For the moment, the great marble steps loomed large before her. What waited for her beyond those doors was unknown; she could but take the first steps and hope with a fervency born of real necessity that fate would be temperate in its dealings with her.
The great chestnut doors glowed red in the night light, open before she had reached the seventh stair. She caught a momentary glimpse of a polished brass knocker before a stream of light left a path on the steps and four liveried figures emerged with a scurrying of feet and a host of half-uttered commands.
By the time she had reached midway between the bottom stair and the grand entrance, the horses had trotted off to be stabled, leaving the sound of hooves echoing through the near-dawn air. The duke, satisfied that his bays had not been overstrained, took the stairs two at a time to join her.
The entrance smelled of pinecones and honey, chestnut and wood. It was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the cold marble of outside. Fires flickered in strategically positioned grates, flooding the mansion with warmth and flickering light. Chandeliers of candles hung from the ceiling, half lit with fine wax tapers.
The hallway was a mass of rich red carpet, tinged with the pale pinks, blues, and greens of the orient and fringed with thick crimson tassels. Damask curtains hung from the great windows while the winding stairways were fashioned from a dark mahogany, centuries old and preserved with shining, slightly aromatic beeswax. It was an exciting house, a home that Cassandra felt an instant affinity with, a sense of well-being.
The butler was making his stately way to greet them, his face a mask of wooden propriety. Following behind and in a far more agitated fashion rushed His Grace's valet, the incomparable Vallon.
“Vallon!”
“Oui, monseigneur?”
“Take this and destroy it!” Holding out the sodden cape, the duke could not but smile at the stricken and indignant visage presented by his valet. That the humor was not lost on Cassandra, either, did not escape his attention.
“But monseigneur ...”
“Take it I say!”
“But yes.” Gingerly, the short and immaculate Parisian reached up to take the mantle, his face a picture of complete disgust. He would not for a thousand years admit it, but he was extremely attached to his master and thus prepared to swallow the indignity thrust upon him at times. For a valet to take charge of such a thing! It was insupportable.
His expressive face said it all. The duke laughed. “Be off with you! And to bed! Have I not already said it is unnecessary for the entire household to await my return? I rather think I can do without the attendance of four lackeys, a butler, and a valet at this time of the night. To sleep, all of you!”
With a gesture of the hand, he dismissed the hovering footmen, indicating the butler to remain for a few moments.
Vallon, knowing when and when not to disturb his master, took his leave. His sharp button eyes had not missed the pretty piece beneath the soaking bonnet and kerseymere shawl.
Harboring the Frenchman's love of an intrigue and scenting the soporific smell of romance, he was quite happy to forgo the dubious pleasure of informing His Grace of his ward's latest misdoing. As he reckoned, that could wait until the morning. Allowing himself a lugubrious sigh and an impudent wink in the direction of the lady, he nimbly climbed the servant stairs and disappeared in a trice.
“Hard day, Pickering?” The duke appeared sympathetic as he handed the man his marcasite cane. It was always his wont to treat the servants with both respect and civility. He would have been astonished to know the wholehearted dedication that this approach engendered.
“Oh, no, sir!” The butler allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Little ones up to mischief, again, of course. Had poor Vallon and the cook in a rare taking, today, they did. Something about pink frosted candy and using your venetian clocked stockings as jump ropes?”
His Grace St. John was by no means misled by the blandness of his tone. “One of these days, Pickering, I'm going to take the whip to them!”
The butler bowed, but his immobile face registered disbelief at this threatening pronouncement.
The duke turned to Cassandra, who was curiously inspecting the carved rosewood statuette that stood high off the ground, its intricate patterns casting warm shadows across the room. If she wondered who the little ones were, she made no comment, basking in the aftermath of her rescue and the warm glow of the flames. The quietude of the house pleased her, at variance with the vulgar changes that had been instituted at Surrey Manor.
“This is the Honorable Miss Beaumaris, Pickering. See to it that she's housed in the yellow chamber and that she has a lady's maid assigned to her. Also, I believe some refreshment may be in order.”
As Pickering bowed, he added, as an aside, “It would please me greatly, my dear fellow, were none of the matter to leave this house. You take my meaning?”
Pickering indicated that he did indeed, and Miles led the way up the first flight of stairs to a charming but strongly masculine room.
SIX
“You are cold, my child.”
Miles's eyes were warm as they rested on Cassandra, his sharp eyes noting the clinging gown, wet through and through, and the soft kerseymere shawl that clung closely to her shivering figure, as much for modesty, he guessed, as for warmth.
“It's astonishing, is it not, how such a humid night can turn cold? Don't shiver, my sweet! We'll soon have you as warm as toast. Tomorrow you will send for your clothes while we discuss what is to be done with you. Tonight I'll lend you my thick brocade dressing gown and you'll feel, if you'll excuse the humor, as right as rain!” He chuckled.
“Do not stare at me so. I'm not a monster!” Understanding the sudden apprehension in her eyes, he paused. “I am also not in the habit of keeping lady's attire in my home, so if you don't wish to catch your death, you'll do as I say.”
Relieved, Cassandra smiled. “Very well, I place myself in your hands. But I warn you, sir, I expect you to behave with propriety!”
St. John smiled, his teeth gleaming white in the candlelight.
“Rest assured, madam, that so long as you remain under my roof, no harm shall come to you. On my honor as a gentleman.”
His tone was so unexpectedly sincere that Cassandra bit back the retort she had started to make. Clearly, despite his reputation as a flirt and heartbreaker, she was in no immediate danger.
Perhaps, after all, she had mistaken the looks he had cast her way all through the evening. It was possible, too, that the dance had meant nothing to him, lost already amid the haze of other dances he'd bestowed on eager young women in the past. Far from easing her mind, the thought depressed her, leaving her with a sadly flat sensation.
The timid knock on the door heralded the entrance of a nervous young maid, hat askew, who began her curtsy before Cassandra even had time to wonder at how quickly she'd been seconded. The duke nodded at her stammered attempts to introduce herself.
“It is Alice, is it not?” The maid bobbed a nervous curtsy, her eyes darting from the duke to Cassandra, who stood huddled by the hearth. “Alice, this is Miss Beaumaris. She'll be staying with us tonight, so make sure that she is comfortable, if you please. Take her up to the yellow chamber and ask Vallon to send down the striped brocade. That will be all, thank you.”
For an instant Cassandra's eyes met with those of the hesitant little housemaid's and they locked in a moment of unspoken empathy. Cassandra was not to know that the reassuring smile that passed between them had secured for her a well-tended fire, a posy of violets from the garden beneath the servants' windows, and a devotion unswerving in its loyalty.
All she did know was that she was now alone with the one person in the world with whom she felt a strong affinity, and the bond was like an ache of sweet antithesis, strong, yet yielding, tempting yet frightening. She longed to smooth away the line of fatigue etched in the furrows of his brow, yet felt herself vulnerable.
She was very wary of the unspoken connection between them, the unvoiced bond. Unnerved by the unknown, by thoughts unbidden and sentiments unlooked for, she sought to introduce an element of lightness to the now electric moment.
“I'm starving. I swear I could eat a horse!”
Miles startled, his handsome features changing from concern to amusement in an instant of admiring comprehension. He looked her up and down for a moment, as one assessing the likelihood of a horse fitting into the stomach of a creature as fragile as herself.
“Not a chance, my dear! No room, I guess, unless you want to try for the little piebald pony I have but purchased?”
Cassandra laughed, her usual
je nais se quais
restored. “A pony? My dear, sir, with your lanky legs I'd not miss the spectacle for the world! When, pray, will I have the satisfaction of an exhibition?”
Miles's admiration for her spunk grew as he gave her an answering grin. “Alas, you'll just have to wait for that. Georgie, one of my little brats, has first option on that sight.”
Cassandra's world dimmed. No longer could she ignore the oblique references to my lord's progeny. Misbegotten? Conceivably, but surely even he would obey the conventions? Obviously not. She felt a cold shiver cross her spine, then resolutely set aside her reverie. What mattered it if there were a whole host of misbegotten varmints? In the morning she would be gone and the events of the evening would be one more episode in a life filled with interludes and chapters. For now, she was hungry and by the smell of it, dinner would not be long off.
It was Pickering himself who delicately coughed before entering with a tray of delectables that sent Cassandra's taste buds reeling. Hot stuffed duck quenelles, florentine of veal, and thin slivers of Norfolk turkey preceded the cold sweet of pease pudding and a selection of banana and apple fritters topped with cream. For drink, a steaming cup of chocolate was set before her.
It was such an unexpectedly appetizing array that fears and confusion were duty bound to recede to the point, almost, of permanent expulsion. Miles crossed the room to stoke the fire before answering the rap on the door with a half-stifled oath. Cassandra was amused to note the sheepish look when he found it was simply Vallon with the dressing gown.
Brooking no argument, he helped her into it and tied the knot with a firmness not missed on the perceptive Miss Beaumaris. Clearly, he had no wicked designs on her this evening at least. How perverse to feel that faint twinge of disappointment! Really, the shock of the whole evening must be playing more on her shattered nerves than she'd previously imagined.
“Do you always eat like this, Your Grace?” Cassandra asked. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “I mean at this time of night? And in this sort of quantity?”
Miles made a face. “Terrible, isn't it? It's my wretched servants, of course. They've got a greater idea of the consequence due my title than I do myself! They seem to feel that twenty-four-hour cuisine befits my station in life, and nothing I tell the housekeeper can convince her otherwise.”
Cassandra bit into a hot quenelle. It was quite delicious, so subtly flavored her tongue savored it with undisguised pleasure. Truly, a taste sensation of the first order.
As she settled at the small oak table where the tray had been set down, she could not help but peek at the man who had been so good to her. What an impact he'd had on her life that evening. The candle flickered, reflecting his face in a light that was soft and warm.
Her glance was reciprocated. What Cassandra saw in his eyes made her tremble with wonderment. There was laughter and strength and a hint of sternness. There was also, she could feel, an underlying sentiment that was indescribable in its depth yet quite overwhelmingly sincere. She experienced the absolute conviction that she was safe, as close to home as ever she had been.
When his hand reached out from across the table, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should place her own within its warm confine. When he smiled, it was like a light that mirrored her soul, an accurate reflection of her own subdued sense of merriment and tenderness. She felt that her fears, her pain, her anguish had been lightened. Not taken away, but shared and understood.
No words, just the silent communion of two people. The sensation was magnetic, awesome in its simplicity. Cassandra had no need of reassurances, sympathy, or banal talk. Had Miles attempted any of these, the magic might well have been lost, constraining her once more to commonplaces.
In the event, such social etiquette was unnecessary and in the sheltered havenâunlikely though it wasâCassandra blossomed like a flower, rare and fresh and sweet. No words! Miles found himself with an unknown quantity. A woman who did not bore him to death, who used neither caprice nor falsity nor pretension to capture his attention. Speculatively, he gazed at Cassandra once more. The uplifted little nose looked charming on her countenance and the thick mass of rich auburn was a magnificent foil to her strong, vibrant character.
Her very petiteness served to make her more adorable. When he'd held her in his arms she'd seemed to him as light as a dewdrop on a spring morning. When she spoke, she was forced to look up and her lips were certainly seen to their best advantageâmaddeningly so for one in his unenviable position.
The duke revised his original impression. In looks, she was beautiful. Not conventionally so, but beautiful, nonetheless. In character? Well, so it would seem. Time would tell. Old habits died hard, and the disdain that Miles was wont to deal with women was not easily eradicated, especially not on so short an acquaintance.
The lady in question was tucking, rather unromantically, into the plate of fritters. Fear allayed, the said damsel found that she had the most enormous appetite. The result, she succinctly informed the duke, of attempting entrechats in the quadrille after so long without practice. The duke thought back to the blackberries and smiled.
She continued impishly. “You can have no notion of how many times I missed the mark with poor Lord Glenby! Dear man, I doubt that he'll be leading me out again too soon!”
She stretched out for a little sugar, sprinkling with abandon on the last of the banana. “You're sure you don't want more?” she asked, glancing at Miles a trifle doubtfully, the fritter balancing precariously on the edge of the silver embossed fork.
Miles assured her with a gleam that he was certain he'd not be requiring the last of her treat. He moved instead to the glass cabinet, pouring himself a little of the port he'd craved so much earlier in the evening. What an interminable time ago it seemed.
The port sparkled as the light caught the crystal, sending tiny shadows across the table. Cassandra could not help but notice the duke's long, straight fingers as they twined round the stem of the glass. As he twirled the goblet, absentmindedly releasing the bouquet through force of habit rather than intention, his demeanor assumed a thoughtful appearance. A small smile lurked at the corners of his very masculine mouth.
“Is it too late to discuss your predicament, Miss Beaumaris? Would you prefer I withdraw and we address the issue in the morning?”
Thoughts of his leaving came as a shock to Cassandra, who quite enjoyed contemplating the tips of his rather well-shaped fingernails. She wouldn't allow herself to muse on the morrow or on more bitter speculations.
He seemed, however, to be more than earnest. With a sigh she realized she owed it to him to cast away the magic and herald in, once more, the light of day, the unpalatable practicality.
“It is not too late, Your Grace. I owe you an explanation. I know not how to begin, nor what you may think of me, but honesty compels me to speak the truth.”
“Indeed it does, Miss Beaumaris! If I believed there to be the faintest chance you'd tell me a whisker I'd have you over my knee in a twinkling!”
Cassandra was not fooled. The severity of his tone was unmatched by the betraying laughter of his eyes. Indeed, far from engendering alarm, he seemed instead to effect a calming influence upon her jangled nerves. His amiable banter provocatively engendered a spirited retort from the lady, making it easier by far for her to unburden herself.
For the first time in a long time Cassandra sensed a sympathetic ear. She talked freely but with a quiet restraint that said much. It was not what she said but what she left unsaid that roused the duke to passion. More than anyone he could imagine the anguish she'd been through, the humiliation she'd suffered at the hands of the Harringtons.
He vowed to avenge himself on the Harrington family. He'd set the record straight and settle the matter of Beaumaris's disappearance to his own satisfaction. If he were dead, better to know than to repine. He would buy up Harrington's gaming vowels, pay off his plethora of bills, and hold him personally accountable for the debt. He would have the new lord so hamstrung in credit he would not be able to blow his nose without first consulting the duke. Miles's eyes grew grim. If it took a debtor's prison to make the vile Sir Robert realize the error of his ways, then so be it. Earl or no, the man would be made to regret the behavior of a cad.
If Lord Frances were alive, however ... The duke's jaw set. He would find a means to contact and repatriate him. Silently he gave up thanks for his not inconsiderable influence both inside and outside the House of Lords.
His deliberations assumed a new turn as he watched the lady before him grapple with tears and lose. He noted with pleasure that she did not heroically allow the tears to flow, unchecked. She did not assume the attitude of a forlorn Madonna and revel in the pathos of the pose as most ladies of his acquaintance would have done. Far from it! My lady, it should be reported, was blowing quite prosaically into a large and suspiciously masculine handkerchief. For an instant the duke's sympathy was with Vallon, who'd doubtless be outraged at this gross abuse of the finest cambric.
“More fool he for keeping the thing in the gown pocket,” the peer reflected fleetingly. Then his thoughts were all for Cassandra, who had somehow become entangled in the ruffles of his shirt, her head snuggled deep within the recesses of his chest. How she had gotten there, he never would know. Perhaps as a result of a silent gesture on his part.