Then the punishing pressure gave way to a sensuous investigation of her mouth and drifted up the side of her face to her temple. The kiss slowly ended with a faint, feather-light promise for the future. Cecilia mewed and sighed. He gently held her against him while he guided her to the sofa. She let him seat her with him at her side before she came out of her sensual haze. Her cheeks flushed pink. She bit her lip and looked away.
Long, tapered fingers reached out to cup her chin and turn her back to face him. “My apologies, I have wanted to do that for a while. In the presence of your anger and distress, I could no longer remain calm.” A wry smile twisted his lips, and the warmth of banked fires came from his rich golden brown eyes, but he was too much the gentleman to allow them to flame, again.
A shy nervousness overcame her. She glanced furtively at him, then down to her hands in her lap where she was twisting her handkerchief tight. "I was a bit overwrought, wasn't I?" she said tightly. "I must say, you do use unconventional methods, don't you?"
"Is that all it was, Cecilia?" he asked, his voice a whispered thread of sound that wound itself around her senses.
She laughed thinly. "Of course. What else could it be for your reputation is well known? You hunt but shun the kill."
"Perhaps I've only been waiting for the ultimate prey," he offered whimsically, his eyes echoing his smile.
"Yes, well, that may be the reason you haven't ended your hunt. But really, I—I don't think I could take to being merely an exercise," she said lamely, staring up at him with stricken but determined eyes.
He smiled gently at her. "You, my dear, are anything but an exercise. I meant what I said; I have been wanting to kiss you. "
Cecilia wasn't confident she understood his meaning. She wanted to take the kiss as a kiss; however, she couldn’t see how a man like Branstoke might be interested in her. She fidgeted a moment, then rose to cross to the table at the other end of the sofa. She unstopped the bottle of lavender water and sprinkled more on her handkerchief. She was disconcerted to note a slight trembling in her hand. She touched the damp white muslin and lace to her forehead, cooling her fevered brow. Without looking toward Branstoke, who continued to observe her carefully for all his recaptured sleepy, relaxed demeanor, she wandered slowly to the window and looked out onto the street below.
Shadows were lengthening. The bright promise of the spring morning had through the long day been devoured by thickening clouds, and a freshening northern wind that reminded man winter was not far in the past. The barrow boys, milk women, and other denizens of the streets by day were wandering each to his home, be it hovel or house. Passing carriages clattered swiftly through the emptying streets, their lanterns rocking, their coachmen all mufflered.
Why did it now resemble nothing so much as an alien landscape? Unfamiliar and frightening in aspect? Why was her behavior more like a Billingsgate fishwife than that of someone suffering from various ills? Her chest rose and fell as she took deep breaths.
"I had not thought to be so shattered after my grandparent's house party. Now I find my thoughts fractured, my nerves sadly shaken." She turned to look back at Branstoke and smiled wanly. "I cannot think your remedy for a person suffering from a nervous disorder to have been successful. If anything, it has left your patient in a sadder fashion."
"I don't believe that, Mrs. Waddley. And neither do you," he said softly.
"La! You don't know what a trial my fragile nerves are to me, how they frighteningly set my heart beating and make me feel faint all over," she said easily, her patter descending over her like a protective cloak.
"Cut line, Cecilia. That won't fadge," he said.
She looked at him warily.
He took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped. "You may halt the silly, sickly female ploy. I know it is foreign to your nature. You may continue to maintain that image in front of others if you like, but I will have your true nature in front of me. Good day, Mrs. Waddley," he said softly, his face impassive as he made his bow.
Turning on his heel, he left her, never looking back, never seeing her hand come up beseechingly, asking for what her lips could not shape into words.
* * *
Lady Meriton foundher later in a room gone dark with night and guttered candles. She was curled up in the corner of the rose-colored sofa, her satin slippers off, her feet curled under her. Her elbow rested on a sofa arm so her head might be cradled in her hand. She didn't look up when Jessamine entered, she merely shifted her eyes and let out a deep sigh.
"Gracious! What has you suffering blue megrims?" Lady Meriton asked, bustling about with the tinderbox.
"Oh, blast, I've never been a dab hand at this," she muttered, struggling to get a punk lit. When it flamed, she smiled, satisfied, and lit branches of candles. Soon the room was bathed in a warm, rosy glow. She blew out the punk, set it down in a tray, then crossed the room to sit at Cecilia's side.
"Well?" she asked.
"I beg your pardon, Jessamine. What did you say?"
"What has you so dismal?"
"I've been contemplating stupidity, foolishness, and rash decisions."
"The universal concepts, or do you have specifics in mind?" her aunt asked wryly.
Cecilia shook her head, a melancholy smile on her lips. "My own, of course." She sighed. "I've finally deduced my motivations for searching out Mr. Waddley's murderer. They are not pretty."
"One could hardly expect them to be all sunlight and roses, my dear."
A thin laugh escaped passed Cecilia's lips. "No, I suppose not, for murder is never pretty. But it is not the murder, per se, which compels me. It is more a search for identity which bears the strongest consideration. I have begun to feel that my life with Mr. Waddley was—well, it was stultifying. I existed like a doll in a shop window, or perhaps more accurately, like one of the Exeter Exchange animals. And while I've begun to feel that way, I also feel guilty for those sentiments. Mr. Waddley was good to me in his way, Jessamine; it seems somehow—I don't know—evil perhaps, to even think that what I was fortunate enough to have was not enough." Cecilia gnawed on her lower lip, looking forlorn.
