Fortune's Lady (36 page)

Then why didn't she do it? It wasn't for lack of courage. And it wasn't because she feared the disapprobation of these people. With a sick shudder she realized it was because she wanted to protect him. Because she still loved him. Deeply, with every cell in her body and with her whole soul. She was overcome with self-loathing; the only thought that gave her any consolation at all was that she'd never gotten the chance to tell him.

“Philip,
darling.
”

Riordan was brushing cheeks with a small, delicately-boned lady of middle age or better. Even before he introduced her, Cass guessed she was his mother because of her eyes, large and dark blue like his. She had a girlish, bird-like manner at odds with her age, which she took pains to disguise by the liberal use of face powder and cosmetics. Unbidden, an image came to Cass's mind of a little boy in a summer house, surprising this woman and her lover in the act of love. What would it be like for a boy to have a promiscuous mother? she found herself wondering. She couldn't really imagine it. She supposed it might cheapen sex for him, perhaps make him wary of women when he became a man. She stared at Riordan speculatively.

He'd introduced his mother as Lady Millicent. “But you must call me Millie, I suppose; everyone does. I absolutely forbid you to call me Mother.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” murmured Cass.

“Oh, how silly of me, Roddy.” She took the arm of the gentleman standing beside her. “Cassandra, this is Roderick McPhee. Roddy, my charming new daughter, and I don't think you know my son Philip.” Lady Millicent's escort was a handsomely dressed, dashing-looking fellow a year or two younger than Riordan. The two men shook hands without noticeable warmth.

“How's Father?” asked Riordan blandly.

Only a slight flaring of the nostrils revealed that Lady Millicent found the question tactless. “Not very well, I'm afraid; but I'll tell you all about that later. So! It's really true, my youngest child is married?”

“As you see.” He drew Cass's cold hand to his lips, putting a tender kiss on her knuckles.

“I'm delighted for you, of course, but I must confess to a teeny bit of surprise. I'd thought you and that lovely Harvellyn girl would—ah, but one never knows, does one? And who's to say an impulsive marriage hasn't as good a chance for success as one more carefully considered?” No one answered. “Well, I'm sure I wish you a long life of perfect happiness together.” Her ladyship's attention seemed to wander as she spied friends across the way. “Oh, dear, there's never any time to talk at these large affairs, is there? But we'll all be seeing one another tomorrow at George's, won't we? Just the family, how lovely. Ta!” And she sailed away.

Smiling tightly, Riordan watched his mother depart on the arm of her youthful escort. “What I love about Mother is her warmth,” he said, lowering a cynical eyebrow at Cass. “Don't you feel welcomed into the bosom of the family now, darling? And you'll be enjoying that same graciousness and cordiality from all of them, I assure you.”

She kept silent. Inwardly she was trying to understand how he could stand there and tell such a monstrous lie to his own mother, straight-faced, however much he disliked her.

“Come, love, you have to speak to me sometime. What will people think?” He put his fingers lightly on her jaw and tilted her face up. The expression of hopeless disappointment clouding her gray eyes made him clench his jaws and quell the urge to shout at her. But there was no time to say more; other guests were arriving and they must greet them together.

His brother George, Viscount Lanham, resembled him hardly at all, thought Cass, except perhaps around the mouth; but no, Riordan's was strong and sensual, she amended after a moment's inspection, and George's was merely sensual. Fulfilling Riordan's prediction, George kissed her and put his hands on her at every opportunity—which wasn't very often because Riordan made a point of keeping her anchored to his side. He got her away from his brother as soon as he decently could, on the excuse that he must officially open the festivities by leading her through the first
contredanse.

“I don't want to dance with you,” she told him as he guided her out on the floor—the first words she'd spoken to him directly in many minutes.

“Nevertheless, you will,” he retorted, annoyed. The music and the dance began. “Would it be too much to ask you to smile occasionally, my love?” he asked in a quiet, deceptively pleasant tone as he led her down a double line of admiring ladies and gentlemen. “You've proven you have no conversation; are you out to show you've a disposition to match?”

She pressed her lips together, disdaining to answer.

“No, really, darling, I know meeting my family has been a bit of a shock, but your eloquence this evening leaves a great deal to be desired. Are you feeling all right?”

Forcing an amiable smile, she said softly but succinctly, “Go to hell.”

He made a low bow to her curtsy. “Ah, my sweet, how I adore the sound of your voice. What we need to work on now is the message.” He took her hand and held it high, leading her in a stately pivot. “Some men prefer quiet wives, I'm told, but I'm not one of them. I do, however, want one who doesn't curse at me.”

“I'm not your wife.”

He pressed the small of her back with a light hand and grinned down at her. “Not lately, that's true. But after tonight you will be again. Careful, darling.” He held her elbow when she missed a step.

She couldn't even pretend to smile now. “You couldn't possibly—” The intricacies of the dance separated them at that moment. She glared across at his smug, insufferable countenance and contemplated bolting. He would catch her before she went three feet, but at least she'd succeed in embarrassing him.

As if reading her thoughts, he reclaimed her a few beats before the music required it and took her hand in a stronger grasp. “Couldn't possibly what, my angel?”

She gritted her teeth. “What kind of a man would want a woman who despises him?” she ground out in a harsh whisper.

“The kind who's tired of waiting, I expect.” His own smile was beginning to wane.

“I have no intention of allowing you to touch me, tonight or any other night.”

“Then I'll have to take what's mine without your permission.”

“I'm not yours!”

The dance had ended a few seconds before; they bowed and curtsied hastily and stalked off the floor more like duelists than newlyweds, though he still held her hand.

“Cassie! Lord, if you ain't a sight! Give us a kiss.”

“Oh, Freddy!” She threw herself into her cousin's open arms with heartfelt affection, her eyes misting. “Oh, my, I'm so glad to see you.”

“Faith, I'm glad to see you, too! I wouldn't have missed this for anything. Hullo, Philip, congratulations and all that.” The two men shook hands, Riordan a bit grimly.

“How've you been, Freddy?” asked Cass. “I haven't seen you in ages.”

“I'm tip-top, as usual, and Cassie, I've got the most smashing news. I'm to be married, too!”

“No!”

“She said yes last night—I haven't even told Mother. I'd have brought her along tonight, but she's come down with a chill. Hope it ain't related to saying yes! Ha ha!”

“Oh, Freddy, that's marvelous. I'm so happy for you. Is it Ellen Van Rijn?”

“Yes, and she's a peach of a girl, Cassie, I know you'll love her. But isn't it wonderful, both of us getting married? Who'd have thought it last spring in Paris, eh?”

She said something inaudible.

“But say, you haven't heard the rest. Guess who else is about to tie the knot?”

“Who?”

“Mother!”

“No! To whom?”

“Fellow named Edward Frane. Ugly blighter, but rich as Croesus. You knew him, didn't you?”

She could only nod with her mouth open. As angry and out of patience with Aunt Beth as she was, she wouldn't have wished Edward Frane on her. Still, the arrangement had a certain symmetry. She sincerely hoped they would make each other happy, but she wouldn't have staked much on it in a wager. The irony wasn't lost on her that she'd once refused Edward Frane in a fit of indignation because he'd asked her to be his mistress, and yet that was exactly what she had become to Philip Riordan.

Freddy led her in the next dance, Riordan's brother George in the one after that. Then came a succession of partners, some of whom she knew and some she didn't. She began to feel ill, but since dancing was preferable to speaking she never said no. Always she could feel Riordan's eyes on her, though she scrupulously avoided looking his way. She was aware that he was drinking, not pretending to drink, though so far it seemed to be with moderation. Once, when they were together, she said, “I see you're drinking again,” keeping her tone flat and unweighted.

“Would you rather I didn't?”

“It's perfectly immaterial to me one way or the other.”

He stared into his wine. “Curious. It's immaterial to me, too.” And he put the glass down.

A little later, when the musicians paused, he claimed her from her latest partner and led her to an alcove where Lady Helena Strong sat ensconced, sipping ratafia with two other matronly guardians of the door to the
haut monde.
Lady Helena spoke to Cass with only a trifle more civility than she had in the eyeglass shop two months ago. After a bit of stiff chit-chat, Riordan asked pointedly about Walter, Lady Helena's son, which brought a bright flush of color to her cheeks—inexplicable to Cass until she recalled that he'd once lent the Strongs a great deal of money to conceal Walter's unseemly theft from the family business.

“Oh, by the way,” he continued with scarcely a pause. “The invitation to your
fête champêtre
arrived. Thank you so much. We're delighted to accept, aren't we, Cass? A weekend in Oxfordshire sounds just the thing before the winter term begins.”

Lady Helena looked as if she'd swallowed half a dozen sharp stones. She made a swift and valiant recovery, though, and expressed pleasure that they could attend in halting but determined accents. When Riordan took her hand and kissed it, no one but Cass saw the solemn wink he flashed her ladyship in farewell.

“I take it we were not invited to the
fête champêtre
?? Cass whispered as they made their way toward the dining room.

“Not until now,” he confirmed, smiling and nodding to friends as they went.

“Why did you do it, force it on her like that? It was practically blackmail.”

“Because as odious as she is and as intolerable as her house party will certainly be, she and her friends hold the key to your entrée into the highest social circles in London, Cass. Quite frankly, we can't do without her.”

Cass stopped walking and faced him in astonishment. “But what difference does it make? I won't be around long enough for it to matter anyway!”

He still held her hand; he squeezed it until she blanched. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, his face reddening.

For once it was she who remembered there were people all around. “You're hurting me,” she said quietly, looking away.

His hold gentled but he didn't release her. “I asked you a question.”

“To which you know the answer very well.”

“I know nothing except that you are the damnedest woman I've ever known!”

“Let me go, Philip. People are watching us.”

“Are they? Then we ought to give them something to see.”

She hissed at him. “Stop it, stop, don't you—”

Too late. He pulled her against him and cut off her objections with his mouth. “Kiss me back,” he murmured against her lips, holding the back of her neck. She tried to shake her head. “Kiss me, Cass, or I'll put my hands on your behind.” A muffled gasp of outrage. “Very well—” But before he could slide his hand from her waist to her buttocks, she put her arms around his neck and pressed against him.

“You bastard…”

Taking advantage of her ill-judged decision to speak, he sleeked his warm tongue into her mouth and tasted her, feeling the tremors that shuddered through her as he did so. For another full second she tried to stifle her reaction. Then she gave up. Nothing had ever felt so right as his mouth on hers, his hands pressing her against his long, hard body. Their eyes were closed, their senses engrossed; they didn't hear the scattering of good-natured applause until the kiss was over. Riordan held her a moment longer before turning toward their small audience with an expression that seemed to say, Who
are
these people? Cass blushed to the roots of her hair and would have fled in shame and despair if he hadn't been holding onto her with an iron grip.

“I think they liked that, don't you, darling? Shall we do it again?” He pressed his lips to her hairline.

“I'm going to kill you,” she muttered in perfect seriousness.

He chuckled and guided her into the dining room, where a sumptuous midnight supper had been laid out on long tables. Feeling better than he had in weeks, he kept his arm around her waist and made her sample delicacies from his fingers until she told him, in complete truth, that if he did it again she was going to be sick on his shirtfront. After that he allowed more space between his offerings, though he kept her hand.

How the next hour passed, Cass was never afterward able to recall; it went by in a dark, buzzing fog as her mind locked in morbid anticipation on what would happen later tonight and her body teetered on the brink of exhaustion. She must have spoken, eaten, drunk wine, moved about, but to her it seemed as if she were locked in a small black room with no one and nothing but her own nightmarish thoughts. The worst was that she'd told Riordan, more clearly than words ever could, that she still wanted him. No, no, that wasn't the worst—the worst was that in a little while she would give herself to him, freely and without coercion, and then her defeat would be total. The thing she had sought to avoid at all costs, becoming his mistress, would be
a fait accompli.