Secret Valentine (7 page)

She had already smoothed her fingers across
the rich dark brown velvet, when she flipped the card over.

The color reminds me of your beautiful eyes.

I could make a habit of drowning in them.

Your Valentine

It wasn't poetry, but it was poetic. She
leaned across her bed to see in her looking glass. Her eyes were
the same color as the plush material. That didn't make them
particularly fine. Devin's brilliant blue eyes were much more
coveted. But then hers weren't bad as far as peepers went. They did
at times have a sparkle to them. Although lately they were getting
a bit red.

The color of the material pleased her. Dark
brown wasn't such a jarring change from black. She set the package
aside. Perhaps she could have a riding habit made of the
material—after Saint Valentine's Day.

Her life was starting to separate into two
pieces. Making cards as quickly as she could now, and everything
she could postpone until after the holiday. She had tried to
streamline the process by having several cards in different stages
of completion instead of finishing one at a time. Next year she
would start much sooner. Like maybe the week after this Saint
Valentine's Day.

A knock on her door sent her scrambling off
her bed. She picked odd times to daydream, Cecelia thought. She
should have gone back up to the attic to work a few more minutes
before being summoned downstairs for dinner. She left her room to
descend the stairs.

The delivery had been late today. Perhaps her
secret valentine was growing tired of the game. She stopped with
one foot suspended above the next stair.

The card today hadn't been hers. That meant
the money-making shopkeeper and the son of the other one couldn't
either one be her secret valentine.

Cecelia chewed her lip. That narrowed the
field to two.

"Are you coming down, or just going to stand
there in the middle of the stairs all night."

"Stand here, of course."

Devin glared at her. He had truly lost his
sense of humor.

"Well, I thought I should wait until I grew
hungry."

"I'm starving." He muttered something else
under his breath, but apparently she wasn't meant to hear it.

"I shan't dally then."

"Oh, we could dally, if you've a mind to." He
stepped up a riser.

Lately there seemed to be a caged energy
about him that made Cecelia wary of getting within biting distance.
"If sleeping in a strange bed is making you so miserable, you
should move back home, Devin. I don't know why you're being so
stubborn about this."

"Perhaps obstinacy is in the water here."

"Yes, but—"

"You don't understand what would happen if I
moved back in."

He gained her side and held out his arm. She
reluctantly took it.

She sighed. "Well, no. I don't understand why
you put such a great importance on my reputation, when I don't care
a fig for it. It truly shouldn't matter."

"We are well beyond considering damage to
your
reputation
...or mine."

Which was so cryptic she wanted to stomp her
foot and demand to know why he couldn't speak plainly. "What would
be so horrible?"

"Well, I should hope it wasn't horrible. Just
rather shocking, and I haven't totally eliminated it as a plan of
action should my first campaign be exploded."

Since they had reached the bottom of the
stairs, she pulled her hand free from his arm and planted both her
hands on her hips. "What war are you waging?"

"I asked you to marry me. I want all the
husbandly rights and duties that go along with that."

She blinked. An edginess slid down her
spine.

"Shall we go in?" He gestured toward the
morning room cum drawing room.

"No."

He caught her elbow which was conveniently
akimbo for him to latch on to.

She snatched her arm free, alarmed by the
impact the warmth of his hand had on the condition of her heart.
"What is it with you? Hasn't anyone ever told you no, before?"

"Only you."

"Gracious me, that's it. You can't stand to
be told no. Just being told no is enough to make you think you
should have something, whether or not you shall wish to keep it or
not."

"We're not talking about an it, Cecelia.
We're talking about you. Come on, Mrs. Marsh is waiting, and I
can't even talk civilly to you anymore. So much for the Nash
charm."

"You haven't lost your charm, Devin. It's
just...It's just
useless
on me."

"Why?"

"Because I know better."

His voice dropped lower, "You do, do
you?"

The question and his tone had her doubting
the strength of her convictions.

He stepped closer, his chest brushed her
shoulder. The odd tingles in her breasts started, as if her skin
had been put to sleep and was waking, much the same as if one had
sat on their leg and was reminded with the pinpricks of returning
circulation, only this sensation was pleasanter. But it couldn't be
normal, nor could the frenzied pounding of her heart. As soon as
Saint Valentine's Day passed she would need to visit a doctor and
ask what should be done about these palpitations.

He brushed his fingers across her cheek.

Her lips parted in an effort to draw in more
air, which suddenly seemed in short supply. Why did his touch
affect her so? His gaze became heavy-lidded, and his attention
focused on her mouth. He leaned closer. His breath whispered across
her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed.

The click of the basement door sounded like a
cannon shot.

She sensed Devin turn away, and she opened
her eyes. Barnes stood looking as if trapped and wanting for all
the world to race back downstairs to the kitchen and restage his
entrance with much more noise.

The butler swallowed and said with much less
than his usual aplomb, "Dinner."

Devin recovered first, "Thank you,
Barnes."

Like a grateful watchman relieved of his
overlong duties, Barnes scurried back to the basement door. He
hadn't even added the customary, "is served."

Of course, he didn't usually announce in the
front hall.

Devin straightened his cuffs as if nothing
untoward had happened. But then nothing had happened. The almost
kiss was averted. Saved by the dinner bell. He showed no interest
in continuing his lovemaking. Did it mean so little to him? Was it
all just a pathetic attempt to convince her he would bite the
bullet and marry her?

If he really wanted to wed her, why was he so
miserable? No, he just wanted disposed of his problem of her
future. Last year he had ignored her, perhaps in the hopes she
would solve the problem for him. This year he had come up with this
jingle-brained scheme to marry, and he grew increasingly testy with
her.

Cecelia backed away from Devin. "You really
don't want to marry me, Devin. I know you think you do because I
said no. But if you just think on it, I know you'll realize that
we'll never suit."

"Cecelia," he started.

But his tone sounded exasperated, and she
didn't want to hear what he had to say. "Trust me, you don't need
to worry about my future. I have it well in hand."

Cecelia needed to escape his penetrating blue
gaze. She opened the door to the morning room. "Dinner is served,
Mrs. Marsh."

During dinner, Devin watched Cecelia. Her
face looked pinched and white. She stirred her food around her
plate. Why were his attempts to convince her he wanted to marry her
going amiss?

The easiness they had once enjoyed in their
relationship had turned into edginess. He knew that was his fault,
and she didn't understand how thin a thread held his control.

She had never mentioned the valentines he was
sending or the gifts. She had worn the bonnet and the gloves, but
something was changing about her.

She had a book in hand less often now, and
her spectacles weren't always perched on her nose, ready to provide
a barrier between them. Were his gifts the cause? Or was something
else at work?

When she had come to live with him, he had
thought she was a socially inept, totally withdrawn, dependant
female. In short, a burden he hadn't wanted. But he'd found she was
well read, had strong and often insightful political opinions. His
staff was suddenly polishing the girandoles and waxing the sofa
legs weekly. He had failed to notice that those things weren't
being done before. And his staff, instead of resenting the
increased workload, adored her.

"Aunt Marsh has requested a mantuamaker come
in a make her a couple of new gowns. I've arranged for her to come
two days hence. Perhaps you could have a couple of gowns made up at
the same time, Cecelia."

Cecelia looked up at him her eyes full of
accusation and questions.

"Yes, I need a new dress for a wedding I'm to
attend," said Mrs. Marsh as she stabbed a piece of salmon.

"I could send 'round a note asking her to
bring extra bolts of material. Black if you insist," Devin
said.

"I don't need any new gowns." Cecelia looked
at her plate.

"Yes, well if you want she'll be here for a
couple of days. If not..." He shrugged.

"Who is getting married?" Cecelia asked Mrs.
Marsh.

"A distant relative of mine."

"Is it anyone we know?"

Devin choked and reached for his wine
glass.

Cecelia gave him a distracted look.

Mrs. Marsh calmly finished chewing her bite
of fish. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the parties because the
engagement hasn't been announced yet." She turned toward Devin.
"Did you receive a letter from your mother, too?"

Devin shook his head. Mrs. Marsh was a wily
one.

The old woman looked directly at Cecelia.
"You might want to consider having one gown made. It is considered
bad form to wear black to a wedding, unless one is forced to by
circumstance."

Cecelia looked at Mrs. Marsh and then at
Devin.

"So what news of my mother?" he asked. It was
far too soon for his letter to have reached her yet.

"As soon as she's able to settle her affairs
in Italy, she's coming home. She said she hated to travel in
uncertain weather, but thought she could be here by late
March."

He wasn't sure how he felt about his mother's
return. His father had been considerably older than her, but he
hadn't been in his grave above a fortnight when she sailed off to
the continent where she'd taken up with an Italian count only a
half-dozen years older than Devin.

At least, he hoped Mrs. Marsh was just
throwing Cecelia off the scent and not warning him that his mother
was bringing her young lover back with her.

The two ladies withdrew after dinner, and
Devin nursed his brandy alone. The practice was silly when there
weren't any other men to enjoy blowing a cloud and conversation
with him. He tossed back the drink with only a small wince for the
bad form of drinking like a sailor instead of savoring the wine as
he should.

Cecelia was tip-toeing out of the morning
room as he approached.

"Is she asleep already?"

"Yes."

"Shall we repair to the drawing room,
then?"

"The fire isn't lit in there."

"The library, then."

"I was about to retire."

He winced. She wasn't about to retire. She
was about to sneak up to her attic sanctuary. He supposed he should
just call it a night and slink off to his bachelor's quarters
across town. Or he could join some of his cronies at a club.

He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay
and study the hint of roses in her cheeks. He wanted to talk, but
he didn't really know what to say. He wanted her to talk. She read
the newspapers. Surely, there was some current event she could
discourse about at length, and he could listen to the soft flow of
her voice.

He could close his eyes and imagine that she
were lying beside him in bed and sharing intimate thoughts with
him. Her words would circle and encompass him and leave him
feeling...a part of her world. She was such a private person, when
she let him in, he felt like he'd been allowed into the secret
garden of her soul.

Instead of scurrying off to the attic, she
stood waiting. The pause had grown awkward.

"Then allow me to escort you to your
attic."

"No!"

He swiveled away stung by her forcefulness.
With each attempt he made to get closer to her, she shut him out.
"I apologize. I didn't mean to trespass upon your..." he didn't
even know what to call the room, "your craft room."

"It's just that I don't want you to see what
I'm working on there, yet."

Yet?
He slowly turned back around. He
remembered what he thought she might be working on up there. With
the lace and ribbons and heap of white muslin stuffed under her
workbench, he had thought she must be sewing undergarments for
herself. Drawers and shifts edged in lace and tied with ribbons.
Perhaps a nightgown. His imagination was running riot with
imagining seeing her in lacy drawers.

"Perhaps you could give me a hint."

She had backed up against the wall, her body
half hidden in shadows. The soft gas light caught the high lines of
her cheekbones and the luminousness of her dark eyes. "I shall show
you in good time, I promise."

He cut off his runaway thoughts. No, she was
absolutely too calm to be talking about showing him her
undergarments. Perhaps she was painting. He had seen half-empty
watercolors vials and well-used paintbrushes along with several
pens and pots of ink. Illustrations? "Are you writing a book?"

She cocked her head sideways as if the idea
interested her. "No."

"Are you sewing something?"

"Are we playing twenty questions?"

"If I guess right, will you answer?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her
head. "No, I'll just have to stick pins in a little doll of
you."