snatched up a knife and began a violent assault on it with her polishing cloth, her lips pressed tightly together.
“You’re in a bit of a temper this evening, eh?” Amy set aside her cloth with a sigh when Cecilia remained silent. “It’s Isabella’s bedtime, anyway. Let me just go and fetch the last tray of spoons, then you can go up.”
Cecilia set aside the spoon in her hand with a trifle more force than needed, and snatched up another one, but as she attacked the tarnished crest engraved in the handle, her conscience began to prick at her.
Amy wasn’t to blame for her vile mood. She’d been on edge since Miss Honeywell mentioned Sophia’s name today, and goodness knew her stinging palm and Mrs. Honeywell’s poisonous tongue didn’t help matters.
“I beg your pardon for my snappishness,” she said, when she heard Amy’s step behind her. “I’m afraid Mrs. Honeywell’s ill humor put me out of temper.”
“That’s not any way to talk about my future mother-in-law, Cecilia.”
Cecilia’s hand froze on the spoon.
Lord Darlington’s soft, husky laugh brushed across her nerve endings. “Well? Nothing to say for yourself? I don’t recall that ever happening before.”
Cecilia turned, her face on fire. Lord Darlington was standing in the doorway, one hip leaning against the frame and his arms crossed over his chest.
She wished with everything inside her the floor would open up and swallow her whole, but it wouldn’t, and so she did the only thing she could do. She raised her chin, and met his gaze. “Surely you didn’t come to the butler’s pantry to hear my opinion, my lord.”
“No. I came to have a look at your injury.” He sauntered toward her and held out his hand when he reached her side. “Let me see it.”
Cecilia hesitated, her breath catching. It didn’t seem a good idea to turn any part of her body over to Lord Darlington just now, not when a delicious shiver chased up her spine every time she thought about his large, warm hand cradling hers earlier today. “I, ah…there’s no need, my lord. It’s fine.”
He raised that commanding eyebrow at her, and she held out her hand, swallowing.
He caught her wrist, his fingertips grazing her knuckles as he unwound the linen cloth Mrs. Briggs had wrapped around her hand to protect the wound. The glass had left a livid red gash across her palm, and the skin around it was swollen. He frowned when he saw it, and raised those blue, blue eyes to hers. “Does it hurt?”
His voice was soft, his tone unbearably gentle, and for a single, blissful instant Cecilia let her eyes drift closed to savor it. “A little.”
He traced a finger over the uninjured part of her palm. A soft gasp broke from Cecilia’s lips before she could stop it, and his gaze flew to hers. They stared at each other, one moment after the next ticking by without either of them looking away.
He stepped closer, crowding her against the table at her back, the heat from his big body making Cecilia’s head spin with dizzying awareness. “Miss Honeywell seems to be quite certain she knows you, Cecilia. She mentioned it again at tea.”
Cecilia’s heart began a panicked thrashing against her ribs. “She’s mistaken.”
“Is she?” He touched her chin, tipping her face up to his. “Or are you lying to me?”
“I-I’m not lying.” Dear God, how could he smell so divine? Cool and soft, like a silent snowfall, a faint hint of port on his breath.
He pressed his fingertips more firmly into her chin, titling her head back. “You say so, but I don’t know if I believe you, Cecilia. I don’t know if I’ve ever believed you. What will I do with you if I find out you’ve lied to me?”
It might have been an innocent question, but the wicked edge to his voice turned it dark and sultry, as if he’d already made up his mind what he’d do to her, and was very much looking forward to doing it.
“I-I don’t know, my lord.” Cecilia fought to keep her eyes from dropping to half-mast as his warm breath drifted over her, stirring the loose hair at her temples. “I suppose you’d have no choice but to order me to leave Darlington Castle.”
The corners of his lips curved. “I already tried that. You gave me the scold of a lifetime for my troubles.”
“One doesn’t scold a marquess, my lord.” She meant the words lightly, but the stroke of his fingers against her skin