The Waylaid Heart (7 page)

Cecilia was pleased and touched by the wardrobe her grandmother bestowed on her. She was also amused for she realized the house party was the duchess's way of matchmaking and so she whispered to Jessamine in a lull between arrivals.

"You mean you have just fallen to mama's machinations? Fie on you, Cecilia," her aunt jested. "I realized that when I read mama's letter requesting I complete her invitation list. As if I pay any attention to single young men about London! That's why I knew mama would not be happy with filling the guest list with Randolph's cronies."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What, and have you cry off or go into one of your spells? Hardly. It was better to see you excited about the party. Besides, no matter what mama thinks she is arranging, if you are not ready to remarry, no man will be able to catch your attention."

Cecilia smiled ruefully. "That is true enough. . . . Isn't that virulent green and gold the Cresswell livery?" she asked, pointing to a cumbersome traveling coach mounted with servants in the distinctive livery that was pulling around the great drive.

"Unfortunately, it is. And before you get hipped at mama's matchmaking inclinations, let me remind you that if she were determined to secure you a husband, she would not have invited Miss Cresswell to be one of the guests."

"Society's latest rose shall have the bees buzzing around her for sure. I think you're correct. With competition like that, I stand in little fear of being swamped," she conceded. "Come, let's go greet London's sensation. It will probably be the only time we have the opportunity."

"Lucky us," murmured Lady Meriton drily.

Cecilia laughed and wrapped her shawl more closely about her shoulders as they went outside to wait on the broad stone steps.

Miss Philomel Cresswell, the reigning queen of the London season, was the first to descend the steps of the large traveling coach. She paused on the step to look up at Oastley Hall, a curious, satisfied expression on her face. She turned to laugh gaily at something said by her traveling companions, then stepped lightly down into the drive.

It was easy to see why she was society's darling. She was beautiful. Her hair was a glossy dark brown and dressed in masses of ringlets atop which perched a small tricorn hat of cherry red trimmed with dyed black pheasant feathers. Her curvaceous figure was displayed to perfection in a well-fitted traveling dress of cherry red trimmed with black silk scallops and braid. Amazingly, her full, pouting lips echoed the cherry red of her outfit while her brown eyes sparkled with teasing invitation.

Cecilia pursed her lips and risked a side glance at her aunt. Lady Meriton caught her glance and raised an amused eyebrow. Together they watched the duke and duchess greet Philomel and Mrs. Cresswell, who descended the steps after her daughter. Behind Mrs. Cresswell came Sir James Branstoke.

Cecilia's eyes met Branstoke's for a fleeting moment as he descended the steps; then his attention was claimed by Miss Cresswell. The exchange of glances was so swift, so casual, it might not even have existed. Yet in its wake, Cecilia's chest hurt, as if metal bands were wound about her constricting her breathing. A sudden spring chill in the air sent reflexive shivers radiating through her body. She pulled at her shawl and threw one end across her chest to drape over her other shoulder. Her chin rose and she pulled every ounce of her short stature up in an illusion of height. Cool elegance touched her features while the breeze tugged at the confining pins anchoring her silver-blond hair high on her head. The wind was winning. Gossamer wisps of spun silver twisted free in the wind, blowing across still features that might have been carved in stone.

Sir James Branstoke exchanged greetings with the Duke and Duchess of Houghton and gave Miss Cresswell and her mother an arm to lead them toward the elegant Elizabethan mansion and the two women standing in front of its heavy, carved oak door. His sleepy gaze missed no detail of Mrs. Waddley's still form.

Mrs. Waddley, he surmised with masculine satisfaction, was aware of him in more ways than that of guest or male acquaintance. It was evident in the arrogant little tilt to her head and the studied neutral defiance underlying her calm, set features. That awareness pleased him, first as a man and second as an explanation for her recent behavior.

Since the evening of the Italian Opera, he'd noted a determined effort on her part to stay out of his orb. When she failed and they did meet to exchange pleasantries, her voice was abnormally high, her manner a trifle arch. She was quick to include others in their conversations then beg out owing to the incipient onset of some illness or another. Then she would scurry away to virtually hide behind Lady Meriton's skirts, leaving that poor woman to make her excuses.

Mrs. Waddley's machinations amused him, and until now he'd been content to allow escape for he realized his observation concerning dragons upset her badly. When he made the statement he drew bow at a chance. His aim was true. The comment caused her eyes to flare wide, revealing midnight, nightmares, and fear in their fathomless blue depths. She was neither ready nor able to trust him. From her haunted look, he guessed she found trust difficult under the best of circumstances. Before his eyes, she'd withdrawn physically and emotionally to become a mere husk. Mechanically she'd bid him goodnight and fled into the house.

The memory of her besieged expression was etched in his mind. Since that evening, he'd endeavored to foster his own set of false impressions, to shore up his image as an innocuous, phlegmatic gentleman of pleasant company. For reasons as yet unclear even to himself, he wanted her to trust him. He possessed an unusual, quixotic desire to play knight errant to her damsel in distress and rescue her from the dragons that plagued her. Setting Hewitt to investigate Thornbridge hardened his determination. Romley's recent report from Hewitt stated Thornbridge was making discrete inquiries into Randolph Haukstrom's finances. The reason or object of the inquiries was as yet unknown, but Branstoke would wager it was at Mrs. Waddley's direction. What was her purpose?

He anticipated discovering answers at this house party. She could not as assiduously avoid him in company here as she did in London. However, he would neither startle her with his attentions, nor allow her to ignore his presence. It was really a stroke of genius that led him to accompany the Cresswells to the Houghton estate. He knew it allayed Mrs. Waddley's fears, yet he hoped it also piqued her. His wry smile broadened as he approached her. He found himself wondering which way his absurd little rabbit would jump.

Cecilia knew she had to get herself in hand. Her breathing was much too fast and the beating of her heart sounded abnormally loud in her ears. There was no logical explanation or reason for the heightened physical manifestations she experienced around Sir Branstoke. She couldn't help it. It was like he looked into the depths of her soul every time their eyes met. That frightened her. She didn't—no, couldn't allow anyone to get that close.

Branstoke also bothered her because she was certain he knew things he wasn't willing to share, and that he derived a secret amusement at her expense. He was an obnoxious gentleman, a society gadder, a parasite whose existence thrived on the idiosyncrasies of others! One best left in the hands of the likes of Philomel Cresswell, she decided decisively as he and
that woman
and Mrs. Cresswell approached. Unfortunately, her mental harangue did not ease the flutterings in her stomach.

She tossed her head and pulled a tight, bright smile upon her face.

"Mrs. Cresswell, Miss Cresswell, so delighted to see you," she cooed in a voice oddly shrill. "Coming to the country is such a nice break from the pressures of the season, don't you agree? Please, won't you come this way?" she babbled, not giving them time for response. She hooked her arm in Mrs. Cresswell's and drew her before the others, all the while steadfastly ignoring Sir Branstoke. "So beneficial to one's health, too—coming to the country, that is. I swear I have not suffered half so much as I do in the city. All that coal smoke, most likely, and that rackety noise from the streets at all hours. It makes my head ache just to think of it!"

Lady Meriton pursed her lips in disapproval then turned to smile at Miss Cresswell and Branstoke. She murmured polite words of greeting as she ushered them through the door. Behind her came the Duke and Duchess escorting Lord Soothcoor, a dour middle-aged gentleman whose plain carriage contrasted sharply with that of the flashy Cresswells.

"—Depend upon it, we shall have a comfortable time of it," they heard Cecilia say as they entered the mansion.

"A comfortable time of what, Mrs. Waddley?" Sir Branstoke drawled, deeming it time she formally recognize his presence.

She glanced at him, then away, then back. "Oh! Ah, the company, the informality." She coughed, a slender white hand raising a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief to her lips. "I beg your pardon. A touch of congestion, the cold air—" she suggested, trailing off while smiling wanly, anxious to divert Branstoke.

"Nonsense!" boomed out the duke's Voice. "I'll have none of that missish twaddle from you, gal."

Cecilia winced and fought a rising tide of color. She'd forgotten her grandfather's attitude toward illness. He didn't believe in it—that was unless he was ill.

"Just a temporary problem," she said blithely. She was taken by surprise at a true huskiness in her voice. She cleared her throat and smiled again. "Ah, here is Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper. Mrs. Cresswell, Miss Cresswell, she'll show you to your rooms."

"When you've changed and rested from your journey, we shall all meet in the salon," the duchess interceded smoothly. "Lord Soothcoor, Sir Branstoke, Stephen will show you to your rooms," she said, indicating a nearby footman.

Cecilia felt the tightness in her chest ease as she watched Branstoke mount the stairs. Somehow it felt more comfortable to see him walk away than toward her. She relaxed and turned toward her grandparents.

The duke was scowling at her. "Cecilia!" he demanded, his overly loud voice reverberating in the open entrance hall. "Been right as rain for days. What's the matter, company got you spooked?"

Color rose in her face again. Instinctively she looked up the grand staircase to see if Branstoke could have heard. He had. He looked down over the banister, a hand lightly resting on one of the carved oak allegorical animals surmounting a newel post. When he saw her flushed face glance upward, his thin lips kicked up in a wry smile and vague salute; then he turned and continued up the stairs after the footman and Lord Soothcoor. Exasperation thinned Cecilia's lips as she stared after him She would not let him irritate her further. She was stronger than that, of this she was resolved.

"There you are, Cecilia. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to cry off this evening," Lady Meriton said crisply, an arch note in her tone.

Cecilia paused in the doorway to the salon, slight color staining her high cheek bones. She nibbled on her lower lip. "It was overplayed, wasn't it? I can't explain it; but something about maintaining polite chatter brings out the true ninny hammer in me," she said breezily. Mentally she modified her statement, replacing
polite chatter
as the cause, with
Sir James Branstoke
. Cecilia had been shocked by the strength and suddenness of her reaction to the man. So shocked that she spent the intervening hours since his arrival determinedly honing her ability to control those wayward feelings he roused.

She crossed to her aunt's side, sitting on the red brocade sofa next to her: She sighed dramatically and dimpled roguishly at her aunt. "I shall have to depend upon you to protect me from the error of my ways."

"La! I'll have none of your cozening ways," Lady Meriton scolded.

Cecilia knew Jessamine's heart was not in her reprimand and laughed gaily back at her.

"Ahem—I trust I am not intruding, ladies?" Sir Harry Elsdon asked from the open doorway. A frown creased his lightly freckled brow and the light in his brown eyes dimmed. "We were told to meet in the salon, were we not? I mean, this is, where we are gathering before dinner?"

At the sight of one of her quarries, Cecilia Waddley rose gracefully from her seat next to Jessamine and glided toward him. "Yes, yes it is. We three seem to be early, that's all. I expect the room will fill swiftly. But please, won't you sit down?" She guided him to a vacant sofa set at a right angle to the first.

"
Nothing but sit and sit and eat and eat!
" he declared dramatically. Then he grinned at her. "Petruchio, one of my favorite characters."

Lady Meriton laughed at her niece's obvious confusion. "You will soon discover, Cecilia, that Sir Elsdon is a devotee of the stage. Lines and allusions constantly fall from his ready tongue."

Cecilia clapped her hands together, looking at him wide-eyed. "La, sir, you fascinate me! Lamentably I am not well versed in plays, my husband preferring opera. I would like to learn. Please, before company arrives, tell me of your favorite plays, roles, and lines."

Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when noisy chatter was heard in the hall and the door opened to admit a large group. She made a moue of disappointment spawning indulgent laughter from Sir Elsdon. Reluctantly she made her excuses and went to greet the guests. Mentally she reminded herself to contrive more time with him at a later date.

She was all smiles and charming affability as she greeted the guests. Not even Miss Cresswell's appearance as it neared the dinner hour ruffled her unduly—even though Philomel Cresswell did enter draped on Sir Branstoke's arm. Cecilia knew her nervousness and trembling of hours before were safely buried. That knowledge eased an unaccountable tightness in her mus-cles that she hadn't been aware existed.

Relaxed, Cecilia Waddley moved fluidly through the growing crowd of guests, stopping to chat briefly with this person or that. A gentle touch, a brief empathy, she had them all smiling like bemused idiots. Sir Branstoke watched, his brown eyes alert behind heavy lids, as she manipulated this person then that, leaving in her wake a growing trail of laughter and goodwill. This child-sized woman, a fragile willow wand, moved among the company like an evangelical did among an avid flock. Though she clutched one of her ever-present handkerchiefs in her hand, she did not use it to reinforce any of her illnesses. A lace end fluttered and swayed before her, exaggerating rapid hand motions as she talked.

Branstoke eased himself away from the growing circle of gentlemen surrounding Miss Cresswell and set an interception course for Mrs. Waddley. It was his, desire to put her at ease and work further toward acceptance and trust. Under her current demeanor, he foresaw an opportunity for success.

"Mrs. Waddley—" he began formally.

Cecilia turned swiftly, startled at his approach. For a heartbeat she gauged her reactions. When her pulse remained relatively stable she knew instant relief. She smiled questioningly up at him, her royal blue eyes catching the light of the brilliant crystal chandeliers and reflecting it back.

Branstoke paused, thunderstruck, then he raised an eyebrow while his eyelids drooped lower and his mouth quirked upward at the corners. "May I be permitted to say, Madame, that it appears the country air agrees with you."

Cecilia's smile broadened and her eyes twinkled.

"More'n likely it's being among her own kind that agrees with her," declared the duke, coming up behind them. His loud voice caused several heads to turn in their direction.

"Grandfather!" protested Cecilia, torn between laughter and exasperation.

The old duke patted her shoulder though he addressed Branstoke. "Glad to see her easy in company. Was a time, you know, she had some damned silly notion of inequality. Had it since she was a child and Haukstrom blew his wad. Veritable court card my daughter married. I won't have him here, you know. Not after he married Cecilia to that damned merchant fellow?'