Secret Valentine (4 page)

It could serve as a reminder that people
actually bought her cards. She gathered her supplies purchased the
day before and headed to her workshop under the eaves. She needed
to keep up with the growing demand.

* * *

Late in the day a noise out of the ordinary
brought her out of her work stupor. She had spent the last hour
copying verses from her poetry books onto the cards she had
assembled all morning. She shook her cramped hand. The scented ink
was starting to make her head ache.

She capped the bottle and scattered sand over
the last of the words she penned.

As she descended the stairs, she heard the
front door open and close several times. By the time she reached
the ground floor, Devin was leading the even more bent and stooped
Mrs. Marsh into the front hall.

"I don't know what business you have sending
for me again. I should have stayed home, instead of being rattled
all about the country in that bone-setting carriage." Mrs. Marsh
punched her cane against the floor as if to punctuate her
statement.

Cecelia knew that was a lie. Mrs. Marsh would
do about anything Devin asked, but her more gnarled condition
startled Cecelia.

"I wouldn't have sent for you at all, if Miss
Clemmons would quit chasing off her companions." Devin rolled his
eyes in Cecelia's direction, while supporting the woman and leading
her across the floor in mincing steps.

Cecelia reached for the drawing room door,
since the butler and footman were engaged in carrying in band-boxes
and valises.

"What's wrong with you, gel?" Mrs. Marsh
turned her still bright gaze in Cecelia's direction. "Why aren't
you married?"

"She's refusing perfectly sensible
offers."

Mrs. Marsh cocked her head ever so slightly.
No doubt her curiosity was piqued.

"How many offers have you gotten, child?"

"No sensible ones," Cecelia answered, taking
Mrs. Marsh's other arm, before Devin drug her across the room.

"See now, I'm just going to have to marry her
myself."

If she were a dozen years younger, Cecelia
would have stuck her tongue out at him. She settled for a scalding
look which he met with a carefree smile.

"Yes, you should and leave an old woman to
her fire."

"Shall I help you with your bonnet?" asked
Cecelia as she helped Mrs. Marsh into Devin's favorite chair. She
undid the strings, wondering how Mrs. Marsh had managed to get the
bonnet on at all with her arthritic hands.

The old woman nodded. "Don't stand there
gawking, boy. Fetch me a lap robe."

Devin stepped to the door to issue the
command.

Mrs. Marsh sighed as she settled into the
armchair.

Cecelia took the bonnet to hand over to
Barnes. She stopped near Devin.

"Was she this bad last time?" whispered
Devin.

Cecelia shook her head. "Where have you put
her?" She whispered too.

"She needs to be in the room next to
yours."

"That's three flights of stairs, Devin. She
can't handle

that. We'll need to make up a room on the
ground floor. The library—"

"Not the library." He frowned and glanced at
the older woman.

"The breakfast room, then."

He nodded reluctantly. "It'll be warmer there
above the kitchen."

"Quit whispering about me and come sit down,"
said Mrs. Marsh.

"I shall just order tea," said Cecelia. She
put her hand on Devin's sleeve. In a low aside, she said, "I'll get
the servants started on rearranging the furniture."

His heat of his hand seared through hers, and
he nodded. Cecelia snatched her hand out of the sandwich between
his arm and hand, surprised that his touch affected her so much.
What made it worse was she had initiated the contact.

"Well hurry, gel. All that traveling in the
cold has made me quite stiff."

It wasn't really Mrs. Marsh's urging that had
Cecelia hurrying from the room.

When Devin went to find Cecelia an hour
later. He was told she was in her attic. He told one of the maids
to fetch her while he went to see how the menservants had faired
with converting the breakfast room to a bedroom.

He joined two footmen in wrestling the wool
under-mattress from upstairs through the door. When he sensed
Cecelia behind him, he said, "What is it you do in the attic all
day?"

"Boil toads and lizards."

He spun around, yet not really surprised by
the answer. "That would explain the black, then. You are practicing
witchcraft."

One of the footmen gasped and started to
cross himself.

"It's all a hum. She doesn't want to tell me
what she does up there."

"Actually, I was rearranging things so the
breakfast table might be stored there." She turned toward the two
footmen and pointed at the table now leaned on its side against the
wall. "If you would be so kind as to take it up there and put it in
the attic room I use."

The two men heaved the heavy piece of
furniture up and bumped their way out of the room.

"Use the main stairs," called Cecelia after
them. "When they don't see any cauldrons, will they be
reassured?"

"No, they'll just think you affected their
vision with a magic spell."

She sighed. "I suppose I shall have to show
them."

"What
do
you do up there?"

Cecelia shrugged, "I haven't come by any
toads in weeks, and the lizards are far too dear to waste with
boiling."

She would show the footmen, but she wouldn't
tell him. "Is it anything I should be worried about?"

She flushed and shook her head. "No."

He stepped closer to her. He wanted to tell
her he wouldn't belittle whatever it was she did. She was such a
bluestocking, he suspected she might be penning a manuscript. If
that was what it was, he would like to see it, when she was ready.
"Just harmless white magic?" He brushed a stray hair from her
cheek. "Love potions and the like?"

She flushed more, and he wanted to lean
closer, sample the heat in her skin with his lips. Aunt Marsh on
the ground floor, would not be enough protection for his ward.

"Something quite like that." Her voice had
grown breathy.

She felt the pull of attraction, too. He knew
she did.

She didn't have a book to hide behind, and
her spectacles, for once, were nowhere near her face. But he knew
better than to overplay his hand with a naive female. That she was
under his guardianship made any impropriety on his part that much
worse. He dropped his hand to his side.

She turned away and grabbed the last chair to
remove from the room. "Is Mrs. Marsh all right?"

"She fell asleep after drinking her tea." He
stepped over and took the chair from her. "I'll get that."

"Barnes is breaking down the bed in the
mistress's room to bring downstairs."

Devin winced and wished that she hadn't
mentioned beds, let alone that his mind leaped ahead to the
realization that she would have to share his bed if the other bed
in the master suite was removed—if they married, and he had every
reason to think they would. It only required his campaign of
valentines and gifts to be successful.

"I thought it would be more comfortable, and
they wouldn't have to carry it so far."

"That's fine." He croaked out. He set the
chair down out in the passageway and turned to find Cecelia's
liquid brown eyes trained on him. "You know, I thought witches had
to be ugly."

"Plain will do."

"Then you, most definitely, are not a
witch."

He continued on to the stairs to pack several
bags. His plan to return home to sleep was not workable. Mrs. Marsh
was not an adequate chaperone to circumvent the mad thought that
kept spinning in his head; that if he well and truly compromised
his stubborn ward, she would be forced to marry him.

* * *

Cecelia stared at the retreating back of her
guardian. Had he just given her a compliment?

No. Of course not. It was far too offhand to
mean anything. Well other than he didn't think she was plain. Or
that as her guardian, he should bolster her confidence.

As the servants trickled back into the room,
carrying pieces of the spare bed from the master suite, she
directed the positioning and reassembling of the bed.

When the room was arranged satisfactorily and
the fire lit and a maid assigned the duties of assisting Mrs.
Marsh, Cecelia headed back to the morning room, which would
probably function as the drawing room for the duration of Mrs.
Marsh's stay.

Devin descended the stairs. His valet behind
him carried two valises, which he parked by the door. Then the man
disappeared into the back of the house.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Back to the Grillon's hotel, until my
solicitor can find me some other lodging," Devin pulled on calfskin
gloves.

"Why?"

He gave her a wry look.

"Just because Mrs. Marsh isn't lodged on the
same floor as I am, doesn't mean she isn't adequate
supervision."

"Oh, and if I decide to seduce you on the
floor of the morning room, will she wake up long enough to dissuade
me?"

Cecelia took a step back. Her senses went
into double time. Her heart pounded madly. "Don't be silly. It's
not as if you would do something like that with me."

He took a step towards her. "Wouldn't I?"

No, he wouldn't. If he'd truly wanted to
seduce her, he had had plenty of opportunity in the past year. He
had never really given a thought to her as a woman before he'd come
up with the absurd idea to marry her. He wouldn't be acting this
way now if there wasn't something else amiss.

"You're mad as hops, aren't you?"

He stared at her. "Quite. Cross as crabs. Not
fit company for a lady. Forgive me, Cecelia. I shouldn't have said
that."

She wouldn't have minded so much that he said
it, if he had only meant that he wanted to seduce her. But he had
only meant to shock her into not arguing.

He turned toward the front door and said, "I
shall be back in time for supper."

"I'll make sure Barnes knows."

He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob.
"When did she get so old?"

So he was upset by the deteriorated condition
of Mrs. Marsh. Truth to tell, Cecelia had been a little shocked
herself, but not surprised. She had been through the same thing
with her father. Mrs. Marsh was quite stricken in years.

She moved across the hall and put her hand on
his shoulder. "It's good that she is here now, and we can see to
her comfort."

He leaned his head against the door. His
voice was flat. "You mean in her last days."

"She isn't on death's doorstep yet, but she
won't live forever." Cecelia wished she could give him more
comfort, but the truth was Mrs. Marsh was of an age where she might
live a dozen more years or meet her maker next week. She squeezed
his shoulder. "You should not let her see how very distressed you
are. It should only serve to make her feel badly."

He turned and pulled her against him. Her
breasts encountered the solid wall of his chest. Crushing her
against him, his arms folded around her, solid bars against her
back. Her nose squashed against his shoulder, she couldn't help but
breathe in the scent of him, warm, musk, linen and leather.

"I know. I'm not the type to wear my heart on
my sleeve."

Hearing his voice above her ear and pushed
against him so tight she could feel each breath he drew, she felt
awkward. His hold on her relaxed and became an embrace she could
slip away from any moment. She wanted to escape the odd tingling
sensation that invaded her breasts. Yet, she wanted to give Devin
the comfort he craved.

Slowly she moved her hand around his shoulder
and raised her other hand to join them together behind his neck.
She wanted to slip her fingers into his golden curls and pull his
head down toward hers. To what purpose—she had no idea.

His hold changed again. He slid his gloved
hand across her shoulders down to fit into the small of her back
and splayed out his fingers. He dipped his head down, his cheek
resting against her hair.

Tension simmered under the surface. She could
feel it under her fingertips as she pressed them against the rigid
muscles on either side of his spine. Was she doing this wrong? Hugs
were meant to soothe, yet her breathing quickened in cadence. His
too.

Emotions swept through her in a windstorm
frenzy. She wanted this embrace to be different. That he would see
through her to the desperate knowledge that she didn't even know
how to offer comfort pounded at her. She shifted against him. He
grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away.

He stared at her.

Cecelia could have slunk to the ground in
mortification. Her chest heaved, and his gaze dropped. What had she
given away in that embrace? Had she confirmed that she was just as
smitten as every young miss that had thrown her cap in his
direction at his tiniest encouragement? How had this gone so
wrong?

He slowly leaned toward her, narrowing the
space between their faces.

The door opened behind them, and the rush of
cold February air was like a glass of cold water thrown in her
face. She stepped back so quickly she rammed against the bottom
newel post on the stairs.

The smart of pain nearly brought tears to her
eyes. Devin stared at her as if she suddenly sprouted a healthy
witch's wart on her nose.

"The carriage is in front, sir," said Barnes.
"Shall I have these bags taken out?"

"Please." He gave a tiny shake of his
head.

His eyes were so intensely blue that it hurt
Cecelia to look at them. Where were her spectacles when she needed
them?

He spun around and stamped out the door.

Cecelia grabbed the balustrade to steady her
weak knees. What had she done?