Rescued from Ruin (20 page)

‘There’s no dowry, no money and none is coming from Virginia.’

He came to a halt. ‘What?’

She stood alone against the water, her face as desolate as the dark surface of the lake. ‘I’m poor, Randall, painfully so. Paul stole everything and what little I have was advanced by a moneylender with no hope of repayment. Until today, all I had was my good name—now even that’s gone. I must know, will you make me respectable again? Can I give Theresa at least that?’

He stared at her, everything falling into place—Mr Rathbone, her town house, her worry over her reputation and the refusal to trust him or tell him the truth. Yet none stunned him as much as Madame de Badeau’s words ringing through his mind.

She’s subtle and you won’t see her plan until she has you before the vicar.

No, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I thought if you knew the truth, you’d push me away like you did in the conservatory.’

He grunted as if she’d slammed him in the chest. ‘And I thought you’d forgiven me.’

‘I have forgiven you, that’s why I’m telling you now.’

‘But not before, not when I asked you so many times to trust me.’ He clasped his hands behind his back, a crushing emptiness seizing him and threatening to shatter his control. ‘You’ve played a good game, madam, all the while chiding me for doing the same. No wonder I didn’t see it.’

‘It wasn’t a game, not with you.’

‘With who, then? Strathmore?’ he bellowed. ‘Was that why you never rebuffed him? You intended to keep us both dangling, so if one didn’t come through the other might?’

‘No, it wasn’t like that, at least not now.’

‘But it was at first, until I became the better candidate.’ A humiliation more piercing than any he’d suffered at his father’s hands flooded through him, made sharper by the memories of Malvern’s words and the judging eyes at the garden party.

‘No. You pursued me for weeks despite my refusals, chipping away at them until I finally succumbed, and you accuse me of playing a game?’

‘Because I see it now, how you led me on with false kindness when all the while you wanted me for your own ends.’

She marched up to him, her chin set in defiance. ‘I did no such thing.’

He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. ‘I thought you were the only person not interested in my title and station, the only one to see beyond it and everything else and to love me for who I am. I see now you coveted it far more and schemed to get it with far more skill than all the others.’

Her mouth softened. ‘No, I love you, I always have.’

She reached up to touch his cheek, but he jerked away.

‘I won’t stand here and listen to any more of your lies.’

He stormed off, following the curve of the shore.

She didn’t love him, she’d never loved him, she’d only used him, playing on his deepest fears to try to bend him to her will.

He came to a stop and squeezed his eyes shut, the pain rippling out from his centre like waves from a large stone thrown in the lake. He struggled to remain standing under the force of it, feeling himself eighteen again, guilty, lonely and grieving, his father’s death fresh on his hands.

Opening his eyes, he climbed the steps of the Greek temple, hurrying to the far side, away from the lake, Cecelia and anyone who might happen by to laugh at his humiliation. She’d made a fool of him and he’d been too blinded by desire to realise it. How Madame de Badeau and so many others would delight to see him now, brought low by the one person he’d believed in the most, the one he’d thought would always believe in him.

Resting his forehead against the cold marble, he drew in ragged breaths, trying to silence the faint words echoing from his past.
You aren’t worthy.

* * *

Cecelia sat on a stone bench beneath the trees, staring out over the flat surface of the lake, waiting the way she had for so many days after word reached them of her father’s ship, hoping all was not lost and he might return.

Her father had never come back and neither would Randall.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the stone bench, anger and pain rising behind her eyes. She’d trusted Randall with her heart and the future and, like almost everyone in her life, he’d let her down.

A fish broke the surface of the lake, then fell back into the empty expanse and she understood for the first time ever her mother’s desolation after Cecelia’s father had died. Digging the heel of her hand into her forehead, she tried to push back the hopelessness and the temptation to dive beneath the surface and never come up.

Rustling on the path made her jump and she twisted to see Lady Ellington approaching.

‘Cecelia, are you all right?’ She looked around the clearing. ‘Where’s Randall?’

Summoning the last of her dignity, Cecelia rose, fighting to keep the stinging tears from falling. ‘I’m fine. Randall is... Well, he’s...he’s gone.’

She crumbled beneath the soft concern etching the Countess’s face and tears spilled down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands, dropping down on to the bench. ‘How could he have done it? How can this all be happening again?’

‘Oh, my dear.’ Lady Ellington wrapped her plump arms around her, the motherly gesture making the tears come harder.

Everything from the past year drained from Cecelia as she clung to Lady Ellington, the truth pouring out with her choking sobs. The Countess listened in silence, rubbing Cecelia’s back while she spoke. Then at last, wrung out and unable to say more, Cecelia sighed, her body as limp as the damp handkerchief in her lap.

‘You’ve been very brave for keeping your chin up under so much.’ Lady Ellington squeezed Cecelia’s hands. ‘I don’t know if I could’ve done the same.’

‘What good has it done me?’ Cecelia sat back. ‘I still have nothing.’

‘No, dear, not nothing. For all his silly faults, I know Randall loves you, he always has.’

‘No, or he wouldn’t have been so quick to believe the worst of me.’

‘He did it because he believes the worst of himself. It’s why he gets up to all sorts of things in London.’ Lady Ellington shook her head. ‘He thinks if he can make the world adore him, it will fill the emptiness inside him. You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do that. He knows it, but he hates being so vulnerable. That’s why he did what he did today.’

‘I know you’re right.’ Cecelia held up the pendant, sliding her thumb over the bricks before she dropped it to thump against her chest. ‘But I don’t care any more. He’s never been willing to lower himself to truly love me.’

‘Don’t close your heart yet, my dear. Randall is stubborn, painfully so at times, but he’s no fool.’ Lady Ellington levelled a jewelled finger at her. ‘You wait and see. He’ll find a way to deserve you.’

‘Even if there was a way, he wouldn’t try it. His ego would never allow him to admit he’s wrong.’ She twisted the handkerchief. ‘No, there’s nothing he can say or do to make me trust him again, or give him another chance to belittle and humiliate me.’

The Countess rose, taking Cecelia by the elbow and drawing her up from the bench. ‘Come with me.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Home.’ Lady Ellington guided her up a small path cutting through the trees along the far edge of the lawn. ‘This leads up to the driveway without being seen by the house. I’ve already called the carriage. No doubt Theresa is in it and in a state because I’ve been gone so long. She’s so worried about you.’

Cecelia came to a halt, new tears blurring her vision. ‘I’ve ruined her chances with Mr Menton.’

‘Nothing is lost yet.’ Lady Ellington patted her hand. ‘You leave everything to me. I’ll make sure Lady Menton approves of Theresa.’

‘But what about her dowry and my debts?’

‘That may be trickier,’ she conceded, tapping one finger against her chin. ‘Randall manages my inheritance from both Edmund and my late husband. I can’t draw a large amount without him noticing.’

‘I won’t take money from you. I can’t.’ There was no way she could ever repay it.

Lady Ellington laid her hands on Cecelia’s shoulders. ‘If everything works out the way I think it will, you won’t have to.’

Cecelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, wishing she shared the Countess’s optimism. Lady Ellington might believe in the strength of Randall’s love, but Cecelia didn’t. Nor did she believe in Mr Menton’s ardour overcoming his mother’s objections.

‘And if it doesn’t work out?’ she asked.

Lady Ellington frowned. ‘Then Randall doesn’t deserve you.’

* * *

Randall walked up the lawn from the stables, Falconbridge Manor little more than a silhouette in the large moon rising behind it. He’d spent a long time standing in the shadows of the Greek temple, unwilling to rejoin the party, unwilling to face Cecelia. Then at last he’d made for the house, only to be greeted by an apologetic Lady Menton and the news the ladies had returned to Falconbridge without him. He’d borrowed a horse from Sir Walter, wandering for hours over the countryside, trying to clear his mind, but calm never came.

He looked up at the window a few down from his. Cecelia’s room. It was dark and he imagined her inside, eyes red from crying. He stopped, the urge to go to her, comfort her and beg for her forgiveness startling him with its strength. More than once during the long ride back from Hallington Hall he’d wondered if he’d been wrong about her and her intentions.

‘I wasn’t wrong,’ he snarled, continuing up the lawn until the warm light in the drawing room greeted him. It had never been about love for Cecelia, and the knowledge she’d so easily twisted his affection for her own ends roiled his gut.

He marched through the drawing room, down the hall and up the stairs, determined to bring this farce to an end. He didn’t care if she was awake or asleep, if she wept or insulted him, it was time for her and the cousin to go and for him to be free of all the torment he’d experienced since first seeing her in London.

At Cecelia’s room, he threw open the door, stopping short at the threshold. The bed stood untouched, the coverlet stretched smooth over it.

No doubt she was crying her heart out to Aunt Ella, winning the woman to her side with all her false grace and charm. He stormed down the hall, determined to thwart her conniving.

He threw open Aunt Ella’s door without knocking and the candlelight danced wildly over the shining brocade. ‘Where is she? Where’s Cecelia?’

Aunt Ella laid aside her book, as steady in the face of his outburst as when Uncle Edmund used to shout down the house. ‘She’s gone back to London.’

Desperation seized him before anger beat it back. ‘Running to Lord Strathmore already?’

‘I wouldn’t blame her if she did, not after the way you’ve behaved.’

He rolled his shoulders, shrugging off the strike. ‘I assume she took the cousin with her.’

‘No, Miss Fields is staying here under my care until things with Mr Menton are settled.’

‘You will send her back to London first thing in the morning,’ he demanded. ‘Neither she nor Cecelia are to receive any more of our help.’

‘Do not command me as if I were a servant.’ Aunt Ella rose, drawing up all her diminutive height. ‘Whom I have as a guest is no more your concern than whom you fritter away your nights with in London is mine, except where Cecelia is concerned.’

Randall ground his teeth. This was only the second time she’d ever taken such a tone with him. ‘I see she’s fooled you, as well.’

‘She’s fooled no one. She loves you, she always has and she’s never wanted anything more from you than your love in return.’ Her composure softened, the motherly woman returning. ‘When you first told me she was back and I saw the way your whole face changed whenever you mentioned her, I was so happy for you. It’s the rare instance when we get a second chance at love.’ She touched the small locket pinned to her dress, the one with her late husband’s portrait inside. ‘I didn’t, and neither did your father nor Edmund.’

‘Uncle Edmund was never in love,’ he scoffed.

‘He was once, long before you were born, but our father forbade the match. She married another and died in childbirth. Edmund regretted losing her all his life. It’s why he never spoke of it. It seems my brothers and I were all doomed to love and lose.’ Aunt Ella approached him, laying one hand on his arm. ‘There’s still time, Randall. Don’t let Cecelia slip away from you again and deny yourself this chance at happiness.’

He turned away from her soft entreaty and moved to the window overlooking the lawn. At the far end, the faint glow of moonlight against his parents’ headstones stood out like a phantom in the darkness beneath the large ash.

A decanter of Aunt Ella’s plum wine sat on the table in front of him. Randall laid his palm on the smooth stopper, his fingers closing over it one by one. It didn’t matter if Cecelia was gone. He didn’t need her any more than he’d needed all the other grasping women who’d clawed at him over the years, hungering after his rank and status, but never him, never the man beneath the reputation.

He pulled out the stopper, snatched up a glass and filled it. The sweet, sharp scent curled his stomach, but he held it up, swirling the wine in the crystal, eager to slide into the warm oblivion waiting at the bottom. Then the candlelight flickered with a draught and the light danced in the wine the way it had in the raindrops on the vicarage window the night his father died, the night everything inside him shattered.

He lowered the glass and with it the shallow promise of peace. There was no comfort in the liquor, no more than in any of the arms of the numerous women he’d bedded or in any of the scandals he’d created. In all of it there was only the numbing cold of the long walk back to Falconbridge Manor with the icy rain pouring over his neck, the chill of it cutting as deep as the loneliness and despair, the self-loathing and hate which had consumed him until the moment he’d met Cecelia.

Out the window, the headstones faded as a cloud passed in front of the moon. His father was gone, buried along with all chances of forgiveness, but Cecelia was still here.

The door squeaked open and Reverend ambled into the room. He sat down next to Randall and leaned against his leg. Randall dropped his hand on the dog’s head, stroking the soft fur.