ran into the man walking toward her.
“Cecily Faire.”
Cecily flinched. The voice rang as familiar and as true as her most trusted memory. She did not need to see the face, for although the timbre was deeper and the tone rougher, she would recognize the voice anywhere.
Andrew Moreton.
She ceased walking, held her breath, and kept her eyes fixed on the stone path before her.
He repeated himself. “Miss Faire, can it be?”
She slowly lifted her eyes, half fearing the image that would greet her. There he stood, leading a giant black horse by a gloved hand.
Indeed, Andrew Moreton stood confident and calm, as if they had seen each other the previous day instead of the five years it had been.
Laughter lightened his voice, the smile she remembered so vividly brightening his expression. “Are you a dream? A vision?”
Every drop of blood in her body had surely sunk to her toes. A mixture of shock and dread gripped her. What must Rebecca be thinking, now that a strange man was greeting her with such familiarity?
In the midst of her shock, she managed to find her voice and curtsey. “Mr. Moreton.”
She hoped that Rebecca took no notice of how he assessed her. How his eyes lingered too long on her lips. Her gown. She ran a hand over the borrowed clothes, feeling suddenly self-conscious of the dirt that had gathered along the hem on their walk.
“I confess, Miss Faire—” He stopped short. “It is still Miss Faire, is it not? Or has some fortunate man given you his name?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Yes, sir. I am Cecily Faire.”
A twinkle shone in his dark eyes. “This is a most pleasant surprise. I must ask, how is it that you have come to be at Willowgrove Hall? Did you come to see me, I wonder?”
Her face flamed at the flirtation.
But how like the Andrew she remembered. In her younger days his irreverence of social customs had been exciting. Now it embarrassed her.
He was looking at her, speaking with her as if he were a casual acquaintance. She forced herself to meet his gaze, the dark, warm eyes that had been party to her dreams—and nightmares—sofrequently over the past several years. “I am to be Mrs. Trent’s companion.”
He jerked his head to the side, his casual countenance fading. “Not Harriet Trent?”
She nodded, and at her response he laughed loudly, leaving Cecily confused. “I daresay, Miss Faire, if anyone will be able to handle my aunt, it will be you.”
She smiled, but the humor he found in the situation was lost on her. “Your aunt?”
“Yes. Harriet Trent is my aunt. She is my father’s sister. Perhaps you do not remember.” He sobered. “I suppose those days were very long ago.”
The weight of the words bore down with relentless pressure. She tried to digest each bit of information, knowing that she would want to revisit it in the quiet of solitude, but her brain seemed incapable of such a task.
From somewhere off in the distance, a soft, feminine voice called his name.
He looked in the direction of the voice and adjusted his grip on his mount’s reins. “You will forgive me if I hurry off. I must join my guests.”
And as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving Cecily barely able to breathe.
She would not panic. She refused to cry.
Cecily turned into the wind, allowing the crisp spring breeze to dissipate the moisture that was gathering. Gone were the beauty and the wonder of this place. Instead, the walls and trees around her seemed to close in. The pain and fear from years ago rushed her, stealing her breath.
Had she really just spoken with Andrew Moreton? Or was he a vapor, released from her past? Had he smiled at her? Engaged her in a simple conversation?
“Miss Faire?”
Cecily felt Rebecca at her shoulder. She gave a little sniff. She needed to be calm.
Rebecca’s voice rose higher in pitch, as if her concern were heightening. “Miss Faire, are you all right?”
“Of course!” Cecily forced a brightness to her smile.
She’d
“Cecily Faire.”
Cecily flinched. The voice rang as familiar and as true as her most trusted memory. She did not need to see the face, for although the timbre was deeper and the tone rougher, she would recognize the voice anywhere.
Andrew Moreton.
She ceased walking, held her breath, and kept her eyes fixed on the stone path before her.
He repeated himself. “Miss Faire, can it be?”
She slowly lifted her eyes, half fearing the image that would greet her. There he stood, leading a giant black horse by a gloved hand.
Indeed, Andrew Moreton stood confident and calm, as if they had seen each other the previous day instead of the five years it had been.
Laughter lightened his voice, the smile she remembered so vividly brightening his expression. “Are you a dream? A vision?”
Every drop of blood in her body had surely sunk to her toes. A mixture of shock and dread gripped her. What must Rebecca be thinking, now that a strange man was greeting her with such familiarity?
In the midst of her shock, she managed to find her voice and curtsey. “Mr. Moreton.”
She hoped that Rebecca took no notice of how he assessed her. How his eyes lingered too long on her lips. Her gown. She ran a hand over the borrowed clothes, feeling suddenly self-conscious of the dirt that had gathered along the hem on their walk.
“I confess, Miss Faire—” He stopped short. “It is still Miss Faire, is it not? Or has some fortunate man given you his name?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Yes, sir. I am Cecily Faire.”
A twinkle shone in his dark eyes. “This is a most pleasant surprise. I must ask, how is it that you have come to be at Willowgrove Hall? Did you come to see me, I wonder?”
Her face flamed at the flirtation.
But how like the Andrew she remembered. In her younger days his irreverence of social customs had been exciting. Now it embarrassed her.
He was looking at her, speaking with her as if he were a casual acquaintance. She forced herself to meet his gaze, the dark, warm eyes that had been party to her dreams—and nightmares—sofrequently over the past several years. “I am to be Mrs. Trent’s companion.”
He jerked his head to the side, his casual countenance fading. “Not Harriet Trent?”
She nodded, and at her response he laughed loudly, leaving Cecily confused. “I daresay, Miss Faire, if anyone will be able to handle my aunt, it will be you.”
She smiled, but the humor he found in the situation was lost on her. “Your aunt?”
“Yes. Harriet Trent is my aunt. She is my father’s sister. Perhaps you do not remember.” He sobered. “I suppose those days were very long ago.”
The weight of the words bore down with relentless pressure. She tried to digest each bit of information, knowing that she would want to revisit it in the quiet of solitude, but her brain seemed incapable of such a task.
From somewhere off in the distance, a soft, feminine voice called his name.
He looked in the direction of the voice and adjusted his grip on his mount’s reins. “You will forgive me if I hurry off. I must join my guests.”
And as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving Cecily barely able to breathe.
She would not panic. She refused to cry.
Cecily turned into the wind, allowing the crisp spring breeze to dissipate the moisture that was gathering. Gone were the beauty and the wonder of this place. Instead, the walls and trees around her seemed to close in. The pain and fear from years ago rushed her, stealing her breath.
Had she really just spoken with Andrew Moreton? Or was he a vapor, released from her past? Had he smiled at her? Engaged her in a simple conversation?
“Miss Faire?”
Cecily felt Rebecca at her shoulder. She gave a little sniff. She needed to be calm.
Rebecca’s voice rose higher in pitch, as if her concern were heightening. “Miss Faire, are you all right?”
“Of course!” Cecily forced a brightness to her smile.
She’d
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