Fortune's Lady (16 page)

“Open the door, damn it!”

Riordan! She threw open the door and would have flung herself against him in relief, but his face, and then his words, stopped her cold.

“You couldn't wait, could you, Cass? I told you not to see him without telling me first, but you couldn't stand it.”

“Yes, but he—”

“It must've been hard for you all these weeks without a man. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have been glad to be of service, and I wouldn't have charged a thing.”

She gasped. “What are you—”

“But don't go to him again without telling me, do you understand? No matter how hard it gets for you. Because the man's a killer, Cass, and you could get hurt.”

She stopped trying to talk and stood still, waiting for him to finish.

“Or is that what you like about him, his killer instinct? That's fine with me, I don't give a damn, but I need you to stay healthy until this is over. After that you can do whatever you bloody please.” He put his face close to hers and snarled. “But if you go with him again without telling me, I'll make you sorry.”

She could hardly breathe. “You son of a—” she got out before he took her arm and forced her backward.

“Go inside and lock the door. Don't see Wade again until we talk.” He pulled the door closed in her face, and she heard his fast, angry footsteps on the cobblestones. Too furious to weep, she pulled her foot back and kicked the door as hard as she could.

A chilly mist curled around Riordan's legs as he strode along. He turned up his collar and wrapped his arms around his middle, shivering. He wondered how he could feel cold when inside he was burning up. He'd come here tonight to apologize. He'd been feeling ashamed for days. He'd treated Cass badly and he'd wanted to put things right between them. Now he just wanted to murder her.

Jealous. He was jealous. It wasn't a completely new experience; he'd felt it a few times before with women. But he'd never felt jealousy like this before, never been burned up by it, as if in white-hot flames that left nothing but anger and ugly, spiteful words. He knew what Cass Merlin was; he'd always known it. Then why, when she merely fulfilled his sordid expectations, did he want to strangle her?

No, that wasn't quite it. What he wanted to do with Cass was seduce her. Take off her clothes, slowly, riding in a closed carriage. Or in his bed, quickly and desperately, both of them naked in seconds. Or slyly, secretly, in her aunt's sitting room, listening to her nervous, muffled moans as he undid the buttons.…

He stared up at the invisible sky. He'd thought at first that he wanted to avoid her because she was too much like too many other women he'd known, but there was more to it. It wasn't only that she embodied everything he'd rejected, called on all the carnal, unregenerate impulses he'd foresworn. It was that, but in combination with some other quality she possessed, one he didn't care to think about or give a name to, that made her so dangerous. She was a threat to his ambitions, as insane as that sounded. He wanted to make a difference in the world, use the undeserved power he'd been handed and leave things better than the way he'd found them. He wanted to marry Claudia. He wanted to work hard, earn the respect and admiration of his peers, and prove to them and to himself that he wasn't like his father or anyone else in his whole blighted family. His instincts told him the woman he'd just seen in Wade's arms could ruin all that and turn the useful, orderly life he wanted upside down.

He walked on, feeling strong and resolute. Crossing a dark intersection, he was struck by a brilliant mental image of Cass naked, lying across his lap, smiling with drowsy pleasure while he caressed her. He shut his eyes but only saw the picture more clearly. Saw himself stroking her between her legs, watching her face.…

He walked faster, whistling to distract himself. The next image was even more seductive, and more horrifying. He saw himself and Cass in his library, sitting in separate chairs before a crackling fire, reading aloud to each other from the books on their laps. She had a blanket over her knees, and he was resting his slippered feet on a little stool.

He slammed his open palm against a lamp post and kicked it with his boot. He muttered a string of foul oaths and walked on. He had a long way to go.

“M
ISS
M
ERLIN,
it's always a pleasure to see you. Won't you come in? I'll take your shawl if you like.”

“Thank you, John.” Cass smiled at John Walker and handed him her wrap. He seemed to function as Riordan's housekeeper as well as his secretary, she'd noticed in the weeks she had been coming here. “Would you tell Mr. Riordan I'm here, please?”

Walker cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and his fair complexion pinkened. “Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, but he isn't here.”

“No? But he sent a note saying he wanted to see me.” A rude, cryptic note, the tone of which had annoyed her out of all proportion.

“Yes, I know. I had it delivered myself,” he said apologetically. “But then he was called out—some trouble with a constituent—and I'm not quite sure when he'll return.”

“I see.” She weighed her alternatives. “In that case, I believe I'll go home.”

He cleared his throat again. “Actually, he…wondered if you'd be good enough to wait. In the library. He gave me a book he said you were to—that is, if you wanted to, a book you might like to read.”

Cass cocked a skeptical brow. She could well imagine what Riordan's actual words to his secretary had been, and congratulated the young man on the tactfulness of his interpretation. She decided she would stay so that he wouldn't incur his employer's unreasonable irritation, but for no other reason. “Very well, John, lead on.”

The secretary sent her a grateful look and preceded her down the hall to the library, ushering her inside with a polite hand on her elbow. She smiled at him again. She liked John Walker. Sometimes she suspected he had a tiny crush on her.

She went directly to the windowseat, as was her habit. He brought her, not a book, but a collection of printed pages bound together at the edges with string. The tiny print and the length of the document made her quail, but she took it on her lap, plumped a pillow at the small of her back, and prepared to give it her best try.

“May I bring you something? Some tea, or a glass of sherry?”

“Not sherry—then I should fall asleep even faster,” she laughed. “Nothing right now, John, thanks.”

“Are you sure? If you'll pardon me for saying so, you're not—that is, I've seen you looking better. Are you quite well?”

“Yes, I'm perfectly fine. Thank you very much.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then made a polite bow and left the room.

Cass put her head back against the window and closed her eyes. No, she wasn't quite well, but she thought the rice powder she'd rubbed into the purple circles under her eyes had disguised the fact. There was nothing really wrong; it was only that her life was in such turmoil. She never knew what sort of mood Riordan would be in when they met, publicly or privately. Usually he was vile, but sometimes he surprised her by being extraordinarily gentle, almost as if he didn't despise her after all. And like a child, or a puppy, she would invariably drop her guard and respond warmly to him on those occasions, only to regret it the next time he was vile again.

As for Wade, she met him as infrequently as she could without raising his suspicions—or Mr. Quinn's ire. He'd never hurt her again the way he had that first night, but her fear that he would kept her constantly on edge. She'd been too angry at first, then too ashamed, to mention the incident to Riordan, but she'd made a secret vow that if Wade tried to touch her like that again, she would not allow it, even if it meant aborting her role in the plot against him.

Her decadent new life had caused her to reverse day and night; she was seldom in bed before dawn, and usually slept until afternoon—or more precisely, lay there until afternoon, fretting and brooding, trying to understand what she'd gotten herself into and wondering how much longer she could endure it. When she did sleep, she had bad dreams. She'd lost her appetite. And today was her birthday and no one cared.

Other than that, she thought dryly, everything was perfectly fine.

Now what did Riordan want her to read? she wondered on a tired sigh, settling herself more comfortably. Talking about books was almost the only way they communicated anymore without quarreling—a circumstance she would not have thought possible a month ago. She, Cass Merlin, a reader! She shook her head in weary wonder and read the title page.
Reflections on the Revolution in France,
by Edmund Burke. Burke, Burke. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She smoothed the pages on her lap and started to read.

Two hours later Riordan walked into the library and went straight to his desk. He rummaged through the piles of papers and letters littering the top, looking for a speech he wanted to show his friend Spencer. A sound drew his attention to the windowseat.

Cass. He hadn't thought she'd wait for him this long; he felt a ridiculous lightness in his chest at the sight of her. She was asleep, still sitting up but slumped sideways, one shoulder pressed against the wall in an uncomfortable-looking position. He went closer, quietly, and stood before her with his hands in his pockets. She was breathing softly through parted lips; the white of her eyelids looked naked and unguarded. She mumbled something and he went very still, hardly breathing, hoping she wouldn't wake. A long, silky strand of black hair had fallen from the loose knot on top of her head; moving closer, he took it between his fingers and massaged the cool sleekness, remembering.

He sat beside her, his speech and the man in the drawing room waiting for it forgotten. “Sweet Cass,” he murmured. He put a warm hand behind her neck and tugged gently; she hummed something in her sleep and obligingly shifted herself toward him. Now she was slumped against him instead of the wall, and he put both arms around her securely. She was wearing white again, but this time with perfect propriety—a light, summery frock trimmed with pale blue ribbons. Even asleep, she looked cool and elegant. It was the first time he'd held her since the day she'd said he mustn't touch her again. Such rules were made for breaking, he decided; they were almost like dares. He let his lips wander along her hairline as he breathed in her scent, that faint, flowery sweetness he still couldn't identify. Her hands lay open on top of the pages in her lap; the sight of the vulnerable, upturned palms stirred him.

“Cass,” he said again, stroking the exquisite softness of her cheek, her neck. He tipped her head back on his shoulder and touched her lips with light fingertips.

She opened her eyes. “Riordan,” she said on a long, soft sigh.

“Philip,” he corrected, whispering.

Her gaze was dreamy, relaxed. He could feel his self-control slipping away as he abandoned himself to the warm, bottomless gray of her eyes. She had the longest lashes he'd ever seen. Her skin was like the petal of some exotic white flower. His mouth moved toward hers as if a strong magnet pulled him there. While he watched, the look in her eyes changed. Now she was very much awake, waiting, not breathing. Her hushed expectancy made him self-conscious at last; with his lips a scant two inches from hers, he asked her, “What is the effect of liberty on individuals?”

Her slow, confused blink made him smile. He gave her a tiny shake and repeated the question.

She frowned, thinking. “It makes them do what they please.”

“So what ought we to do?”

“We ought to…see what it will please them to do before we risk congratulations, which…which may soon turn into complaints.”

He nodded. “And do you agree with that, Miss Merlin?”

She couldn't think with him holding her like this. How had she gotten into this posture, anyway? “Yes, I think so. Excuse me, would you—”

“Oh, of course. Beg pardon.” He unwrapped his arms and pushed away to give her more room. “How are you finding Burke in comparison to Rousseau?” he asked briskly, before she could ask him any questions about the position she'd woken up in.

She blushed, recalling the time she'd professed to admire them both equally. “They haven't much in common, have they?” she said, straightening her gown and smoothing back her hair.

“No,” he agreed, tactfully not rubbing it in.

“Mr. Burke has a strong veneration for the past, I would say. And since the French Assembly is new and has no traditions of its own, he thinks it a worthless usurper.”

“ ‘A worthless usurper,' ” Riordan repeated wonderingly. Cass flushed, but he was impressed as well as amused.

“And he's much more conservative, isn't he?” she rushed on. “Much less trusting of the people's ability to govern themselves.”

“Does that surprise you? You've lived in Paris. You know what the mob is capable of, Cass.”

She hesitated. “It's odd—everyone here speaks of the
mob,
the
mob,
as if they were all savages dressed in bloody rags. But do you know, Philip, the people in the mob are really only ordinary working men and women—bakers and soap-makers and drapers. The kind of people we buy the things we need from, people we'd be lost without.” Riordan nodded thoughtfully. “And yet this man Burke writes so convincingly about the folly of leaving the government in their hands, I can't help but agree with him.”

“It's his persuasive power. He's famous for it in the House. That pamphlet you're reading has had more to do with dampening English enthusiasm for the Revolution than anything else. It's already sold thirty thousand copies.”

“Do you know him?”

“Very slightly. Men of his brilliance don't usually befriend youthful upstarts with bad reputations.” His smile was tinged with irony, even bitterness.