In the Garden of Seduction (9 page)

“Now, now, Miss James, are you saying you
did not find last night moving?”

He towered over her, standing close enough
for the clean smell of shaving soap mixed with crisp linen to tease
her wary senses. It was a distinctly masculine scent.

“Lord Sutherfield, a gentleman would pretend
last night never happened. I’ve put it out of my mind, and I really
wish you would do the same.” She kept her tone cool and impersonal,
for she would be humiliated if he guessed at the effect he had on
her.

He chuckled, and the rich sound sent a
shudder of excitement coursing through her. “I could forget, I
suppose, but I’d rather not.”

His bantering made it difficult to know if
he were serious. Cassandra found the earl a stimulating companion,
and she would have enjoyed flirting with him, but she knew he was
verging on the murky area of impropriety. She had no idea why he
thought he could be fast with her, but since he would not cease,
she thought it only fair to make him swallow a little of his own
medicine.

“You are so easily affected, my lord?”

Cassandra saw an appreciative gleam light
his eye.

“Not a bit of it, Miss James. You have a
mirror. Surely, you can see what others see.”

“What I see, Lord Sutherfield, hardly has
that kind of power. Instead, I suspect you have a weakness for the
ladies and are intrigued when that weakness is not returned.” She
gave him an insipid look. “I hope you’ll pardon me for
disappointing you.”

Simon laughed aloud. “My dear Miss James,
the one thing you are not is a disappointment.”

He reached down and took her hand and,
before she could stop him, placed a light kiss on the inside of her
wrist just above her glove and directly upon her agitated pulse. An
intimate gesture, his warm, dusky eyes never left her face, and
that odd fluttering in her throat began with renewed intensity.

Cassandra might be twenty-four years old,
and she may have had her share of male friends, but she was ill
prepared to deal with a man of Lord Sutherfield’s experience. For
every one of her verbal thrusts, he had a clever parry that left
her feeling silly and unsophisticated.

She was usually the one who controlled a
romantic situation, the men of her acquaintance falling over
themselves to please her. Lord Sutherfield, however, could not be
so easily managed. That idea unsettled Cassandra as much as it
piqued her interest.

“My hand, sir,” she said coolly, for he
still had not released her, and a tingling had begun an alarming
journey up the length of her arm. “You really must stop this
posturing, or I will be forced to consider your motives.”

When the marquess released her, she grabbed
at her horse’s reins, pulling the animal away from a leisurely meal
of fragrant grass. Cassandra, aggravated with herself for having
dismounted in the first place, was now in the awkward position of
needing help getting back in the saddle. She scanned the area for a
convenient rock she could use for a step. She spotted one a few
yards away and stumbled toward it, her horse in tow.

“Miss James?”

Cassandra did not turn around. Instead, she
trudged in the direction of the rock as though she meant to escape
the devil himself. In fact, she had a hard time imagining being
alone with anyone more unsafe than the marquess. A highwayman might
imperil her physically, but Lord Sutherfield assaulted her
emotions. Not her heart, of course. She knew instinctively that
what he wanted had little to do with the finer feelings. He was
appealing to her baser nature and she was disappointed with him—and
herself—that he was having even a little success.

The rock, though high enough, did not
provide stable footing. Unfortunately, she didn’t realize this
until she jumped up on the wobbly stone and found herself in danger
of falling. She grabbed at the pommel of her saddle, hoping to
avoid disaster, but it was too late. She plunged to the ground. To
her mortification, a startled scream escaped her as she fell.

Lord Sutherfield came running. “Miss James!
Are you all right?” He loomed over Cassandra, concern marking his
handsome features. He hunkered down next to her.

“I think I’ve hurt my foot.” She moaned.

“For God’s sake, woman, what made you do
something so idiotic? Let me have a look.”

Cassandra glared at him. “If you must know,
it’s all your fault. Why do you always pounce on me like a cat on a
mouse? The last thing you’re going to do is look at my foot.” She
came into a sitting position, but the sudden movement caused her to
cry out again as a twinge of pain shot up her leg.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You can blame me later
if you insist. For now I’m going to see how badly you’re hurt.”

And with that the marquess began removing
her boot, first undoing the buttons then gently slipping it
off.

“Is it the foot or the ankle?” he asked,
glancing up at her. He rolled the stockinged foot between his
palms, his fingers lightly testing the injury.

“My foot, I think—maybe my ankle, also. Oh,
I don’t know,” she wailed at last. “Everything hurts, and there’s a
pain that travels up my leg.

“Damn, I can’t really tell what is wrong
through this stocking. We’ll have to remove it.”

Cassandra gasped aloud. “Don’t you dare!”
She began to struggle away from him.

“Stop it,” he snapped. “Do you honestly
think I am going to take advantage of you now? Hold still.”

Grasping the toe of the stocking, he forced
a hole through the fine cotton with his thumbnail and, tearing the
fabric apart, exposed her foot.

He looked at her then, his expression
ironic. “Not what you expected, was it?”

Too embarrassed to speak, Cassandra merely
shook her head. And though she regretted misjudging Lord
Sutherfield’s motives, she couldn’t help blushing as she realized
he was now inspecting her naked foot.

“Looks bloody awful. It’s already turning
purple. And it’s swelling badly.”

“No need to be profane,” she scolded
weakly.

But it did look awful. Whether because she
could finally see the extent of the damage, or because the pain was
becoming unbearable, she suddenly felt lightheaded.

“Dear me, I feel faint.”

“Lay back,” the marquess said, his manner
turning brusque. “Take some deep breaths and try to calm yourself.
It will pass in a moment.”

Cassandra lay on the ground without moving
for several minutes as a wave of nausea washed over her. Then the
unpleasant feeling gradually began to recede. Lord Sutherfield
knelt next to her and patiently waited. She was aware of his
nearness and was oddly comforted by it. At one point she felt the
warmth of his hand when he placed it on her clammy forehead. She
assumed he was testing for fever, however, she did not feel hot.
Instead, she had started to shiver but not from cold, either. She
suspected it was a reaction to her injury.

“Do you think you can ride?” he asked at
last. “I’m convinced a doctor should see that foot as soon as
possible.”

She nodded but did not open her eyes.
Licking dry lips, she said, “Yes…I think so. Perhaps if you could
help me to stand?”

The next thing Cassandra knew a pair of
powerful arms scooped her up. “Put me down, you’ll hurt yourself,”
she protested feebly, then contradicted herself by lacing her
fingers around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.

“Light as air,” he assured her, proving his
point by placing her effortlessly on his horse, her legs dangling
on one side. He tethered Cassandra’s mare to the pommel of his
saddle before he mounted behind her. Drawing her onto his lap so
they could both fit in the saddle, he slipped his hands beneath her
arms and around her waist, taking hold of the reins.

“Steady, now. We’ll be there shortly,” he
promised. She could feel the rumble of his words low in his chest
where her back leaned against him, and a sudden desire to nestle
more deeply into his embrace overcame her. She had not felt this
secure in weeks.

Cassandra rode with her eyes closed, almost
dozing, conscious only of the man holding her and the gentle
rocking of his horse. Her foot throbbed miserably along with an
awful twinge that shot up her leg, yet the pleasure of the ride
overshadowed the pain. If somewhere in the back of her mind she
wondered at her passive acceptance, she chose to ignore it.

She knew when they reached the stable yard.
She could hear the bustling of human activity as Lord Sutherfield
reined in the horses, but she kept her eyes closed, hating to admit
the ride had ended. They had arrived rather quickly, she thought.
Either she had lost track of time, or she was not nearly as far
from home as she had imagined.

“Ho, Simon, who have you there?” a voice
vaguely familiar to Cassandra called out to the marquess. “I’ve
been watching your approach from the library window for the last
few minutes.”

“It’s Miss James, Harry.” Lord Sutherfield
answered. “She took a tumble and twisted her foot. We need to call
the doctor.”

Cassandra’s lids popped open. She stared in
amazement as Harry Stiles came up to them, a look of inquiry on his
homely face. Black spots danced before her eyes, and she blinked
furiously, trying to clear her vision.

“I don’t know, Simon. I have a feeling Lord
Whittingham will not be pleased. Perhaps you should have taken her
home.”

“Good lord, man, she was faint, and here was
the closest place. We’ll worry about her grandfather later when we
know Miss James is all right. Come now, help me get her out of the
saddle,” the marquess demanded. “She shouldn’t put any weight on
that foot.”

He dismounted and, with Harry’s aid, lifted
Cassandra off the horse. Once more in Lord Sutherfield’s capable
arms, she was taken swiftly to a guest bedchamber on the second
floor of the house while Mr. Stiles sent urgent messages to the
local doctor and Lord Whittingham.

A maid, hailed as they entered the house,
scurried up the stairs behind Lord Sutherfield and Cassandra. When
they entered the bedchamber, the marquess had the servant pull down
the counterpane, and then he carefully set the invalid in the
middle of the feather bed.

“Are you in much pain?”

Cassandra ignored his question. “Why did you
bring me here? Mr. Stiles is right. Grandfather will be furious
when he finds out I’m here.”

“Miss James,” he said, in an impatient tone,
“I knew how to get here quickly. The only time I’ve been to your
Grandfather’s estate was last night in the dark in a closed
carriage. I did what was easiest under the circumstances. If you
were worried, you should have said something.”

“I—I wasn’t paying attention,” she admitted
unwillingly. She looked away from him and relaxed against the
pillow, since there did not seem to be anything else she could
do.

All at once she felt drained and, closing
her eyes again, she shut out the room and, more important, the
marquess. She knew he remained with her, although for propriety’s
sake it would have been better if he had withdrawn and left her in
the capable hands of the maid. Cassandra didn’t care. As long as he
didn’t talk and sat quietly, she was thankful for his presence.

She must have nodded off, for she woke up at
the sudden appearance of the doctor in the room. A cherubic little
man with a jolly disposition swooped down on her, and within
moments had convinced her there was no reason to worry. He placed
her foot in a soothing bandage, elevating her leg, then dosed her
with a spoon of laudanum and gave orders that the young lady must
not be moved for at least a day. He would return tomorrow to see
her again.

The last thing Cassandra remembered was Mr.
Stiles coming to the door. “Whittingham was not in, Simon,” he
whispered in a voice that carried across the room. “Out on
business, I think. But we have Roger Morley downstairs, and he’s
kicking up a fuss. Says he wants to bring his cousin home
immediately.”

“We’ll see about that,” the marquess stated
grimly. Cassandra noted the determination in his voice and,
smiling, drifted off to sleep again.

*****

Simon, in an upstairs sitting room, eased
back in the chair he’d been using for the last several hours and
placed his feet on the stool in front of him. He ran his hand
across his jaw, and the rasping sound reminded him that he’d not
had a chance to use his soap and razor earlier that evening.

He had wanted to read but instead had whiled
away the hours after midnight convincing himself that he wasn’t
responsible for Miss James’ current predicament. Admittedly, she
was trying to get away from him at the time of her accident. She
attracted him in a way that surprised him, and in her company his
primal instincts took control of his judgment. Not a good excuse,
he knew.

Cassandra’s grandfather had made an
appearance earlier in the evening shortly after an infuriated Roger
Morley departed. The earl, outraged that his granddaughter was
unchaperoned in a bachelors’ home, had raised the roof when told
she was to remain for the night. He had singled out the marquess
for a warning, making it clear there would be the devil to pay if
Cassandra’s reputation were compromised.

Simon, unused to such treatment, had
bristled. Standing rigid as a soldier, he coolly informed the earl
that Miss James’ reputation would be unblemished. Lord Whittingham
had nodded contemptuously, his skepticism obvious. Then he had
stormed away, promising to return for his granddaughter the next
day. Cassandra’s maid arrived shortly thereafter.

Yet now he wondered if Lord Whittingham
might be closer to the truth than he knew. Simon wanted her, and
that probably was not best for her.

He liked the challenge of the chase. The
lady was attracted to him—he knew the signs. That knowledge was
very tempting. A skilled lover, Simon knew the limits society would
tolerate. Reason told him he could not compromise the honor of a
virtuous female, however, an unchivalrous part of him wanted to
test Miss James’ mettle. Not a noble sentiment, he admitted, but an
honest one.