Hell Hath No Fury (Devilish Debutantes Book 1) Page 7

  “I don’t know if I can appear in Society tonight. Blast, Stephen! What with this bruise you’ve given me. It’s going to swell and most likely turn all shades of purple and blue.” Flavion ignored the reprimand completely. “Good Lord, whatever will Daphne think of this?”

  “Damn Daphne, Flavion. Did you not hear a single word I’ve said?”

  “Damn Cecily and damn you, I say. First, my cit of a wife pushes me down the stairs, causing me excruciating pain, might I add, and now my own flesh and blood takes a most unjust swing at me.” Flavion was working himself up into a self-righteous fit. “Since you’ve returned, you’ve done nothing but harangue me about my affairs. Well, I’m not a child, Stephen! I will make my own decisions and treat my wife however I please. If you don’t approve, feel free to go back to wherever you came from. A fat lot of good you are, anyhow. If you’d been around when father died, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have needed Cecily’s dowry, and I could have simply married Daphne. Thanks for nothing.” And with that, he spun on his heel and marched off in the opposite direction.

  DINNER AT NOTTINGHOUSE that evening, although beautifully set, was strained.

  The table, capable of seating twenty, featured Flavion at the head, Cecily at the foot, and Mr. Nottingham smack dab in the middle. The candelabras and floral arrangements, not to mention the distance, made conversation difficult, if not impossible.

  Cecily was tempted to stand up and request her meal be served in her room, but then Mr. Nottingham would have been left alone with a morose, not to mention, swollen and bruised Flavion. She didn’t know how Flavion had come by the broken nose, but based upon the sudden chill between the two cousins, she assumed they’d skirmished over something or other.

  She leaned to the side, peered around the table decorations, and sent Mr. Nottingham an encouraging smile. “You will enjoy the soup, Cousin Stephen,” she spoke innocuously. “This particular recipe is one of Flavion’s favorites. Isn’t that right, Flave?” She called out more loudly, causing her husband to glare at her.

  Cousin Stephen merely nodded. Any conversation to be had that evening was going to be up to her.

  “Such glorious colors you’re wearing tonight, my lord.” She could not help but to remark upon Flavion’s marred appearance. “Face paints can hide most of the bruises if you don’t wish Miss Cunnington to see you looking… less than perfect.” She fought to hide a smirk, which she knew would not be very ladylike.

  Flavion’s lip curled, and he growled. “I would have you refrain from speaking her name to me, my lady.” He ignored his soup in favor of the wine. “Your lack of discretion merely reminds me of your common roots. That which I would forget if you would only allow me.”

  “Flave.” Mr. Nottingham seemed to chastise him by only speaking his name.

  “My lack of discretion? Mine, my lord?” She knew it was impolite to have this discussion with Mr. Nottingham present, but her husband had a most absurd perception as to the true nature of reality. “But that I never knew her name, then I would refrain from speaking it.”

  Lord Kensington did not appreciate being challenged. “Forgive me, Stephen,” Flavion addressed his cousin. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement of which I’d forgotten. Perhaps you and I can take port together later. After my wife retires to her chamber.” Giving up on the dinner entirely, he pushed back his seat and stood, his abrupt movements causing the candles to flicker erratically. He then stormed out of the room without a single word to Cecily. Ah… the joy of marriage.

  Flave’s cousin looked over at her with narrowed eyes. “Must you, my lady?”

  She ought to feel ashamed. She’d deliberately goaded Flavion while a guest was present. Mr. Nottingham did not deserve such disrespect. And yet, it would have been quite unlike her to sit meekly at the table without mentioning the proverbial elephant in the room. Flave’s bruises had been rather spectacular. “I never said I would be nice to him, Mr. Nottingham.” She finally answered his question. “I only promised not to have him killed.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” he said. And then she thought she saw him smile, causing her insides to flip over for just a moment.

  She could not help but remember the comfort she’d felt when he’d escorted her back to Nottinghouse this afternoon. He’d been protective and kind and fearless. Why, he’d been exactly as she’d always pictured a true hero, rushing in to save a maiden. When she’d realized that it had been his arm reaching out to assist her, she’d wanted to cry in relief. Not only had he chased away her tormentors, he’d assisted her with Chadwick.

  Perhaps she ought to feel somewhat ashamed for picking the fight with his cousin tonight.

  Only somewhat.

  “Please, Mr. Nottingham…” She took on a more conciliatory tone. “…do allow the footman to move your dinner this way. This is ridiculous for us to be sitting with miles between us. We are not enemies, after all, in spite of your unfortunate family relations.”

  This statement did not seem to set well with Flavion’s cousin either. His head snapped up and he sent a tempered glare in her direction. “I am neither an enemy to my cousin nor to you, my lady.”

  She could not see his face very well, cast in dark shadows by the numerous candles in the sconces along the walls. During their brief acquaintance, Mr. Nottingham had appeared mostly staid and serious-minded, but she knew he had a sense of humor by the slight jokes he’d made at Flavion’s expense. Except that he hadn’t stated them callously; rather, he’d had a hint of affection in his voice on each occasion. It was as though Flavion were more of a younger brother than a cousin to him.

  Hmm, perhaps she ought not to insult her husband’s character if she did not wish to offend Mr. Nottingham.

  “Please, won’t you join me so that we can speak civilly throughout our meal? I will abstain from disparaging your cousin this evening. I promise. Let us have a truce for now.”

  Acquiescing, he nodded and then actually assisted the footman in moving his place setting toward the end of the table where Cecily sat.

  Cecily smiled gratifyingly and took a sip of the soup — and then scrunched up her nose. “Perhaps he left because of the soup. It does taste somewhat off.” She pushed it away and leaned back, eyeing him as he arranged his cutlery in a perfect line. “That’s better, don’t you think?” she said once he appeared to be settled.

  He took a spoonful of soup and grimaced as well. “Good God, what’s in this?”

  Waving her hand, Cecily was unconcerned. “Don’t eat it. I think the meat may have turned.” She gestured to the footman again. “Peters? Will you remove the soup and bring in the next course, please?”

  But Mr. Nottingham was not dissuaded. Pushing back the seat he’d only just occupied, he quickly stood. “Wait a moment.” He held off the servant with his hand then strode down the length of the table. He dipped a spoon into the soup Flavion had been eating and lifted it to his nose. “Flavion’s eaten quite a bit, but his smells fine. Do not eat anything else,” he ordered her before turning toward the footman. “Will you take me to your cook, good man?” Without consulting Cecily any further, he disappeared after the servant with a fixed determination.

  Cecily leaned forward and smelled the soup again. It really was rather revolting.

  Several minutes passed before Mr. Nottingham returned to the dining room, looking even more grim than usual. As this seemed to be his natural demeanor, Cecily wasn’t really fazed. “Did you chastise Flavion’s cook for the bad soup?”

  Mr. Nottingham did not look amused. “I believe it has been doctored intentionally, my lady. By whom, I know not. Your cook says she has had various maids and tradesmen in and out of the kitchen all day and cannot be certain as to who has had access to the dishes being prepared for this evening’s meals.”

  “It’s scarcely nothing more than bad soup.” Cecily tried to reassure him. Really, this man needed to learn how to relax. His brow furrowed, and his eyes looked troubled as he sat back down at the table.
Although, a little voice whispered inside her, he really was adorably handsome when he scowled and bristled about. And, in contrast to the past month, it was nice to feel as though someone other than herself would tend to her wellbeing.

  “No,” he said, casually donning a pair of spectacles that she had not yet seen him wearing. He leaned forward and cautiously dug around the bowl with a fork. “See these leaves? They are wilted and soaked, but I think they were purple. From their shape, I believe them to be monkshood.” He looked up at her meaningfully. “There were not any of them in the pot in the kitchen.”

  “Monkshood? You mean wolfsbane?” She’d heard of it as a child, as there had been a few pockets of it growing on her father’s estate up north. It was very poisonous. She began licking her lips to ascertain that she did not experience any numbness. She knew that to be the first symptom. “But there is none of it in Flavion’s soup?”

  He stood up again and retrieved the soup bowl from the far end of the table. There were no purplish flowers in Flavion’s bowl. Both sat silent, considering the possible ramifications.

  “Were you quite certain that whoever pushed you into the road did not do so intentionally?” Mr. Nottingham asked her, surprising her with his change of subject.

  A chill rolled through Cecily as she recalled the satisfaction on Daphne Cunnington’s face while observing her predicament. “I assumed not. I appreciate that I’m nobody’s favorite countess, but is that motivation enough to do me bodily harm? Would a member of the ton actually act upon their disapproval so violently?”

  “Most likely not,” Stephen said thoughtfully as he removed his spectacles and returned them to his pocket. “Are you quite certain nobody in your father’s employ has discovered the nature of your marriage? Could there be somebody out there who has been given directions to punish your husband for you?”

  “But Flavion’s soup was not poisoned,” she pointed out.

  “This is true. However, it very easily could have been meant for myself and Flave. You may have been served Flavion’s by mistake. Whoever has done this was careless to the extreme. Anybody who consumed the soup would have been violently ill and most likely have died. There is something going on here, and I am going to find out what it is.” He shot her a menacing look.

  Was he warning her? Was he seriously warning her? “I thought we were friends,” she said sulkily. “I promised you that I would not allow my father to kill Flavion. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He seemed to consider his next words carefully but exploded with them nonetheless. “Because, damn it, you left some books in the foyer this afternoon. The titles are not exactly a tribute to the innocent nature of your research.”

  Cecily threw her head back and rolled her eyes. God save her from her friends. “Those were given to me as a joke.”

  “A guide to poisonous plants found in England? And now monkshood in the soup? If you are the culprit who did this, my lady, it was rather clumsily done. You nigh well could have killed yourself in the process.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. I may not be very popular around here, but neither am I an idiot, nor a murderess for that matter!”

  Mr. Nottingham studied her intently for several moments. Then, tossing his napkin onto the table with a heavy sigh, he said, “I know that. I know that you are neither idiot nor murderess.”

  This mollified her somewhat. “Thank you.” She sniffed. “I’d appreciate it if you’d remember both of those sentiments in the future.” She didn’t like that he had thought it for even a moment. She’d thought he was on her side.

  “The remaining courses in the kitchen appear to be untouched, but something like this kills the appetite, I’m afraid.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Would you care to stroll in the garden? Perhaps some fresh air would do us both some good.”

  Cecily nodded. The events of the day were beginning to take their toll on her. The cool of the outdoors was a welcome thought. She stood up and took the arm he offered. He obviously knew the house quite well as he found one of the more obscure exits with no hesitancy whatsoever.

  “When I first became acquainted with Flavion, he told me all about his famously successful, cousin, Stephen. But I realize that, in truth, I know very little of you. Did you spend a great deal of your time as a child here in London?” She suddenly craved a normal conversation — one that didn’t revolve around her marriage, nor poison, nor despicable acts on city sidewalks.

  Mr. Nottingham drew her away from a thorny branch dangling in her path before answering. “Whenever my uncle came to Town, my aunt sent me with him. Flave came up sometimes as well, but she preferred to keep him at home, with her.” He glanced up from the pathway. “The seat of the earldom is in Surrey, in case you didn’t know that.”

  “I did,” she said. “Why didn’t you stay in the country with your aunt and Flavion? Wouldn’t that have been easier? I cannot imagine what a small boy would do in town while your uncle served in parliament.”

  “My aunt,” Mr. Nottingham said, “never really took to me.”

  He said the words casually, but she heard a world of meaning behind them. Suddenly, Cecily understood a little more of why Stephen Nottingham was so very loyal to his uncle.

  “Your uncle treated you like a son,” she surmised. “She cannot have liked that.”

  Mr. Nottingham steered her along the earthen path. “She did not.”

  He had wanted to be accepted. He had wanted to belong. But his aunt had made certain that it had never happened. And in doing so, perhaps she had harmed her son as well.

  When they reached the small gazebo that was the focal point of the garden, Mr. Nottingham indicated she sit down on one of the concrete benches encircling it. Releasing his arm, Cecily did so and watched as he paced in front of her. “What have you done with Chadwick?” He looked around as though expecting to see the very large animal lurking in the garden.

  Which Cecily supposed was a possibility. Except that Chadwick had discovered an endless supply of food.

  “I took him into the kitchen earlier and despite Cook shooing him out several times, he’s taken up temporary residence there.” Cecily imagined the poor thing was making up for missed meals from his days on the street. “I’ll have to work with him. He tends to do what he wants and being so large… he tends to get away with it.”

  Mr. Nottingham’s lip twitched. He was amused for all of twenty seconds before resuming his pacing.

  He took precise steps, eight in one direction and then eight in the opposite. He was obviously contemplating the origin of the monkshood again. That little crease had appeared on his forehead, quite noticeably giving his thoughts away.

  “You worry too much,” Cecily said gently. “Come over here and sit.” Sensing his stubbornness, she rose, grasped his arm, and urged him to take the seat she’d just vacated.

  She then went behind him and put both of her hands upon his shoulders. His muscles were coiled and tight. Instinctively, Cecily moved her hands along his neck and began to knead and massage the cords there. She’d done this many a time for her father when he’d spent too much time examining paperwork at his desk.

  Using her thumbs, she pressed hard, small circles into the tense muscles until they began to relax. As they loosened, her hands continued their exploration. Too late, Cecily realized, this was quite different than touching her father.

  When she slid her fingers up the back of his head, into his crisp clean hair, he sighed deeply. The scent of his soap or cologne, she wasn’t certain which, tantalized her senses. The spicy warmth tugged at her to lean forward and inhale deeply.

  With each stroke of her hands, the garden seemed to grow smaller and smaller. Merely intending to help Mr. Nottingham relax, she was surprised at how much touching him affected her.

  Reaching forward, placing her hands on both sides of his neck, she could barely make out the flutter of his pulse.

  His chin fell forward. At last, he’d surrender to her touch.

 
She would stop, but not yet. Just a little longer…

  It ought not to, but touching him… made her feel, somehow, alive again — for the moment anyhow.

  Working behind him still, she smoothed the skin on his brow. With his eyes closed, he shifted on the bench and relaxed into her. Cradling him now, she continued tracing and massaging the contours of his face, and then… her hands slipped beneath the fabric of his cravat.

  Whereas his jaw was rough from a day’s worth of stubble, the skin around his shoulders was warm and smooth. She wondered what it would feel like against her lips.

  All of a sudden, this did not feel so innocent.

  As though he had read her mind, he tipped his head back, forcing her ministrations to a halt.

  Stormy blue eyes gazed at her with a myriad of sentiments. Passion, guilt, accusation, and confusion. He reached up and stilled her hands. This was madness, but neither of them seemed willing to move away from the other.

  “Stephen!” A voice from the terrace jerked them both out of the trance they’d fallen into. “Stephen!”

  Ah, yes. Flavion.

  Mr. Nottingham sat up, unhurried, and used his hands to smooth down his hair. “We’re over here, Flave,” he called back, “by the gazebo.”

  Cecily stepped away from the bench and made herself appear preoccupied by a raised flowerbed nearby. From the constricted feeling in her chest, she could not deny the extent to which she’d been disturbed by that moment of intimacy. Mr. Nottingham, Stephen, appeared unaffected, however, as he brushed a speck of dust from his jacket.

  “Damn rosebush.” Cecily heard Flavion mutter before bursting out from the walkway and catching sight of them. “Oh, you are with her.” He sounded disappointed. “Cook told me about the soup. You are not ill, are you Stephen?” The annoyance on his face was replaced with concern for his cousin.

  “I’m fine,” Mr. Nottingham answered, “and so is your wife. The plant was in both of our bowls, but not in yours.”