For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

new tenants of Brighampton arriving soon, displacing the poor, indebted Turners. It was simple indignation that he’d felt on behalf of a family about to be tossed from their home when they quite likely had no other place to go. But it was something less noble that led to his mentioning those facts in his sister’s hearing, guessing what her reaction would be, and it was something entirely unthinkable that fed the fire in his blood at the thought of Cressida Turner in his house, smiling at him across the dinner table and wrinkling her nose at him in the garden. He might see her a dozen times every day…and night.

But not for nothing had he learned to control his impulses. She would be a guest in his home, and he would treat her as such. It would make his work easier, in fact, if she was close by to help his search and answer his queries. He spent most of his days away from Penford as it was. She would no doubt be looking to take another house soon, and the sooner he located her father, the easier that would be for her.

But God help him until then.

Chapter 15

Visiting Penford and living at Penford were very different.

Once Granny was all settled in a lovely room overlooking the woods, Cressida found herself at loose ends. There was nothing for her to do now, no chores, no cleaning, no cooking. Servants came to unpack her things in the spacious room she would share with Callie, accomplishing the task with speed and precision. She went once more to thank Julia, who just laughed and brushed aside any mention of gratitude, and perversely this only made Cressida feel more out of place.

Dinner, although delicious and elegant, was awkward. Tom, who had always eaten with them, elected to take his meal below stairs, which just felt wrong. They were no better than Tom, yet she and Callie were at the dining table set with china and silver while Tom ate with the Penford servants and Granny ate in her room with a servant attending her. It put off her appetite, and from the way Callie picked at her dinner, her sister suffered the same. She could almost hear Granny reminding her to be careful what she wished for; she might someday get it. Cressida had admired Penford, had dreamed of living in such a place. Now she did, for a short time anyway, and it didn’t appear she would enjoy a minute of it.

She couldn’t sleep at night, despite the exhausting day. Cressida lay on the soft feather mattress under the cool, crisp linens and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. This was only a reprieve from her troubles, not a solution. Tomorrow she would have to talk very seriously with Callie and Tom to determine what they would do next. Now not even the prospect of finding Papa gave her hope. Papa would be annoyed they had lost the house, and Cressida knew she would be so annoyed at him for leaving them, there would be a dreadful argument. She thought again of what Tom had said, that things went on much more smoothly without Papa, and felt even worse for admitting, deep in her heart, that she might be changing her mind about Papa returning home, no matter what she insisted to Alec.

Alec. Thoughts of him had plagued her since the moment Julia left Brighampton that afternoon. Ever since Tom drove them around the bend of the gravel drive and Penford came into view, she had been bracing herself against seeing him, preparing herself for their first meeting, and then it never happened. He hadn’t been with Julia and her mother to greet them, nor at dinner, nor in the drawing room afterward. It was fraying her nerves, this constant expectation—anticipation, even—of seeing him at any moment. It was almost as bad as the disappointment of not seeing him even once.

She sat up in bed and swung her feet to the floor. Callie murmured in her sleep from the other side of the bed as Cressida slipped her feet into slippers and pulled on her dressing gown. She shouldn’t roam about someone else’s house at night, but she thought better on her feet and desperately needed to walk off some nervous energy. The clock had already chimed two in the morning, and everyone would be asleep. Without lighting a candle, Cressida opened the door.

The house was quiet. She wandered through the corridors and down the stairs, feeling a bit like a spy as she marveled again at the beauty of Penford. She walked through the long, shadowy gallery, squinting at the portraits shrouded in shadows. She peered into the conservatory, where Mrs. Hayes had created a wonderland of delicate plants, and found the music room, where the pianoforte and harp stood waiting for musicians. She let herself into the large drawing room at the back of the house, and went to the tall windows, admiring the view of the garden. Even in the darkness, with all its vibrant color dimmed to silver and shadow, it was a beautiful, peaceful scene, and Cressida thought that despite Penford’s grandeur, she could grow accustomed to living here if only for the gardens.

“Good evening.”

She started violently, clapping one hand to her chest as she whirled around to see Alec Hayes sprawled in a chair, watching her. A bottle stood on the table next to him, with a glass half full of wine. He looked idle, even debauched, but the gleam of his eyes was still brilliantly watchful.

“I beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly. He had discarded his waistcoat and cravat, and his shirt was pulled open at the neck, exposing a long slice of skin down his chest. A shiver ran up her spine.

He waved one hand in negligent dismissal. “None is needed. Or perhaps