27
CECILY
Come at once. Catastrophe.
Cecily read Isabel’s note twice. Within minutes, she was ready. She sent word to her uncle that she was riding to Veyron Hall on urgent business, and she did not wait for his response. Isabel was not one to exaggerate. If she had written this, something had gone very wrong.
She rode straight through without lingering, keeping her mare at a steady pace. The winter air cut cleanly, and her thoughts ran ahead of her. What could have happened? Was Isabel ill? Had Julian done something?
Inside the hall, servants moved about briskly, clearing the remains of the previous night’s festivities. Benches were being shifted, rushes replaced, spilled wine scrubbed from the floor. Another night of unbridled revelry, no doubt.
A man’s voice rose above the noise.
“Those cups go back to the high table. You, bring fresh rushes. And tell the kitchens I want no delay at the evening meal.”
Cecily slowed. She knew that voice. It moved through her like cold water—controlled, deliberate, the voice of a man who was always watching.
He stood near the center of the hall, directing the household as if the servants belonged to him. He did not raise his voice. Servants obeyed him without hesitation. He held a list in one hand, consulting it briefly before issuing the next instruction.
Benedict.
He turned and saw her. His gaze sharpened, assessing rather than welcoming. He inclined his head just enough to acknowledge her presence.
“Lady Cecily.”
“I am here to see Lady Isabel,” Cecily said. She kept her tone even.
Benedict studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Of course.”
He summoned a servant to show Cecily to Isabel’s suite. Cecily followed without another word, aware of Benedict’s eyes on her as she crossed the hall.
Isabel’s chamber was just off the inner corridor. Cecily had barely crossed the threshold before Isabel hurried toward her, a strained look on her pale face.
“Cecily,” she said, her grip painfully tight. “Thank God you’ve come. I didn’t know who else to trust.”
“Isabel, what is it?” Cecily put a hand on Isabel’s shoulder.
Isabel’s words came out in a choked whisper. “Julian. He… he has ordered me to marry Benedict.”
Cecily could barely process the words. Her mouth fell open in shock.
“He told me this morning. After breakfast.” Isabel’s mouth trembled. “He said it as though it were already done. As though it were nothing.”
Isabel began to pace, then stopped abruptly, pressing her fingers to her temples.
“It isn’t right,” Isabel continued. “It can’t be.
He has no title, except that which Julian bestowed on him.
Father would never have approved of my marrying a commoner.
I had hoped…” Isabel hesitated as her voice trembled and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I had hoped to marry a man of my rank, a man I could love and respect. Not this… pretender.”
Cecily took Isabel’s hands. Isabel allowed herself to be comforted for a moment, then she continued.
“I begged Julian to reconsider,” she said. “I told him it would shame the house. But he said Benedict has served him faithfully and that this will settle matters.”
“What matters?” Cecily asked.
Isabel gave a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t know. Perhaps Julian thinks giving him my hand in marriage will quiet the talk.”
“What talk?”
“You’ve heard, Cecily. Of Benedict acting above his station. Of him squandering our family’s wealth, as if Julian wasn’t doing that already.”
Cecily thought of Lord Alard’s calm pronouncements on her own future, made without her consent. She saw the same trapped look in Isabel’s eyes that she had once seen in her own reflection.
Cecily understood well how Isabel felt. Decisions were being made for her despite her protests.
“Have you spoken to Julian since?” Cecily asked.
Isabel looked away. “I haven’t been allowed to.”
Cecily’s mouth tightened. “Then I will.”
Isabel looked up. “He won’t see you.”
“Then he will have to refuse me to my face,” Cecily said.
Isabel’s hands clenched in her skirts. “He went back to bed after he spoke with me. Benedict said he drank too much last night.”
Cecily closed her eyes, a memory of Julian’s easy laugh at their first meeting rising unbidden. It was a ghost’s laugh now, drowned in wine. The man who had charmed her then would not have sold his sister to a man like Benedict.
After a moment, Cecily opened the door and called a servant. “Ask Lord Julian if I may speak with him.”
She turned back to Isabel, taking her hands firmly.
“Do not meet Benedict alone,” Cecily said. “Not once. Write to your kin, anyone with standing, and tell them this marriage is being forced. He expects you to be silent and afraid.”
Isabel’s face creased. “I am afraid, Cecily.”
“I know,” Cecily said. “But hold steady. I will speak with my uncle. Perhaps he will speak with Julian.”
There was a knock at the door. A maid entered, eyes downcast. “Lady Cecily, Master Benedict says Lord Julian is indisposed.”
Cecily squeezed Isabel’s hands once and whispered, “Do not give him the satisfaction of fear.”
Isabel nodded.
Cecily left. When she turned into a quieter passage, Benedict stood in front of her.
“How is Lady Isabel?” he asked, his voice syrupy with sympathy. “She did seem out of sorts when Julian spoke with her this morning.”
“Lady Isabel is well enough. Considering.”
Benedict’s smile thinned. “Change is often frightening. And your concern does you credit,” he said smoothly. “But this is Veyron business.”
“Precisely,” Cecily said, looking at him sharply. “Veyron business.”
Benedict’s gaze moved over her as if measuring how hard he could push back.
“Lady Isabel knows her obligations and will fulfill them,” he said quietly. “As women have always done.”
The words hit Cecily like a slap. Lord Alard Veyron had spoken the same words to her when he tried to force her into marriage.
She turned and walked away without another word, moving through the passage lined with portraits.
Benedict’s ambition, Julian’s weakness. The Veyron men were a tangle in her mind.
Her gaze drifted over the painted faces lining the corridor, searching for a hint of their character.
She had passed them before, but now she truly saw them.
One, smaller than the rest, caught her eye.
A young man with a restrained expression, his hand on a hound’s head.
She stepped closer, her breath catching. The dark, watchful eyes. Dark hair. The line of the jaw.
Finn.
She felt as if her lungs had collapsed as she read the plaque beneath the frame.
Griffin de Veyron.
Born 1221. Died 1239.
Her hands went cold. Disappeared in 1239 would have been more accurate.
Not a commoner.
Not simply a young man who’d helped Anton. Not a man without a name.
A Veyron.
The truth settled slowly, like something heavy laid across her chest. She remembered his refusal to speak of his family. His certainty whenever Alard’s name was spoken. The way he had carried himself with confidence, even in rags.
And then something clenched in her chest, hard and hot, and she realized it was not sorrow anymore.
She had begun to love him.
Then the anger came, sudden and scalding.
Outside, the cold air struck her face. She mounted her horse and whipped it into a gallop, the hoofbeats a frantic rhythm against the ground. She had run from a Veyron to save her life.
Now she was running from another to save what was left of her heart.