She snatched her hand back but noticed the corners of his mouth tilt up into a smile. “I beg your pardon,” she offered, forcing herself not to mumble the apology in her discomfiture. If she’d learned one thing this year while weathering snubs from theton, pretending not to hear snickers behind the fans of ladies she had once called friends, and hiding the true state of her family’s financial affairs daily, it was that appearing unaffected was the best shield against the pain. She rather thought she had become quite adept at it. Well, until her gawking of moments ago.
“It’s Liam who should be begging yer pardon at grabbing ye and hauling ye up like a brute,” said the petite, red-haired woman who smiled so genuinely at Cecelia that she found her defenses lowering as she smiled back. Oh, but it had been a long time since she’d passed someone on the street in this neighborhood and not felt judged. Her heart squeezed.
“Aila,” Liam said, speaking directly to the redheaded woman in a warning tone.
The woman, Aila, responded with a chuckle as she cocked her head and stared at Cecelia. Aila had the same mesmerizingly green eyes as Liam. In fact, their eyes were so similar that the two had to be related.
“I’m Aila MacLeod,” the woman said. She waved a hand at the man. “And this is my brother Liam. We are guests of the Duke and Duchess of Rochburn. Do ye know them?”
“Yes,” Cecelia said warily, anything but thrilled at the memories the mere mention of the Rochburn name stirred, since it was in their home that her reputation had been destroyed. On the other hand, she was glad there would be no more talk of her embarrassing tumble.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” she hurried on, refusing to acknowledge how they had met. “I’m Miss Cartwright,” she added, gripping her ruined book tightly.
“Well, Miss Cartwright, who reads…” He glanced down at the spine of her book, and his eyes widened. “Ye read Byron?” he asked with obvious surprise.
She could not help the smirk that pulled at her lips. “You speak of Byron as if you know his work,” she replied, giving him the same sort of insult he’d just given her.
He chuckled. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. Most of the ladies I’ve met in England have seemed—”
“Unintelligent?” Cecelia supplied for him with a grin. “More concerned with fashion than literature?”
“Aye,” he relented with an apologetic look.
“Well, Mr. MacLeod—”
“It’s Lord MacLeod,” his sister interjected. “But just barely.”
Cecelia frowned. Did the woman mean he was poor? She must, but why was she smirking at her brother then? Poverty hardly seemed like something to be smirking about.
“Ye were saying, Miss Cartwright,” Liam asked.
“Oh!” She felt her neck grow hot. “I’m not like most women of theton.”
“If that’s true,” he replied, his tone teasing, “then ye will tell me yer Christian name. I find it humorous that all the ladies here seem so shocked when I ask for it.” His shining green eyes swept from her feet to her face, making her awfully glad she had donned her emerald-and-white day gown, which still looked lovely despite being made two Seasons ago. When his gaze met hers, there was no mistaking the challenge shining in their depths.
Her mouth gaped open. Liam’s sister gasped as she poked her brother in the arm. He did not so much as flick his attention to his sister but kept it squarely on Cecelia, his eyebrows arching high, as if daring her to break the dictates of decorum. She’d been a rule breaker previously, which was why everyone in thetonhad been so quick to believe the worst about her. In fact, the beginning of her downfall had all started with an ill-advised horse race in Hyde Park with the Duke of Blackmore and had progressed from that incident to an imprudent frolic in the Serpentine with her shoes and stockings off. Once again, with Blackmore.
Or perhaps the true start of it all had been years before due to her inability to follow the rules of etiquette that Society demanded. She found them ridiculous, despite her mother’s constant reminders that the rules determined the difference between the upper and lower classes. However her downfall had started, once kindled, it had forced her to accept Jonathan Hunt’s—or Viscount Hawkins’s—marriage offer when he’d made it because, by then, Mother had learned of Father’s gambling problem and both her parents had feared she might not get another offer since the whispers in thetonof her hoydenish propensities had grown deafening. Jonathan had not seemed to believe the whispers, which she had thought said something good about his character. She should have known better.
That “good character” had disappeared about as fast as it had taken her to spit out the embarrassing sentence that she no longer had a dowry. She was fairly certain she’d not even inhaled a breath after completing the sentence before Jonathan had demanded the betrothal be broken.
“Let me handle how to announce it,” Jonathan had said. More the fool was she for having gone along with that plea. He’d handled it, all right. Somehow, he’d convinced Lord Tarrymount—his crony in crime—to lure her into the library at the Rochburns’ home and then kiss her just as a group of theton’sbiggest gossips strolled in—with Jonathan among them, of course. He had somehow managed to look like the injured party, and she looked like a woman of easy virtue.
He’d also promised that he’d keep the secret of her father’s near-penniless state. Technically, the blackguardhadkept that secret, but the price of his silence was her good name, and after she had confronted him about what he and Lord Tarrymount had done to her, the price of Jonathan’s silence was her own silence. If she dared cry foul, he’d let her family’s financial situation be known. She’d been unwise, albeit unwittingly, but that had not changed a thing.
Since her disgrace had occurred, she’d broken nary a rule, not that she’d had much chance since theton’sdoors had been firmly shut in her face. Yet, even if the chance had arisen, she would not have dared to take it. She knew how much her mother hoped all would be forgotten in time and that Cecelia might still make a good match.
“Please do ignore Liam,” Aila said, disrupting Cecelia’s terrible recollections, thank heavens. Cecelia focused her attention on Aila just as she gave her brother a disgruntled look. “He does not care for the rules of English Society. He does not understand the necessity.”
Cecelia felt her frown deepen as she dragged her gaze back to the compelling Scot. Frankly, she had never understood the need for all the rules, either, which was why she had not bothered overly much to heed them. She still didn’t comprehend what was so god-awful about sharing your Christian name, but with all her troubles, she really should just abide by the rules that had been hammered into her since birth.
She narrowed her eyes as she watched Liam’s eyebrow arch ever higher. Challenging. Mocking.
Botheration!She’d never been one to pass up a challenge. She darted a look up and down the street to ensure that they were alone. “Cecelia,” she announced triumphantly.
“That’s a lovely name, lass,” he replied in a deep, sensual tone that made her skin prickle.
The compliment this virtual stranger had just offered pleased her so much that she wanted to grin, but somehow, she managed to make her mouth behave and appear unaffected, which was quite properly English. She had already broken one rule of etiquette today; she dared not break another so quickly. It was like tempting fate to slap her.
