"All I can say," Cecilia began slowly, her eyes intent on Janine's flushed face, "is that there are reasons for my behavior, no matter how good or bad they are. All I can ask is that you trust me."
Trust me.The phrase echoed in her head, mocking her. Trust was something she did not grant easily. When one gave trust, one placed an emotional burden on the other person. Those burdens were too heavy. Such obligations should be personal, not something to be willy-nilly handed over to another. Who was she to ask another to share the weight of her emotional burdens? Her fears and problems? She stared at the carved plaster and wood ceiling a moment and sighed heavily, for no answer would come.
"I think I should retire. I cannot seem to think clearly any longer." She absently patted Janine's hand and stood up slowly, moving like a person who'd long ago run his race. She bid the young woman good-night, then went to her aunt and grandmother, exchanging similar words. Smiling charmingly, vacantly, she wished the rest of the company good evening and headed for the door.
Sir James Branstoke was before her. He lounged against the door frame, absently studying the filigree snuffbox he held in one hand. "Still claiming to blend with the furnishings?" he murmured when she got to the door.
She turned her head to consider him, her lips pursed. There was laughter glinting out from under those heavy eyelids. She'd wager he knew the instigator for her new entourage. She would not be surprised to discover he had a hand in suggesting it in some macabre fashion. "What has happened?" she demanded bluntly.
His eyebrows rose, and he looked at her with social credulity. "My dear Mrs. Waddley, isn't it obvious?"
"Do you take me for a flat, sir?"
His thin lips tightened in a ghost of a smile. It sent tingling rivulets down her back.
"Never that, Mrs. Waddley. Many other things, perhaps, such as a beautiful, willful woman—but never a flat."
She opened her mouth, then shut it, damming ill-considered words. She scowled at him, her temples throbbing. With a curt good-night and a swish of her skirts, she left the room.
Chapter 8
"Ithink we may join our guests now," said the Duchess of Houghton the following evening on hearing ten chimes from the ornate Louis XIV clock. "Any stragglers after this hour don't deserve to be received properly."
"Bar the door, I say," grumbled the duke. He stretched and put a hand against the small of his back and groaned. Muttering oaths under his breath, he straightened and offered his wife and Cecilia an arm to lead them into the Great Hall. "I suppose you'll want to dance," the duke grumbled to his wife.
"Of course, my dear, and so will Cecilia."
The duke scowled sourly. Cecilia was quick to deny her grandmother's words.
"Nonsense, dear. This ball is as much for you as for our enjoyment. More so, actually. You never had the opportunity of a London season before you married. That has always been a great disappointment to me. Now, at least, we can see that you take your rightful place in theton,"said the duchess, smiling and nodding regally to people they passed. "Houghton will be delighted to dance with you, won't you, dear?"
"Your grandmother has the right of it. We're agreed to seeing you well established again."
"But not among Randolph's sort!"
The duchess's words were sharp and edged with anger, though outwardly, she continued smiling. Cecilia wondered how she did it. But that was just one of many things that dogged her mind, so the thought was fleeting.There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked,she thought ruefully.
Last evening she stayed awake long into the night, staring into blackness. She had finally achieved her desire for friendship among Randolph's cronies, and what did she do? Ran like a startled rabbit. Oh, she argued long and hard with herself about the unnaturalness of their attentions; but truthfully, sincere or false should have made no matter if she was intent upon and genuinely believed in her goal.
Self-doubts and fears came crowding in upon her. What was she trying to accomplish? Solve a murder? Find a way to start living after the lethargy she fell into following Mr. Waddley's death? Or—perhaps just find a way to start living her own life. It was true Mr. Waddley had been a kind husband, a good man, and that he always insisted on the finest in everything for her. She was doing this honorable man's memory a great disservice to suggest he'd been anything less than an ideal husband. For all that, she felt he regarded her as more of a precious object to be kept locked in a glass case than a flesh-and-blood woman. The few times she tried to tell him how she felt he only laughed and chucked her under her chin. He declared that's precisely what she was, his most valuable possession.
Dear man, he meant well; he just never understood. Now the glass case was open. Unfortunately, the doll that had been placed so long inside no longer knew what she wanted. If she did move to the country to live a retiring life, might she not be trading one glass case for another?
Perhaps that was why Branstoke so easily upset her. He sensed her dichotomy of commitment. He knew her uncertainties and played upon them.
But that didn't explain why she reacted strongly to him. Or why last evening, she instinctively looked to him for help. She found him often in her thoughts. Memories of what he said or did, or sometimes just a look or a smile would leap into her mind pushing everything else aside. It didn't make sense! She could not be attracted to him. She had to stay out of his presence. She couldn't think straight with him around. Worse, sometimes she didn't know if she wanted to.
There he was, standing just outside the circle of gentlemen surrounding Miss Cresswell. The crooked smile on his lips attested to his knowledge that he could walk into the circle and wrest Miss Cresswell's attention from her court at any time he chose. Cecilia hated and envied that knowledge.
His head turned, and she found herself trapped, drugged, by his somnambulant gaze. His eyebrows rose, and he cocked his head in wry salute before he let her gaze free though he continued to observe her.
Cecilia hurriedly turned her head away and looked about the Great Hall. The room was packed with a glittering array of the cream of London society. The ball might as well have occurred in London, for half of London was present. All day long, carriages arrived at Oastley Hall, discharging guests who would stay overnight for the ball. Many current guests were required to change rooms or double with another to make more rooms available. Cecilia heard the local inns were full and that anyone with a home within carriage distance found themselves visited by friends attending the ball.
She wondered how Miss Amblethorp was faring. She looked about the room for Janine, hoping to see her dancing. She should have known better. She was seated near the dowagers. Cecilia made her way through the press of people to her side.
"Come, Janine, take a turn about the room with me," she invited.
"It will serve no purpose," Janine said, rising from her chair.
