“As tonight is the night of the ball, the first Your Grace has hosted in a long time, I decided it was needed,” Blackwood added, putting a basin and towels down on Lionel’s bedside table.
Lionel chuckled, knowing that only a direct order would deter the man from what he saw as his duty. Five years of helping Lionel learn to walk again had reduced the social gulf between them. Lionel stood stiffly and limped to a chair before the window.
“If it must be done, then do it here. I would have a view while you work.”
Blackwood muttered to himself under his breath as he moved his gear to rest on the windowsill. Lionel suppressed a mischievous smile, knowing the move would provoke his manservant, who was by nature morose and fond of complaining.
“Whom have we had responses from to our invitations?” he asked.
Blackwood began reciting a list from memory of those who had accepted the invitations as he began to apply lathered soap to Lionel’s beard. One name, in particular, made Lionel put a hand to his arm to stop him.
“Did you say Sinclair?CeciliaSinclair?”
“I did at that, Your Grace,” Blackwood replied, removing his arm from Lionel’s grip and recommencing the job of lathering.
“Whom is she to be accompanied by? A husband?”
“No, Your Grace. An uncle and an aunt. The Earl of Hamilton and his wife,” Blackwood corrected, unfolding a straight razor and tilting Lionel’s face to better catch the light.
“I have not seen her for… well, not since that day,” Lionel muttered.
He did not need to say which day he referred to. All who worked at Thornhill knew that references to that day meant only one thing. The last time any kind of social occasion had been hosted at Thornhill Castle. Until now.
“She is presumably betrothed by now if she is not married.”
“Living with her aunt and uncle says to me it is neither,” Blackwood commented, “unless she married a pauper, that is to say.”
“Well reasoned. It is of no matter regardless. A woman like that could not have remained available for long. God, but she was beautiful. My eyes were full of Arabella at the time but she still struck me.”
Blackwood’s only comment on Lionel’s former betrothed was a snort that almost became a spit until he remembered himself.Instead, Blackwood muttered imprecations about Arabella Wycliff that Lionel was glad he only half heard. Another betrayal. Another injustice unpunished. Lionel put Arabella from his mind. Instead, he thought back to the first time he had met Cecilia Sinclair. He gazed out of the window, no longer aware of Blackwood or the room about him. Even the pain in his leg was lost in the backwoods of his consciousness. He remembered Cecilia’s cascading bronze hair. Her pale, delicate skin and the shimmering dress that seemed to have been made to accentuate her coloring perfectly. That first meeting had momentarily put Arabella from his mind. It had made him extremely uncomfortable when he realized.
The racing heart. The dry mouth and shivering stomach. Those were what the poets said a man and a woman experienced when they felt the kiss of true love. But he had never felt that for the beautiful, perfect Arabella. She had been like a work of art, appreciated but with detachment. Cecilia had been different and Lionel had been wracked with guilt when he understood the nature of his reaction. Those brown eyes. Had they been hazel? With lighter flecks that were almost gold? Was that his imagination, conjuring perfection that no woman could ever live up to?
“A handsome woman, I thought,” Blackwood added, turning Lionel’s head to shave the other side.
Lionel felt his heart thump in his chest. It was ludicrous to experience such excitement for a woman he had met only once, and that, several years ago. But it was true. Cecilia had been beautiful in a way that struck at his core. He remembered well her slender but curving figure. The very epitome of femininity.While he had known that Arthur’s aunt and uncle, the Sinclairs of Hamilton Hall, were invited to the ball, it had simply not occurred to him that they would bring their niece. Or that following the death of her brother, Cecilia would not be resident at Penrose any longer. Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to the event.
CHAPTER 3
THORNHILL
Cecilia watched the approach of Thornhill castle with trepidation. She sat in the carriage belonging to her uncle, the Earl of Hamilton, opposite him and next to her aunt Margaret. She wore diamonds in her mousy brown hair and pearls about her thin, over-long neck. Her dress matched the color of the pearls and the glinting diamonds. Uncle Rupert was resplendent in a waistcoat of red and an overcoat of purple with a ruby in the pin of his scarlet cravat. The carriage was new and from a coachbuilder with royal patronage. By contrast, Cecilia wore no jewels openly. A simple chain around her neck held a heavy signet ring intended for a man. It had belonged to her father and then to her brother. Her aunt and uncle did not know that Arthur’s solicitor had quietly passed it to her when the Penrose estate had passed in its entirety to the Sinclairs of Hamilton. As well as Cecilia. She wore the same dress that had been new the last time she had attended a social event at Thornhill.
Now, however, its luster had faded as a result of repeated laundering. Repairs had been made, not visible but of whichCecilia was very conscious. By contrast with her aunt and uncle, she felt as though she were clothed in rags. The walls approached, ancient and stained by the years. The gates in those walls were of massive, fissured wood bound in black iron. Beyond was an open courtyard and two huge, oaken doors leading to the great hall that she remembered so well. She remembered the last time she had watched the castle approach. Arthur had been her companion then, seeming to enjoy her marveling at the grandeur of his friend’s home. Cecilia felt her dear brother’s loss as a physical wrench. It was as fresh now as it had been when his body had been brought back into the castle, along with the paralyzed form of Lionel Grisham.
“Whatever is the matter, girl!” Margaret snapped, “You are being treated to a ball held at the home of a Duke. You could at least look as if you are grateful.”
“She is not, Margaret. My brother’s family never were,” Rupert muttered lazily, sounding bored, “they were not like us.”
Cecilia felt a flash of anger at the thinly veiled insult to her mother and father. But she knew well enough to keep her lips tightly sealed. Instead of replying to her uncle as she ought, she smiled tightly.
“I was thinking of Arthur,” she finally said.
“Yes. Irresponsible of him to go and get himself killed like that, leaving a burden for us to carry,” Margaret sighed.
“Well, it would seem odd if you were not here given the friendship between your brother and the Duke,” Rupert added, “just you remember your place. Speak when you are spoken to and do not make any social gaffes that might embarrass us.”
“I won’t, uncle,” Cecilia reassured, putting on a show of timidity that didn’t pass her aunt’s cynical eye.
