Rescued From Ruin. Georgie Lee

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      Randall dropped his hand on Reverend’s head, anger seething inside him. He’d obeyed his father for years, taken every insult heaped on him and more, thinking one day the old man would look at him with the same affection he saved for the portrait, but he hadn’t, and tonight Randall realised he never would. I’m not staying here any longer. Uncle Edmund has invited me to live at the manor. I’m going there and I’m not coming back.

      You think because you’ll be a Marquess some day, you’re too good for a simple vicarage. Well, you’re not. His father snatched the poker from the fireplace and Randall took a step back. You think I don’t know how you and my brother laugh at me, how you mocked me when you named that wretched dog he gave you.

      He levelled the poker at Reverend and a low growl rolled through the gangly puppy.

      Well, no more, his father spat. You killed the one person I loved most in this world, then turned my brother and sister against me. You have no idea how it feels to lose so much, but you will when I take away something you love. He focused on Reverend and raised the poker over his head.

      No! Randall rushed at his father, catching the poker just as his father brought it down, the hard metal slamming into his palm and sending a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He tried to wrench the iron from his father’s hand, but the old man held on tight, fighting with a strength fuelled by hate. Reverend’s sharp barks pierced the room as Randall shoved his father against the wall, his other arm across his chest, pinning him like a wild animal until his father’s fingers finally opened and the poker clattered to the floor.

      I hate you. You killed her, he hissed before the deep lines of his face softened, his jaw sagged open and his body slumped forward on to Randall’s chest.

      Randall struggled to hold his father’s limp weight as he lowered him to the floor, then knelt next to him, panic replacing his anger as he patted his face, trying to rouse him. Father? Father?

      A faint gurgle filled his father’s throat before his eyes focused on Randall’s. Reverend whimpered behind him, as if he, too, sensed what was coming.

      Father, forgive me, Randall pleaded.

      You aren’t worthy— he slurred before his head dropped forward and he slumped to the side.

      The room went quiet, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and Reverend’s panting.

      Randall rose, stumbling backwards before gripping a table to steady himself. Reverend came to sit beside him and he dropped his hand on the dog’s soft head. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I didn’t mean to— kill him.

      A gust of wind blew a fury of raindrops against the window, startling Randall. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get help, to tell Aunt Ella and Uncle Edmund.

      The poker lay on the floor next to the wrinkled edge of the rug. With a trembling hand, he picked it up and returned it to the holder. With the toe of one boot, he straightened the rug, careful not to look at the dark figure near the white wall. Then he turned and left, Reverend trotting beside him out into the icy rain.

      * * *

      Randall opened his eyes and knelt down next to Reverend, rubbing the dog’s back, struggling to calm the guilt tearing through him. He’d walked through the freezing rain back to the manor, then stood dripping and shivering as he’d told Aunt Ella he’d come home to find his father collapsed. The doctor had said it was his father’s heart that had killed him. Randall had never told anyone the truth, except Cecelia.

      His hands stopped rubbing Reverend and the dog licked his fingers, eager for more. Randall noticed with a twinge of sadness the grey fur around Reverend’s black muzzle. ‘I wonder if you’d remember her.’

      ‘Did you say something, my lord?’ Mr Joshua asked.

      ‘No, nothing.’

      The small clock on the side table chimed a quarter past twelve.

      ‘Will you be going out again tonight, my lord?’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Randall stood, shaking off the memories, but the old emotions hovered around him, faint and fading like the waking end of a dream: vulnerability, uncertainty, innocence, regret. In the end, he’d driven Cecelia away, too horrified by what he’d done to keep close the one person who knew his secret. His father had never forgiven him. Would Cecelia have forgiven him back then? He’d never had the courage to ask her.

      ‘Keeping such hours, society will think you’ve gone respectable,’ Mr Joshua joked, ‘then every matron with a marriageable daughter will be here at the door. I’ll have so many cards stacked up we won’t need kindling all winter.’

      Randall frowned, hearing the truth in his jest. No, he wasn’t going to spend the night wallowing in the past like his father used to do. Those days were far behind him, just like his relationship with Cecelia. At the end of that summer, they’d both made their choices. He refused to regret his.

      ‘I’m going to my club.’ He patted Reverend, then flicked his hand at the bed. ‘Up you go.’

      The dog jumped up on the wide bed, turning around before settling into the thick coverlet, watching as Mr Joshua helped Randall on with his coat.

      Randall straightened the cravat in the mirror, then headed for the door. ‘Don’t expect me back until morning.’

      * * *

      Cecelia sat in the turned-wood chair next to the small fireplace in her bedroom, staring at the dark fireback. Still dressed in her evening clothes, she shivered, having forgotten how cold London could be even in the spring, but she didn’t burn any coal. She couldn’t afford it.

      She closed her eyes and thought of the warm Virginia nights heavy with moisture, the memory of the cicadas’ songs briefly drowning out the clop of carriage horses on the street outside.

      The sound drew her back to Lady Weatherly’s and the sight of Randall approaching from across the salon. He’d moved like the steady current of the James River, every step threatening to shatter her calm like a tidal surge driven inland by a hurricane. She’d known he’d be there tonight. Madame de Badeau had mentioned it yesterday, leaving Cecelia to imagine scenario after scenario of how they might meet. Not once did she picture his blue eyes tempting her with the same desire she used to catch in the shadowed hallways of Falconbridge Manor. Back then every kiss was stolen, each moment of pleasure fumbling and uncertain.

      There was nothing uncertain about Randall tonight, only a strength emphasised by his broad shoulders and the height he’d gained since she’d last seen him. Her body hummed with the memory of him standing so close, his musky cologne and hot breath tempting her more than his innuendoes and illicit suggestions. Yet she’d caught something else hovering in the tension beneath his heated look—a frail connection she wanted to touch and hold.

      She opened her eyes and smacked her hand hard against the chair’s arm, the sting bringing her back to her senses. There’d never been a connection between them, only the daydreams of a girl too naive to realise a future Marquess would never lower himself to save her. He hadn’t then and, with all his wealth and privilege, he certainly wouldn’t now, no matter how many tempting suggestions he threw her way. No, he would be among the first to laugh and sneer if the truth of her situation was ever revealed, and if she could help it, it never would be.

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