She clapped her hands together, looking at him wide-eyed. "La, sir, you fascinate me! Lamentably I am not well versed in plays, my husband preferring opera. I would like to learn. Please, before the company arrives, tell me of your favorite plays, roles, and lines."
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when noisy chatter was heard in the hall, and the door opened to admit a large group. She made a moue of disappointment spawning indulgent laughter from Elsdon. Reluctantly she made her excuses and went to greet the guests. Mentally she reminded herself to contrive more time with him at a later date.
She was all smiles and charming affability as she greeted the guests. Not even Miss Cresswell's appearance as it neared the dinner hour ruffled her unduly—even though Philomel Cresswell did enter draped on Branstoke's arm. Cecilia knew her nervousness and trembling of hours before were safely buried. That knowledge eased an unaccountable tightness in her muscles that she hadn't been aware existed.
Relaxed, Cecilia Waddley moved fluidly through the growing crowd of guests, stopping to chat briefly with this person or that. A gentle touch, a brief empathy, she had them all smiling like bemused idiots. Branstoke watched, his brown eyes alert behind heavy lids, as she manipulated this person then that, leaving in her wake a growing trail of laughter and goodwill. This child-sized woman, a fragile willow wand, moved among the company like an evangelical did among an avid flock. Though she clutched one of her ever-present handkerchiefs in her hand, she did not utilize it to reinforce any of her illnesses. A lace end fluttered and swayed before her, exaggerating rapid hand motions as she talked.
Branstoke eased himself away from the growing circle of gentlemen surrounding Miss Cresswell and set an interception course for Mrs. Waddley. He desired to put her at ease and work further toward acceptance and trust. Under her current demeanor, he foresaw an opportunity for success.
"Mrs. Waddley—" he began formally.
Cecilia turned swiftly, startled at his approach. For a heartbeat she gauged her reactions. When her pulse remained relatively stable, she knew instant relief. She smiled questioningly up at him, her royal blue eyes catching the light of the brilliant cut crystal chandeliers and reflecting it back.
Branstoke paused, thunderstruck, then he raised a dark brown eyebrow while his eyelids drooped lower and his mouth quirked upward at the corners. "May I be permitted to say, Madame, that it appears the country air agrees with you."
Cecilia's smile broadened, and her eyes twinkled.
"More'n likely it's being among her own kind that agrees with her," declared the duke, coming up behind them. His loud voice caused several nearby heads to turn in their direction.
"Grandfather!" protested Cecilia, torn between laughter and exasperation.
The old duke patted her shoulder though he addressed Branstoke. "Glad to see her easy in company. Was a time, you know, she had some damned silly notion of inequality. Had it since she was a child, and Haukstrom blew his wad. Veritable court card my daughter married. I won't have him here, you know. Not after he married our Cecilia to that damned merchant fellow.”
Cecilia's sense of humor vanished. A cold arrogance chilled her eyes to blue ice. "Grandfather," she said slowly, "I'll not allow you to say one word against Mr. Waddley. Because of him, I do not have to live my life as some parasitic charity case grateful for whatever crumbs are thrown my way!" Her voice was low yet quavered with painfully suppressed emotion.
"Listen to her, like a she-wolf protecting her cub," Lord Cheney said indulgently. Around them, a growing number of people stopped talking to unabashedly eavesdrop.
Rare anger flared in Cecilia, shaking her to the core. She stamped her foot. "Mr. Waddley was good to me," she insisted.
"Aye, I'll grant the man was a good enough sort but not good enough for a Cheney."
She threw her head back and glared challengingly up at him. "Then it's fortunate that I am a Haukstrom and not a Cheney!" she declared frostily.
The room was as unnaturally still as the air before a storm. The duke's bushy brown and gray brows clamped down over his eyes.
"Mrs. Waddley, I have been curious about these wall hangings," Branstoke said placidly, as if unaware of the palpable anger coalescing in black clouds above Cecilia and her grandfather, threatening to explode in lightning fury. He hooked his arm in hers and turned her toward the closest wall hanging. "Are they Mortlake tapestries?" he asked, raising his quizzing glass to study the elegant weavings. Behind them, the seething duke stumped away.
Mrs. Waddley's chest rose and fell rapidly in the wake of the anger coursing through her. Branstoke allowed her time to recover, pretending an absorption in the detailed work of the tapestry.
"Yes—yes, they are Mortlake tapestries," she managed. She tossed her head to clear it of lingering anger and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Grandmother had this room redecorated some years back to display them to better advantage." She touched her handkerchief to her lips, a delicate shudder rippling through her body.
Branstoke looked at her closely, then noncommittally steered her toward the next tapestry hanging on the walls.
"This room was originally known as the Great Parlor. Of recent years it's been called the Tapestry Parlor, or identified by the modern term—the salon," she continued neutrally as they circumnavigated the room. "As a child, I spent many hours staring at these tapestries, making up stories to complement each scene." Finally, she dared look at Branstoke, her breath coming out on a long sigh, a gentle, wistful expression on her face. "Thank you," she murmured.
He smiled. It was a pleasant, non-threatening smile. "Occasionally fribbles such as myself have their uses," he said dispassionately. He casually swung his quizzing glass by its riband. " I believe we may be the best sorts for routing dragons. So unexpected, you see."
Cecilia froze at the word "dragon."
Branstoke looked at her pointedly, waiting for her reaction. He could see her battling inwardly with some emotion. Color came and went on her face leaving dark blue eyes blazing out of a pinched countenance. She blinked rapidly, and her face cleared. She simpered and clutched her handkerchief to her chest.
"Would you mind if I left you to your perusal of the tapestries by yourself, Sir James?" she said weakly. "I must sit down a moment. I feel one of my dreadful headaches coming on. So unfortunate, for I have been much better here. It is my nerves. I know it is just that, but la! little good does knowing do me," she prattled on and laughed shrilly, edging toward a vacant chair.
Branstoke allowed her to escape while maintaining a phlegmatic expression on his face and perfunctory words of consolation on his lips. Mrs. Waddley needed to come to terms with his intuition and to learn he was not a threat. He would not pursue her further, merely allow her time to assimilate this knowledge. It was a chancy game he played; nevertheless, he'd wager an intelligent woman hid behind that social ninnyhammer.
Dragons! What could he know of dragons?She sat down weakly and delicately wiped her brow with a shaking hand.
Coward!The accusation rang in her head, yet the part of her that instinctively reacted to Sir James Branstoke was clamoring loudly. No longer could she continue to confine the jangling nerves and hollow flutterings. They exploded free, leaving her limbs trembling.
