Part 32 (1/2)

She only wished that it didn't mean Gran would win, but wasn't foolish enough to cut off her nose to spite her face. And she did hate to think of her siblings losing their inheritances because of her.

Leaving the bed, she rang for Gillie. As the maid came in, she said, ”Isn't it a lovely day, Gillie?”

Since Gillie had left her crying her eyes out the previous day, she looked a bit perplexed. ”Indeed it is, milady.”

As Gillie helped her dress, Celia wondered if she could take the girl with her to live in Cheapside. Could Jackson afford a lady's maid for her if Gran really did cut them off?

But Gran wouldn't do that. Oliver would never let her, would he? Not that it mattered. As long as she had Jackson, she didn't care what she faced in Cheapside.

”What time is it?” she asked Gillie as the girl arranged her hair.

”It's nearly eleven.”

”I don't suppose Mr. Pinter has arrived yet this morning.” Celia fought a smile when the girl shot her an astonished look.

”No, milady. Not that I know of.”

If he went to talk with Elsie, it was probably too early for him to be here, she thought with a sigh.

As Gillie hunted for her mistress's favorite mob cap, Celia wandered to the window. It was a lovely day to become betrothed to Jackson. The sun was s.h.i.+ning, banis.h.i.+ng the usual winter gloom. It was so clear that she could see the road and a carriage coming- Jackson! He was here after all! And he'd come in his carriage, too, like a fine gentleman. No doubt it was because he had his aunt with him, but still, it showed he was serious about this marriage proposal.

She should probably wait up here like a proper lady until someone came to fetch her, but she didn't feel like a proper lady today. Grabbing her mob cap from Gillie, she clapped it on her head, raced down the hall, and then down the stairs. Only minutes later she'd reached the drive, where she forced herself not to run but instead walk semi-sedately toward the equipage she could now see at the other end.

But as it came closer, she realized it wasn't Jackson's coach. Blast, blast, and more blast. It was the cursed Visconde de Basto. She'd completely forgotten about the house party, which didn't end until tomorrow. This was around the time he always came.

The last person she wanted to see at the moment was one of her suitors. Unfortunately, she couldn't get out of it now. The carriage was slowing already. He'd seen her.

It stopped opposite her, and he leapt out. ”My lady! How delightful to come across you this way. I had heard you were ill.”

She forced a smile. ”I'm feeling much better now.” And she would be feeling better still once she could be freed of her suitors.

He offered her his arm, and she took it. Motioning to his coachman to drive beside them, he led her back toward the manor.

”You're looking very lovely today.”

”Thank you.” Her second smile was more genuine. He couldn't help it that she had no romantic interest in him; no need to be rude to the man.

”You have a mystical glow about you. Like a nymph of the forest. Or a fairy.”

Really, why were men always thinking she looked like something otherworldly? And where had they all been when she'd been interested in finding a man?

Although what she'd told Jackson last night was true-she'd never really been interested in the men she met in society. Men like the viscount merely left her impatient to be away. Perhaps she'd always preferred men with rough edges, and she just hadn't realized it until now.

”It's no wonder your family calls you Elf,” he said genially. ”In some respects, it suits you.”

”I hate that nickname, I must confess,” she said. ”Which is why no one has called me that since I was a chi-”

She caught herself. How could he have heard her called that? She'd threatened her family with shooting if they ever did, and they'd taken her at her word.

As a chill pa.s.sed through her, she asked in as pleasant a tone as she could muster, ”When did you hear someone call me Elf? I must have missed it. I would have given them what for.”

She risked a glance at his face. It seemed frozen in a smile that looked utterly false.

”Oh, some time or other,” he said evasively. ”Perhaps you were not around.”

”That must be it.”

Except none of her family would have dared.

She started considering some odd things. Given the age Jackson had postulated for him, he was only a little younger than Papa would be now. Her conversation with the viscount the other day went through her mind-the discussion of her parents and their deaths, his curiosity about her mother's attraction to Papa ...

Odd questions or perfectly normal?

Oh, she was being absurd. If he'd been Mama's lover, why would he return here and risk being caught? Besides, Mama's lover had not been Portuguese. She would have remembered that.

Unless...

”It's funny about nicknames,” she said gamely. ”You called me something the other day in Portuguese that I thought was very musical. I think you said that it meant 'bright beauty.' Something brilhante?”

”Bright soul is what I called you-alma brilhante,” he said, his eyes suddenly hard on her. ”Bright beauty would be beleza brilhante.”

Her breath stuck in her throat, and she had to pull her gaze from his to hide her consternation. Mia dolce bellezza.

What if it hadn't been Italian she'd heard, but Portuguese? A four-year-old would have heard what she knew already-the Italian phrase-and the words might sound much the same. Dolce meant ”sweet” in Italian. If beleza and bellezza both meant beauty, then perhaps dolce had its Portuguese correspondent, too.

”Or perhaps you are thinking of 'minha doce beleza,'” he murmured, as if he'd read her mind. ”It means, 'my sweet beauty.'”

Her gaze shot to him, and her heart sank. He was staring at her with complete understanding.

”You remember that day in the nursery, do you not?” he asked in a choked voice. ”I cannot believe it. I had hoped you were sleeping or would not remember after all these years, but-”

”I-I don't know what you're talking about.”

His hand gripped her hard, and he barked something to his driver in Portuguese.

”Let go of me!” She tried to pull free.

Before she could knee him as Jackson had told her to do, he drew a pistol out of his coat pocket and said in a low voice, ”I regret to say, my lady, that you will have to come with me.”

The coach stopped. His two grooms jumped down and grabbed her, throwing her through the door that the viscount opened for them. Then the viscount leapt in after her, along with one of the grooms.

As the carriage turned around and headed down the drive, she thrust her head out the window and screamed, but the viscount forced his hand over her mouth. ”Shh, I will not hurt you, I swear.”

She bit his hand, and he cursed foully. If he was going to shoot her, she would make him do it here in front of her family, blast it! She wasn't going to end up dead in some hunting lodge, with no one ever knowing what had happened and why.

”If you do not be still,” he growled. ”I will shoot that groom running up the road from the house right now.”