Chapter Twenty-Three

S he was beautiful; a vision in pale green, her hair pulled into a severe bun, one errant curl cascading down over her shoulder. She laughed at something the gentleman beside her said, and tapped the tip of her white lace fan against his chest reprovingly.

Anthony stood, frozen, the crush of guests pushing past him into the ballroom. It had been nearly a week since he'd seen her, two days since he'd decided he couldn't live another day without her beside him. He felt as if he was seeing her for the first time. No mystery, no intrigue, just the sheer relief that she hadn't somehow vanished from his life as she had so many times in his dreams. She was a feast for starved eyes, and he drank in every graceful motion, every politely false smile, every word formed by her soft kissable lips, every shift of her weight as she favored her left leg. She looked every inch the demure daughter of a Duke. Except for her amber eyes. He watched them as she smiled up at the throng of men around her. She noted their surreptitious stares at her cleavage with bored impatience, giggled absentmindedly at their jokes. She was sad. He could see it. As he approached, he selfishly prayed the sadness was over him.

Because he loved her, every fascinating and unladylike inch of her, and if she didn't love him, if she didn't miss him as much as he'd missed her, he would…

In the words of Shakespeare, he would do a desperate outrage to himself. Dear Lord, but the thought of this woman had the ability to call to mind more of his long-forgotten education than his tutors had ever hoped he'd retain.

"I think I understand now what you meant," he whispered into her ear. The gentlemen around her backed away in shock at the impropriety of the gesture.

She started at the sound of his voice and turned slowly to face him. He held her gaze and the effort pained him to the bone. She was angry. Hurt. She masked none of it, letting her silence speak for her.

He offered her his arm. "Are you dancing tonight, Lady Cecilia?"

She snapped quickly back into the veneer of calm disinterest, nodding politely and resting her hand on his. "Only the waltzes. I am not quite recovered enough for anything more vigorous."

Only the waltzes. How inappropriately scandalous. How refreshingly Cecilia. "This waltz has already begun. May I claim – may I beg what is left of it?"

She frowned, puzzled at his choice of words. He longed to kiss her, show her what he meant with his body, rather than his words. She might awake his mind, but his mouth was still slow to show it.

"Yes," she said.

He led her to the dance floor and held her close. She smelled of lavender. "You've changed your perfume."

She smiled slightly and looked away. "What you mean is that I've finally had the time to buy some. I am not using men's soap anymore."

"Quite," he chuckled. He began again. "I think I know what you meant when you said you would give me what I needed."

She looked up at him, hopeful. "Do you?"

Anthony took a deep breath and looked down at her bosom, at the tiny pink scar just over her heart. The wound had healed quickly, on the outside at least. "You did not mean sex."

She smiled sheepishly. "I did, a bit. Just a little bit."

He held back a laugh and continued. "You gave me something to love, which was not something I ever thought I needed," he whispered. "Or wanted. Or thought remotely possible." He smiled. "You gave me a purpose."

She looked up at him and he could see the words catch uncertainly in her throat. A single tear formed in the corner of her eye. "Yet you left," she said quietly.

He wanted to wipe away the tear, but he didn't dare let go of her for a single moment, certain she would run from him as he had run from her. "Forgive me?" he begged. "It is a long, long crawl up from Hell. I have been trying very hard."

She blinked and shook her head for a moment, then fixed him with her demanding stare again. "Perhaps," she said, the devilish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "you would like a companion for the journey?"

He frowned in mock confusion. "You mean someone with whom to practice monogamy? How shocking." He clicked his tongue.

"How shocking indeed," she murmured.

"I shall lose all my friends."

She smiled. "If they are anything like you, they shall come around when they see me riding astride."

"You wouldn't!"

She laughed, low and contented. "I have lived too long a man to change my habits now."

"You will embarrass me constantly, won't you?" he teased.

"I shall endeavor to enjoy my life. I daresay the ton will find that exceedingly embarrassing."

He held his breath and asked the question he'd wanted to ask for days. "Will you be my companion?"

She frowned. "Are you asking me to marry you? Are you sure?"

He grinned mischievously. "I must warn you, I have given up my father's money and will someday be left with an Earldom for which I have not the funds for upkeep. I will be a leach upon your purse strings for the rest of your days."

"Mmmm," she mused, biting her lip. "It sounds like a lot of trouble."

"Indeed." Anthony held her close and hoped she felt the beating of his heart, fast and determined, through his jacket. There were too many layers of clothing in the way, but surely she could feel it, when it beat louder than the music.

Cecilia smiled her wicked smile. "I like trouble."

(Not quite) the end.

Cecilia and Anthony's adventures are not yet over…