To Have and to Hold (Finders Keepers #4)

Chapter One

June 1816

Lady Cecily Somerville stared at Sir Percy Somerville from the other side of the darkened opera house. A tenor began to sing, but although Cecily usually delighted in the opera, in music of all kinds, she found herself unable to concentrate on anything except the sight of her husband.

Her husband, specifically, with another woman.

Cecily knew of Caroline Spenser the way all ladies know of a notorious mistress of the ton —reluctantly, and with a good deal of misgiving. And she, like all ladies of the ton , felt a sudden burst of protective spirit towards her husband.

No, protective wasn’t quite the right word. Wrathful, more like. Both that Caroline Spenser made advances towards her husband, and that he seemed more than amenable to these advances.

It was not that Cecily wanted Sir Percy for herself. She had never wanted him to marry her—and when he had, he had stolen her away from the only man she might ever have loved— but she certainly did not want to watch him fawn over another lady. He always told her that he had eyes only for her. And she had believed him, because he could have had anybody, and he had chosen her, even after discovering her in another man’s embrace.

Now this. Her. Caroline . A voluptuous beauty with whom Cecily, all sharp angles, could never compare.

Percy bent over Caroline’s hand with his signature grace, the strands of silver in his hair glinting in the candlelight, and laughed a little. Cecily ground her teeth. Even she had to admit that he looked uncommonly good that night. More so than usual, which could no doubt be attributed to the lady by his side. Who also, though Cecily didn’t want to admit it, was in good looks. Percy was not the first man to be ensnared with her; he would not be the last.

And Cecily was forced to watch the humiliation unfurl for herself.

She turned to the young gentleman by her side with a wide smile. After Percy had irritated her once again, she had persuaded Lord Featherstone to issue her an invitation to the opera. But, apparently, that was where his devotion ended. At the steel in her expression, the poor boy looked almost terrified, as though her tongue were sharp enough to cut them both.

No matter. Whether or not the thought petrified him, she would find a way of flirting. Then, if Percy ever glanced over at her—which, to her precise knowledge, he had not yet done—then he would see her engrossed in her much younger companion.

“I love the opera. Don’t you?” She tossed her head, knowing her ringlets bobbed, knowing they glowed in the light. Candlelight was where she excelled; it gave her pale skin the semblance of colour, glossed over her freckles, and brought out a burnished light to her hair. In daylight, she appeared like any other small, pale, freckled young lady attempting to match up to the beauty standards of the ton .

In candlelight, she gleamed .

“I—” he began.

“It’s so romantic. And the singing is always divine.”

He barely glanced at the stage. “I suppose so. I prefer seeing what everyone else is doing.”

“What else could anyone be doing?” Her laugh grated on her own ears. Heavens, she wanted nothing more than to go home to bed. The only reason she had put in an appearance here had been because Percy had smothered her in unwanted attention when she’d been trying to go elsewhere, implying that she needed his escort. As though any lady wanted a husband pestering her at all hours of the day.

Thus, she had punished him.

But instead of showing some chagrin, he’d taken the opportunity to showcase his mistress to the world.

“Would you not rather pay what’s inside your box more attention than what’s out there?” she asked finally, desperate for Lord Featherstone to look at her. “I would have thought that might prove more interesting.”

He sent her a quick, scared glance. “My mother is here somewhere.”

“Oh to be a boy tied to his mother’s apron strings,” she muttered, quietly enough that he didn’t hear her over the crescendoing screech of the violins. Her head throbbed, and her temper threatened to soar out of control.

Biting back her frustration, she continued to flirt outrageously until the intermission, during which time she spoke to a variety of acquaintances, and pretended she didn’t notice their pitying looks.

Of course, it was not so very unusual for a gentleman to have a lover—or for him to flaunt her to the world. But Percy had been so very constant, had given every impression of a devoted husband—to the extent that it had been stifling. So to see him here meant people would draw their own conclusions. No doubt that Cecily’s first blush of youth had faded, her beauty diminishing after four years of marriage, and he had lost interest. Bored, he’d turned his gaze elsewhere.

Perhaps the assumption was right . After all, he looked cosy enough with Caroline, and he hadn’t spared a single glance for Cecily. Perhaps he had tired of her. Good riddance . But he should not have behaved so publicly. People would talk—were already talking, whispering behind their fans and painted smiles.

Poor Lady Cecily.

They always do turn, in the end, even the good ones.

I’d thought he adored the girl. Pity!

She hated every one of their poisoned words. But instead of going home, as she wanted, she returned to Lord Featherstone’s box, even though they both knew he would rather she didn’t. And there, for the first time, she saw the empty box opposite where Percy and Caroline had sat. They had gone. No doubt they were having a delightful tryst together somewhere.

Delightful, strictly, for them. Cecily did not feel delightful at all.

In fact, she felt positively murderous.

Ignoring the pounding in her head and the sickening twist in her stomach, she turned her attention to the stage and allowed Lord Featherstone to lapse into silence beside her. And although she knew there were whispers aimed at her from all directions, she smiled and put on the best performance of her life to persuade them that she cared about nothing and no one but her own transient, fleeting pleasures.

Sir Percy Somerville strolled along the quiet, empty road towards his home on Harley Street, his cane in one hand and an armful of regret in the other. The night was still, mist gathering by the lamps in soft tendrils, and damp gathered on his fine woollen coat. Really, he ought to have called for his carriage. The walk had been to clear his head, but he wasn’t drunk, just a fool.

And, if he was honest, he was dreading the confrontation that would arise when he finally arrived home. He estimated the opera would be reaching its zenith; soon after, she would be following him, in the carriage. Then he would have all the leisure in the world in which to regret his decisions. There were plenty. In no particular order he had: pretending to the world and his wife that he had a mistress; attending the opera with said mistress—a notorious lady he had no feelings for; marrying his wife.

Perhaps there was an order.

Perhaps his marriage was at the top of the list.

Of course, that operated under the assumption that she would return home that night at all. He kept no tabs on her, mostly because he knew how much of her freedom he’d taken away—or at least, had appeared to—when he’d arranged for their marriage. And that meant that he truly did not know how many lovers she had, if she had any at all. Her disinclination to lie with him could be attributed to dislike of him rather than inexperience or chastity.

Impossible to know. Impossible to tell.

Utterly impossible to ignore or forget.

His house came into view. With a sigh, half wishing he was drunk, he ascended the steps and rapped on the door with the head of his cane. His valet hurried to open it, and not for the first time, Percy wondered what the poor man must think.

“Would you like to retire for the night, sir?” he asked as Percy entered and relinquished his cane.

Why not? If he and Cecily were going to argue, perhaps it was less dignified to do so in a dressing gown, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. At least he would be comfortable.

“Very well,” he said. “I’m anticipating Lady Cecily will be home shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Percy made his way to the dressing room he shared with Cecily—although shared was an optimistic term for a couple who shared very little in their lives, and certainly not their bed—and undressed, wrapping a robe around his shoulders as he sat by the fire. He picked up a book to pass the time, turning the pages idly.

Less than an hour later, Cecily flounced in, her curls dishevelled but her dress perfectly in place. He skimmed over her appearance, noting all the ways in which he considered it unlikely that she had been even remotely ravished.

His heart, foolish thing that it was, leapt.

At the sight of him sitting there waiting for her, she halted partway into the room. Her mouth fell open, and her chest rose and fell with several unsteady breaths.

“Percy,” she said, and appeared to gather herself. She cocked a brow. “Home already? I hadn’t expected that of you.”

“Evidently not.”

“I assumed you would be spending the night elsewhere.”

He folded the book carefully, careful to preserve the pages without a crease. Originally, he had intended to allow this deception to continue, but now he knew he could not. Both for his sake and hers; he was not built for lying.

“Caroline is not my mistress,” he said, enunciating the words so there could be no confusion. “We are friends.”

“And you expect me to believe that? You left together.”

That had been because Caroline had wanted to conduct an assignation of her own, and he could not bear the idea of sitting alone in his box, watching his wife flirt with another.

“We went our separate ways.” He gestured at himself. “As you can see.”

“All I see is a husband who humiliated me tonight.” She tossed her head. “I have a headache and I have no wish to continue this conversation. Goodbye, Percy.” She turned on her heel and stalked towards her bedchamber.

“Busy, were you?” The words broke free before he intended them to.

Her back stiffened, and she turned with menacing grace. She had always been beautiful, with her auburn curls and flashing peridot eyes, but she could also be terrifying. “Well,” she said with cold intent. “Perhaps I was. Does that offend your sensibilities?”

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

“Why? Are you allowed to stray while I remain at home, warming the marital bed?” Her mouth thinned, and he thought of how much he wanted to kiss it. The likelihood of her allowing him to was low indeed.

“As I said, Caroline and I are merely friends.”

Her eyes glittered. “Is that so? I have yet to see mere friends as close as the two of you appeared tonight.”

Well, that had been the purpose of the display: to incite jealousy.

Success had never tasted so bitter.

“It seems you know a lot about the subject,” he said, pushing himself out of his chair. “Tell me more about your companion. Lord Featherstone, was it? The boy’s barely out of Oxford.”

“I prefer associating with contemporaries .” She layered the word with such meaning that he practically flinched. Yes, he knew he’d taken a risk in marrying a spirited lady so much his junior, and she never let him forget it.

“Are you fond of him?” he asked.

“Does it matter to you? Are you fond of Caroline Spenser?”

“As a friend, yes.”

“Oh, certainly. One of the ton’s most notorious mistresses, a close friend. How likely. Do you think me a fool?”

When he’d dreamt up his ridiculous plan, he’d had vague intentions of using her anger to bring them closer together. Somehow, he had envisioned that it would inspire intimacy. Now, with his wife fiercely beautiful, and unmistakeably furious, he didn’t know what he had been thinking. Desperation had made him delusional.

“I think,” he said, giving way to honesty, “you are selfish.”

“Excuse me?”

“And, my darling, a trifle hypocritical. Either you were entertaining your escort intending to make him your lover—in which case, you can hardly object to me doing the same—or you meant nothing by it, in which case, why not think me capable of the same?”

Her eyes darkened and her nostrils flared, and he wished he did not think her quite so frighteningly lovely when she was on the verge of losing her temper entirely.

“You humiliated me,” she repeated. “Where everyone might see. Does my reputation mean nothing to you?”

“And what of mine? Does it not suffer too?”

“You are impossible .” Jaw set, she flounced from the room. And he, a glutton for punishment, followed. “People saw you with her, and they pitied me. What do you suppose they thought? That you and Caroline were merely friends?” Her hands shook as she attempted to unfasten her earrings. “You left with her.”

“I came straight home. Here, let me.” He caught her wrist, setting it aside as he applied himself to the task of removing her earrings, which had become caught in her curls.

“It doesn’t matter . Don’t you understand? People will have seen the empty box, and I think we both know what conclusions they came to.”

“Does their opinion matter more than yours and mine?” He turned her by her slim shoulders so he might remove the other earring. Two rubies, glistening in his palms like drops of blood. He closed his fingers around them. “Be honest with me, Cecily.”

She stiffened even before she turned to face him. “Honesty is rarely redeemed in this marriage.”

“Is it not?” Gently, with the fingers of one hand, he tilted her face to his. “Then let me be honest first. I wasn’t sure you would even notice I was with Caroline tonight.”

Her pupils swelled, eating into the vibrant colour of her iris, even as she reared back, wrenching her chin from his hand. “Why? Because I have so little pride?”

Because she had never wanted him as a husband.

“Because I didn’t think you cared,” he said. “Now tell me something—is this to be the state of affairs for the rest of our lives? Are you going to deny me the companionship of others while denying me the same at home? Am I to return to an empty house every night because my wife has found more entertainment elsewhere, and wishes me to have no part in it?”

Her steps faltered as she crossed to her dressing table. “No husband acts as a constant escort to his wife. It’s unbecoming.”

“Few wives are so independent.”

“Untrue! Why, I know several ladies who—” With visible difficulty, she bit off the words. “Well, it hardly matters. What would you have change, Percy?”

It had been such a long time since she had last used his name that he could almost taste its sweetness in the air.

“Everything,” he said. He suddenly felt tired, the difference in age between them weighing him down. For the sake of his wellbeing, he could not continue to give her every part of himself and receive nothing in return.

“Everything?”

“We both know this isn’t working.”

“Oh, so now you agree that our marriage is a poor one?” She placed her hands on her hips, almost incandescent in her fury. Once, perhaps, she could have been a warrior queen. “I wish you’d made that decision before deciding behind my back that I would be better matched with you than anyone else.”

He knew what she meant; better than with William Devereaux. For years, she’d persisted in the delusion that his flirtation with her had been headed towards marriage, not something entirely more ruinous. And for years, Percy had attempted to preserve her feelings, knowing that if he spoke out against the gentleman she had settled her heart on, she would not take it well.

He dropped her earrings on the dressing table. “Then we both agree things cannot continue as they are. You barely tolerate my presence, and I’m exhausted of always being the one trying to make it right. Yes, I accepted your parents’ proposal when they offered it. I thought I could bring you to love me with time and patience. Now, I see I was mistaken.” He met her gaze. “ Am I mistaken, Cecily?”

She swallowed, but she gave no answer. That was answer enough.

“I see.” With some difficulty, he kept the hurt from his voice. “So, then, let us change our arrangement.”

“How?”

“You do not want a husband; by law, I cannot change that, but in actions I will. If my presence offends you, then I will lodge elsewhere. And when you retire to the country at the end of the Season, I will not join you.”

She was utterly motionless. Shadows crept over her, casting her into darkness. If he could turn back time, he would free her from this abominable thing they called a life together. As he could not, he would do the next best thing.

“Where will you live?” she asked.

“I will arrange for my things to be packed up and redirected to my lodgings in Town.”

“That—” She drew in a breath, the column of her neck tensing with the movement. “That won’t be necessary. People will talk.”

“Let them.”

“No.” Instinctively, she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. When he glanced down, she snatched her hand away. “That is, I would rather they didn’t. After the incident tonight . . . If my mother hears about the situation, she will . . .”

Percy knew exactly what she would do.

Her mother was a widowed viscountess, and she delighted—with, what he felt, could only be sadistic pleasure—in making the people around her as miserable as possible. If she knew there were issues in their marriage—one which she had arranged with such eagerness, securing for herself a fat settlement in the process, then she would be sure to descend. And yes, he could refuse her entry into his house, but she outranked him, and she could cause all sorts of unpleasantness he would rather avoid.

Even so, he disliked this halfway house. It would be difficult to avoid her in the same house—but what better way to protect his maimed heart than to steer clear from the thing that continued to break it? He could not continue to withstand the pain of her rejection; it was beyond endurance. If there had been any other way forward that he could see . . . But he could not. Short of forcing her, which he would and could not do, little else remained to be done.

“Very well,” he said. “I will continue to live here. But our lives are to be separate. Do you understand?”

Her nostrils flared, and he thought she would argue. A not insignificant part of him wished she would argue, fighting for the marriage she had never asked for. Instead, she merely said, “Do you have anything else to say to me, or may I retire to bed now?”

He didn’t know why he’d bothered to hope.

“Goodnight, Cecily.” He bowed, as though she were a stranger he was meeting for the first time, and retired from her bedchamber into his own. There, he did his best to feel as though the night had been a victory.