To Have and to Hold (Finders Keepers #4)

Chapter Four

It transpired that living separately from one’s husband, while one’s former lover made no effort to see one, proved for an unhappy existence. Cecily spent the next few days flitting from room to room, unable to find anything to entertain her for long. Percy, in their new definition of normal, now took to avoiding her at seemingly every juncture possible.

After singing at the pianoforte for a determined hour, Cecily retired to the library with a husky voice, intent on finding a book to distract her, and came up short at the sight of Percy seated before a fire that was more embers than flame.

Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains, and dust motes danced in the light. Percy’s head was bent, revealing the silver that streaked through his dark hair. His fingers grazed the corners of the page as he read.

For an instant, Cecily hesitated. The image before her was so decidedly domestic that she felt as though she was intruding, which was ridiculous. Yet she had never seen Percy so . . . at peace. As though this domesticity, the quiet, was what he craved. The pads of his fingers scraped against the corner of the paper, and the sound worked something free inside her.

When they first married, she told herself she would never, under any circumstance, want him. Yet as she watched his fingers, the idleness of them, the strength in his hands even during such a mundane task, she could not help wondering what they might feel like against her skin.

A part of her hated herself for it.

A different part of herself, one dipped in desire she could not repress, burned.

It had been a very long time since he’d last visited her bed, and even then, she had made her distaste for him known, and he had left before much occurred. Until seeing him with Caroline, she had given very little thought about what that might mean for him. Whether he would find solace elsewhere, and what that form of intimacy might look like.

Now, she wondered, and she could not stop wondering.

Had he taken other women during their marriage? Did he assume she had found intimacy elsewhere also? The truth was, she had never wanted it, not with Percy or anyone else. With William, perhaps, but he had never been an option, and now the consideration made her feel uncomfortable. A coal in the base of her stomach.

Was she truly considering being unfaithful when the thought of Percy doing the same made her want to rip the curtains off the wall?

Sensing her presence, he glanced up, trapping her in his gaze, no matter how mild. Thoughts of William disintegrated, and there was a strange hollowness inside her.

Loneliness, perhaps.

She knew she should look away, but it had been such a long time since she had looked at him with the intent to see .

At nineteen, she had thought him old. Undesirable.

At nineteen, she supposed she had been a fool.

Something, a light, warmth perhaps, flared in Percy’s eyes, but he merely said, “Did you want something? I can always leave.”

“I came for a book.” She advanced a little further into the room, though she made no attempt to reach for the shelves. From here, she knew, he could have heard her singing. She wondered, before she banished the thought, whether he had enjoyed it. “The light in here is pretty this time of day,” she said, to distract herself.

“Oh.” He looked around in apparent surprise. “Yes, it is pretty, I suppose.”

“Do you often read here?”

“I did before I married,” he said mildly, and returned to his book.

Irritation coursed through her, and so did her defiance—though she balked at the thought of telling him about William. “I intend to go out tomorrow evening,” she announced.

He turned a page. “Is that so?”

“I went shopping especially for it.”

“It certainly sounds as though you’ve been busy.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be needing an escort.”

She was rewarded by the subtle tightening of his jaw. “I doubted you would.” He closed the book with a snap. “Anything else?”

“I thought you might like to see my purchases. You often enjoy seeing what I spend my pin money on.” She paused just long enough for him to return his gaze to her. “I bought new stockings. And garters.”

His nostrils flared. “Is this designed to be punishment?”

“For what, pray?”

“I’d hoped you might inform me.”

She ran her finger along the perfectly clean mantelpiece above the fire. She could hardly confess that the reason she felt so angry, so frustrated, so alone was in part because he left her so. “I’m bored,” she said instead. “I found a new aria. I thought we might sing together. We used to, if you recall.”

“I heard you practising.” He looked at her steadily. “But I think I would rather read.”

The blow to her chest was absurdly crushing. She hadn’t practised intending to entice him to sing with her, but hearing that he had no desire to, even though it had been one of the ways he’d first courted her, sent a dizzying wave of disappointment through her.

When he’d first suggested he stop offering her his affection, she hadn’t known it would mean this .

Percy raised his gaze to her, and she noted the green in his hazel eyes. Not dark like William’s, but she found she could look into them more easily, with no danger of losing herself. “You know our arrangement, Cecily,” he said gently, and rose, crossing the distance between them in two quick strides. This close, she was forced to crane her neck; the height difference was almost as vast as the difference in their ages.

“I didn’t think you would refuse to talk to me at all,” she said, hearing the sullenness in her voice and unable to hide it.

“I told you, my darling. You cannot have it all. I will not just take the parts of you that you choose to give.” His eyes still on hers, he tucked a curl more neatly to frame her face, then dropped his hand and retreated to his seat by the fireplace. “I must return to my book. Do you need anything else?”

Her mouth was dry as she stared at him. He turned his attention to the book in his hands as though she’d never been there. Unable to articulate why the sight of that sent a pang through her, she picked up her skirts and moved towards the door. Just before he reached it, he said, the words so light they sounded like an afterthought, “You never did tell me where you were going out to.”

Cecily didn’t turn, though she was tempted to. Tempted to see if, when she glanced around, she would find him watching her. But that would imply that she wanted him to, and she wanted nothing less in the entire world.

Her voice was just as airy as she replied. “The Pantheon. I do love a masquerade, don’t you?”

She didn’t wait to hear his response.

White’s was busy, and after drinking with a few of his old friends—all less invested in their wives; all happier in their marriages—Percy eventually made his way back home. Long after he was certain she was asleep, but earlier than he’d intended.

That was the problem—of many—with being in love with one’s wife.

As he ascended the stairs, slowly to compensate for the spinning world, he came to their dressing room. Unlike before, the room was dark and cool, with only the faintest scent of her perfume hanging in the air.

Although he asked the servants to ensure she had already retired, some part of him was disappointed to see the lack of her. Proof that she had been; proof that she had gone.

He inhaled hungrily, and before his mind caught up with his body, he had padded to her bedchamber. The door was unlocked, and he opened it to darkness. She was asleep, buried under the covers, a shaft of moonlight piercing through the gap between curtains. He paused, aware even in his drunken state that he shouldn’t be here. This was an invasion of her privacy. They might be married, but he had never forced himself on her.

But her scent was stronger here, along with all the signs of the life she led without him. Her robe tossed over the back of a chair, the book she was reading placed neatly beside her bed. Half-finished embroidery stood on a stand before the window, and sheets of paper lay on a letter-writing desk. For years, he had sought an entry into her world, and now he stood on the very brink, looking in.

Even so, the contents of her bedroom could not capture his attention for long. Not when Cecily herself lay in the bed, slumbering softly, her breathing regular. It made him ache to think how infrequently he had awoken to that sound.

This, here, was everything he had yearned for all these years. And it was just as distant as the stars.

He hadn’t intended to, but he moved, striding closer, stepping around an armchair until he reached the edge of her bed. Maybe it was his presence, or maybe she heard his unsteady footsteps, because her breath halted. She stirred, raising her head. Even through the darkness, he could make out the fiery flow of her hair, loosened and softly curling around her face.

Seeing her like this was a blow to the chest. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would survive it.

“Percy?” Her voice was heavy, drugged with sleep, but there was a note of alarm there, too. “Is that you?”

He should leave. Or at the very least reassure her. That was what a gentleman would do. Instead, he stayed where he was, drinking her in, wishing he had a light so he could see her all the more clearly.

“It is you.” She made an inarticulate sound. “What are you doing there?”

Finally, he could move, but instead of leaving—as he knew he should—he approached. Closer, closer, until he could make out the darkness of her eyes, set in a pale face. By day, they were gems, but by night they were nothing but shadow. Drink made him fanciful, and he thought she resembled a faery, something otherworldly, exquisite in her beauty.

“Percy.” She sounded more awake now, sitting up fully. The covers fell from her, and he could make out the swell of her breasts. She was wearing another of those dratted nightgowns that only packaged her up like the most succulent gift.

He longed to taste her.

“Cecily,” he murmured.

“Are you drunk?”

“Mm.” The temptation to laugh overwhelmed him. Sober, he most certainly would not have been here. And yet here he was. “Do you object, wife of mine?”

“You haven’t visited my bedchamber in—” She broke off, as though recalling precisely how long it had been.

He could have counted the minutes.

“An excruciatingly long time,” he said.

Her eyes met his, almost fearless. Perhaps even curious. Intrigued. There was no fear there, though he thought he caught the hint of uncertainty. This was not how they usually were.

Then again, how they usually were had broken his heart more times than he could ever have said.

She stared up at him as though she expected him to take her any second, pressing her into the mattress with the weight of his body, opening her legs with his hips so he could settle between them. Where he belonged.

For perhaps the first time, she did not look as though she would mind.

“Percy,” she said. A question, an invitation.

For a moment, he could not think of anything but the extent of his want for her. Drugging, intoxicating, demanding. If he chose it, perhaps tonight she would allow to him take all the things she’d denied him for so long, and tomorrow he could nurse his hangover and the fractures of his broken heart.

Tempting, but he was not that drunk.

There would always be a tomorrow. If he gave himself to her now, he did not think he could face the tomorrow she would offer them.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” he said, clumsier than usual as he pushed himself back and to his feet. Thankfully, it was not far until he reached his own room—or else he might never have made it. “Sleep well, Cecy.”

The nickname slipped from his lips unintentionally. A remnant of the past crashing into their present. It had been a long time since he had given her an endearment; she’d always told him how much she hated that name.

And yet now, she merely stared at him as though waiting for something that would make sense of this interaction.

He, too, was waiting.

“Goodnight,” he said, the words slurring a little as he walked in an almost straight line across her room once more. Some small part of him regretted passing over what had essentially been the most enthusiastic consent he had received in years, but he had too much respect for himself to give way to this.

If he was to have her, he would have all of her, or he would have none at all.

“Percy,” she said when he reached the doorway. “Where were you tonight?”

“White’s. As I told you.”

The silence that greeted him made him feel as though he had somehow said the wrong thing, although he’d only given her the truth.

All their marriage, aside from that lamentable oversight with Caroline, he had given her his truth.

“You didn’t visit her?” she asked finally.

He turned to find Cecily watching him, the moonlight washing her in ghostly light. She could have been a wraith, only half real. Sometimes he felt that way himself.

“No.” This word was stronger than his others, more certain. “I didn’t.”

She slid down the pillows, drawing the blankets up over her head. “You’ll have a sore head in the morning,” was all she said. And yet, as Percy fell face-first into bed, not so much as bothering to ring for his valet, he felt as though that day, and accompanying night, had done more for their marriage than all the wooing of the past four years.