“Well, then. Let’s finish our story first. Wouldyou like that?”
Isabella rubbed the tears from her eyes with her little fists. “The story about the snow castle?”
“That very one.”
“Yes, please.” Isabella’s mouth was still trembling, but she snuggled against heruncle’s chest.
Lord Darlington tucked the child’s head under his chin and began his story, his tone low and soothing. Cecilia couldn’t hear what he said—something about building a castle in the snow—but it didn’t matter. It was the deep rumble of his voice that caught her attention, the drift of his long fingers through the golden-brown locks of Isabella’s hair.
She perched on the edge of her cot, watching the firelight play over Lord Darlington’s features, gilding him, blurring his harsh edges. She searched his face for any hint of cruelty, any trace of the brutality of which he’d been accused.
There was nothing.
There was just him. Big, gentle hands, dark hair curling against his neck, his long eyelashes shadowing his cheeks, the curve of his jaw and the vulnerable pulse at this throat, the movement of his full lips as he made his whispered promises to Isabella.
Cecilia couldn’t take her eyes off him.
How could such a man as this, a man who touched a child with such care, who spoke to her with such tenderness, be guilty of murdering his wife?
For that one instant, in that one suspended moment, it seemed impossible to Cecilia Lord Darlington could have committed such a crime. If he hadn’t, if the malicious gossip was false, and he was innocent, what must his life have been likethis past year?
The man in the portrait, that young, handsome man, his face glowing with anticipation and promise, to have had his future stolen from him, his every hope dashed by ugly rumors. The misery, the wretchedness and pain of such a thing made Cecilia’s breath catch hard in her throat. She tried to choke back the sound, but Lord Darlington heard it, and his gaze jerked to her face.
They didn’t speak. Not a single word passed between them, but even as Cecilia told herself to look away, his dark blue eyes, eyes full of secrets and shadows, held her trapped. The fire crackled, and Isabella sighed in her sleep. Warmth flooded Cecilia’s belly and rushed over her skin, and her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.
Still, their gazes held.
Her lips parted. For an instant his eyes dropped to her mouth, and Cecilia felt her tongue creep out to touch her bottom lip. He followed the movement, and a sound tore from his throat, a growl or a gasp.
He rose from the chair and took a step toward her, his eyes darkening to a turbulent blue when she didn’t back away from him. “Don’t…look atme like that.”
Cecilia swallowed, but when she spoke her voice was so breathy, she hardly recognized it as her own. “How…how am I looking at you?”
His heated gaze swept over her, lingering on the curves of her hips and breasts and tracing the lines of her neck. “As if you want—”
But Cecilia never found out how she looked, or what she wanted, because Isabella stirred, mumbling something in her sleep. Lord Darlington blinked, then jerked his gaze from her faceto Isabella’s.
The tension between them snapped, and the moment was gone.
He turned away from her, settling Isabella in her bed and dropping a kiss on her pink cheek. When he straightened from the bed he stood there awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, he gave her a curt nod, avoiding her eyes.
Cecilia rose uncertainly to her feet. “Good night.”
He nodded again, and then…then he did something that shouldn’t have sent a shiver over her skin, followed by a confusing rush of searing heat.
But it did.
He strode to the door that connected Isabella’s cozy room to his own bedchamber, opened it, and closed it again behind him. He was so close she could hear him on the other side, the soft thud of his footsteps moving across the floor.
Cecilia dropped onto her cot, her knees trembling. The only thing separating her sleeping quarters from Lord Darlington’s bedchamber was a single, connecting door.
Chapter Ten
Four days later.
Gideon opened one eye as his bedchamber door creaked open, the notes of “The Irish Girl” drifting through his head. Had he dreamed of that song again? Of the sweet, clear voice that sang it, each silvery note falling like soft raindrops against his skin—
His other eye flew open, a grimace twisting his lips. For God’s sakes, had he really just compared Cecilia Gilchrist’s voice tosilvery raindrops?
