Arabella twinkled at her. “Noone else? I can think of at least one gentleman who caught your eye.”
“When we were children,” Cecily said with as much dignity as she could muster, although four years ago felt like both a blink of an eye and a lifetime when it came to a broken heart. Well, perhaps not a broken heart. She had not preciselylovedhim, but she’d thought she might. And whenever she thought of Percy’s shortcomings, she found that the largest one she could think of pertained to the fact he was not William Devereaux.
“What if,” Arabella said with false solemnity, “I told you that you have another chance at charming the infamous Mr Devereaux?”
Cecily turned, thoughts of Percy forgotten. William had left England for the continent shortly after Percy had found them together, and she hadn’t seen him since. Not when her mother had announced she had arranged a marriage with Sir Percy, and certainly not when the same man—after stealing her every chance of happiness—had the gall to expect her to fall in love with him. As though her heart were a berry ripe for the plucking by any gentleman who might come along, rather than a sacred thing saved for the man she thought the best of.
All this time, she had not seen the one man she’d always supposed she would give her heart to.
“He’s returned?” she asked.
“While you were witnessing your husband’s betrayal, I was receiving the latest updates from my friend Miss Patricia Helmsworth, and—”
“Don’t tease me! What did you discover?”
“Why, that your dear William had returned from Italy and has been in London these two weeks since. I came this morning with the intention of seeing if we could find him. I’ve heard that he sometimes rides out in the morning. Or perhaps he will walk. Either way, if he’s here, then we will find him.Andif you mean what you say about your situation with Sir Percy . . .” Arabella sucked on her lip. “Far be it from me to encourage any unwifely behaviour, but perhaps you could put this newfound freedom of yours to good use when you see him. Not, I suspect, that your husband could have stopped you if you had chosen to do so before.”
No, Percy certainly could not have stopped her. But although she’d had plenty of flirts, and more than one gentleman had presumed that because she was easy with her smiles she would be easy with her other favours, they had all discovered she was not.
This, however, was entirely different. A matter of the heart, not of the body.
William Devereaux, finally back from his self-imposed exile.
“Weeks?” she said. “He has been here for weeks and hasn’t come to call on me?”
“Why should he, dearest? You’re a married lady now.”
The ring on her finger burned.
Williamhad returned.
“Come on,” she said, hurrying forwards and dragging Arabella behind her. “Let’s see if we can find him.”
They had walked the full stretch of Hyde Park and were on the verge of giving up and returning home when Arabella stood on her tiptoes. “I think I see him!”
Cecily felt as though something had launched itself at her stomach. A brick, perhaps, or a particularly heavy flowerpot. The wind blew again, tossing her hair into her eyes, and she reached a hand up to clear her vision. By the time she had, she was face to face with a tall, handsome man. One she remembered from her dreams.
He looked as dashing as he’d been the day they had met, a little over four years ago, when she’d come to London dreaming of a great love. Dark eyes, raven hair loosely brushed back from his forehead, and a smile that curved so wickedly, she felt her heartbeat increase.
Yet there were differences, too. Creases around his mouth that didn’t speak of smiles so much as dissipation, and premature lines across his forehead. He wasn’t so very much older than her, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, but it was as though she could map the time they’d been apart across his features.
His gaze passed across her face, and Cecily swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She’d imagined this day so many times—imagined Percy having perished of an unmentioned ailment so that when they met again, she was a merry widow. Reality, however, rendered her girlish fantasies somewhat sour.
She was not a merry widow, and nor did she want to be. Percy may not be the husband of her dreams, and she certainly did not like him much, but she’d never wish death on him.
William, too . . . Well, in her fantasies, he had stayed the same as he always had been, but now he stood before her, she saw how ridiculous that assumption had been.
“Well I’ll be,” he said, taking her hand and bending over it with a graceful flourish. “Can it be Cecily Wexford?”
“Cecily Somerville now,” she said, taking her hand back. Her heart felt as though it was pummelling her ribcage. The sight of him, all the feelings she’d once had, come to attack her once more.
“Ah yes, of course. You married the baronet. My felicitations.”
“Thank you.” She looked into his face, and it felt as though he, too, were assessing her. Arabella joined William’s companion, and they all fell in together, walking along the promenade as they had once done over four years ago. “What has brought you back to London?” she asked.
“Merely that I felt I had been away from it too long. And, of course, away from certain ladies.” He inclined his head in her direction, and familiar warmth spilled over her. This was how it had been when they were together—he had always contrived to make her feel so special. A heady, almost desperate rush, sweeping her along in its tide. “Tell me, how are you?”
What a complex question. “Well.”
