Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance (16 page)

By the moonlight she could see that he had turned pale. “Look into my eyes, and tell me if I lie.”

He caught her by the shoulders, but she turned her head defiantly away. “Celia,” Lord Brandon said, “look at me.”

Cecily’s will crumbled. As though obeying an irresistible force, her eyes met his. Though every atom of reason in her brain shouted that Lord Brandon was a turncoat, a sixth sense whispered that his were the most honest eyes she had ever seen.

“Well?” he snapped, “Do you think me a liar and a knave? If you do, you’d better hand me over to the colonel and his brave Riders. Montworthy would
enjoy taking me prisoner. Or you could call the watch.”

Cecily drew a breath that broke on a sob. “Why are you doing this?”

Her tears were his undoing. Brandon could endure her anger and scorn, but he had no weapons against her pain. The thought that he had reduced her proud spirit to tears was unbearable. Without stopping to think of the consequences, he took her in his arms.

As he held her close against him, Cecily felt as though everything hurtful or sad in the world had vanished forever. She was in Trevor’s arms—she was where she had longed to be all this long time. Dazzled with unreasoning joy, Cecily lifted her mouth for his kiss.

The taste of her lips rekindled a slow-burning fire in him, and the flame that had sprung to life almost from the first moment of their meeting blazed up. She was unique, Brandon thought disjointedly, a woman of spirit and sweetness. For such a woman, a man might give up everything he had held dear.

All conscious thought had long fled from Cecily’s mind, but there was knowledge that went much deeper than reason or logic. And that knowledge told her that she was in love with Lord Brandon.

That she had found him in treasonous parlay did not matter. That he could be arrested at any moment no longer concerned her. What was important was that they were together at that moment.

They stayed fused together until the air around them seemed to singe. Then, finally, they drew apart and looked at each other in dazed wonder. “Oh, Celia,” Lord Brandon whispered. “Do you know what you have done to me?”

He saw her blink hard, saw that apprehension and fear were returning to shadow her eyes. “I’m
no traitor, nor am I a smuggler,” he told her sternly. “In your heart you know it.”

And she did. Though she did not know how or why, Cecily felt sure that he spoke the truth. Perhaps it was because Lord Brandon had saved her from the Widow’s Rock. Perhaps it was because he had always been there when she needed him, or because he made her laugh, or because when she was in his arms, the world could tumble into blue ruin for all she cared.

“Besides,” he pointed out, “Archimedes trusts me.”

“There is that,” she agreed.

His firm mouth curved into a singularly sweet smile, and Cecily could not resist reaching out to caress his hard cheek. He turned to kiss her palm, and the warmth of his mouth seemed to travel through her skin and bones and curve about her heart.

“Why?” she pleaded. “Why the disguise, Trevor? I want so much to understand.”

For a moment he hesitated. “I can’t tell you that,” he said at last. “You must take me on trust for a little longer.”

Again he bent his lips to hers. Once more the world seemed to cease its turning. But when this kiss was over, Cecily understood the irony of love. It followed no logic, offered no reason for being. It arrived unheralded, uninvited, even unwanted. And once love had laid siege to the heart, there could be no turning back.

“Say nothing to anyone,” Brandon was telling her.

“Is that a command?”

He smiled at the flash of her old spirit, and his eyes grew tender. “A request. And when the time comes, when everything looks blackest . . .”

He paused, and she prompted, “What then, Trevor?”

He took her hand, kissed the palm again, and folded her fingers over his kiss. “When things look blackest, let your trust be stronger than your doubt.”

“Is there any doubt as to who the best rider is?”

Obediently following Delinda’s pointing finger, Cecily looked down at the gentlemen who were riding their horses up and down the colonel’s riding track. She easily spotted Montworthy, who was dressed in a dove-colored riding coat, skin-tight doeskin breeches, and gleaming Hessian boots that fit his legs to perfection. He looked to be the quintessential Corinthian, as choice a spirit as ever racketed around the streets of London—and he knew it.

Captain Jermayne was also among the gentlemen below, and by contrast to Montworthy appeared almost provincial. He was not wearing regimentals today, and in his drab black coat, tan breeches and beaver hat, he looked unassuming and rather ordinary. But Cecily had noted that in his unspectacular way the captain was a far better horseman than his swaggering companion.

“To my mind, Mr. Montworthy has carried the day,” Delinda continued dotingly. “What a pity Sir Carolus has the gout and is indisposed—he would have enjoyed seeing his son’s triumph in the races.”

Races for the gentlemen were the colonel’s idea of entertainment for his guests, who had begun to arrive at three o’clock in the afternoon. They had been first greeted by their host, who, in honor of the occasion, had donned the regalia of his former regiment.

The colonel in battle dress complete with medals, sashes, and ceremonial weapons was a formidable
sight, and most of his guests felt somewhat dazed as they were escorted to a viewing pavilion. From this vantage place they could watch the more athletic gentlemen compete in feats of riding.

Ladies in their finery and jewels were quick to take their seats, ply their fans, and applaud the competitors. Those gentlemen who did not care to race congregated to drink wine and to discuss the politics of the day.

In that gathering of scarlet regimentals, brilliant silks and satins, saucy bonnets and hats that were all the fashion, Cecily resembled a dove. Her China crepe, trimmed with a double pleating of ribbon, was a somber gray, and her bonnet was trimmed with a single silk rose.

By contrast, Delinda was vividly attired in a cornflower-blue dress of jaconet muslin and a saucy hat decorated with blue ribbons and forget-me-nots. She was stylish and almost pretty, and her eyes were bright and hopeful as she watched Montworthy. Then, catching Cicely’s smile, she blushed and stammered, “But I forget my duties as a hostess—forgive me. You are not eating anything, dear Cecily.”

In truth Cecily had not done more than taste of the ample picnic that the colonel had provided. There were plates of cold chicken sliced thin, lamb cutlets, grouse, pheasant, and ham. There were mountains of pickled crab, pickled mushrooms, crayfish in sauce. The sight of so much food had taken away Cecily’s already feeble appetite.

“And you are pale. Do you feel down pin?” Delinda was asking anxiously.

Since her meeting with Lord Brandon in the woods, Cecily had felt decidedly down pin. In his arms she had thought that no matter what the appearances might be, she believed in him. Now logic
and reason had reasserted themselves. Lord Brandon could be toying with the safety of England. How could she be
sure
that he could be trusted?

Cecily was grateful when Captain Jermayne’s arrival cut short such disquieting thoughts. She gave him a friendly greeting and noted that he flushed when he shook Delinda’s hand.

“Ah, er, Miss Howard,” he stammered. “Your most obedient, ma’am. Look deucedly fine. Blue suits you. By Jove, yes. Mean to say—eh?”

Close up, the rangy young officer looked homelier than ever. His dark hair was windblown, and his scar stood white on his sunburned cheek. The very act of talking to females had apparently discomfited him, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration.

“Deucedly hot,” he mumbled. “Mean to say—yes, hot.”

He was so obviously embarrassed that Delinda felt a stab of sympathy. All her life she had been made to feel inadequate by those around her, and even though she had dressed so carefully today in her new clothes, Montworthy was not even looking her way. All of this disappointment and heartache made her understand how awkward poor Captain Jermayne must feel.

Forgetting her own shyness, she said, “You are a very good rider, Captain. Is yours a cavalry regiment?”

An eager look came into the captain’s eyes. “Kind of you, ma’am. Yes, it is. Nineteenth Mounted Hussars. I’m honored to serve with them. By Jove, yes.” He paused, then made a stupendous effort and added, “Fine picnic, ma’am. All your doing, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Delinda blushed at the compliment and looked down at her feet. The captain, having shot his bolt,
lapsed into abashed silence. Cecily said, “I am looking forward to the fireworks, Delinda. I have never seen a grand display by the Brock family before. Have you?”

“No, but I am persuaded it will be very fine—there is to be a fiery spectacle called the Eruption of Mt. Etna. It is said to be superb.” In her enthusiasm Delinda smiled at Captain Jermayne, who became very red in the face. “Even Lord Brandon told me earlier that he is looking forward to the display.”

All afternoon Cecily had avoided looking in Lord Brandon’s direction. She had tried not to think of him. But just the mention of his name had tumbled down her resolutions, and everything rushed back—the night and the whisper of voices, and the terror and the joy. Perhaps, Cecily thought bleakly, Mary was right when she said that there was enchantment in those words.

But there might also be treachery. “The dark of the moon,” Brandon had said, and that night there would be no moon in the sky. Cecily clenched her hands at her sides and gazed full at Lord Brandon.

The duke’s son had dressed entirely in black. He wore a black tailcoat with pockets in the pleats, black corduroy knee breeches, and a waistcoat with black flowers.

In that costume he would easily blend with the shadows. In a few hours he would melt into the moonless night to play his dangerous game. And because of her promise to him she must be part of that game.

She was not sure that she knew all the rules of the game. At times Cecily found herself wondering whether Lord Brandon was merely pretending to care for her. Not once had he spoken of love, and it was possible—even likely—that the duke’s son was
carrying his masquerade one step further and buying her silence with his kisses.

As if aware of Cecily’s thoughts, Brandon looked up, and his eyes locked with hers.
Trust me,
those eyes said.

“My dear?”

Cecily wrenched her eyes away from Lord Brandon and focused on Lady Marcham, who had strolled up to her side. “Look at Delinda and that nice young captain,” her aunt was saying. “They are actually talking together, even though they are both so shy that they can hardly rub two words together. I am persuaded that they enjoy each other’s company.”

She paused and smiled at Cecily. “I have not had the occasion to mention this, but you look lovely today. You remind me of your mother, my dear.”

Cecily’s eyes filled with tears. They annoyed her. She who had never wept through the ordeal of her father’s long illness, she who had been dry-eyed when she learned that she was penniless and forced to earn her bread or do without, now seemed ready to weep at the slightest provocation.

“But,” her aunt continued, “you are also troubled. Is Trevor making you unhappy?”

It was difficult to laugh around the knot in her throat, but Cecily managed. “You are a great reader of minds, ma’am, but this time you are far afield. I am not sad at all.”

Lady Marcham did not press the matter. Instead, she put an arm around Cecily’s waist. “You are my only living blood relation. Beyond that I am sure that you know how fond I am of you.”

Once again weak-minded tears gritted in Cecily’s eyes. By keeping her promise to Trevor, she could be endangering this dear, good woman.

“If Trevor has done something to distress you,”
Lady Marcham continued, “I beg you will confide in me.”

Did Aunt Emerald suspect that her godson’s disguise hid a different man? For the hundredth time since learning his dark secret, Cecily opened her mouth to tell her grandaunt all she knew. And for the hundredth time the words that would damn Lord Brandon remained unsaid. The promise she had made to him kept her silent.

“To tell the truth,” she hedged, “I am weary of this picnic.”

To her relief Lady Marcham agreed. “I am only staying for Delinda’s sake. All this food and the posturings of that man in his regimentals—really, it is shocking ton. But, Cecily—”

She paused and regarded her grandniece with a look that seemed to read not only her thoughts but all her tangled emotions. “I will give you one piece of advice that has never failed me,” Lady Marcham continued. “In case of a conflict between the mind and the heart, it is wise to listen to the heart. Reason may be clouded, but the heart sees with clear eyes.”

She walked away to chat with Delinda and Captain Jermayne, leaving Cecily feeling drained and oddly weak in the knees. Her head ached, and there was a raw feeling under her breastbone. She wanted nothing more than to be alone in a quiet place, but the noisy picnic dragged on. Her only consolation was that James Montworthy was so involved in showing off his riding skills that she was spared his company.

After a while the races ended, and the gentlemen contestants went off to change before joining the other guests. By the time they returned, night had begun to fall, and the colonel called for attention.

“I have asked you to join me on this occasion for
a special reason,” he declaimed. “Some of you know that for the past few months I have been engaged in building a small museum designed to honor English patriots and warriors. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you what I mean.”

Trailed by his dutiful guests, he led the way down a path edged by ruthlessly pruned bushes, manicured lawns, and a topiary garden that had been planned and planted with geometric exactitude. At the end of this garden stood the summerhouse, which had been enlarged and converted into a square building flanked by marble statues of Mars and Jupiter.

“Here,” declaimed the colonel, “is my small tribute to the arts of war. Enter, my friends.”