“A lullaby?” Cecilia’s mouth fell open. “I don’t know any lullabies, my lord.”
“I heard you singing to Isabella earlier. I assume you were singingher a lullaby?”
“Well, yes…I mean, no, not…” Cecilia bit her lip. “I don’t know any proper lullabies.”
Lord Darlington shrugged. “Sing an improper one, then.”
Cecilia gaped at him. He wanted her to sing an improper songnow, in frontofhim? “But—”
“Youaremeant to be putting Isabella to bed tonight, are you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Aren’t lullabies a common enough occurrence at bedtime?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“Well, then.” He waved an imperious hand at her.
Cecilia wracked her brain, but the few sweet lullabies she knew had fled in a panic the moment he demanded one. The only songs she could recall were the drinking or shanty songs the mudlarking urchinsused to sing.
Perhaps “Jack Hall” would do? No, that was about a man hanged for burglary. “The Fair Maid of Islington” was a pretty tune, but wasn’t there something in it about a vintner paying a fair maidenfive pounds to…
Cecilia’s cheeks went hot. Dear God, she couldn’t singthat.
“The Irish Girl,” then. It was proper enough, if she left off the last verse about drinking whiskey and dangling a lassie on one knee.
She drew a deep breath, and with a muttered prayer,began to sing:
I wish my lovewas a red rose,
And in the garden grew,
And I to be the gardener;
To her Iwould be true…
Lord Darlington didn’t look at her, but he went still when shebegan to sing.
I wish I was a butterfly,
I’d fly to mylove’s breast;
I wishI was a linnet,
I’d sing my love to rest.
Cecilia sang through the rest of the verses, leaving off the last one about debauching the lassies. Lord Darlington murmured something to Isabella when the song ended. Isabella stirred, nestled her head against her uncle’s chest, and driftedback to sleep.
Lord Darlington continued to rock quietly, but he was studying Cecilia over the top of Isabella’s downy head. “Why don’t you know any proper lullabies?”
Maybe she had once, but if anyone ever had sung lullabies to her when she was a child, Cecilia didn’t remember them. “I can’t recall them, I suppose.”
Lord Darlington didn’t appear satisfied with this reply. He opened his mouth, but Cecilia didn’t choose to share anything more, so she rose from the chair before he could speak, and hurried to the window on the other side of the room.
He didn’t speak to her again, but she felt the heat of his gaze on her back, and sought out his reflection in the glass. He was caressing Isabella’s hair, his big palm stroking gently over the girl’s head, the rocking chair squeaking beneath them.
Cecilia kept herself busy on her own side of the room, folding and then refolding Isabella’s clothing and blankets and sneaking looks at Lord Darlington’s reflection. She turned to face him again when he rose from the rocking chair, and watched as he drew the pink silk hangings aside and lay Isabella in her bed, careful not to wake her. “Sleep well, little one.”
