Authors: Heather Grothaus

Never Seduce A Scoundrel (9 page)

BOOK: Never Seduce A Scoundrel

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They headed down yet another slope, and Cecily had to swallow hard before she could continue. “I know you would want to be returned to the bishop as soon as possible so that he might dismiss you properly.”

John Grey nodded. “My father will be surprised when we arrive. But pleased.”

“Will he?” Cecily glanced at him.

“I think so, yes.” His grin deepened. “Are you nervous of him?”

“A bit,” she admitted. “My own father died when I was so young; Graves is the closest thing I’ve had to a male authority figure.”

“Besides the king, of course,” he said somberly, and then they both chuckled at his little jest. “What of Sybilla? Need I fear for my neck once past Fallstowe’s barbican?”

Cecily gave a weak laugh—her stomach was mimicking the rolling gait of her horse. “If your honor and pedigree do not soften her heart, your comeliness and eloquence will have her on her knees.”

John laughed again and a blush fell across his face. They gained the next crest and he looked over at her.

“Do you find me comely, my lady?”

Cecily opened her mouth to give a saucy retort, but it did not come forth.

Instead, she leaned to her left and threw up.

Chapter 16

It had been nearly four weeks since the night Oliver had met Cecily Foxe at the old ring, and in many aspects, Oliver was much improved. His arm no longer throbbed with every beat of his heart; now it only hummed a dull ache within the confines of the sling. His ribs were all but healed. He felt no piercing pain in his skull.

But it seemed that every improvement in his physical condition was countered by a deterioration of his mental state. He couldn’t sleep. He had no interest in partaking of the fine and lavish meals at Sybilla’s table. On nine different occasions, he had come into his chamber to encounter a very willing and very naked female—or two—in his bed, and he’d simply turned around and left. On three of those occasions, the female had been Joan Barleg. He’d not had sex in nearly a month—by far the longest period of abstinence in his adult life. He feared he was doing grave damage to his reputation as a scoundrel.

And he did not care.

Cecily Foxe had abandoned him for the abbey with that decrepit old vicar. For the first time in his life, there was a woman who held his desire and who wanted naught to do with him. Not only that, but after he had made love to her—drunkenly and with extensive injuries, granted—she had retreated to a life of celibacy!

He’d thought hundreds of times of writing to her, of all but begging her to return to Fallstowe and to him. When he couldn’t bring himself to do so, he told himself that it was his pride that prevented it, but Oliver suspected that it had more to do with cowardice.

He was in love with Cecily Foxe, there could be no other explanation. Never had a woman—especially a woman whose gifts he had already savored—possessed him so. He longed for the sight of her, the sound of her voice. The greatest pleasure he had found during her absence was when he had discovered the location of her chamber at Fallstowe. He had stood in the center of the stark, cold little room for a long time, and then leisurely touched every piece of furniture, every windowsill, every candleholder, where her hands might have once rested. He had buried his face in large handfuls of the few, plain gowns that hung in the wardrobe. Finally, he had untied the curtains surrounding her bed, and crawled upon the mattress inside the dark, quiet enclosure to stare at the canopy above.

Sybilla Foxe had better hurry with her investigation, for Oliver had vowed to himself that if Cecily ever returned to Fallstowe, he would declare his feelings to her. To hell with what Joan Barleg knew. August was dead. Bellemont was Oliver’s. Nothing Sybilla did or did not discover was going to change those facts.

“Oliver!”
Joan said exasperatedly, and when he turned to look at her, he suspected that it was not the first time she had called to him.

“What?” he muttered, lifting his chin from his fist to once more attend disinterestedly to his chalice.

“Have you no care for the discussion of our wedding?” Joan demanded for what must have been the thousandth time in a fortnight. “Lady Sybilla has only just suggested that we be married here, at Fallstowe! Isn’t that a marvelous idea? What do you think?”

He shrugged.

“You’re uninterestedness wounds me,” she whispered bitterly before turning her back to him and engaging Sybilla once more, busy planning their make-believe wedding.

Oliver shrugged again as the cold breeze that was Graves swept behind his chair. Oliver was trying desperately to ignore the chatter between the two women once more, but his ears could not help but pick up the old steward’s announcement.

“May I interrupt, Madam, to inform you that your sister and her companion have arrived?”

The chalice Oliver had been holding slipped from his fingers and clanged onto the table, splattering the last inch or so left in its bowl across his platter. Joan cried out in dismay as Oliver tried to awkwardly grab hold of the rolling vessel.

“Sorry, sorry,” Oliver muttered as a pair of serving maids appeared at his side to whisk away the mess. But his heart pounded in rhythm to the song in his head: Cecily was home, at last!

The game was over.

Oliver heard a commotion coming from the large entryway at the rear of the great hall, where beyond lay the steps. He heard a woman’s laugh.

He rose from his seat slowly, his wine-stained linen napkin dangling from his hand, his eyes trained on the doorway.

“Oh-ho! What’s this? A return of manners, when the lady has not yet entered the hall!” Joan scoffed.

Oliver paid her no heed. There was a shadow lengthening onto the stone floor, the faint clicking of heels....

A blond woman appeared in the doorway, with a monkey on her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s Lady Alys!” Joan exclaimed.

Oliver tossed his napkin on the table with a half-hearted flick of his wrist as the youngest Foxe sister came down the aisle, her stocky and ever-frowning husband now close at her side. Oliver gave a shallow, stiff bow toward the pair and then sat down.

“Good evening, Sybilla! Lady Joan, lovely to see you again.” Alys looked in Oliver’s direction twice before seeming to realize his identity. “Why, Lord Bellecote, I almost didn’t recognize you. Healing well, I hope?”

“Perfect health, Lady Alys,” Oliver said blithely, and then raised an eyebrow toward her husband. “Mallory.”

Mallory gave Oliver a slight nod and then walked toward his end of the table while Joan all but fell over the meal to greet Lady Alys. Oliver heard the youngest Foxe woman gasp.

“Married?”

Piers Mallory now raised his own eyebrows at Oliver as he laid a thick forearm in front of Oliver’s platter. “ ’S that pudding?” He lifted his hand to point at a congealing mass.

Oliver flicked his fingers at the food. “I’ve no idea. Help yourself, old chap.”

The muscular lord swiped a long finger through the center of the plate and stuck it into his mouth. He swallowed, and then looked askance at the women, as Sybilla made her way from the table and exited the hall, Graves like her wrinkly shadow. Alys skirted the table and took her sister’s place, chattering with Joan.

“Married, eh,” Piers grunted.

Oliver shrugged. “That’s the rumor.”

Piers gaze was like a physical thing as he helped himself to the plate again. “Wrong woman though. Is that it?”

“What would you know of it?” Oliver looked around, gestured impatiently for the boy with the wine.

“You are clearly miserable. Yes,” he said pointedly to the boy, who quickly went off to find another cup. His eyes came back to Oliver. “You look like shit.”

“I can see now why Alys married you—verily, the epitome of tact.”

Piers laughed and took the chalice he was offered. “I may not possess the refined qualities of one of your
noble reputation,
” Piers said, “but years on a farm have taught me not to mince words for the sake of politeness. If a cow is sick, you heal it or you put it down.”

“Reiterating your offer to beat me to death with my only remaining arm?” Oliver snapped.

Piers frowned. “Not at all. Just thought you could use a friend.” He raised his chalice in salute. “I can see you’re not there yet. Good evening to you, Lord Bellecote.” And the large man removed himself to his wife’s side.

Oliver sat there for several more moments, drained his chalice, and then he sighed.

He stood, mumbled a good night to the trio to his right, and stepped from the dais. The common tables in the hall were now emptied of diners, the servants swishing along quietly between the benches as he walked slowly down the aisle with his eyes on his boots, feeling utterly useless.

He looked up just as he reached the doorway to the hall, and stopped in his tracks. There she was.

“Hello, Oliver.”

“Cecily,” he whispered, and even to his own ears, her name sounded like a plea.

She looked radiant. In the same plain gown he was accustomed to seeing her in, but her head was uncovered, her hair twisted back in a long spiral, several curls escaping around her face. Her skin looked like ivory, with the dewy blush of sunrise on her cheeks, her eyes like deep ermine in the shadows of the doorway. He stepped toward her.

She didn’t move away. “How is your arm?” she asked, glancing down at his sling.

“Wonderful,” he said distractedly. “Why have you been gone so long? Did you ... did you commit to Hallowshire?”

She shook her head slightly, still looking into his eyes, and in the dim light they seemed to shimmer. “No. No, I shan’t be returning to Hallowshire.”

Oliver clenched his left hand into a fist and shook it before him. “Cecily—” He glanced over his shoulder quickly as he heard the exclamations of the women behind him. They would be upon her soon. “Cecily, I need to speak with you. It’s quite important.”

“Well, I—All right.” Her lips thinned and she too glanced over her shoulder, into the dark entryway behind her. “But, Oliver—”

“No, shh. Listen to me,” he interrupted. “I have been a complete ass most of my life. I never held love for anything of import, and I have wrecked every opportunity to be a better man. Especially with you. I will not fail you this time, Cecily. I won’t. I swear it.”

“Oliver, please don’t,” Cecily whispered.

He shook his head and continued in a low whisper, stepping closer and even leaning forward, trying to convey the depth of his sincerity to her. “Each day that you have been away from me has been like a little hell. I want nothing more right now than to take you into my arms and kiss you, Cecily. I’ve never wanted anything more in the whole of my life.”

“You can’t kiss me, Oliver,” she said, and the shimmering in her eyes deepened, almost as if she would weep.

The footsteps were near now. Any moment and the women would be upon them.

“I know I can’t now. I wouldn’t embarrass you so.” He smiled. “But soon. I don’t think I could bear to be parted from you again.”

Her eyes widened. She looked up at him once more, seemed to lean toward him... .

“Cee!” Alys squealed as she brushed by Oliver and threw her arms around her sister. The monkey on Alys’s shoulder swayed wildly and clung to the blond woman’s head. “You look marvelous! And I have the most wonderful news for you. I can’t wait any longer!”

“Alys,” Cecily gasped, and then gave a little laugh. “I know. I mean, I can guess your news, I think.”

Alys stepped back, her hands on her hips, her face set in a frown. “Sybilla wasn’t supposed to tell you!”

Cecily smiled. “She didn’t. Although I should be offended that you told Sybilla and not me.”

“Then how do you know?” Alys demanded.

“I’ve been so ill!” Cecily laughed, and there were tears in her eyes now, as she looked up to the ceiling and pressed the heels of her hands across her bottom lashes.

“Oh, darling—how dreadful! You felt my morning sickness?” Alys said with a sympathetic frown.

Joan Barleg gasped. “Lady Alys, you’ve been blessed with a child?”

Alys nodded happily but Oliver frowned. He didn’t care. He wished they would all go away. Especially Joan.

“We have our own good news to share, Lady Cecily,” Joan said with a wide grin, and slid her arm through Oliver’s.

“Not now, Joan,” Oliver ground out beneath a forced smile. “Let the sisters have their moment. Where
is
Sybilla, by the by?”

“Oh no, do go on and tell Cecily,” Alys insisted with a stamp of her foot. “Sybilla has already heard all of our news ages ago and would be bored, as only Sybilla can be at the happiest of times.”

“Yes,” Cecily encouraged, but her words were spoken through a smile that looked to Oliver like it might crack at any moment, and she would not meet his eyes. “Do share, Lady Joan.”

“Oliver and I are to be
married!
” Joan sang excitedly. “He proposed the very night you arrived at Hallowshire!”

It was no trick of light; Oliver saw Cecily pale like chalk fields. She revived her smile though, with bright red lips.

“That’s ... wonderful news, indeed.” She looked up at him, and Oliver wanted to die. “Congratulations to you both.”

No. No more. He could not hurt her like this. He pulled his arm from Joan’s roughly, ignoring her squawk. “Cecily ...”

His confession was interrupted by Sybilla’s appearance in the entry, a finely dressed, young blond man at her elbow.

“Lord Bellecote, I think perhaps we should give Lady Cecily the opportunity to share her own good news before we barrage her with requests.” She looked to Cecily. “How could you have any doubt of my blessing?”

Cecily glanced behind her at her sister and the blond man and gave them a watery smile. Then she turned her eyes back to Oliver and he felt the intensity of her nameless emotions as surely as a knife. Her chin tilted.

“I am also to be married.”

“Married?”
Oliver exclaimed, and he felt the stone floor beneath him roll like a wave. “What do you mean,
married?
To whom?”

BOOK: Never Seduce A Scoundrel

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