Читать книгу Lady Cecily And The Mysterious Mr Gray - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Cecily had never been this close to an owl before. Athena stunned her, with her heart-shaped face and huge dark eyes and the contrast between the buff-coloured feathers on her wings and back with the snowy white of her face and breast. Mr Gray took Cecily’s ungloved hand and raised it to the bird’s breast. Her fingers sank into the soft feathers, more deeply than she anticipated.

‘She is beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘Why is she so tame?’

Mr Gray touched the owl’s head with his forehead, then lifted his arm high. The bird launched into flight and glided away as silently as it had arrived.

‘I reared her from a fledgling.’ His hands cupped in an unconscious gesture, as though he remembered the finding of her and as though he still protected her.

‘How old is she?’

‘She is nine now.’

‘Do you keep other animals, Mr Gray?’

He rubbed his hand across his jaw. ‘I do not keep them. They are free to leave if they so wish.’

‘Will you tell me about them?’

‘Another time. Maybe.’

He began to walk back across the grass towards the garden and regret swirled through her. She followed him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides.

‘I am sorry. I did not mean to pry. I should not have questioned you.’

‘There you go again, with your “I should not have...”’ he growled.

He slammed to a halt and pivoted to face her with such suddenness that she almost cannoned into him. Her feet, still clad in her satin dancing slippers, skidded from under her and she reached out, clutching his lapels to steady herself. His arms came around her, hauling her close, and she found her cheek pressed to his chest, the steady beat of his heart thumping in her ear...far steadier than her own erratic heartbeat which flittered, soared and swooped.

‘Steady.’

His voice rumbled through her. His arms still held her captive, but they loosened a little, allowing her to tip her head back to look at him. His eyes flashed and a muscle leapt in his jaw as one hand slid lower and settled at the small of her back, fitting her snugly into the warm contours of his body. His breath caressed her skin as his free hand came up to cradle her cheek, his thumb drifting across her lower lip. Her breath quickened as his head lowered and, without volition, she rose on her toes to close the gap between them.

His warm lips were soft and smooth, exhilarating and yet soothing. She had only been kissed once in her life and the experience had been...forgettable. This...

Oh, this...

She pressed closer, slipping her arms around his waist, revelling in the sensual glide of his mouth on hers, lost in the moment. She tensed as his tongue probed her lips, but he murmured deep in his throat, a calming sound, and she parted her lips and let him in. Their tongues slid together as he entered repeatedly, exploring her mouth, delicately and without haste. An unfamiliar sensation gathered deep in her stomach, a growing ache of yearning...of desire. She settled deeper into his embrace, his male scent surrounding her as her pulse ran riot and her toes curled with pure pleasure.

It was he who ended the kiss, lifting his lips from hers and drifting them across her cheek. He nibbled her earlobe, then traced the outer rim with his tongue as she tilted her head to ease his access. Her wits were reassembling but, although she was shocked by her wanton behaviour, she felt no shame. His hands framed her waist and lifted her, setting her away from him. She resisted the urge to seek again the heat of his body, the security of his arms.

‘That should not have happened.’ The wicked glitter in his eyes belied his words.

‘Should not?’ she teased, even though he was right. Of course it should never have happened. But she challenged him nevertheless. ‘Why not?’

He barked a laugh. ‘That, my Lady Perfect, is a foolish question.’ He raised his arm, gesturing at the night sky. ‘Let us blame the magic of the moonlight and come the dawn we shall forget it ever happened.’

‘Did you not enjoy kissing me?’

He reached for her hand, holding it in both of his, playing gently with her fingers. Then he raised it to his mouth and pressed hot lips briefly into her palm before folding her fingers over as though to hold his kiss in place.

‘I did.’ His voice was low. Sincere. ‘But you know as well as I that a boundary was crossed. Until that moment, we were indeed fellow guests merely talking. Now...our consciences know the truth, but it can never be revealed to anybody else. Ever. It would be the ruin of you, were it known you kissed a Romany.’

She knew he was right and she still could hardly believe she—who prided herself on always being ladylike and correct—had behaved so out of character.

‘Mayhap you are right and it was the effects of the moonlight,’ she said. ‘You were not thinking clearly. You were angry with me for prying into your life.’

Thea had already warned her that Mr Gray was a very private man. She should have taken heed.

He laughed. ‘That, sweet dove, was not an angry kiss. It was not a punishment; it was self-indulgence. I have wanted to kiss you ever since I first set eyes on you in the church.’

Her insides lurched and heat washed over her face at the thought that such a virile man—such an intelligent and thoughtful man—could look at her in such a way.

‘And I was not angry with you for prying,’ he went on. ‘You wanted to know something about me and you are entitled to ask. But, likewise, I am entitled not to answer.’ He smiled, taking the sting from his words. ‘I should not have walked away from you as I did.’

‘Walked? That was very nearly a run.’ She was desperate to lighten the mood. ‘But I shall accept you do not wish to tell me about your life.’

‘It is not—’

He stiffened, tilting his head to one side. Cecily listened, but could hear nothing.

‘They are calling for you,’ he said. ‘You had better make haste.’ He pointed at the archway that led back into the garden.

Guilt intertwined with the dread that her brothers would find her out. They would be furious, but with Mr Gray, not with her. They would blame him entirely. She would not allow that to happen. He had helped her and she would protect him in return. Somehow, she now felt better able to cope with the changes in her life.

She faced him, and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for listening, Mr Gray.’

He stilled. He stared down at Cecily’s outthrust hand for so long, she feared she had transgressed another of his unwritten laws. As she began to withdraw it, though, he grasped it and closed his fingers around it, saying, ‘Zach. Call me Zach.’

His touch sent tingles racing up her arm and another flush to heat her cheeks. The memory of his lips on hers seared her brain.

‘Zach?’

‘Zachary. That is my name.’

‘But...Absalom. They said you are Absalom Gray.’

She stared up at him. At the intensity of his expression.

‘Absalom is my middle name. I should like to hear my given name on your lips, but I shall not insist. You must do as you wish.’

As I wish... It reinforced the message he had tried to convey about her future. She could choose.

She smiled. ‘Zachary, then. Thank you for listening, Zach.’

He bowed over her hand, turned it and feathered warm, soft lips across the sensitive skin at her wrist and then, in that same calm, unhurried manner, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing her lace glove. He slid it on to her hand and smoothed it along her forearm. Tingles changed into sparks that radiated throughout her body and a feeling of nervy anticipation coiled in the pit of her stomach.

‘You are welcome, Cecily.’

His voice, again, flowed around and through her, melting and comforting. Flustered, she snatched her hand from his and, grabbing at her skirts, she dashed through the archway and past the raised pool, towards the voices she could now hear clearly, raised in worry as they called her name.

She was out of breath by the time she met the first of the searchers, Leo, his brow creased and his eyes full of fear in the light of the lantern he held aloft.

‘Cecily! Thank God! I thought... I thought...’ His voice cracked. ‘Where have you been?’ He raised his voice. ‘It’s all right. I’ve found her.’

He reached for her and pulled her into a tight hug. Guilt pressed on Cecily. She knew, better than most, how Leo worried about his family. How responsible he felt. His first wife had been murdered—in a summer house at Cheriton Abbey—and he had never forgiven himself for his failure to protect her.

‘Leo. I am safe. I’m sorry. I wandered further than I realised. I did not mean to be gone for so long, but it is such a lovely evening and...’

She shrugged. She could say no more. She had wandered too far and forgotten the time. He would have to accept that.

The sound of feet running grew louder, then Vernon, Dominic and Daniel Markham burst into view as Leo released her.

‘Cecily!’ Vernon grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. ‘What happened? This isn’t like you, going off on your own.’

She bit back the irritated riposte that threatened to burst from her lips. Her brothers would never see her as anything other than their little sister. Someone who needed their protection, even though she had been the one to keep the family strong when Margaret died, leaving three young children motherless.

‘I was too warm indoors, Vernon, and I chose to come outside and breathe the fresh air.’ Her choice of words brought Zach’s image into her mind: his dark, chiselled face with its straight nose and slashed brows. Those brooding eyes. That exotic diamond in his ear.

Yes. I chose to go outside. He has a point...so many times I only do as expected and allowed.

‘The scent of the roses lured me into the garden,’ she continued. ‘There is no harm done.’ Her gaze swept across the faces of the four men. Three of them looked mollified, to varying degrees. Leo, though—it was never an easy thing to fool her perceptive oldest brother. ‘Come. Let us go indoors before you contrive to set everyone else into an unnecessary panic.’

Vernon slung his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on to her hair. ‘Pleased it was a false alarm, Cilly.’

Cecily shrugged his arm away. ‘And don’t call me Cilly.’

Trust Vernon; he never missed an opportunity to tease and he knew only too well how she detested that stupid childhood nickname. They had reached the terrace, then they were inside the brightly lit drawing room and Cecily donned her accustomed mantle of perfect society lady and mingled and chatted, but there was a tiny part of her that remained separate and secluded from the hubbub, and in her mind’s eye she saw Zach’s hands, cupped in that unconscious gesture of protection and that tiny part of her felt...safe.

* * *

Zach hunkered down as he fed sticks into the fire two mornings later. Shades of pink and orange brushed the horizon as dawn approached. Another restless night had seen him up even earlier than usual, intent on moving on. No good could come of lingering, of seeing her again. Cecily. Lady Perfect. The name he had dubbed her with sounded harsh, but it served a useful purpose. Its use whenever he thought of her—as he had frequently since their encounter in the moonlight two nights ago—kept the impossibility of anything other than a brief friendship to the forefront of his mind. It would help to stop him indulging in the fantasy of anything more.

He set a tripod frame over the flames and placed a skillet on top, adding a sliver of butter. When it melted, he swirled it around and cracked one egg and then another into the pan. He did it without thought. This had been his life for ten years. The life he had chosen.

As he ate the eggs, mopping up the yolk with a hunk of bread—Mrs Green, the cook at Stourwell Court, was nothing if not generous—he set his mind to the journey he must take to rejoin his family. He had left them camped on the outskirts of Worcester, but they had plans to move on, and he knew their path lay to the south and east, picking up harvesting work and odd jobs along the way.

I must leave today...

The same thought that had plagued him yesterday morning and throughout the day. He had glimpsed Lady Perfect from afar, with her family, but he’d deliberately stayed away from the house. Yes. He would be wise to leave; he ought to leave. He stilled. Ought to... He had chosen not to live his life by the conventions. To follow his heart, not the demands of his brain. How could he tell Lady Perfect to choose what she wished to do, rather than to slavishly follow the edicts of society or her family, and then ignore his own advice?

Do I want to leave today?

The answer was clear and strong. No. He did not want to leave. Not yet. He knew he ought to go, but he chose to stay. It was his way of letting the fates decide his future...and he preferred it to tossing a coin or throwing a dice.

Decision made, he unfolded his body, stood upright and stretched his arms high, arching back as his lungs filled. This would be a good day. He could feel it in his bones.

An eager whine caught his attention. Myrtle sat at his feet, gazing up with adoring eyes, tongue lolling. He reached down to fondle her ear and her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Dogs were simple beings. Easy to please. Loving and faithful, although they did not always have cause to be. Zach walked to the cart and rummaged through the basket sent out to him by Mrs Green last night after he had declined to join the family and their guests for dinner. Sure enough, there was cold beef and Zach tossed a slice to Myrtle, who jumped awkwardly to catch it. His heart twisted as he watched her lurch away from the cart on three legs and he perched on the cart steps as the memories took hold.

He had found Myrtle a year ago, trapped by her hind leg in a snare in the woods, close to death. It was soon after his mother’s death and caring for Myrtle had helped ease the pain of Mama’s passing and given him a purpose. He hadn’t been able to save her leg, but he had saved her. And, in a way, she had saved him, too, in the same way that caring for Athena had helped him cope with the catastrophic change in his life as he—at sixteen years of age—had struggled to adjust to life among his mother’s people.

Sixteen years old. A boy. He and his mother cast out after his father’s death, with nowhere to go and no one who cared. From that day forward, he’d locked the door on his past, changing his name from Zachary Graystoke to Absalom Gray. Even his mother had called him Absalom, the name of his Romany grandfather. And that memory led inexorably back to Lady Perfect and the question of why he had felt impelled to tell her his real name. Why it had been so very important to him to hear his name on her lips. And the only answer was that he wanted her to know something about him that was the truth. Not the half-truth known by everybody else in the non-Romany world. The gadje world.

Eventually, the swish of footsteps through long grass and the low murmur of voices interrupted his thoughts. His camp was close to a small copse, at the point where a brook entered the River Stour, and on the edge of a field which—Daniel had told him—would be cut for hay later in the season. Zach pushed himself upright and rounded his cart, to see Daniel, the Duke and his son walking to the river, fishing rods in hand. Daniel saw him watching and raised his hand in greeting.

‘Morning, Absalom. Care to join us? We thought we’d take advantage of the peace while the ladies recuperate after another late night.’

The ladies... Lady Perfect... Without volition, he looked in the direction of the house, even though he knew it was out of sight. Was she awake? Did she think of him—wonder what he was doing—as he did her? He thrust down that thought. Of course she did not. She was a lady. He was a Romany. Why would she think of him? But maybe his listening, and his advice, such as it was, had helped to ease her mind. At least she had not succumbed to a fit of the vapours when he had so far forgotten himself as to kiss her.

With that he must be satisfied.

‘Thank you, but no,’ he replied to Daniel. ‘I promised your sister I would look at her lame mare this morning.’

‘Oh, good man,’ Daniel said. ‘Thea dotes on Star. She’d be broken-hearted to lose her and Pritchard seems at a loss to know what’s wrong.’ Pritchard was the Markhams’ head groom. ‘Absalom here is something of a natural healer, your Grace.’

‘Leo. I told you to call me Leo. After all, we’re family now.’

Zach could see by the pink that tinged Daniel’s cheeks how pleased he was by the Duke’s remark. He bit back a smile as he imagined the man’s reaction if he were to have the gall to call him Leo.

‘Well, enjoy your fishing,’ he said. The sun was fully up now, revealing a cloudless, periwinkle sky. ‘You have perfect weather for it.’

‘Indeed we have.’ It was the Duke’s son who responded, with a grin. He slapped Daniel on the back as he continued, ‘Markham’s promised some great sport. He’s boasting of barbel the size of seals.’

Daniel laughed. ‘That’s something of an exaggeration, but we do catch the occasional whopper.’

The three men continued to the river bank and turned to walk downstream, jumping across the brook. Zach watched them go with a touch of envy prompted by their sureness of their own places in the world: Daniel as comfortable with his own life as a manufacturer as the Duke and his son—his eldest son and therefore his heir—were with their privileged position. He swatted away that errant feeling. He might not belong quite as solidly to the life he had chosen, but it was his choice after all. Those other men...they had simply followed in their fathers’ footsteps. He tidied his campsite and threw dirt on the fire to extinguish the flame, then, with Myrtle at his heels, he headed for the stables.

He followed the brook upstream to the point where, at some time in the past, it had been dammed to create the lake where he and Lady Perfect had talked the night before last. He skirted around the shore and then continued to follow the brook upstream, knowing it would lead him close to the stable yard. He could not help but glance over at the rear view of Stourwell Court—its three-storeyed, stuccoed block, topped with a hipped roof, visible on the far side of the flower garden—but he caught no glimpse of Lady Perfect. Or of anyone else. The curtains were still drawn at several windows on the first floor and it was likely she was still in bed.

How long had she remained at the party after she left him the other night? Had she danced? Laughed? Indulged in fascinating conversations with the other guests—conversations that would put their unlikely encounter straight out of her head? She had made no effort to seek him out yesterday. Had she even noticed him, in the distance, when he had seen her? His lips tightened. Such thoughts would help no one. Least of all him. He must let them go. He cut across the grass to the stables and rounded the outer wall to the yard entrance. And stopped short.

Her smile dazzled him. Her silky chestnut hair gleamed in the sun and her eyes—a glorious green, the colour of fresh, damp moss—sparkled. She was dressed for riding, in a riding habit that exactly matched her eyes, and she held a matching hat, trimmed with two curling ostrich feathers, by her side.