Page 42 of All Scot and Bothered
Lilly let out a guffaw, the only slip in her articulate and cultured manner thus far that whispered of a life once lived in a very different part of London. “I receive more marriage proposals monthly than London’s most sought-after debutantes, I’d wager. But I have too many men I enjoy in my bed to tie myself to just one.”
Cecelia found herself filling with a strange well of emotion. Relief, she initially thought. Then pride. And after that… joy. Her legacy wasn’t simply a den of vice, it was an entire philanthropic endeavor. How brilliant. She could think of no other word but that. Brilliant.
Marvelous, perhaps.
And terrifying. That a man could take this all from her. A man of single-minded resolve and fathomless fortitude. A man on a relentless quest for justice. Bedeviled with an almost pathological aversion to what he considered sin.
And also, an unspeakably wicked tongue.
I kissed Ramsay.
“Would you care to see upstairs now?” Genny offered, gesturing to the arched doors at the end of the corridor.
“Lead on,” Cecelia murmured, clustering close to Alexandra and Francesca as they followed Genny out into the garden square in the center of the building protected on all sides by the manse.
The cool of the gardens caressed her face, the high walls of the edifice creating shade even in the summer. The lush evergreen grass and vibrant blossoms reminded Cecelia of another garden.
Cecelia’s gaze locked to the hedgerow where she’d first spied Lilly with Lord Crawford. She stared at the spot, fixated by a sight transposing itself over the memory. A man with gold in his hair and ice in his eyes. And the woman—the woman had a familiar form and features.
The ones she looked at in the mirror every morning.
A copulation that had never taken place. And never would. Because Sir Cassius Gerard Ramsay wasn’t the type of man to dally out of doors.
He wasn’t the type to dally at all.
Except…
“I kissed Ramsay!”
The gardens fell silent. Not just silent. But still. Too still.
Until all three women turned in tandem to gape at her.
“Tell me you’re jokin’,” Genny demanded, advancing forward.
“I’m joking.” Cecelia said obediently. “I didn’t kiss Ramsay.”
“Thank heavens,” Alexandra breathed.
“He kissed me.”
Genny shooed them all up several flights of stairs and into the private residence, where she pulled them into Henrietta’s old bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Tell us everything. Where did he kiss you?”
“Nowhere but the lips, upon my word.” Cecelia’s cheeks heated.
It was only when Alexandra put a hand on her forearms that she realized she’d crossed them in a defensive gesture. “I think Miss Leveaux is asking where, geographically. Was it in the gardens last night?”
Cecelia nodded, feeling like a child about to be chided.
“Iknewwe should have saved you from going out there with him.” Francesca paced the room. Even the swish of her emerald train managed to sound angry.
Cecelia shook her head. “That really wasn’t neces—”
“Was he cruel to you?” Alexandra asked.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Francesca demanded.
“Well, I—”
