“Your next appointment, aye? Fine.” Downes pointed at Felton. “Remember my kindness. No permanently stealing my set designer. This woman is amazing if she’ll fit into your schedule.”
Felton grunted and put his arm on the door. “Yes, I know the difficulties of gaining any time with thewidow.”
The man looked at Cecilia, then left.
With a swing of his palm, Felton slammed the door. “You’re Cecilia Charity Lance, the Marchioness Gantry. And I, your husband, am quite alive.”
Her brilliant agate eyes with bits of green and topaz bloomed wide like a trapped kitten’s.
Then he realized he must be frightening her. He didn’t want that. He was no ogre, just a frustrated man in love with a woman he didn’t understand. Lowering his hands to his sides, he tried to hold in all he felt. “Can’t believe I’ve stumbled upon you. I came to meet Liverpool.”
“Oh, you’re a spy again?” She choked and patted her chest.
Felton moved closer. “Are you ill? Do I need to get a doctor?”
She coughed and sucked in a quick breath. “No. I’m not ill, but you . . . you look well, Lord Gantry.”
Her tone was stiff and formal. She’d perfected diminishing her wondrous accent.
He rubbed at his neck. He’d dreamed of this moment so many times, but now words failed, all tied to his tongue with strains of anger and longing.
Swallowing it all he focused on the fact that she was in front of him. “You look more than well, Cecilia. You’re beautiful as always.”
Her palms slapped her hips, which made her coat highlight her fuller figure, the thick thighs and small waist he missed.
Her golden cheeks blazed. Her emotions always set her skin on fire, bursting with color. “Thank you, my lord.”
Overcome by it all, a flurry of memories, their happier times, he folded his arms behind his back to keep from reaching for her.
Felton didn’t trust if he’d merely embrace her or shake sense into her vivacious limbs. “Where have you been?”
“Art took me away. Mr. Downes is quite happy with my work.” She jiggled the coins in her palm. “Wasn’t a waste of time and no one complains if it’s the proper occupation for a peer’s wife.”
That sounded like something Jane would say. “I should’ve stepped in and said something to my sister.” He moved closer. “I do apologize for that. It doesn’t reflect my sentiments at all, now that I know how good you are.”
“So, my passion must have a qualifier to be indulged by the Lance siblings.”
“I don’t know, I’d have to check with my older sisters; all of them including Jane are away. Why didn’t you tell me about your art? Why did you make it a secret for just you and the girls?”
“And Tramel.” She started to chuckle—her nervous laugh—then bit down on her lip. “They still dream, Felton. They don’t need a lot of words to believe.”
Felton clasped his neck. “I want to believe now. I do believe. I had months to study your canvases. I can see them all in my head.”
“You too?” Cecilia looked to the door then back to him.
“Are you wondering if I’ll let you leave? I didn’t stop you before, why would I stop you now?”
She drew deeper into her coat, the coat he’d bought her for her first English winter. A little worn on the elbows, she still looked like a choice blueberry.
This wasn’t at all how his dreams of reuniting went. Someone would say sorry. Then the other. Then they’d pick right back up with the loving. He could taste her—her kisses, the edges of her fingers, that spot on her neck.
He tugged at his waistcoat and decided to confess . . . mostly confess. “Nothing in my heart has changed. I still want you . . . in my life. I’m still miserable without you.”
“I’m sorry to be the cause of your pain, my lord. I must be going.”
She brushed his sleeve, trying to rush past.
And he reacted and swept her against him. “I’m flesh and blood, not stone. I’ve struggled to keep myself sane with the hopes of finding you. That you were alive and well. I’ve missed you so.”
