Page 31 of All Scot and Bothered
But as always, his features betrayed his lack of nobility.
His Scots accent wasn’t that of an aristocrat. His brogue brought to mind a rather savage, sky-clad people with the same pagan brute strength and superfluous muscle he hid beneath his impeccably tailored jacket.
In fact, Cecelia could find nothing gentle about him. Not the shards of ice that passed for pupils. Even the way he stood projected unaffected arrogance. As though he’d learned well and early that life was naught but a contest for dominance, and he expected everyone in his vicinity to play by the rules. His rules. Because he wrote the laws and enforced them with an iron fist.
How terrible it must be to stand beneath his bench in shackles searching his face for traces of mercy.
This man quite obviously didn’t know the meaning of the word.
As Francesca would sometimes say… she was buggered.
Cecelia looked down at the cream carpets, praying for the first time in years.
Dear Lord, or… the other one. If either of you could simply open up a hole in the floor large enough to swallow me entirely, I’d be much obliged. I care not at this moment where it takes me. I’d rather burn in eternal hellfire than spend another minute pinned beneath the gaze of—
Francesca’s sharp elbow interrupted her prayer, such as it was, and she looked up to notice that all the eyes in the room, not just Ramsay’s, were directed at her.
Apparently, she’d been addressed. But by whom? And what did they say?
“P-pardon?” she asked, pushing her spectacles back onto the bridge of her nose where they belonged.
“Poor thing,” Alexandra crooned with a meaningful look. “She’s been complaining of an awful headache,” she explained to the room at large. “Perhaps you might go home and get some rest.”
Cecelia nodded woodenly. “Thank you. I believe I shall.”
Redmayne’s forehead crimped with a filial concern. “I’ll have Cheever call for the coach, Miss Teague.”
“No thank you, Your Grace, I’ll take a hansom back to—”
“Ye’ll take my carriage.” Ramsay’s words were less an offer than an order. “It’s waiting down a side street through the back garden. I’ll accompany ye to my footman.”
“I’m quite capable of finding my own way through a garden.” Cecelia glanced at him more sharply than she’d intended. “I’ll see myself out.”
Ramsay’s eyes dropped from her features with somethingthat might have looked like indignation on a less brutal face. He knew she wanted nothing to do with his company.
“I’ll take her home.” Francesca stepped forward. “We can dine another evening.”
“But we’ve made your favorite, Lady Francesca,” Redmayne interjected. “And besides, it’s a rare night my brother offers his company, let alone his chivalry.” The duke turned to Cecelia with a disconcerting smile. “You’d be sorry to miss such an infrequent occurrence.”
Cecelia felt the blood drain from her face as her gaze collided with Ramsay’s. Her limbs went cold, numb, then flushed with tingling heat. The room spun slightly, bending as if she were on a ship rather than in one of the grandest homes in the West End.
“Ye are pale, lass, and a bit unsteady.” His low Scots brogue rumbled like distant thunder over the Hebrides. “The least I can do is make certain ye’re conducted safely.”
Conducted where? Prison?
She put a hand out, whether to steady herself or to stop him from coming closer, she hadn’t decided yet. “Really, I’m—”
He enfolded the hand in his and nudged her closer, tucking her arm against his biceps. “Besides, I’d have a private word with ye. It willna take long.”
A private word, with the Vicar of Vice…
Could she do this? Could she possibly avoid his scrutiny long enough to make it through the back gardens unexposed? If he should look too closely, might he see thatshewas the woman behind the mask, the makeup, the wig, the accent, and the cloak?
Surely her disguise hadn’t been that impenetrable.
Somehow, her feet were moving. She cast a desperate glance to her friends in time to see Alexandra and Redmayne holding some silent conversation with their eyes.Francesca looked about to say something when Cecelia shook her head.
If he’d already guessed her identity, it was too late. And if he hadn’t guessed now, he was unlikely to in the dark.
