Elizabeth Mansfield (17 page)

"Jeremy Tate, Viscount Inglesby," came his voice from somewhere behind her. "Yes, I wrote those words."

Cassie stiffened in shock. Too startled to move, she could only gasp.

"I'd never have asked to speak to the daughter," he said from the shadows, "if I'd ever had a glimpse of the mother."

She whirled about. "You!" Her heart pounding, she peered into the gloom where she could just barely discern bis outline. "Good God, you made my heart stop beating!"

He materialized from out of the darkness, looking gaunt and ghostly as he moved toward her in the eerie light. "I didn't mean to frighten you, my dear, but I didn't know how to make my presence known without doing so."

"You needn't have waited until you overheard me," she said furiously, hoping that this flash of anger would have a calming effect on her racing pulse.

He grinned down at her fondly. "How could I have guessed, little idiot, that you'd
speak?"

She dropped her eyes. "What are you doing here at all, at this ungodly hour?"

"I told you I come here when I'm troubled. I often do so, even at ungodly hours. I might also point out, Cassie, my dear, that it's an ungodly hour for letter reading, too."

She picked the letter up and crushed it in her hand. She wished she didn't have to speak of it. But she had no choice. It was a matter she had to face.

With a show of spirit, she looked up and met his gaze. "Why do you choose to call me Cassie now, when there should be a strict formality between us, after you called me Lady Beringer all these weeks when I yearned for the informality of my given name."

"It
is
ironic, I admit. I didn't call you Cassie then because I couldn't bear to have you call me Charles. But why, ma'am, should there be strict formality between us now?"

"You know perfectly well why." She tossed the crushed letter on the table, the symbol of what stood between them. "You are my daughter's suitor. You must treat me with the dignity one accords one's prospective mother-in-law."

"I
was
your daughter's suitor. But you must know I cannot be that any longer."

"Nonsense. Of course you can. And this time round I shall give you both my heartfelt blessing."

He gasped her shoulders with angry cruelty. "Don't be a fool. You can't pretend that nothing has happened between us."

'There
is
nothing between us. Nothing but... but friendship. You said it yourself, this very evening."
 

"If I said that, it was a lie."

She twisted in his grasp but couldn't free herself. "It seems I've had little else but lies from you."

His grip tightened. "Damn it, Cassie, I love you! And that's no lie!"

The words burned into her, making her wince in pain. But after a moment she made herself look up to meet his fiery eyes. "But I don't love you," she said.

"Now,
that
is a lie," he declared, "and, with your leave or without it, I'll prove it to you."

Before she could guess what he was about, he pulled her to him and kissed her, hard. It was an act of belligerence, defiant and angry. It was not like him. Not like the kind, generous, unselfish man she knew. Nor was the kiss at all like the gentle, loving, dream-drenched kiss he'd given her before. This kiss was demanding, and passionately arrogant. If she could have freed her arm, she would have slapped his face. And yet something inside her, something over which she had no control, responded to it. She felt a flush of heat, a spasm of desire, a powerful yearning just to surrender to the demands of his arms and mouth.
Good God,
she thought,
has he kissed others this way? Cicely?

The thought of Cicely gave her strength. She wrenched herself from his hold and backed away. "No," she gasped, "no! This proves nothing but your arrogance."

"Arrogance?" He glared at her scornfully. "Because I know what I see in your face? Do you think me a green boy, or a blasted coxcomb who flatters himself that he finds adoration wherever he sets his eye? I felt your tremors in my embrace. How can you pretend that you feel nothing?"

"Whatever I feel for you was won from me by trickery. By the trick of a memory dysfunction. By the trick of a much-needed friendship. By the trick of a false name." She dashed away the tears that had sprung unbidden from her eyes. "By the trickery of this room, and the moonlight and the force of your attack."

His jaw, his hands, every muscle in his body stiffened in chagrin. "I intended no attack—!"

She held up a hand to stop him. "I don't blame you for it. We are both victims of these damnable circumstances." She moved on trembling legs to the window seat and dropped down on it, fixing her eyes on the scudding, gilt-edged clouds. "You said once that you would not speak to me of love until I remembered it," she reminded him, her voice now soft and forgiving. "That was kind. So very kind. But, you see, the only love I remember is the love I feel for Cicely. It has been—and will always be—the guiding force of my life. I cannot become her rival. The very thought is repugnant."

The finality of her words struck him like a blow. He was silent for a long time. "What is it you expect of me, then?" he asked at last.

"Only that you do what you asked to do in your letter. Offer for Cicely."

"Only that?" He laughed bitterly. "A small task indeed." He strode over to her and sat down beside her. "How can you ask it, Cassie, knowing that it's you I wish to wed?"

His words made her heart clench like a fist, but she forced herself to speak in a detached tone that would not reflect her inner agony. "It is not a serious desire, my dear," she assured him.

"That is something you cannot know," he retorted.

She stared at him in the dim light, at the lines of his face, the lock of hair that always fell over his forehead, his strong chin and the shapely mouth that, so few moments ago, had stirred up an agony of passion in her breast simply by touching hers. But she could not let herself dwell on these things. Nor could she permit him to do it. "It's merely calf-love, the kind boys feel for an older woman," she insisted. "You'll soon get over it."

"You know that's humbug," he said dully.

She heard the despair of defeat in his voice. "But you'll do it? Renew your offer to my daughter?"

He nodded glumly. "If you wish it."

"I do. More than anything."

They sat for a moment in miserable silence, not looking at each other. Then he expelled a deep breath. "You will give me a fortnight or so to . . . to collect myself, won't you, before I pursue my courtship?"

"Yes, of course, if you think it necessary."

"Quite necessary, I assure you."

She rose and went to the table for her candle. "You'll see," she said with a confidence she did not feel as she made for the doorway. "You'll forget all this. Forgetting is quite easy, I promise you. It's remembering that's hard."

"Right," he said dryly. "All I need is a memory dysfunction. Perhaps I should go outside and take a fall down the stairs."

She showed no reaction to the riposte. But at the threshold she paused. "Good night, my lord," she said, taking a lingering look at his form silhouetted against the eerie light.

"Damn it," he said furiously, getting up and striding across the room to her, "at least call me by my name this once."

The candle wobbled in her hand. "Good night, Jeremy," she whispered.

He gave her no return of her good night. Instead, he grasped her shoulders once more, lifted her up and kissed her mouth. Her candle fell to the floor, where it continued to burn unheeded. She struggled in his hold, whimpering, but he merely held her tighter. Only when they were both bereft of breath did he let her go. "There," he said coldly, setting her on her feet, restoring her candle to her hand and making off down the dark stairs. "Let's see how easily you can forget that."

Chapter 23

There was no trace of a cloud in the sky the next morning, but Cicely, still depressed about the ending of the celebration the night before, was not cheered by the glorious day. She came down to breakfast heavy-eyed and glum. No one was in the morning room but Hickham and the new arrival, Mr. Clive Percy. The young man, very dashing in his riding clothes, was at the buffet, helping himself to a thick slice of ham. When Cicely wandered in, trailing yards of the sheer dimity flounces of her morning robe and a cloud of sighs, Clive's face immediately brightened. "Ah, Miss Beringer! Good morning! I was hoping you'd be the first."

"Were you indeed?" she responded uninterestedly. "And why is that?"

"I wanted to ask you to go riding with me."

'Thank you," she said, taking a place at the table and reaching for the teapot, "but I'm in no mood to go gallivanting this morning."

"Why not? Firstly, a sport like riding cannot be called gallivanting. Secondly, it's a marvelous day, exactly right for outdoor exercise. And thirdly, you'll have your choice from among the very best horses. The Inglesby stables are the best in the county."

She snorted. "I don't need you to tell me that. I've been here more than a month."

"But there's something you may not know, and that is that I—if I do say so as shouldn't—am the perfect riding partner for a young lady. I know horses, and I can choose one that will be both spirited and gentle enough for your safety."

"Oh, you can, can you? You're quite a conceited young man, aren't you?"
 

"No. Only confident."

She gave him a long look, ripe with disdain. "And what makes you think I can't choose my own horse?"

He placed his loaded plate on the table, threw his leg over the chair beside her with youthful energy and dropped down upon it. "Because you ladies don't take the time and trouble to study the animals. You're too busy filling your heads with trumpery things—frills and furbelows and suchlike nonsense."

"Is that so?" She rose to her feet with the proud hauteur of an avenging goddess. "I'll have you know, Mr. Clive Whatever-your-name, that women are often better riders than men. I myself have been riding since I was six, and will take second to no man in my knowledge of horseflesh. And if you don't believe me, I'll choose my own horse and outrace you without so much as turning a hair!"

He grinned up at her. "You will, eh? Now?"

She stalked to the door. "As soon as I can change."

"That's the spirit," he said, chuckling, and turned his attention to his breakfast.

On the stairs, she came face-to-face with Charles, who was on his way down. "Good morning, my dear," he greeted cheerfully. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"I'm off to ride with your obnoxious nephew," she said, brushing by him. But after taking three steps, she stopped in her tracks. "Oh, I say! That's not... he's not—!
Charles!
"

He looked up at her over his shoulder. "Yes?" he asked innocently.

"That's not... It can't be... the young man you've chosen to... to
court
me!"

The scorn in her voice made him stiffen in defense. "Why not?" he demanded. "He's handsome, is he not? And charming? And bursting with youth and vigor?"

She frowned down at him, "Yes, I suppose he's all of those things."

"Well, then?"

She threw him a pitying look before turning on her heel and marching on up the stairs. "Charles Percy," she said as she disappeared from his view, "you
are
a fool."

She had donned her riding habit and just sat down at her dressing table to put up her hair when there was a tap at the door. "If you think I will explain myself any further, Lord Lucas," she said to the closed door, "you much mistake me. You're quite old enough to decipher my meaning for yourself."

"This is not Lord Lucas, my love," came a voice from outside. "It's your mother."

"Mama!" the girl cried, flying to the door. "Come in!"

They embraced warmly on the threshold, and then Cicely drew her mother into the room and shut the door. She studied her mother's face closely. "Are you well, dearest? The ado last night didn't too greatly overset you, did it?"

"I'm quite recovered. But I seem to be interrupting you. Are you going to ride?"

"Yes. I promised to race with Lord Lucas's overbearing nephew. I was about to put up my hair."

"Let me do it," Cassie said, urging the girl to the dressing table. "I think I can still remember how."

"Oh, Mama," the girl sighed, meeting her mother's eyes in the glass, "how very lovely it is to have you back."

Cassie smiled at her and picked up the brush. "I remember doing this when you were little. There was a red ribbon you always insisted on wearing. You would not give it up until it had frayed so badly it was nothing but string."

"But you didn't come in to reminisce about red ribbons, did you? What is it, Mama?"

Cassie twisted Cicely's silky hair into a tight bun, but with the ends hanging loosely down in short ringlets, in a style that would look charming beneath her cocky little riding hat. "So you're enjoying this stay here at Inglesby Park, are you?" she asked, beginning to pin the bun up.

"I am lately... since you started to heal," the girl admitted. "Why?"

"Are you enjoying it so much that you wish to remain much longer?"

Cicely, surprised by the question, turned round on the seat, causing the half-pinned bun to tumble down. "Remain? Why?" Then her eyes widened in delight. "Oh, my dearest, do you mean you're ready to go
home!"

"More than ready," Cassie admitted. "I'm positively
eager"

"Oh, Mama!" The girl threw her arms about her mother's waist and hugged her tightly. "If it means that you're well again, and that we shall be as we used to be, there's nothing I'd like better than to go home."

Cassie held her close for a long moment. Then she stepped back, turned her daughter to face the mirror and reached for the hairpins. "But we can speak of this later," she said, pinning up the bun again. "Meanwhile, we must finish your hair. It won't do to keep Lord Lucas's overbearing nephew waiting."