"Yes, ma'am, he did, and very distinct he was about it, too."
"Oh, dear, it appears to me you may not have any recourse but to confide in him," Lady Meriton said, suppressed laughter coloring her voice.
Cecilia chewed on her lower lip a moment. "Blast the man! There, see? How can I trust him? I tell him to stay out of my concerns, and he ignores my words. Where is the trust in me?"
"Cecilia, you are hardly fair. You don't know how he came about to see Mr. Thornbridge and know him not to be a medical man."
"All right, all right. I stand corrected. I shall not leap willy-nilly to conclusions. I suppose I'd best see him, to at least learn what he does know. Loudon, show him into the rose parlor. I'll be down directly." She turned toward her aunt, her handkerchief rubbing her cheeks. "How do I look? Is my complexion blotchy?"
"No, merely dewy. But straighten your fichu. There, you'll do; however, I do wish you'd smile. You look like some sacrificial victim."
Cecilia grimaced as she stood and shook out her skirt. "At the moment, I feel that description to be very apt," she said wryly. Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the door. Behind her, Lady Meriton shook her head and smiled.
Chapter 11
Cecilia softly closed the parlor door. She leaned against its carved oak panels, her hands behind her back still clutching the door latch as if she were half-afraid to stay, to commit herself to talk with Branstoke.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked levelly, pleased at the light note she'd infused into her tone.
Branstoke stood in the middle of the room, regarding her dispassionately through hooded eyes. He waited.
Cecilia shifted uneasily; finally, she straightened, releasing her death's grasp of the door latch. She took a few steps toward him, careful to keep her distance. She didn't trust being close to Branstoke, but whether that was due to him or herself, she refused to examine.
"Is Lady Meriton to join us?" he asked, casually removing his snuffbox from his pocket and flicking the latch open with his thumb.
"No, she is occupied at present," Cecilia said, red surging up to stain her cheeks. She plucked her handkerchief from where she had tucked it at the end of her long sleeve and began wringing it with both hands. "You forget, sir, I am mistress of my affairs and stand in no need of a chaperone. The idea is quite ludicrous at my age," she said with a tight laugh.
One dark eyebrow rose, and it appeared his attention shifted to her full red lips. Noting the direction of his fixed gaze, Cecilia's discomfort increased, for suddenly she remembered two occasions with him where a chaperone would have been wise.
She clasped her hands before her, tension evident in the tendons of her hand. "You mentioned Thornbridge to Loudon," she said formally. "How is it you know of his accident? I have just received a note from Dr. Heighton myself."
"Yes, Dr. Heighton informed me he sent around a reassuring missive." He took a pinch of snuff, snapped the tiny box shut, and returned it to his pocket.
"Reassuring? Are his injuries graver than he intimated?"
"No. Though they well could have been. Cecilia, it is past time that we speak without prevarication or omission."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly, her head flung up in silent challenge.
Branstoke crossed his arms over his chest, his head canted as he considered her, "I have observed a very interesting phenomena during the short time we have been acquainted," he drawled. "Did you know your eyes darken and a tiny pulse throbs in your neck when you lie to me? No, I don't suppose you do," he said with a thin smile as he watched color blazing into her cheeks again. "I assure you it is true. Now, shall we begin again? I am not a flat."
A tiny, reluctant smile creased Cecilia's lips. "Is that in conjunction with not being a Borgia?" she couldn't resist asking.
Branstoke's eyes glowed in appreciation of her humor. "Yes, along with being a man with a surprisingly limited fount of patience where you are concerned," he warned darkly, stepping closer to her.
Cecilia moved gracefully to the right to put a table between them.
He stopped and impassively studied the obstruction. "I see," he murmured. He turned and walked toward the fireplace. He stood with his back to her, staring up at the portrait of Lady Meriton with her son Franklin as a young child. "But I believe we were discussingMisterThornbridge, the youngest manager at Waddley Spice and Tea," he said, turning to look at her over his shoulder.
Cecilia placed her fingertips on the table in front of her. "I admit, Sir James, you have the advantage of me. How am I to take that?"
"Honestly, I beg of you."
She sighed and compressed her lips. "All right, I admit I lied about his position as my physician."
"Why?"
She shrugged slightly. "It just seemed easier. And truthfully, society expects me to receive numerous visits from a physician."
