To Have and to Hold (Finders Keepers #4)

Chapter Eight

Cecily woke with an aching head. For a long time, she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Last night had been . . . it had been . . . Well, it had been eye-opening. When Percy was not Percy, she liked him. Perhaps she always had.

Before last night, she’d assumed he would continue his mission of avoiding her at every given opportunity, and ending their marriage in all but name. But last night he had come for her. Followed her. Danced with her, flirted with her, kissed her. Ardently.

And she . . . Well, she had no desire to return to the way things had been.

Which meant, logically, that she would have to go about changing them. Perhaps Percy would also come to that conclusion: he wanted her, and she wanted him, and she did not wish to be married to anyone else. That, surely, would be enough to welcome her back into his life. They could talk about music again. Or myths and legends that they’d both familiarised themselves with. Or, perhaps, sing.

Impatient, because it was almost noon—though they had arrived home past dawn—she rang the bell for her maid. If she was lucky, Percy wouldn’t have risen yet, and they could breakfast together for the first time in over a week.

Had it really only been that long? It felt like a lifetime.

She stumbled out of bed and rubbed her eyes, trying to think of what she would tell him. That she wanted more from their marriage than she had ever done before. And, she supposed, to hope that he felt the same way.

Though she dressed quickly and hurried into the breakfast parlour, she entered the room to find it empty. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the neatly laid table, her place laid with precision and the folded newspaper beside Percy’s place, a sure sign he had come and gone. Despite the fact she’d risen early to catch him.

Her newfound optimism deflated. Evidently he did not feel, despite the intimacy they’re shared the previous night, that anything needed to change between them.

She turned to the footman by the door. “Where is Sir Percy?”

“I believe he went out for the morning, ma’am.”

“I see.” No longer hungry, Cecily toyed with the laced edge of her sleeve. “Do you know when he will be back?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

The old Cecily would have flounced out, determined to spend not one single thought on her errant, and notably absent, husband. But that had been the Cecily who hadn’t experienced the subtle thrill of her husband’s hands on her.

They really had to talk about that.

She glowered at his empty place setting. Difficult to talk to a man who had fled at the first opportunity.

Very well. If that was how he intended to be, she would not offer him the opportunity. They would discuss this, and without the distractions of London and all it had to offer. Let him avoid her while trapped in a carriage. Perhaps then they might have a conversation.

A tiny voice whispered in the back of her head that it was too late—she had already lost him—but she quashed it determinedly. Percy still wanted her. Perhaps he did not love her now, but he wanted her. And she wanted him. Perhaps she did not love him—she did not know how to, or what love even was —but that didn’t matter.

She would not allow this to be the end. Percy had done enough saving of their marriage. Now it was her turn.

Wind tugged at Percy’s hair as he urged his mount faster, across Battersea Common Ground and away from London, towards Clapham. Not Hyde Park today—he was not in the mood to promenade and exchange bows with all and sundry. No, this morning, unreasonably early, he needed a means to find his equilibrium.

That morning, as he’d listened to her prepare herself for bed, he’d stood by the door, willing himself not to go to her. Their relationship was fragile enough as it stood. Complicating it with physical advances he couldn’t be certain she would accept was not the solution. He knew that.

At least, part of his body did. The other part, which had held most of his body’s supply of blood, had been far more difficult to persuade.

Hence the brisk ride.

Once he returned, he would be in a better frame of mind to consider where the hell they were to go from there.

The streaming wind did much to cool the pounding of his blood, and by the time he reached Clapham and partook of a late luncheon and a tankard of ale, his mood had improved somewhat. Only to be dashed when he returned home and he found the servants bustling around, hauling his possessions about with abandon.

“Percy.” Cecily herself stood at the top of the stairs, fiery curls tumbling a little haphazardly around her face. He longed to brush them back into place, but there was a fierceness to her expression he recognised all too well.

Boudicca, about to declare war.

He assumed an indifferent expression. If she intended to haul him over the coals for his behaviour the previous evening, he would be forced to remind her that she had been the one to kiss him. Admittedly, he had asked for it, but that was hardly the point.

“Cecily,” he said, looking up at her.

A haughty brow rose. “You’ve finally returned.”

He waved a hand at the scurrying servants. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“It’s summer.”

“So I’ve observed, but that doesn’t provide an explanation.”

One hand in her skirts, she descended the stairs until she was only a few above him, their noses almost level. At this height, he could see the dark shadows around her eyes, and it took all his self-control not to touch her face in an attempt to ease the strain there. “I thought it was time to retire to Hollyhead.”

He frowned. “Hollyhead? We hadn’t intended to leave for another few weeks.”

“Yes, well.” Her mouth thinned. “I thought it might benefit us to leave earlier.”

He searched her face, trying to find her reasoning behind her stubborn jaw. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“Why not? Have you any desire to stay in London?”

Aside from a few loose ends to clear up and some invitations he would have to turn down, nothing. He could conduct all other business from Holyhead—as well she knew. “I thought you might, my social butterfly,” he said.

Her jaw tightened. “I am perfectly capable of turning down a few engagements.”

“So it seems.”

She stepped closer still. “When we last spoke on the subject, you said you would spend the summer elsewhere.”

Confused, he frowned. “Is that what you would prefer?”

“No. I wish you to return to our house with me.” She raised her chin. “I will not accept no for an answer. We leave tomorrow morning.”

Just a few nights ago, he would have fought her on this. Protected himself and his heart the only way he knew how. But she had given him hope as he’d rarely had reason to hope before. So, he inclined his head. “Very well.”

“May I ask you something, Odysseus?”

He almost smiled. “Of course.”

“Why did you come to the masquerade last night?”

“Because,” he said, catching her gaze and holding it, “I thought you wanted me to.”

She nodded once, abruptly, her hands clenched before her. He reached for them, smoothing out her fingers and rubbing the half-moon welts her nails had left behind. “How about a question in return? A truth for a truth?” At her nod, he asked, “Why did you pretend not to know me?”

“Because you pretended not to know me .” As though sensing he wanted more, she glanced away, throat working as she thought. “And because I thought it could be a chance to start afresh. To see what dancing would be like if you were not my husband but merely a man.”

The very reason he’d allowed her to lead, allowed her to weave a new deception around them. One that abandoned the gauntlets they’d taken up in the days after their wedding. “And how was it?”

“It convinced me that I like the man.”

“And not the husband?”

A line appeared between her brows. “I wish to reconcile the two.” She glanced up at him, eyes pleading. “For you to be Odysseus, and for me to be Circe.”

“I am Odysseus, love,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. “I always have been.”

“You avoided me this morning,” she accused, a note of such petulance in her voice that he smiled.

“I had a lot to think about, and I needed space to do it with a clear head.”

“You mean not with me?”

“You’re distracting,” he said, and was rewarded with one corner of her lips curving. “And last night, I . . .” Wanted you so badly I could hardly breathe . “I needed to know I was making the right decision.”

“Which is?”

“I will not endure intimacy with a wife who is not wholly committed to me. But,” he added before she could say whatever words were on her tongue, “if you work with me, I will work with you. Try, Cecily. Give me your word that you will try, and I will, too.” He smiled, releasing her. “That’s all I ask.”

Her eyes were clear and bright, every shade of green. “Do you need me to love you? For you to stay?”

“I need you to at least want to,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. She shivered. “I am not unreasonable, but I want you too much to be satisfied with a little. I will not settle for only part of you, or half measures. Either I will have all of you, or I will have none at all.”