Janice Preston - Lady Cecily And The Mysterious Mr Gray

‘Chosen? You make it sound as though you do have an alternative if you wish it.’

The clip-clop of hooves announced the arrival of their horses—a pretty chestnut mare for Lady Perfect and a bay gelding for him—and Myrtle, wary of horses, slunk out of the yard to hide behind the stone entrance pillar. Zach was grateful for the interruption, but he answered Lady Perfect’s comment anyway, hoping it would be enough to stop her probing further.

‘Everyone has an alternative.’

* * *

Cecily eyed Zach thoughtfully. Did his comment have some deeper meaning? Wondering what alternative he had to his Romany way of life, she settled her hat onto her head and turned her attention to Polly, looking her over with a knowledgeable eye as she smoothed her gloved hand down the gleaming chestnut neck. Bickling laced his fingers to provide a step for her to mount and she quickly settled in the side saddle, waiting while Zach mounted the bay.

His loose trousers and short boots looked decidedly odd as riding attire, accustomed as she was to breeches and shiny top boots, but the loose fit did not detract from his sculpted thighs as he settled in the saddle. She averted her gaze and diverted her thoughts from a sudden mental image of Zach’s muscular thighs clad in form-fitting breeches. An image that dried her mouth.

‘We shouldn’t be long, Bickling, so do not worry.’ And with that, she touched the mare with her heel and they clattered out of the yard, her seat secure even as Polly shied away from Myrtle, still hovering by the entrance.

‘I’ll be back soon, Myrtle,’ Zach said as he passed the dog, a brindled brown and white bull-terrier type, short-legged and stocky—the type of animal often used in dog fights.

Cecily suppressed a shudder at the thought—she loathed some of the so-called sports that even civilised men indulged in. Thankfully, her brothers did not enjoy dog fighting, cock fighting and the like, but... She cast a sidelong look at Zach as his horse ranged alongside hers as they followed a track that led away from the house, behind the stables. Did Romanys indulge in such sports?

‘How did she lose her leg?’

‘A snare. Set by a gamekeeper.’

‘Oh. I thought... I wondered...’

His dark brows lifted.

‘Well, she is the sort of dog used in dog fighting. I thought that might be how she was injured.’

His mouth settled into a tight line and she cursed herself for such clumsiness. He had demonstrated his love for animals in the short time she had known him and yet she had practically accused him of involvement in a horrid blood sport. How she wished she’d thought before opening her mouth.

‘Why do you call her Myrtle?’

‘Why not?’

Cecily tamped down the urge to snap at him for rejecting her olive branch. Her own mood was also a touch fragile this morning after a restless couple of nights, and she was tired and a little headachy with all the thoughts and—yes, alternatives—that had pounded relentlessly at her brain since their conversation in the moonlight. She had only reached a conclusion as this day dawned—a conclusion prompted partly by the memory of Zach’s kiss—and she had imagined telling Zach all about her plans for her future the next time she saw him. Her decision to go for a ride this early had in part been to clear her head, but she knew, deep down, that she also had hoped to see Zach. And that had worked better than she imagined, although now she was well on her way to quarrelling with him and that would only ruin their ride.

Before she could say anything to smooth the conversation, Zach spoke.

‘I call her Myrtle for the plant. When I found her, there was a lady who lived in a cottage on that estate who helped. She grew herbs and medicinal plants in her glasshouse and she made a poultice of crushed myrtle leaves to help heal the wound after we amputated her leg.’

‘Thank you for telling me.’ Cecily reached between them and touched his arm. ‘And thank you, again, for the other night. You helped me more than you know and I am happy to have this chance to tell you of my decision.’

‘You do sound less troubled today, although you look in need of sleep.’

‘I have had much to think about.’

‘And your decision?’

‘You said earlier that everyone has an alternative and that is true for me, too. I can remain in my present circumstances and allow my life to dwindle and fade, or I can grasp my future with both hands. So I thought about what I truly want and that is my own household to run. I love the busyness and I love having family around and seeing the tenants and helping where I can, so the obvious solution is for me to marry. That way I shall get my own household and I will also avoid becoming a burden on my family in the future.’

There was a long pause, the only sound the occasional chink of a horseshoe against stone. His profile was harsh, his brows gathered in a frown at the bridge of his nose.

‘You implied that wasn’t an option when we spoke before.’

‘I did not believe it was an option. Not then.’

‘And what changed your mind?’

She could never admit the truth: that his kiss had awakened a delicious urge to experience more. Intimacy—it had never been a factor in her thoughts before. Her life had given her the domesticity and child-rearing aspects of marriage and she had been content with that. She had done her duty. That kiss had served as a reminder that there was a third element to marriage and the only way for her to experience more of that would be to marry. And she even had a candidate in mind. She had tried not to dwell on the suspicion that kissing Lord Kilburn might prove less enticing than kissing Zach.

‘The deciding factor was that I know just the man.’

He faced her, his eyes turbulent with emotion. ‘You have a sweetheart?’

‘Not a sweetheart. But there is someone. He is a neighbour of my aunt in Oxfordshire, who I first met a few years ago, soon after his wife died. We met again earlier this year, in London. He proposed, but I turned him down because I was needed at home.’

She had been unable to fathom his lordship’s feelings for her... There had been little of the lover in his courtship—if that is what such a restrained pursuit could be called—and yet the flash of desperation in his eyes when she had refused him had made her wonder. She could not decide, however, if it was the loss of her or of her dowry that sparked that single glimpse of deep emotion.

‘He is a widower with young children, so I shall be doing him a favour at the same time.’

Saying it out loud sounded a touch cold-blooded, but Lord Kilburn seemed a pleasant enough gentleman and surely would prove the perfect solution to her dilemma. She suffered no delusions—at the age of thirty there would be few options open to her. There was no queue of gentlemen clamouring to marry her and, having met his lordship again at various events during the recent Season, she knew he was still interested in her.

Or, possibly, in my dowry.

She dismissed that cynical voice. That was the world she lived in, and the old saying a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush could hardly be more apt. It would be foolish to expect love to find her as it had her brothers. It was different for women.

Except Rosalind is the same age as you . She found love.

She brushed her misgivings aside. The thought of leaving her beloved family brought an aching lump to her throat, but she forced it down, concentrating on the positive aspects of marriage. She would have her own household to run, stepchildren to care for and maybe even her own children. That, surely, would bring her happiness and contentment. It was the lot of many women in her position and, besides, what other choice did she have?