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He held out the wreath, the simple gesture more an invitation to forget herself than a desire to aid the painter.
She snatched it from his hands and pushed it down on her head. ‘How flattering.’
Randall straightened and for a brief moment appeared puzzled, as though surprised by the edge in her words. He quickly recovered himself, tossing her a scoundrel’s wink before strolling off to stand behind the easel.
‘I heard the most delicious news about you,’ Madame de Badeau congratulated, her wicked cheer grating. ‘You must tell me all about the game with Lord Westbrook.’
‘The subject bores me and I’m sure you already know the most interesting parts.’ Randall watched Sir Thomas work, irritation sharpening the lines of his face.
Cecelia wondered at his reaction. She expected him to boast about his win over Lord Westbrook, or revel in Madame de Badeau’s praise, not dismiss it as if he weren’t proud of what he’d done.
‘Then you’re the only one.’ Madame de Badeau sniffed. She wandered to the tall windows and peeked through a crack in one of the shutters covering the bottom and shielding Cecelia from the people passing outside. ‘Ah, there is Lady Thornton. I must have a word with her. Lord Falconbridge, please keep Mrs Thompson entertained until I return.’
His hot eyes pinned Cecelia’s. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘I don’t need company.’ Cecelia fixed her attention on a small crack in the plaster on the far wall, trying to avoid Randall’s suggestive look.
‘Tilt your head a little to the left, Mrs Thompson,’ Sir Thomas instructed and she obliged. Randall continued to study the portrait and Cecelia, but said nothing. Only the sound of the painter’s pencil sketching across the canvas, combined with the muffled clack of passing coaches outside, filled the room.
‘I have not seen the likeness yet,’ Cecelia remarked, the quiet making her restless. ‘Tell me, Lord Falconbridge, is it favourable?’
‘Hmm.’ He stepped back to examine the portrait and the subject. ‘It’s an excellent likeness. My compliments to the artist. However, the original is still more stunning.’
Cecelia arched one disbelieving eyebrow at him. ‘Thank you, my lord, but be warned, I won’t succumb to such obvious flattery.’
‘It’s the truth.’ His soft protest was like a caress and her heart ached to believe him, to know again what it was like to be valued by a man, not sought after like some prized cow.
She adjusted one hairpin at the back of her head, unwilling to believe that a man who’d bedded a number of society women possessed any real interest in her. ‘Tell me, Sir Thomas, how many times have you heard such compliments made in your presence?’
‘Many times,’ the painter chuckled. ‘But Lord Falconbridge’s are the most sincere.’
‘There you have it,’ Randall boasted. ‘I’m not lying.’
‘Or you’re simply better at it than most.’
They fell silent and the sketching continued until Randall said something to the painter in a low voice. She strained to hear, but the laughter of two men on the street muffled the words. Then, Sir Thomas rose from his stool.
‘If his lordship and the lady will excuse me, I need another pencil. I shall return in a moment.’
‘Don’t hurry on our account,’ Randall called after him.
‘You asked him to leave, didn’t you?’ Cecelia accused, wary of being left alone with him.
‘You really think I’d stoop so low?’ He came closer to the dais, moving with the grace of a water snake through a lake in Virginia.
She struggled to remain seated, eager to place the distance of the room between them as he rested one elbow on the half-Corinthian column beside her. ‘Based on the gossip I hear attached to your name, it seems you’re fond of ruining people.’
He dropped his chin on his palm, bringing his arrogant smirk so close, all she needed to do was lean in to feel his mouth against hers. ‘You think a moment alone with me will ruin you?’
She glanced at his lips, wondering if they were as firm as she remembered. ‘It’s possible.’
‘I shouldn’t worry.’ His breath brushed her exposed shoulders and slid down the space between her breasts. ‘Sir Thomas is a very discreet man.’
Neither of them moved to close the distance, but she felt him waiting, expecting her to weaken under the strength of his charm and throw herself at him like Lady Weatherly and heaven knew how many others. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his expectation.
‘You, however, enjoy boasting of your conquests.’ She leaned away and Randall jerked up straight.
‘You’re truly mad at me?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Why should you be?’
‘Because you ruined Lord Westbrook.’
‘Lord Westbrook?’ He had the audacity to look surprised before a scowl replaced the suggestive smile of only a moment before. ‘What interest do you have in him?’
‘None, but I can sympathise with his plight, something you’re obviously incapable of doing.’
‘How can a rich widow sympathise?’
Cecelia looked down, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders. Her situation was already precarious. She needn’t arouse suspicion by showing so much emotion. ‘Whether I can sympathise or not doesn’t matter. What you did to him is still wrong.’
‘Is it?’ Randall paced the studio, swinging his walking stick in time with his steps. ‘Lord Westbrook is a man with responsibilities and capable of deciding whether or not to risk his future at the gaming table. You should be happy it was I who played him. Others wouldn’t have been so kind.’
‘You believe ruining him is kind?’
He halted, jabbing his stick into the floor. ‘I haven’t ridden to his estate and turned him out as I assure you is quite common. Nor have I forced him to the moneylenders and outrageous terms.’
‘Yes, he’s very fortunate indeed. It’s a wonder people don’t speak more favourably of you when you’re obviously such a generous gentleman.’
A muscle in his jaw twitched and shame flashed through his eyes before he looked away. For a moment she felt sorry for him. She’d seen this expression once before, ten years ago, when they’d stood together under the large ash tree at Falconbridge Manor, the shadows shifting over his father’s plain headstone. Like then, the look didn’t last, but fled from his eyes as fast as he’d fled back up the lawn, hard arrogance stiffening his jaw.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the studio.
‘Sir Thomas is returning,’ Randall announced, moving to examine a large landscape near the window, his back to her as Sir Thomas’s footsteps grew louder. He stood still except for his fingers. They toyed with the walking-stick handle, betraying a certain agitation, as if her words had struck a chord. Did he feel some guilt over what he’d done to Lord Westbrook? No, surely it was only the shock of being dressed down by a lady, something she was sure he rarely experienced.
‘Are you ready to continue?’ Sir Thomas asked, taking his place behind the easel.
‘Yes, please.’ Cecelia resumed her pose just as the curtain flew open and Madame de Badeau swept into the room.
‘You won’t believe what Lady Thornton just told me. Lord Falconbridge, you’ll think it sinfully good when you hear it.’
‘I’m sure, but for the moment, you’ll have to entertain Mrs Thompson with the story. I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his walking stick up under his arm and made for the door.
‘What a bore you are,’ Madame de Badeau chided, then turned to Cecelia. ‘My dear, wait until you hear what’s happened to Lord Byron.’
* * *
Randall barely heard two words of Madame de Badeau’s gossip as he stormed from the room, catching Cecelia’s reflection in the mirror near the door, disapproval hard in her eyes before she looked away.
He passed through the dark shop and out into the sunlit street beyond, tapping his walking stick in time with his steps.
He hadn’t expected to meet her in the studio today, especially not in a silky robe wrapped tight around her narrow waist, exposing the curve of her hips and breasts and making him forget all business with the painter. Once together, he hadn’t been able to resist tempting her with a few words, or trying to draw out the alluring woman who’d met his daring innuendoes at Lady Weatherly’s. Who knew his efforts would be rewarded with a reprimand?
Randall sidestepped two men arguing on the pavement, a crate of foul-smelling vegetables smashed on the ground between them.
Who was she to chastise him? What did she know of London habits? Nothing. She’d spent the past ten years among provincials, cavorting with heathens and who-knew-what society. Now she seemed to think it her duty to shame him the way his father used to.
He slammed his walking stick against the ground, the vibration shooting up his arm.
Why didn’t she stay in America?
Instead she’d returned to London, dredging up old memories like some mudlark digging for scraps along the Thames, determined to berate him like some nursemaid. She was mistaken if she thought she could scold him with a look, or if her chiding words meant anything to him. He wasn’t about to change because of her or anyone else’s disapproval.
He swatted a tomato with his walking stick, sending it rolling into the gutter, trying to ignore the other, more dangerous feeling dogging his anger. He’d caught it at the salon the other night and again today when he’d complimented her and for a brief moment she’d almost believed him. It was the faint echo of the affection they’d once enjoyed. Whatever she thought of his behaviour, somewhere deep beneath it, she felt the old connection, too.
He turned a corner into a square of fine houses, trying to concentrate on the bright sun bouncing off the stone buildings and the steady clop of horses in the street, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Cecelia.
His anger changed to interest as he walked, twirling his stick. He’d ached to trace the line of her shoulders with his fingers, push back the tumble of brown hair sweeping her neck and draw her red lips to his. Even angry she was beautiful and he wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman before.
His pace slowed and he trailed his walking stick along the wrought-iron fences surrounding the houses, the quick clicks echoing off the buildings.
What weakness kept bringing him back to Cecelia? He’d enjoyed and left a number of women over the years without regret. Why couldn’t he forget her?
Because at one time, he’d loved her.
He stopped, his walking stick pausing against the metal before he snapped it up under his arm.
Love, he snorted, resuming his walk. This had nothing to do with love or any other ridiculous sentiment, but the excitement of a challenge. There wasn’t a woman he’d known who hadn’t thrown herself at him once he made his interest clear. Until today. He’d nearly forgotten the excitement of the pursuit and the pleasure of the capture.
Despite Cecelia’s caustic words, he’d caught the flashes of desire his suggestions brought to her eyes and how her parted lips practically begged for his kiss. He recognised her reprimand for what it was—an obstacle to overcome. After all, most women found it necessary to put up some charade of resistance, even after showing up at his house in the middle of the night wearing little more than a pelisse.
He turned a corner, stepping out on to busy Great Russell Street, the energy of the people rushing past him feeding the anticipation building with his determination. She might sneer at his reputation today, but once she surrendered to him, and she would, they’d enjoy enough pleasure to ensure she forgot all about his previous escapades.
He tapped his fingers against his thigh, eager to feel her soft skin against his and taste the lips which had been so tantalisingly close to his in the studio.
It would be so different between them this time. With her wealth, she wouldn’t demand more of him the way she had before, and when the passion faded, as it always did, they could part without regret, all the old sins forgiven and forgotten.
For the first time in a long time, he looked forward to the chase.
Chapter Four
Cecelia and Theresa sat astride two geldings from Lord Strathmore’s stable, slowing their horses to match the leisurely pace of Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore’s mounts as they entered Rotten Row. It was the first ride for either of them during the crowded fashionable hour. Cecelia sat up straight in the saddle, savouring the gentle gait of the horse beneath her and the fine spring evening. It was well worth the pain of enduring Lord Strathmore’s endless chatter about his carriage to be on horseback again.
‘I painted it red and ordered gold crests to match the gilding along the top,’ he explained to Madame de Badeau, who offered a perfunctory nod, her attention on the riders surrounding them. ‘I’m also rebuilding the carriage house in stone. I much prefer the smooth texture. It’s quite alluring, especially when rendered into the curves of the female form.’
His hungry eyes fixed on Cecelia, sliding down the length of her. She offered him a wan smile, then leaned back in the saddle so Madame de Badeau and Theresa blocked her from his view. Theresa rolled her eyes at Cecelia, who shot her cousin a reprimanding look betrayed by the smile sneaking in beneath it.
‘Look at Lord Penston’s mount,’ Madame de Badeau interjected, inclining her head at a round man with white hair riding past them. ‘What a shame. Someone of his standing should invest in a better bit of blood.’
Lord Strathmore responded with an ‘hmm’ before returning to the topic of his carriage, his words keeping pace with the horses as they continued down the Row.
Cecelia smiled at two passing gentlemen, grinding her teeth as their stony faces stared past her. One would think all London were afraid to crack a smile for fear of sending the city sliding into the Thames. Adjusting the reins, she wanted to tap the horse into a sprint and ride like she used to at Belle View. Let the spectacle of a horse truly exercising bring some emotion to the other riders’ staid faces. Instead, she rested her hands on her thighs, rocking with the horse and settling into her thoughts, the mounting pile of bills at home preying on her.
She’d spent the better part of the morning calculating the value of her few possessions against their mounting debts, her depression growing by the minute. The one small ray of hope was the inheritance payment she’d soon receive. It was the only money left to her by her father, his share of a sugar plantation in Barbados, the single investment to have ever made him any money. The payments were never large because there were so many other investors, but even the paltry amount would be enough to ease some of her present worry.
She ran her hand over her wrist, feeling the small bump of the gold bracelet beneath the velvet, not wanting to think about the last time she’d so desperately needed the money. Her mother hadn’t been able to rouse herself for even two hours to see to this small matter and Cecelia had ventured alone to Mr Watkins’s office to collect the payment. Cecelia had railed at her mother afterwards, no longer capable of holding back all her fears and frustration, wishing her mother would wrap her arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. She hadn’t.
Not long afterwards, she had told Cecelia to pack for Lady Ellington’s.
Cecelia’s shoulders sagged, the pain and loneliness of then mirroring her life now. She wanted to slide off the gelding and crawl beneath a bush, curl up in a ball where no one and nothing could bother her. Then she forced back her shoulders and raised her head high, smiling at a passing gentleman. Was his name Mr Hammerworth or Mr Passingstoke? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter, nor did she let it trouble her when he trotted past without so much as a glance. She would not give up, she would not leave Theresa alone to face an uncertain future the way her mother had left her.
‘Look—’ Theresa’s voice pierced Cecelia’s thoughts ‘—there’s Lord Falconbridge.’
Cecelia’s body tensed as she watched Randall ride towards them, his eyes fixed on her, his smile wide and inviting. She struggled not to frown, frustrated to know she could elicit smiles from no one in Rotten Row except him.
‘Good evening, Lord Falconbridge,’ Madame de Badeau sang, more cheerful than she’d been the entire length of the ride.
‘Falconbridge,’ Lord Strathmore mumbled.
‘Isn’t it lovely out, Lord Falconbridge?’ Theresa greeted in a bright voice, arching a suggestive eyebrow at Cecelia with an obviousness as chafing as Randall’s presence.
‘Yes, it is, Miss Fields.’ Randall turned his horse, bringing it alongside Cecelia’s. ‘No greeting from you, Mrs Thompson?’
‘Hello, Lord Falconbridge.’ She tried to focus on the path instead of him, but she couldn’t. Atop the brown stallion, he looked like a fine sculpture, his confidence as solid as any bronze casting. He wore a dark riding coat tailored close to fit the strong angles and broad expanses of his torso. The cut of the coat was nothing compared to the close fit of his breeches. His stallion danced and Randall’s thigh muscles tightened as they gripped and eased to control his mount. She followed the line of them up to a more enticing muscle before a rumbling laugh made her eyes snap to his.
‘I see you’re enjoying all the sights of the Row,’ he teased.
She swatted a fly from her skirt, annoyed at having been caught staring at him.
‘I’m enjoying the ride, not the sights, Lord Falconbridge.’
‘Randall, please, like in old times.’ He placed one hand over his heart, the gesture genuine and matched by the sincerity in his eyes. She caught in their depths the young man who’d once sat beside her on the banks of the River Stour, listening while she cried out her anger at being sent away and her worries over the future. It touched the cold, lonely place inside of her, the one growing like a tumor since Daniel’s death.
‘I’m surprised to see you out riding,’ she commented, eager to thwart the encroaching pensiveness. His comfort had been fleeting and hardly worth remembering. ‘Why aren’t you home resting for another long night of ruining people?’
The teasing remark came out sharper than intended and she steeled herself, expecting a cutting response. Instead he laughed, the barb rolling off him like water off a fine saddle. ‘Contrary to what you believe, I don’t spend every evening ruining young gallants who possess more money than wits.’
‘How do you spend your evenings, then?’ She was truly curious.
He shrugged. ‘Much the same as you do.’
‘I doubt it.’ Since I don’t bed half the widows in society. Lady Ilsington rode by on her chestnut gelding, eyeing Randall with a hungry look, then frowning when he failed to acknowledge her. ‘With the exception of balls, it isn’t my habit to keep late hours.’
He leaned towards her, his thighs tightening beneath the buckskin, their hardness carrying up through the solid centre of him to his blue eyes shaded by his hat. ‘Then we must cure you of such a strange malady.’
Her hands tightened a little too hard on the reins and the horse began to veer towards Randall.
