Perhaps that lingering desire was why she felt compelled to defend herself. Her fingers uncurled of their own accord. “I didn’t lie to you. I would scorn to trap Restive or any other man.”
“No,” he said with an unamused laugh, “you have so many suitors that you could choose one by the mere lifting of a finger.”
“Yes, and it’s horrid. Do they see nothing but this pretty face?”
Chapter Seven
Ordinarily, Cecil would have been embarrassed at his gauche comments, which revealed too much about his own feelings. Fine, he would wallow in mortification later, but for now he must concentrate on his mission—rather than her high color, her quickened breathing, and her ripe, kissable lips.
She wrapped her arms around herself as if aware of his lascivious thoughts. He ordered his libido to desist. “Your beauty is so extraordinary,” he said gruffly, “that they don’t see past it to your intelligence and genuine concern for those less fortunate.”
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Did he detect a softening in her stance? Perhaps, but he mustn’t soften in return. He had a job to do. “Unfortunately, this is nothing to the point. I repeat: why did you come here? You could have refused to go to Lord Forle’s. You’re not afraid to defy your mother.”
“No, but it doesn’t do any good.” She walked to the window, parted the curtains, and gazed into the night. At last she turned and said wistfully, “I would have much preferred to stay home for Christmas. Mother didn’t want to be elsewhere either, but she’s so set on marrying me off that she deprived herself of her favorite festivities. We deliver baskets of food to all the tenants, and we have a lovely celebration to which all the village comes, and everyone mingles, rich and poor, high and low. It’s no wonder she’s so angry at me now.” Her lip wobbled. “I wish I could make her happy, but I can’t.”
Reluctantly, he dragged his mind back to the mission at hand. If she was telling the truth—and he wanted to believe her—other possibilities came to mind. Sir Frederick Darsington trusted her with covert work. “Did your father ask you to come here rather than Lord Forle’s?”
She stared. “No! No, why would he? Did my father send you here?” He nodded curtly, and she said, “You should have told me.”
“My mission doesn’t involve you—and I didn’t know whether you knew I work for your father.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been watching me on and off for months.”
“So much for dressing shabbily and staying in the background. I tried my best not to be noticeable.”
Her lips curved slightly. “I tried my best not to notice you.”
He took her hand and led her to the sofa. “Come, sit with me. We really do need to talk.”
Dorothea complied, not because he was one of her father’s minions, but because she wanted to, because she needed to, because she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said: her intelligence, her concern for others… What an extraordinary compliment. It warmed her entire being.
He released her hand, and she wished he hadn’t. He was truly worth kissing. What a pity he was only pretending to desire her.
Maybe she should try to change that.
Or maybe she should keep to the business at hand.
She tried to gather her thoughts. “At Lord Boltwood’s wedding, just after that smuggler was killed and a traitor unmasked, were you not a riding officer at all?”
“I was, but Lord Boltwood enlisted my aid, and your father chose to keep me on.” He grimaced. “I wasn’t much good as a customs man.”
“Surely that’s not true.” That sounded trite, but she meant it. Or maybe she was trying to butter him up. To ready him for a kiss.
He shook his head. “I’m not ruthless enough. I tried, but I was caught between the smugglers, who had families to feed, and my men, who wanted their prize money. I don’t feel particularly effective as a spy, either. You didn’t have any difficulty realizing who I was.”
“I had seen you with Lord Boltwood, who was working for my father at the time, so it wasn’t hard to guess.” But there was more to it than that. “Also, you didn’t gawp at me. Most men do.”
“That’s why Sir Frederick wanted you to have extra protection, and also so he would be warned if you were exposed to anything too radical.”
Or if I fell in love with the wrong sort of man. Papa wanted her to marry well but was less obvious about it than Mother. “I considered asking for an introduction to you, but that would have meant stepping outside my socially acceptable role. It’s all nonsense, but I would be even less effective at gathering information if I didn’t maintain the distance that is expected of me.” There was more to it, but she wasn’t about to admit to conjuring up fantasies about him. “Very well, I’d best explain myself…”
A delightful notion occurred to her. She shouldn’t…but oh, why not? “At a price.”
“At a price?” He positively glared.
It was her own fault, for indulging in fanciful ideas about love. “Oh, forget it. It was merely a—a notion I had.”
“What price?” He didn’t sound quite so fierce now, but she’d lost her bravado.
“Nothing.” She put her nose in the air. “A fortnight ago, Edgar, my younger brother, lost a valuable medallion while playing cards at a masquerade. My father had let him borrow it, as it completed his costume, but it wasn’t his to use as a stake. It was a precious heirloom from Papa’s mother, who was descended from a cadet branch of the Bourbons.”
“He lost the medallion to Lord Restive,” Cecil said. “I was there when it happened.”
“I wasn’t. Mother won’t allow me to attend masquerades.”
“With good reason,” he said starchily.
She agreed—by what she’d heard, masquerades were an invitation to impropriety—but that didn’t mean she appreciated his remark. Impropriety could be fun with the right person, which he clearly wasn’t. What a relief she hadn’t asked him to kiss her.
“Edgar confided in me. He had no money to redeem the medallion, and Lord Restive wouldn’t take his pledge instead. I don’t blame him, for where would Edgar get the funds? He’s underage, so the money lenders won’t touch him. He’s terrified of what Papa will do when he finds out.”
“You contrived to come here in the hope of retrieving it.”
“Yes, for I thought it would be easy. Lord Restive has no reason to hide it, so it should be with his rings and other jewelry—but it’s not there, nor in his bedside table.”
“Perhaps he does have a reason to hide it,” he said.
Cecil berated himself for not guessing why Dorothea had come to Restive Manor. He’d allowed his entirely unwarranted jealousy of Restive get in the way—although, to be just, the last person one would expect a young man on the town to confide in was his sister. He waited, watching realizations cross her face. She knew enough to work some of it out for herself. What a pity he didn’t know enough to interpret her earlier words.