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  It wouldn’t lead anywhere, of course. Reformed rake though he claimed to be, Cecily doubted he would marry. Certainly he wouldn’t choose her, when there were so many more beautiful girls available. But it was nice to dream, and she let herself do so, as she at last slipped into sleep. It was very nice to dream.

  So nice, in fact, that any concerns she had about her sister’s possible tendre for Edgewater completely vanished.

  Alex was in a good mood as he entered White’s several evenings later, looking forward to a good dinner, followed by a rout at Lady Sutherland’s, where he might very well see Cecily. God’s teeth, but he was besotted with the girl, and he wasn’t sure why. She was no beauty, and yet—and yet there was something about her, about her honey brown curls, her piquant, heart-shaped face, the clarity and honesty of her eyes. Nor had he forgotten how she had felt in his arms, soft and warm and altogether right. Nonsensical thoughts; he knew quite well there was no such thing as love. However, he could think of worse fates than spending his life with her.

  He hailed acquaintances as he crossed the room, Lord Alvanley, the Earl of Rockingham, and then sat at table, ordering a substantial meal of roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables, accompanied by a fine burgundy. Mr. Raggett, the current proprietor, served a good dinner. It was as he was leaning back, savoring his wine, that he became aware of the atmosphere in the room, tense and yet excited. Was it his imagination, or had the muttering increased since he had come in? He looked up, and Rothmere and Ashton, boon companions from his worst days of raking, looked hastily away. Beyond them Lord Beauchamp, the merest acquaintance, glared at him. Alex nodded in greeting. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he tensed, though he kept his relaxed slouch. Foolish to think that the tension in the dining room tonight had aught to do with him, or that it presaged danger—but his instincts had rarely failed him before. Something was wrong.

  His meal was set before him and he set to with a will, determined to finish as quickly as possible and leave. He had accounted for half of his dinner when a person appeared before him. Looking up, he saw it was Beauchamp, his face almost purple. “Good evening, Beauchamp,” he said, calmly, laying down his cutlery, though every nerve was alert. “Would you care to join me in a glass of wine?”

  “Join one such as you? Never, sirrah!”

  “Never?” Alex leaned back, apparently imperturbable, surveying the other man. He knew Beauchamp very little; the man belonged to his father’s generation, and beyond that tended to keep to his estate. Aging, balding, increasing in girth, he came to London only to satisfy the whims of his young, and startlingly beautiful, wife. Having met Lady Beauchamp and parried her seductive invitation, Alex in the past had felt nothing but contemptuous pity for the man. Why in the world was Beauchamp approaching him?

  “Then is there aught I can do for you, sir?”

  “Yes.” Beauchamp picked up Alex’s glass and dashed the contents in his face, making Alex recoil, spluttering. “You may meet me at Chalk Farm. My seconds will call upon yours, sirrah.” And with that, he turned, and with peculiar dignity, stalked out of the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alex stood up so fast his chair fell back. Beauchamp had left, denying him the satisfaction of demanding just what this was all about. God’s teeth! he thought, sitting down again as a waiter scurried across to right his chair, and pulling out his handkerchief to mop his face. Had he really just been challenged to a duel?

  The shocked hush that had fallen over the room ended, as people began talking. He’d been right. His presence here tonight had caused the tension, though God knew why. He’d done Beauchamp no harm, and so what cause had the man to challenge him? Not that Alex intended to meet the challenge, not with everything else that was happening in his life. No matter that he might be branded a coward. Alex had never fought a duel in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  “Well, old fellow, what have you been up to?” a voice said, and Alex looked up to see Lord Ashton. Ashton was an old acquaintance whose reputation was, if anything, worse than Alex’s ever had been. “May I join you?”

  Alex waved his hand towards the other chair, trying without any luck to blot the wine that stained his shirt. “Oh, sit. If you wish to be seen with me.”

  Ashton shrugged, marring the elegant set of his coat for only a moment. “That was in the cards, of course.”

  “Indeed?” Alex tucked his handkerchief away. He’d have to go home and change before going onto other events this evening. “I wish I knew why.”

  Ashton grinned, briefly erasing the lines dissipation and hard living had etched upon his face. “Doing it much too brown, old friend. Everyone knows Beauchamp has cause.”

  Alex looked up, his eyes hooded. “Indeed? And what cause is that?”

  “His wife, of course.” Ashton’s smile grew wider. “Even for you, taking her as your mistress is bold. Considering Beauchamp’s temper.”

  “Who says she is my mistress?”

  Something in the quiet tone of voice made Ashton look sharply at him. “It’s common knowledge, St. Clair.”

  “Not to me, sir.”

  “You deny it, then?”

  “I do. I am more, shall we say, particular, than to choose a lady who scatters her favors far and wide.”

  “Thought so. However, it’s on the betting books here, St. Clair—”

  “The devil it is!”

  “—that Beauchamp would challenge you.”

  “God’s teeth! I swear I’ve nothing to do with his wife.”

  “I do believe you’re telling the truth, old friend.”

  “Of course I am. Why should I be interested in her when there’s—”

  Ashton appeared not to notice the way Alex broke off. “Odd. For the last few days it’s all one’s heard.”

  “Is it, indeed. That explains much.” It explained the conversations that had been broken off when he entered a room; it explained some comments he’d heard; it explained the atmosphere in the dining room tonight. Had Cecily heard of it? he wondered with sudden urgency. “However, no matter what’s been said, it’s not true. But it puts me in the devil of a coil.”

  “I hope you won’t ask me to stand as your second. Deuced thing, early rising.”

  “Why worry about it, old friend?” Alex said, laying ironic stress upon the words. “I have no intention of meeting him.”

  “Never thought you were so poor-spirited, St. Clair.”

  “Hell, I’m not. This quarrel has been forced upon me. I wonder why?”

  “Might you have an enemy?”

  Alex looked startled. Edgewater. This would be just like him, working in devious ways, to eliminate any opposition. The question was, was the opposition because of Cecily, or the conspiracy? If the latter, then his mission could be in serious danger. He would give much to know who had started the rumors. “That may be it. Or perhaps someone saw me speak with Lady Beauchamp at some rout and drew his own conclusion. Nothing so delightful as a scandal.” He looked ruefully down at his ruined shirt. “If you’ll excuse me, Ashton, I must go home and change.”

  “I should hope so.” Ashton accompanied him to the vestibule. “Do reconsider, old friend. Matter of honor, you know.”

  “I know.” Alex’s voice was grim. “Which doesn’t leave me with much choice.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ashton’s eyes were avid to be first to hear Alex’s decision. “Beauchamp was a good enough shot in his day. Might even provide a challenge.”

  “That old man? Hell.” Alex took his hat and stick from the attendant. “It looks as if I’m going to fight a duel.”

  Three mornings later, Alex reached the head of Upper Grosvenor Street to find Cecily waiting for him, astride Dancer. “What are you doing here?” he barked, the tension of the last few days exploding in his voice. “I thought I told you not to ride out alone.”

  Cecily looked back at him calmly. “What am I doing here? What, sir, did you think you were doing yesterday morning?”
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  Alex stared at her as she swept by him into the park. “Hell,” he muttered, and turned, catching up with her. “Heard about that, did you.”

  “Heard about it! The whole town knows about it! Mama is convinced you are beyond redemption.”

  “I am sorry, Cecily. I would have spared you knowing it.”

  “Oh, as to that, I don’t care,” she said, tossing her head. “But it would have been nice yesterday to know what happened and not have to wait, not knowing—”

  “Why, Cecily,” Alex said, when she didn’t go on. “Dare I hope you care?”

  “Oh, don’t tease!” She turned towards him. “It was terrible, not knowing what had happened. And then to see you last evening at the opera, behaving as if you hadn’t a care in the world—if I’d had a pistol, I’d have shot you myself!”

  “Cecily.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or scold as he caught up with her again. “Little one—”

  “I am not your little one.”

  “Cecily, won’t you at least let me apologize?”

  “Why should I care?” she said, with that careless toss of her head. “If you go out and fight duels over women who are no better than they should be, what matters that to me?”

  Ah. Now he understood. “Cecily.” He reached out and laid his hand on her arm. She went very still, her head bent. “It’s not true, you know, what they’re saying. I’ve never been with Lady Beauchamp.”

  “That doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Doesn’t it, little one? Look at me, Cecily.” Cecily raised her head, her eyes miserable. “I don’t lie. Lady Beauchamp has never been so much as one of my flirts.”

  “But—Lord Beauchamp—”

  “Got some kind of idea in his head, God knows why. But then, he is known for being jealous.”

  “But did you have to duel? You might have been killed!”

  “If I hadn’t fought him, Cecily, it would never have ended. This way, it’s over.” His lips twitched. “As to my being killed—I put it about that I was a dead shot.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Fair enough. In any event, Beauchamp apparently had second thoughts and decided to, ahem, drown his fears. By the time he reached the field, he could barely stand.”

  “And his seconds still let him fight?”

  “Beauchamp was beyond listening to anyone at that point. I’ll give him this, he was determined to see it through.”

  “He actually shot?”

  “Yes.” His lips twitched again. “After he fired, he fell. The shot went wide, I fired into the ground, and that was that. And then we went to have a good breakfast.”

  Cecily stared at him and then rode away, shaking her head. “Men. I will never understand why you do such things.”

  “For honor, of course.”

  “Honor.” She managed to invest the word with a great deal of scorn. “What was honorable about that? I’ve a mind, you know, not to ride with you this morning.”

  “I thought you wanted an assignation with a rake.”

  Cecily glanced at him, startled, and her sense of humor was her undoing. Before she could prevent herself, she smiled. “You are a complete hand, sir! I am a proper young lady who would never think of such a thing.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Now you are funning me, sir,” she said, but she smiled. It did feel like an assignation, and it was all the more exciting for it.

  “Why, Cecily. Would I do that?”

  “Yes. Now, will you promise me not to get shot at again?”

  “It isn’t so very important, little one.”

  “Getting shot at?” She stared at him, as something the Countess of Chatleigh had said came back to her. “Alex, you were in the war, weren’t you?”

  Alex was quiet for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Not officially, no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We have to talk. Come, let’s sit.” Dismounting, they tethered their horses to the railings that edged the Serpentine and climbed over them, sitting on the grassy bank. In spite of his preoccupation Alex couldn’t help observing the unselfconscious grace with which Cecily sank to the ground, or the beguiling curve of her hips in her breeches. Desire, unexpected and not quite welcome, stirred within him. “You know I was on the Continent during the war.”

  “Yes. But you weren’t in the army.”

  “No. I was in the war, though.”

  “I wondered,” she said, and he turned to her. “It was the way you looked when we first met, the look in your eyes. I’ve a cousin who looked like that when he returned from fighting. As if he’d seen too much.”

  Alex nodded, twisting a piece of grass between his fingers. There was no good way to say what had to be said. “I was a spy, Cecily.” Cecily gasped. “My task was to find out what the enemy was up to. And sometimes our own people. A nasty business.” He glanced towards Cecily, but she was sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs, her head bent to her knees. “Never knowing whom to trust, never knowing when you might be betrayed. Knowing that if you didn’t find the information the army needed, men might die. Knowing that if you did, men on the other side would die. Nasty, and dirty.”

  “Poor rake,” Cecily murmured, and he turned to see her watching him with eyes huge with sympathy. “Do you find it so hard to trust, even now?”

  Alex didn’t answer that; he couldn’t. “What happened yesterday may have something to do with it,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  Cecily’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “The duel? How?”

  “Hm?” Alex glanced at her, realizing, too late, what he had said. “Oh, nothing. Thinking out loud.”

  “No, you meant something, Alex.” She knelt up, her hand on his arm. “It’s not over, is it? You’re still spying.”

  Alex drew his breath in, sharply. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to tell her, but Cecily had a way of seeing through him to the truth. Hell, he couldn’t tell her, not if she weren’t involved. And she wasn’t. Was she? “Some weeks ago,” he began carefully, “a friend of mine, a man I worked with, was killed. I’m trying to find his killers.”

  “But it’s dangerous. Alex, you could be hurt, you could be killed—”

  “I won’t be,” he said swiftly, catching her hand in his. The sound of his name, used by her for the first time, affected him more than he’d expected. “I promise you that. But this is something I have to do.”

  “But not anymore after this? Please?”

  “Why, Cecily. You do care.”

  “Oh, don’t tease! This is too serious.”

  “I’m not teasing.” His voice unexpectedly grew deep as he reached out to touch her cheek. She was innocent, he knew that. Was it so difficult to trust, she’d asked, and now he could answer that question. No. Trusting her was easy.

  Cecily drew back, startled, and then relaxed. “Why?”

  “Why what?” Back and forth his fingers went, stroking her cheek, her jaw, her throat. Her skin felt like silk under his fingers.

  “Why me? I’m not pretty, I’m never neat, I bite my nails, and I dress like a boy.”

  “But you don’t look like one,” he drawled, looking at her in such a way that she colored. “Because of all those things. Because you’re you, Cecily. You’re not afraid to be yourself, and you’re not afraid to be honest.”

  Cecily swallowed, hard; the continuous, caressing touch was doing strange things to her. She felt restless, alive, and at the same time, languid. “I’m—not so sure of that. I think there’s another side of me I’m just beginning to know.”

  “In all of us, Cecily.”

  “I—don’t think you should be doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Touching me. You’re a rake.”

  He smiled. “Not anymore.” No, because of her. And her father had given him permission to pay his addresses to her. Strange thought, but good. He couldn’t do anything about it now, though, not until things were settled. Not for one moment
did he believe Cecily was involved in any conspiracy. Until everything was over, however, until he was done with his task, he wasn’t free to speak. “Don’t you know that, Cecily?”

  “I don’t recall giving you permission to use my name,” she said, the prim words at odds with her breathless voice.

  “Nor did I give you permission to use my name. But I like it.” His fingers drifted over her forehead and down her cheek. “Your skin is like silk, sweeting.”

  “A most unoriginal compliment. I would have thought a rake could do better.”

  Mirth sparked in Alex’s eyes. “A former rake, sweeting. But I haven’t forgotten everything. Shall I show you?”

  “I don’t think you should,” she said, but she didn’t move. “Remember what happened the last time.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said, with such warmth that her lashes feathered down. “And I haven’t forgotten that I was a fool, to let you go. Cecily.” The sudden deep timbre of his voice made her look up as his hand curved around her neck. Gone was the gentle caress. In its place was a purpose that would not be denied. Something within Cecily responded to that purpose, something leaped to life with an answering demand of its own. A moment ago, she might have been able to break away, but not now. Not now.

  She studied his face as his hands came up to frame her face, saw his eyes, deep blue with an emotion she didn’t recognize, determined, but oddly vulnerable. She saw the faint white line, never noticed before, of a scar on his temple, and a mole high on one cheek, a spot she suddenly, irrationally, longed to kiss. She watched, mesmerized, his thin, mobile lips as they came down to hers. And then there was nothing more to see, so she closed her eyes, shutting out the world, shutting out everything save the reality of his warm mouth kissing her, at last, again.

  She had remembered that other kiss, oh, how she had remembered it. Time, though, had dulled the memory of its physical impact, of feeling his mouth open over hers, of her own response. Lost in time had been the need that made her press up against him, her arms tight around his neck, so close that she could almost feel his heart beating. And with time had faded the remarkable sensations that were flooding her now, making her limbs go weak, turning her insides to jelly.