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Authors: Heather Grothaus

BOOK: Never Seduce A Scoundrel
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Cecily was particularly touched by the way he held the new babe, she thought perhaps like a father would hold their own child, cradled in his hands, his face bent low over the infant’s, a peaceful smile on his mouth and in his eyes as he whispered a happy prayer of blessing near the baby’s ear. The sight caused her to pause in stirring the mother’s tea.
He looked up at her in just that moment, his smile deepening as their gazes met. Her cheeks tingled as she tore her attention away from the handsome vicar and handed the mug to the woman with a smile, but she could feel the weight of John Grey’s lingering gaze on her back.
The mass celebration was simple but beautiful, held in the largest of the cottages. Even then, the overflow of faithful knelt in the dirt beyond the open door. She glanced sideways at John Grey once, from beneath the hem of her long veil that hid most of his profile, but she could glean nothing from his closed eyes and bowed head.
They made their way from the cottage together among the crowd of people, saying their good-byes, and Cecily felt strange when John Grey lightly took her elbow to lead her to where a lad held their mounts at the ready. It was past midday, and the ride would be a long one to gain Fallstowe before dark.
Once at her horse’s side, she turned to thank John Grey for his aid and company, but he spoke first.
“I fear our duties this day left us little opportunity for conversation,” he said, regret clear in his tone.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But your appearance was such a pleasant surprise. I couldn’t have treated as many as I did without you.”
“How fares your ... patient at Fallstowe?” he asked in a low voice, glancing around as he said it.
Cecily shrugged and dropped her eyes to her hands, where her fingers were twisting the ends of her veil. “Today has been the first time in a week that I’ve felt at least marginally sensible,” she said on a breathy laugh, but in her heart she feared that she was speaking naught but the truth. She looked up at John Grey, surprised at the intensity with which he was regarding her. “Would that you were closer to Fallstowe, John. Your advice seems so rational, and kind. You have not judged me as I fear others would.”
“What have I to judge?” he asked sincerely. “Even I could not enter into the sacrifice today because I was in need of penance.”
Cecily frowned. “I would think there to be no shortage of confessors available at Hallowshire.”
“Indeed,” John acquiesced, and his eyes sparkled. “But I fear my encounter with sin only occurred since my arrival at the village this morn.”
Cecily swallowed with a gulp.
“Are you unhappy with your circumstances at Fallstowe, Lady Cecily?” John Grey asked.
“I suppose I am,” she answered. “If only he would leave, perhaps I could return to some sense of clarity.”
John Grey nodded, as if her answer was exactly what he had expected. “If he will not leave, then come on to Hallowshire with me.”
Cecily frowned. “John, I ... I have yet to decide—”
“Not to take the veil. Only to do what you have here, in this village, today. Mother would delight in a visit with you, and perhaps it would give you the distance you require from your ... problem.”
Cecily turned her face to the south, as if she could see Fallstowe from where she stood, see Oliver Bellecote standing at the window looking for her.
“But I must confess to you that my intentions are not completely noble,” John Grey said. “Would that I, too, had you closer at hand. I have been unable to concentrate fully on my duties since the afternoon of our first meeting, Cecily, as I have been contemplating a great number of personal decisions. I ... I would like very much for us to have time together. In a place—for you, perhaps—not so tainted.”
Father Perry came upon them just then, and his presence reminded her that she was to accompany the aging man over the land to their home.
“Thank you, Vicar,” she said, smiling weakly. “But my sister will be expecting me, and I would not have Father Perry journey alone.”
“What is this about then?” Father Perry inquired with a curious smile.
“I’ve just asked Lady Cecily for a short visit with Mother,” John Grey said easily. “Alas, her devotion to her home is too great to indulge me.”
“Nonsense,” Father Perry said, his eyes crinkling merrily as they glanced from Cecily to the vicar. “I’m certain Lady Sybilla would not begrudge you a day or two at the abbey where you are contemplating spending the rest of your life. And I am no invalid, young woman—I have trod beside fighting men in many a battle. A simple ride over my homelands will give me much needed time to speak to the Lord about matters on my own heart.”
John Grey looked back to Cecily. “I would not press you, my lady. If you have no desire to carry on to the abbey, please feel no obligation to accept my invitation.”
Cecily could tell that the vicar meant every syllable of every word he spoke, and she realized suddenly that there was little hope the bishop would win John Grey for the priesthood. He had made it clear in his own respectable and completely honorable fashion that he wanted her to accept his invitation to Hallowshire. He wanted her company, and she had no fear that John Grey would attempt to further compromise her already secretly battered reputation.
Which brought her thoughts, inexplicably, back to Oliver Bellecote.
Whenever you’re near to me ... I’m not quite sane.
I simply cannot stop thinking of you.
This has never happened to me before.
The greatest scoundrel in all the land, and he was preoccupied with thoughts of Saint Cecily.
Oliver was waiting for her at Fallstowe. As weak as it sounded, she knew she could not withstand his advances. It did not ease her mind that he had disavowed any intention of making Joan Barleg his wife; in truth, that only made things worse. It clearly showed that Oliver Bellecote would go to any length for a conquest. Would stoop to whatever depth necessary to maintain his scoundrel’s reputation. He had admitted that he possessed no desire to wed Joan, or Cecily, or any other woman. Cecily could not allow him to make such a fool out of her. Or her to make such a fool of herself.
Perhaps if she did not return to Fallstowe, Oliver Bellecote would then go, taking her shame and weakness with him. Cecily could only hope that he would not also take her heart when he left. It was the only thing she had left that truly belonged to her, now that he had taken her body. The only thing she had left which could still be given away with forethought and intent.
John Grey glowed in the bright afternoon sun, his straight hair glinting with the beams of light that seemed attracted to him. She was reminded suddenly of the tender way in which he had held the newborn peasant babe.
A handsome man.
A titled man.
A man who had himself said that one needn’t take vows to be of service to God. He was convincing.
He was
not
betrothed.
The man was as far removed from a scoundrel as could be, and Cecily knew she was safe in his presence. Even from herself.
Cecily looked to Father Perry. “Would you give Lady Sybilla a message for me?”
Chapter 14
Oliver could not recall a time when he had been more cross.
He was seated at Sybilla’s table for supper again, but this time he sat to the woman’s left, in the chair that Cecily had occupied only last night. Thankfully, Joan Barleg was seated on the other side of the Foxe matriarch, leaving Oliver to concentrate on pretending to eat his food.
Why had she not yet returned?
Oliver had been completely befuddled by Cecily’s disgust of him before she’d abruptly left Fallstowe with the old priest, but he was determined that she should have no doubt of his intentions toward her. He wanted her—only her. And he was willing to go to whatever lengths she determined to be necessary to win her. Once that was established, they would go to Sybilla together and Sybilla could detail her insane theories to Cecily herself.
It made little sense still to Oliver. But Sybilla had sworn that the thing she asked of him was somehow tied to the plan his brother had instigated to help Sybilla Foxe retain Fallstowe, and she had promised to pay him handsomely for his cooperation. Oliver was certain that, once Sybilla explained it all, Cecily would understand. Oliver wanted Cecily ... he only needed to become betrothed to another woman, first.
Perfectly reasonable.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the women to his right continued to chat about the stupid sliver of rock Sybilla had given Joan last night.
“Think you I placed it too far from my head?” Joan whined.
Sybilla shrugged and swirled the contents of her chalice. “Perhaps, since you slept so very poorly. You may do well to sleep with it.”
“You mean hold it in my hand or something of that sort?”
“There’s an idea,” Sybilla mused, and then took a sip of her wine.
Joan nodded decisively. “I shall try that then tonight. I am certain that it should work. Something so beautiful must be powerful, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Completely,” Sybilla said mildly.
Oliver was in the process of rolling his eyes when he caught sight of the slender old man dressed in long robes, making his way toward the dais. It could be no other than Father Perry, and if he was back from the mission across the countryside, Cecily could not be far away. Perhaps she was fatigued and had gone straight to her rooms. No matter, Oliver would simply put off Sybilla until the morrow, after he had a chance to talk to Cecily.
“Peace be with you, my lady,” the priest said with a broad smile.
“And also with you, Father,” Sybilla answered. “How fares the village?”
“Well. We performed the Lord’s work today, most surely. Your generosity was appreciated more than you can know. God will reserve a special place for you.”
Oliver wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Sybilla Foxe snort daintily.
“I pray that is true, Father,” she said. “Where is my sister? I hope not infested with lice again. Cecily always feels she must
cuddle
all the children.”
“Not this time,” Father Perry chuckled good-naturedly. “But alas she is not here for you to confirm for yourself.”
Warning clangs—like crashing cymbals—began sounding in Oliver’s already pounding head.
“Not here?” Sybilla thankfully gave voice to the questions banging on the back side of Oliver’s teeth. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone on to Hallowshire, my lady. With the vicar.”
The crashing cymbals in Oliver’s ears threaded out into a loud buzz, and it felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.
Sybilla huffed a little disbelieving laugh and then leaned back in her chair as if she, too, was stumped. “In truth? My, my, Father. Vicar John must be of the persuasive sort.”
“That he is, my lady,” Perry affirmed with a grin. “I do believe he has taken a special interest in Lady Cecily, and she values his opinion and regard quite highly.”
“That gladdens my heart,” Sybilla said in a low, intense voice.
“And mine as well,” Father said with a knowing look, and Oliver could not help but feel that, even though the conversation was taking place directly before him, something was being alluded to that he did not understand.
“Did she say how long she will stay before coming home?” Sybilla asked, and then leaned forward slightly. “Is she
coming
home?”
“She did not say,” Father Perry confirmed. “She very pointedly did not say.”
“I see,” Sybilla half sung.
Father Perry nodded sagely.
“What in bloody hell is going on?” Oliver blurted, the pounding in his skull making his vision dance. Everyone turned surprised eyes to him, but he didn’t care. “Is she coming back or isn’t she?”
Father Perry gave Oliver an amused smile, and Oliver wanted to blaspheme just to spite the meek little messenger.
“Only God knows, my son.”
“Only G—” Oliver broke off and clenched his teeth together. But even he could hear the strangled sounds struggling to form into words and burst free from his mouth. His arm throbbed as if a strong little man stood near his elbow, thrashing it with a club. He stood abruptly, the chair legs squealing on the stones beneath his seat.
“If you will excuse me.” Oliver turned and gave Sybilla a short bow. “My lady.”
“Oliver, what on earth has come over you?” Joan demanded with a puzzled laugh. “I do vow that little blow to your head has completely wuzzled your personability. I’m sure your nurse is quite fine, as you will be with or without her. Don’t leave us so soon—we’ve not even had the pudding yet.”
“I don’t care for any bloody pudding,” Oliver ground out. “Thank you.”
Sybilla raised her chalice to her lips again, and although Oliver knew the lady was still waiting on his answer of the offer she’d put forth, she didn’t bother to cast her eyes in his direction as she spoke against the rim of her cup.
“The pudding’s quite good.” She took a sip. “August never missed the pudding.”
It was the final straw.
He threw his napkin onto his platter and turned, making his way from the dais and swerving through a right, then a left turn to gain the main aisle. He heard a chair screech from its place just behind him, and then Joan called out.
“Oliver, wait!”
“No!” He threw his left hand over his head but kept walking. “No, Joan. Whatever you do, do not follow me.”
“Where are you going?”
“To gather my belongings,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“But I don’t
want
to leave yet!” she whined.
“Then for the love of sweet Christ in heaven, don’t!” he shouted. His steps hesitated for an instant, and he added somewhat more somberly, “Beg pardon, Father.”
He stormed through the doorway of the great hall, up the short flight of stairs leading to the entry, and then started toward the main thoroughfare to the upper chambers.
If Cecily Foxe cared so little for him that she could simply take her leave from Fallstowe without so much as a good-bye, then so could Oliver. He hadn’t been himself since that damned Foxe Ring, and now he’d had enough. To hell with her. Oliver hoped she was very happy at her blasted nunnery. To hell with heartless Sybilla Foxe and her harebrained, selfish schemes, as well. To hell with everyone and everything at Fallstowe.
He was going home.
 
 
Sybilla glanced over her shoulder at Graves, and in that same instant, the old steward turned from her and disappeared through the narrow doorway set in the wall behind the dais. Then she turned her attention back to the still smiling priest.
“Was there anything else my sister wished to tell me, Father?”
“Only that she is very sorry for any inconvenience her absence might cause you,” the man said with a knowing smile.
Sybilla returned it. “Thank you. Won’t you join us, Father Perry?”
“Thank you, my lady, but no. I am not as young as I once was, and feel the desire for my own warm bed more insistently than I do a warm meal.”
“I bid you good night, then,” Sybilla said.
Father Perry bowed, and then made the sign of the cross in the air over the table before turning and walking away in his swishing robes.
Sybilla turned to Joan Barleg, who was twisting her napkin into a knot on her lap, a worried frown creasing her high, youthful brow.
“Lady Joan, I am not as familiar with Lord Bellecote as you are,” Sybilla said mildly, reaching once more for her chalice. “Does he always react in such a manner when offered pudding?”
“The temper you mean?” Joan asked. At Sybilla’s half nod, the girl continued. “No. Not at all. It’s why I jested with him about the blow to his head. Oliver has always had an easy nature. His behavior of late has been more akin to August’s than his own.” Then Joan gave a little gasp and turned wide eyes to Sybilla. “Please forgive me, my lady.”
“Forgive you what, Lady Joan?” She brought the cup to her lips and drank.
“For mentioning ... well, so soon after—” She broke off. “Of course, you would be familiar with August’s temper. I didn’t mean to cause you any undue grief.” She leaned forward slightly. “Are you griefish, Lady Sybilla?”
“Intensely,” Sybilla answered, and even to her own ears, her tone was full of cynicism. “Why would you think August ever showed me anything but kindness?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that he—I only meant that since you ... Well, it was said the two of you were very fond of one another.”
Sybilla hummed slightly, as if Joan Barleg had said something of high interest. “I am very fond of several people, Lady Joan. Some a bit more than others, though, I suppose. Should any of them happen to die suddenly, I do imagine that I would feel rather put out.”
Joan Barleg frowned slightly and then sat back in her chair. After a moment, she sighed. “Well, then. I suppose I should go to my own chamber and gather my things.”
Sybilla turned her head slightly to glance at the girl. “Whatever for?”
“Oliver said that he was leaving.”
“Oliver also said, in quite a clear if uncharitable manner, that you should stay here if you wish.” Now she looked at the young woman fully, studying her. “Now that Lady Cecily has gone on to Hallowshire, I have no female contemporaries to keep me company.”
Joan Barleg’s eyes brightened. “Truly, Lady Sybilla? You would have me stay only to keep your company?”
“It is my utmost wish at this point, Joan.” Sybilla smiled. “It’s all right that I call you Joan, isn’t it? You may call me Sybilla, if you like.”
Joan Barleg appeared ready to either cry or faint. “
Of course
you may call me Joan!
Sybilla
,” she added with a simpering smile. Then her face fell. “Oh, but I can’t. I really shouldn’t. Oliver is still quite injured, and since that disgusting Argo has already departed for Bellemont, I can’t let him travel the whole of the way alone.” Joan seemed to think hard for a moment, and when she next spoke, her words were whispered on a breath of confession. “Besides, he has yet to propose properly to me, and I do fear I must strive to give him every opportunity.”
Sybilla leaned heavily on the right arm of her chair. “Joan.” She crooked her left index finger at the girl, prompting her to mirror her pose. “Shall I tell you a little secret?”
Joan Barleg nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes! Do!”
“I think,” Sybilla drew out, and then glanced around the hall pointedly before turning her attention to Joan once more, “that Oliver won’t go back to Bellemont tonight.”
Joan’s eyebrows rose.
Sybilla nodded. “I also think that the reason he will stay is ... you.”
“Me?” Joan squeaked.
Again, Sybilla nodded. “Breathe not a word of this conversation to him, you vow?”
“Of course!”
Joan hissed.
“The two of us, Oliver and I, were speaking of a betrothal between you and him only this morn.”
All the color drained out of Lady Joan Barleg’s face. “You advised him?”
“I did.” Sybilla leaned back in her chair.
“Well, what did he say?”
“He hadn’t decided.” Sybilla picked up her chalice once more. Empty. Dammit. She rattled its base on the table before setting it back down. In a blink, a kitchen girl appeared with a skin in hand.
“Is there naught I can do to sway him?”
Sybilla shrugged and then took her now-full cup in hand again.
Joan looked confused for a moment. “But he told me not to follow him. I don’t think angering him will further my cause.” She paused, looking earnestly at Sybilla. “Do you?”
Sybilla gave the girl a slow, solemn wink.
In the next moment, Joan had tossed her napkin atop her own platter and rose from the table, stomping in a dainty manner from the dais and marching down the center aisle.

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