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“You don’t flush when ‘nothing’ has happened, Cece,” Ainsley scolded. “Tell me. You know you want to.”
“I told him,” Cecelia muttered.
“Told him what?” Ainsley’s brow puckered.
“Told him that I can’t accept him. Because I’m not free to do so.”
“Since when?” Ainsley’s silverware clattered to the tabletop.
“Since my mother died and my father fell apart,” Cecelia hissed back.
“So you lied.”
“I didn’t lie. Not really. I told him I’m not free.”
“But you are.”
“My father needs me right now.”
“You can’t give up your life for your father,” Ainsley groaned. “I can’t believe you let Marcus think that.” She stabbed at the air with the tines of her fork, punctuating what she would say next. “You”—stab—“shouldn’t”—stab—“have”—stab—“lied.”
Cecelia heaved a sigh. “It’s the only way.”
“Sometimes the truth is the only way, Cece,” Ainsley said quietly.
Eight
Cecelia sat down on the garden bench and tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The night air was chilly, and her heart felt even colder. She’d made a mistake in letting Marcus kiss her. She should have soundly trounced him, rather than ever letting his lips touch hers.
She’d dreamed of another kiss for as long as she could remember. And it had been all she’d expected it to be. It was all she could think about. After dinner, she’d made her excuses, claiming to be tired. But she really just needed some time alone. She’d put a candle in her window to summon Milly and walked into the garden to wait for her to appear.
Cecelia sat back and looked up at the stars. They seemed brighter at home, although she knew these were exactly the same as the ones she’d looked at her whole life.
She took a deep breath. She’d gotten herself into a perfectly wretched position.
“That kiss in Paris was beautiful,” a voice said from behind her.
Cecelia closed her eyes and wished for Marcus to go away. She didn’t want to face him right now. “A gentleman would never discuss such things,” she scolded.
Marcus chuckled and dropped onto the bench beside her. “It’s a good thing I’ve never been a gentleman then, isn’t it?” He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between his parted thighs. “Did it mean anything to you?” he asked, not looking at her. His hair was unbound and curled around his face. He was so handsome when he was unguarded like this. Like he was at home. Perhaps this was home now?
“I never know what to expect when I go on a mission,” Cecelia said with a shrug.
“Stop being obtuse,” he chided. “You know I’m not referring to the mission.” He still didn’t look at her. He looked at everything else.
“Marcus.” She sighed.
He leaned back, put his arm behind her on the back of the bench, and then slid over so that his thigh touched hers. “How many nights have we spent beneath the stars like this?” he asked.
“One too many, if you count tonight,” she said, her tone purposefully caustic. She tugged her shawl from beneath his thigh.
He sat quietly for a moment. “What will it take?” he asked.
“For what?” She knew what he was referring to. But oblivion was so much easier.
“For you to forgive me.” He didn’t elaborate. He just looked into her eyes. His were black in the darkness of the night.
Cecelia groaned, flinging her head back in frustration. She sat back up and said, “You’re forgiven.” If what he wanted was absolution, then maybe now he would go away.
