Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(16)

Her dispassion, her very politeness irked him. He didn’t want his fiery maidservant to completely disappear.

Joanna, who had been looking quite bored as her grandmother ground on, made an excuse and left the room.

Henry stifled a smile and stood. He idly strolled around the room, navigating so that he approached the settee where Lady Cecilia sat alone now.

Although she hid it well, she was well aware of his movements.

He paused by the arm of her settee and saw her throat tremble. She ducked her head as if to hide her glance at him.

He banished the beginnings of a smile and sauntered behind the settee. Her head was bent a little downward and the back of her neck was tender and vulnerable. A few mahogany wisps of hair had escaped from her coiffure and were curling against her nape, and he had an urge to touch them. To feel the warmth of her bare skin.

He couldn’t, of course. Any contact between him and Lady Cecilia was strictly regulated according to society’s rules. He could kiss the back of her hand. He could let her fingers rest on his arm. He could take her hand if they danced.

All other touch was forbidden.

Henry trailed his fingers along the edge of the settee, watching as she shivered when his hand passed her shoulders. Yes, she was very aware of him even in the midst of her conversation.

He walked to the other end of the settee and casually leaned over the back, resting his right elbow a handbreadth from her shoulder.

She tensed, and he turned his head sideways to see that a faint blush was climbing her cheeks.

“…And the dressmaker will arrive immediately after luncheon,” the marchioness was saying as she came to the end of a long list of duties and appointments for Lady Cecilia. Her gimlet gaze suddenly pinned Henry. “Since we have a small amount of time before luncheon is served, perhaps Lord Blackwell will escort you about the garden, Cecilia.”

Henry straightened. “I would be honored.” He walked around to face Lady Cecilia and held out his hand. “If I may, my lady?”

“Thank you, my lord.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she put her hand in his.

In any other lady he’d suspect shyness. But even knowing her so little, he doubted it was timidity that kept her gaze firmly averted from his face. She was trying to hide her reaction to him.

Trying to hide the heat that rose between them.

If he leaned a little closer he fancied he would smell her, smell her woman’s scent.

The thought made his balls tighten.

He wrapped his fingers around her smaller hand, aware that he could feel callouses at the tips of some of her fingers. What were they from? What sort of work had she had to do besides watch the Caire children?

Or was it simply that she hadn’t the time to take care of her hands as a lady did? Buffing away any roughness, shaping her nails just so, smoothing cream on every night?

Her hands were practical. Useful.

He wanted to bring her hand to his lips and kiss each callous.

He helped Lady Cecilia to her feet and tucked her hand into his elbow before taking leave of the older ladies.

They strolled out the door and down the hall toward the back of the house.

She was a silent presence beside him, her head coming only to his shoulder. He glanced down at her. “Your mother and grandmother have laid out a rather comprehensive course of study, my lady. I hope you don’t find it too overwhelming.”

“I am content with what is expected of me, my lord,” she replied coolly.

He glanced at her again as he opened the door to the town house garden. “Indeed? I trust you’ll let me know if it becomes too arduous.”

She stopped and turned to him, and he saw that her large brown eyes were narrowed. “And what exactly will you do about it if I tell you I no longer wish to become a lady?”

He hesitated, eyeing her.

She nodded sharply. “Exactly.”

His mouth firmed. “I can advocate on your behalf, my lady.”

“Can you?” she called carelessly over her shoulder as she descended the wide granite steps into the garden. “I find that unlikely, my lord.”

Little termagant. He strode after her and caught her arm to turn her. “I will be your husband.”

She pursed her lips. “But you are not yet. I am governed by my family now. Pray do not pretend otherwise.”

“Cecilia,” he growled.

“Don’t call me that.” Her oval face was suddenly alight with passion.

She was glorious.

He blinked, trying to wrest his mind back to the conversation. “What?”

“My name is Mary,” she hissed, stepping closer, tilting her head up to glare at him. How had he ever believed her fire had died? It was merely banked. Hidden from public view. “I may be Lady Cecilia now, but the name is a stranger’s. The people who gave me room and board named me Mary. I’ll not give up my name, who I am, simply because it would serve other people for me to do so. I am Mary, not Cecilia, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

“Very well, Mary,” he drawled.

He shouldn’t.

It wasn’t done.

And yet he simply could not help himself.

She was a flame alight—a living, breathing woman he couldn’t resist.

He framed her face and kissed her.





Chapter Six



Clio could not stop thinking of the land prince and his beauty. She spent long hours talking about him—much to Triton’s irritation.