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Cecily arrived in London a week later with Lord and Lady Frampton, staying at their house in Berkeley Square. The next day, Lady Frampton received two lady callers and insisted that Cecily join her in the drawing room to be formally introduced to them.
Cecily was quite certain who they were, or who one of them was, as soon as she set eyes on them. One was a younger version of Lady Frampton, with the same raven hair and brown eyes. The other had auburn hair and green eyes.
“Miss Cecily Logan, may I present my son’s wife Tabitha, the Countess of Tyndall,” said Lady Frampton, as she gestured to the green-eyed redhead. “And may I make known to you my daughter, Lady Gareth Armstrong, the wife of Bradbury’s younger brother.”
“Meaning that we will soon be sisters,” her daughter chimed in. “So I hope you will call me Evie. It’s short for Evangeline, but nowadays only my husband calls me that. My mother and brother only use the full name when they’re vexed with me.”
“And call me Tabitha,” said the Countess of Tyndall.
“I am so pleased to meet both of you. And of course I wish to be just Cecily.”
“Even after you’re the duchess?” Evie inquired. “You will outrank every other person in this room after you marry my husband’s brother.”
“Especially after I’m his duchess,” Cecily declared.
Tabitha gave a little sigh. “Did you notice that, Evie?”
“Yes, I did,” Evie said, also emitting a little sigh.
Nonplussed, Cecily asked, “Notice what?”
Evie smiled brightly. “Not the duchess, but his duchess.”
Tabitha’s green eyes sparkled at Cecily. “If that isn’t a sign that you’re in love with Bradbury...”
“Indeed, we can scarcely believe you wrote that book about him—or rather, someone who’s similar enough to him that he couldn’t be anyone else,” Evie added. “I mean, we can easily believe that you wrote a book. Bradbury has mentioned how very clever and well read you are—all the more reason Tabitha and I agreed to embrace you sight unseen. But we couldn’t help feeling just a bit puzzled at the knowledge that you wrote such a book about him—and that you still mean to marry him.”
“Until we read the book for ourselves,” Tabitha put in.
Cecily gazed at the two ladies in dismay. “Both of you have read it already?”
“I read it twice,” Evie said. “And in one sitting both times.”
“Evie read it first,” Tabitha said. “Then she let me read it, but as soon as I was done, she demanded it back because she wished to read it again.”
Cecily felt her knees buckling, at about the same moment Lady Frampton said, “Come, why are we all still standing? Let us sit already and have some tea!”
Cecily came perilously close to sitting down right where she stood, in the very middle of the Aubusson rug. She glanced around frantically in search of a place to sit while Evie and Tabitha claimed the sofa near the fireplace.
“Do take this chair over here, Cecily,” urged Lady Frampton, as she gestured to one of two chairs situated across from the sofa, on the other side of the hearth.
Cecily half-stumbled to the appointed chair.
“I daresay, my dear, that you know of no other way to approach a chair,” Lady Frampton remarked. “That’s how you did it at Tyndall Abbey more than a week ago. Yet I don’t seem to recall you had such trouble at Ashdown Park.”
“Maybe that’s because Dane wasn’t there,” Evie surmised, her tone mischievous. “Another sign that Cecily is madly in love with him.”
Cecily finally, somehow, managed to plant her derriere in the chair without falling over the nearby fender and into the grate where a cheery fire warmed the otherwise chilly room. “How did either of you happen to read it? I thought...” She could say no more, as if she didn’t even want to think of it.
“Dane received an advance copy from the publisher,” Evie said briskly, as if this should have been common knowledge; never mind that the author herself should have known about it.
“But...but he told me...or I thought he told me...” Everything seemed foggy to her now. “Well, what did he tell me?”
“He did mention that you didn’t want to see it published, yet Lord Willard and his son decided to have it published anyway, so they might benefit from the profits,” Evie said. “They even thought to blackmail him with it, but in your name.”
Something seemed to be caught in Cecily’s throat. She struggled to gulp it down. “Yes, I told him that myself. And he told me at Ashdown Park that—oh, dear heavens.” As she felt herself turning into quivering jelly, she had to press her feet against the floor to keep from sliding out of the chair altogether.
Tabitha leaned forward. “My dear Cecily, you have nothing to worry about now. He assured us that they will never benefit from that book.”
“That’s what he told me the night he—he—”
The night he made love to her immediately afterward. And she’d allowed him such a liberty ahead of the wedding because she believed—mistakenly now, as it turned out—that he had stopped the book’s publication altogether.
But no—he’d always said he had no issue with it being published. That he would never prevent it being published. His only concern had been precluding her greedy relatives from claiming the profits.
“Is something amiss, Cecily?” inquired Tabitha. “He only wants to make sure you, and you alone, collect every penny you’re due for that book.”
“Now that’s what I call true love,” Lady Frampton said, as a footman entered the drawing room with the tea tray. “And here is our tea at last.”
Cecily struggled to sort out everything she was hearing. Evie and Tabitha seemed blithely unaware of the anvil they just dropped on her stunned, spinning head.
The book she wrote was out there. It was published. People were reading it. Two people who’d already read it—one of them had even read it twice already—were sitting across from her, all smiles, eager to embrace her as their sister in spite of it. Or maybe even because of it.
She should have been relieved. She should have been overjoyed. Instead she felt—well, she didn’t want to use the word betrayed. He’d always made his position clear—except the other night, when it seemed, at least now in retrospect, to be rather murky. Or had she been too dazzled by his declarations of love, too overset by the tumultuous events of that evening, to see clearly through the magical mist swirling around them—the same mist that enveloped the romantic joining of Madfury with Catriona?
The fact remained that she never intended for that particular book to ever see the light of day. Yet it was the only one she’d ever written that was now out in the open. And everyone knew—or did they?
“Does anyone else know yet that I wrote it?” she asked, almost choking out the words.
“That’s what you might say is the most interesting part of all,” Tabitha replied. “The book is titled The Duke Is a Devil by The Lady He Ruined.”
Well, in a way, he did ruin her, but, “And he still expects me to marry him?”
There was a rather long pause before Lady Frampton finally ventured, “If he ruined you, my dear, then it naturally follows that he should marry you.”
Cecily stared at the brimming teacup on the low table in front of her, as if she could divine clarity out of the dark brew without having to drink it so she could decipher any remaining tea leaves—not that she knew how to do that, either. “In that case, people will think he’s marrying me because he ruined me.”
“Yes, but I’m sure he loves you,” Lady Frampton said, and she took a sip of her own tea.
“And the engagement ball is but a week away!” Cecily exclaimed. “When everyone finds out that I’m the one he’s to marry—”
“Oh, they already know that, Cecily,” said Tabitha. “The formal announcement appeared in this morning’s paper. Do you mean you haven’t seen it yet?”
“Obviously not. Oh, this is a disaster. So all of London must know now that the Duke of Bradbury has announced his betrothal to Miss Cecily Logan...”
“Anyone who read the papers this morning,” Evie said, as if that made a difference.
“Yet at the same time, those same people are reading a book titled The Duke Is a Devil by The Lady He Ruined, and will naturally believe that the Duke of Madfury is really the Duke of Bradbury with a rhyming name and a vast deal of exaggeration.” Cecily’s voice rose till it was so reedy that it finally broke. “I never knew there were so many readers in the ton!”
Tabitha gently set down her teacup. “Are you worried that people will think the author is you, or someone else entirely?”
“Well, that’s a conundrum, is it not? I shall be bombarded with questions from people wanting to know if I still intend to marry the duke, knowing that he ruined someone else and should therefore marry her instead.”
“But you’re that someone else,” Evie pointed out—albeit pointlessly.
“On the other hand, I may well be swamped with inquisitive questions as to whether I am the author, ergo The Lady He Ruined, meaning that he is marrying me not for love but because...he ruined me!”
Whereupon the wildest thought flitted through Cecily’s head—what a good thing it was that she wasn’t holding her teacup at that moment. She might have hurled it across the room, shattering Lady Frampton’s fine Crown Derby porcelain, splattering the contents everywhere and maybe even scalding one of the other ladies. Or maybe not, since the tea had to be cold by now.
Lady Frampton set down her own teacup, gazing dolefully at Cecily. “My dear girl, you are hardly the first lady in the ton to marry because you were ruined.”
Another thought, though not as wild as the previous one, fluttered through Cecily’s head: Despite her illustrious family background, she’d never considered herself a member of the ton. She’d always felt—and still felt, and maybe always would—that she was an outsider.
Lady Frampton went on, “And so few of them marry for love.”
A long silence followed, allowing more thoughts, some wild, some not so wild, to flit and flutter through Cecily’s head, which she was beginning to think must be empty to allow her thoughts so much space to fly around. Certainly she believed she’d lost her mind.
“Ah, but Ross and I married for love,” said Tabitha.
“Gareth and I likewise married for love,” Evie said. “And Mother, weren’t you and Lord Frampton in love since you were both younger than the rest of us?”
“Very well, I suppose there are a few exceptions,” Lady Frampton conceded.
“Lord and Lady Ashdown married for love,” Cecily said. “Why, I’m beginning to think everyone I’ve met since leaving Yorkshire must have married for love.”
“And you’re marrying for love,” Tabitha assured her. “He has declared himself, Cecily, has he not?”
“Yes, but people will still think—”
“Spoken like a true member of the ton.” Evie chortled.
“Odd you should say so. Here I’ve been thinking all along that I don’t feel as if I’m a member of the ton.”
“Well, hang what they think, Cecily. You should hear what those same people said about me and my mother for so many years.”
“Mostly me,” Lady Frampton said ruefully. “And it’s my fault, I confess. I was married so many times before I finally married the man I truly loved.”
Cecily sighed in resignation. “So what am I expected to do?”
Teacups softly clinked in saucers as the others pondered this. Tabitha drained her own teacup and said, “What does Bradbury expect?”
“I’m sure he expects me to be thrilled to pieces about all of this. And he says I’m so predictable. He seems able to read my mind. I don’t know how, but I vow he always knows what I’m thinking and even what I’m about to say before I can say it.”
Lady Frampton set her teacup into its saucer with a sharp clatter. “Oh, I say who would not wish to be married to a man like that? Would that all men could read women’s minds!”
“Well,” Cecily said, curling her hands around the curved ends of the chair arms, as if bracing herself. “Maybe it’s high time I did something he doesn’t expect. Something utterly unpredictable.”
But what?
“Clearly, what he doesn’t expect from you is confrontation,” said Tabitha. “You’ve told us just now how you really feel about being known as ‘The Lady He Ruined’—so you need to let him know, too. Point these things out to him, and charge him with making them right.”
Cecily couldn’t help waggling her fingers. “Using his ‘ducal powers’ of course. And I already confronted him about the book being published in the first place. No, I think what really vexes me is the fact that he had possession of this book all along and never told me! Should I not be furious with him about that?”
Evie and Tabitha exchanged questioning glances. Lady Frampton only pursed her lips.
“All things considered,” Tabitha said slowly, “I do believe he should have told you.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Evie said quickly. “He seems to have used this to lead you on some sort of merry chase.”
Cecily furrowed her brow. “But for what purpose?”
Evie and Tabitha only shrugged in unison, while Lady Frampton flatly said, “To seduce you, of course.”
Cecily jerked forward slightly in the chair, incredulous. “What?”
And though Cecily knew exactly what Lady Frampton said, the older woman still repeated the words, this time more loudly and distinctly. “To seduce you, of course.”
And seduce her he did.
The duke was a devil.
“Oh!” Cecily finally bolted out of the chair. “To think he kept that secret from me all this time! Very well, I shall do something unpredictable. Something he’ll never expect. I shall be furious about this until he explains everything to me, whereupon I shall make him think I intend to jilt him just as—just as—”
“Just as I did?” Evie suggested. “Ah, but he was only pretending to be betrothed to me so as to shield me from scandal, until his brother—my own true love—could claim me for his own. And I’m sure you know by now that my mother here never really jilted him, because he never really proposed marriage to her. Mother only wanted Lord Frampton to think Bradbury had done so, to bring the marquess up to scratch. It worked.”
“Cassandra Frey never really jilted him, either,” Tabitha said. “At her request, he released her from their betrothal years ago, because she was in love with Lord Whidbey, though nothing came of that, either, since she married Mr. Frey instead, only to be widowed shortly thereafter.”
Cecily shifted her gaze from one matron to the other. “Then I would be the only bride he ever truly wanted who actually jilted him. I could return to Northamptonshire and live a life of quiet anonymity in my cousin Ashdown’s household. Hugh and Grace have said I’m always welcome there.”
“Surely you don’t mean to do that?” Evie asked.
“Oh, of course she doesn’t,” her mother said with a flick of her hand. “I’m sure Cecily only means to cut a sham and teach him a lesson, rather as I did with Frampton.”
Cecily thought the better of saying anything to the contrary. “I beg that none of you tell a soul about this conversation. Not even your husbands. They’ll certainly warn him.”
Evie and Tabitha laughed merrily, and even Lady Frampton smiled as she said, “My dear Cecily, I believe you will be the perfect addition to our growing family. Speaking of which...” She peered at her daughter and daughter-in-law. “Why did neither of you bring the babies today?”
“Mother, you know how cold and rainy it’s been this year, more so than usual,” Evie replied. “I have no wish to risk my son’s health taking him out in such ghastly weather, and I know Tabitha feels the same about her own son.”
Tabitha nodded and glanced at Cecily. “Now, admit it. Despite the duke’s deception about that book, you are looking forward to seeing him again?”
“Of course I am,” Cecily replied, and she meant it with all her heart. How she loved Dane Armstrong, the Duke of Bradbury, even if he was such a devil to her in so many ways. But she’d get back at him immediately following the ball.
At the very least, he deserved some sort of comeuppance for not telling her that he’d been in possession of that blasted book the whole time.
The weather was drizzly the evening of the ball, when Cecily finally went to Bradbury House on Park Lane, riding in an enclosed carriage with Lord and Lady Frampton. She hoped the wet pavement wouldn’t ruin the hem of her new white gown, the most exquisite gown she’d ever owned. Lady Frampton had taken her to a modiste who managed to create the lacy confection in just a matter of days, happy to do so because it was for a future duchess, and the modiste fancied nothing more than to add another duchess to her clientele. The bill was sent to the duke.
As Cecily disembarked from the carriage, she lifted her skirts almost to her knees to avoid the invisible puddles and equine calling cards. Just because she couldn’t see them in the flickering torchlight didn’t mean they weren’t there.
Dane stood just inside the immense doorway, ready to greet her, and the sight of him nearly took her breath away. He was formally clad in a coat of black superfine, with a waistcoat lavishly embroidered in glistening, pale gold thread that actually matched his hair color. She was delighted to see that his thick, tawny hair still resembled a lion’s mane, and that he hadn’t tried to flatten it with some greasy, smelly pomade.
He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. And she was going to marry him and live happily ever after with him—after an amusing bit of payback for his deception. She still hadn’t quite figured out how she was going to go about that yet—but she knew she could come up with something. She was a writer.
In the meantime, it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms, but Dane held out his arms to her and said, “Come, my dear—you’re among family here. Our guests haven’t started arriving yet.”
And so she threw herself into his arms as he whispered, “How I’ve missed you all this time. You are utterly enchanting. And you’re all mine.” The words sent shivers trembling through her core as the hardness of his body pressed against hers. She tilted her head up and closed her eyes as he kissed her, while somewhere nearby, Lord Frampton urged his wife to come along and let the lovebirds be.
They broke the kiss, and Dane smiled. “You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“I was here the night you threw that ball in Lady Tyndall’s honor—before she was Lady Tyndall, of course,” Cecily replied. “I was with Uncle Willard and Aunt Thea and Harry and Rebecca. There were so many guests that night, ’tis no wonder you didn’t see any of us.”
“Well, there will be just as many this evening, but I don’t intend to see anyone else but you,” he said. “I only asked if you’d never been here before because you probably don’t know the location of the library. It’s right over here, and there’s something within that I’d like to show you. Oh, better than that—that I’d like to give to you.”
It could only be a published copy of her book. Cecily’s pulse quickened. Despite her longstanding reservations about that particular book, she found she still couldn’t suppress her excitement over finally seeing something she wrote in print. And with binding, too!
His hand gently cupping her elbow partially covered by her long glove, he guided her into the nearby library. Cecily almost gasped upon seeing all the books lining the walls, in shelves stacked from floor to ceiling.
And she thought the library at Ashdown Park was the most splendid she’d ever seen. Or at least it was in Northamptonshire.
A damp draft blew the curtains over a window behind the desk. “These wretched French doors,” Dane muttered, as he hastened over to close them.
“Doors, and not windows?” Cecily asked curiously.
“They’re a side entrance leading down some steps to an alley,” he explained. “A previous duke designed it for a quick escape from creditors, discarded mistresses and their vengeful husbands, that sort of thing.”
“Seems quite convenient.”
He picked up what appeared to be a small leather case from the center of his desk. Aside from the leather, it bore no resemblance to a book. There were no pages, and it was more of a square than a rectangle.
Still, Dane cracked it open much as he might have were it a book, lifting the lid to reveal a stunning diamond necklace resting on a bed of crimson velvet.
This time, Cecily did gasp, and her eyes widened in awe. The diamonds sparkled in the soft lamplight, with tiny blue glints.
“Do you like it?” he asked. “I noticed you’re not wearing any jewelry around your neck.”
Cecily touched her bare throat. “Lady Frampton said you might present me with a necklace this evening, and that you would wish for me to wear it at the ball.” Flustered, she suddenly remembered his question. “But yes, I do like it! How could I not? I’ve never imagined receiving anything so beautiful.”
Dane set down the open box, and gingerly picked up the necklace, every facet twinkling. “And this is just the start. I bought this the other day at Rundell and Bridges. There’s still a vast collection of family heirloom jewelry stashed in the vaults, with every gem you can think of. You can wear all of it after the wedding.” He stepped behind her and looped the diamonds around her neck to fasten them in place. They were cold at first, as if they were really nothing more than tiny chips of ice. Yet as she brushed her warm fingers over the facets, none of them melted or trickled down her partially exposed bosom.
Alas, there was no mirror in the library that might have allowed her to see what she looked like with a glittering river of diamonds flowing around her throat. “I never thought of the heirloom jewelry, truly. And I certainly didn’t expect this. Thank you.” She turned around to face him, and he smiled down at her.
“They look perfect on you. And no need to say thanks. Indeed, there are other ways to thank me.” He arched a suggestive brow.
Again she closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and parted her lips as he kissed her, this time more deeply than in the front hall. She tasted a hint of brandy, and for the first time since that night at Tyndall Abbey, she suddenly wished she could have some for the extra fortification.
Only why should she be so nervous about confronting him with his deception? She’d been even more nervous that other night at Ashdown Park, when he’d seen her nude and caressed every part of her body. Even now the memory prompted a pleasant shudder in her lower belly.
But was the night at Ashdown Park really as frightening as the night at Tyndall Abbey, where she’d bared not her body but her heart and soul to him? And was it not her heart and soul that were at stake now? She reluctantly broke the kiss and got right to the point. “Was there anything else you were going to give me this evening?”
He chuckled, his turquoise eyes dancing in the golden lamplight. “You said you weren’t even expecting this, despite Lady Frampton’s speculations. What else do you have in mind?”
Her own eyes, which she knew were not dancing right now, bored into his. “The book I wrote, that you stole from our relatives after they stole it from me, so you could have it published for your own devilishly ducal purposes. Without even telling me.”
Dane’s eyes stopped dancing and came to a standstill as he stared back at her in dismay.
But he didn’t roar. Not with laughter, and not in rage.