One Whisper Away (17 page)

“Yet he made an exception for Lady Cecily. You and your sister are close, or so it is said. Has she mentioned her feelings for Augustine?”

Eleanor’s conflicted personal angle on the situation aside, this was treading very close to waters that were of unsure depth. On the one side of it, she wasn’t at liberty to speak for her sister. Not when she wasn’t objective, and certainly not when it involved Cecily’s entire future.

On the other hand, she knew her sister had developed a penchant for the raven-haired half-foreign heir to the Augustine title. That dreamy-eyed look when she described his kiss was evidence enough, and Eleanor was alarmed on her sister’s behalf.

Earl Savage might, or might not
,
be interested in Cecily.

No, not true
. From the glimmer in his dark eyes, he was definitely interested, but the level of that pursuit had to combat his reputed disdain for a permanent tie to his English roots, and an aristocratic wife would be a problem in that regard. It was all too likely that he was just dallying with her and nothing would come of it except one young woman’s disappointment and possible broken heart.

She knew about
that
from personal experience.

One of Eleanor’s worst faults was her inability to lie. Actually, maybe that wasn’t a fault, but it was inconvenient now and then—like at this moment. Elijah Winters was still looking at her expectantly, and she needed to come up with a reasonable answer. “She finds him intriguing, my lord.” She chose her words carefully. “You have to admit he is not your average English gentleman. However, whether it is anything more than that is not a question I can answer, for I truly don’t know.”

That was extremely diplomatic for her. Perhaps she was getting better at not being so unfashionably frank after all.

“I see.” Next to her, the viscount wore a faint scowl, staring straight ahead as they walked. “I suppose his background might seem romantic in some way to a young woman who has led a sheltered life.”

“And he is very handsome.”

Well, that was much more her usual style and
not
very diplomatic. She hastily amended, “If you prefer your men dark and a bit out of the ordinary.”

“I will have to take your word for it, Lady Eleanor, because I don’t prefer men at all myself.” A hint of wry amusement infused his voice. In the late-afternoon sun his hair was lit with chestnut glints among the gold.

She had a longing—a very secret and shameless longing—to touch his hair. To run her fingers through it, and if Cecily’s reaction was any indication of how much she had enjoyed the scandalous Augustine’s kiss, Eleanor wanted to experience that same exciting, forbidden moment, but with the man strolling next to her.

The irony of it always struck her, and never more so than at this moment. “No, it is clear Cecily is who you fancy.”

Maybe it was something in her tone—she was so abysmal at being subtle—but he turned to look at her then, his pace never faltering but his eyes narrowing just a fraction as if he suddenly really
saw
her.

Now I’ve done it
.

Could she save face? Maybe, though heat rose into her cheeks, which was probably betrayal enough. She babbled, “Why . . . why wouldn’t you? She’s lovely, intelligent, gifted with charm and poise and tact, and really, since I adore her also, I don’t blame you.”

“Don’t blame me?” he repeated, a slight question in his voice.

It was no illusion. He truly was staring at her now, as if the words struck him.

As if he
knew
.

The birds were twittering, the air was fragrant with flowers, and the clouds had broken momentarily, so the sun was warm on her shoulders. He just looked at her. Oh, dear Lord, she was making everything quite worse by the passing second. That last bit gave away entirely too much. A surge of panic gripped her, as if she had stripped her soul bare accidentally and wasn’t ready for it. Which she most definitely wasn’t.

If they kept on walking she would say something else unfortunate. It was bound to happen, and she didn’t know if she could bear the humiliation of his knowing of her secret passion for him and the inevitable rebuff.

So she took the only reasonable course and caught her skirts in her hands. “Excuse me.”

And with unforgivable rudeness she left him there as she all but ran like a coward back toward the house.

 

Cecily decided to simply tell the truth. “My sister is in love with Lord Drury. I am not. How could I possibly marry him?”

Jonathan’s smile was enigmatic. “I see. That explains quite a lot.”

“I’ve told
no one
else,” she said with firm inflection. “Well, no one but Roddy because I hoped he could get a sense of whether or not Lord Drury might in some measure return her interest.”

“The secret is quite safe with me, rest assured.”

She believed him. Maybe that was what it was about him that drew her. Oh, yes, there was a physical attraction she could not deny, but while she doubted that the rules of gentlemanly conduct mattered much to him, she had the impression of an underlying strict moral code of his own making, and she was certain enough of his word to trust him. “Thank you.”

Jonathan nodded once. “I’ve considered the engagement.”

Cecily was annoyed with herself for having a light, rapid heartbeat, damp palms, and generally a very ingénue reaction to just being in the same room with the man who had so often occupied her thoughts in the past days. She hoped she managed some semblance of aplomb when she less than brilliantly said, “Oh?”

His face was not the easiest to read. The corner of his mouth quirked, and his expression could only be explained as completely impassive. This afternoon he was more striking than ever in fawn breeches and a dark brown coat, his sleek hair neatly tied back. He hadn’t sat, but stood by a small table that held a miniature of her great-great-grandmother, ruff and all, painted two hundred years ago.

It was rather incongruous—tall, exotic, powerful male beside petite, pinch-faced woman in a small gilt frame superimposed on the overly decorous room. The contrast was striking both culturally and in a symbolic sense. Cecily merely looked at him, as it was his turn to speak.

“As a ruse, it is a very thin method of deception. I’ve already pointed that out, I believe.”

She blew out a short breath. “No one can prove we don’t mean to marry.”

“But neither can we prove our intentions are so serious.”

“I suppose not. . . . No one can until we actually don’t go through with the ceremony.” Still pleased about Lord Drury’s departure with Eleanor, she refused to let anything ruin her elation. “A long engagement is not unusual. We needn’t make this complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

He had a point. She smiled; pleased with the way he looked at her, as if the trappings of the dress, the fine furnishings, her carefully ordered hair, didn’t matter because he was looking into her eyes. “How so?”

He moved across the room toward her. The door was open, of course, since she would never be allowed alone with a gentleman in private—in particular with Jonathan Bourne. There was probably a servant hovering in the corridor.

“Because of you,” he said, not doing anything but just giving her a fascinating masculine grin. “Because of me. Because I kissed you. Because you kissed me back. If you think this is going to be simple, you’re wrong. First we have to consider the matter of your father’s approval of me.”

Cecily tried to ignore her fluttering pulse and the physical reaction due to his proximity. “You have an English father and a very significant title. But you also have an American mother who was unconventional by the standards of all the classing of rank I’ve ever heard of, and so therefore, my lord, I agree, this will not be an effortless deception.”

She sounded fairly composed at least.

“My sister Lillian will never be fooled, and I do not want to earn her mistrust.”

That was enlightening information. Not hearing that Lady Lillian would know what they were about, but that he cared about his sister’s feelings. Cecily had been dealing with masculine privilege her entire life. For instance, she knew her father loved her, but he would also have no qualms about forcing her into a marriage if he felt it was best for her, her protestations aside. In contrast, Roderick, of course, could do as he pleased.

It wasn’t fair, but it was life.

Standing there, she experienced a small, singular moment in which she wondered what it would be like if she truly did marry Jonathan Bourne. They didn’t know each other well enough for her to be sure, but she thought he seemed like the type of man who would give his wife a great deal of freedom. Would he be possessive, she wondered as they gazed at each other in an ever-lengthening silence. Maybe—not because he considered her a possession but because he wouldn’t want to share her attention. Life would never be tame; the edge of wildness about him was exciting, fascinating, and it might even last a lifetime. . . .

Quickly, Cecily shook off that impractical fantasy. She cleared her throat. “I think it is admirable you don’t wish to lie to her, my lord.”

“I don’t lie to anyone as a rule, and am pointing out that is somewhat of a problem if we wish to do this. The entire premise is based on a falsehood.”

The sight of Eleanor leaving on Lord Drury’s arm was fresh in her mind. Impulsively, Cecily took a step forward. Close enough that if she wished to reach out and touch him, she could.

An interesting concept. Especially since she found she absolutely did wish to touch him. “Please.”

His lashes drifted down a fraction, and she realized his attention had shifted to her mouth. He said nothing, but his lingering smile was intriguing and seductive.

She tilted her face up, aware that she stood only a scant, scandalous distance away, her senses on the alert because he was so close. The tantalizing hint of his cologne, the warmth from his tall body, the flare of something primal in his dark eyes, the small sound of his exhaled breath . . .

He let out a muttered expletive as he caught her waist and pulled her into his arms. “This,” he said succinctly, “is what is going to be the problem, damn you.”

I
t was one matter to be very attracted to a beautiful young woman and agree to help her, especially if she dangled in front of him the hope of freedom in the guise of aid for his sisters—not that he even needed that incentive, though. She was dangerous enough as it stood. It was another matter to realize that by its very nature, the attraction could be a trap.

A delicious one, certainly, Jonathan acknowledged with Cecily nestled against him, his mouth seeking the delicious softness of her lips, but a trap nonetheless. He intended their marriage be based on the practical aspects of the arrangement.

However, he was feeling most impractical at the moment.

Beware
.

But his brain ignored the warning from a cautious inner voice and instead insisted on focusing on the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest and the evocative scent of her hair. Right there in the ducal drawing room he kissed her, in sight of whoever might come to the doorway, and God knew if the duke had been informed that the half-breed Lord Augustine was calling on his daughter, some attention would be paid to how they were chaperoned.

Jonathan needed to explain his stipulation to agreeing to an engagement.

Right after he finished this intriguing kiss. One slim arm came up to circle his neck, and she sighed into his mouth and parted her lips for the brush of his tongue, participating with the same shy and yet eager enthusiasm that had so entranced him the last time he’d held her in his arms.

In bed she would no doubt have the identical bewitching effect, but magnified, if he could lie with her naked and willing beneath him, her breath warm against his cheek as he moved inside her bewitching body. . . .

It was a very enticing fantasy that just might become a reality if he could only convince her to agree.

He pulled her in closer, and his hand flattened at the small of her back and then drifted downward over the perfect curve of her bottom through the fabric of her dress. She didn’t object; instead her fingers slid into his hair, loosening it. He stifled a groan and arousal flared through him, primal and fierce. The kiss turned molten as he slanted his mouth over hers and wickedly used his tongue to tease and then withdraw.

Like the first time, she was an apt pupil, learning the erotic dance quickly, her fingertips tracing his cheek. The catch of her quickened breathing was arousing, and he hardly needed that, for he was already stifling the urge to pick her up and carry her to the closest level surface where they could finish this in the most pleasurable way possible. . . .

“That is quite enough.”

The frosty voice broke into his haze of arousal, and he realized belatedly that someone had come into the room, cynical amusement at war with lust. As a trained soldier, he was usually more alert than this, but at the moment he was admittedly distracted. With some reluctance, he broke the kiss, let Cecily go, and turned.

The woman glaring at him could only be the formidable Dowager Duchess of Eddington, for if one looked past the imperious expression of glowering disapproval and the inevitable lines of age, the resemblance to Cecily was actually quite remarkable. Though he very rarely indulged in formalities, perhaps now was the time to conform to politesse. He bowed. “Your Grace.”

“You must be Augustine.” The hauteur in her voice held a scathing edge. “I’ve heard you described a time or two. It appears that for once the gossip is accurate.” Small and regal, with iron gray hair, her gown an uncompromising fashion that even Jonathan’s untrained eye recognized as severely outdated, the duchess openly inspected his appearance from the polish on his Hessians to his face. The ribbon that had held his hair lay on the floor now, and he was aware that he no doubt looked every inch his American heritage with his loose hair brushing his shoulders. “I am he.”