Chapter One
London, England
1815
Lying was a sin. Yet sometimes, one was given no choice but to lie. For example, if one was trying to protect one’s dearly departed father’s good name, sometimes one must lie. Or if one had a mother who was being positively unreasonable, sometimes one must lie. Even though Miss Cecelia Cartwright was sure she had legitimate reasons for what she was doing, guilt plagued her. Hence her new habit of reminding God exactly why he should forgive her for her trespasses.
Cecelia dashed a look behind her as she tiptoed past her mother’s bedchamber, down the stairs, and toward the front door of their townhome. She gripped her most prized possession in one hand—a book of poetry by Lord Byron that her father had given her—and her shoes in the other. Every astute schemer knew that shoes made entirely too much noise on hardwood floors, and since her mother had deemed Lady Elizabeth Burton unacceptable for Cecelia to associate with and had forbidden her from visiting Elizabeth, Cecelia had been forced to become an expert conniver.
Her mother had always been a worrisome sort, particularly about what others might think of them, but compassion had tempered her concerns, and she had never snubbed someone purposely simply because thetonhad done so. But two years ago, when money had first started to seem scarce and her mother had discovered Cecelia’s father had been gambling, a bit of Mother’s compassion had disappeared. Instead, it was replaced by a need to make sure they did everything they could to maintain their place in Society. Then last year, when Father had gambled away almost all their money—and his life right along with it—every iota of empathy her mother had possessed had disappeared. Cecelia understood, of course. Her mother had come from poverty, and after she’d married Father, who’d had money at the time, Mother had never felt as though she was quite good enough. It made her fiercely determined never to return to a state of want nor let Cecelia be thrust into that same fate.
These familiar thoughts tumbled through Cecelia’s head as she crept along, diverting her attention from where she was stepping. The moment the splintered wood caught on the right toe of her last pair of good stockings, she cursed her carelessness and shook her head. She wiggled her foot, trying to free herself, but her efforts were for naught. The sliver of wood had gone through her stockings and pierced her skin.
Blast.She’d get a lecture for that, and rightly so. They had no spare coin to purchase such luxuries as stockings. The meager funds that had been left after her father had died were rapidly dwindling. She’d done what she could, such as taking on the task of shopping herself. She actually quite enjoyed going down to the market and bargaining with the vendors. She’d convinced her mother to teach her how to cook, as well, and that had allowed Mother to let go of their cook.
She knew Mother would have helped more, but her hands ached so much some days that she could hardly use them. Cecelia had also convinced her mother to teach her to wash and clean, so they no longer needed a maid. Mother had protested, of course, reminding Cecelia that she was sure the problem with her hands was from years of such labor, but when Cecelia had shown her the money they would save, Mother had relented. The only servant they still had was the butler, and that was only because Mother had said they must retain him to keep up appearances in case they had a caller. But no one ever called, not since Cecelia had been labeleddisgraced.
Cecelia shook off the depressing thought and continued toward the front door. Tiny slivers of sunlight shone in through the cracks of the overly weathered door. Dismay filled her. It wasn’t simply the door. Being upset over a door would be silly; however, the sorry state of the door represented the sorry state of their affairs. So much needed repairing, but there was no money with which to repair it. Tonight, she promised herself, she would once again try to convince Mother to allow her to search for seamstress work.
Cecelia cringed thinking about how that conversation had gone last time. It had started with her mother screeching that if Cecelia did that, their only real hope—which Mother firmly believed was for Cecelia to somehow return to theton’sgood graces and marry well—would be lost, and poverty would claim them. The conversation had ended in blessed silence, but only because poor Mother had fainted. From all her screeching, no doubt.
Lifting up on the door handle to ease its squeak, Cecelia held her breath. Thankfully, the door released without a sound, and she could safely exhale. She pulled the door open.
“Oh!” she gasped, as a gust of wintery wind hit her in the face. Frowning, she eyed the sky accusingly. How could the sun be shining yet it be so cold outside? As if in answer, a larger, particularly ominous-looking cloud moved in front of the sun. She laughed in spite of the shiver another burst of wind had caused in her.
“I suppose that is your way of answering me, God,” she said under her breath while gently easing the door shut.
She tucked her book under her arm and bent down to put on her shoes. She could not stay at Elizabeth’s for more than one hour. Mother’s afternoon nap never lasted longer than that, and as market day was tomorrow, Cecelia could not use the chore as an excuse for where she had gone. Her mother had a suspicious mind—for good reason, Cecelia supposed—but that did not change the fact that she would likely take to following Cecelia if she thought her daughter was doing something that would endanger her return to Society. And Cecelia needed her friendship with Elizabeth. It kept her sane.
Shoving her quickly freezing feet into her slippers, she jerked upright, grasped her book, and started down the short, stone staircase without gripping the iron railing. The moment her right foot landed on the second step and the slick ice whipped her forward, she realized her mistake. She flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to regain her balance, but instead, she managed to lose it altogether. Her left foot joined her right in sliding out from under her, and before she could even release a scream, her feet—and her book—flew into the air. She landed hard upon her back, half on the bottom step and half on the walkway.
A burst of air released from her lungs, along with a groan as small dots of black with specks of brightness danced in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut against the instant ache in her head, and the thud of rushing footsteps told her she had a witness to her clumsiness and humiliation. Forcing herself to open her eyes, she pressed her palms against the icy ground and dug her heels in to try to gain purchase, but the result was her body sliding all the way off the bottom step and onto the walkway.
Sitting up, she turned her head to see who was approaching, but the corner of her prized book floating in a puddle caught her attention. It was the last gift her father had ever given her, and she let out a strangled cry as she attempted to move from her bottom to her knees. Slipping and sliding on the ice, she managed to reach the book. She went to pluck it from the water, and it caught on a fallen branch, ripping out several pages of the soggy book.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed on a choked sob.
“Are ye injured, lass?” inquired a concerned male voice with the deepest timbre and smoothest Scottish brogue she’d ever heard.
With her palms stinging from the ice, her knees throbbing against the unforgiving surface, and her heart broken over her ruined book, she could do little more than glance upward, her vision blurry with sudden unshed tears, and say in a strained voice, “My book is ruined. I—” She sniffled and blinked the mortifying tears from her eyes. She simply had to get control of herself!
“Please forgive me,” she said. “It was the last present my father gave me before he passed.”
With one more good blink, her vision cleared, and her mouth gaped open in shock. The most exquisitely handsome man was towering over her. He had a strong jaw and perfectly carved features. Before she could really scrutinize him, he kneeled, bringing his face a hairsbreadth from hers. Worried green eyes locked on her, and a tingle started in her stomach that seemed to move to all her limbs. She’d never seen such bright eyes in her life. Jonathan Hunt—she clenched her teeth at the thought of the man to whom she’d been betrothed, and whom was now betrothed to her former best friend, Matilda—had dark eyes, which should have been a sign. Dark eyes for a dark heart.
The Scot glanced toward her book. “Don’t be sorry for yer sadness over such a treasure being destroyed. I lost a cuff that my father had given me in a fall from a tower, and the grief is still with me. It was the last thing my father had gifted me, as well, so I understand.”
Cecelia was so touched by his words, honesty, and kindness that tears welled in her eyes once again. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“It is customary to help up a fallen woman, Liam, not make her cry!” an agitated feminine voice interrupted. She, too, had a strong Scottish brogue.
Cecelia slowly turned her now-pounding head in the direction of the new voice, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. This was simply awful! She’d been so busy gawking that she’d not even noticed the woman’s approach, and Cecelia was still sprawled on the ground!
Before she could rectify her unladylike position, the handsome Scot held out his hands to her. She blinked, uncertain whether to take his aid or attempt, yet again, to stand on her own, but when he said, “I can pick ye up, if ye wish it,” she quickly shook her head.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr.…?”
“Liam,” he replied, grabbing her hands and hauling her up with such swift efficiency that her head spun. As her body shifted dangerously forward, she placed a steadying hand out, which to her horror, landed on his broad, extremely solid chest. This man was certainly no soft fop.
