He immediately wanted the words back. He did not know if he could trust Cecilia—if she was friend or foe. That information needed to be kept close. He ground his teeth, closing his eyes as he tried to marshal his thoughts and calm himself. He was giving too much away, had been manipulated enough. No more could be allowed.
“Who? Why?”
Lionel growled in his throat and pushed himself away from the wall, favoring his strong leg. “Let us return to your aunt and uncle and discuss my surrender. You have won, be content and let my secrets remain so,” he muttered harshly.
Cecilia reached out, putting her fingers to his chest. He stopped, held in place by her delicate, gentle touch.
“I swear to you on my brother’s memory that I am not in league with my aunt and uncle, nor with that despicable cretin, Sir Gerald. I give you my word that the only thing holding me to Hamilton Hall is the fear of the poor house. That is where my uncle would have me sent immediately after cutting me off with nothing.”
There was something in her words that quelled Lionel’s irritation. He looked into her eyes, wanting to believe her. It was offensive that such beauty could be dishonest and deceitful, but then Arabella had also been a beauty. And she had abandoned him in moments when learning she might be marrying a cripple.
“I wish I could believe you,” he whispered, lost in those hazel-flecked eyes, “but I have learned through bitter experience that trust is a weapon to be used against one. The only defense is not to give it in the first place.”
“Then I shall prove it to you,” she said resolutely.
Cecilia still held him by the touch of her fingertips against his chest. He could feel that touch as though she pressed her entire hand against his bare skin. The point of contact was the focus of his every sense. He felt his breathing coming fast and hard, knew that she too could feel it, could see it. Their eyes were locked together. He did not want to look away, not ever. She appeared to possess the same reluctance, the same desire to remain lost in the gaze of the other.
Lionel wanted to kiss her. It was an overwhelming desire, dwarfing the craving he felt for poppy juice when the pain in his leg became too great. He wavered, leaning forward imperceptibly, his chest pressing against her touch, deepening it. Cecilia gasped as the distance between them narrowed.
He was conflicted. He did not want to trust, could not trust, yet he wanted the intimacy with Cecilia that only trust could bring. Could he trust her after all? She had sworn on Arthur’s memory. To a decent person, that kind of oath should not be taken lightly. Yet there were many indecent people. People capable of committing murder and hiding it beneath sheathes of lies.
“And how could you prove it to me?” Lionel whispered, “I can see no way.”
“I will consent to marry you. To spare your name and escape the scandal. And as your wife, I will prove myself worthy of your trust. I will show you that I am worthy to bear my brother’s name,” Cecilia said in a breathless rush. “…And in return, I wish to know the truth of that night.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes seemed to glow with life. Her lips were rosy, half tilted into a smile. It was the nervous smile of one who knew they had committed a reckless act, a frightening gamble. Someone who rolls the dice and feels the exhilaration of it.
Lionel felt the path of his life mapped out for him then. He would marry her. It was the only way to kill the scandal.
CHAPTER 8
The ceremony was not how Cecilia had envisioned such an event, even in these strange circumstances. She had returned with her aunt and uncle to Hamilton Hall, to remain under virtual house arrest for one month. During that time, she was informed, her uncle had corresponded with Lionel about the particulars of their marriage. Meanwhile, the rumor mill of the ton had been hard at work. Aunt Margaret had informed her with gleeful venom of the rumors linking the Duke of Thornhill to a young woman who had been a guest at his ball. From her account, she and Rupert had spent an inordinate amount of time battling those rumors, quelling the gossip to protect their good name. The date was duly set and a ceremony was to take place at the small chapel adjoining Thornhill Castle. The Sinclairs were to be in attendance and Sir Gerald Knightley was to be witness to the union. The entire event was explained to Cecilia as though it were a transaction of business rather than a ceremony avowing love. She did not hear from Lionel but could not forget the intense chemistry between them. It reminded her of lessons from her governess on the subject of the sciences, particularly those concerning the attraction of bodies togetherand the interaction of elements. Such interactions could produce explosive results and Cecilia felt that she and Lionel were two such elements.
But he had pulled away from the brink of that explosiveness and maintained a distance between them. At first, she had told herself that this was for the best, that she did not want to come to like this man. But, when she thought of a lifetime spent in Thornhill without ever feeling his touch, his kiss, his body, it brought a deep sense of loneliness. She had spent many hours in her room, listening to the bustle of the servants, smiling when those of them who were counted as friends used their spare time to visit her. Then had come the day when she had been taken by carriage to Thornhill. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Rupert were finely dressed but not as finely as they had been dressed on the day of the Thornhill ball. This event was not as important as that had been. Socially, anyway. Cecilia had watched the dark, forbidding sight of Thornhill castle looming up from the horizon and felt a chill run through her. She could not tell if it was excitement or trepidation. Perhaps an element of both.
The chapel was an old building of moss and stone with windows of plain glass and a dark, cool interior. Ancient pews filled the space which was dominated by the altar. The air was hushed and dry, rendered even more terrifyingly silent by the lack of a congregation. As Rupert had led Cecilia into the chapel, she saw Lionel standing at the altar and her trepidation vanished. He was as handsome as ever, his long hair tied at the nape of his neck, enhancing the vision of him as an eastern prince. His pale skin was slightly flushed and his eyes were bright and intent upon her. The lines of his face were tight, as were his lips. But as she neared him, she caught the merest hint of an upward tugat the corner. A smile, half-formed and crushed before it could reveal itself. Even the merest hint of a smile sent a thrill through Cecilia, gave her a sliver of hope. The priest raced through the ceremony, appearing uncomfortable to be in the old church. Or perhaps it was the presence of the glowering Duke. Cecilia kept glancing at him and saw him doing the same.
The final declaration that they were now man and wife was greeted with silence, broken only by a harrumph from Uncle Rupert. Lionel made a sharp gesture to the priest who hastily departed. He offered Cecilia his arm and escorted her from the church, ignoring her family who followed in their wake.
“Would it upset you greatly if I asked your aunt and uncle to leave immediately?” he whispered to her as they neared the entrance to the church.
Beyond that was a sunny day, in contrast to the somber atmosphere in the place of worship. A grass sward separated the church from the castle, which loomed blackly beyond. A gravel path wove between mossy, lop-sided gravestones, and gnarled trees with reaching branches and fissured bark.
“It would not,” Cecilia murmured. “I should not be sad if I never saw them again.”
Lionel looked at her for a long moment. She returned his look levelly and he patted her hand where it rested on his arm.
“I suspected as much. I do not blame you. They are the worst kind of grasping mercenaries.”
He gestured to someone lazing in the shade of one of the antique trees standing in the churchyard. A moment later, Cecilia watched Blackwood come forward. He bowed to her courteously.
“Your Grace, welcome to Thornhill. About time there was a woman’s touch about the place.”
Cecilia smiled and Lionel grunted. “The Sinclairs are leaving. Inform them—and make it clear, I shall be corresponding with them in due course.”
Blackwood bowed to his master and moved towards the Sinclairs who were stepping out of the church, into the sun. Lionel glanced back over his shoulder to Sir Gerald.
“You!” he pointed. “Get off my land. You are not welcome and have no further business here.”
