Chapter Twenty
The knocker had barely thudded against its plate when the door was opened by a tall, cadaverous-looking man who did not blink an eye at the spectacle of two young women on his master’s doorstep.
“Do not let me out of your sight, Susan,” Cecilia whispered as the man disappeared to inform his lordship that he had a visitor.
Following orders to the letter, Susan took a seat in the hall outside the library, to which the butler conducted her mistress.
“Lady Cecilia, what a delightful surprise—and one that I hope will often be repeated, now that our acquaintance is to be on much more, ah,
intimate
terms.” Lord Melmouth rose from his desk and came forward to bow low over Cecilia’s hand as she entered the room. His bottle-green coat was exquisitely cut, but the buttons were just a trifle too large for true elegance, and the yellow pantaloons a shade too colorful.
These were the most fleeting of impressions, however, for it was his face that gave Cecilia the deepest pause. Pale blue eyes, bloodshot from late nights at the gaming table, and a complexion lined with dissipation and of an unhealthy tint that betrayed a lifetime of self-indulgence, did nothing to alleviate her dismay.
His smile—self-satisfied and with a hint of the predator about it—only made matters worse. “And how, pray tell, may I be of service to you? Not that I do not welcome visits from lovely young ladies at any time, but, never having been visited by you before—even though you are to be my wife—I would venture to guess that this is not a social call.”
Cecilia refused the chair he offered her with a graceful flourish, but stood gripping the back instead as she fought to gain control over the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. “My lord, I very much fear that you are laboring under something of a misapprehension.”
Lord Melmouth grinned slyly. “I rather doubt it, my dear, for I am a man whose vast experience in, ah,
worldly
affairs has left me little inclined to have faith or trust in anything; therefore I never count on a thing unless it is an absolute certainty.”
A cold shiver slithered down Cecilia’s spine, but with a supreme effort she managed to remain icily calm. “I understand that my brother owes you a large sum of money.”
Lord Melmouth stroked his chin, eyeing her appreciatively. Not many who found themselves in his power were able to remain as coolly detached as the self-possessed young lady before him. His first impression of Lady Cecilia Manners had been entirely correct: she was indeed a woman of proud and independent spirit. He liked women of spirit—all the more challenging to tame, and all the more thrilling the victory when they finally fell victim to him. Not only was she a woman of spirit, but she was clearly a good deal more clever than her self-indulgent fool of a brother.
“Not
just
a large sum of money,” he replied silkily, “but a debt of honor. There is a vast difference between the two, as you no doubt realize.”
“I have come to repay that debt.”
“Have you now, indeed?” His tone was one of polite interest, but there was no mistaking the cold refusal in his eyes.
Cecilia reached into her reticule, but his voice, cold and mocking, stopped her. “Do not bother, my dear. I doubt that you have enough money even to catch my interest. The entire sum that your brother owes me is truly paltry to me. What does interest me, however, is you. Or to be more precise, what you can give me: an heir whose parentage is beyond reproach.”
Try as she would, Cecilia could not control the look of disgust that flitted across her face.
He laughed when he saw it. “It is difficult to believe, is it not, that, jaded as I am, I find myself longing at this stage in life for someone who will carry on my name—someone to whom I can leave all the worldly goods I have acquired over the years, someone—”
“Never! You may threaten my brother, our family, with dishonor—ruin, if you wish to call it—but you cannot make me do anything I do not wish to do, and you certainly cannot make me marry you!” Cecilia spun on her heel and, without a backward glance, strode from the room her shoulders back and her head held high.
She marched down the stairs and out into the street, trusting that the faithful Susan was following close behind her.
In fact, she did not even pause to draw breath until she had reached North Audley Street. Only then did the red mist of anger that was swirling before her eyes clear enough for her to realize where she was; in a public place, striding along like a mad thing, raising curious glances from passersby.
“Oh my lady.” Gasping for breath, Susan at last caught up with her mistress. “Are you all right? That dreadful man has upset you, but he cannot harm you, can he?” The maid looked anxiously at her mistress, her round, honest face the very picture of distress and concern.
“No, Susan,” Cecilia muttered grimly. “He is not going to harm me. He is not even going to upset me if I can help it. Now you go on home. I must clear my head. I must think, and I cannot do it with you hovering over me. I know you only have my best interests at heart, and I bless you for that, but I need to be alone.”
“But, my lady, you should not be alone. And besides, whatever will people think?”
“I am sure that if my brother and Lord Melmouth were bandying my name about at White’s, my reputation will become so unsavory that it will matter very little what people think. With any luck, it will become so unsavory that marriage to me will be out of the question for a man who longs for a wife of irreproachable lineage who can give him the respectable heir he covets.”
“But, my lady...” Susan caught sight of the determined glint in her mistress’ eye, and the protest died in her throat. “Very well, my lady.” And with only a few worried glances, Susan scuttled off, leaving her mistress to continue on at a more leisurely pace.
With Susan gone, and now that her initial spurt of anger had worn off, Cecilia was suddenly overcome with the effrontery, the sheer disgust of it all. That such a man had even thought of her, a woman he barely knew, in such terms—especially when she had never considered him anything but repulsive—was almost more than she could bear.
Hot tears scalded her eyelids, and for a moment she could not see a thing in front of her. Blinking rapidly, she gulped and tried to clear her field of vision before she continued on her way, but it was already too late, for there in front of her, too close to ignore, was the Earl of Charrington.
“Lady Cecilia!” Anxious eyes swept her face. “My poor girl, whatever is the matter?”
“I... I...”
“Here, come inside.” Sebastian had just been descending the steps of his house when he had caught sight of her. He realized instantly that something unpleasant had happened, for Lady Cecilia Manners was not the sort of person to become upset over a trifling incident.
Grasping her elbow with a steadying hand, he led her inside into the small anteroom off the entrance hall. “Now then, what has occurred to upset you?”
There was nothing for it but to tell him. With his hand warm and comforting under her elbow, his eyes dark with concern for her, Cecilia found herself telling him everything that had just occurred.
He remained silent as she spoke, all his attention fixed on her, but she found his very silence reassuring, and the recounting of her tale strangely calming. He knew her, knew what sort of person she was. He knew what a horrible insult Melmouth’s offer was to her sense of independence and self-reliance. She explained the situation coolly, rationally, not leaving out any of the facts, unpleasant as they were, and no matter how poorly they reflected on her brother.
It was not until she reached the end when she repeated Melmouth’s words,
What does interest me, however, is you. Or to be more precise, what you can give me: an heir,
that she faltered. A wave of indignation and disgust rose up in her. Her lips quivered in spite of her determination to remain calm, and her eyes filled with hot, angry tears. “He ... he would not even look at my money. In fact, I do not think he ever intended to collect the money from me or Neville. The ... the ...” Words failed her.
“My poor girl,” Sebastian whispered as he drew her into his arms, “my poor darling.”
It was too much. Cecilia broke down and sobbed unrestrainedly into his shoulder while he held her in a comforting embrace.
At last her sobs subsided and she was able to catch her breath. Sniffing prosaically, she fished inside her reticule, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed angrily at her tear-soaked lashes. “I beg your pardon. Ordinarily I am not such a watering pot, but when I think of how I struggled all those years to support myself independently so I could remain free to devote myself to my painting, I cannot help being furious at having it all taken away just because, just because ...” Once again, her voice was suspended by tears.
“Cecilia, listen to me.” Sebastian had released her the instant she began hunting for her handkerchief, but now he pulled her back into his arms. “It will not happen. I swear to you that nothing will happen. Believe me.”
He sounded so sure of himself. He looked so solid and reassuring that she wanted to believe him. But she had believed in other men before—her father, even Neville to some degree—and she had been bitterly disappointed every time. “But how?”
He cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up at him, to see the sincerity in his eyes, to hear the conviction in his voice. “Believe me. I promise you. Nothing will happen.”
He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was only meant to prove to her the truth of his words, to seal his promise to her that he would not let any harm come to her or her brother, but suddenly it blossomed into something much more.
As his lips touched hers, all his pent-up feelings for this incredible woman came rushing to the surface—appreciation for her courage, admiration of her talent and her independence, sympathy for her drive to learn and grow and succeed, concern for her happiness ... along with feelings he never knew he possessed—tenderness and an indefinable longing to share everything with her, the woman who had always seemed to be his kindred spirit.
Her mouth was warm and inviting, and he could feel her breath upon his lips, her heart beating against his. He pulled her closer to him, and gave himself up to the longing, forgetting everything else in the world except the heady feeling of holding her in his arms at last.
His hands slid down the curve of her neck, and caressed the delicate softness of her skin. He breathed in the scent of rosewater, and realized that he had been waiting for this moment—longing for this since the day her picture had called out to him from the print shop window in the Strand. From then on she had belonged to him. Since that moment, they had been soul mates.
But he belonged to someone else. Sebastian groaned inwardly and gently, slowly, agonizingly withdrew his lips from hers and set her away from him. “Please, I did not mean... I only meant... I simply want you to know that I care what happens to you, and that I will not let harm befall you.” It sounded impossibly stilted and awkward, but he meant very word of it, with all his heart.
Cecilia smiled tremulously and nodded. “I know.” She raised one gloved hand to touch her lips, as if she had suddenly discovered their existence. She touched his cheek ever so gently. “Thank you. I... I had better go. Susan will wonder what has become of me.” And then, as if she had never been there, as if the magic between them had never happened, she vanished back out into the street.
Chapter Twenty-one
This time, however, instead of striding furiously along, Cecilia seemed to float slowly along a few inches above the ground, unaware that her feet were moving beneath her.
All she could think of, all she could feel was the touch of his lips burning on hers, the warmth of his hands at her waist, the soft caress of his fingers on her cheek, and the reassurance of his arms around her.
But it was more than comfort and reassurance that his kiss had given her. It had evoked a yearning in her that Cecilia had never felt before, a desperate longing to be one with him, to be part of him, to feel as close to him physically as she felt mentally and emotionally—a yearning that could never be satisfied, because he was soon to be married to another woman.
The pain of this simultaneous discovery and loss hit her like a physical blow, bringing Cecilia to a standstill in the middle of Bond Street Fashionable shoppers swirled around her as she struggled to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She had never felt so alive or so at a loss.
All her life, Cecilia had been sure of where she was going and what she wanted. Practically from the moment she had been able to grasp a piece of chalk or a pencil she had wanted to draw, and then to paint. Her father had always encouraged her in this desire, bringing in drawing masters and then artists from the Neapolitan court to teach her and advise her. He took her from palaces to churches to Roman ruins so she could observe and learn from the best examples of artistic endeavor that the world had to offer.
With her pencils and sketchbook or her palette and brushes as her companions, she had never been lonely, never felt at a loss for company or diversion, even though she had never had any schoolmates or friends of her age with which to share her hopes and dreams, her childish secrets. And she had not felt the lack of any of it, for she always had her art. Until now, that is, when suddenly having discovered life’s incredible possibilities—possibilities of which she had been completely ignorant—she felt bereft and at a loss as to how to proceed.
Take hold of yourself, my girl,
she admonished herself severely.
Thousands upon thousands of women are kissed every day without falling into a decline. It was a simple gesture of comfort and nothing more.
But in her heart of hearts, she knew it was more than that—much, much more. It was the distillation of all that she had felt about Sebastian, Earl of Charrington, from the moment she had bumped into him in the vestibule of Somerset House and discovered the passionate man beneath the self-assured financier. They were two of a kind. They were soul mates.