6

There was only one reason that Theo Hudson could possibly be kissing her right now, Cecilia thought. And it was because she had completely lost her mind.

The morning had been so very strange. It was as if she had left Lincolnshire, and arrived not only in London but in her own life ten years ago. When the only person in the world who could command her attention stood front and center in her vision. And that was the reason—the only reason—that she’d leaned forward when he did. That she let his arm slip around her back when he shifted to sit next to her, and pressed her against him. That she pressed herself against him in turn, her busy hands running inside his coat, her palm flat against his shirt.

Suddenly she was remembering so many things, lost and buried with a decade of being alone. Like how he had looked, his cerulean eyes burning bright and his cheeks flushed when he’d run all the way from Sir Lockwood’s to her father’s front door, just to return a pair of gloves. Or the way her skin shivered when he’d taken her hand at that inn on the road to Gretna Green, while he signed the ledger making them man and wife a day before they actually would be.

And kissing. Oh, how she had missed kissing. Every one of her senses was alive. She breathed in his smell—soap and pine trees, as if he had been walking in a forest. His hand snaked its way to her neck, his fingers dancing with the tendrils of hair that drifted out from her bonnet. His tongue sought out hers, and she found herself yearning. Yearning, for the first time in ten years, for something she had forgotten how to want. Something she had willed herself into forgetting.

It was like waking and drifting to sleep at the same time.

She wanted to stay in this dream. She wanted to let go of the last ten years and that horrible night that started them, and live in this space kissing and holding tight to the man who was the boy she’d once loved.

“Theo,” she said, gasping for air. Her voice was small, the single word a question. Asking, was this really him?

And apparently, the answer was no.

He froze at the sound of his name. His hands stilled at her neck, his mouth hovered above hers. She looked up, and saw in those blue, blue eyes . . .

Horror.

She removed her hands from his coat. He let go of her waist, the back of her head. Like a gardener untwisting vines from a fence, they disentangled themselves.

He ran his hands ruthlessly through his hair, tugged on the edges of his coat.

She should have straightened her skirts, her bonnet. But in that moment, she wasn’t at all certain she had control of her hands.

“My apologies,” he said gruffly. “I forgot myself.”

“Yes,” she replied. “You should.”

His eyes came up and met hers.

“I’m . . . I’m not here for that. For you. I am here for my cousin.” As she said it, she wasn’t certain of which of them needed more convincing.

“Yes of course,” he said with a nod. “It is increasingly obvious that our past is hindering our investigation.”

“Well,” she said, trying to calm the runaway stampede that was her heartbeat. “We will simply have to work harder to ignore our history.”

Or perhaps she would do better to pay closer attention to it. To remember her devastation at the inn. To remember the condescending looks her brother-in-law the vicar had given her for years—her tax for his benevolence. The town full of gossiping biddies who had accepted her into their ranks, and would be aghast to learn that not only had she not yet picked up material and tea and returned fish, she had instead spent the morning kissing a man who had betrayed her!

“Do you intend to inquire at any of those boarding houses this afternoon?” she asked.

“As many as I can,” he said. Then his eyebrow went up. “You mean to let me go alone?”

“I . . . don’t know much about the city, and I think it best if I . . .” Her hand unconsciously went to her kiss-swollen lips, and he knew what she was thinking. Because he thought it too.

Likely best if they had some space from each other.

“Besides,” she continued, clearing her throat, “I feel certain the best chance of success will be when I attend the ball this evening.”

He looked up at her. “You mean when I attend. I think it best if I go alone.”

“And I think you are mad,” she countered. “Attending a military ball on your own? You will stick out like a sore thumb.”

“You alone would stick out like a sore thumb just as much as me. More so.”

“Need I remind you that you don’t know Eleanor, or what she looks like?”

“And need I remind you, neither do you?” he countered. “You told me yourself you haven’t seen the girl in a decade.”

“I’ll know her when I see her,” she said, her voice steel, just as the carriage came to a stop. “And with any luck, I’ll see her this evening. At the ball.”

The door swung open, revealing that they were in front of Lord Ashby’s residence.

“If you insist on coming,” she said, hopping out of the carriage with the assistance of the driver, “you may escort me.”

“Cee, I think you’re forgetting something,” he called out, causing her to pause in the midmorning sunshine before her foot hit the first granite steps. “I have the tickets.”

“Check your pockets, Theo,” she retorted. “I think you’ll find that I have them.”

She didn’t have to watch as he patted his coat and searched the inner breast pocket. Somehow, in their tangles, her hand found her fingers on the tickets and, well . . . somehow they had ended up in her pocket.

But out of everything that had occurred in the past few hours, the fact that she had unconsciously filched the tickets to the ball from Theo’s pocket was the least disturbing.

It had been, she decided, as the butler opened the door for her and the sound of the carriage clattered away, a very, very strange morning.

AND IF THE morning had been strange, the evening was, no doubt, about to be much stranger. Because Miss Cecilia Goodhue—schoolteacher from Helmsley, Lincolnshire—was going to attend a London ball.

And she hadn’t a thing to wear.

“But I never thought to bring a ball gown!” she had told Lady Ashby when she arrived back. Lady Ashby—who had quickly demanded that their guest call her Phoebe, especially considering that Cecilia had been witness to a violent amount of baby sick spewing all over the lady’s day dress. One simply cannot think of anyone as a countess when they are drenched in regurgitated milk, she’d been told, so why bother?

“Of course not, why should you?” Phoebe replied, blotting her gown while a nurse took the baby and gently bounced it, walking in a circle. “But this will give me an excellent excuse to dress you.”

“Dress me?” Cecilia asked. “Oh no, my lady, I . . . I will simply wear a regular gown. We will not linger there, I’m sure—if Eleanor is not at the dance we will know very quickly.”

“What if you get there before her?” Phoebe asked logically. “Or you could find that you need to ask other guests questions, and that simply will not do in a day dress—why, they’ll throw you out on the street!”

“Oh,” Cecilia said, sighing. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Come, let’s see what’s in my wardrobe,” she said, putting down the cloth and giving up on her gown. Then she took the baby from the nurse with an indulgent smile. “I haven’t been able to wear any of my lovelier gowns in so many months, you will be doing me the greatest favor in airing them out.”

“Now?” Cecilia asked. Her head spun a bit from the speed at which things were happening. “But . . . I have several errands to run—friends in Helmsley wanted . . .”

“Give the errands to a footman, he’ll see them done.”

Phoebe drew up to her full height, which was average, but the posture made her the most imposing figure in the room—not to be rebuked. “That’s why we have footmen, or so my darling Ned says. Now come—there are gowns that require thorough assessment.”

They spent the better part of the afternoon in Phoebe’s rooms, her entire wardrobe spilling out onto settees and the bed. A long mirror was brought in to the room, and Cecilia was placed upon a footstool in front of it.

“I know, it’s absolute excess,” Phoebe said, watching as her gowns were trotted out one by one. “And in truth I would prefer to have a wardrobe I could fit into one trunk—I’d never needed more than that before. But when we married, Ned told me that he would give me everything in the world. After he bought out all the dress shops on Bond Street, I realized we would have to curtail some of his enthusiasm.”

It was just then that a soft knock sounded on the door and Chalmers, the very formal butler, stuck his head in.

“My lady, Frederick has returned from the errands. Where should the items be placed?”

“Oh—Miss Goodhue’s room, I should think. Correct, Cecilia?”

At Cecilia’s nod, Chalmers raised an eyebrow, but intoned, “Very good, my lady.”

Chalmers stepped back, and Cecilia glimpsed a procession of crate after crate being hauled past.

“Goodness—what on earth is all that?” Phoebe said.

“Bolts of fabric,” Chalmers replied. “From the docks.”

“How many are there?” Cecilia asked weakly.

“About ten more, miss.”

Cecilia felt her cheeks burn. It seemed like Mrs. Robertson got the better part of her helpful arrangement. But she wasn’t the only one, as Cecilia quickly learned.

“The crates of tea are on the next cart. And the wood carving shop was closed, so we were unable to return the fish.”

“You . . . you can just put them in my room as well, then,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Thank Frederick, miss. He’s the one who had to load the carriages.”

Phoebe blinked as Chalmers followed the items down the hall, then turned to Cecilia.

“Well, it seems you will have far more than one single trunk on the way back.”

“Yes,” she sighed. Then, “You had a wardrobe you could fit into one trunk?” Cecilia asked before she could stop herself. It was a crass, personal question, and she had met Phoebe only this morning. “Forgive me, my lady, but you are so very polished . . . it’s hard to imagine.”

“The polish comes from capable ladies’ maids and dressmakers. Underneath it all I still can’t help but think of myself as a governess.”

“You were a governess?” Cecilia asked, astonished. “To . . . to a grand London house?”

“No, to a terribly ordinary family in the middle of nowhere.” Phoebe smiled, lost in the memory. “But I’ve found that managing London is not unlike managing children. There are desires, and tempers, and fits if people don’t have things exactly to their liking. But a firm, well-placed word and a small kindness goes a long way.”

“That will be good to remember tonight,” Cecilia murmured as a green satin gown was held in front of her. The ladies’ maid cocked her head to one side, and then dismissed it.

A regal eyebrow rose. “I have discovered that such lessons work on men too. Perhaps it would be useful with Mr. Hudson.”

Cecilia’s eyes met Phoebe’s in the mirror. “I . . . I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“My husband told me that he’d recruited Mr. Hudson for this particular endeavor because he has spent time in Manchester, and he might know the family.” Phoebe glanced down at the baby, sleeping peacefully. “Then I watched you leave his jaw on the floor of the carriage as you walked up the steps when you came back today. And I do believe my husband is more right than even he realizes—which is a rather annoying habit of his.”

Cecilia felt her stomach drop all the way past the footstool and to the floor. She felt as green as the gown that had just been thrown aside. It was difficult enough to turn up at the doorstep of an earl and his countess, asking for aid in searching for her errant cousin, then not only be confronted with a man—the man from her past—but to have the lady of the house deduce it . . . Well, suffice to say her embarrassment was akin to the time that she was seven and was getting a leg up on climbing a fence from Johnny Westmore, when she discovered she had forgotten to put on her petticoats that day.

“Mr. Hudson . . .” she began, but then coughed and started again. “Mr. Hudson and I knew each other a long time ago.”

“And?” Phoebe prompted. Even the ladies’ maid paused in sorting gowns to hear the exchange.

“And we don’t know each other now,” she said, surprised to find her voice a little sad.

It was true. They didn’t know each other now. He didn’t know how she had spent the past ten years. No amount of telling could make him know. About the quiet, and the littleness of it all. Of the propriety, and how she would let herself get caught up in the breathless gossip of the town because it was the only way to pass the time. About how she still dreamed of a bigger life, and loved those dreams, even though she had little hope of achieving them.

And she knew nothing of him. He had spent a decade in London, becoming a lawyer, building a life . . . although, had he? He had not spoken of a wife or children. And the way that he had kissed her implied their nonexistence.

At least, she prayed for their nonexistence. The kissing was confusing enough. If on top of that, he was married . . .

No. She shook her head. He wasn’t. She knew it instinctively. Wholly. Like she knew the press of his hand over hers.

Perhaps they did know some things about each other.

“Time shifts people, but not away from their center,” Phoebe said contemplatively. “At their core, people remain the same. You just have to learn new ways in. That is, if you want to.”

“I . . . I don’t know what I want,” she replied. “Mr. Hudson—he hurt me. Long ago. If I were a romantic I would say he broke my heart.”

“And you?” Phoebe’s eyebrow rose. “Did you hurt him too?”

“I . . . I don’t know what I did to him. I used to think that my moderate dowry offended him. But now . . .”

Now, Theo hadn’t blinked at handing over a twenty-pound note for the tickets to the ball. He practically waved her off when she offered to pay for it. And who on earth carried a twenty-pound note? Not someone who had to scrounge for pennies to piece together a living. The way he had looked when she said she had her own funds . . . as if he was surprised she had any funds at all.

“He was so very terse when I fibbed to Colonel Birmingham, and when I spoke with the other officers with interest,” she said. “Mr. Hudson was, I mean.”

“Did he not know you would do what was necessary to find your cousin?”

“It wasn’t that. It was more as if he thought I would absolutely do what was necessary—and that I was somehow a master of deception.”

Phoebe seemed to snort—if countesses snorted, that is. “Any teacher is a master of deception,” she replied. “She has to be, to be able to catch her students out when they try it.”

Cecilia smirked for the first time all afternoon.

“I have little knowledge of Mr. Hudson,” Phoebe mused, pointing to a certain gown in the pile, having the ladies’ maid pull it. “But what I do know is that he is considered quite honorable, smart . . . and very closed.”

“Closed?”

“He’s polite, and deferential, but my husband said he never suspected in a million years that he would have taken over the investigation himself. He thought he would have handed it off to runners.” She peered at Cecilia closely. “Mr. Hudson holds to himself very tightly. Only someone important to him could have made him do it.”

“I didn’t make him do anything,” Cecilia protested. “I certainly didn’t ask anything of him.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she reassured.

“I’m just here to find my cousin. That is all. I’m grateful for Mr. Hudson’s help—and yours and Lord Ashby’s of course—but I’m not here for this!”

“This?” Phoebe’s second eyebrow joined her first high on her forehead.

“Dancing, and balls,” she replied, flustered. “And Mr. Hudson and gowns . . . oh, goodness.”

Cecilia suddenly lost the power of speech. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and the gown the ladies’ maid was holding up made her breath hitch.

The cut was fairly plain, letting the beauty of the light pink silk shine forth. The neckline and sleeves were square, with a single ribbon as a trim. The bodice was tight, stiff through the ribs, then the gown fell in gentle waves to the ground. The color of the gown put warmth in her cheeks and cream in her skin. Her hair seemed to shine like a river of molasses, and when the gown was on, there was no doubt that she would be transformed.

Cecilia stood in the mirror, frozen, as the girl she was ten years ago looked back.

“The length can be easily pinned. But still, with her height,” the ladies’ maid said, “there will be a bit of a train.”

“I think this gown could use a train, don’t you, my dear?” Phoebe asked, coming to stand next to her, the baby still asleep in her arms.

Cecilia could only nod, dumbstruck as she was.

“She cannot wear a corset,” the ladies’ maid added.

“She won’t need one in that gown.”

Cecilia’s head cocked to one side, but she could say nothing. It was too beautiful a gown, and she was too in awe of its possibilities, corset or no.

“And if I may proffer one more opinion,” Phoebe said, “perhaps tonight, while you are looking for your cousin, you can allow yourself a moment.”

“A . . . a moment?”

“A moment to wonder. To wonder what it would be like if you had come to London for balls, and dancing. And Mr. Hudson.” She met Cecilia’s eyes in the mirror. “To wonder what that life would have been like.”

Cecilia looked at herself in the mirror again. And let her mind drift to what it would be like to be in London for herself, and not for her cousin. If neither she nor Eleanor had been foolhardy in love, Cecilia could have been in London now, under entirely different circumstances.

She would be dancing because she had been invited to a ball. She would be having an afternoon tea and gossip session with Lady Ashby not because she was helping her, but because they were friends. And Theo Hudson would be coming to call, not because he was saddled with helping her, but because he was honored to escort her that evening. And when they danced—and they would dance—it would be as if the room stopped, but the music continued on, playing a different tune, just for them.

Oh, what a life that would be.

And maybe, just for one night, Cecilia could let herself live it.