‘My dear, he prides himself on it.’ The smile curling Madame de Badeau’s lips made Cecelia’s stomach churn. ‘The losses aren’t the worst of Lord Westbrook’s problems. Now that he’s penniless, the family of his intended has forbidden the match.’
Cecelia’s fingers tightened so hard on the bouquet, one flower snapped and bent over on its broken stem. She more than anyone knew the hardships Lord Westbrook now faced. ‘Surely Lord Falconbridge must know.’
‘Of course he does. All society knows. I think it most fortunate. Now Lord Westbrook will have to marry for money instead of love. I abhor love matches. They are so gauche.’
As Madame de Badeau launched into a description of the now-infamous card game, Cecelia fought the desire to rise and dismiss her. If she didn’t need Madame de Badeau’s connections in society, she’d have nothing to do with the shallow woman. Despite being an old friend of her mother’s, Cecelia sensed the Frenchwoman would gladly push her into poverty if only to provide a few witty stories for the guests at her next card party.
Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington and all the unfinished letters she’d drafted to her since returning to London. The sweet woman had been such a comfort ten years ago, listening while Cecelia poured out her heartbreak over losing her father, her mother’s illness and, in the end, Randall’s rejection. The Dowager Countess was the only other connection she still possessed in England, though it was a tenuous one. They hadn’t exchanged letters in over eight years.
Cecelia shifted again on the dais, pulling the robe tight against the cold grief which had ended the correspondence. During her first two years at Belle View, she’d sent the Countess so many letters filled with the details of her life, from surveying her own fields to dining with the Governor. She’d written each with the hope the lady might share them with Randall and show him how far the ‘poor merchant’s daughter’ had come.
Then, after the loss of her little boy and the near loss of Daniel to the fever, all her girlish desires to impress someone half a world away had vanished.
Stinging tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of Madame de Badeau and risk the woman’s mocking laughter. Like her heartache, the sense of isolation from anyone of decency sat hard on Cecelia’s chest. She pressed her thumb into one of the thorns on the stem, forcing down the encroaching despair. She would not fail, nor give up on Theresa the way her mother had given up on her. The Season was still young. They would make new friends and meet the man who’d save them before the truth of their situation became impossible to conceal.
‘Madame de Badeau, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you a patron of the arts,’ a familiar voice called out from behind her.
Cecelia’s back stiffened with a strange mixture of excitement and anger and the sudden movement made the garland tumble to the floor.
‘Hello, Mrs Thompson.’ Randall came to stand in front of the dais, towering over her, his tan pants covering his long legs while one hand grasped the silver head of his ebony walking stick. His other hand rested on his hip, pushing back his dark coat to show the grey waistcoat hugging the trim waist underneath. With an amused look he took in her draping-goddess dress and the basket of fruit at her bare feet.
‘Lord Falconbridge,’ she greeted through clenched teeth, annoyed at having to face the man whom, at the moment, she very much detested.
He bent down to pick up the garland, his hot breath caressing the tops of her toes and making her skin pebble with goose bumps. ‘I’ve never thought of you as a muse.’
She pulled her feet back under the robe. ‘You haven’t thought of me at all.’
‘Oh, I have, many times.’ His beguiling eyes pinned hers and she shivered. ‘But more as an adventurous Amazon in the wilds of America.’
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,