A gleam entered Marcus’ eyes. “Going to pay a visit to the countess, eh?”
Stephen could not allow Marcus to speak thusly. “There are business matters only she can put to rest.” Shooting a warning look at his friend, he continued, “The lady is to be commended for showing such loyalty to my cousin.”
Marcus nodded thoughtfully, looking adequately remorseful. “Of course, no slight intended. Speaking of Lady Kensington, did you know her father is back in London? I ran into him over at Brooke’s the other evening. He’s just returned from Surrey himself. Says his daughter is thriving.”
Stephen had heard Findlay was in town and had been tempted to arrange a visit with him; he’d abstained. It was possible he’d be meeting with the man later, and such a visit would most likely not be a pleasant one. He needed to know what Cecily’s wishes were before doing anything.
Stephen was only thankful the man was not considered a gentleman. That way, Flave would not be obliged to meet the man for yet another duel. He wasn’t sure his cousin could survive one.
It jolted him to hear that Cecily was thriving. Were she and Flavion reconciled then? Had she forgotten Stephen so easily?
Pushing this unbidden thought aside, he reached forward and affectionately patted his horse on the neck. Phoenix was a fine mare. He’d purchased her from a breeder he’d met with on his recent travels, and they were still getting used to one another. They’d ridden hard that morning, and she deserved to be taken back to the stables for a thorough rubdown.
“Good to hear. I will verify this information myself when I am down there.” Eager to change the subject, he brought up something that would avert Marcus’ attention. “Have you run into your own father? I understand he still resides in town as well.”
Even though Cecilyand Flavion were both making efforts toward friendship, Cecily was coming to realize that the two of them had very little in common. Away from the excitement and Society of London, this quickly became all too apparent. They… tolerated one another. Conversations were brief and stilted, and her favorite thing about spending time with Flave was… taking her leave of him.
Even two weeks after her father’s departure, she had still not told Flavion that of her condition. She had several very rational excuses for not doing so. She told herself it was early yet, and something could still go wrong. She told herself that the right time hadn’t yet come along. But the truth was, once she told him, she would be committed to the deception. And it was a grand deception indeed!
Once she told Flavion, she could never allow Stephen to acknowledge the child as his own. The child would essentially be in Flavion’s control.
But time was running out. It had only been a couple of months, but already her abdomen was no longer flat and soft. Any other husband, Cecily rather thought, would have noticed her frequent bouts of biliousness and her uncommon tendency to become emotional, and guessed, or perhaps been suspicious.
But not Flavion.
In spite of Flavion’s declaration that he wished to make the best of their marriage, he treated Cecily not like a wife, but rather more like a visiting cousin. He did not consult her regarding household decisions, and he visited neighboring families on his own, never bothering to invite her along.
If Cecily was going to make this country estate into her home, then it seemed she would have to find her own introductions.
That was how she came to be taking tea with Mrs. Clark, the vicar’s wife.
The woman was scarcely a decade older than herself, but starchy and more than a little self-important. She sat in her chair as rigid as a brick wall, her black hair pulled into such a tight bun that the woman’s eyes stretched toward the back of her head. She appeared to be continuously squinting.
Cecily had hoped the woman might take her about and make some introductions, but it had been over an hour already, and the woman persisted only in discussing the importance of charity. It seemed she wanted Cecily and Flavion to supply baskets of food as well as financial assistance to the local ladies’ guild. She was not much interested in Cecily actually participating in any of their efforts.
“It is gratifying, indeed,” the woman droned on, “to have a fine lady such as yourself take interest in the local gentry and farming families. We have held many fundraisers over the summer… bake sales, a pledge drive and even a small carnival… but with support from the Earl and Countess of Kensington, hopefully we can amass enough funds to reroof the church and even change out a few of the pews. Not that comfort is anything that ought to be considered, but I discovered some very fine polished pews while visiting my cousin’s church near Bristol last year, and it would do our village quite nicely to have a bit of shine, don’t you think?” Without awaiting Cecily’s response, the woman continued in this vein for quite some time.
Cecily’s tea had grown tepid, and the sandwiches the woman had provided for this meeting were dry. Worst of all, Cecily was becoming increasingly queasy from the unusual tastes and smells within the rectory. The vicar and his wife most likely owned a cat, or several, for an underlying odor permeated the room. Cecily’s stomach lurched. She needed to take her leave before embarrassing herself.
Reticule in hand, Cecily stood abruptly, cutting off the woman’s monologue. “I will speak with my husband. I believe we can put together some charity baskets, but I cannot promise anything of a financial nature, as I am not privy to my husband’s spending decisions. I thank you much for your kind hospitality, but I really must be going.”
Before the woman could detain her any longer, Cecily crossed to the door and opened it herself. When she stepped outside, she took deep gulping breaths of fresh air. Oh, drat, this wasn’t helping either.
Cecily had made the short walk alone and now hoped that she could get to an isolated length of the road quickly. She needed privacy. She had no wish to empty the contents of her stomach in public.
Rushing along quickly, she had to cross several hundred yards of open countryside in order to locate a private place to rest, a bush, a tree — anywhere. And at the sounds of a horse and rider traveling down the road, she forced her legs to walk even faster.
She did not look to the side as the rider passed but felt his inconvenient scrutiny. And then he stopped, and the voice she heard echoed her dreams.
“Madam?” The rider looked down. He seemed uncertain that it was her, and rightly so, for she wore a bonnet and an older country dress. She had intentionally dressed in plain clothing for her visit, hoping it would make her seem less lofty, but it had all been for naught. “Cecily?”
She glanced over hesitantly, allowing him to see her face.
She’d craved the sound of his voice and hungered for his touch, but of all the times for him to find her, it would be now? Standing before him, she knew she looked far less than her best. She’d done nothing with her hair, her dress was drab and colorless, and she was fairly certain her complexion was tinged with green. Because, in addition to all of that, she was struggling heartily to keep from losing the contents of her stomach.
“It is you!” Suddenly he was smiling as he dismounted and stepped toward her. But upon closer inspection of her, his brows furrowed in concern. “You are not well.” He reached out and touched her forehead, which she knew would be clammy but cool, and then he took one of her gloved hands in his.
“I am fine. I was visiting with the vicar’s wife and ate something that did not sit well with me,” she prevaricated. “I will be fine.” She stated more firmly a second time, “I am fine.”
