priesthood in order to marry Cecily. She is an amazing woman, with extraordinary talents unlike any I have ever been privileged to witness.”
Oliver nodded pensively and his eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on Cecily’s face. “Talents. I see. Yes, yes—I see now.” His face swung to look at John. “She gets in your head after you fuck her, doesn’t she?”
Cecily gave a gasping cry of horror, but before she could say anything, John Grey took a single step forward and punched Oliver soundly in the mouth, whipping his head around with a nearly audible cracking of his neck.
Oliver brought his left hand up to cradle his chin for a moment. “Come on with you, then, Vicar,” he challenged him.
John was not intimidated, and in fact, he took another step forward as he pointed a finger in Oliver’s face, while his other hand rested on the hilt of his short sword. “You would do well to remember that I am under no priestly vows, Lord Bellecote, and that you are currently without the use of one of your arms. Should you have anything else to say of a defamatory nature against the woman I am to marry, as God is my faithful witness, I
will
run you through.”
Oliver turned his eyes to Cecily as his hand fell away from his mouth. His upper lip was swollen, his lower lip, split.
“I’m sorry. But I was in love with you, too, Cecily. I was in love with you first, actually.”
Her knees felt watery, her head swam. Perspiration pricked coolly at her hairline. “You’re only saying that now because you can’t have me,” she said quietly. “You never wanted me in this way.”
“I wanted you in whatever way I could have you,” he shot back. “Forgive me for making such a misstep—I’ve never been in love before. Only remember that
you
left
me
.” He turned to John Grey and gave a short, mocking bow. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t attend the ceremony,
Vicar
.”
“You aren’t invited,” John retorted. “I’m sure
you
understand. Good evening, Lord Bellecote.”
Oliver didn’t look at her again as he left the hall, and Cecily was glad for such.
Although when John took her into his arms to comfort her, she could not help but gaze fearfully into the darkness where Oliver had gone, searching the grim shadows, listening to his fading footfalls.

Demo version limitation

Chapter 18
Cecily made her way down the stairs gingerly, touching her temple with the fingers of her hand that was not grasping the stone railing. Her head was pounding, her stomach roiling.
She had stayed in her rooms much later in the morn than was her habit, hoping that the nausea would leave her. After retching unproductively a number of times, she thought that she might at last be safe to emerge. And she thanked God yet again that Alys was the cause of her strange maladies of late.
Cecily was
not
a witch. True, all three of the Foxe sisters possessed some unique and perhaps unexplainable talents. Alys could see a person’s colors; Sybilla ... well, Cecily suspected that Sybilla did quite a number of things that she really had no desire to know the details of. And Cecily had the annoying habit of feeling the sensations of those she loved who were hurt or in danger, much as she had sensed when Alys had been trapped in the forest months ago, cold and in pain. Cecily could at last accept the infrequent feelings, although she would never liken them to something with such sinister connotations as witchcraft. She was simply very close with her sisters. That was all.
Cecily should have known straightaway that Alys was carrying a child. She and Piers had been married for nearly four months now, and from all appearances they seemed quite happy and in love still. A child was the natural progression between them, and Alys was likely still in the early stages of pregnancy, when the sickness and exhaustion lingered for some women. Any day now, the nausea should depart from the youngest—and therefore the middle—Foxe sister.
It could not happen a moment too soon for Cecily. She felt wretched.
John Grey was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, his faintly bemused smile doing little to improve Cecily’s mood. But she gave him the best impression of happiness that she could as she took his proffered arm and let him lead her into the hall.
To Cecily’s unbridled relief there was no sign of Oliver Bellecote or Joan Barleg. Sybilla was also absent, but it was common enough as the eldest Foxe sister rarely had the patience to commune intimately with her household before early afternoon. Only Alys and Piers sat at Sybilla’s long table, and Cecily dared to hope for a moment that this morning would mark the transition to her life as the wife of John Grey. A life completely without Oliver Bellecote.
She forced a wider smile to her lips as she and John approached the dais, and Cecily could clearly see Alys enjoying a platter of whatever food she had been served to break her fast. A hearty appetite in early pregnancy was a good sign. Perhaps the nausea would leave now.
John Grey solicitously handed her up the step. As Cecily made her way to the empty chair next to Alys, her heart leapt and she brought a hand to her chest. There, before her flush-faced and smiling younger sister, was a large platter filled edge to edge with—
“Alys! Is that—?”
“Apple tart?” Alys turned her face and mumbled daintily around a mouthful of the heavenly smelling confection. She swallowed and then beamed up at Cecily. “Why, yes, it most certainly is. I have been craving Cook’s apple tart for weeks now! I’ve dreamed about it—I even wrote a sonnet in honor of this fine, fine creation.”
Cecily could not take her eyes from Alys’s platter as she sightlessly sat down in the chair John Grey pulled away from the table for her. The crags and scallops of fruit and crust ran with thin, white cream.
“Is there”—she swallowed, all traces of nausea and headache gone—“is there any left?”
Alys shoveled another mouthful in and then brought her fingers to her lips while she simultaneously chewed and giggled. She bobbed her head excitedly. After a loud gulp, she said, “It was my express command that there be no fewer than six available at all times while I am visiting.”
Alys turned to wave a hand at a serving boy. Once she had his attention, she pantomimed to her platter and then to Cecily.
Cecily shook out her linen napkin as if in a dream, her eyes on the doorway leading to the kitchens. It took all of her self-control not to push Alys away from the table and attack the tart with her own bare hands.
A pair of servants emerged in what seemed to Cecily like an hour later, each one bearing a tray. The first maid slid a platter of sliced meat and warmed meal before John Grey, and Cecily found herself craning her neck to attempt to see what her own tray held, even as the maid was lowering it onto the table.
A tiny sliver of tart, with a dollop of butter smeared near the rim of the platter.
Alys looked down her nose at the stingy portion and sniffed. “That’s a pity.”
Cecily’s lips thinned and she looked up at the maid with a raised eyebrow. “Bring the rest of it, please,” she said in a low voice. “A pitcher of cream, as well.”
“A pitcher, milady?”
“Yes, a pitcher,” Cecily said in a voice full of forced patience. “It is a receptacle used to contain large quantities of various liquids. I want a
pitcher
. Of
cream
. To go with the
rest of my tart
that you seemed to have forgotten in the kitchen, if it isn’t too much trouble!”
Her dining companions to either side of her were silent, and the maid stared at her for a moment in wide-eyed shock before bobbing a quick curtsy and dashing away once more.
“A single bite of tart,” Cecily muttered crossly to her plate as she picked up the pastry with her left hand and used the knife in her right to smear the entire glob of butter across the glistening apples. “With butter, no less.” She stuffed half the slice into her mouth. She mumbled around the food as she chewed. “Cream with tart. Always cream.”
An abrupt snort of laughter to her left drew Cecily’s attention, and she looked sideways at her younger sister. Alys held her napkin over her mouth and her shoulders shook.
“Why, Cecily,” she said merrily, “you sounded exactly like Sybilla just then!” She leaned toward her and poked a finger at a rather sizeable piece of crust left on the platter. “You missed a bit—may I?”
Cecily stopped chewing. “I should hate to stab you, Alys.”
The youngest Foxe sister collapsed back in her chair, grasping at her stomach she was laughing so hard. A moment later, Cecily joined her.
“I do hope they bring two!” Alys gasped, tears of mirth on her cheeks.
When the maid returned, bearing three whole tarts and two pitchers of cream, the sisters were lost, both collapsing onto the tabletop and shrieking.
Cecily heard Piers Mallory comment to John over their heads, “Sorry, old man. They’ve gone quite mad.”
“Remind me not to have any of the tart,” John quipped. “It obviously induces hysteria.”
“Stop!” Alys begged. “You’re not helping!”
After several moments of hiccupping sighs, the two sisters had managed to regain their composure. Cecily tucked into her proper breakfast, her mouth aching from all the laughter.
Alys wiped at her eyes and scooted her chair closer to the table, attending to refilling her own plate. “I am sorry, Cee, for inflicting this insanity upon you. I had no idea you would be sensitive to my maternal demands.”
Cecily chewed, swallowed—oh, it was heavenly! “Don’t apologize. I do vow, I much prefer this symptom to the others. Infinitely more delicious.”
Alys cut her tart carefully. “True. The sickness was horrid. Thank heavens for the both of us that it was at least brief—come and gone even before Piers and I arrived for the Candlemas feast.” She took a bite.
Cecily’s utensil stopped halfway to her mouth. She turned her head to look at Alys.
“You’re not sick any longer?”
Alys shook her head quickly and shot Cecily a relieved smile. “No. And it lasted scarcely a week, else I’m afraid I would have spent the whole of the feast in the garderobe.”
Cecily looked down at the bite of tart still poised between her platter and her mouth. She lay her utensil down carefully, as her stomach began its now familiar, faint roiling. She stood abruptly.
“Excuse me,” she choked. “I ... I seem to have forgotten something in my chamber.”
John Grey rushed to his feet, his expression one of mild concern. “Shall I accompany you, my lady?”
“No, no,” Cecily rushed, sidestepping awkwardly behind his chair, very aware that three pairs of eyes were trained to her. “I’ll return straightaway. But a moment!” She tried to smile at them as she made her way from the dais and then as quickly as possible down the center aisle of the hall without actually breaking into a run.
Her feet flew up the stairs as her face and neck sprang with perspiration. Her stomach seemed to clench, her throat expanded behind her cavernous-feeling mouth. She gained the top of the entry stairs and stopped.
To the left lay the long flight to the upper corridor; ahead of her, Fallstowe’s massive front doors with their ever-present entry guards watchful for any signal from her. Cecily knew she would never make it to the garderobe or her own chamber.
She rushed toward the double doors, an arm stretched out before her, the fingers of her other hand fluttering over her mouth.
“Open,” she choked.
The guards threw the doors wide and Cecily burst into the cold March air, stumbling into a man standing with his back to the doors. He wore a white shirt and a long broadsword at his hip, and both arms hung at his sides.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” Cecily choked, and staggered away without further thought of him.
Dashing along the stones, she squinted against the bright daylight, which seemed to mock her dread. She could go no farther. She fell to her knees, one palm braced against the keep wall. In moments, her stomach was painfully empty once more.
She realized she was crying as she wiped at her face and mouth with the hem of her gown. She’d have to change now, before she returned to the hall to face her sister and brother-in-law. And John Grey.
Alys’s sickness had come and gone more than a month ago.
Cecily had been wretchedly ill for only the past week. Her last cycle was—she counted silently on her fingers—
January?
Oh, no. No, no, no.
“Cecily,” a voice called to her. “Cecily, are you all right?”
She lifted her face, knowing who it was—who it could only be—before her eyes could confirm the identity of the concerned party.
The man in the white shirt. The man with the sword, whom she had run into upon her hasty exit from the keep. The man who was the reason she was so dreadfully ill. It was ...
 
 
Oliver had dared not venture to the great hall at such an early hour for dread of encountering any of Fallstowe’s inhabitants. So he’d chosen to fritter the time away, making certain yet again that his belongings were properly collected in preparation for his leave of Fallstowe—whenever that might be. He’d taken August’s sword from the wardrobe and laid it on the bed next to his leather bag.
As far back as Oliver could recall, he had never seen August without the weapon strapped to his side. He stared at his brother’s sword—Oliver’s sword now. The wide belt, thick hilt and guard, the blade length proving its intention as a means of death and destruction on a battlefield, but also as a keeper of peace, a mark of a leader, of a lord, of a man.
Besides the usual drunken bravado displayed among mates well into their cups, Oliver had not drawn a sword on anyone in his life. He’d had several drawn on him, of course, and once he’d been chased from a maiden’s bedchamber by an ax-wielding father. But he’d fought no great battles. There had been no cause for him to champion. No one challenged him, for he’d never had any significant spoils to award a worthy victor.
He’d never looked farther into the future than his next conquest, the next feast. His needs were met by Bellemont and his very generous older brother. August, who ruled in their father’s place with pride and dignity, whose honorable hand was known as widely and as well as Oliver’s own scandalous tendencies. August, who’d dared to go after the woman he wanted—the head of the notorious Foxe family, no less—and cared naught for the stir it created amongst his peers, the royal eyebrow it must have raised.
Oliver could imagine the talk about him now, the pity prompted by his recent, careless accident, his unreasonable behavior in regards to Cecily Foxe—the compassionate saint of Fallstowe Castle. Even his confirmation of his inheritance of Bellemont by a merciful and sympathetic king. No one thought him capable of anything, likely. Perhaps even himself.
Oliver suddenly found himself very tired of mercy. Tired of being at the mercy of Fallstowe, at the mercy of his healing body. Tired of being at the mercy of his brother’s memory.
He looked down at his right arm and after a moment, he slipped the sling over his head, peeled it away from beneath his elbow. He crumpled the linen into a wadded ball and threw it to the floor. Then he slowly, gingerly stretched his right arm to its full length.
“Gah!” he cried out, wincing as his muscles, tendons, elbow, creaked and wailed. His fingertips sizzled with invisible lightning. His arm throbbed, but Oliver did not care. It felt good to be free of the sling, to inflict this manner of physical pain upon himself.

Other books

Smoke and Mirrors by Margaret McHeyzer
the Sky-Liners (1967) by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 13
The Sons of Hull by Lindsey Scholl
Anastasia (The Bolton Series Book 1) by Heaven Lyanne Flores
Before Tomorrowland by Jeff Jensen
14 BOOK 2 by J.T. Ellison
Betrayal by Cyndi Goodgame