Branstoke fell into step beside her. "If you are ill, perhaps you would like to sit out here while I send a servant for your aunt." He took her elbow and gently, but firmly, guided her to a secluded alcove in the hall.
A wave of unfamiliar panic swept over Cecilia, leaving her skin prickling, her senses heightened toward the man at her side. What was his purpose? They were scarcely acquainted, and he was known for being one of the entourage for whatever dewy fresh London belle was considered the catch of the season. She didn't trust him.
Truthfully, she didn't trust easily.
"You are all solicitation, sir. It is not necessary. La! I am better now already, I assure you. It is just my nerves, you know. I have terrible nerves. My physician tells me he never saw such terrible nerves!"
"You are to be consoled," Sir James murmured.
Cecilia shot him a sharp glance through the veil of her pale lashes, wondering if she'd overplayed her hand. She did not know if she was relieved or chagrined to see his urbane countenance remain unchanged. Furthermore, she wondered at the firm grasp he retained on her elbow.
"You are too kind. I'm sure I have quite recovered," she said with false brightness while gently attempting to free her arm. The feel of his fingers on her arm sent a tingling up it, a tingling that ended in the vicinity of her heart, which in turn sent rippling shock waves throughout her body. This gentleman was dangerous in ways she hesitated to contemplate.
"But I insist," he persevered, steering her to an alcove settee. With his free hand, he signaled a passing footman.
"Please find Viscountess Meriton in the main music room. She will be the woman madly wielding a pair of scissors and carelessly dropping snippets of paper on the floor. Tell her that her niece is feeling a trifle unwell and desires her presence here—discreetly, of course." He settled her down on the settee. "Mrs. Waddley does not need her unfortunate ill-health bandied about in company."
Cecilia lowered her head to hide the humor she felt at this last statement. Her health was a constant source of amusement to the ton, though they clucked and commiserated in her presence. She looked up in time to see Sir James slip a coin into the footman's palm. The man grinned cheekily and trotted off down the corridor.
Branstoke reached into his pocket, drawing out a gold-enameled snuffbox. "The lack of proper decorum found in servants these days is appalling," he drawled. He opened the box with a deft, one-handed motion and took a small pinch of its contents. "Don't you agree?"
"Oh, well yes, I suppose," Cecilia answered meekly, carefully schooling her expression to childlike confusion. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, revealing purple rims around their royal blue color.
Sir James Branstoke paused and stared down at her upturned face, a speculative gleam lurking in his lazily hooded brown eyes.
Under his steady regard, tiny moths began to flutter in Cecilia's stomach. She found she could not turn her eyes from his intent gaze. He had a pleasant, good-looking face without being handsome in the current Adonis fashion. His features were regular, his hair a wavy thick pelt that echoed the rich, variegated brown of his eyes. Nonetheless, there was something about those sleepy, world-weary eyes that caught her attention, something that made her breath come a little faster. A slow blush crept up her neck to her cheeks, staining them a rose color. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.
Suddenly, the lid of the snuffbox snapped shut, the small, sharp sound a pistol shot in the silence between them. Cecilia jumped. Sir James raised his eyes from hers. He looked in the direction of the card room where a renewed chorus of laughter could be heard. He looked back at her.
"Sir James?" Cecilia ventured, uncertain as to the proper response. In all her playacting, never had she felt as uncomfortable as she did before this enigmatic gentleman. "Please don't feel you must wait upon me until my aunt's arrival. I assure you I am recovered from that dreadful pounding in my chest. It was the music and the crush of people, I dare say. I do suffer from an irritation of the nerves, you know, to say nothing of the spasms that sometimes grip me most terrifyingly." She prattled on artlessly, hoping to rout the gentleman by her complaints.
"I imagine that opera sung by such incompetents as Signora Casteneletti might have that effect. I do not know whether to be grateful or not for possessing a stronger constitution," he observed drily.
Cecilia vaguely nodded while pondering the advisability of allowing a touch of a whine to color her voice. That would be too much, she concluded. She cast about in her mind for some other venue.
"Cecilia, my dear!" Lady Jessamine Meriton called as she entered the hallway.
Cecilia turned toward her aunt, masking her relief.
"I am sorry. I was so involved cutting a silhouette of Signora Casteneletti that I did not notice you leave," Lady Meriton said contritely. She gracefully sank onto the settee and raised a cool hand to Cecilia's brow.
"It was nothing, more my fears than actuality, as I've tried to convince Sir James," Cecilia said, indicating the gentleman with a slight inclination of her head.
Lady Meriton turned to look up at Branstoke, one finely chiseled eyebrow arching quizzically.
Branstoke appeared mildly amused. "I assured Mrs. Waddley it was no bother to keep her company." He looked back toward Cecilia, tipping his head slightly in her direction. "I leave you now in good company. Ladies—" he said, bowing elegantly before turning to continue down the hall in the direction of the card room.
"What has been going on? How did you keep Branstoke so attentively at your side?" Jessamine hissed.
Cecilia wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I don't know. Especially since I walked away from him in the music room without so much as a by-your-leave."
"Cecilia!"
"I know, I know that was careless." She pushed back wisps of white-blond hair that had managed to slide out of their confining pins to create a halo effect about her face. "But wait until I tell you what I heard. Then you'll understand how the gentleman's presence could completely vanish from my mind." She glanced up and down the hall. "I suggest you pretend to administer to me aSal volatilewhile we talk. That should suffice to keep others away. You may find the need of it yourself when I tell you I have heard the words Mr. Waddley recorded in his journal!" Cecilia said, trying to keep her voice calm and her excitement from creeping out as she pulled a small bottle of restorative from her reticule and handed it to her aunt. She grabbed Jessamine's hand as she placed the bottle in it and squeezed it. "I almost despaired, you know, of ever hearing anything of its like."
"Well, tell me, please. Don't keep me on tenterhooks!"
"I was, as I said, exchanging empty pleasantries with Sir James Branstoke when I heard the words: 'Talkers are no good doers,' "
