Secret Valentine (10 page)

And there was someone thumping around in the
library. He did not need an intruder on a night where he had to
find Cecelia.

Nearly roaring with impatience he flung open
the library door.

Cecelia jumped back from his desk, flaying
her hands forward to catch something he had startled out of her
grip.

Glass cracked against his desk; then the
remains of the thing thumped on the floor. Fury and relief surged
through him in equal measures, making him shake.

"No," wailed Cecelia. She dropped down on her
knees.

Devin crossed the floor in one leap and
yanked her to her feet. "What are you doing?"

With his hands clamped like manacles around
her upper arms, he tried to relax his grip before he bruised
her.

She raised her startled eyes to his face.
"Are you all right? You're shaking, Devin. Are you ill?" Concern
radiated from her brown eyes. "Do you have an ague?

He wanted to shake her for making him worry;
he wanted to lock her up so she could never escape; he wanted to
devour her whole. Blood raced through his veins with a scorching
fury.

She watched him, concern turning to
confusion. She tentatively reached out a hand and placed her cool
fingertips against his brow. "Devin?"

Fevered. He was fevered with fear and fury,
and a new heat churned underneath and threatened to obliterate all
else. He crushed her to him and buried his nose in her hair. His
fear that she had run away was unfounded. His heart still beat
madly, unwilling to accept the relief he should feel. Shuddering
breaths racked his throat. Her softness against his chest, her
breath against his neck, sent a whole new visceral wave of
awareness throbbing through his body.

He buried one hand in her hair and tugged her
head back. Her lips parted as she watched him with a look crossed
between concern and confusion.

"I shouldn't be here."

She began to reply, but he cut it off,
pressing his lips against hers and plundering her mouth.

He should go gently; but his blood had boiled
his brain, and he was no more capable of restraint than a fire
fueled by kerosene.

He pressed her back against the desk, his
hips thrust against hers. His heart thundered and her taste swirled
on his tongue and invaded his brain.

A tiny voice kept calling him to stop. She
was an innocent. She didn't know how to protect herself. He was
advancing far too quickly. He was going to hurt her. Yet, she was
so soft and supple, her skin velvety and her scent ethereal and
earthy. Her hair was like a caress, and she kissed him back with an
enchanting eagerness that made up for any lack of skill on her
part.

His hand against her ribs, he slowly pushed
upward until he felt the curve of her breast. Her breath spilled
into his with a huff.

He bent over the desk, forcing her back as he
tore open her dressing gown, so only her nightgown lay between his
hands and her body. Brushing his palms over her curves, he wanted
more, so much more. He wanted to touch every inch of her satin
skin; he wanted to taste her breasts; he wanted all she had to
give.

They needed a bed, not the top of his
desk.

His bed was upstairs. Better yet, her bedroom
had a fire in the grate. He yanked her off the desk and started to
sweep Cecelia up to carry her up the stairs, when her gasp cut
through his befuddled senses.

She yanked her foot up and grabbed it with
both hands.

"Cecelia?"

"I think I stepped on broken glass." Tears
filled her eyes, and she averted her head.

He lifted her up and set her on the desk.

Gently he pushed her hands away and pulled
back the unadorned material of her nightgown. He took her slender,
delicately arched foot in his hand and held it up. The inch long
shard of glass was still embedded in the center, near the ball of
her foot. He gingerly gripped it and extracted it.

"The glue is spilling." Blood dripped down
her foot.

"Forget the glue." He whipped off the
kerchief he'd tied around his neck and pressed it against her foot.
"Hold that."

He wheeled around and grabbed the brandy
decanter. He slopped some on his handkerchief. Holding her foot
with one hand, he wiped away the blood, trying to be sure there
weren't any remaining splinters of glass. Her stiffened intake of
breath cut through to the quick.

Christ, his impatience, his near ravishment
of his ward, had caused this.

"The glue—"

"Dammit, Cecelia, you're bleeding. Forget
about the glue."

She bit her lip and stared forlornly at the
puddle of glue on the floor.

What had he almost done? He tugged so her
foot was by the lamp on the far side of the desk and examined the
wound, wiping the oozing blood away. "This is why I can't stay
here."

"Because I spilt the glue?"

He tied his neckerchief around her foot.
"Because if you hadn't stepped on glass, I wouldn't have
stopped."

She stared at him with her velvety brown
eyes. Didn't she understand?

He impatiently picked her up off the desk and
carried her to the library door. He set her down, far away from the
danger of more broken glass. "Go to bed. And lock your door."

She looked back at the desk wistfully.

"Go. Now." He pointed toward the stairs.

"Maybe you should carry me."

He fisted his hands in his hair. No, he
should marry her, before he got so carried away by passion. He had
to anyway; she may still be technically an innocent, but he had
gone way too far. The thought of her breasts under his fingers, the
heady cadence of her breathing, the earnest participation in the
one endless kiss, made his pulse pound.

She took a step back into the room. She
looked past him to the desk as if she would return to the scene of
his transgression and seduce him into repeating it.

His control was about to snap. Earlier he had
been thinking of murdering anyone who seduced her. As her guardian
his sin was ten times worse. It would take so little for him to
totally lose control. "Get. Out. Of. Here."

Her expression faltered, and she turned and
hobbled toward the stairs. He wanted to call out to her and tell
her everything was his fault, but he feared if he opened his mouth,
what would come out would be a plea for her to stay with him, sleep
with him, gift him with her innocence and sate his hunger, and
never, ever leave him.

Using the handrail to pull herself up,
Cecelia gingerly stepped on the side of her foot. The instep
throbbed painfully, but she would have gladly suffered the
discomfort to remain in Devin's arms, but he didn't want her there.
He didn't want her at all. The venom in his voice when he told her
to get out stung much worse than the cut in her foot.

* * *

Aunt Marsh poked him with her cane. "What's
wrong with you boy?"

"This isn't going well."

When Cecelia showed up in the morning room,
on top of being bleary-eyed, she had been armed with a book and her
spectacles. She hadn't met his eyes once. When he'd tried to
discuss what had happened in the library, she had brushed him of
with a don't mention it. She understood it was all a mistake.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong." Perhaps
his only mistake had been in not finishing what he had started.

Cecelia had already disappeared up to her
attic before he had made it home late after spending several hours
wandering around looking for the perfect gift. He'd thought Aunt
Marsh was asleep.

"Don't worry about it. She adores you."

"No, she doesn't."

Aunt Marsh harrumphed.

The door opened and Barnes looked in. "Excuse
me, milord, madam." He shut the door.

What the blue blazes?
Devin shot out
of his chair. He opened the morning room door. "What is happening,
Barnes?"

"Miss Clemmons has a visitor. I've sent a
maid up to fetch her." Barnes walked away as if it were normal for
Cecelia to receive visitors after dark, at—Devin pulled out his
watch—nearly seven-thirty at night.

Cecelia came down the stairs and shot him a
tired look. She went down the stairs through the servants' quarters
and out the kitchen. Devin followed her to the back of the
house.

She walked through the garden to the
servants' and tradesman's gate at the back of the yard by his
stables.

Barnes moved in front of the kitchen door
before Devin made it across the room. "She won't be but a minute,
milord. We keep an eye on her."

He stared out the kitchen windows at his ward
and a man. Devin could see his dark hair and the despicable flash
of the cad's smile in the dim light of the moon and what little
light spilled from the surrounding houses.

Cecelia took the heavy purse from the
shopkeeper. He had told her there was more money than he liked to
keep around in his shop for fear of a robbery.

He reached out and patted her hand. "Only a
couple more days. Then we'll 'ave to think on 'ow to keep our
partnership going." He smiled his slick smile.

Cecelia wished she felt something, but she
didn't. He seemed a nice man, but she didn't believe he really
cared deeply about her. She wanted to say something, but she didn't
want to force him to acknowledge the gifts before he was ready. The
only thing she could think of was, "Thank you."

He touched his forehead. "The pleasure's been
all mine." He nodded toward the house. "Who's the toff watching
you?"

Cecelia turned and saw Devin clearly through
the kitchen window. "My guardian."

"Interesting. Doesn't know who I am, does
he?"

"I shouldn't think so."

"Don't tell him. Does he know you make the
valentines?"

Cecelia shook her head.

"Well, I'm off before he decides to draw my
cork." He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against her cheek.
"Good luck."

The peck startled Cecelia. She put her hand
against her face. The shopkeeper disappeared into the darkness
almost as if he were deliberately avoiding the light.

She still had her hand against her cheek as
she entered the kitchen.

"Who the hell was that?" Devin thundered as
she closed the door.

A scullery maid dropped a bowl, and the
servants in the kitchen stared.

Cecelia was too tired to think of anything
intelligent to say, "The Prince of Darkness."

"As your guardian, I demand to know who that
man was."

"Milord," interjected Barnes.

Cecelia held up her hand. "My business
partner."

"What?"

Cecelia took advantage of Devin's confusion
to cross the room to the stairs leading up to the main part of the
house. "My business partner. If you must know. I've started a
business, and he sells my merchandise."

The servants stared, but they all knew she
made valentines. A couple of the ones she had given the servants
were tacked up on the kitchen walls. One would think Devin might
notice, but then when had he ever entered his own kitchens before
now?

Once she reached the ground floor, Cecelia
ran toward the stairs and up to her room.

"Cecelia!" Devin had started after her, but a
hand on his sleeve made him stop.

"Milord," said Barnes more urgently.

"What, Barnes?" Devin was impatient to be
done with whatever his normally noninterfering butler had to
say.

"There wasn't a delivery for Miss Clemmons
today."

It took a moment for what Barnes said to soak
into his anguished thoughts. "What?"

Devin suddenly became aware of the stares of
his servants. "Come upstairs, Barnes."

In the main hall, Devin was torn between
racing after Cecelia and tearing apart the dressmaker who should
have delivered the valentine and gift today. Better yet would be
pouncing on the man at the back gate and ripping him to shreds.
"Who was he?"

"No one important, milord. A shopkeeper, I
believe."

"What's going on, Barnes?"

"I'm sure Miss Clemmons will confide in you
when she's ready, sir."

"He kissed her."

Barnes gave him a skeptical look. "I'm sure
you're mistaken, milord. About that delivery?"

Devin raked his hands through his hair and
glanced up the stairs. This was not going well. Not going well at
all.

"I'm not sure it makes any difference."

"It absolutely makes a difference,
milord."

"My coat, if you would, Barnes."

* * *

Half afraid that Devin was summoning her
downstairs to discuss this evening's events, Cecelia reluctantly
answered the tap on her bedroom door.

Her maid stood on the other side holding a
large, flat box. "This just came, miss."

Had Mr. Hartley dropped it off after he had
given her the money? Cecelia didn't even know his first name, and
he had just kissed her cheek.

How was she going to get herself out of this
pickle?

"Looks like a dress box."

Cecelia took the box and sat it on her bed.
"You might as well stay and get out my nightclothes."

Staring at the box like it might contain
poisonous snakes, Cecelia chewed her lip. She would have to return
all these gifts to Mr. Hartley or at least reimburse him for the
price. The gloves and bonnet she had worn; the pens, inks, and
paints she had used.

"Open it, do," said the maid.

Cecelia reluctantly loosened the bow and
lifted the lid. She folded back the tissue paper. Wine-colored
satin glistened under the card.

"Oh, how lovely," said the maid.

Cecelia lifted the valentine out and turned
it over; all the while she noticed it was not just material, but a
bodice with a gathered bosom and a fully made dress.

The signature read:

Like a fine wine, you are worth waiting for.

Your Valentine

But the word
waiting
had an odd smear
of ink as if the writer had been anything but willing to wait.