“I knew if I admitted who I was,” Lord Chambrook said, “you would not give me a chance.”
“I wouldn’t give you a chance to what?” She glanced about to ensure no one appeared to be listening and whispered, “to kiss me?”
The dance dragged them away a final time. She wished she could leave before they had to return to one another. Before she had to face the shame of her mistake once more.
Heat blossomed inside her chest and blazed in her cheeks. Lord Chambrook had kissed her. Philip.
A rumored rake.
A man far too handsome for the likes of her. Far too smooth and skilled for someone of her own limited experience. Exactly the kind of man she knew to avoid.
The final chords of the song guided her back to Lord Chambrook’s arms. Quite nicely shaped arms, as she recalled from the previous night, carved with muscle where the layers of his robes had parted. “If you knew who I was, I didn’t think you would have allowed me the opportunity to court you,” he said.
The music tinkled to a close, and they were left bowing and curtseying to one another. Her breath came too fast, her thoughts flying beyond her control.
“What are you saying?” she asked as she straightened.
“I should like to become reacquainted,” he said. “Will you do me the honor of allowing me to court you?”
Was he asking her now? Without even speaking with her father? “I…I…” Cecelia stammered. “I need some time to think.”
“By all means.” Lord Chambrook gave her a smile that knocked her heart askew. “Perhaps I might call on you tomorrow and receive your answer after I speak with your father?”
Of course, she welcomed his attention. What woman would not? But to court him? To consider marriage to him?
She nodded, grateful for the span of time to consider his offer as she hastened to the terrace and pushed out into the dark night. A gentleman, leaning against the wall in the shadows, startled at the intrusion.
Not just any gentleman.
Lord Brightstone.
Cecelia swallowed a groan. “Forgive me.”
“You needn’t—”
“I mean for assuming I danced with you last night,” she said quickly before her nerves could unravel completely. “I was mistaken.”
He shook his head. “Think nothing of it.”
Think nothing of it? When she had been so cross with him, and he deserved none of it? “Why didn’t you tell me I was incorrect?”
“I didn’t wish to be contrary.” He tilted his head in study of her. “Yet you are still upset. Is it because I didn’t correct you?”
“No.” Though Cecelia’s response was miserably given, the earl’s shoulders relaxed, evidently relieved he was not the source of her agitation. She ought to keep her thoughts to herself.
But hadn’t she spent the last eight years doing exactly that?
Her despondency became palpable, a burden whose weight she bore from all angles. Before she even realized what she was doing, she was speaking, spilling the whole of it to poor Lord Brightstone.
“The man I thought was you last night was, in fact, Lord Chambrook, whom I haven’t seen since we were children,” she said. “I didn’t accept your offer to be courted as my family needed me then. They don’t need me anymore. Truth be told, I’m lonely.” Her voice caught on the word, giving it more power than she’d intended. Goodness, but she sounded pathetic.
Lord Brightstone said nothing as she poured out her heart into the cool darkness of the night.
“Apparently, I am not the only one looking to marry, and he has asked to court me, but I just can’t.” She sighed around the aching squeeze in her chest.
“May I ask you why not?”
“He has a reputation,” she said incredulously. “What if his intentions are insincere?”
