For Your Arms Only (15 page)

V
isiting Penford and living at Penford were very different.

Once Granny was all settled in a lovely room overlooking the woods, Cressida found herself at loose ends. There was nothing for her to do now, no chores, no cleaning, no cooking. Servants came to unpack her things in the spacious room she would share with Callie, accomplishing the task with speed and precision. She went once more to thank Julia, who just laughed and brushed aside any mention of gratitude, and perversely this only made Cressida feel more out of place.

Dinner, although delicious and elegant, was awkward. Tom, who had always eaten with them, elected to take his meal below stairs, which just felt wrong. They were no better than Tom, yet she and Callie were at the dining table set with china and silver while Tom ate with the Penford servants and Granny ate in her room with a servant attending her. It put off her appetite, and from the way Callie picked at her dinner, her sister suffered the same. She could almost hear Granny reminding her to be careful what she wished for; she might someday get it. Cressida had admired Penford, had dreamed of living in such a place. Now she did, for a short time anyway, and it didn’t appear she would enjoy a minute of it.

She couldn’t sleep at night, despite the exhausting day. Cressida lay on the soft feather mattress under the cool, crisp linens and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. This was only a reprieve from her troubles, not a solution. Tomorrow she would have to talk very seriously with Callie and Tom to determine what they would do next. Now not even the prospect of finding Papa gave her hope. Papa would be annoyed they had lost the house, and Cressida knew she would be so annoyed at him for leaving them, there would be a dreadful argument. She thought again of what Tom had said, that things went on much more smoothly without Papa, and felt even worse for admitting, deep in her heart, that she might be changing her mind about Papa returning home, no matter what she insisted to Alec.

Alec. Thoughts of him had plagued her since the moment Julia left Brighampton that afternoon. Ever since Tom drove them around the bend of the gravel drive and Penford came into view, she had been bracing herself against seeing him, preparing herself for their first meeting, and then it never happened. He hadn’t been with Julia and her mother to greet them, nor at dinner, nor in the drawing room afterward. It was fraying her nerves, this constant expectation—anticipation, even—of seeing him at any moment. It was almost as bad as the disappointment of not seeing him even once.

She sat up in bed and swung her feet to the floor. Callie murmured in her sleep from the other side of the bed as Cressida slipped her feet into slippers and pulled on her dressing gown. She shouldn’t roam about someone else’s house at night, but she thought better on her feet and desperately needed to walk off some nervous energy. The clock had already chimed two in the morning, and everyone would be asleep. Without lighting a candle, Cressida opened the door.

The house was quiet. She wandered through the corridors and down the stairs, feeling a bit like a spy as she marveled again at the beauty of Penford. She walked through the long, shadowy gallery, squinting at the portraits shrouded in shadows. She peered into the conservatory, where Mrs. Hayes had created a wonderland of delicate plants, and found the music room, where the pianoforte and harp stood waiting for musicians. She let herself into the large drawing room at the back of the house, and went to the tall windows, admiring the view of the garden. Even in the darkness, with all its vibrant color dimmed to silver and shadow, it was a beautiful, peaceful scene, and Cressida thought that despite Penford’s grandeur, she could grow accustomed to living here if only for the gardens.

“Good evening.”

She started violently, clapping one hand to her chest as she whirled around to see Alec Hayes sprawled in a chair, watching her. A bottle stood on the table next to him, with a glass half full of wine. He looked idle, even debauched, but the gleam of his eyes was still brilliantly watchful.

“I beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly. He had discarded his waistcoat and cravat, and his shirt was pulled open at the neck, exposing a long slice of skin down his chest. A shiver ran up her spine.

He waved one hand in negligent dismissal. “None is needed. Or perhaps I should beg yours, for disturbing your midnight ramble.”

“Oh, no, no, the fault is mine alone, for rambling about a house not my own. I just couldn’t sleep, you see, and thought I might as well get up and walk about…” For some reason he smiled at that, a dark, bitter smile. She wondered why. But he said nothing, and she hesitated; she ought to say good night and go back to her room, forget this image of him, and go to sleep. Or rather, try to go to sleep. It took great effort to keep her eyes away from the bare column of his throat, all the way down his chest. “I certainly did not think anyone else would be awake so late,” she added with a small, nervous laugh. “I never meant to disturb you.”

“You didn’t.” He rolled his head to one side, contemplating her.

“Oh.” Tonight his ever-present air of focused energy was gone. He sat in the chair as though someone had draped his body over it, one leg extended and the other tucked almost beneath the seat, one hand dangling over the chair arm and the other curled around a small wooden horse propped on his knee. He ran his fingers over its roughly hewn surface as if trying to memorize it, but she sensed his thoughts were elsewhere. Sitting here alone in the dark, in the middle of the night with only a bottle for company, he seemed…lonely. Broodingly, sadly lonely. She wet her lips. “It’s a fine carving. Did you do it?”

“No.” He turned it over. His brow dipped. “A friend did. I had forgotten all about it until I saw it on the shelf over there.” His chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. “He was my closest friend, from the time we were boys. He carved this in Spain, outside Burgos. We had besieged the town and there was little to do most of the time. Damned waste, as it turned out. Never took that town.” He held up the horse, angling it from side to side and squinting one eye to study it. “Fine job he did,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Very nice.” She wondered if he still knew that friend; if the friend were still a friend, even after…In that moment Cressida passionately hoped he was.

“He died,” Alec went on in the same distant tone. “Waterloo. A hero’s death, they said; very honorable.”

“I’m sorry.”

At her whisper he flinched. “So am I,” he said bleakly. “I never thought he would be the one…” His mouth twisted. “Lacey was aide-de-camp to General Ponsonby. He ought to have been behind the lines, not leading a cavalry charge at the French. A clever chap, Will was; knew when to hold his tongue and when to speak. He should have been a politician, for the way he could talk a man into anything and make him think it the finest idea ever conceived.”

“Lacey?” Cressida asked when he stopped and fell silent. “Of The Grange?” The Grange was an estate a few miles away, owned by Mr. Angus Lacey. Lacey was an elderly man in ill health who rarely went out, but was known in Marston for his short temper and his sullen servant, a large man named Morris. Cressida always gave Morris a wide berth whenever she crossed his path. She had imputed the same cold, vaguely menacing manner to his master, but now felt a pang of sympathy, if Mr. Lacey had lost his son at Waterloo.

“Yes. Will was old Lacey’s only son and heir, and painfully conscious of it.” Finally Alec’s eyes lifted to hers. “You’ve met the old man?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly. “Not really. I only know of him.”

The corner of his mouth curled. “I can imagine what. He was rude and short-tempered years ago, and I am sure his manner has not improved.”

“But if he has lost his son…” She shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

His hand closed on the horse until she thought he would break it. Cressida’s eyes grew wide with alarm, and she even opened her mouth to say something, his expression had grown so savage. “Yes,” he said grimly. “It is.” With great care he stood the horse on the table, then refilled the wineglass. Instead of lifting it to his lips, he held it out to her.

She hesitated only a moment before taking the glass from his outstretched hand. It was good wine, rich and warm on her tongue. She took another sip, watching him over the rim. His heavy-lidded gaze seemed fixed on her mouth as she drank. Cressida lowered the glass, unconsciously licking the last drop from her lower lip. His jaw tightened, and something dangerous glittered in his eyes.

It seemed the whole world had shrunk to just the two of them, alone in a pool of moonlight. Cressida had admitted Alec Hayes was a handsome man. She knew him to be intelligent and determined but possessed of a bit of gentleness as well, as when he twirled his young nieces around until they shook with giggles. But even if it made him more attractive, as a man, that alone meant nothing. She had known other men who were handsome and kind, the sort of man a girl dreamed of, and they had never looked at her the way Alec was looking at her now.

Slowly she held out the glass, her hand shaking a little. He raised his gaze to hers, and she felt the full force of the wild, hungry longing there. Oh dear God. That look stirred something deep inside her that she had kept tightly leashed for years. Those sorts of desires only led to ruin and heartbreak, as she well knew. Once before a man had made her feel that way, and she had thrown herself into the blaze of lust between them. But the blaze subsided, sooner for him than for her, and she had been left behind, sadder and wiser. Giving in to desire again would be unforgivable; hadn’t she already learned her lesson the hard way?

He took the glass and glanced away. Whatever he felt, whatever he desired from her, he kept caged within himself. She should learn from that example, Cressida told herself. She opened her mouth to excuse herself before hurrying back to bed.

“Sit.” He raised the glass to his mouth and drank as he swept one hand toward the other chair, on the other side of the little table.

It would be a mistake. She wanted to stay, and she knew it was because she wanted to see that look again, to see the heat of a man’s desire—of Alec’s desire—for her. It was easy to tell herself she was being foolish to think about him when he had never done more than look at her with unreadable calm, the way one might look at a hideous painting and try to think what to say to avoid hurting the painter’s feelings. But this look, the one she craved, held nothing of that. It coaxed forth that lonely ember of desire in her own breast, fed it and fueled it until she no longer wanted to put it out. And instead of saying good night and going back to bed, Cressida sat.

“He carved this in Spain?” She touched the small horse. For all that it was a rough carving, the vitality of the animal came through clearly. The mane blew on the wind, the ears were pricked up, and one foot was delicately poised in mid-step. And it was so small, just the size to fit in one’s hand. “It’s remarkable.”

“Yes. I sent it home to Julia, thinking she might like it. Will had no brothers or sisters, and by then his father had cut him off.”

She looked up in surprise. “His only son? Why?”

Alec stared at her long, slender fingers rubbing lightly along the arch of the horse’s neck. His skin prickled and tightened at the thought of those fingers running over him, curling around him, stroking, squeezing…He should not have invited her to sit, but the wine had dissolved his noble intentions even before she walked into the room, drifting like a ghostly temptress to stand in front of the window in her nightdress with her hair cascading down her back. Somehow it seemed significant that she had been restless, too, roaming the house on a night when he couldn’t sleep, either. Something about the way she angled her head as she gazed out the window made him think that she, too, longed to be out there, not trapped in the house, confined by her family’s expectations and needs. Something about her called out to him, and he couldn’t ignore it tonight.

“He didn’t approve of Will’s choice of wife,” he said, belatedly answering her question. “She was a Spanish girl of good family, sympathetic to our cause in Spain, but still not English. I expect Lacey thought Will would set her aside if he were harsh enough, come home and marry Darrowby’s eldest or some other girl from Hertfordshire. He waited years to have a son, and by the time Will came along, Lacey had his whole life planned for him. Unfortunately for him, his son was just as strong-willed as he was, and put up quite a fight.” It still made Alec angry to think of how Lacey tried to control Will. His friend’s back and legs had been scarred from Lacey’s discipline. He gulped the last of the wine in the glass and reached for the bottle.

“Good for him,” she murmured.

Alec paused. “To fight his father?”

She put up her chin. Even in the dim light he could see the glitter of her eyes. “For standing by his love. For honoring his promises to her.”

Therein lay a tale, Alec thought. The wine loosened his tongue before he could think better of it. “Someone broke your heart.” She quivered as if struck but gave him only an angry glare in response. His hand curled into a fist; someone had. But that was not his business. Alec eased his fingers open and held out the refilled wineglass, and she took it almost defiantly and drank.

“Marianne broke my heart,” he said, unconsciously reverting to his spy’s bag of tricks, telling his own story as a way to coax her into telling hers. Of course, this story happened to be true, unlike the lies he had spun as a spy. “I was madly in love and thought she was, too—until I came home from Spain and she told me she preferred a more stable sort of fellow. Like my brother, in fact, who proposed to her while I was gone.”

She gasped. Alec grimaced, even though all the bitterness had faded from the memory now. It was an old wound, long since healed. “Yes, my own brother courted the girl I wanted to marry. Unsporting thing to do to a brother, don’t you think? I damned well could have killed him for it, if only he’d had the courtesy to fight back. Frederick would just stand there and insist he loved her too much not to marry her, and then offer to step aside—as if she would have had me then, or I her.”