Lionel’s face hardened and he gave his waistcoat a sharp tug, making it seem like a suit of armor. “I am rather busy, I’m afraid. I have much to attend to.”
“Just not me,” Cecilia mumbled beneath her breath, a note of accusation in her voice. She looked up to regard him again. “Except when the need arises. Do you think I should accept being used for your pleasure when it suits and then cast aside? Am I to be a plaything?”
“No!” Lionel snapped immediately. “Never. I would not… Not with Arthur’s younger sister…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.
“Stop that! I am more than that! Why won’t you see me as an equal?”
Lionel exhaled with apparent frustration. “In a few months or so, the scandal will be yesterday’s news and we can go our separate ways quietly. There will be no stain on your name or mine. That is the best outcome. I am sorry that… I am sorry for my weakness last night. I should not have given you false hope in such a way. Nor should I have insisted on the rights of a husband if I was not prepared to be a husband in truth. I can assure you it will not happen again.”
CHAPTER 12
Lionel stared at the letter in his hands and saw nothing of it. He sat at his desk in the study adjoining his suite of rooms. A fire was burning low behind him, untended, the fresh logs left by Blackwood beside it forgotten. He had decided to fill his mind with correspondence that had been neglected due to the need to prepare for the wedding and the day itself. Now he tried to read, tried to deal with the normal business of his estates, but his mind was elsewhere.
With an exasperated sigh, he flung the paper down, staring across the room. The head of a stag, a twelve-pointer, hung on the wall opposite. He and Arthur had stalked it. Both had taken their shot and neither could be sure which had felled the magnificent brute. Arthur had insisted it was Lionel, and Lionel that it was Arthur. In the end, the toss of a coin had decided where the trophy would hang, Penrose or Thornhill. Lionel stood, walking towards the trophy, remembering the day.
“What would you advise me now, old friend?” he whispered to the ghost of Arthur.
The eyes of the stag gleamed in the light cast by the guttering fire. Gleamed brightly for a moment before returning to the dullness of death. Arthur was not here. He was long gone, snatched away by the malice of a man whose enmity Lionel did not understand. There had been no further attempts on his life, even when he was vulnerable and effectively paralyzed. Attempts after his recovery to speak to Lord Thorpe had been met by a brick wall of silence.
Lionel gritted his teeth. If Arthur could hear him and was seeing him, he would slap his face for the way Lionel had treated Cecilia.
“I am sorry for my weakness. I intended this to be a bloodless, passionless marriage. A matter of weeks to allow the scandal to die. I do not know how to trust!”
“You bloody fool,” Arthur’s laughing voice was in his head but could have been in the room with him, “she adores you and has done since you first met. If your eyes hadn’t been blinded by that trollop Arabella Wycliff, you would have seen it. Stop being a jackass and go and talk to her.”
Lionel turned away from the now accusing stare of the stag. He strode angrily across the room to a decanter on a table. Pouring himself an unhealthy measure of Scotch, he tried to put Cecilia from his mind. It was easier said than done.
Three nights ago, she had called to him with a siren song. Bewitched him. His will had broken and he had been unable to resist but equally unable to leave himself vulnerable and opento her. Sister of his best friend or not, she had been years in the company of the Hamilton Hall Sinclairs. He certainly did not trust that branch of the Sinclair family. The circumstances of the scandal that had ensnared him were just so convenient.Tooconvenient.
His mind was a muddle and he could hear Arthur’s incredulous, mocking laughter at his foolishness. Cecilia was by far the most beautiful, intelligent, and fascinating woman he had ever met. She had drawn his eyes on that fateful day, five years ago and had not let go. But, Lionel had long ago decided there was only room for one passion in his life.Onegoal. Revenge for the murder of his friend and the failed attempt to take his life.
For three days and nights, he had managed to avoid her, dining alone and occupying himself either with the business of the Dukedom or his own, more private business. Now it was telling on him. He knew she was there, within reach. Knew that he had only to visit her chambers and she would welcome him, as she had done that night. The knowledge that such pleasure, such happiness was within such simple reach was maddening. Because he could not trust that it was not a trap. Because he had made a promise over the body of Arthur Sinclair. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with that. He simply needed to remain strong, to keep Cecilia at arm’s length. To forget that sweet, angelic voice.
The melody haunted the air around him and he tossed back the Scotch in an attempt to drown it out. The burning liquid scalded his throat and began to heat his stomach. But it did nothing to distract him.
With the voice came a body. A body he had touched and tasted. A body he had used and allowed himself to be used by. Pale in the darkness of night. Moaning and whispering his name. Writhing and clawing at him, leaving scratches that burned his back and shoulders. He poured another drink and it swiftly followed the first.
A knock came at the door and for one wild moment, he believed it to be Cecilia, pursuing him after their meeting earlier in the music room. He felt too weak to face her and resist, the thought skeins of wool in the paws of a cat. Then reason asserted itself. The knock had been a heavy rap, announcing Blackwood. Carrying his glass, Lionel went back to the desk, throwing himself down into the chair and taking a swallow of the amber liquid.
“Come in!” he bellowed.
“I shall, without the need for shouting,” Blackwood grumbled as he entered the room.
“I am rather busy, Blackwood,” Lionel muttered, spreading his hand over the letters on the desk.
“Aye, I can see with what,” Blackwood replied, looking from the decanter to the half-empty glass in Lionel’s hand.
“What is it?” Lionel asked.
“I thought you should know, Your Grace, that your wife is moving the paintings from outside the music room.”
Lionel sat up straight, thudding the glass down on the table. The contents spilled across his hand. The music room and its surroundings had been left alone since his father’s death. He had rarely visited it. Today he had gone there on a whim, driven by an instinct he did not quite understand. And had found Cecilia there. His conversation with her, more brusque than he had intended, had driven from his mind the need to tell her.
“She does not know about the prohibition. But your staff should,” he snarled.
“She is moving them herself with Peggy’s help. I cannot say if Peggy is aware of your feelings about the music room,” Blackwood continued.
Lionel stood abruptly. “I will not attach blame to a young girl who knows no better. But you will ensure she knows in the future. Where are the paintings being moved to?”
