The Waylaid Heart (12 page)

She opened her mouth, then shut it, damming ill-considered words. She scowled at him, her temples throbbing. With a curt goodnight and a swish of her skirts, she left the room.

"I think we may join our guests now," said the Duchess of Houghton the next evening on hearing ten chimes from the ornate Louis XIV clock. "Any stragglers after this hour don't deserve to be received properly."

"Bar the door, I say," grumbled the duke. He stretched and put a hand against the small of his back and groaned. Muttering oaths under his breath, he straightened and offered his wife and Cecilia an arm to lead them into the Great Hall. "I suppose you'll want to dance," the duke groused to his wife.

"Of course, my dear, and so will Cecilia."

The duke scowled sourly. Cecilia was quick to deny her grandmother's words.

"Nonsense, dear. This ball is as much for you as for our enjoyment. More so, actually. You never had the opportunity of a London season before you married. That has always been a great disappointment to me. Now, at least, we can see that you take your rightful place in the ton," said the duchess, smiling and nodding regally to people they passed. "Houghton will be de-lighted to dance with you, won't you, dear?"

"Your grandmother has the right of it. We're agreed to seeing you well established again."

"But not among Randolph's sort!" The duchess's words were sharp and edged with anger, though outwardly she continued smiling.

Cecilia wondered how she did it. But that was just one of many things that dogged her mind so the thought was fleeting.
There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked
, she thought ruefully.

Last evening she stayed awake long into the night, staring into blackness. She had finally achieved her desire for friendship among Randolph's cronies, and what did she do? Ran like a startled rabbit. Oh, she argued long and hard with herself about the unnaturalness of their attentions; but truthfully, sincere or false should have made no matter if she was intent upon, and genuinely believed in, her goal.

Self-doubts and fears came crowding in upon her. What was she trying to accomplish? Solve a murder? Find a way to start living after the lethargy she fell into following Mr. Waddley's death? Or, perhaps just find a way to start living her own life. It was true Mr. Waddley had been a kind husband, a good man, and that he always insisted on the finest in everything for her. She was doing this honorable man's memory a great disservice to suggest he'd been anything less than an ideal husband. For all that, she felt he regarded her as more of a precious object to be kept locked in a glass case than a flesh-and-blood woman. The few times she tried to tell him how she felt he only laughed and chucked her under her chin. He declared that's exactly what she was, his most valuable possession.

Dear man, he meant well, he just never understood. Now the glass case was open. Unfortunately the doll that had been placed so long inside no longer knew what she wanted. If she did move to the country to live a retiring life, might she not be trading one glass case for another?

Perhaps that was why Branstoke so easily upset her. He sensed her dichotomy of commitment. He knew her uncertainties and played upon them.

But that didn't explain why she reacted strongly to him. Or why last evening she instinctively looked to him for help. She found him often in her thoughts. Memories of what he said or did, or sometimes just a look, or a smile would leap into her mind pushing everything else aside. It didn't make sense! She could not be attracted to him.. She had to stay out of his presence. She couldn't think straight with him around. Worse, sometimes she didn't know if she wanted to.

There he was, standing just outside the circle of gentlemen surrounding Miss Cresswell. The crooked smile on his lips attested to his knowledge that he could walk into the circle and wrest Miss Cresswell's attention from her court at any time he chose. Cecilia hated and envied that knowledge.

His head turned, and she found herself trapped, drugged, by his somnambulant gaze. His eyebrows rose and he cocked his head in wry salute before he let her gaze free though he continued to observe her.

Cecilia hurriedly turned her head away and looked about the Great Hall. The room was packed with a glittering array of the cream of London society. The ball might as well have occurred in London for half of London was present. All day long carriages arrived at Oastley Hall discharging guests who would stay over the night for the ball. Many current guests were required to change rooms or double with another to make more rooms available. Cecilia heard the local inns were full and that anyone with a home within carriage distance found themselves visited by friends attending the ball.

She wondered how Miss Amblethorp was faring. She looked about the room for Janine, hoping to see her dancing. She should have known better. She was seated near the dowagers. Cecilia made her way through the press of people to her side.

"Come, Janine, take a turn about the room with me," she invited.

"It will serve no purpose," Janine said, rising from her chair.

Cecilia did not pretend to misunderstand her. "Oh, fustian. You don't know that. And consider it a way to assuage Lady Amblethorp."

Janine smiled reluctantly.

"Excellent! Now, what shall we discuss? Shall we be two cats and discuss those we do not like until their reputations are in shreds, or shall we—" She broke off, staring across the room.

Randolph Haukstrom, talking to someone near the carved wood screen at the end of the hall, angrily tugged a ring off his little finger and dropped it in his pocket. Taking the stairs up to the minstrels' gallery two at a time, he ducked out the narrow door at the top. It led, Cecilia knew, to the long gallery.

Quickly she followed him, weaving through the crowd like a willow wisp, unheeding of Janine's gasp. Branstoke could scarcely keep track of Cecilia as she made her way across the room. He had to pin his sights on the white-blond hair massed high on her head. He followed her, moving with fluid, unhurried grace.

"Do not be offended, Miss Amblethorp. It's just a bad habit," he said as he passed that young woman. He gave her hand a squeeze, but his eyes never left the top of Cecilia's head.

Holding her ivory net and silk skirts high, Cecilia scurried up the stairs after her brother. By the minstrels' door that led to the gallery, she paused, carefully opening it. The gallery was deserted. She quietly entered, straining to listen for any sounds. Long dark shadows cloaked the end of the gallery, and patches of blackness shadowed areas between glittering candelabra. She crept down the long carpeted expanse of gallery. Hearing a faint murmur of voices coming from the direction of the blue withdrawing room, she tiptoed to the door.

"It was an oversight!"

It was Randolph, but the answering voice was too indistinct for her to hear. When Randolph spoke again, his voice was softer and Cecilia couldn't make out his words distinctly. She edged closer to the door. Her toe caught the leg of one of the Chippendale chairs, knocking it gently against the paneling. It made a small, but distinct
click
Panicked at the slight sound, she jumped away, colliding violently with a chair at the other side of the door. It clattered loudly against the wall.

"Hush, you fool! Someone's out there!"

Frantic, she backed from the door. Suddenly strong hands grasped her shoulders, propelling her ungently around, and a hard, masculine mouth came down on hers.

Branstoke!

Shock robbed her of strength. His sensuous kiss swirled her senses, prolonging her lassitude. She savored the heat that rose up within her, the musky masculine scent of the man, and the searing pressure of his lips on hers. Her arms drifted to his shoulders to entwine his neck.

"E'gad, Cecilia!"

Cecilia jumped, breaking the kiss. She spun away from Branstoke, her chest heaving. Her lips tingled and a delicate flush gave way to a crimson tide.

"Damn it, what the hell are you doing?" demanded Randolph, his fists planted on his hips and his face taking on a dangerously choleric hue.

"I would have thought that rather obvious," drawled Sir Branstoke, casually straightening his coat. "And if you will kindly turn around and go back into that room, I will continue in that most pleasurable occupation which you so rudely interrupted."

"The hell, you say! I've a mind to call you out, Branstoke."

"Oh, stop the theatrics, Randolph," snapped Cecilia, her arms crossed over her breasts, her delicate pointed chin leading. Her breathing was fast and her eyes glittered with a feverish intensity. She kept her eyes fixed on her brother, not daring to look in Sir Branstoke's direction. What had she been thinking? She returned his kiss! No, more than returned it. She welcomed it and drank from his lips like her thirst would never end!

She was so embarrassed. How could she speak, let alone look at Sir Branstoke again? His kiss had been a brilliant ruse to save her from a more embarrassing, and perhaps even dangerous situation. Like some giddy, foolish schoolgirl she gave herself up to his kiss. What must he think of her? Her cheeks flamed anew at the thought.

"Dash it all, Cecilia," protested Randolph, shifting from one foot to the other, "you've no more feathers than a downy chick. Branstoke's got a reputation, y'know."

"If he has, I'd wager it's a dashed sight better than yours!"

Randolph went rigid and flushed, his lips protruding in an ugly pout. "I'm still your brother and I've an eye to your reputation!"

"If you were so concerned about my reputation, you would not have married me off to Mr. Waddley! Your concerns consisted of yourself and your pocketbook. Do not preach filial af-fection to me, dear brother, for it won't wash." Cecilia's slight frame trembled with years of suppressed anger. Her voice shook in a strident key, but she kept herself in hand, and it did not rise in volume.

"You ungrateful wretch. I saved your life!" her brother stormed.

Cecilia gasped. "What effrontery! But I know it to be merely another of your silly acts. I am five and twenty, Randolph, not some shy sixteen-year-old you can manipulate by declaring pauperism a fate worse than death. Legally I am my own woman with a fortune to command. I do not need you or anyone else in my life. There has been too much management of me for too many years and I'm tired of it. I won't have it, do you hear me?"

Standing a step behind her, Branstoke applauded. His instincts regarding the little widow were proving delightfully accurate.

Cecilia whirled around, aghast. She'd nearly forgotten his presence. Now he was gazing at her and smiling that enigmatic smile that never failed to send shivers through her. She felt warmth rise in her cheeks. Flustered, she turned to glare at her brother again. "Oh, leave it be, Randolph. I am getting another of my plaguey headaches," she said petulantly. She massaged a temple and irritably wondered how she could have been so lost to her surroundings and so caught up in her mystery that she failed to hear Branstoke approach. She knew she should be thankful to him, but remnants of the heat that coursed through her from his kiss reminded her of her own forward behavior.

"A glass of Madeira," suggested Branstoke.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"What you need at the moment is a soothing glass of Madeira." He looked at Randolph through the veil of his lashes. "Shall we see you downstairs, Haukstrom?"

"What? Oh, yes, in a bit."

"Until then," Branstoke said blandly. He offered Cecilia his arm.

She hesitated a moment, then gratefully accepted it. They turned to walk down the gallery, leaving. Randolph to stare angrily after them.

"That headache of yours," Branstoke said conversationally as he held another door open at the end of the gallery. It led to the Great Chamber which was mercifully empty at the moment. "It is probably due to an irritation of nerves. I believe you did one time say you were particularly susceptible to that disorder? Rather that resorting to some medicinal draught prescribed for you by Dr. Thornbridge—mind, I am not impinging on the man's learned judgment—my suggested remedy is a little Madeira and a little dancing. I have a theory," he explained stolidly, "that such disorders are better cured by relaxation and frivolity. I would like the opportunity to test my hypothesis."

"Really, Sir Branstoke," laughingly protested Cecilia.

He stopped and turned her to face him "The other day you addressed me as Sir James," he gently reminded her

She stopped, her smile dimming, and a wariness haunted her eyes. "I did?" The words came out on a mere breath. The hammering of her heart was louder in her own ears. She looked up at him, trying to read the meaning of his words in his face, and half afraid to try.

Sir James looked at her calmly, a slight, encouraging smile on his lips. There was no sensual need or banked flames burning in his eyes. "I am no Borgia, my dear. You are troubled, I know, though I cannot begin to imagine what could bedevil your gentle soul. But as I think I've told you before, I am willing—nay, wanting to help you battle your dragons."

His quiet words brought a sheen of tears to Cecilia's eyes and an unaccountable lump to her throat. "I—I thank you for your concern, but it is best you stand away from me, sir, and do not get involved."

He seized on her words. "Then I am correct, there is something bothering you."

She sighed and looked about her, anywhere but at him. She stared for a moment at a painted cherub on the ceiling. "Yes," she admitted, and felt a great weight lift from her chest. "But that is all I will say. Please, don't plague me with questions."

"I'll agree, only under the condition you promise to call on me if you need help."

She smiled wanly at him; a flicker of her energies returning. "I promise. Now, I suggest we rejoin the ball. We have both been absent much too long and that is bound to cause talk. What will Miss Cresswell think?" she asked teasingly.

"Hang Miss Cresswell."