In the Garden of Seduction (22 page)

“Could I?” the child asked wistfully.
“That’s Willie over there. I ain’t seen him for a long time. I need
to tell him what’s happened to me so he don’t worry.”

The marquess nodded his permission. “Careful
of the arm.”

His gaze followed Timothy as the boy
scampered away, but his awareness was on the woman who sat at the
other side of the table.

“Alone at last,” he said quietly, his eyes
still on the children. He felt rather than saw Cassandra
stiffen.

“I wish you would not start that foolishness
with me today,” she stated.

“Foolishness?” That made him angry. “The
last time we were together I experienced many things but I never
felt foolish.”

She turned a tortured look on him. “You
don’t think risking our reputations was foolish? My grandfather is
very suspicious. The only thing holding him back is a lack of
proof. If he knew I was sitting with you right now he would raise
the dead with his anger.”

“This is a public place, Miss James. There
is little trouble we can get into here. If you don’t intend to
follow his wishes with regards to marrying Mr. Morley, I see no
reason you and I cannot associate. From the beginning I’ve had the
impression he had no real hold over you.”

“I’ve never said he has accepted the way I
feel.”

There was that, although the marquess sensed
more to the situation than was visible on the surface. He tried
another tack.

“You are embarrassed, aren’t you?”

She raised her arm, waving her fingers at
something in front of her face. Simon could not see what she
brushed at, and he suspected she was collecting her thoughts.

It seemed she had decided on the truth.
“Does humiliated strike a cord with you, my lord?” She looked at
him squarely. “I cannot imagine how I allowed myself to act in such
a manner. I feel disgraced.”

Her admission was humbling. He wanted to
take her hand. No, more than that. He wanted to hold her in his
arms, offering reassurance, taking the blame.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

Simon stared at Cassandra. His esteem for
her rose dramatically by her unwillingness to play the injured
party.

“It was my responsibility not to push the
situation,” he offered. “But I have to be as honest with you as
you’ve been with me. I don’t regret what happened between us. If I
told you anything else I’d be a liar.”

“I understand.” She rose to her feet. “I
better join my cousins now.” Cassandra held out a gloved hand to
him. “I want you to know I’ve enjoyed our acquaintance, Lord
Sutherfield. Perhaps I will see you in London sometime.”

Simon frowned, and he stood abruptly as he
took her hand. “Are you going back to the city?”

She shook her head. “Not just yet—I don’t
know when.” She grasped her skirt, lifting the hem slightly as she
prepared to leave. “I hope it won’t be long, though,” she said over
her shoulder.

“Cassandra…”

She looked back at him and he expected to
see censure in her gaze. Instead, she gave him a smile laced with
poignancy. She turned away once more and, with a stride as regal as
queen, navigated the cobbled street in search of her relatives.

Simon was flabbergasted. He had approached
Cassandra with the cocksure notion he could control any situation
that might occur. So why did he feel as though he had been in a
game of high stakes and his ace had been trumped?

Was she telling him goodbye? He found that
unacceptable. The marquess had an irresistible urge to run down the
street and ask Cassandra to explain herself. He returned to his
chair and swilled the remainder of his ale. He felt deflated,
depressed.

Simon was in a foul mood when Timothy came
back to the table a few minutes later.

“Where’s Miss James?”

“She left for home,” Simon muttered
sullenly.

“Oh.” Timothy sounded deflated, also. “I
like her. She’s the most beautiful lady I ever met.”

“She is that,” the marquess agreed.

“I got an idea.” Timothy’s open face shone
with inspiration. “Why don’t you marry ‘er?”

“Well, now,” the marquess said, suddenly
uncomfortable, “it’s not as easy as that.” He shifted in his
chair.

“It’s not?”

“For one thing, she’s supposed to marry
someone else.”

Timothy’s brows snapped together. “Who?”

“Her grandfather Lord Whittingham wants her
to marry Mr. Morley.” Simon was amazed at how distasteful the words
were as he spoke them.

“That bloke sitting ‘ere with us?” When the
marquess nodded, Timothy blurted, “Milord, you’ve got to save her.
You can’t let her marry him.” Timothy jumped up and ran around the
table, pulling at his master’s arm with sticky fingers.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Timothy said, tears
gathering in his eyes.

Not much to go on but the marquess
understood perfectly.

“Can’t you love ‘er even a little?”

He gave the child a halfhearted smile.
“You’re an intuitive chap, aren’t you? I suppose as long as I’m
making the extra effort to be honest today, I should admit that I
could love her more than a little.”

Timothy’s expression brightened immediately.
“And she cares for you, I know she does.”

Why did that announcement cause an aching
constriction in his chest? “What makes you think so?” the marquess
asked offhandedly.

The child, warming to his subject, grinned
hugely. “The way she looks at you from the side of her eyes, like
she’s watchin’ but not really watchin’. You know what I mean.” He
spoke as if they were two men of the world, sharing
confidences.

Simon chuckled. “That’s all very nice but
what does it prove? Regardless of how I feel about Miss James or
she about me, she’s supposed to marry Mr. Morley.”

“Shoot ‘im. That’ll get him out of the
way.”

“You bloodthirsty bugger.” The marquess
laughed. “Do you want me to go to prison? Can’t carry on a marriage
with Miss James from there.”

“I mean a duel, milord. That’s legal, ain’t
it?—fair and square?”

“Hardly, although I admit it’s done often
enough. I think you’d better put your mind to more upstanding
solutions, young man.”

“That’s what I’ll do, milord. I’ll figure it
out for you. Leave it to me.”

The marquess sighed. Timothy Bailey had a
man’s spirit in a boy’s body. What did it hurt to give him hope? He
rose from the table. “I think it’s time we left for home.”

They rode back to Harry’s as the aging sun
slipped behind a fiery horizon. The air had cooled, and he put his
coat around Timothy, who slept. Exhaustion lined the boy’s face,
and the marquess wondered if he had kept the child out too
long.

Simon felt restless as he steered the
phaeton at a slow clip over the narrow road. He had started the day
optimistic, but was now filled with a disquieting anxiety. He would
be the first to admit his aversion to facing difficult situations
unless necessary. Regrettably, Miss James had thrust him into a
quandary impossible to ignore.

He had not faced what these last weeks had
come to mean to him. So much easier to go on a day at a time
without analyzing disturbing feelings too deeply. Cassandra had
asked on more than one occasion what he wanted from her. Simon had
disregarded the question because he didn’t know the answer. Too
bad, for she would no longer allow him to sidestep the issue. He
did come to one conclusion as the approaching dusk enveloped the
solitary carriage. No matter how confused his emotions were at the
moment, the idea that he might never again see Cassandra James was
unacceptable.

With that clarity of thought everything else
fell into place.

*****

Cassandra snipped the coral rose from its
bush, leaving enough stem on the bloom for putting in a tall vase.
She loved her grandfather’s garden, especially the roses. Strange
no one ever bothered to bring cut flowers into the house. Since her
arrival she had made it her mission to place fresh arrangements in
all the main rooms. Even the earl had noticed and approved.

She ran the fragrant bloom under her nose,
inhaling the delicious, apple-like scent. Cassandra’s eyes drifted
shut, and immediately she lapsed into a perfume-soaked dream. The
magic of a moonlit garden surrounded her, and a mighty oak with
spreading branches stood sentinel. A sultry breeze ruffled her hair
as it wafted seductively over exposed skin.

A handsome man, dark and intensely
passionate, held her close to him, stroking her, drawing from her
breathtaking emotions. She responded to his touch like a violin
beneath the hands of a master musician. Her heart tumbled in her
chest, revealing a desire spiraling ever upward then erupting in
sweet, erotic sensation.

Cassandra’s eyes flicked open and, as the
bright sunshine dazzled her vision, a feeling of desolation came
over her. Hold that moment precious, she told herself sadly, for
you will never experience another like it.

Whether she wished it or not, Cassandra
loved Simon Fitzgerald. She had arrived at that conclusion
gradually over the week following the party given by Harry Stiles.
Meeting the marquess in the village had only confirmed what she
already suspected. Confronting her fear had been painful but with
it came relief.

What troubled her most was an inability to
understand why she felt as she did. The marquess was handsome but
handsome men had wooed her before. Certainly, she could not deny
his darkly sensual nature and the power his lovemaking had over
her. She believed, though, that she began to love the marquess when
he championed Timothy Bailey. He worked well with the boy, seeming
genuinely to care. And Timothy adored Simon.

Cassandra wished she wasn’t going to miss
that little drama, how it played out, how the child would grow now
that he’d be nurtured properly. He was Lord Sutherfield’s
responsibility, and she must be satisfied with knowing Timothy was
in good hands. Surprising that she should have such confidence in
his lordship.

She cut one more rose before walking down
the path leading to the parlor. Entering the house, she set the
basket of flowers on the
pianoforte
. A cut glass vase was
waiting for her and she began to fill it.

Cassandra was proud of her encounter with
the marquess three days earlier. She had been aloof and impersonal,
confusing him she felt certain by her lack of response. She had
told him she felt disgraced. He had been regretful.

And he had let her go.

Beneath the smugness she was hurting. He did
not care as she did, and Cassandra was glad she had found out in
time. If she continued permitting—no, inviting—liberties no proper
lady would tolerate then she had only herself to blame when a
frivolous relationship ended in pain and heartache.

Roger was another complication. He didn’t
love her and she didn’t love him, but there he was in the middle of
her life making her miserable.

Cassandra had decided to talk to her
grandfather. She must convince him that his plan was unreasonable.
She wanted to go home, wanted to see her father. She missed Sophy.
Surely, he would not be cruel enough to keep her here once she
explained.

“Cassandra?” The earl stood in the parlor
doorway that opened on the hall. “The flowers are lovely.” He was
in an expansive mood.

Here was her chance. The idea made her
nerves tense, causing her to jab her forefinger on a thorn. She
yelped, raising the finger to her mouth as a large drop of blood
oozed from the tender wound.

“Are you all right, my dear?” her
grandfather asked, moving into the room.

Cassandra nodded, collecting her scattered
thoughts. Having made the decision to talk to him, she must do it.
She stayed on the opposite side of the
pianoforte
from him,
using it as a physical barrier, hoping it would separate them
emotionally as well.

“Grandfather, there is something I would
like to discuss with you.”

“Yes?” His expression did not discourage but
something wary lurked in his piercing blue eyes.

“I want to go home.”

His features hardened. “You are home.”

“This is not my home. I am a visitor
here.”

A dull flush rose in his cheeks. “You are my
granddaughter.”

“You make it sound as if I’m a possession, a
pawn to move about at your discretion.”

“Cassandra, you’ve had a deprived
upbringing. You do not understand the ways of the aristocracy.”

“And so you’ve gone to great pains to remind
me. But I’ll tell you this—I understand that I don’t want to marry
Roger. It isn’t just a lack of love. I find my cousin detestable.
And he doesn’t much care for me, either. Why would you want to
consign us to a living hell?”

“There is more at stake here than your or
Roger’s happiness,” he said angrily. “Given time you will come
together, and both of you will have the comfort of knowing you did
the right thing.”

Cassandra’s frustration rose to a frothy
boil. “I’m going home,” she said in a brittle voice. She held her
breath.

A long, tense silence ensued, neither
speaking. The earl struck first.

“Do you wish to visit your father in
prison?” he asked in a quiet voice no less deadly for its
calmness.

Her heart thudded in disbelief. “You’re
still holding that threat over me?”

“My dear, you’ve known me long enough to
understand I will do what I must.”

“I also hoped below that hard exterior lived
a man with whom I could reason.”

“Cassandra, your tone becomes insolent.”

Her apprehension mounted but if she backed
down at this juncture, she would be in his control forever,
sacrificed to his ego. Quintin James would hate that.

“I’m returning home, my lord.” She spoke in
a formal manner meant to further alienate them. “I would prefer to
leave with your blessing, but I am leaving, nonetheless.”