Janice Preston – Lady Cecily And The Mysterious Mr Gray (страница 4)

‘I am flattered you noticed.’

‘I believe Mr Markham remarked upon your absence.’ It was a lie, but she would not have him know she had been watching him. Or, in truth, been fascinated by him. ‘Is your...er...tribe staying hereabouts?’

‘No. I have come alone.’

‘So where did you go?’

He stepped back. ‘I am a free man. I go where I please.’

‘Of course you are. I apologise. I did not mean this to sound like an interrogation.’

He inclined his head, but said nothing further.

Cecily frowned. ‘You do not sound like a gipsy.’

‘And how should a gipsy sound, in your vast experience, my lady?’

She stiffened, her chin lifting, irritated by his readiness to take offence.

‘In my experience,’ she said, haughtily, ‘gipsies often speak with a foreign accent. I merely meant you sound as English as I.’

She swung his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him. ‘Thank you. I am warm enough now. I must return to the party.’

He reached and in one smooth movement took his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. He then grasped her hand before she could withdraw it, his warm fingers closing around hers.

‘I was born in England. And we prefer to call ourselves Romanies, or the Rom.’

It was not an apology, but she was mollified nevertheless. Mr Gray gave the impression of a man not given to apologies or explanations.

‘I shall endeavour to remember that,’ she said, by way of appeasement.

Although her brain instructed her to snatch her hand from his, she allowed it to remain—intrigued by the unexpected gentleness of his touch as he unhurriedly removed her evening glove, and strangely soothed by the caress of his thumb as it circled her palm.

‘And is your mind now trouble free?’ His intense gaze bored into her. ‘I watched you. In the church.’

His words reignited her fears for her future as she had watched Vernon and Thea exchange their vows and her inner turmoil erupted anew. She pressed her free hand to her belly in a futile attempt to calm her nerves.

‘And now I ask myself why the sister of a rich and powerful duke should have any reason to be unhappy.’

‘Unhappy?’

He shrugged, his thumb still circling her palm in that spellbinding way, and by concentrating on that motion her inner chaos subsided again. His free arm slid around her waist and his hand settled at the small of her back. With a gentle nudge, he turned her to continue to follow the path and she found herself walking side by side with Mr Gray away from the house and deeper into the garden, even though his palm was no longer at her back and he had at some point released her hand. Cecily swallowed.

I should not go with him. I really should not.

‘Walk with me. I will listen.’

He halted and so did she. He touched his finger to her chin...such a fleeting touch. ‘I will not judge.’

Then he began to stroll along the path again.

And so did Cecily.

Yet again, all the precepts of her upbringing screamed at her to return to the house. To surround herself with...normal...people. To do and behave as would be expected of her and as she expected of herself, as she had done her entire life. But the urge to unburden herself was stronger. There was nobody in her life she could confide in. Not about this.

Maybe...

She stole a glance at the man by her side. His expression gave away nothing of his thoughts, but it was relaxed. Not tense, closed off, secretive or eager, just...he was just...

He is present...neither planning tomorrow nor brooding over yesterday.

The words whispered out of nowhere and she recognised them as the truth. He was calm and unhurried. Not impatiently waiting for her to respond, like most men of her acquaintance would be—wanting to deal with whatever she was fretting about so they could then get on with their more important lives.

He is content to wait and for me to speak or not speak as I choose. What harm can there be? He is a gip—Romany—and in a few days I shall return to my normal life. Our paths will never cross again.

And, somehow, that freedom to choose, the magic of the night, the scent of the roses and Mr Gray’s calming presence combined to induce a trancelike state in which the normal rules by which Cecily always lived did not apply.

‘I was thinking about my future.’

‘And you see unhappiness ahead for you?’

‘I... Yes.’

Silence reigned.

‘My brothers’ marriages...so close together... I did not expect...’

Her throat tightened, holding her words inside. They had reached the end of the path, arriving at an open area paved with flagstones, bordered on the far side by a stone wall as high as a man, with an arched gateway. Cecily crossed the area to a raised pool set in the middle and gazed into the still, black water at the reflection of the moon—a silvery sphere that, as she trailed her fingers in the water, shimmered and danced. She turned to face Absalom Gray. Here was her opportunity to sort out her tangled thoughts and feelings—to speak her concerns out loud and to think over her choices for her future. Mr Gray remained at the edge of the square, but the weight of his gaze upon her made him feel closer. Gave a feeling of intimacy. Cecily took a breath.

‘I never expected my brothers to marry. Leo...he was married before and it was not a happy experience for him, although the marriage did give him two sons and a daughter.’ She paced across the square, and back again to the pool. ‘He is forty years old now and has been a widower for thirteen years. He has been pursued by endless females with the desire to be a duchess. I never...ever...’

‘You never expected he would fall in love?’

There was no condemnation in his tone, but she felt her defences rise up.

‘I am happy for him. I love my brother and I liked Rosalind from the moment I met her. We became friends. But... I was seventeen when Leo’s first wife died. I raised his children and I ran our household. And now...and now...’

* * *

Lady Cecily’s voice faded into silence and Zachary Absalom Graystoke waited, content to allow her to unburden herself in her own time, knowing she would feel better once she had released whatever was troubling her. He was happy to help this duke’s sister to face up to and resolve whatever was troubling her. Beyond that, he had no intentions. No ulterior motives. These people were as far removed from his life as it was possible to be. Facts were facts and a half-blood Romany was no more acceptable to the society in which the high-born Beauchamps moved than a full-blood Rom, no matter who his father had been.

Lady Cecily Beauchamp had fascinated him from the very first moment he set eyes upon her. She had arrived late in the church and had slipped into the back pew, next to him. Someone else had come in with her, sitting on her far side, but Zach had not the smallest interest in the young man, who was clearly related to the Duke. But the woman—he did not know her identity at the time—had captured his attention with her intoxicating scent and her tightly controlled emotions and her luscious curves. She sat there, next to him, all prim and proper and ladylike—a perfect lady—dressed in a gown the colour of bluebells, with a bonnet to match, and she did not see him. She had no concept of his presence until—with the need to move past her to go and help Daniel’s father into his carriage—he had touched her elbow.

He had felt the jolt of connection deep in his gut: an emotional connection that continued to bridge the physical distance between the two of them even when they no longer touched, shimmering between them. And he had recognised then, and later at the wedding breakfast, the disquiet she was at pains to conceal from everyone around her, using her perfect, ladylike manners as a shield. And he had suffered another jolt, this time one of disappointment, when the Duke had introduced her as his sister, Lady Cecily. And although the distance between them had become a chasm, that connection lingered, even though Zach knew damned well he had nothing to offer any woman, given the way he had chosen to live his life.

‘And now...’ her voice as she continued drew Zach back to the present ‘...here I am, thirty years of age, and—as Vernon would say—at my last prayers.’

He had thought her a similar age to him, but she was the older by four years. Another gulf yawned between them, but it barely mattered—a hundred such gulfs could make no difference.

‘I have never had a great ambition to marry, but then I thought I would always have the Abbey to run; I thought I would always be at the helm of the family, helping Leo.’ Her voice shook and she sucked in a deep breath. ‘I feel usurped. There. You asked why the sister of a rich and powerful duke should have any reason to be unhappy and now you know. You may see what a horrible person I am, beneath all this.’ She indicated herself with an abrupt sweep of her hand.

‘You fear the change your brother’s marriage will bring?’

‘Yes. And I know that is selfish. The strange thing is...Leo has been married a month already, so I knew everything had changed, but I pushed it from my mind. There was Olivia’s come out to manage—’