on always being ladylike and correct—had behaved so out of character.
‘Mayhap you are right and it was the effects of the moonlight,’ she said. ‘You were not thinking clearly. You were angry with me for prying into your life.’
Thea had already warned her that Mr Gray was a very private man. She should have taken heed.
He laughed. ‘That, sweet dove, was not an angry kiss. It was not a punishment; it was self-indulgence. I have wanted to kiss you ever since I first set eyes on you in the church.’
Her insides lurched and heat washed over her face at the thought that such a virile man—such an intelligent and thoughtful man—could look at her in such a way.
‘And I was not angry with you for prying,’ he went on. ‘You wanted to know something about me and you are entitled to ask. But, likewise, I am entitled not to answer.’ He smiled, taking the sting from his words. ‘I should not have walked away from you as I did.’
‘Walked? That was very nearly a run.’ She was desperate to lighten the mood. ‘But I shall accept you do not wish to tell me about your life.’
‘It is not—’
He stiffened, tilting his head to one side. Cecily listened, but could hear nothing.
‘They are calling for you,’ he said. ‘You had better make haste.’ He pointed at the archway that led back into the garden.
Guilt intertwined with the dread that her brothers would find her out. They would be furious, but with Mr Gray, not with her. They would blame him entirely. She would not allow that to happen. He had helped her and she would protect him in return. Somehow, she now felt better able to cope with the changes in her life.
She faced him, and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for listening, Mr Gray.’
He stilled. He stared down at Cecily’s outthrust hand for so long, she feared she had transgressed another of his unwritten laws. As she began to withdraw it, though, he grasped it and closed his fingers around it, saying, ‘Zach. Call me Zach.’
His touch sent tingles racing up her arm and another flush to heat her cheeks. The memory of his lips on hers seared her brain.
‘Zach?’
‘Zachary. That is my name.’
‘But...Absalom. They said you are Absalom Gray.’
She stared up at him. At the intensity of his expression.
‘Absalom is my middle name. I should like to hear my given name on your lips, but I shall not insist. You must do as you wish.’
As I wish... It reinforced the message he had tried to convey about her future. She could choose.
She smiled. ‘Zachary, then. Thank you for listening, Zach.’
He bowed over her hand, turned it and feathered warm, soft lips across the sensitive skin at her wrist and then, in that same calm, unhurried manner, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing her lace glove. He slid it on to her hand and smoothed it along her forearm. Tingles changed into sparks that radiated throughout her body and a feeling of nervy anticipation coiled in the pit of her stomach.
‘You are welcome, Cecily.’
His voice, again, flowed around and through her, melting and comforting. Flustered, she snatched her hand from his and, grabbing at her skirts, she dashed through the archway and past the raised pool, towards the voices she could now hear clearly, raised in worry as they called her name.
She was out of breath by the time she met the first of the searchers, Leo, his brow creased and his eyes full of fear in the light of the lantern he held aloft.
‘Cecily! Thank God! I thought... I thought...’ His voice cracked. ‘Where have you been?’ He raised his voice. ‘It’s all right. I’ve found her.’
He reached for her and pulled her into a tight hug. Guilt pressed on Cecily. She knew, better than most, how Leo worried about his family. How responsible he felt. His first wife had been murdered—in a summer house at Cheriton Abbey—and he had never forgiven himself for his failure to protect her.
‘Leo. I am safe. I’m sorry. I wandered further than I realised. I did not mean to be gone for so long, but it is such a lovely evening and...’
She shrugged. She could say no more. She had wandered too far and forgotten the time. He would have to accept that.
The sound of feet running grew louder, then Vernon, Dominic and Daniel Markham burst into view as Leo released her.
‘Cecily!’ Vernon grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. ‘What happened? This isn’t like you, going off on your own.’
She bit back the irritated riposte that threatened to burst from her lips. Her brothers would never see her as anything other than their little sister. Someone who needed their protection, even though she had been the one to keep the family strong when Margaret died, leaving three young children motherless.
‘I was too warm indoors, Vernon, and I chose to come outside and breathe the fresh air.’ Her choice of words brought Zach’s image into her mind: his dark, chiselled face with its straight nose and slashed brows. Those brooding eyes. That exotic diamond in his ear.
Yes. I chose to go outside. He has a point...so many times I only do as expected and allowed.
‘The scent of the roses lured me into the garden,’ she continued. ‘There is no harm done.’ Her gaze swept across the faces of the four men. Three of them looked mollified, to varying degrees. Leo, though—it was never an easy thing to fool her perceptive oldest brother. ‘Come. Let us go indoors before you contrive to set everyone else into an unnecessary panic.’
Vernon slung his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on to her hair. ‘Pleased it was a false alarm, Cilly.’
Cecily shrugged his arm away. ‘And don’t call me Cilly.’
Trust Vernon; he never missed an opportunity to tease and he knew only too well how she detested that stupid childhood nickname. They had reached the terrace, then they were inside the brightly lit drawing room and Cecily donned her accustomed mantle of perfect society lady and mingled and chatted, but there was a tiny part of her that remained separate and secluded from the hubbub, and in her mind’s eye she saw Zach’s hands, cupped in that unconscious gesture of protection and that tiny part of her felt...safe.
* * *
Zach hunkered down as he fed sticks into the fire two mornings later. Shades of pink and orange brushed the horizon as dawn approached. Another restless night had seen him up even earlier than usual, intent on moving on. No good could come of lingering, of seeing her again. Cecily. Lady Perfect. The name he had dubbed her with sounded harsh, but it served a useful purpose. Its use whenever he thought of her—as he had frequently since their encounter in the moonlight two nights ago—kept the impossibility of anything other than a brief friendship to the forefront of his mind. It would help to stop him indulging in the fantasy of anything more.
He set a tripod frame over the flames and placed a skillet on top, adding a
