Cecilia: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 3) Read online

  "Yes," Aunt Emily said with an approving glance at the couple. "My nephew Jacques, you know. The Vicomte de Moulinet, and his father is le Comte de Montreuil, but I am afraid you shan’t meet him, for he did not accompany Jacques to town."

  "How is it that I have never met either of them?" Cecilia said.

  Aunt Emily gave a little shrug. "They dislike London. They prefer to spend time at their estate in Honiton, but we see them often enough, as it is only a matter of 20 miles from Rothwick Park."

  Cecilia laughed incredulously. "What kind of a Frenchman prefers the country to the town?"

  Aunt Emily smiled as she watched her daughter and the vicomte. "Jacques is not your average Frenchman, by any means." She clenched her teeth anxiously, and her fan stopped pulsing through the air as she waited for Letty to perform one of the more involved figures of the dance. "Letty has never been at her ease on the ballroom floor, but she is at her best with Jacques because he knows how to calm her nerves."

  Cecilia followed her aunt's gaze and watched Lord Moulinet say something which broke through Letty's concentrated state and made her laugh. He exaggerated the next step of the dance, drawing another unsuccessfully-suppressed smile from Letty, and Cecilia found herself smiling as she watched him entertain Letty.

  How would she and the vicomte look together on the floor with just such laughs on their lips? They would certainly draw attention. Cecilia drew attention wherever she went.

  Lord Moulinet and Letty made their way off of the ballroom floor with wide grins, but as Letty was stopped by a friend who accompanied her to perform an introduction, Lord Moulinet was alone by the time he reached Aunt Emily, Cecilia’s mother, and Cecilia.

  Cecilia noted her heart picking up speed as he approached. His dark brown hair and eyebrows made his sage-colored eyes stand out as they surveyed Mrs. Cosgrove and then her.

  She watched for the familiar pause and subsequent admiration that lit up gentlemen's eyes upon first meeting her. "An angel fallen earthside—" that was how she had been described by one gentleman earlier in the evening.

  But she looked for the admiration in vain.

  There was no distinction between the way Lord Moulinet's eyes quickly scanned Cecilia's mother and the way they scanned Cecilia herself. If anything, his surveyal of her was so rapid as to be dismissive. The unexpected lack of reaction shook Cecilia's confidence for a moment.

  She privately acknowledged the hypocrisy of her thoughts—had she not been lamenting the loss of the one man who had seen past her beauty? Only to now take offense when another man failed to acknowledge it?

  "Ah, Jacques," said Aunt Emily, "allow me to introduce you to my sister Mrs. Susan Cosgrove and her daughter Miss Cecilia Cosgrove."

  He bowed politely to Cecilia's mother and then to Cecilia, who donned her most engaging smile as she curtsied.

  Was there a hint of mockery in his eyes?

  "I must tell you, my lord," said Cecilia's mother, "how fortunate it is that you should have the opportunity of making my daughter's acquaintance in this moment, for she is nearly always dancing, with each dance reserved ahead of time, sometimes days in advance. A very successful season she has had!"

  Cecilia smiled through fluttering lashes, watching for the vicomte's reaction to the revelation.

  "I felicitate you," he said with another small bow, unmoved by the praise.

  Cecilia's smile flickered, and she looked down with the pretense of adjusting a glove, trying to ignore the feeling of foolishness which niggled at her. Surely the Vicomte must suspect that her mother's words were simple exaggeration, or else Cecilia would already be engaged for the set forming on the ballroom floor. She felt an annoying need to defend the singular circumstance.

  "Mr. Clifford had requested this set earlier in the evening," she said, "but he was obliged to excuse himself on account of falling ill."

  Lord Moulinet's eyebrows drew upward as if he had not expected an explanation. "How unfortunate for him. But for you, perhaps it is a welcome opportunity for some rest." He had only the slightest hint of a French accent as he spoke, a peculiarity which added to his attraction.

  Having expected him to request to stand in for Mr. Clifford, Cecilia felt vexation pulse through her. The man seemed determined to pay her only the attention the merest civility required of him.

  "Why don't the two of you join this set?" Aunt Emily said as the orchestra members strummed their instruments in preparation for the next dance. "There is just enough time."

  Lord Moulinet nodded. "Gladly," he said. He offered his arm to Cecilia, and her jaw clenched.

  She would have much preferred Lord Moulinet asking her to dance of his own free will rather than complying with a request or fulfilling an obligation.

  She stole a glance at him, but his expression was indecipherable. Where was the smiling, laughing lord she had watched with Letty?

  At least they wouldn't have the interference of anyone else as they danced the set. They squeezed in at the end of the long line of couples, and Cecilia felt secure in knowing that she would have ample time to change the vicomte's strange inclination to pay her as little heed as he could.

  "How are you enjoying London, my lord?" she asked, determined to win over the Frenchman.

  "Hardly at all," he said baldly.

  She raised her brows and glanced at him. He wore a half-smile, and she felt a buzz of irritation. Who was this Frenchman who thought himself above the ton? "Have we made such a terrible impression on you?" she said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.

  "I only mean," he said, "that I have hardly had time to enjoy London. We only arrived last night from Devon."

  "Oh."

  He glanced at her with a half-smile, and she could only feel grateful that she was spared the necessity of responding as they parted to stand across the set from one another.

  Cecilia looked down the line and noted Letty standing across from Mr. Vincent, one of the more accomplished flirts in the room. Letty was far too naive and shy to depress Mr. Vincent's pretensions. She looked as though she was doing her best to fight her nerves, and Cecilia determined to have a talk with Letty as soon as possible. She needed some guidance on how to go on among vipers like Mr. Vincent.

  "I hope," Cecilia said as they awaited their turn, "that London will be to your liking once you have had an opportunity to experience more of it."

  "I anticipate that some of it will be, and some of it will not."

  "It is true," Cecilia said as they linked arms and moved about the line, "that the company is varied in town. It is somewhat of a maze, in many ways. All the more reason to ensure you allow those with more experience to guide you so that you do not find yourself in the wrong company." She smiled at him.

  He raised his brows at her. "What sort of wrong company do you anticipate I should find myself in?"

  She shot him a significant look. "If you are used to the country, my lord, then you will find it much more difficult to distinguish between the classes in town, for there are many who, at first glance, appear to belong to our class but are in reality of more vulgar birth."

  The corner of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile, and his nostrils flared lightly. "What a happy skill you possess to be able to separate the wheat from the chaff with naught but a glance."

  She laughed, though she couldn't help wondering if she had offended rather than amused or impressed him. "It requires experience, to be sure, but you will undoubtedly have people to assist you in these matters."

  "People such as yourself," he offered.

  Was he teasing or sarcastic?

  "I believe you could do worse," she said with a provoking smile.

  Instead of the responsive grin she expected, he scanned her face, his own expression unreadable.

  Feeling the heat rise up her neck and into her cheeks, she tried to maintain her smile. His lack of reaction was as unexpected as it was mortifying.

  "Pray, enlighten me, then," said Lord Moulinet, looking around the r
oom. "Who am I to come to know? And who am I to avoid?"

  "Well," Cecilia said matter-of-factly, "it all depends upon your goal, for everyone comes to town with a goal in mind"— she leaned in toward him, feeling the familiar thrill of proximity and aware of the way it would affect him —" whether or not they admit it."

  He didn't pull away from her, but nor did he lean in closer. So far, he seemed immune to her charms and flirting. She didn't know what to make of the vicomte. "And what is your goal, Miss Cosgrove?" he asked.

  She blinked twice. There was nothing of dalliance, nothing provocative about his words, as there might have been with any other gentleman. It was a challenge more than anything.

  He watched her with interest, though, and she forced a light laugh.

  "That is neither here nor there," she said, tossing her head lightly.

  "Why?" he said, still watching her.

  "Because we are talking about you, not me." She found it difficult to meet his eyes and instead settled for watching the couple next to them complete the next figure of the dance. She looked further down the set and grimaced as Letty mistook one of the steps, causing an inelegant shuffle on Mr. Vincent's part to avoid trampling her feet.

  Cecilia could feel the Viscount's eyes on her.

  "It is a shame," he said, turning his head away as they joined arms again and moved down the set.

  Cecilia was obliged to wait to inquire as to his meaning until they had taken their places in the line again. Was he speaking of Letty’s misstep?

  "What is a shame?"

  "Your mask," he said, smiling at Letty as she passed by. It was a genuine smile, one he seemed able to call up at will for Letty, and one he had yet to direct toward Cecilia.

  She blinked, and he looked at her with one of his brows raised, the same hint of a smile on his lips which she couldn't quite peg as mocking or genuine.

  She swallowed, feeling lightheaded at the sight of his frank gaze, which seemed to pierce through her ever-thinning veneer of confidence. With every exchange of words, she felt more flustered and more aware of how utterly out of her control was their interaction.

  "I don't think I understand," she said, brushing at a hair on her forehead.

  "I know a mask when I see one, Miss Cosgrove," he said with a wry smile. "What I do not know is why you wear yours." His eyes narrowed as he looked at her searchingly.

  Cecilia's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. "You accuse me of affectation?" she finally asked.

  "Is it an unjust accusation? We have been dancing for several minutes now, conversing the entire time, and yet I find that you have only conveyed frivolous information about society, while communicating nothing about yourself—or at least not communicating it consciously." His eyes challenged her, and she had the strangest feeling that, whatever persona she had been attempting to portray to Lord Moulinet, he was seeing through it with maddening and frightening facility.

  She sucked her cheeks in. "Not consciously communicated?" She needed to know what he meant, and yet she dreaded the answer.

  "I mean to say that whatever I have come to know of you is in spite of what you have said rather than by virtue of it."

  She felt her hands sweating inside her gloves and clenched her jaw.

  She was used to light flirtation and polite nothings as she danced. This blunt attack—for she knew not how else to characterize it—was new and uncomfortable territory for someone who considered herself somewhat of an expert at making enlivening conversation.

  "Pray, enlighten me, then," she said, and the corner of his mouth lifted at her reference to his own words. "What do you know of me already? What have you managed to discover with such ease?" She felt her cheeks burning in mixed anger and embarrassment.

  He scanned her face with his horridly intriguing eyes. "I do not wish to cause offense, Miss Cosgrove."

  Her eyebrows shot up, and she felt her command over herself slipping. She needed to put this man in his place. "Oh! You believe that to communicate what you have gleaned about me from these two short dances would be to give offense?" She scoffed. "How very flattering you are, Monsieur de Moulinet. I had been told that Frenchmen were masters in the art of dalliance, but you have exceeded expectations."

  He looked at her with something she could only identify as approbation. "Bravo," he said. "I would rather you insult me in anger than deceive me with empty words and self-importance. You are more than you pretend to be, Miss Cosgrove. Surely what is behind the mask you wear is of more value and more worthy of admiration than the mask itself."

  To Cecilia's mortification, she felt her eyes burn. "I did not choose this mask, my lord."

  "Perhaps not," he said softly. "But you may choose not to wear it, all the same. What are you so afraid of people seeing?"

  The cello strung out its last note, and Lord Moulinet's eyes held hers for a drawn-out moment before he bowed.

  3

  Jacques threw a backward glance at Miss Cosgrove, whom he had just left with her mother.

  He sighed as he walked toward one of the tall sets of French doors which were open to let in a much needed breeze. He stepped out and onto the terrace, which he leaned his elbows on. The garden terrace below, with its tall shrubs and scattered benches, was empty, with only the light from the brightly-lit drawing room windows illuminating it.

  Jacques ran a hand through his hair, grateful for the relative solitude but wishing there was something more like the winding lanes and copses of trees around the estate in Honiton.

  How would he survive in London if he was already struggling to keep his composure?

  He shouldn't have behaved toward Miss Cosgrove as he had. He hardly knew what had come over him. There was something about walking through a room full of wealthy people dressed to the nines, trying to impress one another with their airs—it had grated him all evening, more than he realized.

  And then to be introduced to Miss Cosgrove, who seemed to personify everything he disliked about the town...it had been too much for him to maintain his always-amiable façade.

  He, who wished more than anything to be able to dispose of the appearances he was forced to assume, stood in the midst of people who chose to deceive one another for no apparent reason.

  After years of refusing, he had finally agreed to come to town, with the very small hope that he might find a young woman he could be honest with about his origins; a woman who would love him for the truth that no one else knew.

  It had been silly to think that it was a realistic aim—Miss Cosgrove had plainly stated the same prejudice that pervaded the beliefs of those who claimed gentility: no one whose origins were anything but genteel should be countenanced. Had Miss Cosgrove known the truth about Jacques, she would have treated him with contempt and disgust instead of trying to flirt with him.

  He closed his eyes and took in a breath. It would be a miracle if he was able to maintain his calm and cheerful manner for the next two months, particularly if he was destined to dance more with young women like Miss Cosgrove, with their affectation, empty smiles, and fluttering eyelids.

  He raised himself off of his elbows and squinted into the darkness below as two figures entered the garden.

  He had little trouble recognizing the glowing hair of Miss Cosgrove or the timid movements of his cousin Letty—timid only since their arrival in town. The Letty from Rothwick Park was anything but timid.

  What were they doing, escaping into the garden alone? He knew Letty practically worshiped Miss Cosgrove. He had heard enough about the young woman to feel confident that he would not like her, even before meeting her tonight—her and her terribly unsubtle mother.

  Letty was young for her seventeen years and very impressionable, though, and Miss Cosgrove had a definite hold on her, whether she realized it or not.

  Jacques grimaced. He hardly thought Letty would be improved by adopting her cousin's artificiality.

  "No," said Miss Cosgrove, taking Letty by the hand, "it is that you have missed one of the st
eps entirely, and that one missed step throws everything off afterward for the rest of the figure. Come, I will show you. You must pretend that I am a gentleman."

  Letty giggled. "But you are much too beautiful to be a gentleman, Cecy."

  Cecilia threw her chin high in the air. "Nonsense," she said in a lower voice. Jacques could barely see the smile she suppressed in the dimly lit garden, and he found his own mouth turning up on one side responsively.

  "You must learn the steps so that they are instinctive," Miss Cosgrove said as they performed the figures of the dance. "Confidence is key, Letty. One may have everything to recommend one, but without confidence, it is all wasted. And you, my dear, deserve to be as confident as anyone in that ballroom."

  "Surely not to be as confident as you," Letty said with awe in her voice.

  "Why ever not?"

  "Because you are beautiful and accomplished and"— Letty sputtered a moment —"simply everything that all the young women wish to be. I am plain and dull."

  Jacques stilled. He hated to hear Letty compare herself, as she so often did, to her cousin and other young women she admired but thought herself below. If Miss Cosgrove did anything to further wound Letty's confidence, he didn't know that he could ever forgive her.

  Miss Cosgrove stopped their dancing and put a hand on each of Letty's shoulders. "You are not plain and dull, Letty. I don't ever want to hear you say such things again. You are kind and witty." Cecilia touched one of Letty's curls. "And I always wished for dark hair like yours."

  "You did?"

  Miss Cosgrove nodded.

  "But why?" Letty said with a touch of disgust. "Your hair is divine!"

  Miss Cosgrove shook her head. "It is just hair, and sometimes I wish to shave it off entirely.”

  Letty laughter, but Miss Cosgrove pressed on. “My point is simply that none of us is perfectly satisfied with our appearance. Besides, beauty can be its own trial. It does not solve all of one's problems."

  "A trial? Surely not!"

  Jacques found himself wishing he were near enough to see Miss Cosgrove's expression, to be able to know what was passing through her thoughts in that moment. But he would have to settle for her voice. He knew he should not be listening in to a private conversation, but he found he couldn't tear himself away. The woman he was listening to was nothing like the one he had danced with.