Fortune's Lady (38 page)

“We are!”

“Liar! The tollkeeper wasn't the tollkeeper, he didn't live in the town! Damn you, I know everything! Now let me go!”

“No! What are you talking about? Cass! Cass, for God's sake—” He controlled himself with an effort and released her, but kept her pinned down by his closeness. His mind was a jumble. “Tell me how you got this notion into your head. Who told you such a thing?”

Her lips curled. “What difference does it make? I know. And I'm not telling you who told me.”

He sat up. “Wade!”

She smiled unpleasantly.

No, not Wade, she'd been angry before that, gone to Wade
after
she'd been told this lie. Who, then? He tried to recall the afternoon. Oliver was the only one he knew for certain she'd spoken to, but that was impossible. He disapproved of her, certainly, but he would never do anything like this. Who, then? Someone she'd met in Oxford Street that day? Wally, for a joke? Her aunt! Freddy? He couldn't think straight.

He took hold of her again and gave her a little shake. “Whoever told you this was lying, Cass. We
are
married.”

She pushed him away. “Where is our marriage certificate, then?” She wouldn't cry. Oh, she had hoped never to have this humiliating quarrel!

His brows went up. “I thought it went the way of the wash basin. Didn't you destroy it?” She shook her head pityingly. “Well, I didn't do anything with it!” Her expression made it plain she didn't believe him. “Damn it, Cass, we're married! Who told you we weren't? Tell me!”

Silence.

“How can I defend myself if I don't know who's attacked me?”

Stubborn silence.

“Whoever it is, he, she—they're
lying.
Why won't you believe me? This person is a
snake
, Cass. I'm telling you the truth! Besides, how could I have done anything so devious? Don't you remember the condition I was in? I could hardly say my own name, much less—”

“No, but your friend Wally could. The two of you probably arranged it beforehand, before we left Colin's in the coach. Philip, I can't stand this conversation—”

“
Wally
? Well, Christ, Cass, all you have to do is ask him and he'll tell you that's not true! He's—”

“Oh, I'm sure of that! He would hardly admit it, would he?”

Muttering something vile, he stood up and began pacing back and forth between the bed and the fireplace. Suddenly he stopped. “We signed something else there, remember? A paper they kept. They'll still have it, it's the permanent record.”

“Philip, there's no such thing.”

“We'll go and look! As soon as you're well! We'll go and—” He broke off, remembering. “I can't go.” She laughed a bitter laugh and he strode toward her, stifling a string of curses. “The opening of Parliament is a little over three weeks away, my dear wife. You may think I'm nothing but a bounder, that I spend all my time deceiving women, but the fact is I'm sponsoring a bill this session which will save a great many lives if I can get it passed. It's what I've been working on all summer, and there's still an incredible amount of work to be done—committee meetings, constituents' meetings, strategy sessions with the men who support me. Damn it all, Cass, I cannot go to Scotland this month!”

“No, I can see that,” she said mildly. “But then, I never asked you to.”

With a fearful oath, he turned around and started pacing again. She watched him from beneath her lashes, berating herself for actually having seen, at least for a few seconds, a glimmer of hope at the end of the dark, wretched cave she felt herself to be in.

Presently he stopped again, struck by another idea. “Walker! We'll send John! You trust
him
, don't you, Cass? He could go, I could send him tomorrow. It would take about a week, there and back, if the weather's fine. He could get an affidavit from the damn tollkeeper, get a copy of the record.” He went to her and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking her unwilling hands. “Would that satisfy you? I can't think what else to do. If you can, tell me and I'll do it.”

His sincerity almost undid her. All she wanted in the world was to believe him. The very intensity of her desire for it warned her of the danger. He'd called Quinn a snake, but was it reasonable that his oldest and best friend would try to destroy his legitimate marriage? She didn't think so. She had no experience of treachery that vicious, and could not credit its existence.

Still, what harm would it do to send Walker?

She pulled her hands away and folded them in her lap. “I do trust John,” she said slowly, “even though he's your employee. I don't think he would do anything dishonorable. But—”

“But you have no trouble believing
I
would!” He was blazingly angry, but at the same time a vast, golden relief was rising in him. The mystery was solved. Cass had made an enormous blunder because she'd been lied to. She hated him because she'd been misled. Their marriage wasn't over—it was only beginning! He felt like shaking the truth into her so they could stop wasting time. Instead he had to go through this stupid business of sending Walker to Gretna Green. “You know, love,” he told her, “when this is resolved and you see what a colossal idiot you've been, you're going to owe me a very large apology.”

“I doubt that.”

A slow smile changed his face. “And I've just thought of the perfect way for you to show your contrition.”

She frowned, ignoring this. “As I was saying, I do trust John. But even if I agreed that you should send him, don't you need him here? Now more than ever? From what you've just told me—”

“Of course I need him here. I'm offering to send him anyway. What do you say?”

She looked away, thinking, fingertips resting lightly on her lips. Again the possibility that he was telling the truth tempted and beckoned behind the corners of her mind, but she shied away in superstitious fear of the bright, shimmering joy such thoughts summoned. “But how would you tell him?” she fretted. “What would you say?”

“I'd tell him the truth. I know it's awkward, but there's nothing for it, he'd have to know. But he's the soul of discretion, Cass, I can assure you it would go no further.”

She closed her eyes a moment. “All right. Send him.” She tried to sound cool and businesslike. “But I must tell you, I expect very little from this.”

“Do you, love?” he asked softly. “How did you become so cynical, I wonder.” He reached out to touch her cheek, but she turned her face away. He settled for a lock of hair that lay across her breast and rubbed its sleek, dusky softness between his fingers. His anger had dissipated like summer storm clouds. “I expect a miracle from this. I expect to get my wife back.”

She felt his warm hand faintly brushing her collarbone. Her heart was beating too fast, her body responding to the vibrations in his voice. “If John Walker returns with the proof of our marriage, Philip,” she said as steadily as she could, “I will apologize to you in any way you choose. But until then, I would prefer it if you didn't touch me.”

He traced a path down her throat with two fingers, to the top of her nightgown. “Oh, love,” he whispered. “Be sure of that before you say it. Because I'll do my best to oblige you, and I wouldn't want you to regret it later. Tomorrow, or the next day. Or now.” His fingers slipped just inside the top of her gown and caressed her with slow, deliberate skill.

It would have taken so little to give in to him, so little, and she wanted him so very much. “I'm quite sure,” she said in a breathy falsetto that made him smile.

“What about a kiss, then,” he coaxed. “To seal our agreement to send John.”

“I hardly think that's necessary.”

“I think it is. I think it's vital.” He ran his forefinger along her bottom lip with light, gentle urgency, leaning close. “Kiss me, Cass. You know you want to.”

She took a deep breath through her nose. “Perhaps I do, but you always—do more after that, and then I can't—”

“I won't this time. I promise. Just a kiss.” Her lips were an inch away; he could feel her soft breath on his face. He decided not to wait for her answer. But just as their lips met she whispered yes, and her willingness sent a shock wave of wanting through him. He meant to be gentle, to be true to his word, but he couldn't stop himself from tasting her with his tongue while his hand pulled the sheet away from her breast and caressed her through her nightgown.

“No, Philip, you said—”

“I know, but this is part of it. It all goes together.”

Specious reasoning, the working part of Cass's brain noted. Her hand lay on top of his, useless, permissive, maybe subtly encouraging. How could anything so lovely be wrong? And she'd missed him so terribly, this was like being allowed into the sunshine after a bitter cold winter. He was touching her lower now, along her ribs and belly, trailing fire everywhere, still kissing her deeply.

“I want to give you so much pleasure,” he breathed into her mouth. “I'm dying to be inside you again. I want to hear you say my name, Cass.”

She was shaking uncontrollably, her fingers clenching and unclenching on his arms. Somehow she managed to turn her face away. “You have to stop,” she told him on something close to a sob. “You said you would.”

He put his cheek next to hers and discovered she was weeping. “I'm sorry, love.” He drew a long, shuddering breath. “But it doesn't make sense to me not to love you.”

It didn't make sense to her, either. She lay still, waiting for her racing heart to calm, savoring the warmth and rightness of his body against her as long as she could. When he drew away, he took the best part of her with him, and she knew it would be that way always.

“Will you keep the ring, Cass? You don't have to wear it,” he hurried on when she started to shake her head. “Just keep it. Anywhere. Under the bed, if you like. Will you?”

She hesitated. Then, “Yes, all right.”

They gazed at each other, he smiling, she holding back. He found the ring on the bed. He closed her fingers around it, kissed them, and stood up. “Walker's still downstairs. I want to catch him before he goes home.” He put his hands in his pockets and rocked a little on his heels. He looked cocky. “One week, Cass. You've wronged me terribly, you know. Your apology will have to be very heartfelt, very moving. Very
long
, too, and drawn out. It might take—”

“Good night, Philip.”

He chuckled gleefully, anticipating her capitulation. “Good night, my dearest wife. Don't forget—one week.” He grinned again and was gone.

She stared at the closed door, brushing her fingers across a faint, irrepressible smile. One week.

T
HE WEEK PASSED
with excruciating slowness—for Riordan because he knew what would happen when it was over, for Cass because she didn't. She suffered his teasing, near-constant attempts to seduce her with an increasingly light heart, and his contagious happiness tempted her to hope again. Luckily, his work kept him out a good deal of the time, attending meetings and endlessly talking to his cronies in his political clubs about the bill he would sponsor and other parliamentary business; otherwise his persistence would surely have worn down her defenses before the week was out.

She was up and about now, eating and sleeping well, feeling almost like her old self. But except for one new friend, a woman named Jennie Willoughby, Cass saw no one and remained at home. Their social life was deliberately quiet, all but curtailed, while they waited for Walker's return. Riordan's mother went back to Cornwall without seeing them again, and his brother paid no call. Cass wondered if he felt slighted, but couldn't summon any regret for his family's coldness on her own behalf. She liked them as little as he, and felt content to be ignored by them indefinitely. Lady Helena's “
fête champêtre
” took place without them, to their immense relief; anyway, it was the invitation that was important, Riordan assured her, not one's attendance at the bloody thing. Aunt Beth sent a stiff note inviting them to her engagement party; Cass sent a stiff note back, declining. She knew she could end the rift between them with a word, but she didn't care to, at least not yet. The things Lady Sinclair had called her at their last meeting were still perfectly fresh in her mind; if they were to become cordial again, she would always suspect her aunt's motives.

She read a great deal to make the time go faster. She also renewed another pastime she'd begun a few months ago, a secret one even Riordan didn't know about, which gave her hours of pleasure and contentment: writing. She wrote essays, mostly, about London life from a woman's viewpoint, but also stories and even a poem or two. Her proudest achievement was a letter to the
London Gazette
about the need for a reduction of the number of capital crimes—not coincidentally the subject of Riordan's bill. She wrote it under the name “C. Lindsay,” Lindsay being her mother's maiden name. To her astonishment, two days after she sent it, it appeared in print.

That evening, one of the rare nights when Riordan had the leisure to stay at home, he and Cass sat in their separate chairs before the fire in the library. A light rain pattered outside, imbuing the room with a warm and cosy feeling. Riordan got up to stir the fire, then to poke his head out the French doors and test the air. The smell of wet leaves wafted in, moldy and pungent. Neither spoke, but both wondered if the rain were slowing Walker down. Today was the sixth day.

He came back to his chair and unfolded his evening paper. Cass tried to pretend she was engrossed in her book but kept stealing glances at him, waiting on pins and needles for him to turn to the editorials, as he always did. At last he came to the page. She watched his expression with covert intensity.