On the walk back to Thornhill, she managed to convince herself of this. She would ignore the Sinclairs and Sir Gerald Knightley. Her future was with Lionel, her past was precisely that, passed.
As she entered her quarters, she saw the painting that had previously hung on the dusty, forgotten corridor wall outside the Music Room. The painting of Penrose that Lionel had concocted from his imagination as a gift for Arthur. She had hung it at first in her own bedchamber, until Lionel had moved her into his own suite. Now it hung beside the window on the side of the bed that she favored. Every morning she woke, facing the dawn through the window and with the warmth of Lionel’s body at her back, arm draped over her. In that moment she always felt safe and protected. Looking upon Penrose in its heyday brought back the same feelings that she’d experienced as a child.
“Penrose is my castle. My sanctuary. Where I was safe,” she whispered to herself, lost in the picture. “Everything was taken from me, I mustn’t allow that to be taken from me too.”
“What’s that?” Lionel said as he strode into the room, rolling up his shirt sleeves.
So lost in her reverie had Cecilia been that she had not heard Lionel entering the suite from a room that adjoined the bedroom. She started, jumping up from where she had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Lionel stopped in mid-stride, looking quizzical at her reaction. Then his eyes traveled down her dress.
Cecilia followed his gaze and saw the marks of her mad leap from the path of Sir Gerald’s horse. Grass and moss had left stains on the front of the dress and her skirts. A cake had been pressed into the skirts as she landed atop it, leaving a greasy stain. A leaf fluttered to the floor from where it had been lodged in her hair.Neither Cecilia nor Peggy had noticed it, and it had been there for the entire walk home. Now it chose to flutter gently down to the carpet. Cecilia blushed.
“You look like you’ve been rolling about on the ground,” Lionel commented, brows furrowing, “did something happen?”
“Peggy and I sat for a while at the feet of the Tall Knight,” Cecilia explained, “we both fell asleep. It was such a wonderfully warm day. I suppose I should have taken more care of my dress.”
Lionel stooped to pick up the leaf and grinned as he placed it back in her hair, as though it were a decoration.
“No, if you were comfortable and content, it should not matter. It quite took me by surprise, that is all. I was afraid you’d had a fall.”
Cecilia laughed and felt a bitterness inside at lying to him. But telling Lionel the truth would serve no purpose.
He took her in his arms and she rested her head against his chest, letting his strong embrace surround her. She closed her eyes, embracing him in return and breathing deeply of his scent. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget Penrose and Sir Gerald Knightley. She lost herself in the simple pleasure of being held close by her husband.
That pleasure lasted for scant moments before reality intruded. Her thoughts returned to Penrose and to the offer made by SirGerald. She tried to put it from her mind, pushing it aside and putting Lionel and Thornhill uppermost in her thoughts. Always though, her mind returned to her childhood home. The home that had been built by her ancestors. That had belonged to the Sinclairs since the seventeenth century. That was the shelter to her last happy memories. And that had become another thing snatched from her by those who had pushed her around for the last several years of her life.
“I can feel the tension in you. It waxes and wanes. What troubles you?” Lionel asked, tilting his head to face her.
Despite herself, Cecilia stiffened, feeling as though her flesh were transparent as glass, allowing her deepest thoughts to be read. She looked up into a face creased by concern but impossibly handsome, nevertheless. She opened her mouth, intending to tell all, but Lionel’s face darkened suddenly and he spoke again.
“I almost forgot. You have received your first reply. From Sir David Greenaugh of Whitesheaf, a neighbor from Byfleet way. I had their invitations delivered by hand as the Greenaugh family have long been allies and friends to the Grishams. Look at what that young pup had the temerity to reply.”
Lionel left Cecilia’s arms and crossed the room swiftly, going out into the study beyond and returning with a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Cecilia and she unfolded it and read aloud.
“Your Grace, my uttermost thanks for your invitation and I hope to become acquainted with your new wife in the future.However, the date offered is not suitable for me as I have committed to dining with Sir Gerald Knightley and my good friend Gordon Locke on that day. I should be happy to combine our respective luncheons, however, and invite my guests to join you at Thornhill. Please let me know and I will make the necessary arrangements, Greenaugh.”
She looked up at Lionel who was glowering out of the window, jaw set.
“Do you see what the rascal is saying?” he demanded. “That he will decline our invitation unless Knightley and Thorpe are included. They have gotten to him.”
“He may simply be already committed as he says,” Cecilia offered, “and quite innocent in his recommendation of… of those two men.”
“Nonsense!” Lionel barked. “He knows that I once accused Thorpe of murder. It may not have been public knowledge, but it was knowledge in our circle.”
The mention of Arthur’s death seemed to mollify him. He seemed to swallow the anger that had blown up in him so suddenly. A smile replaced it and he came back to her, hands running down her upper arms, fingers touching with the delicacy and precision of a master pianist. She shivered pleasurably beneath that touch and moved closer, laying her hands upon his chest, and letting her fingertips feel the rigid muscle barely contained by his clothing. His was the kind of body that demanded the open air, that called out to be touchedwithout the hindrance of clothing. She found herself envious of that long-ago time before mankind had discovered shame, when Adam and Eve had lived naked and free in the garden of Eden. The idea made her flush.
“Then forget Greenaugh,” she said, “there are plenty of other gentlemen and women whose company we can enjoy.”
“I am sorry for being cross. Mention of those two jackanapes makes me seethe. For the injuries they have done to us both and gotten away scot-free. It is unjust.”
“The world is unjust,” Cecilia told him, feeling his heartbeat thump beneath her hand, “what we cannot change, we must accept, or hatred will consume us. I will not spend my life in anger.”
Lionel lowered his head until his forehead touched hers. “You are wise for one so young. Where does this wisdom come from?”
Cecilia laughed. “Common sense, mostly.”
Lionel smiled. “Accept what we must. Avenge what we can,” he said, quietly.
Cecilia thanked heaven that Lionel had interrupted her earlier. She knew now that she could not tell him of her encounter. His anger made him unpredictable. The thought of Lionel being shot down in a pointless duel or incarcerated for murder was unendurable.
