A Bride for the Prizefighter - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,51
gleamed, and she wondered if it was with amusement or some other emotion. He held on to her hand for a beat longer than she thought was correct form, then released it, leaving her with an impression of callouses.
Feeling strangely winded by the experience, Mina turned back hurriedly for the inn. She rubbed her own palm as she mounted the stairs, remembering his knuckles had been bloody the first night she had met him.
“It’s all going to be fine,” she told Cecily.
“You still have it!” Cecily exclaimed, turning from the dresser excitedly. “The little china dog I bought you for a keepsake!”
“Of course,” Mina replied, remembering how mercurial Cecily’s temperament could be.
“Do you remember what we called it?”
“I’m afraid not,” she admitted, reaching for Cecily’s bonnet and cloak.
“Lulu,” Cecily supplied happily. She kept up a happy and constant prattle for the next ten minutes without once asking Mina what she had been doing in the three years since last they met. Mina led her down the stairs to the stables, Cecily talking nineteen to the dozen about her fellow ex-pupils and questioning if Mina had kept up with any of them. “Did you hear?” she asked as Mina helped her up into the unassuming black coach that waited for them. “That Polly married a curate. A curate?” she repeated, looking around, her eyes very wide. “Can you imagine?”
“I did hear,” Mina admitted. “Lucy Williams wrote to me a couple of times and she was a bridesmaid if I remember correctly.”
“Lucy was?” Cecily cried in surprise. “How extraordinary! They were never terribly close in school. Did she tell you any particulars? Polly always used to say she would only marry if she were permitted to wear satin, orange blossom, and pearls. Do you remember? I doubt a clergyman would allow such extravagance in his spouse.”
Mina glanced up at Nye, who was sat impassively in the driver’s seat. He cocked an eye at her. “You sure you wouldn’t rather sit up here?” he asked dryly.
Mina sent him a quelling look as she followed Cecily into the carriage. It was true, Cecily was rather voluble, but she had a good heart, nonetheless.
The journey passed quickly, and Cecily’s loquaciousness was unabating until they arrived in the vicinity of her guardian’s property, then she began to fidget nervously. “You will come in with me, Miss Walters, won’t you?” she asked, turning her eyes on Mina in mute appeal.
“Of course.”
“Oh dear,” Cecily faltered. “Whatever shall I say to Sir Matthew? He’s sure to be much put out.”
“I’m afraid he will,” Mina agreed gravely. “Anyone would be Cecily, but I’m sure his most uppermost concern will be your welfare and reputation.”
Cecily bit her lip and nodded but was inclined to be tearful once again. “I wish I’d never met him!” she wept into her handkerchief. “Mr. Brison,” she added, looking up. “Not Sir Matthew. How shocking,” she reflected. “That such a fair face could disguise so vicious a nature,” she shuddered. “Why, it’s just like your tale about that wicked young gambler who haunted that highwayman,” she observed, surprising Mina a good deal. “Do you remember how his well-molded lips concealed his snarling predatory sneer?”
Mina blushed at the recollection of her florid prose. “He looked to me,” she said aloud. “Like he would run to corpulency in his middle age and likely suffer from the gout.”
Cecily’s mouth fell open. “No, really?” she breathed in horror. “Do you think so?”
“That type so often does,” Mina observed impassively, rightly judging this assessment would cause the last of Mr. Brinson’s glamor to fade forever.
“How hideous,” Cecil gasped. “Apparently, that curate Polly married is so unworldly that he often forgets to take his meals, unless he is prompted. Fancy that!”
“He must be the scholastic type,” Mina agreed. “My own father was rather like that.” She turned to look at Cecily to see if that prompted even a question as to her old headmaster’s whereabouts, but Cecily just smiled vaguely.
“I still could not marry a clergyman though,” she responded, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Not even if he was practically a saint!”
10
Sir Matthew was a lean man in his late thirties with a hawk-like face and shrewd pale eyes. He was stiff with outrage by the incoherent and tearful tale his charge laid before him. Mina was obliged to both remind Sir Matthew of their previous acquaintance and at times to make sense of Cecily’s tale which was interspersed with bursts of violent weeping and self-recriminations.