Heavens! He'd never been in so damnable a position before. So tempting to incline her head backward just slightly and shower her with wild and ardent kisses. So easy, too, to slip his hand inward into the folds of what was after all his own dressing gown. He could see the shadow of her pale, rounded flesh, and he nearly forgot his promise of only moments before.
The demon passed. What madness should seize him when he had the pick of the season's beauties! He was not vain, just prosaically truthful. He held more store by the strong attractions of his name and fortune than those of his hand and heart. He tried now to concentrate on the problems at hand, but with scant and sorry success. In the end, he gave up, stroking her gently until the sobbing subsided and she'd drawn sufficient breath to give another vigorous blow on the ill-fated handkerchief. When she withdrew from him, the sensation of her touch lingered on, teasing his senses in the most delightfully distracting manner.
“Cassandra.”
She looked up, the natural use of her name offering no uncomfortable obstacles.
“We must talk of your future. Your being here with me the whole night will not do.”
She grimaced deprecatingly. “I know! Admit it, Your Grace, did I not beg you to allow me dismount from your equipage? Now, I fear, I am quite ruined!” She smiled mistily. “Shocking, isn't it?” Her tone was deceptively blithe and Miles found himself admiring her all the more for her self-restraint. She may be funning, but there was nonetheless an unpalatable element of truth in what she said. Were he ever so careful of her reputation, there could be no doubt that by the morning she'd be ruined, reduced to a veritable societal
on-dit
before something juicier arose to displace her with the gossips.
As a gentleman, His Grace the duke of Wyndham had no recourse but to offer for her. Accepting the fact with an astonishing degree of equanimity for a bachelor so well-established as himself, he tossed back the drink he was holding and made a whimsical bow.
“Ruined? Come, my dear, you must by now have a better opinion of me than that!”
“What can you mean?” Cassandra was staring at him in puzzlement. She picked up a paperweight and fingered it idly as she spoke. “If you mean to quash the scandal, let me assure you it will not fadge! My dearest Robert will not let slip this opportunity to sully my name.” Her voice was laden with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
“Why, I shouldn't wonder if he's not doing the rounds already!” She stopped and thought better of the statement. “No, for now at least, he is unaware of my whereabouts. But this sort of thing cannot remain under wraps forever. I reckon it is a fair bet to assume he will come by the interesting knowledge some time or another!” She stopped for breath and nearly choked as she caught sight of the tender smile hovering on His Grace's lips. Almost, she thought wistfully, as though he truly cared.
“Silly goose! Cannot you think of another way talk might be averted?”
His eyes were unwavering upon her face.
For an instant Cassandra guessed at the truth, then put the thought firmly away. The memory of his children made mockery of such a contemplation. Besides, it was only in storybooks that one married handsome dukes and lived happily ever after. Life had a rather more jarring way of dealing with its protagonists.
She hesitated for a fraction, reluctant to relinquish the dream, then sighed as her humor resurfaced. “Short of running the whole wretched lot through in their beds tonight, no.”
An honest answer, free of the guile Miles was half expecting to detect. He was spurred to put the question and have done with it.
“Marry me, Cassandra.”
The words were so unexpected and such a mirror of her secret yearning that it was some seconds before she made a reply. When she did, the words stuck to the roof of her mouth like dry ashes, bitter and utterly devoid of hope.
“I cannot, Your Grace. You must know that I cannot.”
The words were out before she could retrieve them.
“Why not?”
How could she say what she suspected? If the little “brats” he referred to were by-blows, he insulted her grossly. Perhaps he thought she would overlook the impertinence given her situation. If she could have, she would have. But her upbringing was too strong, and the children would be proof, always, of his roving nature and infidelity.
She knew she was fooling herself. She knew that all this was as naught in comparison with her desire for him. In her heart of clamoring hearts, she knew that it was her very need that prevented her from allowing him to make this most supreme of sacrifices. Had he but loved her ... ah, then it would be different! She had no choice but to cling on to the prosaic objections of her mind and deny the romantic yearnings of her will.
Cassandra became incoherent as the multitude of thoughts and reasons flitted through her consciousness. When she needed it most, her studied calm deserted her. “I will not think on it, Your Grace. You rescued me from certain illness and perhaps a lot worse. That should be enough. To throw away your life for the sake of some chivalrous impulse is the height of absurdity.”
Her voice trembled at this last. It was a dazzling attempt at bringing the duke to a sense of reason. It failed.
The man was implacable, his white shirt stark against the dark of his lashes and close-cropped curls. Cassandra drew a sharp breath, regretting the necessity of resisting a man who could play such havoc with her sense of equilibrium. His presence made her feel that anything was possible. Everything was
impossible!
The duke was pulling her toward him, and she was not making the least push to protect her virtue.
“Don't slap me, my pretty!” His thoughts were echoing hers as she remembered her youthful encounter with him so long ago. His voice had become rough and it was not longâperhaps two agonizing secondsâbefore she felt the weight of his mouth bearing down upon her, crushing the last vestiges of her unspoken protest. Two and a half seconds before she felt her body molding to his, his ardor her ardor.
If His Grace was surprised at the intimate stirring he felt awakening in the young woman his arms encircled, he seemed not to mind. In fact, the response prompted him to set aside his nobler feelings. Heathenlike, he took full advantage of the hunger he was generating, lifting Cassandra high off her feet in his exuberant passion.
When he released her, he looked shaken. The langorous boredom with which he had come to be associated was no longer in evidence. Too late did Cassandra quell the last vestiges of her madness. Marriage was out of the question. She'd not marry him for the sake of her honor, of that she was certain.
He offered marriage as a sudden caprice. If he lived to regret it she'd be mortified for the rest of her days. Better never to get involved than to live with the bitterness of entrapment and a youthful mistake. Besides, there were the children ... The quizzical look had returned to Miles's face as he watched the inward struggle of his lady love.
How perverse life appeared to be. Had he but offered for another woman there would hardly, he was convinced, be a moment's hesitation. Certainly his affianced would scarcely be presenting the picture of misery that Cassandra was, eyes downcast, foot kicking at the tassel of his patterned rug.
“Your Grace, I'll not wed you! I appreciate the great honor you do me and can only say that I am deeply in your debt. Beyond that, I fear I cannot commit myself. In the morning, if you please, I will dispatch a letter to Miss Plum, my old governess, and make arrangements to leave with her. In all conscience I can importune you no further. Too much has already occurred between us.”
She blushed at this last, willing herself not to think on what had indeed passed between them. If he thought to beget further brats he must indeed search elsewhere! Besides, as she glumly reflected, the talk of marriage could merely be a ruse to remove her guard. It seemed suddenly monstrous that he'd not sought to explain the presence of the youngsters under his roof.
The contradictory nature of her musings could largely be set down to the novel pangs of love, jealousy, and insecurity that settled like a dark cloud on the recesses of her mind, confounding her at every turn. She was angry and immensely grateful at one and the same moment. In love and afraid of love. Fear makes a mockery of the best of us, and Cassandra was no exception. Where she would have done well to hold her tongue, she taunted, perversely pleased at the ripple of annoyance she detected in the duke.
“Your children ... misbegotten, I presume?”
Miles started. He was shocked at the turn of her thoughts but steadied himself. Deliberately and slowly he poured another drink from the decanter before answering the challenge she had thrown down. Back turned, Cassandra could not help but admire the fine fit of his coat, the broad shoulders that molded to the dark superfine in a perfect symphony of good taste.
When he turned, he was examining the fine cut of the crystal. He flicked the glass with the back of his finger to produce a sound of the purest tenor. His voice held a warning that was not lost on Cassandra. Her stubborn nature had found a kindred spirit and she was unsure of whether to be pleased or sorry.
“In the morning, Miss Beaumaris, we shall discuss your predicament. For the moment, I shall ignore your impertinence.”
Cassandra made a move to respond. He held up his hand.
“Right now, I believe us both to be too fatigued to be responsible for any words or actions arising from the day's events. You will do well to rest on the problem. I don't doubt the new day will herald in its own solutions. For now, though, I suggest you sleep.”
The bell was peremptorily rung before Cassandra could protest. The day had been unequaled in its demands on her and exhaustion was finally and resolutely taking its toll.
It was perhaps wistful to hope that His Grace would be sensible to the fact that it was anguish, not rudeness that impelled her to refer to the youngsters. It seemed hardly a moment before Alice was ushering her out of the room with a small backward curtsy for His Grace.
As she sank back thankfully into the well-aired sheets, she could not for the life of her remember whether the feather-light kiss he'd dropped on her forehead before she left had been real or simply a figment of her overtired imagination.
SEVEN
The day was well advanced before Cassandra was roused to the intriguing sound of a smothered giggle. Sleepily, she opened an eye to discover an impudent little face staring at her with eyes as dark as chestnut.
As the details slowly filtered to her drowsy senses, she shifted to one arm on the huge, brocaded four-poster bed in which she found herself. She peered with drowsy interest beyond the drapes in the direction of the elfinlike presence.
Blinking, bafflement changed to surprise when not one but two little beings laughingly presented themselves for inspection. Before she could muster sufficient coherence to raise a question, they had jumped up onto the bed as effortlessly and unconsciously as if it had been their life's practice.
“I'm so glad you've woken! We've waited and waited, haven't we, Gracie?”
The more exuberant of the two, if so she could be described, had stopped bouncing.
“Uncle Miles said that if we were good we could go on a picnic. I love picnics, don't you?”
The question was evidently rhetorical, for she hardly stopped for breath before rushing headlong into a new line of inquiry.
Cassandra relaxed back into the pillows, perplexity giving way to very evident amusement. What a pair they were, these lively twins! The first was now seeing fit to inspect the clasp of her tiny cameo necklace, while the latter was making tentative attempts to stroke the silky hair that flowed in abundance out from the mob cap Alice had so thoughtfully provided the night before.
“Who are you? And yes, I adore picnics.” The image of one particular impromptu picnic flashed through her mind and she colored quickly. The girls, fortunately, took no note.
“I'm Grace, but I hate being called that. Georgie is Georgie, of course!”
With these rather cryptic remarks Cassandra had to be satisfied, for the housemaid had entered the chamber and was apparently highly flustered by their presence in the room.
She spoke severely. “His Grace said you were not to disturb Miss Beaumaris, you two! Where are your manners?”
Shamefacedly, they slid off the bed and made their curtsies in so quixotic a fashion that Cassandra felt her mouth twitching, a sure sign of an imminent chuckle.
“What time is it?”
“Why, just past noon, miss!” The servant had expertly pulled back the drapes, allowing a flood of sunlight to bathe the room in morning warmth.
“Noon!”
“Yes, miss. His Grace gave orders that you were not to be troubled. Scarper, you two!”
This last was to the twins, who were watching Cassandra with a degree of curiosity she found unnerving. Their bobbed black hair looked singularly in keeping with their pixielike features. Cassandra winked at them, making friends for life as they responded in kind. They scuttled off with an enjoinder not to tell Uncle Miles about their latest escapade.
Despite her curiosity, Cassandra made a practice of not gossiping with the servants. Rather, she allowed her hair to be vigorously brushed and set into a tight coil. Despite the abigail's coaxing, she somehow could not see her way clear to allowing the shiny mass to hang loose.
Such a pity it was that it had such a will of its own! How wonderful it would be to have masses of curlsâno need for papers and pins, fasteners and clips. Long, straight hair without a whisper of a ringlet was her despair. The hours she had spent trying to wangle it into some kind of style! Fortunately, she was not sufficiently vain to have her spirits too long depressed by commonplaces.
It occurred to her that she had not a thing to wear besides the ball gown of the previous night. Hardly an auspicious start to a day that quite naturally held its share of terrors. Still, it was better than nothing, she supposed. No doubt it had been duly cleaned and pressed by the housekeeper earlier in the day.
It had not been. As she stood up to survey the room, she gasped at the sight of the sapphire jaconet hanging delicately over the side of the broad chaise longue. Sprigged with lemon and trimmed with tiny rosettes of satin and lace, it had appeared as if by magic.
Next to the day dress were matching slippers of venetian velvet and a trimmed bonnet that bore all the hallmarks of Miss Peeples, the Bond Street milliner of such famed repute.
The maid noted the direction of her gaze and felt compelled to enthuse over the duke's impeccable taste, throwing open overflowing wardrobes with pride and excitement. Her words were lost as the enormity of the scenario struck Cassandra for the first time that morning.
She had spent the night in a gentleman's residence. The world as she knew it would never be the same. The thought was all too much. She shocked the kindly maidservant by demonstrating a singular lack of interest in the fashionable treasures that met her eyes.
The duke had evidently been very busy. Or had he merely sent a minion out on this quest to clothe her? Cassandra could not help but wonder.
“Alice, where is my muslin?”
“I don't rightly know, miss. Like as not old Pomerey burned it. You won't mind my saying it was hardly fit for much after the drenching it received last night! I had it in mind to patch the lace torn from the hemâFrench it was, I'm sureâbut His Grace would not hear of it.”
“Who is Pomerey?”
“Why, the housekeeper, miss!” Alice looked astonished at the question. Cassandra sighed. Nothing for it, but to be helped into the jaconet. She was forced to ruefully acknowledge the wisdom of presenting herself respectably. Heaven only knew what notions the servants had dreamed up to account for her presence in the house!
On consideration, it might well raise a few brows if she were to catch the mail in a very much worse for wear ball gown. The morning dress, at least, was unobjectionable. Actually, it was rather becoming. Nevertheless, she deplored the circumstances that made it incumbent upon her to accept it. She'd persuade the duke to send her the reckoning. Expensive, perhaps, but worth being no further entangled in his debt. In the light of day the extent of his kindness seemed overwhelming.
It seemed, too, that she had done him a gross injustice. The twins had referred to him quite naturally as “uncle.” Since she had no reason to suspect them of duplicity, she had to assume that this was the innocent explanation for their presence in the ancestral home.
In which event, she realized miserably, her behavior of the night before had been inexcusable in the extreme. Her talk of by-blows must have put her quite beyond the pale. For a lady to disclose knowledge of such matters was inexcusable enoughâto openly taunt a man with untrue and unsubstantiated guesswork was positively vulgar. The most she could hope for was that he'd display some vestige of the humor she'd glimpsed in him and ignore the whole dismal outburst.
It was a lowering thought, indeed, that she owed her honor to a man gazetted as a rake. Worse, that his behavior had been irreproachable while hers had left rather a lot to be desired. Even the thought of his embrace excited a deep, unlooked for craving within her breast.
It was a longing that infuriated her, rousing her out of the uncharacteristic melancholy that threatened to envelop her completely.
“Alice!”
“Miss?”
“I want you to pack a portmanteau for me and see to it that you organize a ticket for the first stageâno, mail, I thinkâto Bath. You may charge it to the earl of Surrey's tab. My family has horses posted at the Harrowgate interchange, so if you try there I don't believe you'll have a problem.”
She hesitated, then continued. “Also, a little light luncheon might be in order. Ask, if you may, that I be given a seat at the window.”
Misunderstanding the maid's wide-eyed gaze, she clarified, somewhat apologetically.
“I get horribly sick, you know. Even in my grandfather's well-sprung chaise I am wont to feel ill. I rather think the rigors of this trip might call for a little fresh air.”
Alice nodded uncertainly, too astonished to make demur. What the young lady wished to be jaunting about the country for, she could not conceive. Perhaps Pickering would enlighten her further in the kitchens. She'd have to seek his counsel on this strange demand. No doubt Miss Beaumaris was sickening for something.
The dress looked dazzling, complementing the purple-blue of her eyes as nothing else could have done. For an instant Cassandra was diverted. There was something so especially gratifying about a well-cut dress!
Especially,
her heart betrayed her,
if the beholder is one as personable as Miles St. John!
The very name echoed delightfully in her mind. It seemed ages ago that she'd accused him of levity. Dandied fop indeed! How could she have? She knew it was useless to pretend indifference.
All considerations had been lost the moment Wyndham had clasped her tight in his arms. That she loved him in spite of his reputation, his ironic humor, and his often steely will was beyond all question. Her task now was to hide the rather unfortuitous sensation. It would be unfair to him to let him see. The man had already offered marriage. Unsporting it would be, indeed, to take advantage.
At a signal, Alice put down the glass she'd been holding and ushered her charge from the room with feeble assurances that the portmanteau would be packed and ready for the afternoon's stagecoach.
It said much for Cassandra's peace of mind that she remained for the time being in blissful ignorance of the furor the request had made. The lower quarters of Wyndham Terrace had never known such a day for momentous excitement.
Word had it in the kitchens that His Grace had sent for Messrs. Brandon, Brandon and Longey but a few hours hence. What could His Grace be thinking of? What could he possibly be wanting of England's foremost shipbuilders? Speculation raged among the footmen and under housemaids.
It was common knowledge that the war had brought the firm unforseen profits. The merchants were in a fair way to making their fortune by ferrying human cargo across the channel. That His Grace had ordered his best team to be saddled and had given the posting stations advance warning of a journey to the coast was further cause for consideration.
The groom, an expert if ever there was any on the whims of his lord and master, saw fit to pronounce in accents of profound sagacity that “something is afoot.”
Quite what this something was remained an unresolved riddle. For once Vallon, puffed up in consequence as he was, remained silent. His ignorance was a piquant spice to the mystery.
The lord himself was partaking of a leisurely breakfast, quite unruffled by the night's events. That he'd been up since dawn did not seem to weigh with him. Nor, it must be added, did it in any way detract from his enjoyment of the enormous repast of oats and ham set before him.
Messengers had been in and out since around seven, but traces of this fact were not to be detected in the immaculately high shirt points and the gilt-buttoned morning coat he'd chosen to affect.
That he was tapping idly at an antiquated snuffbox was of little interest to the stiff-backed lackeys in attendance at either end of the long, damask-clothed table.
As Cassandra entered, his eyes filled with light. The enigmatic expression that momentarily harshened his features disappeared, banished at once by the adorable picture presented by his lady.
“Good morning, my dear Miss Beaumaris! I trust you slept sufficient?”
Cassandra chose to ignore the pointed humor. At half past the hour of noon, it would have been surprising had she not slept sufficient. Even keeping town hours, waking at this time was the outside of enough!
Commenting mildly that she'd had more than her fair share of slumber, she blushed at the patent disbelief on Miles's seraphic face. Was she that transparent? She could hardly credit it.
“And what have you been doing, Your Grace?” Her tone was dryly amused. “Up none too early either, I see.”
She'd promised not to engage in a battle of wits with her heart's delight that morning. How, then, came she to be the first to draw metaphorical swords? It passed all bounds, and yet she could not help herself. There was something so challenging about his indulgent gaze and his patronizing demeanor. It riled Cassandra, forcing her to respond in kind.
It would have discomforted her to know just how much Miles relished putting her out of countenance. He loved seeing the flashing quicksilver of her indigo eyes, the impatient brush of her recalcitrant auburn locks. How he longed to give them a good brushing! To feel their softness warm against his fingers. He'd buy her a brush as his wedding gift. He'd seen just the one for her only the other day. Expensive, but superb quality. He'd get Everett to see to it.
He grinned before helping himself to yet another slice of pink Westphalian ham.
“I regret to inform you, Miss Beaumaris, that you are wrong in that assumption. You have but to ask Vallon to know that I've been quite active since we last met. Arranging a special license is no easy thing, you know.”