In the Garden of Seduction (30 page)

“I should think so. Simon, I’m sorry. Doing
the right thing hurt Cassandra.”

“Perhaps I should have—”

“No,” she interrupted, placing her hand on
his arm. “You did what you had to do. Believe me, when sober she
will realize you did her a favor. If you had taken advantage of her
condition, I think all would be lost.”

“You weren’t there.”

“You did the only thing you could do. Rest
easy knowing that. She’ll come around, I promise.”

“I wish I was as confident as you,” he said
minutes later as he walked his sister to her front door. “Cassandra
thinks it is my desire to humiliate her. I can’t understand how
I’ve conveyed such an impression, for I admire her greatly.”

“There’s your challenge, then—to make her
believe you really care.” Lydia smiled and shook her head. “It
never fails to amaze me how a young gentleman spends his youth
determined that no woman will ever take him seriously. But when he
changes his mind—and all men do eventually—he’s at a loss to
understand why the ladies are not convinced.”

A fair observation, Simon supposed, although
admitting it did little to solve his problem. He bid his sister
adieu
and returned to his vehicle.

The ride home was an uneasy one, filled with
second-guessing. The marquess lounged against the cushions, his
feet resting on the opposite seat. It occurred to him to direct his
driver to one of the gentleman’s clubs, for he wasn’t ready to
retire with his thoughts, but the plan bored him. Wasting a few
hours in one of London’s gaming hells held little attraction,
either. Unsavory people doing unsavory things, when all he wanted
was to hold the woman he loved. How dull, how boring and, as Lydia
had implied, how ultimately predictable.

Ten years ago he would have laughed if
anyone had suggested his life would come to this. Yet now,
unbelievably, he wanted to marry and he wanted to be a father. The
notion of making a baby with Cassandra had an appeal far beyond the
sexual act.

He supposed most men loved their offspring,
however, a child by a cherished wife—somehow the sharing seemed
more profound. If he formed an alliance without affection, Simon
suspected he would be the worse for it and so would his children.
Not the reasoning of most of the elite, but he was beginning to
believe he had the right of it.

He had no intention of allowing his argument
with Cassandra to languish for even a day, therefore, he was going
home to his bed. He needed a good night’s rest and a sober head
before he renewed his campaign to win her. He consoled himself with
the knowledge that the effort spent would help him realize his
ambition. Meantime, he found it impossible not to worry.

*****

Cassandra awoke gradually, surfacing through
several layers of confused reason. One overriding sensation
dominated her thoughts. Her head hurt—dreadfully. That was bad
enough, but with consciousness came memory.

Not lucid memory and certainly not accurate
memory. She was besieged by a distorted image, cast by a drunken
mind, of the most appallingly disgraceful moment of her life. She
grasped the covers in shaky fingers and pulled them over her
face.

Unfortunately, Cassandra’s mortifying
recollections dived under the covers with her. Her life lay in
shambles. Simple as that.

She did remember the dinner, a lovely
affair, and glass after glass of champagne. The more she drank the
more reckless she felt until, firmly in her cups, she propositioned
the marquess. If her memory must be muddled, why was that incident
vividly clear?

All these weeks he had said he wanted her,
and she had felt confident that he would succumb to her overture,
too eager to be rational or cautious. He had rebuffed her, instead,
and the wound from his rejection hurt more than she thought
possible.

Cassandra told herself she had been testing
him. He had been less aggressive of late, and his gentlemanly
behavior had disconcerted her. Much easier to feign concern over
his fading interest than to admit she offered herself because it
was what she wanted most. Then she must also admit, as she had
feared for weeks, that she loved him. What did it matter? She was
thoroughly ruined, and Simon wouldn’t want her now.

Cassandra pushed back the blankets and sat
up.

Someone tapped on the chamber door, and she
swallowed several times to clear her thick throat.

“Yes?” she croaked.

Her maid entered with a tray. “Ready for
breakfast, miss?”

“Take it away,” Cassandra said, shuddering
when she caught sight of the food. Her stomach lurched when the
smell reached her nose. “I want to bathe, that is all. I’ll have
tea and toast later.”

She remained in the bed, suffering from
self-pity until her tub brimmed with hot, fragrant water. Sending
everyone from the room, she eased off the mattress, standing on
wobbly legs. Cassandra pulled her gown over her head and winced,
because the movement caused her head to throb. She teetered toward
the bath, climbed into the steamy liquid and yelled as the water
came in contact with her knees. She’d forgotten about her knees.
She had fallen last night—the final indignity. She plunged
defiantly into the bath water, reveling in the stinging pain,
accepting that she deserved the punishment.

Thirty minutes passed before Cassandra could
rouse herself. She dried off and chose a suitable costume, but
getting dressed without help took too much effort. She rang for her
maid.

She spent the day resting on the lounge in
the morning room. Her father gave her a wide berth but made his
displeasure known. How could she tell him what was wrong?

The middle of the afternoon arrived before
Cassandra concluded that she would survive her ordeal. Not that she
wanted to survive. A quick death would have been more merciful. As
it was she must deal with living, and the ache in her heart made
her wonder if she was up to the challenge.

She loved Simon. There was no more denying
the obvious, although she had been doing that for some time. She
might as well face the pain and be done with it. Then perhaps she
could begin to heal. She closed weary eyes against the sunshine
filtering into the room.

*****

The door chime interrupted Cassandra’s
restless dreams. The footsteps of the butler sounded in the marbled
entry as he answered the summons, and she heard a male voice at the
entrance. Had Simon come? Her pulse leapt with hope. She struggled
off the lounge and, though a little dizzy from the last traces of
overindulging, she ventured down the hall.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. James and his
daughter.”

Cassandra wanted to sit on the floor and
weep. From the shadows she saw her grandfather standing in the
middle of the entry, filling the space with his imposing presence.
She spun on her heel, intent on fleeing before she stopped herself,
ashamed of her cowardly response.

Quintin James entered the hall, and
Cassandra watched the frostiest introduction she had ever
witnessed.

“Join me in the library, Lord Whittingham.
We can talk there,” her father said. He turned to the butler.
“Bring your mistress, please.”

Again, Cassandra was consumed with the
desire to run as the butler came in her direction. She stepped out
of the darkness, nodding at the servant.

“I heard. As soon as I can gather my courage
I will join them.”

More than five minutes passed before she
left her hiding place. She moved toward the library but stopped
outside the door, listening to the conversation.

“I want my granddaughter to come home. She
can stay with me while I’m in the city.”

“That’s Cassandra’s decision, my lord,” came
the implacable reply. “I no longer make those choices for her.”

“She is a woman. She needs someone to guide
her.”

“If that is the logic you have been using on
her,” Quintin James said, “then no wonder my daughter has resisted
your efforts. Cassandra will not be lead blindly.”

Hearing the smugness in her father’s voice,
she couldn’t help smiling. Cassandra eased the door open and peeked
through the crack. The two men were squared off like fighting
cocks, and the anger in the room was palpable.

“Grandfather,” she said, entering the
library, “it is good to see you.” She held out her hand to him.

The earl ignored the gesture, turning on her
wrathfully. “Cassandra, what is this I hear about you being
presented to society under the protection of the Marquess of
Sutherfield?”

“The rumors are exaggerated, sir,” she said,
forcing down her own irritation. “Lord Sutherfield
and
his
sister Lady Eastwick escorted me to several parties. There is
nothing more to the arrangement than that.”

“I told Lord Sutherfield to stay away from
you.”

“You had no right!” she said. “I am old
enough to choose my friends.”

“Friendship is not what he has in mind,
young lady. Use your brain, for God’s sake. The man’s a notorious
rake.”

Cassandra swallowed. She wasn’t certain she
believed that anymore, not after last night, but it didn’t matter.
She loved Simon. What mattered, what hurt most was Simon not loving
her.

The earl broke into her thoughts. “I want to
settle your future. I want to do it now, here, with Mr. James in
attendance. It’s time. I’ve been patient long enough.”

Cassandra glanced at her father, and he sent
her an “I told you so” look that was hard to misinterpret.

“It’s Roger, isn’t it?” she asked dully.

“I think it’s the best solution for
everyone,” her grandfather admitted.

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then I will do what I promised. Your
father’s fate depends on you.”

“Now, see here.” Quintin, who had been
silent up until then, entered the discussion. “What the hell is
going on?”

The earl glanced at him. “I’ll let my
granddaughter explain later,” he said, returning his attention to
Cassandra. “Well?”

Did she really care about her future if it
didn’t include Simon? At least Papa would be safe and could marry
Moretta, she thought.

“All right,” Cassandra said, a melancholy
fatalism washing over her. She glanced in her father’s direction
but he was staring at her in astonishment, and she found she could
not meet his gaze.

The door chime rang out at that moment. An
uneasy quiet followed while they waited for the guest in the hall
to be ushered into the library.

“Sir, the Marquess of Sutherfield,” the
servant announced.

Quintin moved to the door to welcome the
marquess. “Come in, my lord,” he said and offered his hand.

Frantic, Cassandra found herself glancing
over her shoulder, looking for an escape. If she had a choice of
worst case scenarios, this would rank at the very top of her list.
Why had Simon chosen this moment to call?

The marquess bowed politely to everyone in
general, but his sharp gaze rested on Lord Whittingham.

“Sir,” he greeted the earl, a question in
his speech.

“Sutherfield,” her grandfather acknowledged
him, grinning broadly, “you’re just in time for our little
announcement.”

“Announcement?” The expression on Simon’s
features, at first bland, deepened with consternation. His regard
shifted to Cassandra.

Not now, not now,
she thought in
desperation. She wanted to dash across the room and put her and
over the earl’s mouth to keep him from saying the horrible words.
Instead, she remained unmoving, frozen in place by a situation she
could not control.

“Cassandra has consented to marry my nephew,
Roger.”

The black fury that entered Simon’s eyes was
all the more frightening because his expression did not alter.

“This is true?” He directed the terse
inquiry at her.

Cassandra licked dry lips, thinking how to
respond. Regrettably, she was bereft of inspiration. “It seems for
the best,” she mumbled inadequately. The nausea she had been
fighting all day threatened to rise up and overcome her.

Simon went silent, his eyes narrowing as he
watched her. Cassandra sensed more than anger now. She felt his
disappointment and—hurt? All at once she wondered if she had made
the worst mistake of her life. She opened her mouth to recant, but
Simon had already turned away from her.

“Mr. James,” the marquess addressed his
host, “I had something I wanted to discuss with you, however,
recent events make our conversation unnecessary.” He looked at
Cassandra again. “I wish you well, Miss James. Whittingham,” he
said, nodding at the earl.

And then he was gone.

“I think you should move to my town house,
Cassandra,” Lord Whittingham said when the front door closed. “If
you are there I can better help with your introduction to
society.”

Cassandra felt too ill to do more than stare
at him.

Her grandfather left shortly after that with
the promise of returning in a day or two to expedite her change of
address.

Now alone with her father, Cassandra finally
allowed her emotions to show. She sank down onto the sofa and
covered her face with her hands, too heartsick to weep.

“Would you care to explain what is going on
here?” Quintin barked. “Between that unpleasant display last night
and the happenings here just now, I’m at a complete loss.”

He never spoke to her like that, and
Cassandra shot him a look of surprise. “It would seem, Papa, that I
am to be married.”

“Are you in love with this Roger?”

“Absolutely not.” When it came to Roger she
could not lie even a little.

“Then why the hell are you marrying him?” he
demanded.

“Haven’t you heard, Papa? Marriage isn’t for
love.”

“Balderdash, and you know it. That’s the
mouthings of the high and mighty, not you. Now explain yourself
before I become very angry.”