May love and wine their rights maintain,
And their unitedpleasure reign;
While Bacchus’ treasure crowns the board,
We’ll sing the joy that both afford.
No, surely that didn’t mean…
But of course, it did. It meant precisely what she’d always known it did, and she’d just sang it aloud to a roomful of aristocratic strangers.
With fervor.
She’d just sung a song about…aboutcopulationin the middle of Lord Darlington’s drawing room. In front of his wedding guests, no less.
Cecilia groaned as she resumed her trek up the staircase. Lord Darlington had been patient with her tonight, kind even, but if none of her other missteps had resulted in her dismissal,thisonesurely would.
They were all likely still sitting in frozen silence in the drawing room, staring at one another in shock. Cecilia’s stomach roiled at the thought. She wasn’t ashamed of herself—not really, though she probably should be. She wasn’t proud, either, but she couldn’t deny the little curl of triumph in her chest. It was heady, even as it was tempered by fear, fury, defiance, and yes, a touch of nausea.
In short, her emotions were so tangled she could hardly tellwhatshe felt, but without warning, her eyes began to sting with unshed tears.
Tears she wouldn’t allow herself toshed. Not yet.
She hurried into the bedchamber she shared with Isabella, closed the door, and sagged against it. Isabella was asleep, and Cecilia took advantage of this rare moment of private, blessed quiet. The knot inside her chest loosened, but as her alarm faded the tears she’d been holding back spilled over her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, but they fell faster than she could catch them, and after a fruitless struggle she gave herself up to them, sagging against the door, her breath hitching as quiet sobs wracked her.
I do believe I’m overwrought.
It wasn’t a familiar feeling. Indeed, she couldn’t recall ever being so overwrought in her life. Sophia and Emma were the ones who became overwrought, and Georgiana the one who fell into tempers. Cecilia had always been the serene one, the only one of the four not prone to bursts of fury or passion. No matter how trying the circumstances, she always remained composed.
How in the world had she ever let herself fall into such a temper tonight? She’d never lost control of herself like that before, but then Mrs. Honeywell was awful enough to shatter the composure of a saint. Cecilia had never before been as vexed as she’dbeen just now—
She paused, blinking. Now she thought of it, she’d hardly ever been vexed at all before tonight, rarely crossed or challenged. Yet here she was, congratulating herself on her delightful temperament. It was an empty boast, when that temper had never truly been tried.
Of all the things that might have popped into her head just then, Cecilia found herself thinking of Gussie, Lady Clifford’s plump pug dog. Gussie spent most of his time splayed out on his back in front of the drawing room fire, his short legs in the air, contented snores gusting from his drooling lips. He was a charming little fellow, but one couldn’t deny he was an indolent thing, of very littleuse to anyone.
Cecilia adored Gussie—they all did. He was a much-beloved member of the Clifford School, and considered by them all to be of a remarkably sweet temper. Every last one of them exclaimed over his affectionate nature, extolled his many virtues, and declared him the loveliest dog ever to grace the canine world. Even Daniel Brixton, who was the sternest man Cecilia had ever known, cosseted, petted, andspoiled Gussie.
Rather like they did with Cecilia herself.
Her eyes opened wide.
Dear God, she was just like Gussie.
Oh, her friends would deny it to their dying breaths. They’d argue she was the dearest, the sweetest, the most tenderhearted of them all. They’d stroke and soothe and murmur consolingly to her, much as they did with Gussie when he had the bellyache from too many treats.
Well, she hadn’t been very sweet to Mrs. Honeywell. Not that the woman deserved Cecilia’s consideration, cruel, spiteful old thing that she was. Indeed, Cecilia was rather relieved to find she could defend herself when the occasion required it.
No, she couldn’t regret her response to Mrs. Honeywell’s attack, only…
She wiped away the last of her tears and crossed the room to gaze down at Isabella, who was sleeping like the angel she was, her soft, golden-brown curls a messy halo around her head.
Only she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer for her foolishness tonight, would she? Isabella would be hurt, too, if Cecilia was dismissed and sent away from Darlington Castle. A wave of bitter regret rolled over her, drawing fresh tears to her eyes.
Mrs. Honeywell might be haughty and despicable, but Cecilia hadn’t acquitted herself well tonight, either. Now, gazing down at Isabella, she wished with all her heart she’d putherbefore heroffended pride.
But it was too late for that now. She’d escaped dismissal twice, but after tonight, what choice did Lord Darlington have but to dismiss her? One didnotsing about drunkenness and copulation in the drawing room. Surely that must be the first and most sacred rule oftonetiquette?
A sudden knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and Cecilia started toward it, thinking it must be Amy, come to commiserate with her. But when the knock sounded again, louder this time, Cecilia realized with dawning horror it wasn’t the hallway door that wasunder assault.
