raised a quelling eyebrow.
"Damn it, Branstoke. What business is it of yours?"
"It is the business of every gentleman to protect a lady," he said softly, pointedly. "Mrs. Waddley, I believe your carriage is outside. Shall we go?"
"Now just a minute, Branstoke," said Haukstrom, red color suffusing his fair complexion.
" Lord, what fools these mortals be! " quipped Sir Harry Elsdon, laying a hand on his friend's arm. "Hate to say it, Randy ol' boy, but Branstoke's got a point. Not the thing at all to leave a lovely young woman like your sister unattended."
"Bad Ton," agreed Rippy, his lower lip thrusting out as his head bobbled up and down in agreement.
"Thank you, gentlemen," drawled Branstoke.
Cecilia glanced at him, wondering if the faint hint of sarcasm she detected in his tone rested only in her imagination. Bidding her brother an embarrassed goodnight, she allowed Sir Branstoke to lead her out of the theater and down to her carriage.
"May I be allowed to see you home?" Branstoke asked as he assisted her into the carriage.
Cecilia paused, uncertain how to respond.
"I am concerned lest you suffer another of your, ah, sudden spells," he added blandly.
Cecilia peered at him in the uncertain, flickering carriage light. His expression appeared politely neutral, telling her nothing to answer the myriad questions that swirled in her brain. His attentions were inexplicable. Worse were her reactions to the man. He sent her nerves jumping and tingling in a manner greater than any illness she feigned. How could this be? He was, as her aunt implied, an innocuous gentleman. Refined, unfailingly polite, totally unflappable. Her hesitation was ridiculous. And it was always better to travel with companionship, even in the city.
She bit her lower lip a moment then murmured her permission. One side of Branstoke's mouth lifted into a wry smile as he inclined his head. He stepped lightly into the carriage after her and seated himself opposite.
In the close confines of the carriage, her awareness of the man increased exponentially. An insidious thought curled into her consciousness. Could he be involved in Mr. Waddley's death? Was that the reason he cultivated her acquaintance? By her reactions to him, was some small portion of her mind warning he was an enemy? Truthfully, he was entirely too even-tempered. As she suggested to Jessamine, it took one artificer to recognize another. What did he want from her? She swallowed nervously.
"Is something the matter, Mrs. Waddley? Do you feel all right?" His face was in black shadows, his voice a deep rumble that echoed the metallic ring of iron-bound wheels over street cobbles. A diamond, nestled in the ruffles of his shirt, winked in the yellow light of passing street lamps.
She laughed, a high, weak sound. "It is merely my abominable nerves. I am heartily cognizant that I am in your debt. I keep recalling Mr. Nutley's inebriated countenance." She shivered. "I dare swear the backlash of memories is worse than the actuality. I shall recover presently. Do not worry, I'll not embarrass you with one of my fits."
"I am not in the least worried on that score, Mrs. Waddley." His almost disembodied voice stretched her nerves taut. If only she could see his face!
The rustle of wool and satin warned her of his movement, heightening-senses and tensing muscles. He leaned forward out of the shadows and reached across the gulf between them to lay a gloved hand on hers. A shuddering breath released her tight chest. She glanced down to where his large hand covered hers then up at his face. Dimly she was aware of the carriage halting. A footman threw open the door, spilling light into dark carriage corners.
"I feel," Sir Branstoke began slowly, almost hesitantly, "you have dragons plaguing you. Know, Mrs. Waddley, it is not necessary to stand alone," he finished softly. He quickly descended the carriage steps and turned to help her down.
Stunned by his words and manner, Cecilia automatically laid her
"Damn it, Branstoke. What business is it of yours?"
"It is the business of every gentleman to protect a lady," he said softly, pointedly. "Mrs. Waddley, I believe your carriage is outside. Shall we go?"
"Now just a minute, Branstoke," said Haukstrom, red color suffusing his fair complexion.
" Lord, what fools these mortals be! " quipped Sir Harry Elsdon, laying a hand on his friend's arm. "Hate to say it, Randy ol' boy, but Branstoke's got a point. Not the thing at all to leave a lovely young woman like your sister unattended."
"Bad Ton," agreed Rippy, his lower lip thrusting out as his head bobbled up and down in agreement.
"Thank you, gentlemen," drawled Branstoke.
Cecilia glanced at him, wondering if the faint hint of sarcasm she detected in his tone rested only in her imagination. Bidding her brother an embarrassed goodnight, she allowed Sir Branstoke to lead her out of the theater and down to her carriage.
"May I be allowed to see you home?" Branstoke asked as he assisted her into the carriage.
Cecilia paused, uncertain how to respond.
"I am concerned lest you suffer another of your, ah, sudden spells," he added blandly.
Cecilia peered at him in the uncertain, flickering carriage light. His expression appeared politely neutral, telling her nothing to answer the myriad questions that swirled in her brain. His attentions were inexplicable. Worse were her reactions to the man. He sent her nerves jumping and tingling in a manner greater than any illness she feigned. How could this be? He was, as her aunt implied, an innocuous gentleman. Refined, unfailingly polite, totally unflappable. Her hesitation was ridiculous. And it was always better to travel with companionship, even in the city.
She bit her lower lip a moment then murmured her permission. One side of Branstoke's mouth lifted into a wry smile as he inclined his head. He stepped lightly into the carriage after her and seated himself opposite.
In the close confines of the carriage, her awareness of the man increased exponentially. An insidious thought curled into her consciousness. Could he be involved in Mr. Waddley's death? Was that the reason he cultivated her acquaintance? By her reactions to him, was some small portion of her mind warning he was an enemy? Truthfully, he was entirely too even-tempered. As she suggested to Jessamine, it took one artificer to recognize another. What did he want from her? She swallowed nervously.
"Is something the matter, Mrs. Waddley? Do you feel all right?" His face was in black shadows, his voice a deep rumble that echoed the metallic ring of iron-bound wheels over street cobbles. A diamond, nestled in the ruffles of his shirt, winked in the yellow light of passing street lamps.
She laughed, a high, weak sound. "It is merely my abominable nerves. I am heartily cognizant that I am in your debt. I keep recalling Mr. Nutley's inebriated countenance." She shivered. "I dare swear the backlash of memories is worse than the actuality. I shall recover presently. Do not worry, I'll not embarrass you with one of my fits."
"I am not in the least worried on that score, Mrs. Waddley." His almost disembodied voice stretched her nerves taut. If only she could see his face!
The rustle of wool and satin warned her of his movement, heightening-senses and tensing muscles. He leaned forward out of the shadows and reached across the gulf between them to lay a gloved hand on hers. A shuddering breath released her tight chest. She glanced down to where his large hand covered hers then up at his face. Dimly she was aware of the carriage halting. A footman threw open the door, spilling light into dark carriage corners.
"I feel," Sir Branstoke began slowly, almost hesitantly, "you have dragons plaguing you. Know, Mrs. Waddley, it is not necessary to stand alone," he finished softly. He quickly descended the carriage steps and turned to help her down.
Stunned by his words and manner, Cecilia automatically laid her
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