What a Lady Demands (23 page)

Cecelia smiled. “But I haven’t. If Anstruther chooses to prosecute him for the loss of his ring, I imagine Mr. Eversham will become more closely acquainted with Tyburn Hill than he’d like. That is merely justice, and I’ll be satisfied. And now…” She cast a telling glance at Battencliffe, who stood to one side. “As long as we’re putting the past aside, I believe you have something to say to Mr. Battencliffe.”

Lind glared at her for a moment or two before swaying on the spot. The color drained from his face. A man like Lind would want to remain standing for such a pronouncement as he was about to make, but his leg clearly would no longer support him. “I? I do not owe him the least explanation when he allied himself with such scum.”

Cecelia moved to his side and lent him her shoulder. “He believed Eversham.” She had learned to lie from the best, after all. “He’s not the first to do so, nor will he be the last. Battencliffe was only waiting for a chance to free me, and he did come to your aid.”

Lind leaned his weight against her, and she nodded encouragement.

“I owe you thanks for that much.” He glanced at Battencliffe. “It looks as if you’ve saved my life. And God knows you didn’t have to. I appreciate the gesture, though, because I suddenly find myself in the position of having something to live for.”

Battencliffe stared at him, expressionless. “More than your old grudges, you mean.”

“Yes, well, about that.” Lind reached into his topcoat and pulled out a fistful of bits of paper. Vowels, if Cecelia didn’t miss her guess. “Boff brought these back from London. Here.”

Battencliffe raised his brows. “What are these?”

“Your accumulated debts. I’ve acquired them all, enough to send you to debtor’s prison.” He held out his hand. “Here. Take them.”
Quickly and get this over with so I don’t have to see you again.
That last bit hung unvoiced in the heavy air.

Battencliffe stared at the papers in Lind’s hand while the silence stretched. Somewhere off in the trees, a mockingbird gave its raucous cry. Closer by, a horse shifted restively.

“Well?” Lind prodded. His jaw was set in finely chiseled lines of tension. While he may have a voiced appreciation for Battencliffe’s help, he wanted the other man gone from his estate. That much was clear.

Battencliffe put out a hand and shoved the papers back at Lind. “Keep them,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know how or when, but I’ll pay them back, every one.”

Without another word, he stalked off through the trees, leaving Lind staring after him.

Lind stared at the flames on the grate as they twisted and turned against the blackness of the hearth, slowly licking their way through a thick log. His thigh throbbed in time with the fire’s dance, in time with the beat of his pulse. God, he’d been mad trying to stand on his leg after taking a fall and a man’s weight on him, but the urge to protect Cecelia, to leap to her defense, had originated somewhere deep inside, way down in his gut. Completely undeniable.

She hadn’t needed him, though, had she? A part of him felt a little hollow at the thought, but pride filled a greater measure. He
had
given her a gift in allowing her to choose her means of revenge.

He set his glass of brandy aside and cupped his hands about his thigh muscle. His fingers dug in and his muscles screamed in protest. Neither alcohol nor touch dulled the pain. Soon, he’d have to grit his teeth and ask for a dose of laudanum.

You know what you really want. You want her hands on you.

God, he did. Her touch, her lips, her body, her entire being.

If only he could convince her he was worthy. Good Lord, he wasn’t even certain of that any longer. He wasn’t certain of anything.

The door to his study drifted open. As if his thoughts had summoned her, Cecelia stood on the threshold, hands folded before her. “I was wondering if I might come in.”

“Of course.” He attempted to straighten himself in his seat. Her stance and the odd shyness in her gaze struck deep within somewhere in the region of his heart. “Is anything amiss?”

What an idiotic question. After all that had happened today, just about everything was amiss.

“At some point, you’ll need to have a talk with Jeremy. He overheard Mr. Battencliffe…” She trailed off, but he knew what she was getting at.

It was a conversation he’d hoped never to have with the boy, one he certainly didn’t
want
. To hear such news at his age; he might only barely understand. Good Lord, what a mess.

“If you thought I might be of help,” she added.

“You don’t think we need to explain the situation at this very moment, do you?” How odd to even be having this discussion with Cecelia. How utterly domestic. The notion triggered an odd pang in his chest.

When he’d offered her marriage, he hadn’t considered the little day-to-day details. He hadn’t stopped to think of her role as Jeremy’s mother—even if she had stepped into that role from her first day here.

No, you were thinking of protecting her, and mostly you were thinking with your cock.

“Perhaps not now,” she said, “but soon. He’s already started asking questions, and I can put him off only so long.”

Lind scrubbed a hand over his face. The reminder of Jeremy’s parentage set his thoughts along a different path. “That’s twice now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

At his gesture, she advanced into the room and closed the door behind her.

“Battencliffe. That’s twice he’s saved my life.”

“Twice?”

“The first time I can understand. We were young and stupid and got into a fight we ought to have avoided.”

“You were still friends then.” She said it cautiously, clearly expecting him to lash out in response, but somehow his anger had drained out of him during the course of the day.

“You’d think, afterward…You’d think he’d have thrown that in my face once things fell apart between us.” He rubbed at his temples. Trying to work out the whys and wherefores made his head ache. “But he never did. And now he refuses to take back the vowels I offered him. All that debt forgiven, and he walked away.”

“Perhaps it’s a question of pride, or perhaps punishment.” She approached his desk and leaned one shapely hip on it. “He wants the thought to eat at you. You owe your life now.”

“Twice over,” Lind muttered, “as I said. I’ll tell you about it another time, but he did save me once before according to your brother.”

Cecelia nodded. “I think he means the vowels as a reminder.”

“God, typical. It always was some competition or other with him.” Somehow the specter of Lydia rose in the back of his mind. Yes, that, too, had been a competition between them. One he’d won—or so he’d thought. But had he, truly? “However, I can take part of that away from him.”

Ignoring the pain in his leg, he leaned over the hearth. With one hand he dug the sheaf of vowels from his jacket. One by one, he fed each paper into the fire, watching as they curled into ash.

While he was at it, Cecelia padded up close and laid a hand on his shoulder, her fingers tightening about the curve of muscle. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how badly he’d been longing for her touch, yet that innocent gesture burned through him the way the flames were consuming the bits of paper—not with lust, but with the purity of her affection.

How long have you lived this sterile existence? How long have you yearned after a little affection?
Her words to him drifted through his mind. Forever, it seemed. Until she’d reentered his life, he hadn’t realized the true depths of his need, a need that ran past the physical.

“I’m proud of you for setting this behind you,” she murmured, leaning down to rest her cheek against the top of his head. It was the closest thing to an embrace she could manage in their current position, and he drank in the scent of orange water that lingered about her, and let the perfume fill him along with her encouragement.

When she pulled away, he set his hand over hers to keep it in place. “I’m not quite sure what I’ll do with myself now.”

The admission surprised him, but no more than the understanding of how much room his grudge had taken. And maybe there had been something to what Sanford said about doing himself more harm than Battencliffe.

“But you’ve all this.” Her arm swept out in a gesture that encompassed the study, yet he knew what she really meant. His lands. His estate. His tenants. “You’ve the future. You’ve Jeremy…You have me.”

Her voice caught on the last, and somehow that tiny hesitation pierced him through more thoroughly than any projectile the war had thrown at him.

He reached for her, somehow succeeding, despite his hurts, to pull her about until she faced him. He caught both her hands in his. “I do. I have a woman who once told me she was broken, but that’s not true anymore. You’ve healed.”

Her lips stretched into a tremulous smile. “So can you. I want you to. I want you as whole as you can be.”

He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. “I need to tell you. I’ve decided about Lydia.”

Her mouth opened and closed, and he felt her hands slip in his fingers.

He tightened his grip. “I plan to ask Mrs. Carstairs to see about taking Lydia’s things from her bedchamber. I’ve a new wife now, and she’ll want to claim her quarters.”

The ease with which those words slipped past his lips surprised him. At one time, they’d have been unthinkable, the worst betrayal imaginable of his wife’s memory. But he’d said his last goodbyes that morning, hadn’t he?

“You don’t have to do it all at once, you know. And if you’d like to keep a memento or two…” She smiled. “Just perhaps not her ball gowns. In fact, we wouldn’t have to start on her bedchamber at once. I’ve a few ideas for the public rooms in this house.”

He drew a breath. Life with Cecelia promised to be a continual surprise. “What’s wrong with the public rooms?”

“You don’t think they’re rather dreary?”

His protest died on his lips, replaced by a single thought. If Cecelia was talking about such mundane things as the décor, it meant only one thing: She was staying. Whatever odd pang he’d felt earlier in his gut exploded. It filled him, the sensation light and buoyant. The way his chest expanded, he half expected to choke, but somehow it only freed him.

He hadn’t experienced anything akin to this emotion since Lydia had accepted his offer of marriage. But no, this was different. With Lydia the feeling had been driven by a sense of triumph. This was far deeper. So deep it filled him to bursting.

He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, first one hand then the other. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he rasped.

Her gaze snagged on his. Caught. Held. Her brown eyes were large and luminous in the firelight. “Don’t thank me. Just love me.” The muscles in her throat rippled as she swallowed. “We both need it.”

“I do, I do—oh, God, I do. I love you.” Where was this coming from? It felt like a dam had burst inside him. He raised his hands to frame her face, to draw her down to him. To set his lips to hers. “For your strength.” A kiss. “For your pride.” Another kiss. “For your defiance.”

Before he could draw her deeper, she pulled back, a smile stretching her full lips. “My defiance?”

Something tugged at the corners of his mouth, a strange, unaccustomed sensation. It might have been an answering smile. “You constantly challenge me to be better than I am. It drives me mad, but it’s somehow endearing.”

Her fingers enlaced at the back of his neck, and she rested her forehead against his. “That’s very good, my lord, because I suspect I can’t make myself stop.”

He stared into her eyes, waiting, hoping, yearning to hear the words Lydia had never said to him. Not straight out. He’d always had to ask.

Do you love me?

Of course, my lord.

Never more than that. It was time to stop denying the truth and face the woman who stood before him, solid and steadfast, offering him what he’d needed all these years.

“Do you have anything you want to say to me?” he prompted. Damn his heart for pounding against his ribs so hard. It felt like a sledgehammer.

“You drive me mad, as well.” Her grin was pure evil. How could she tease him at a time like this? “Mad with your rigidity. Mad with desire. But mostly mad with love. I am very much afraid you are stuck with me.”

“That’s good. That’s very good. Because I have plans for you.” And he drew her into a kiss.

When Mrs. Carstairs knocked on the door some hours later, she let out a loud harrumph, shook her head, and took herself off.

A
MONTH LATER

The morning sun peeked through a crack in the curtains, an unwelcome reminder it would soon be time for Lind to rise and see to his affairs. His estate waited, and perhaps he’d oversee Jeremy’s riding lesson later. But not just yet. He pulled his wife closer, her soft curves molding to his body, her legs tangled with his. He breathed in the scent of orange water and woman that lingered about her, letting the perfume infuse him with a sense of peace. His lips strayed to the tangle of dark hair at the top of her head.

She’d shared his bed since the first time they made love, Lydia’s old chamber still lay unused, and he wouldn’t have things any other way. The day would come when Cecelia would turn her attentions to those apartments, and he was more than happy to allow her free rein. Whatever she wanted, as long as she continued to spend her nights with him.

“…and I believe we could paper the morning room in something cream-colored with sky-blue accents. But naturally the furniture would be of darker upholstery to make it easier on the servants. What do you think?”

“Whatever you’d like.” He’d been making variations on that reply for the past month.

She planted her palms on his chest, and pushed herself up, so she could look him in the eye. Her naked breasts swayed temptingly. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Of course I have. What do you take me for?”

“You are a very poor liar. Did you know that?”

Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to her face. “Would you prefer the truth? I have no earthly idea what the difference is between sky blue and peacock and whatever other color you might name.” He paused to plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. “It does not matter to me, as long as you’re content.”

She frowned slightly. “As much as you dislike the prospect, you’re going to have to discuss domestic matters with me from time to time. You realize Jeremy needs a new governess, don’t you?”

Cecelia had continued to oversee Jeremy’s lessons more or less since their wedding, and he seemed to be thriving. Faced with the promise of riding over the estate with Lind, the boy had taken to his pony, as well. Regan had him working at sitting the trot.

But even Lind was aware Cecelia couldn’t continue to teach Jeremy while fulfilling her responsibilities as Lind’s wife. She saw to those duties as regularly as possible, even if it did give his housekeeper fits to find the door to his study locked in the middle of the afternoon.

“I thought I’d leave that choice up to you.”

“Wonderful, because I know just the person.” Her smile broadened into something mischievous. “I’ll write to her straightaway and see if she wishes to return.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Why, Miss Crump, of course. Jeremy and I wrote to her ages ago, and we received a reply yesterday. One, I might add, that indicates she still hasn’t found a suitable position elsewhere.”

“Miss Crump…Miss Crump…” He sifted through his memory, but there had been so many, a veritable parade of young ladies who somehow never managed to measure up.

“Three governesses ago, I believe Jeremy said, but she made quite an impression on him.”

Something clicked in his mind. “Isn’t she the one who hired that charlatan? What was his name? The one who claimed to show military history and couldn’t even set the troops in proper order?”

“Professor Treacher?”

“That’s the one. Treacher the teacher. Perhaps he should have gone into the ministry. Then he could be Treacher the preacher.”

“My lord, can it be?” Her lips parted before stretching into a smile. And then she made the most incongruous of sounds—a giggle. “You made a joke.”

He couldn’t stop his answering grin. “I won’t make a habit of it.”

“You ought to.”

“Why, when I’d rather make a habit of this instead?” He covered her mouth with his, and it was a long time before she could formulate any kind of coherent reply.