In the Garden of Seduction (21 page)

*****

A somber mood permeated the Whittingham
carriage a short while later as Cassandra and her family headed for
home. Even Penelope gave the impression of being touched by recent
events.

“That poor child.” She seemed to have
conveniently forgotten her attitude toward that same child several
days earlier.

“What a tragedy,” the earl agreed. He sent
his transparent gaze to his granddaughter. “I must tell you,
Cassandra, I am deeply disappointed that you have been untruthful
with me. I must talk to Fenn.”

“It’s not Mr. Fennigan’s fault,” she rushed
to the coachman’s defense. “He only did as I asked him.”

“I’m aware of where the blame lies. Fenn is
a faithful servant, and I don’t intend to make him suffer for your
lack of integrity. I’m certain he felt he had no choice.”

Cassandra was grateful that, although the
earl was angry with her for disobeying him, he was still fair
enough not to make the coachman pay for her transgression. Strange
his attitude in this matter should bring her respect to the fore.
Before this, little else had.

Roger’s disapproval was palpable. “If you
would lie about the boy, what else would you lie about? Perhaps,
Uncle, you need to talk to Lord Sutherfield about where he was this
evening.” He cast Cassandra a glance filled with loathing.

That’s right, Roger, work on your hate. It
won’t be long until you can hardly stand to look at me, much less
marry me.

“If it would ease Grandfather’s mind,” she
said, allowing a hint of boredom to seep into her voice.

“Enough,” the earl snapped. “This has been a
trying evening, and I do not want any more aggravation. It appears
we cannot be civil to one another, therefore, let us cease speaking
altogether.”

Just as well, Cassandra thought. The
emotional ups and downs of the last few hours had left her
exhausted. When they reached the house, she trudged up the stairs
to her room on a mumbled good night.

Once inside her bedchamber she undressed.
She did not call her maid, unable to bear the thought of talking to
anyone. Annie would want to know how the party went, and what could
Cassandra say? That she had an amorous tryst with a handsome lord
and was nearly felled by the experience? Perhaps she could mention
the drunken man, a monster in human form, who had sold his son to
that same handsome lord. She could hardly believe the evening’s
events and she had been there.

She climbed into the middle of the bed to
lie on her back on top of the counterpane. Shadows cast by the one
lit candle in the room danced eerily across the ceiling overhead.
Crossing her hands over her chest, she wallowed in the gloomy
atmosphere of the bedchamber. She felt drained, like a husk,
lifeless.

She was afraid. Not of apparitions or a
darkened room. No, something more tangible than a vivid imagination
troubled her.

Lord Sutherfield had become a large
complication in her life. Making love with him in Mr. Stiles’ rose
garden had been a shattering experience. Cassandra wanted to
believe it hadn’t been the man so much as the moment. Yet that
would trivialize emotions that left her feeling altered in a
significant way.

So what must she think? Was she simply a
mature woman with needs? That explanation was a simple one but a
bit too easy. She knew no matter how magical the setting, Roger
could never have wrung such a strong response from her regardless
of her “needs.”

That brought her to the one fact she did not
want to acknowledge. She had begun to care for Simon. Simon—when
had she started thinking of him by his given name? Somehow, using
his name made her feel closer to him, and that caused a rush of
sensation not unlike what she had experienced in his arms.

Cassandra tossed restlessly. How had she
come to this, more confused than she’d been in her whole life? She
wanted to blame the marquess for what had happened tonight, but
that would be unreasonable. He had never lied about his
intentions—he wanted to bed her. If he’d never said it, he hadn’t
pretended otherwise.

She had stepped freely into his net this
evening, and fortunately their lovemaking had not come to a more
disastrous conclusion. Simon could have taken her, and she felt
certain he knew it. That was the one thing Cassandra did not
understand. She had been willing, no eager, yet he had not taken
her innocence.

She came into a sitting position, pulling
her knees up and resting her chin on them. Perhaps it was not too
late. If she did not see the marquess any more than necessary, if
she kept her ardor in check when she did see him, maybe she could
pull through this misadventure only slightly scarred.

Her thoughts turned to poor Timothy Bailey
and her eyes clouded. She remembered his tiny white face as he
peered into the darkness, a glimmer of hope in his innocent blue
gaze. How could he love that horrible man? What a pity to love and
be unloved.

And there lay the crux of her anguish. In
the intervening hour between learning of Bailey’s rejection of his
son and Cassandra’s arrival home, Timothy’s pain had become her
pain. She felt like that child, caught in a situation where her
heart was at stake, convinced her affection would never be
returned.

She believed the marquess when he said he
liked her, and she assumed his passion for her was genuine. But for
some men passion was an isolated emotion, so Simon’s interest did
not fill her with optimism. Wanting her now did not mean he would
want her later.

Cassandra wondered if she could be as
accepting of her fate as Timothy was of his. She didn’t have the
advantage of being unspoiled, without expectations. She wanted a
good life, wanted to be happy.

In the hours before dawn, as the candle
guttered in its holder and darkness overtook the chamber, Cassandra
came face to face with her fear at last. What would she do if a
charming nobleman with compelling black eyes held the key to her
future happiness—and he decided not to use it?

*****

“You said I was going to be your tiger,
milord.”

Simon turned patient eyes on Timothy Bailey
where the youth sat next to him on the carriage seat. “You will be,
my boy, but give it some time. Your arm is still not healed. Why
don’t you enjoy the ride for today?”

“Aye, milord, I can do that,” Timothy
chirped, pulling himself up straight like a small soldier, keen
blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“There’s a good lad.” The marquess slapped
the reins over the backs of his bays, sending the phaeton at a
spanking clip over the open road.

“Do I get a fancy uniform?”

“What?”

“When I’m your tiger, do I get a fancy
uniform?”

Simon grinned. “I believe that is the usual
procedure for tigers, so yes, you will have a fancy uniform—perhaps
two.”

Timothy’s eyes grew round with awe. “D’you
mean it? Nobody in me family ever had a uniform. Me sister works in
a big ‘ouse in London, but she’s just kitchen help—don’t need no
uniform for that.”

“I suppose not,” Simon agreed absently.

The little boy tugged at his sleeve. “Where
we going, milord?”

“I thought we would visit the inn in the
village. Mr. Stiles says they serve ices there. If you like you may
have one.” He smiled again when Timothy shouted gleefully. “As for
me, I think I could use an ale. I’ve not been away from the house
for several days and I’m as skittish as a cat.”

Tomcat more like, he thought derisively.
When Cassandra James went home after Harry’s party four days
earlier, he had been so randy, he feared he might explode. In the
hours before dawn, he had fallen into his bed, exhausted, but
unable to sleep.

The situation with Timothy had not been the
reason he’d been kept awake. Simon believed he had solved the
problem of the boy for the present. No, a beautiful woman had been
at the root of his insomnia.

He had tossed then turned, fighting erotic
visions so powerful he had groaned in frustration. Cassandra’s
lovely face touched by passion, her perfect breasts exposed in the
moonlight—that image held him in its grip.

Why hadn’t he taken her when he’d had the
chance? He had told Harry that was his plan. What had stopped him?
And why had her gratification been more important than his own?
That question had really gnawed at him as he wrestled a torturous
state of arousal in the hours after the party.

The need to negotiate a difficult curve
forced his thoughts back to the present. “We are almost there. Are
you ready for that ice?” Simon asked.

Timothy clasped his hands together,
revealing his excitement. “Aye, milord!”

The village came into view and the marquess
steered the phaeton down the main street. The inn, an old stone
building dating from at least four centuries, was located at the
far edge of the tiny hamlet.

“Milord, look. It’s the angel lady—the one
what saved me.” The boy pointed to a table situated under an awning
on the westerly side of the inn.

Simon raised his head and sent a piercing
stare in the direction Timothy indicated. “That’s Miss James,” he
said slowly, studying the situation.

Cassandra James and her cousins Penelope
Ingram and Roger Morley sat at the table in the shade, enjoying the
sultry day. What a pleasant surprise, he thought cheerfully. This
could do much to enliven a boring afternoon.

He jumped down from the carriage and lifted
his young charge to the ground. With casual indifference he ambled
toward the trio. Miss Ingram turned and her eyes widened in
recognition.

“It’s Lord Sutherfield,” she cried. “How
wonderful! Do come and join us.” She motioned the newcomers over
with a graceful wave.

One thing was clear to Simon as Timothy and
he approached the table and sat down. Penelope’s companions were
not nearly as pleased by the new arrivals as she was. Morley’s
expression deepened into a stormy scowl.

“Afternoon, sir,” Roger said in a tight
voice.

“Afternoon, Morley. Nice day to enjoy the
fresh air.” The marquess meant his last comment for everyone, and
while Penelope and Roger nodded obligingly, Miss James kept her
gaze averted. Her lack of greeting bothered him.

A serving girl approached and Simon
requested an ale and Timothy’s ice. Small talk was exchanged in the
intervening minutes required to fill the order, but Cassandra still
did not acknowledge his presence. She wasn’t overtly rude, just
unresponsive. For Simon being ignored was unacceptable. He sent her
a calculating look before he turned his attention to a more
receptive Penelope.

“Miss Ingram, how have you been since I last
saw you?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Penelope lit with enthusiasm. “Not bad,
although I find country life can be rather tedious.”

The marquess saw Cassandra cast Penelope a
glance filled with irony, and he had to control the desire to
laugh. “True, and so I told Harry,” he said. “That’s why he hosted
the party. He hates my boredom more than I do.”

He punctuated his statement with a chuckle,
all the while aware that Miss James was listening to the
conversation. She wore a cool expression, her chin in her hand as
she stared at the horizon. But something about her posture gave her
interest away.

“What a wonderful party it was,” Penelope
gushed, “and so dramatic. You were very brave to challenge that
awful man.” She fluttered her lashes at him.

Simon’s attention transferred to Timothy.
The boy was watching Miss Ingram with sorrowful eyes, his ice
forgotten. The marquess opened his mouth to change the subject, but
Mr. Morley jumped into the awkward silence.

“Pen, didn’t you say you wanted to do some
more shopping?”

“What?” Penelope looked surprised. “Did I?
Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Then I suggest we finish whatever it is you
want to do. The hour grows late, and we will have to leave for home
soon.” Roger stood and grabbed hold of her wrist, nearly yanking
her from the chair. “We’ll be back shortly,” he said, moving away
with Miss Ingram in tow, preventing anyone else from joining
them.

Cassandra stared at the backs of the
retreating couple. Her uncertain gaze shifted to the marquess, and
he could not prevent a smirk from touching his lips. Alone with
her—or almost alone. Timothy still sat at the table.

“Don’t worry, my dear, I won’t eat you.” He
watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, pleased to see her lips
tighten in annoyance. At least she was reacting to him. He hated
her indifference. “I think Morley is worried that I am a danger to
Miss Ingram. He spirits her away every time I meet her.”

Cassandra shifted her attention to the other
person at the table without answering Simon. “I’m glad to see you
are mending well, Timothy. You are looking much better.”

“I am, ain’t I? Feel better, too.” The child
took the last bite of his ice and, placing his spoon in the dish,
sighed in pleasure. “‘Is lordship, he’s a right one.” He surveyed
Simon with adoring eyes. “Took good care of me.”

“Indeed,” she murmured without glancing in
Simon’s direction. “How old are you, Timothy?”

“Nine.” He paused as if he were thinking
about his answer. “Yeah, nine, almost sure of it.”

Simon was as shocked as Cassandra looked. He
would have guessed the lad at no more than seven, and a small seven
at that. No wonder Timothy seemed old beyond his years. What a
shame the boy was uncertain of his age. Evidently, the youngest of
George Bailey’s offspring had never celebrated a birthday. The
marquess was annoyed that he had not thought to ask the question
himself.

As Simon watched, he could see Timothy’s
attention wandering to some children playing in the stable yard of
the inn. “Would you like to join them for a while?” He indicated
the group with a nod of his head.