Chapter 2
“Cecilia, sweetheart…” Rosie dropped her voice, “You might want to leave off the sherry. You are looking quite piqued, and people are watching.”
The disparaging glances, raised brows, and secret smirks behind the champagne flutes and snickers behind fans were like pointed arrows, ready to fly.
They were not going to make their mark as she deflected them with stony composure. Years of experience had taught her that her best defense in such situations was to look past them as if they were nothing and smile. Nothing could get under one’s skin if one did not let it.
All through supper and the dancing afterward, she’d kept a brave face, never letting her smile slip even in the face of subtle—and not so subtle— snubs.
“Nonsense, I am fine,” she waved her friend away.
“He’s dancing with Molly Attenborough again,” Cecilia noted dully.
“Ah, yes, the American dollar princess with new industrial money,” Rosie bit. “She just arrived from Virginia and has taken all her flirty American mannerisms with her.”
“And monopolized the attention of all the lords around us,” Emma grumbled. “Who knew building railroads and dealing in steelworks was such a profitable industry?”
That is it!
Calling a footman to her side, Cecilia asked, “Can you ask her ladyship to assist me with a card and a pen? I have an urgent message to send to someone.”
The man bowed, “At once, my lady.”
With both Rosie and Emma soon twirling on the dance floor, she was all alone. Quickly, but carefully, she wrote out the note on the tray, then stood—and staggered a little.
“Maybe Rosie was right about the sherry,” she mumbled as she skirted the floor.
Sighting Gabriel in a trio of lords, she gestured vaguely in his direction, “Please give this note to His Grace when the set breaks.”
Heading to the stairs, she held on to make sure she did not slip, then headed upstairs. From there, it did not take her long to get to the display room she knew the Dowager Countess had under construction and found a chair to wait.
“I need to tell him…” she whispered. While blinking at the doubling walnut cases away from her sight, she mumbled the words she wanted to tell Gabriel the moment he walked through the door.
“Why are we not married yet!” She practiced, then huffed. “That sounds like a shrew or a fishwife. No, I need to be calmer—” Dropping her tone, she tried for calm. “Dear Gabriel, please may I inquire as to why we are not yet married?”
“That’s better,” she nodded to herself.
Tapping a finger to her chin, she pondered. “But what can I do to make sure he knows I mean business. He is a bit unflappable.”
As she deliberated the dilemma, she noticed the heavy velvet drapes to the left of the seating area. The curtains hung from ceiling to floor, and it looked like there were voluminous layers of drapery behind them.
She shook her head, “No, no, I need to find a way to certify my marriage…”
What would make Gabriel jolt out of his disinterest….
“This came for you, my lord.” A footman bowed and handed Cassian a note.
Brow furrowing, he broke the vanilla seal and unfolded the heavy stationery.
“What’s that?” Benjamin Hadleigh, solicitor by profession and Earl of Somerton by birthright, craned his head to look over Cassian’s shoulder.
He was one of Cassian’s firm friends as far back as from Eton, Cambridge, and various other discreet organizations.
“I humbly request your presence in the display room upstairs…” he skipped over the directions to the most important part. “I hope neither of us will leave disappointed. Signed X.”
“An invitation for a rendezvous and a parting salvo, even though this lady does not know it.” Cassian spun the card over. “It is anonymous too.”
As far as I can recall, none of my old paramours are in attendance tonight.
“Are you going to take it on? Who do you think it is?” Ben asked, swirling his glass of whisky. “You are slated to go off to Greece on the morrow,” his friend added.
“Not a clue,” Cassian murmured curiously. “I cannot recognize the hand either.”
“A frisky debutante or newly minted widow,” Ben deduced, while flicking a lock of his auburn hair from a green eye. “And what room is on the third floor, second corridor, four doors on the left? Why ten o’clock on the dot as well.”
“No idea,” Cassian replied. “I do not know this house—” he slid an eye to his friend. “—appalling, I know. A rake like me should have already known the layout of every building, every hiding spot, and how dare the shadows move without my permission.”
“I am surprised you’re not simply doing a tour of the continent again,” Ben said. “You took a shine to Italy, didn’t you? The lovely city of Messina.”
Cassian’s mind flickered a certain slender, dark-haired lady with shimmering brown eyes, always clad in a dark, silk robe, and shook his head.
“I did,” Cassian smirked, “But I aim for something more permanent this time. You know very well that I aim to leave England forever. Besides, there is an entanglement in Messina that I am keen on avoiding.”
Ben’s eyes sharpened. “Please tell me you did not leave an encumbered woman behind, because in twenty years, you will be making my life hellish.”
“There is no child,” Cassian assuaged. “I simply could not give a lady what she wanted from me.”
“I… see,” Ben nodded. “You left a relationship behind while I aim to start one.” He nodded to a lady sitting near Cecilia’s friend, Miss Rosalind, and Cassian choked back a laugh.
“Lady Emma Montrose? The Dreamer? Are you mad? Her friends will scratch your eyes out before you get within a foot of her. You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” Ben replied somberly. “Have you heard her play the pianoforte? The girl is Mozart reincarnated.”
“A rake and a romantic dreamer,” Cassian laughed. “Tell me how that works out. In the meantime—” he pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “—I have twenty-three minutes to idle away.”
A waltz began, and while two lords claimed Cecilia’s friends, he wondered where she was.
“Speaking of the lady’s friends, is anyone ever going to tell Lady Cecilia?” Ben asked. “Surely no one can allow that farce to go on. Everyone knows except her.”
“She will not believe that her Gabriel Whitmore, the Faultless, has a wandering eye and is only ever interested in the lady who has all the attention in the room. Every single one for the past five years has gained his eye, but he has only proposed marriage to one.” Cassian sighed while sticking a hand in his pocket.
“At least, with rakes, women know not to expect too much,” he said dryly. “With men like him, bounders who dangle the promise of marriage and faithfulness on the line while never lowering the hook. That rock on her finger is nothing more than a pretty bauble.”
“Poor girl,” Ben shook his head.
Even with their differences, Cassian felt some guilt for Cecilia; she hated him, but he did not want Whitmore to take advantage of her by trapping her in a loveless marriage.
No one should let such youth, beauty, and rapier wit fade into obscurity and hollowness. And, hell’s teeth, Cecilia was beautiful, he thought in bemused wonder.
He pondered how she might look if he pulled her hair from those pins and let her tresses cascade around her neck. How would those thick ringlets feel pouring through his fingers?
Her mouth, those lovely bow lips, and the divot in the bottom, were always pressed tight in an arresting thin line. Her pale blue gown had exposed the length of her neck, the slim clavicle, and the rounded swell of her breasts.
“Has she ever accepted your apology for that night?” Ben asked.
“No,” Cassian shook his head absently. “And it might take divine intervention for it to take hold.”
Finally, he checked his watch again, fully intending to go to this room and meet this mysterious paramour. “Ten minutes now.”
Even with the door closed, Cecilia heard the deep chime of the grandfather clock. She lifted her head from her arm and grimaced at how light her head felt.
“I should have let off on the sherry…” she murmured.
Training her eyes on the door, she brushed her skirts down while waiting for Gabriel to enter. Surely, he had gotten the note, and no doubt she had appealed to his sense of curiosity.
“If he starts arguing… I’ll—I’ll do what I need to do to convince him,” she muttered as the door began to creak open.
Straightening, she hoped there was enough light in the room—she had lit a sole lamp to stave off the darkness. The door inched in a little, and soon, a shadowy figure stepped inside.
She rose, and her head spun something fierce. When Gabriel looked around, she made to speak—but decided actions were louder than words. He was not listening to them anyway.
Dash it all!
She flung herself to him, grabbed Gabriel’s shoulders, and pulled him down for a kiss—her first.
Her technique was sloppy, but it managed to get Gabriel to respond. This was madness! Utter madness... She’d never thought her first kiss would be this way, in desperation. Yet here she was.
The touch of his lips; it was like a lit match to oil.
Gabriel took command, and when he licked the seam of her lips, she gave a start of surprise, clutching onto his lapels for balance. A sound tore from his chest, and the kiss grew even more torrid. He penetrated her mouth with a stabbing force that made heat ricochet through every limb and nerve.
She clung desperately to him, and his kiss grew even more potent—he kissed her as if he owned her. The unrepentant, masculine possession of her sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood.
How was it that Gabriel kissed like this? It was unlike anything she could have ever imagined... Hot promise rushed through her flesh.
In her drunken flurry, she hadn’t realized the force she’d thrown herself towards him had forced him to stagger out of the open door. Gabriel managed to steady them, but in the middle of the corridor.
It was fine, wasn’t it? Gabriel was her husband-to-be, after all.
It was a bit scandalous, yes, but surely anyone would understand. She sought his lips again. Who would have thought such a standoffish man like him could kiss this seductively? What other talents had he been hiding from her?
“Lady Cecilia? W-what are you doing?” The Dowager’s tone was aghast—but why was she horrified?
It was only when firm hands pushed her off and her eyes peeled apart did she realize three things in heartbreaking, blood-curdling succession.
The man she was kissing was not Gabriel…
It was Cassian Fitzroy.
They had an audience.
Four people in the corridor with them—one of whom was in fact Gabriel—were staring at her in abject horror. The frank truth of the moment slammed into her like a phaeton out of control.
I am ruined.
Her knees went out from under her as the shock and the drunkenness made her head spin even more.
Ophelia Hawthorne’s eyes went alight with sadistic delight, and she snapped her fan out to hide her smirk.
The second lady, Henrietta Ashbrook, openly gaped at the two.
Soon their shock turned to palpable excitement, and Cecilia felt the weight of her ruination crashing down.
Darkness swept over her in waves, her body flashing cold.
Cassian grabbed at her to stop her from falling, but it mattered not. The damage was already done. If he pitched her over the balustrade and into the champagne fountain below, she could not be any less broken.
Her vision grew blurry.
“Cecilia,” Gabriel stepped forward. “What is going on here?”
“I-I—” she felt faint.
“The good lady is drunk,” Cassian said calmly. “Can’t you see that?”
Gabriel straightened, his gaze imperious. “And she so happened to be kissing you to grow sober, is it? What were you doing with her at all?”
“I came here to have a quiet moment away from the hubbub downstairs,” Cassian answered. “And she flew out of the doors.”
Cecilia shook her head and grabbed at her temple as the room spun. “Gabriel, I sent a note for you to come and see me. Why—why weren’t you there?” She pushed away from Cassian to totter to him. “I thought it was you. Not—not him.”
Gabriel stepped away from her. The cut was not subtle at all. “I had received no such note.”
“I am sure, I sent it to you,” she pulled away and pressed her hand to her chest. “Gabriel—”
“You should return to Duke Tressingham, my lady,” Gabriel said with a condescending smile. “It seems he is your new fiancé. I should have known with how seductive you’ve been for these past few weeks.”
“Weeks?” She blinked. “You have never seen me once in a month.”
“Matters not,” he said, stepping aside. “You may have the breeding, but I was sorely mistaken about your class.”
His words had all the effect of a punch to her face.
“Wait a moment, Whitmore,” Cassian interjected. “Is this how much of a bounder you are? To reject your fiancée when she is clearly ill?”
“Ill or not, you took advantage of her,” Gabriel replied pompously.
Cecilia pressed a hand to her temple as small black spots began to pepper her vision.
“I am not surprised,” Cassian snapped coldly. “You never had the intent to marry her, did you? You’re a social vulture, Whitmore, and everyone knows it. Well, perhaps everyone but poor Cecilia here.”
Turning to Cassian, she blinked the double vision away. “What—what do you mean?”
The argument had drawn more people, but they stood silent in the periphery.
“Your fiancé has no interest in you anymore because you do not carry the swing of the attention in the Season,” Cassian said frankly.
“Whitmore is a social buzzard flying to the scene of the freshest kill because he craves attention like a plumed peacock.
He is only keeping you on the emotional tenterhooks while he roams.
“Surely you have noticed it. Ophelia Hawthorne tonight, and last year, was it Letitia Corrington? Both of them were Diamonds after you. Do you not wonder why they have the loaf of his attention while he gives you the crumbs?”
Horrified gasps swept through the room while Gabriel looked apoplectic.
“It does not detract from the issue that you were kissing her!” Gabriel spat.
“I—” Cecilia swayed as her stomach felt swoopy and her heart hammered irrationally.
“The good lady is drunk, and this is a massive misunderstanding,” Cassian repeated calmly.
“A massive misunderstanding that ended with the two of you kissing,” Gabriel’s sneer was cutting. “I think it’s by design. You are a rake after all, and Cecilia’s been growing infinitely desperate these past few months.”
Cecilia felt her stomach falling to her feet. Blindly, she reached out, grabbing for anything she could hold onto. That thing was Cassian’s jacket. “I do not feel well.”
Cassian turned from her, his brows furrowing, “My lady, are you—”
The black spots peppering her vision surged into a sheet of black, and the last thing she saw before the darkness took her was one man looking at her with disgust… and another with frenetic worry and tender care.