"Actually,"
Norah continued, "I did have a few feathers in my cap. The first was an
earl."
"An
earl!" Cass clasped her hands to her breast. "Why, that would be a
marvelous match! I'd wager all the beauties you spoke of were green with
envy!"
"Not
for long, I'm afraid." The dimple danced again. "You see, Lord
Lavensby had the ill manners to die before he came up to scratch."
"How
tragic! No wonder you were heartbroken! Did he die a hero? My papa was one—a
hero, I mean. At Badajoz in the Peninsular War. You know, I wrote you the tale
in my letters."
"Battle
tales are hardly appropriate fare at the dinner table, Cass," Aidan said,
dashed uncomfortable at the reminder of those infernal Banbury tales Cass had
used to lure this woman to Rathcannon.
As
if she sensed his discomfort, Norah jumped in. "Lord Lavensby's demise was
nothing quite so noble as your father's heroics. Nor was his death surprising,
considering the circumstances."
"The
circumstances?" Aidan couldn't help himself, the barely suppressed
laughter in those dark eyes intriguing him.
"His
lordship was eighty-six years old."
"Oh!
Oh, how disgusting!" Cassandra shuddered, revolted. Aidan, on the other
hand, felt a swift stab of empathy for the girl Norah must have been, forced to
endure the lecherous advances of a wizened old man.
"My
next suitor was the Honorable Fiddlestone Biltmore. He had the most unfortunate
resemblance to a toad." At Cassandra's gasp, Norah laughed. "It's
true, I'm afraid. He had a prodigious belly he covered with the most garish
waistcoats imaginable, and he was cursed with an uncommonly wide mouth that
split huge, round cheeks. And when he laughed, it came out in the most amazing
croak."
"Not
truly! You're teasing!"
"No.
I vow it is the God's truth. Fortunately for me, his mama brought him to heel
before he was overcome with passion for me. In the end he married an heiress
with a rabbity face. I always wondered what their children would look
like."
"There
must have been
someone
more—more appealing. Just one dancing partner.
Anything but a withered old corpse and a toad-person."
Those
dark eyes lowered for an instant, and her smile softened in a way that made
Aidan frown. "Actually, there was one. He wasn't my suitor, exactly. He
was... one of my stepbrother's friends. He rescued me from behind my pillar on
one occasion."
"Was
he quite handsome?"
"Half
the belles were in love with Philip, the others just refused to admit it. He
was handsome and gallant and—and he saw me in the light of a rather grubby
little sister, I'm afraid. But I will always be grateful to him for dancing
with me that night."
"Why
should you feel grateful?" Aidan felt compelled to demand, inexplicably
irritated with this high-brow gallant. "Did you tread upon his toes? I
doubt it could have been much of a hardship to drag you about a ballroom for a
little while."
The
laughter was gone from her lips, leaving them vulnerable, shadowed with
remembered pain. "For some reason I had earned the enmity of the reigning
belle, and I'm afraid she was quite pointed in her disdain of me. Philip
overheard some rather cruel remarks, and—"
"He
came to your rescue?" Cass enthused. "Just like a hero in those
delicious French novels?"
"Damme,
girl, if Mrs. Brindle has been allowing you to read those things, I'll have her
head!" Aidan snapped, but he was all too aware of the cruel phenomenon
Norah had described. He had seen Delia and her set ruthlessly carving to
ribbons girls with less claim to beauty or wealth, girls without that killer
instinct more virulent than any he had ever witnessed upon a battlefield.
"I
read the tales at Lila Matterling's, Papa. Her parents aren't so hopelessly old
fashioned! Now tell, Miss Linton: Did you both fall madly in love?"
"If
we had, I would hardly be here now, would I, dearling?" She dismissed the
girl's query, but Aidan couldn't help but notice the darting of shyness that
clung about those dark-lashed eyes, the fleeting pensiveness that tugged at the
corners of her lips. Why the devil such variations in her expression should
bother him was beyond Aidan's comprehension.
I
haven't had much experience where kissing is concerned...
. Her stammered
words echoed in his memory. Had her charming, gallant Philip felt duty-bound to
kiss her as well as dance with her?
For
some reason Aidan was damned reluctant to find out the answer. With grim
determination, he changed the subject, firmly withstanding his daughter's
efforts to probe more deeply into Norah's past.
Yet
the whole revelation had left a decidedly bitter taste in his mouth, one that
conspired with the inevitability of Miss Linton's departure to rob him of his
appetite and leave him decidedly raw.
By
the time Cass flew out to help serve up this mysterious dessert she had aided
Cook in concocting, Aidan would've been glad of a fire in his own fields if it
meant he could escape this grindingly uncomfortable scene.
But
Cass breezed out in the wake of a footman bearing two plates with chocolate
cake, drizzled over with a raspberry syrup.
"Cass,
I'm really not that hungry," Aidan said, eyeing askance the plate-cracking
portion she had presented him with. Then he muttered, "Especially after
the journey into indigestion your last culinary experiment led me on. Remember
how you forgot the sugar?"
He
had only meant to tease, but she affected such a wounded expression he cursed
himself roundly.
"Papa,
how could you bring that up now?" she asked, casting a pointed glance at
Miss Linton.
"How
could I not? It was almost the end of me."
Cassandra's
chin gave a little quiver. "I made it especially for you. But if you don't
want it... well, I'll not cram it down your throat, even though I did burn
three fingers baking it up for you." She displayed the tiny blisters with
the artlessness of a six-year-old.
"Sir
Aidan, surely you can at least taste it." Norah Linton's voice was as
censorious as if she'd caught him plucking the wings from a fairy princess.
"I only wish that I could eat it."
Cassandra
looked at her with woeful eyes. "You can't eat at least a little?"
"Not
unless you want me to break out in the most dreadful scarlet spots," Norah
explained.
Aidan
eyed his own plate fatalistically, knowing that between Norah's refusal and his
own fatherly transgressions he would probably have to lick the crumbs from his
plate.
Manfully,
he dredged up a forkful of cake fairly oozing with raspberry sauce and put it
in his mouth. It was all he could do not to go into fits of choking.
Horrendous, bitter, he was reasonably certain that scum-covered dishwater
would've tasted more appealing.
He
glanced at Norah, hoping that somehow the Englishwoman would say something, do
something that would allow him to forgo poisoning himself with Cassandra's
latest brew. But Norah was gazing quite wistfully at her untasted portion. When
she nibbled at a bit of plain chocolate cake and smiled at Cassandra, saying
how wonderful the stuff must taste, Aidan was convinced that Norah Linton must
be a runaway from Bedlam.
Cass
was positively radiant at her praise. "Papa is always tormenting me when I
help Cook. When I baked him a birthday cake last year, he was abominable! He
even said he dared not feed it to his dogs, lest they turn their toes up
dead."
"Cass,
even you couldn't eat the stuff," Aidan protested, aware of Miss Linton's
quelling stare.
"But
I've been practicing, and Cook says this is the most delicious raspberry sauce
she's ever tasted. Miss Linton, couldn't you just take the tiniest taste?"
"I'm
afraid not, but it looks delicious. Whatever did you put in this?" Norah
asked, with what could only be genuine interest.
Cassandra
cast him a baleful glare, then preened. "Why, lots of sugar, and berries,
of course. Fresh-picked. And then, well, there were some other
ingredients." She gave a most unsettling smile. "But I promised to
keep them a secret."
Whatever
they were, Aidan was damned sure he didn't want to know. He took another
forkful, swallowing it with all the haste of a child taking codliver oil. To
keep from gagging, he washed it down with a gulp of wine. The footman scurried
over to refill his glass, and Aidan was tempted to ask him to leave the bottle.
God knew he was going to need it.
He
must've devised a dozen schemes of slipping the horrendous confection off his
plate and into the oblivion where it belonged, but it seemed as if Cassandra
watched every mouthful, prodding him unmercifully with wistful comments about
his former rejections of her efforts, bolstering her demands by drawing
countless compliments from Norah.
By
the end, Aidan was certain he would've betrayed his own mother to spare himself
one more forkful of the dish he'd already christened Cassandra's Curse.
But
when he saw the look of absolute delight in his daughter's eyes when he was
finished, he was almost tempted to ask for more. He would have, had he not been
prey to a serious wish to survive the night.
His
insides were already markedly unamused. He could only sincerely hope they
wouldn't fly into outright rebellion. But in truth, he couldn't be certain
exactly what was leaving him so on edge: Cass's concoction, or his own sense of
guilt as he watched Cassandra catch Norah Linton's hand, bubbling with
enthusiasm as she led her into the drawing room.
What
worse torment could he have endured than listening to their laughter as Norah
expounded on her shortcomings in the accepted feminine accomplishments of
needlework, music, and drawing, describing in detail the samplers that had been
relegated to dust cloths, the watercolor landscapes that had all the pastoral
tranquillity of Armageddon, complete with rampaging sea monsters instead of
swans.
It
was as though the knowledge that she would soon be leaving somehow freed the
woman, left her at ease, and the demonic fates were determined to show Aidan
exactly how perfectly she was suited to deal with his daughter.
He
lounged in his chair, listening to Cassandra's chatter and Norah's replies,
their subtle wisdom hidden in drolleries that left Cass gasping with laughter.
The same comments left him sullen and resentful, angry and aware, for the first
time, how insular his nights with Cass had become. How this woman's laughter
blew like spring's fresh breezes through the room.
He
listened as Cassandra cozened Norah into singing, despite protestations that
she couldn't carry a tune if it were nailed inside a keg. And then he was
furious to find her off-key warbling more endearing than any of the practiced
solos he had heard in the finest drawing rooms of London.
The
only time a shadow fell across features illuminated by candlelight was when she
hazarded a glance his way. Then a shyness darted into her eyes, an uncertainty
that made him want to cross the room in three swift strides and press his lips
against hers to remind her—and remind himself—that she would be leaving in the
morning. He needed to still the sound of her laughter, her voice, to banish it,
the way he wished he could banish the delicate scent of milk of roses that
drifted from her hair to tantalize his nostrils.
He
gritted his teeth, assuring himself that it was not desire for this woman that
he felt, but the residue of the encounter he'd had with his mistress before he
left the gaming house two nights before—the fact that he hadn't taken the time
to fulfill the sensual fantasies Stasia had been whispering in his ear from the
first roll of the dice. Those were the pent-up tensions that set him on a blade
edge of awareness with this woman whom he'd thought boasted little claim to
beauty. Until he had seen her lips reddened from his kiss, felt her gasp with
astonishment and pleasure as his tongue had slipped into the sweetness of her
mouth. Until he had found her with her hand pressed against the window, her
incredible eyes filled with sorrowful dreams.
And
now she sat, smiling with his daughter, as if she would be at Rathcannon
forever, acceding to Cass's every plea, her hand sweeping out to stroke his
daughter's fairy-gold hair with a heartbreaking tenderness, a sense of loss buried
so deep in those dark eyes, Aidan was certain he was the only one who could see
it. It was a genuine tenderness, not the careless caresses Delia had so rarely
given to their daughter—as if Cassandra were a pretty little pug, whose
mistress sadly neglected her, yet refused to part with her plaything.
The
realization ate inside Aidan like poison, coiling inside him with the raging
tension that had been building in him from the moment they had left the dining
table.
"Papa!"
He was startled from his dark thoughts by Cassandra's plea. "You're being
a far worse boor than Norah's toad-person! You've barely said a word all night.
Whatever is amiss?"
It
was as if his daughter's petulant question shattered something inside him. The
sight of Cassandra, an angel in white muslin, clasping Norah Linton's hand made
reality crash down about Aidan's shoulders.