Sinful Confessions

Sinful Confessions

A
Cynfell Brothers Novella

Warwickshire,
England 1895

Bang, bang, bang
.

Somebody
was setting off fireworks inside of Julian Cynfell’s skull. He winced, cracked
open an eye and peered around. The curtains were drawn and a blanket of gloom
dominated the large drawing room.

“What
in the devil...?”

He
eased up from the chaise longue and groaned. There it was again. No fireworks
though. The flashes of bright light bursting through his skull had merely been
a product of the headache plaguing him.

Julian
scrubbed a hand across his face and sat fully upright. He cradled his delicate
head for a few moments and closed his eyes. Apparently some mischievous elves
had taken up residence in his skull and were taking tiny hammers to it. Each
movement felt as though they were renewing their efforts in protest of being
jostled about.

Bang,
bang.

The
front door. That was where the noise was coming from. Well, that made more
sense than fireworks in the main drawing room of Lockwood Manor he supposed.
Cursing the little creatures inside his head, he stood and squinted into the
darkness. A tiny slit of light slipped through each of the three sets of
curtains, spilling onto the highly polished walnut furniture, picking out the
gilded highlights of the soft furnishings and emphasising the strong patterns
on the carpet. Julian curled his lip in distaste. Far too much for one’s
delicate eyes to see after a night of heavy indulgence.

Whoever
was at the door clearly had no intention of leaving. Where was the damned
butler? Or the maids? Yes, he didn’t have many of those left but he could spare
one member of his household to open a damned door, surely?

Feeling
as though he had aged a hundred years overnight, he dragged himself to the hallway
door and flung it open. Bright light greeted him and he groaned. At the smell
of fresh flowers and a hallway that had certainly already been aired out, he
hated himself anew. Even he could smell the fog of alcohol surrounding him. He
needed a bath, a teeth clean and a swirl of mint tea.

Then
he needed some strong coffee to help him sober up.

“I’m
coming, I’m coming,” he muttered to the persistent visitor as the door knocker
vibrated through the house again.

Julian
took a moment to steady himself against the marbled banister of the staircase
before heading to the large double doors that signalled the entrance to his
house. Tall pillars in matching cream marble reached high up to support the ceiling
and he had to stare at them for some time to realise they were not wavering
from side to side. It was, in fact, he who could not stay still.

Damn.
No more drinking.

He
snorted. Who was he kidding? Besides it wasn’t as if he was a slave to the
drink. He’d only indulged—what?—twice this week. Admittedly, he did like to
indulge until darkness swallowed him and he could forget everything, but it
didn’t normally matter. Normally he didn’t have visitors and he could sleep off
any ill effects. Everyone was wise enough to stay away.

But
not this person, damn them to hell. Didn’t they know who he was? Hadn’t they
heard tell of his infamous reputation?

On
wobbly legs, he edged over to the door and drew it open, readying himself to
say something cutting before slamming it shut.

“What
in the—?”

Instead
of slamming the door closed as planned, he found himself opening it farther.
The feathers caught his eye first. The white plumes of her hat drooped under
the weight of raindrops. Though his front door stood under the shelter of
several columns and a jutting pediment, this woman had clearly been a victim of
quite the soaking.

He
peered past her and saw that it was indeed a miserable day. Grey clouds weighed
down the sky like lead and water filled the dips in the road leading to the
house.

Julian
turned his attention back to the soaked woman on his doorstep. The white
feathers matched a long, white gown, shielded from the weather by only a pale
blue jacket. She looked dressed for fine summer weather and certainly not
spring showers.

When
the woman lifted her head and took a long perusal of him, he stiffened. A shard
of sensation twisted through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck
stand on end. Underneath the huge brim of her hat sat bold blue eyes, a narrow
but plump set of lips and a face that made his heart stutter.

Still
drunk
, he reminded
himself. She could have been a hideous beast but the fog of alcohol made even
the plainest of women beautiful.

He
peered at her again. The strong nose wasn’t beautiful. However, when he stopped
looking at it and took her face in as a whole, she was back to being
spectacular.

He
really ought to give up the drink. His mind was playing tricks on him.

The
stranger lifted an auburn eyebrow. Several strands of hair that would likely be
the same colour when dry clung to her cheeks. Those pouty lips parted.

“Yes?”
he asked abruptly, aware he’d been staring at her for too long. His
alcohol-soaked brain seemed to be working at a snail’s pace.

Her
wet lashes darted over her cheeks several times before she spoke. “Oh, hello.
Um. Is the master home?”

An
American. He tried not to sound like his mother but the voice in his head had
sounded distinctly marchioness-like. A brash, coarse, unsophisticated American.
That was his mother’s voice too. Julian hadn’t met many American women so he
couldn’t really be a judge of how brash, coarse and unsophisticated they were.

She
looked at him, awaiting a response. Brash indeed. Most women withered and
looked away under his darkest stares. In fact, most ladies wouldn’t even
approach him. Too scared of him. After all, the Marquess of Lockwood had the
touch of death.

“The
master is home,” he drawled.

A
smile slipped across those lips and he followed the movement of them. They were
certainly narrow but, bloody hell, the cupid bow shape of them did strange
things to his insides. He couldn’t remember any of his wives’ lips making him
feel as though his gut was twisting into knots.

“That
is wonderful news.” She thrust out a gloved hand. “I’m Miss Viola Thompson. My
friends call me Vee.”

Viola
Thompson. Oh Christ, the woman he’d been writing to in New York. The woman he’d
been... well that didn’t matter. What the blazes was she doing here? He
contemplated her hand for several moments until her fingers curled and she
tucked them back against her side.

“Could
I speak with your master?” she tried again, her voice holding a little less
strength this time.

“I
have no master.” He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. A little
amusement first thing in the morning would do no harm.

“But
I thought...” Colour seeped into her pale cheeks and confusion marred her brow.

“Julian
Cynfell, Marquess of Lockwood, at your service, Miss Thompson.”

“But...”
Her lips opened and closed several times while her gaze ran over him. “You
cannot possibly be.”

He
hadn’t considered what he looked like. If he looked down, he’d likely see his
shirt was untucked, his feet were bare and he knew at least a month’s worth of
bristle covered his jaw. What sort of servant she thought he was, he didn’t
know.

“Forgive
me if I disappoint.”

Viola
clutched her travelling bag to her chest. “No, no, forgive me. I didn’t
realise... Well, anyway,” she said brightly. “Here I am.”

Letting
both brows rise, he ran his gaze from head to toe. What was he meant to do with
her? “Yes, here you are.”

“Can
I come in?”

Julian’s
head pounded anew. All he wanted to do was have a coffee, eat something
wholesome and go to bed—a proper bed. His back ached from having fallen asleep
on the chaise. Instead, he had an admittedly stunning American woman on his
doorstep, expecting him to do
something
with her.

He
could think of several things he might like to do with her—it had been over a
year after all—but he doubted those were the sort of
somethings
she
expected. Viola Thompson was all of twenty-two and definitely innocent—that had
been clear from her letters. Besides which, Julian didn’t
do
women
anymore.

He
scowled and leaned out of the door to search for a carriage or sign of a
chaperone. No one. Nothing. Was Miss Thompson all alone?

“How
did you get here?”

“The
mail coach dropped me off at the end of the road.” She pointed in the direction
of the end of the private road. It couldn’t be seen from the house as rows of
large oak trees hid it from view.

“And
you walked all the way up here in the rain?”

She
nodded and a tiny shudder wracked her.

“You’re
alone?” He did another scan of the area, wondering if someone was hiding behind
the fountain or had decided to walk around the back of the house to explore the
ornamental garden.

“Yes.”

“You’re
American.” He didn’t ask, just stated. He needed to work his brain around
several things and saying them aloud helped.

She
squeezed her bag tightly to her chest. “Well, yes, but you knew that. We’ve
been writing to each other for six months now.”

“No,
it’s just... did you travel from America alone?”

“Yes.”
She nodded again as though this was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Fingers
to his temples, he levered himself away from the door frame.  For some reason,
he had this woman he’d been writing to on his doorstep, alone, expecting
something
.
And she’d crossed the ocean on her own. He opened and closed his eyes several
times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but she remained, resolute and a
little fragile-looking.

“You
can’t come in.”

“What?”
She almost dropped her bag and had to fumble to keep hold of it.

“You’re
alone. You cannot possibly come in.”

“But...
Julian...” Her eyes widened. “I mean, my lord, I am cold and wet and hungry. I
haven’t slept since my ship docked in Southampton.”

“Miss
Thompson,” he said slowly as though speaking to an imbecile, “there is no room
at the inn. No place for you to stay. No warm welcome here. May I suggest you
find a hotel and find your warmth and rest there?”

A
crease appeared between her brows and she studied him for long moments as
though trying to work out a puzzle. “The nearest town is five miles away. I
know that because that is where I caught the train to. Firstly, how do you
expect me to get there? And secondly, I thought you were expecting me.”

Julian
found himself taken aback by her sharp tone. Coarse, definitely coarse. Also
slightly appealing. None of his wives had ever spoken to him so directly—not
even the last one.

“I
wasn’t expecting you.”

“But
your letter...” She tried to reach for the purse hanging off her arm by a metal
chain but her travelling bag slipped and dropped to the floor with a thud. He
half expected the overly-stuffed fabric to split apart and for her belongings
to explode all over him. Viola thrust her hands to her sides and let out a
small huff sound. And there, in her eyes, was the undoing of him. The little
shimmer of tears that never failed to scour his insides and turn him into an
utter weakling.

“Come
in for a moment.” He said the words as low as he could, half-hoping she wouldn’t
hear and she’d decide to run back to New York.

She
brushed by him eagerly, not even waiting for him to step aside properly. Her
arm breezed past his chest and a few feathers tickled his nose. Julian stepped
back and shut the door. Viola removed her hat and lifted her gaze to the
vaulted ceiling. Her mouth fell open.

“Goodness,
what a place.”

Brash
for certain. His mother would have delighted in meeting this woman and putting
her in her place. He, however, couldn’t help but enjoy her open expression of
pleasure. He supposed the house was impressive when you first saw it but he’d
grown up in it. Lockwood Manor didn’t interest him. It was nice to see it
appreciated, though. The few visitors he received usually did their upmost to
appear entirely unimpressed and at ease with his grand home.

“Come
into the...” No, he couldn’t put her in the main drawing room. The place would
smell of alcohol and he’d probably left a few empty decanters lying around. She
already didn’t have the best impression of him. Best not to add to that.

Though
why did he care?

“Come
into the day room,” he said, motioning to the door on the other side of the
hall.

Julian
supposed it was a relief to have someone who didn’t already have a bad opinion
of him in his house. The rumours and gossip were the very reason he never set
foot outside his house anymore, so if there were any ladies left who didn’t
know all about him, he had never met them. Miss Thompson knew him as nothing
more than some words on paper—nice words too. Honest ones. Their correspondence
had been one of the more enjoyable aspects of his life.