Chapter Thirteen #2
She tucked her book under her arm and bent down to put on her shoes.
She could not stay at Elizabeth’s for more than one hour.
Mother’s afternoon nap never lasted longer than that, and as market day was tomorrow, Cecelia could not use the chore as an excuse for where she had gone.
Her mother had a suspicious mind—for good reason, Cecelia supposed—but that did not change the fact that she would likely take to following Cecelia if she thought her daughter was doing something that would endanger her return to Society.
And Cecelia needed her friendship with Elizabeth. It kept her sane.
Shoving her quickly freezing feet into her slippers, she jerked upright, grasped her book, and started down the short, stone staircase without gripping the iron railing.
The moment her right foot landed on the second step and the slick ice whipped her forward, she realized her mistake.
She flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to regain her balance, but instead, she managed to lose it altogether.
Her left foot joined her right in sliding out from under her, and before she could even release a scream, her feet—and her book—flew into the air.
She landed hard upon her back, half on the bottom step and half on the walkway.
A burst of air released from her lungs, along with a groan as small dots of black with specks of brightness danced in her vision.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the instant ache in her head, and the thud of rushing footsteps told her she had a witness to her clumsiness and humiliation.
Forcing herself to open her eyes, she pressed her palms against the icy ground and dug her heels in to try to gain purchase, but the result was her body sliding all the way off the bottom step and onto the walkway.
Sitting up, she turned her head to see who was approaching, but the corner of her prized book floating in a puddle caught her attention.
It was the last gift her father had ever given her, and she let out a strangled cry as she attempted to move from her bottom to her knees.
Slipping and sliding on the ice, she managed to reach the book.
She went to pluck it from the water, and it caught on a fallen branch, ripping out several pages of the soggy book.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed on a choked sob.
“Are ye injured, lass?” inquired a concerned male voice with the deepest timbre and smoothest Scottish brogue she’d ever heard.
With her palms stinging from the ice, her knees throbbing against the unforgiving surface, and her heart broken over her ruined book, she could do little more than glance upward, her vision blurry with sudden unshed tears, and say in a strained voice, “My book is ruined. I—” She sniffled and blinked the mortifying tears from her eyes.
She simply had to get control of herself!
“Please forgive me,” she said. “It was the last present my father gave me before he passed.”
With one more good blink, her vision cleared, and her mouth gaped open in shock.
The most exquisitely handsome man was towering over her.
He had a strong jaw and perfectly carved features.
Before she could really scrutinize him, he kneeled, bringing his face a hairsbreadth from hers.
Worried green eyes locked on her, and a tingle started in her stomach that seemed to move to all her limbs.
She’d never seen such bright eyes in her life.
Jonathan Hunt—she clenched her teeth at the thought of the man to whom she’d been betrothed, and whom was now betrothed to her former best friend, Matilda—had dark eyes, which should have been a sign. Dark eyes for a dark heart.
The Scot glanced toward her book. “Don’t be sorry for yer sadness over such a treasure being destroyed. I lost a cuff that my father had given me in a fall from a tower, and the grief is still with me. It was the last thing my father had gifted me, as well, so I understand.”
Cecelia was so touched by his words, honesty, and kindness that tears welled in her eyes once again. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“It is customary to help up a fallen woman, Liam, not make her cry!” an agitated feminine voice interrupted. She, too, had a strong Scottish brogue.
Cecelia slowly turned her now-pounding head in the direction of the new voice, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. This was simply awful! She’d been so busy gawking that she’d not even noticed the woman’s approach, and Cecelia was still sprawled on the ground!
Before she could rectify her unladylike position, the handsome Scot held out his hands to her. She blinked, uncertain whether to take his aid or attempt, yet again, to stand on her own, but when he said, “I can pick ye up, if ye wish it,” she quickly shook her head.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr.…?”
“Liam,” he replied, grabbing her hands and hauling her up with such swift efficiency that her head spun. As her body shifted dangerously forward, she placed a steadying hand out, which to her horror, landed on his broad, extremely solid chest. This man was certainly no soft fop.
She snatched her hand back but noticed the corners of his mouth tilt up into a smile.
“I beg your pardon,” she offered, forcing herself not to mumble the apology in her discomfiture.
If she’d learned one thing this year while weathering snubs from the ton, pretending not to hear snickers behind the fans of ladies she had once called friends, and hiding the true state of her family’s financial affairs daily, it was that appearing unaffected was the best shield against the pain.
She rather thought she had become quite adept at it. Well, until her gawking of moments ago.
“It’s Liam who should be begging yer pardon at grabbing ye and hauling ye up like a brute,” said the petite, red-haired woman who smiled so genuinely at Cecelia that she found her defenses lowering as she smiled back.
Oh, but it had been a long time since she’d passed someone on the street in this neighborhood and not felt judged. Her heart squeezed.
“Aila,” Liam said, speaking directly to the redheaded woman in a warning tone.
The woman, Aila, responded with a chuckle as she cocked her head and stared at Cecelia. Aila had the same mesmerizingly green eyes as Liam. In fact, their eyes were so similar that the two had to be related.
“I’m Aila MacLeod,” the woman said. She waved a hand at the man. “And this is my brother Liam. We are guests of the Duke and Duchess of Rochburn. Do ye know them?”
“Yes,” Cecelia said warily, anything but thrilled at the memories the mere mention of the Rochburn name stirred, since it was in their home that her reputation had been destroyed. On the other hand, she was glad there would be no more talk of her embarrassing tumble.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” she hurried on, refusing to acknowledge how they had met. “I’m Miss Cartwright,” she added, gripping her ruined book tightly.
“Well, Miss Cartwright, who reads…” He glanced down at the spine of her book, and his eyes widened. “Ye read Byron?” he asked with obvious surprise.
She could not help the smirk that pulled at her lips. “You speak of Byron as if you know his work,” she replied, giving him the same sort of insult he’d just given her.
He chuckled. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. Most of the ladies I’ve met in England have seemed—”
“Unintelligent?” Cecelia supplied for him with a grin. “More concerned with fashion than literature?”
“Aye,” he relented with an apologetic look.
“Well, Mr. MacLeod—”
“It’s Lord MacLeod,” his sister interjected. “But just barely.”
Cecelia frowned. Did the woman mean he was poor? She must, but why was she smirking at her brother then? Poverty hardly seemed like something to be smirking about.
“Ye were saying, Miss Cartwright,” Liam asked.
“Oh!” She felt her neck grow hot. “I’m not like most women of the ton.”
“If that’s true,” he replied, his tone teasing, “then ye will tell me yer Christian name. I find it humorous that all the ladies here seem so shocked when I ask for it.” His shining green eyes swept from her feet to her face, making her awfully glad she had donned her emerald-and-white day gown, which still looked lovely despite being made two Seasons ago.
When his gaze met hers, there was no mistaking the challenge shining in their depths.
Her mouth gaped open. Liam’s sister gasped as she poked her brother in the arm.
He did not so much as flick his attention to his sister but kept it squarely on Cecelia, his eyebrows arching high, as if daring her to break the dictates of decorum.
She’d been a rule breaker previously, which was why everyone in the ton had been so quick to believe the worst about her.
In fact, the beginning of her downfall had all started with an ill-advised horse race in Hyde Park with the Duke of Blackmore and had progressed from that incident to an imprudent frolic in the Serpentine with her shoes and stockings off. Once again, with Blackmore.
Or perhaps the true start of it all had been years before due to her inability to follow the rules of etiquette that Society demanded.
She found them ridiculous, despite her mother’s constant reminders that the rules determined the difference between the upper and lower classes.
However her downfall had started, once kindled, it had forced her to accept Jonathan Hunt’s—or Viscount Hawkins’—marriage offer when he’d made it because, by then, Mother had learned of Father’s gambling problem and both her parents had feared she might not get another offer since the whispers in the ton of her hoydenish propensities had grown deafening.
Jonathan had not seemed to believe the whispers, which she had thought said something good about his character. She should have known better.