"Not at all, Lady Meriton. I would deem it an honor. You are a noted silhouettist."
Lady Meriton blushed prettily at his grave response. Cecilia stared, amused.
"Can we offer you something by way of refreshment? Some Oastley estate-brewed ale, perhaps?" Lady Meriton asked as she drew a sheet of black paper from her lap desk. She glared at it a moment then replaced it, drawing out a dark red sheet instead.
"Thank you, Lady Meriton. I should like that. The Duke of Houghton's ale is legendary."
"Mr. Waddley often said the duke should market his ale, but of course, grandfather would have nothing to do with trade," Cecilia said as her aunt rang for the butler and requested ale for Branstoke.
"Yet he countenanced your marriage into trade."
Branstoke's demeanor irritated Cecilia, though she couldn't precisely define the reason. "Come now, sir, if you think to disturb me by that remark, you are well out," she said more sharply than she'd intended. She looked down at the handkerchief she held while consciously relaxing and ridding her face of any irritation. She was acting out of character, and this would never do.
"Disturb?" he inquired blandly.
She laughed brightly, hoping he didn't detect any brittleness in the sound. "La, sir! It is commonly known my father and brother arranged my marriage as a means to recover the family fortunes."
"Ah yes, now I do seem to recall a time when your brother was sadly purse-pinched," Sir James said vaguely, leaning back in his chair.
He did appear the languid gentleman of her aunt's description. Why did that bother her? And why did she feel he was baiting her? She was mentally composing a properly featherbrained response to him when a soft knock on the door announced Loudon with the ale.
"I have taken the liberty of bringing you a fresh pot of tea as well, my lady," Loudon said as he set the tray down on a table. He picked up a pitcher and poured frothing ale into a tankard for Branstoke. He handed it to him, then turned to Lady Meriton. "Do you require anything else, my lady?"
"I do not believe so." She glanced up from her scissors and paper to look at her niece. "Cecilia?" she asked.
A pained expression crossed Cecilia's face. "The mere thought of food nauseates me dreadfully."
Her aunt nodded vaguely, her attention returning to the paper she held in her hand. Loudon, used to his mistress's unorthodox dismissals, bowed and left the room.
Branstoke pulled a white linen handkerchief from a vest pocket and leaned toward Cecilia. He wiped her chin. "There was probably too much sugar in the last pastry you ate," he drawled, displaying to her the remnants of sugar on his handkerchief.
She pulled sharply back, coloring deeply as embarrassment and discomfort chased across her face. His nearness reminded her of when she collided with him last night: his solidity, his scent, the prickling of her senses. She wasawareof him. She'd never felt that heady sense of awareness of a man before. It frightened and excited her.
Quickly, she gathered her wits. She tittered. "I dare say you're correct. Jessamine—" She turned toward her aunt, uncomfortable under Branstoke's regard. "I believe I should stick with water and soda crackers after one of my turns. The sugar is most likely aggravating my condition. No wonder my heart pounds so!"
"If I may say so, Mrs. Waddley, perhaps the ah—abundant use of lavender water could be a contributor as well," suggested Sir James, the ghost of a smile tightening his thin lips.
Cecilia turned back to look at Branstoke. She wrinkled her nose and had the grace to look chagrined. "That was an accident. I was hoping the pungent odor was noticeable only to myself."
"I regret to tell you it is not," he said solemnly though his eyes twinkled at her.
Cecilia wanted to respond in jest but dared not. She pursed her lips and cast her eyes down. Her fingers plaited the fringe of the blanket thrown over her legs. She sighed. "I don't know what is wrong with me lately. I am so fidgety I constantly drop and spill things quite in the manner of the Countess of Seaverness."
"Rest assured, madam, no one could be in the countess's league," he said drily. "The woman is a walking disaster—most of the time to the detriment of others. Perhaps you are, as your physician suggested, in need of rest."
"I believe you are correct," Cecilia said, leaning back against the pillows. If that was what he believed, then that is what she would pretend. She allowed her body to relax and her eyes to droop sleepily. "Every day since Mr. Waddley died, I've discovered my energies flagging. I tell you, sir, it causes me no end of suffering to be without strength. I confess that sometimes I fear I shall fade away." Her voice died away to a mere thread. She looked at him wanly and allowed the tiniest hint of a smile to grace her lips. She sighed, her eyelids fluttering.
"I understand that you and Mr. Waddley lived quiet lives. Perhaps you are merely unused to racketing about London during the season," suggested Sir James. He sipped his ale and watched her over the rim of the tankard.
That was not the idea she wished to give him! Racketing—as he called it—about London was necessary to her plans for discovering Mr. Waddley's murderer. She opened her eyes wider to mitigate the idea that she was exhausted. "You may be correct," she conceded, "nonetheless, I refuse to give in to weakness of any kind. I do not care to be an invalid. Also, I believe activity fosters energy and good health later. If I do not push myself unduly, I shall daily improve my health."
"A commendable philosophy, Mrs. Waddley. Are you perhaps husbanding your energies today to expend them this evening?"
"As it happens, I am. My brother has very kindly engaged in taking me to King's Theater this evening."
"You are an Italian Opera enthusiast?"
"Why, yes, Sir James, I am."
