Lady Cecily And The Mysterious Mr Gray. Janice Preston

Well...’ Cecily glanced back towards the house, her heart skittering in her chest. ‘I really must be getting back.’

      ‘Is that what you wish to do?’

      ‘I...’ She stared up at him. ‘That is an odd question.’

      ‘Is it? It is simple to me. Either you wish to return, or you feel you must return. They are different.’

      Cecily’s brows twitched into a frown. ‘I shouldn’t be out here alone with you.’

      He ran his fingernails along his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the hush of the evening. ‘You think you are in danger from me?’

      ‘I... No. I did not mean that. It is not proper, however. I have my reputation to consider.’

      His teeth gleamed in a smile and he gestured at the expanse of garden between them and the house. ‘There is no one to see us. No one to question us. No one to condemn. And we are fellow guests, talking.’

      Put like that...he was right, but she found his logic infuriating. Did he not understand? But of course he would not understand...he was a gipsy. What did he know of etiquette and the strictures of society?

      ‘Let us walk a while. Tell me why you are troubled.’

      Cecily gasped at such impertinence. ‘Troubled?’

      Outrageous! She should walk away. Now. She should refuse to engage with him. But instead she laughed. It was intended to be a dismissive laugh, but it emerged as a high-pitched squeak and her cheeks grew hot. ‘I am not troubled.’

      ‘Then why do you walk out here alone?’

      ‘I needed some air. And you, Mr Gray?’

      He tilted his head to the night sky and inhaled. Instead of a tight-fitting neckcloth such as the other gentlemen wore, a simple blue cravat encircled his neck and was loosely knotted at his chest. His neck as he looked skywards was thick and strong, his shoulders wide and straight, his chest broad. The power of the man was undeniable and yet... Cecily consulted her instincts. She had no fear of him. Her only fear—no, that was too strong—her only apprehension was being seen. Mr Gray’s coat gaped open as his chest swelled with his indrawn breath, revealing an unbuttoned, brightly patterned waistcoat with a gold watch chain dangling loose from its top pocket and, beneath that, a pale shirt.

      ‘I, too, needed air.’

      He studied her once more. She saw again the glimmer of white as he huffed a quiet laugh and she suddenly felt rather breathless.

      ‘It is one thing we have in common then.’ His voice—warm and melodious—seemed to curl around her. ‘I thought there might be...something.’

      His eyes were fixed on her face and, her mouth dry, she moistened her lips.

      ‘I... I do not know what you mean.’

      He said nothing, but continued to watch her. Cecily shivered. She really ought to return. If her family realised she was missing, they would worry. She was jolted from her thoughts as Mr Gray shrugged out of his jacket and settled it over her shoulders. If she’d realised his intention, she would have refused the jacket, fretting about dirt, lice and fleas, and unclean practices. Her keen sense of smell, however, detected nothing more than the intermingled scents of woodsmoke, musky male and soap. She felt her tense muscles relax and she hugged the edges of the jacket across her chest as the warmth seeped into her chilled flesh.

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You are welcome, Lady Cecily.’

      ‘You disappeared after the breakfast. Where did you go?’

      ‘I am flattered you noticed.’

      ‘I believe Mr Markham remarked upon your absence.’ It was a lie, but she would not have him know she had been watching him. Or, in truth, been fascinated by him. ‘Is your...er...tribe staying hereabouts?’

      ‘No. I have come alone.’

      ‘So where did you go?’

      He stepped back. ‘I am a free man. I go where I please.’

      ‘Of course you are. I apologise. I did not mean this to sound like an interrogation.’

      He inclined his head, but said nothing further.

      Cecily frowned. ‘You do not sound like a gipsy.’

      ‘And how should a gipsy sound, in your vast experience, my lady?’

      She stiffened, her chin lifting, irritated by his readiness to take offence.

      ‘In my experience,’ she said, haughtily, ‘gipsies often speak with a foreign accent. I merely meant you sound as English as I.’

      She swung his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him. ‘Thank you. I am warm enough now. I must return to the party.’

      He reached and in one smooth movement took his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. He then grasped her hand before she could withdraw it, his warm fingers closing around hers.

      ‘I was born in England. And we prefer to call ourselves Romanies, or the Rom.’

      It was not an apology, but she was mollified nevertheless. Mr Gray gave the impression of a man not given to apologies or explanations.

      ‘I shall endeavour to remember that,’ she said, by way of appeasement.

      Although her brain instructed her to snatch her hand from his, she allowed it to remain—intrigued by the unexpected gentleness of his touch as he unhurriedly removed her evening glove, and strangely soothed by the caress of his thumb as it circled her palm.

      ‘And is your mind now trouble free?’ His intense gaze bored into her. ‘I watched you. In the church.’

      His words reignited her fears for her future as she had watched Vernon and Thea exchange their vows and her inner turmoil erupted anew. She pressed her free hand to her belly in a futile attempt to calm her nerves.

      ‘And now I ask myself why the sister of a rich and powerful duke should have any reason to be unhappy.’

      ‘Unhappy?’

      He shrugged, his thumb still circling her palm in that spellbinding way, and by concentrating on that motion her inner chaos subsided again. His free arm slid around her waist and his hand settled at the small of her back. With a gentle nudge, he turned her to continue to follow the path and she found herself walking side by side with Mr Gray away from the house and deeper into the garden, even though his palm was no longer at her back and he had at some point released her hand. Cecily swallowed.

       I should not go with him. I really should not.

      ‘Walk with me. I will listen.’

      He halted and so did she. He touched his finger to her chin...such a fleeting touch. ‘I will not judge.’

      Then he began to stroll along the path again.

      And so did Cecily.

      Yet again, all the precepts of her upbringing screamed at her to return to the house. To surround herself with...normal...people. To do and behave as would be expected of her and as she expected of herself, as she had done her entire life. But the urge to unburden herself was stronger. There was nobody in her life she could confide in. Not about this.

       Maybe...

      She stole a glance at the man by her side. His expression gave away nothing of his thoughts, but it was relaxed. Not tense, closed off, secretive or eager, just...he was just...

      He is present...neither planning tomorrow nor brooding over yesterday.

      The words whispered out of nowhere and she recognised them as the truth. He was calm and unhurried. Not impatiently waiting for her to respond, like most men of her acquaintance