In the Garden of Seduction (10 page)

Standing, Simon gave into an inclination
that had teased him for hours. He entered the hall, moving quietly,
and stopped outside the bedchamber where Cassandra slept. He eased
the door open.

He stared into the dimness of the room,
focusing on the woman lying silently in the mammoth bed. Her face
was pale and drawn, and dark circles like tender bruises smudged
her eyes above her cheekbones.

She was beautiful.

Her shiny auburn hair had come undone, and
soft ringlets trailed along her slim neck and over her shoulders.
She looked in sleep just as he’d imagined she would. Of course, his
imagination had conjured a woman in the throes of passion, not
unconscious from a strong drug.

Even now as she lay injured, he wanted to
cross the room and climb into the bed next to her. He could picture
his face close to hers as he dusted those enticing curls from her
forehead with his fingertips. Then he would cover her ravishing
mouth with his own to wake her, and she’d respond by drawing him in
with her magic. He clenched his hands, for he could almost feel her
silky skin beneath his touch.

The marquess sucked in a sharp breath and
exhaled slowly. He was a fool. He should not be here—the temptation
was too great. Fortunately, her maid slumbered on a cot in the
corner.

He shut the door quietly, and his steps took
him back to the sitting room and his lonely chair. He sat, leaning
his head against the cushion, and closed his bleary eyes.

Since he seldom worried about the feelings
of others, his concern for Miss James unsettled him. Ordinarily, he
played the game of love without consequences, moving on when
boredom overtook him. The women of his acquaintance understood, as
he did not seek out the debutantes. Young ladies of good moral
character had expectations, and the marquess ruthlessly avoided
such entanglements.

An unbidden thought slipped into his
consciousness, causing Simon to stir uneasily. Perhaps he had
better stop worrying about Miss James and begin to worry about his
own state of mind. On that disquieting observation, his breathing
deepened and he slept.

*****

Cassandra awakened slowly. She felt stiff,
uncomfortable. Her head was fuzzy and her thoughts disjointed. She
shifted her position and her memory sharpened, while a dull ache in
her foot reminded her of her recent accident. She moaned softly and
her eyes fluttered open.

Her surroundings were not immediately
recognizable in the predawn gloom, and her gaze glided uncertainly
over unfamiliar furnishings. Where was she? A rustling movement
caught her attention, and her gaze shifted to the cot where her
maid Annie was sleeping.

She must still be in Mr. Stiles’ guest
bedroom.

Cassandra recalled being served a dose of
tincture of opium by the doctor and drifting off to sleep as Lord
Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles talked in an undertone in the doorway.
The men were discussing Roger, that she remembered. What had
happened to Roger? How had the earl been convinced to allow her to
stay the night?

She turned her attention to the clock on the
mantle. Almost five. Good lord, the night had slipped away.

Cassandra eased from the covers, relieved
that she was wearing her clothes from yesterday. Gingerly, using
the toes of her injured foot for balance, she hopped across the
bedchamber on her other foot and entered the hall. Once there, she
wondered what to do now. It occurred to her that she had made a
mistake in leaving her bed because her ankle was already throbbing
painfully.

A light from a room at the end of the hall
caught her attention, and she thumped toward it. Maybe Mr. Stiles
was awake. She paused at the doorway and glanced in, her gaze
coming to rest on a slumped figure snoring softly in a chair by the
fireplace.

The Marquess of Sutherfield.

His head had fallen back, and the warm light
from the fire flickered across his face, illuminating his handsome
features. Arrested, she stared at his hollowed cheeks and the
strong line of his jaw, now covered with a blue-black shadow. He
looked unthreatening as he slept, not nearly so dangerous, she
thought. It was only when he watched her through bold eyes, dark
and predatory, that she sensed the peril.

His linen shirt gaped open at the neck,
exposing the strong line of his chest, and he had rolled his
sleeves to the elbows. He lay with his hands laced across his flat
stomach, his long legs stretched out on a footstool.

Cassandra continued to study him, mesmerized
by his sheer magnetism as he slumbered. She’d never before had the
opportunity to study a man casually at rest, unaware and
unconcerned with his surroundings.

There must be something immoral, Cassandra
thought uneasily, about a woman staring in a lustful manner at a
sleeping man. Had she been less honest, she would never have
admitted to such a base emotion, but at the moment she was
overwhelmingly attracted to the marquess. She hoped it was the
residual effects of that awful drug corrupting her thoughts. She
dropped her gaze and turned to leave.

“How are you feeling?”

Startled, Cassandra met Lord Sutherfield’s
tired eyes. His voice sounded thick with sleep and that more than
anything emphasized the intimacy of the moment. He didn’t move but
his look sharpened as the drowsiness fell away from him.

“Better,” was all she felt capable of
saying.

“Glad to hear it.” He came to a sitting
position and put his feet on the floor. “I’m not used to sleeping
in a chair.” He grimaced. “I think I’ve developed a crick in my
neck.”

“Why are you here?” Cassandra could not help
asking.

“Couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d read.” He
motioned to the book lying open on the carpet. “What are you doing
up?”

“I’m not certain…getting my bearings, I
think.”

“That can’t be good for your ankle.”

“I’m not using it.” She hopped on her well
foot to prove her point and then paused. “I’m rather surprised my
grandfather allowed me to stay.”

The marquess came to his feet. “He didn’t
want to. Seems he doesn’t trust me where you’re concerned.”

“Should he?”

“I told you, I do not have a habit of
seducing injured young ladies,” he stated darkly. “Don’t you
believe me?”

“Lord Sutherfield,” she said with some
asperity, “ever since I first met you, I’ve played the fox to your
hound. Why should I believe you? You’ve given me no reason to do
so.”

“Perhaps I haven’t,” the marquess conceded.
He sauntered across the room, coming near enough to make her pulse
leap. He took a lock of her silky hair, fingering it gently, before
allowing the curl to spring back to her shoulder. “Truth is, you’ve
caused me some trouble, Miss James. I’ve decided I like you.”

Up close, Lord Sutherfield’s casual attire
looked even more disturbing. Veins stood out from his neck, and she
could see the deep hollow in his throat above his collarbone. His
thin shirt, almost transparent, pulled tightly across his broad
shoulders, emphasizing his taut physique. Unshaven, his eyes
glittering in the half-light, he appeared almost sinister.

His nearness caused a flood of confusion to
rush through her. She swallowed nervously. “That’s very flattering,
I’m sure. But what does it mean?”

A long, uncomfortable silence followed, and
Cassandra sensed his sudden unease.

“Do you need some help to your room?” he
asked, his manner turning impersonal.

“That won’t be necessary.”

He nodded. Abruptly, he looked away from
her, retreating across the room to his chair. He sat down and
picked up his book.

“I’m glad you are feeling better, Miss
James.”

He continued to avoid her gaze, and she
stared, mouth hanging open. Muttering to herself, she turned and
hopped down the hall. By the time she reached her room,
bewilderment had turned to anger.

She closed the door and leaned against it.
Caution forgotten, Cassandra placed her injured foot on the floor.
She yelped.

“Miss?” Annie said sleepily, coming up on
her elbow.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you, Annie. Go back
to sleep.”

“But, miss, your foot—”

“I’m fine. I’m going back to bed, also.
Maybe by the time we wake up, Grandfather will have come to take us
away from this horrible place.”

*****

“Come now, cousin, tell me if you are
comfortable.”

“Please, Roger. I’ve told you I’m fine,”
Cassandra said. She waved him away as if he were a bothersome
fly.

At the moment, she lay on the sofa in her
grandfather’s parlor, having spent the last two days in her room
while her foot healed. She had begged Lord Whittingham to let her
come downstairs, for she had been nearly desperate to escape her
thoughts. However, if Roger did not stop his relentless fussing,
Cassandra decided, she would return there to hide.

“I want to be sure you don’t need anything,”
her cousin insisted. He began to plump a cushion at her back.

“Really, Roger, she said she felt fine,”
Penelope Ingram interrupted. Penelope had been watching the
proceedings, and her growing irritation had become obvious. She
sniffed audibly to emphasize her point.

Cassandra looked across the parlor at the
tiny blonde and sent her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Penelope.
I’m glad someone understands. All this pampering makes me
nervous.”

“And that’s only as it should be,” Penelope
stated primly, a sour expression on her pretty face. “Perhaps we
can now discuss something besides Cassandra’s purple foot. To speak
endlessly of a person’s ailment is boring.”

“Why, Pen,” Roger said, “that’s not like you
to be so mean-spirited. I know you’ve been as worried about dear
Cassie as we all have.”

Cassandra dropped her gaze to her hands to
hide her amusement. Penelope had apparently taken the accident
rather hard. It meant the poor girl was not the center of
attention, and to someone as vain as Miss Ingram it was a
disappointing pill to swallow.

“You know it’s not that, Roger,” Penelope
said, a suspicious catch to her voice, “but all this talk about
injuries is making me queasy. You do understand, don’t you?” She
lowered her lashes coquettishly at Mr. Morley and, sure enough, he
visibly softened.

“Of course, Pen, I knew you could not be so
unpleasant. It has been difficult for you as well,” Roger soothed
her.

Good lord, I’m beginning to feel queasy
myself, Cassandra thought in disgust. She had no respect for Roger.
Perhaps the solitude of her room would be preferable after all.
Anything would be better than listening to these two
ninnyhammers
coo at one another.

Therefore, the arrival of guests in the
outer hall some minutes later came as a relief. But the relief was
short-lived, for what should have been a blessing instead proved to
be just the opposite. Mr. Harry Stiles was ushered into the parlor
by the butler and following him was the Marquess of
Sutherfield.

Cassandra’s heart would have dropped to her
knees if she had been standing. As it was, it began to thump so
rapidly she grew short of breath.
She was not ready to face him
again!
She summoned what she hoped was a smile of welcome and
turned to the guests.

Pleasantries were exchanged all around, but
an intuitive person could not have missed the sudden tension in the
room. Thus, she was not surprised when the awkwardness of the
moment floated straight over Penelope’s head as the blonde rushed
toward the visitors in a frenzy of joyful welcome. If Cassandra had
not been upset by the marquess’ appearance, she would have
thoroughly enjoyed the show.

“What a wonderful surprise!” Penelope
gushed. “You have saved us from our boredom.”

“We came to inquire after Miss James’
health,” Mr. Stiles said, gently disengaging himself from Miss
Ingram as he made his way to the invalid’s side to offer his
respects. “Miss James, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you
looking better.” He took her hand and placed a respectful kiss on
her knuckles.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Stiles. I apologize
for sending your household into an uproar. Thank you for your kind
hospitality.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Stiles said, warmth
emanating from his friendly eyes. “My home benefited from your
lovely presence. I should thank you for that.”

“It has been exciting, hasn’t it?” Penelope
interrupted at this point.

Cassandra could see that her cousin again
had grown impatient with sharing the limelight. All three men
looked at Penelope in bewilderment.

“Oh, y-you know what I mean,” Penelope
faltered, proving she was not totally lacking in sensitivity.
Sadly, that sensitivity only occurred rarely and usually too late.
“You know, don’t you, cousin?”

“Yes, of course, I do,” Cassandra returned,
controlling the urge to laugh. At that moment, she looked up and
met Lord Sutherfield’s amused gaze.

She watched as the smile drifted from his
face. The last thing she wanted was to have conversation with him.
Naturally, good manners dictated that she acknowledge his presence,
but that required only a perfunctory nod of the head. Easier said
than done, she realized too late, for all at once she forgot the
others in the room as she and the marquess shared a very personal,
unspoken communication.

By the time she dropped her gaze, she knew
neither one of them was thinking about Penelope. In fact, those few
seconds were so emotionally charged, her mind went blank. Cassandra
blinked, surprised to hear the conversation still flowing smoothly
around her.

“It’s a good idea. Don’t you think it’s a
good idea, Cassandra?” She heard Penelope appealing to her.

“What…? Oh, I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.
What’s a good idea?” She felt Lord Sutherfield’s gaze still on her,
but could not bring herself to look at him again.