reached Isabella’s door with Lord Darlington right on her heels.
He leaned a hip against the door frame, a smirk on his lips. “I thought I’d bid Isabella goodnight. That is, if you don’t object?”
“I—no, of course not, my lord.” Cecilia’s cheeks heated. What had she thought he was doing? Following her?
She opened the door and found Amy seated in the rocking chair with Isabella fussing on her lap. She looked up in relief when Cecilia entered. “Oh, thank goodness you’re back, Cecilia. I hope you’re ready to sing yourself hoarse, because the poor little thing’s been fussing since—”
Amy’s words faded to silence when Lord Darlington stepped into the room behind Cecilia. He took one look at Isabella’s tear-streaked face, strode over to the rocking chair, and held out his arms. “Give her to me, please, Amy.”
“Yes, my lord.” Amy rose to her feet and held Isabella out toward her uncle. “Here you are.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried to the door, her wide eyes meeting Cecilia’s for a fleeting glance before she went out, leaving Cecilia alone with Lord Darlington.
Cecilia stood awkwardly by the door, but she might as well not have been there at all for all the notice Lord Darlington paid her. All his attention was focused on Isabella. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Why all the tears?”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” Isabella said, with a pathetic sniffle.
“Well, then. Let’s finish our story first. Would you like that?”
Isabella rubbed the tears from her eyes with her little fists. “The story about the snow castle?”
“That very one.”
“Yes, please.” Isabella’s mouth was still trembling, but she snuggled against her uncle’s chest.
Lord Darlington tucked the child’s head under his chin and began his story, his tone low and soothing. Cecilia couldn’t hear what he said—something about building a castle in the snow—but it didn’t matter. It was the deep rumble of his voice that caught her attention, the drift of his long fingers through the golden-brown locks of Isabella’s hair.
She perched on the edge of her cot, watching the firelight play over Lord Darlington’s features, gilding him, blurring his harsh edges. She searched his face for any hint of cruelty, any trace of the brutality of which he’d been accused.
There was nothing.
There was just him. Big, gentle hands, dark hair curling against his neck, his long eyelashes shadowing his cheeks, the curve of his jaw and the vulnerable pulse at this throat, the movement of his full lips as he made his whispered promises to Isabella.
Cecilia couldn’t take her eyes off him.
How could such a man as this, a man who touched a child with such care, who spoke to her with such tenderness, be guilty of murdering his wife?
For that one instant, in that one suspended moment, it seemed impossible to Cecilia Lord Darlington could have committed such a crime. If he hadn’t, if the malicious gossip was false, and he was innocent, what must his life have been like this past year?
The man in the portrait, that young, handsome man, his face glowing with anticipation and promise, to have had his future stolen from him, his every hope dashed by ugly rumors. The misery, the wretchedness and pain of such a thing made Cecilia’s breath catch hard in her throat. She tried to choke back the sound, but Lord Darlington heard it, and his gaze jerked to her face.
They didn’t speak. Not a single word passed between them, but even as Cecilia told herself to look away, his dark blue eyes, eyes full of secrets and shadows, held her trapped. The fire crackled, and Isabella sighed in her sleep. Warmth flooded Cecilia’s belly and rushed over her skin, and her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.
Still, their gazes held.
Her lips parted. For an instant his eyes dropped to her mouth, and Cecilia felt her tongue creep out to touch her bottom lip. He followed the movement, and a sound tore from his throat, a growl or a gasp.
He rose from the chair and took a step toward her, his eyes darkening to a turbulent blue when she didn’t back away from him. “Don’t…look at me like that.”
Cecilia swallowed, but when she spoke her voice was so breathy, she hardly recognized it as her own. “How…how am I looking at you?”
His heated gaze swept over her, lingering on the curves of her hips and breasts and tracing the lines of her neck. “As if you want—”
But Cecilia never found out how she looked, or what she wanted, because Isabella