Free The Waylaid Heart by Holly Newman Page B

as he descended the steps; then his attention was claimed by Miss Cresswell. The exchange of glances was so swift, so casual, it might not even have existed. Yet in its wake, Cecilia's chest hurt, as if metal bands were wound about her constricting her breathing. A sudden spring chill in the air sent reflexive shivers radiating through her body. She pulled at her shawl and threw one end across her chest to drape over her other shoulder. Her chin rose and she pulled every ounce of her short stature up in an illusion of height. Cool elegance touched her features while the breeze tugged at the confining pins anchoring her silver-blond hair high on her head. The wind was winning. Gossamer wisps of spun silver twisted free in the wind, blowing across still features that might have been carved in stone.
    Sir James Branstoke exchanged greetings with the Duke and Duchess of Houghton and gave Miss Cresswell and her mother an arm to lead them toward the elegant Elizabethan mansion and the two women standing in front of its heavy, carved oak door. His sleepy gaze missed no detail of Mrs. Waddley's still form.
    Mrs. Waddley, he surmised with masculine satisfaction, was aware of him in more ways than that of guest or male acquaintance. It was evident in the arrogant little tilt to her head and the studied neutral defiance underlying her calm, set features. That awareness pleased him, first as a man and second as an explanation for her recent behavior.
    Since the evening of the Italian Opera, he'd noted a determined effort on her part to stay out of his orb. When she failed and they did meet to exchange pleasantries, her voice was abnormally high, her manner a trifle arch. She was quick to include others in their conversations then beg out owing to the incipient onset of some illness or another. Then she would scurry away to virtually hide behind Lady Meriton's skirts, leaving that poor woman to make her excuses.
    Mrs. Waddley's machinations amused him, and until now he'd been content to allow escape for he realized his observation concerning dragons upset her badly. When he made the statement he drew bow at a chance. His aim was true. The comment caused her eyes to flare wide, revealing midnight, nightmares, and fear in their fathomless blue depths. She was neither ready nor able to trust him. From her haunted look, he guessed she found trust difficult under the best of circumstances. Before his eyes, she'd withdrawn physically and emotionally to become a mere husk. Mechanically she'd bid him goodnight and fled into the house.
    The memory of her besieged expression was etched in his mind. Since that evening, he'd endeavored to foster his own set of false impressions, to shore up his image as an innocuous, phlegmatic gentleman of pleasant company. For reasons as yet unclear even to himself, he wanted her to trust him. He possessed an unusual, quixotic desire to play knight errant to her damsel in distress and rescue her from the dragons that plagued her. Setting Hewitt to investigate Thornbridge hardened his determination. Romley's recent report from Hewitt stated Thornbridge was making discrete inquiries into Randolph Haukstrom's finances. The reason or object of the inquiries was as yet unknown, but Branstoke would wager it was at Mrs. Waddley's direction. What was her purpose?
    He anticipated discovering answers at this house party. She could not as assiduously avoid him in company here as she did in London. However, he would neither startle her with his attentions, nor allow her to ignore his presence. It was really a stroke of genius that led him to accompany the Cresswells to the Houghton estate. He knew it allayed Mrs. Waddley's fears, yet he hoped it also piqued her. His wry smile broadened as he approached her. He found himself wondering which way his absurd little rabbit would jump.
    Cecilia knew she had to get herself in hand. Her breathing was much too fast and the beating of her heart sounded abnormally loud in her ears. There