Cecilia did not pretend to misunderstand her. "Oh, fustian. You don't know that. And consider it a way to assuage Lady Amblethorp."
Janine smiled reluctantly.
"Excellent! Now, what shall we discuss? Shall we be two cats and discuss those we do not like until their reputations are in shreds, or shall we—" She broke off, staring across the room.
Randolph Haukstrom, talking to someone near the carved wood screen at the end of the hall, angrily tugged a ring off his little finger and dropped it in his pocket. Taking the stairs up to the minstrels' gallery two at a time, he ducked out the narrow door at the top. It led, Cecilia knew, to the long gallery.
Quickly she followed him, weaving through the crowd like a willow wisp, unheeding Janine's gasp. Branstoke could scarcely keep track of Cecilia as she made her way across the room. He had to pin his sights on the white-blond hair massed high on her head. He followed her, moving with fluid, unhurried grace.
"Do not be offended, Miss Amblethorp. It's just a bad habit," he said as he passed that young woman. He squeezed her hand, but his eyes never left the top of Cecilia's head.
Holding her ivory net and silk skirts high, Cecilia hurried up the stairs after her brother. By the minstrels' door that led to the gallery, she paused, carefully opening it. The gallery was deserted. She quietly entered, straining to listen for any sounds. Long dark shadows cloaked the end of the gallery, and patches of blackness shadowed areas between glittering candelabra. She crept down the long carpeted expanse of the gallery. Hearing a faint murmur of voices coming from the direction of the blue withdrawing room, she tiptoed to the door.
"It was an oversight!"
It was Randolph, but the answering voice was too indistinct for her to hear. When Randolph spoke again, his voice was softer, and Cecilia couldn't make out his words distinctly. She edged closer to the door. Her toe caught the leg of one of the Chippendale chairs, knocking it gently against the paneling. It made a small but distinctclick.Panicked at the slight sound, she- jumped away, colliding violently with a chair at the other side of the door. It clattered loudly against the wall.
"Hush, you fool! Someone's out there!"
Frantic, she backed from the door. Suddenly strong hands grasped her shoulders, propelling her ungently around, and a hard, masculine mouth came down on hers.
Branstoke!
Shock robbed her of strength. His sensuous kiss swirled her senses, prolonging her lassitude. She savored the heat that rose within her, the musky, masculine scent of the man, and the searing pressure of his lips on hers. Her arms drifted to his shoulders to entwine his neck.
"Egad, Cecilia!"
Cecilia jumped, breaking the kiss. She spun away from Branstoke, her chest heaving. Her lips tingled, and a delicate flush gave way to a crimson tide.
"Damn it, what the hell are you doing?" demanded Randolph, his fists planted on his hips and his face taking on a dangerously choleric hue.
"I would have thought that rather obvious," drawled Branstoke, casually straightening his coat. "And if you will kindly turn around and go back into that room, I will continue in that most pleasurable occupation which you so rudely interrupted."
"The hell, you say! I've a mind to call you out, Branstoke."
"Oh, stop the theatrics, Randolph," snapped Cecilia, her arms crossed over her breasts, her delicate pointed chin leading. Her breathing was fast, and her eyes glittered with an unnatural feverish intensity. She kept her eyes fixed on her brother, not daring to look in Branstoke's direction. What had she been thinking? She returned his kiss! No, more than returned it. She welcomed it and drank from his lips like her thirst would never end!
She was so embarrassed. How could she speak, let alone look at Branstoke again? His kiss had been a brilliant ruse to save her from a potentially more embarrassing and perhaps even dangerous situation. Like some giddy, foolish schoolgirl, she gave herself up to his kiss. What must he think of her? Her cheeks flamed anew at the thought.
"Dash it all, Cecilia," protested Randolph, shifting from one foot to the other, "you've no more feathers than a downy chick. Branstoke's got a reputation, y'know."
"If he has, I'd wager it's a dashed sight better than yours!"
Randolph went rigid and flushed, his lips protruding in an ugly pout. "I'm still your brother, and I've an eye to your reputation!"
"If you were so concerned about my reputation, you would not have married me off to Mr. Waddley! Your concerns consisted of yourself and your pocketbook. Do not preach filial affection to me, dear brother, for it won't wash." Cecilia's slight frame trembled with years of suppressed anger. Her voice shook in a strident key, but she kept herself in hand, and it did not rise in volume.
"You ungrateful wretch. I saved your life!" her brother stormed.
Cecilia gasped. "What nerve! But I know it to be merely another of your silly acts. I am five and twenty, Randolph, not some shy sixteen-year-old you can manipulate by declaring pauperism a fate worse than death. Legally I am my own woman with a fortune to command. I do not need you or anyone else in my life. There has been too much management of me for too many years, and I'm tired of it. I won't have it, do you hear me?"
Standing a step behind her, Branstoke applauded. His instincts regarding the little widow were proving delightfully accurate.
Cecilia whirled around, aghast. She'd nearly forgotten his presence. Now he was gazing at her and smiling that enigmatic smile that never failed to send shivers through her. She felt warmth rise in her cheeks. Flustered, she turned to glare at her brother again. "Oh, leave it be, Randolph. I am getting another of my plaguey headaches," she said petulantly. She massaged a temple and irritably wondered how she could have been so lost to her surroundings and so caught up in her mystery that she failed to hear Branstoke's approach. She knew she should be thankful to him, but remnants of the heat that coursed through her from his kiss reminded her of her forward behavior.
"A glass of Madeira," suggested Branstoke.
"I beg your pardon?" she said.
