IN THE GARDEN OF SEDUCTION

by

Cynthia Wicklund

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Cynthia Wicklund on Smashwords

In the Garden of Seduction

Copyright 2010 by Cynthia Wicklund

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PROLOGUE

West Sussex, England, 1809—Spring

Jonathan Peters galloped into the courtyard of a sprawling country residence, kicking dust and small pebbles in all directions. In his haste his foot slipped from the stirrup as he dismounted. He stumbled awkwardly away from his horse, yet did not pause so intent was he on completing his mission. Instead, he tossed the reins at a nearby groom and ran to the front entrance of the fine old Tudor mansion.

He rang the chime and, when there was no immediate response, he pounded on the door in an impatient attempt to attract someone’s attention. His efforts were rewarded at last as the bolt was thrown from within, and the door eased back on its iron hinges to reveal a butler with a frosty expression.

“Mr. Peters,” the servant began, “is there something I can do for you?”

Jonathan pushed past the butler into the entry hall. “I need to see your master.”

Bridges stiffened, his manner turning cooler. “Lord Whittingham is working on his correspondence and is not to be disturbed.”

“I have news for your master. I promise you will regret delaying me. Now tell him I am here.”

For just a moment it seemed Bridges intended to rebel, but something in the visitor’s attitude plainly caused him to hesitate. He swung around without speaking and left the entry hall. The butler returned almost at once and, casting a look of dislike in Mr. Peter’s direction, said Lord Whittingham would receive the caller.

Jonathan entered the library as Bridges announced him, and his eyes immediately sought out the man sitting behind the desk. As always, he was impressed by Lord Whittingham’s imposing figure.

Richard Lamberton, Earl Whittingham, was a striking man, tall and vigorously built. Ruddy-skinned, he had a full head of white hair, though great bushy brows gave him a fierce countenance. He placed his lordship’s age at somewhere around seventy years, but Jonathan was only guessing.

Lord Whittingham leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his still trim middle. He observed his uninvited guest through a cool blue, nearly transparent gaze, and Jonathan began to squirm under the glare of those penetrating eyes.

“Come in, Mr. Peters. I understand you have significant information to share. Do I dare hope it is what I have been waiting to hear for more than two decades?”

Jonathan didn’t want to imagine his fate if he disappointed his employer. He did, much to his relief, have the very information Lord Whittingham was seeking.

“We’ve found her, my lord!” he announced on a dramatic flourish, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice.

Lord Whittingham did not move, nor did his expression change as he appeared to assess the validity of this claim. His lordship had been disillusioned in the past, and Jonathan sensed he would not enter the celebration without caution.

The earl eased forward. “Explain,” he said.

All at once, Jonathan was nervous. He was as sure of his facts as one could be, yet his lordship had the power to make even the hardiest soul uncertain. He cleared his throat.

“It’s the picture, my lord.”

Lord Whittingham frowned. “The picture? What the hell are you talking about?”

Jonathan’s gaze turned to the portrait that hung over the mantle of the stone fireplace. “She is a near-mirror image of your late wife. I tell you, it’s uncanny, my lord.”

He watched as Lord Whittingham’s attention was drawn to the life-size painting, fully six feet in height and four feet across, a tribute to the grace and beauty of the earl’s deceased wife Elizabeth. The canvas depicted a lovely redhead with deep blue eyes and smooth, translucent skin.

The earl’s regard shifted to Jonathan. “How did you find her?”

“I would like to say it was all deduction and clever detective work, but that would be untrue,” Jonathan admitted. “Indeed, my lord, it was the greatest good fortune that all came about as it did. I don’t mind telling you, I began to believe the deed could not be done.”

“Mr. Peters, I am not a patient man. Please answer my question. How did you find her?”

Jonathan swallowed. “Do you remember a Sir Alistair Warrick?” When his employer nodded, he continued. “He paid us a visit a few weeks ago because of a young woman he had met at a literary party. She closely resembled a portrait of the wife of a nobleman to whom he had recently spoken. He thought there might be a connection.”

“Warrick did stay here late last year,” the earl said slowly, a spark of interest igniting his gaze.

“You must have told him a great deal because he seemed to know the whole of it. Even knew to come to us.”

“What has that to say to anything?” Lord Whittingham barked suddenly, his frustration visible. “This evidence is tenuous. Nature often produces duplicates, and they certainly need not be related. I will require more than this flimsy proof.”

“You can’t believe we pursued the matter no further, my lord,” Jonathan said, unable to control the smug note that entered his words. “In all these years this is the most likely candidate we’ve had to investigate and, I assure you, we did just that.”

“Go on.”

“It seems the young lady in question has been living in the London household as the only daughter of a Quintin James and his wife—she’s the only child, actually. James is a merchant and quite wealthy.”

“Perhaps she is their child.”

“I suppose that’s a possibility, although she does not look remotely like either parent. I know, I know,” he said, raising his hands when the earl began to protest. “Blood does not guarantee a child will resemble his parents anymore than duplicates must be related. But there is more.

“Try as we might, and I can promise we have tried, we cannot locate a record of the daughter’s birth, although she observes her birthday on the very day of the very year of your grandchild. And when we delved deeper, we discovered Louise, the merchant’s wife, brought a girl child of two years to her marriage. Unless James fathered her child out of wedlock, and that appears unlikely, he cannot be the sire. Louise is now deceased, by the way.”

“There’s nothing irrefutable in all this, yet I must admit I find your words encouraging.” Lord Whittingham’s voice had taken on a thoughtful note. “Still, this does not prove Louise is not the mother.”

“True, my lord,” Jonathan conceded as he paused theatrically before providing the most conclusive detail of all.

“We traced Louise’s whereabouts prior to her marriage. Two years before she wed, she spent six weeks as the personal servant to a young widow who was known only as Miss Mary—no surname, just Miss Mary. Miss Mary was increasing and apparently near her time. She died a few days after a daughter was born. And consider this, my lord—all efforts to locate Mary’s baby have been fruitless. The child has vanished.”

An arrested expression settled over the earl’s features. “Trevor’s wife was called Mary.”

“As you say, my lord. What we’ve known all along seems to coincide perfectly with this new information. So I will tell you again—we have found her.”

*****

CHAPTER 1

London, 1809—Early Summer

Simon Fitzgerald, Marquess of Sutherfield, walked aimlessly through the first floor rooms of Mrs. Witherspoon’s modest town house, nodding at acquaintances and strangers alike. He felt uncommonly warm from the press of so many bodies in so small a space. Under his coat his linen shirt stuck to his back between his shoulder blades, enhancing his discomfort.

He hadn’t wanted to attend tonight, for these literary gatherings were usually a dead bore, welcoming every individual in London with scholarly pretensions, whether highborn or lowborn. But his old schoolmate Harry Stiles had nagged him into coming. This was an opportunity to meet Ethan Plimpton, the author currently taking London by storm, his friend had said. And then Harry, the bugger, had failed to show.

Though somewhat contemptuous of most of the guests, Simon admitted to himself that he had enjoyed his brief discussion with Mr. Plimpton. The author had strong convictions and wrote unusual stories containing a political twist. Simon was fascinated by the man’s views. Not in agreement, necessarily, but fascinated nonetheless.

At that moment, a waiter passed by carrying a tray laden with glasses of champagne, and Simon reached out, grabbing one. He downed the beverage in a single gulp. At least the wine flows freely, he thought, following after the waiter. His lips twitched wryly as the man glanced at him in question.

“Fortification,” he explained, setting his empty glass on the tray with his left hand while taking another full one with his right.

“Yes, my lord.” The servant cast Simon a knowing look, then melted into the throng.

Simon tossed off the glass of champagne, one more in a series of glasses. The liquid left a warm trail to the pit of his stomach and his head buzzed pleasantly. Sending a jaded gaze over the motley assemblage, he decided it was time for him to depart. A quick stop at the convenience and he would be on his way.

The water closet was situated at the back of the house, and he found it easily, humming to himself all the while. His business complete, he returned to the corridor where a draft of air caught his attention. The door directly across the hall from him was slightly ajar, a cool breeze escaping from the crack. He stepped closer, inspecting a small engraved brass plate nailed to the door. The Chinese Parlor, it read.

Simon chuckled. Completely in character, Mrs. Witherspoon. This is the exact variety of room one would expect to find in the home of an unconventional woman who catered to the literary crowd. Curious, he entered the chamber.

His first impression was of a tiny space overflowing with Asian artifacts. Every available surface, including the mantle of the fireplace, sported Chinese figurines and pottery. Several candles were lit but rather than illuminating the room, the flames cast eerie shadows across the walls and ceiling, adding to the exotic atmosphere. The odd, musky odor of incense filled the air.

He shook his head in disbelief and turned to exit the apartment when a movement behind an oriental screen next to the window caught his attention. He could just see the outline of a female figure through the fine material of the partition. At least, he thought it was female. Intrigued, he paused only a moment before advancing farther into the room, the thick woolen carpet muffling his footsteps.

This explained where the air was coming from, he thought, for the shutters had been thrown open to the night. Perhaps the person standing in front of the window had felt the need to escape the heat just as he had. Reaching the screen, he peered around the corner.

His lungs contracted.

Corinna! Beautiful, wild Corinna. Had she returned from France? Simon was astounded, for he’d never thought to see her again, and here of all places.

She stood with her profile turned away from him, head thrown back, her lovely throat exposed to the moonlight. Having loosened the ribbon at the bodice of her gown, she had pulled the neck wide, apparently taking advantage of the cool breeze. Her hair, a deeper red than he remembered, was piled high on her head as dainty tendrils blew gently about the side of her face and along her jaw. Had she taken to using henna? He smiled to himself. Corinna had always been vain.

On impulse—an action probably inspired by that last glass of champagne—Simon edged silently behind his former lover. Now at her back, he placed his hands to her waist and drew her tightly against his chest.

“Corinna,” he whispered hotly into her ear, “I’m delighted to see you. You are the very thing I need to end my boredom.”

Simon felt her stiffen and could not resist the desire to place his mouth to the delicate curve of her neck, tasting the sweet, satiny skin. She smelled wonderfully of a scent, light and floral, unlike the heavy cologne of his memory.

She did not move and embolden by her acquiescence, he ran his palms over her hips and around to her middle, splaying his fingers over her flat stomach. She had lost weight. Her figure seemed firmer—younger? So caught up was he in his sensuous exploration, Simon ignored a subtle alarm. Instead, he continued his search, enjoying the feel of her body as he sent his caress up her rib cage.

Only when he took hold of her breasts did he realize his mistake. He heard her sharp gasp at the same moment Simon knew he held the wrong person.

“I am not Corinna, sir. Please, unhand me.”

At the sound of the injured words, Simon fell away from her as though he were clutching nettles. No, that definitely was not Corinna’s husky French speech.

“I beg your pardon—” he began, shaken by his unbelievably awkward blunder.

“Just go, I beg you,” the lady interrupted in a strained voice thick with emotion. She turned further away from him as she gripped the top of her gown.

She didn’t want him to see her face that was clear, and the gentlemanly thing would be to leave her alone.

“Please forgive me. I meant no harm,” he said, moving quickly to the other side of the screen.

He left the room and walked down the hall, his mind working furiously. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the least bit disappointed that the redhead in the Chinese parlor was not Corinna. Corinna was a part of his past and should undoubtedly remain there. But then why had this woman hesitated until he had thoroughly insulted her before informing him of his error?

Simon knew he ought to leave now, as he had meant to do after he finished in the water closet. However, he was no longer bored—he wanted to find out who the young lady was. He wished he had seen her face, but with her distinctive red hair she shouldn’t be hard to locate.

Having made this decision, Simon went looking for Mrs. Witherspoon.

*****

Cassandra waited until she heard the door close before she found the strength to move. How could such a mortifying thing have happened? With trembling hands she pulled the ribbon at the neck of her gown but, try as she might, could not make her shaky fingers tie a presentable bow.

All she had wanted was a breath of fresh air. The heat was oppressive and her head had felt light. Mrs. Witherspoon had directed her to this small parlor, saying the ventilation was much better at the back of the house.

The room was unoccupied, and Cassandra had believed herself safe behind the Chinese screen. She had loosened her bodice, basking in the night air that flowed through the open window.

She had not heard anyone enter the parlor. And more unnerving, she hadn’t been aware of the man’s presence until he grabbed her from behind. She should have screamed or offered some resistance, but she’d been too startled to react quickly. Cassandra wondered if the man was still on the premises. Would he recognize her? She felt almost positive he had not seen her face.

She drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the spicy air in the room. Nothing for it, she thought morosely. She had no choice but to return to the party. Sophy would be looking for her. Taking her courage in hand, she came around the screen, walked to the door and stepped into the hallway.

“Where have you been?” Sophy Willis greeted her as Cassandra entered the main drawing room. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I told you I was warm and needed some fresh air,” Cassandra snapped. At the look of reproach on Sophy’s plain face, she tempered her words. “I’m sorry. I have been gone a long time. The heat made me feel unwell.” She wanted to tell her friend about her frightening experience with the unknown man but could not bring herself to recount the humiliating episode.

Sophy, ever forgiving, smiled. “Do you feel better now?”

Cassandra dipped her head, her thoughts elsewhere, unable to dispel the self-conscious mood that now gripped her. She scanned the crowded room warily, searching for the wolf that lurked among the sheep.

“What have you been doing while I’ve been gone?” she asked absently.

“Watching people. I’ve never seen so many of the quality in one place before.”

“Yes. I understand the ton has taken quite a fancy to Mr. Plimpton.”

“Someone said the Duke of Ambrose attended this evening for that very reason. Can you imagine?”

“What did he look like?” Despite herself Cassandra was intrigued.

“I can’t say—never saw him. But I wish I had, for I’ve never seen a duke before,” Sophy said breathlessly. “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with knowing he and I were in the very same room, quite possibly at the very same time. Won’t our friends be impressed?”

Cassandra laughed. “Sophy, I wager a duke looks fairly much like everyone else except perhaps for his nose rising above the crowd.”

Sophy put her hand over her mouth, nodding as she giggled into her palm.

At that moment, Mrs. Witherspoon came up to her two young guests. “Girls, girls, can you believe the success of my little party?” A self-satisfied smile brightened her plump features, which were shiny pink with perspiration from the heat and her own exertion.

“Quite a crush,” Cassandra said politely.

“Indeed, but it does make the atmosphere a bit sultry, doesn’t it?” Hanky in hand, Mrs. Witherspoon patted her damp forehead. “Tell me, Cassandra,” she said nonchalantly, her small, dark eyes flicking about the room, “what did you think of my Chinese parlor?”

Cassandra felt her face grow red. “I—I thought it was extraordinary.”

Mrs. Witherspoon’s gaze slid in Cassandra’s direction. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She linked arms with both young women. “Come, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

“You have?” Sophy asked.

Their hostess smiled coyly. “You’re garnering notice in high places this evening, Cassandra.”

Cassandra glanced at Mrs. Witherspoon then focused her attention on the gathering, curiosity aroused. Her scrutiny fell on a tall, dark-haired man who lounged against the doorjamb of the entrance to the drawing room. She would have looked away, but he was staring directly at her. Allowing her gaze to meet his, she found herself drawn in by a pair of smoldering black eyes. Her heart began to flutter queerly.

She turned her head, ending the eye contact, but quickly realized Mrs. Witherspoon was conducting their footsteps in that same man’s direction. Cassandra wanted to dash from the room. Unfortunately, that was not a dignified response to the sudden misgiving flooding her chest.

As they reached the man, he straightened from the doorjamb and Mrs. Witherspoon began speaking in a feathery voice. “Lord Sutherfield, I would like to introduce you to Miss Sophy Willis and Miss Cassandra James,” she said. “Girls, this is the Marquess of Sutherfield.”

He was a marquess! Cassandra sent the handsome nobleman a surprised look and he grinned, his gaze resting on her for just a moment longer than necessary.

“My pleasure, ladies,” he said on a bow.

“My lord,” Cassandra acknowledged nervously.

Sophy merely opened and closed her mouth like a landed fish, gasping for breath.

“Now, Sophy, you and I shall find ourselves some refreshment. I’m parched, how about you?” Mrs. Witherspoon grabbed hold of Sophy’s arm, dragging her unceremoniously away.

Mrs. Witherspoon’s ploy was so obvious and so clumsily done, all Cassandra could do was watch in embarrassment as the two women left her standing alone with Lord Sutherfield.

“I can’t imagine why Mrs. Witherspoon did that,” she said, unable to look at him directly.

“Because I asked her to.”

Cassandra gaped at him. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Lord Sutherfield stared down at her, an unfathomable expression shading his intense black eyes. Once again she noticed the overwhelming magnetism of his regard. He did not speak, but his gaze drifted down the slope of her shoulder to the soft swell of her breast. It was a bold, appraising look and she shivered despite herself. Before she could react, he moved nearer and coiled a few strands of her hair around his index finger. He made a point of examining the silky threads.

“I’m very fond of this shade of red. Amazing, though, not a freckle to mar those exquisite features. I’m entranced.”

“Stop it!” she whispered. “Someone will hear you.”

“You could be right,” he said slowly as if considering her point. “Perhaps you would like to join me where we could be a bit more private.”

Cassandra felt the blood drain from her complexion. “What do you mean?”

“Would you like to share a midnight supper with me?”

She stepped back swiftly as though he had slapped her. “I think not.”

“Why?” He gave her a boyish grin. “It’s harmless enough, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it depends on which side of the social spectrum one resides, my lord. From my point of view, it would be a disaster. I can’t speak for you.” Cassandra was so stung by his transparent lack of respect, she felt her vision cloud.

He stared at her for several seconds, apparently reassessing the situation. “I apologize. I thought—”

“You thought,” she interrupted in an acid voice, “I would be flattered by the attentions of a titled gentleman. Believe it or not, my lord, even those of us who populate the lower classes do have some moral standards.”

“Now wait a minute—” he began.

Cassandra leaned close to him again and looked him directly in the eye. “There is only one reason a man of rank approaches a woman of my station. Please forgive me if I seem less than grateful.”

She spun away from the marquess intent on leaving, only to be stopped by a sudden burst of intuition. Turning slowly around, she glared at him.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she said tightly.

The expression on his face was closed and he did not respond. Impatient and unwilling to wait for an answer, she gave him her back and went in search of Sophy.

“But, Cassie, why must we leave?” Sophy complained a few minutes later as her friend herded her to the front entrance. “You haven’t told me about the marquess.”

At the mention of that wayward gentleman, Cassandra could not prevent a backward glance in his direction as she moved to the front door. He stood where she had left him, and he was watching her still.

She half expected him to appear angry, but she didn’t detect that in his manner. Instead, he took a slow sip of his drink as he scrutinized her over the top of his glass, a calculating look on his lean, swarthy features.

He nodded at her but nothing flirtatious showed in the gesture this time. She wondered if the hurt she felt showed on her face. She hoped not, for pride was the only thing sustaining her at the moment. Cloaked in what remained of her dignity, she stepped over the sill, following Sophy into the night.

*****

Sometime before dawn Simon came to stand on the walk outside Mrs. Witherspoon’s town house, one of the last of her guests to go home. Strange he had stayed so long when he’d been determined to leave hours before.

He gazed at the stars overhead, winking at him from a cloudless, blue-black sky, and for several moments he permitted his thoughts to rest on Miss Cassandra James.

He had a difficult time erasing the image of the wounded look in her expressive blue eyes. And it troubled him to admit his lack of sensitivity was the direct reason for her distress. She certainly had given him a royal set-down. He hadn’t much liked it, but in all fairness he supposed he had deserved it.

Somewhere in the city she was sleeping. That thought conjured an enticing image alive with lush red curls splayed on an ivory satin pillow.

His breathing accelerated.

Simon hadn’t lied when he told her he liked her hair. He had, in fact, a partiality for redheads. Miss James had an abundance of luxurious auburn tresses and fine-looking skin, clear and unblemished. A fine straight nose and a full luscious mouth accented a pair of the most incredible deep blue-green eyes he had ever seen. And her body, well, what could he say? She was made in the manner that pleased him most—slim, yet voluptuous.

The top of her head came just to his nose, and he could imagine placing his hand under her chin and lifting that face to his so he might taste her lips. The very thought caused him to groan inwardly.

He had better get his baser self under control, he thought, because she was beyond his reach. Odd that should be because he was her social superior in every way. However, she had made it very clear that that did not grant him any special rights.

Simon shook his head in exasperation. All this confusion because a hot-tempered redhead with a pair of remarkable blue eyes had taken him to task for his lack of good manners. But she had left Mrs. Witherspoon’s earlier tonight because of him. And he simply could not forget the hurt in that shimmering gaze as she had turned to look at him across a noisy room before disappearing through the front door.

Some things were not meant to be, and no amount of wishing could change that fact. At nearly thirty-four years, he had obligations. To pursue this girl would be very wrong as he could offer her nothing honorable. Therein lay the difficulty, for he felt certain she would settle for nothing less.

Simon shrugged his shoulders as if with the gesture he could brush off the entire evening. He straightened himself and headed down the dimly lit walk swinging his cane, forcing a whistle through stiff lips to enhance the carefree effect.

*****

Cassandra tossed fitfully in the four-poster bed, frustrated with her failure to sleep. She threw the coverlet back and sat up. She had been at this for hours, and if rest were a possibility it would have happened by now.

She brought her feet to the floor and slid them into a pair of well-worn slippers before standing and moving to the window. Climbing onto the window seat, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass and idly watched the early comings and the late goings of the few individuals who were now on the street.

Near dawn, just a hint of pink tinged the horizon where the sun would soon make an appearance. If Cassandra had not been beset by a tangle of unwelcome emotions, she would have enjoyed the early morning peace. Instead, she was grappling with insecurity and, as the pampered daughter of a very wealthy man, the feeling was as unexpected as it was unpleasant.

Not once in all her young life had she questioned her position in society. Her father was a merchant and she was a member of the middle class—not a bad place to be. Of course, they did not have the privileges accorded the aristocracy, but when one had acquired as much wealth as Mr. Quintin James that became a moot point. Money had a power all its own.

But money had no power over prejudice. Last night she had been made to feel her lack of social standing in a very hurtful way. She knew Lord Sutherfield would never have been as forward with someone from his own social class.

She could still feel his eyes as they had roamed without subtly over her figure—not to mention his hands in Mrs. Witherspoon’s Chinese parlor. She felt certain he was the culprit. What had bothered her most of all, though, was her response to his impudence. His clear appreciation of her charms had caused her blood to race in a distressingly inappropriate manner.

Why had she reacted that way? It was hardly a compliment for a gentleman to be so open about his intentions, although she suspected Lord Sutherfield seldom encountered resistance to his overtures. Cassandra wondered if she had surprised him as much as he had surprised her.

In all fairness, he was a fine example of the male of the species. Tall, he towered over her and she was not petite. With a powerful and well-proportioned physique, he had broad shoulders and muscular legs.

That would have been enough to catch the attention of most women but his angular face was equally handsome. High cheekbones and a strong nose enhanced a sensuous mouth, wearing just a trace of sophisticated conceit.

His hair was very dark and perhaps just a bit overlong, but it was his penetrating eyes that made her feel breathless. They were black, black as coal, and oh my he knew how to use them. Even now she could feel the excitement swirling in her lower belly when she recalled the warmth of his regard.

This above all things was why she was unhappy with herself. Her outrage should not be warring with her vanity. However, she would rather accept that vanity was the culprit than what she had begun to fear might be the real reason.

She shivered as an odd, restless feeling settled over her. The time had come for her to wed. At twenty-four, judged by even the most generous standards, she was firmly on the shelf. That had never troubled her before because a young woman who came with a dowry the size of Cassandra’s did not have the same timetable as other less fortunate females.

Still, last night had brought to mind the uncomfortable knowledge that there just might be another reason for taking the matrimonial step. Again, she thought of how Lord Sutherfield had looked at her, his smoky eyes proposing that which she had not yet contemplated, and again an erotic thrill passed through her.

So by Cassandra’s reckoning, she had one more reason to be offended with the marquess. Not only had he insulted her with his aggressive behavior, he had awakened in her a yearning she did not wish to acknowledge.

The street below had begun to fill in earnest with the coming light, pedestrians bustling to and fro, each intent on whatever urgent mission called him. Carriages were lining up, likewise, proof positive the day had now begun. Time to start her day as well. She wandered over to the dressing table and sat down.

Completing her ablutions, she quickly donned a lilac morning gown. She had no intention of languishing in her room feeling sorry for herself. That gave her time to think, and she had enough of thinking for the moment. Rather than indulge in self-pity, she went downstairs to break her fast.

Cassandra entered the dining room and greeted her father. “Good morning, Papa. How are you this fine day?” She leaned down where he sat at the table and pecked him on the cheek then moved to the sideboard.

Quintin James smiled expansively at his only child. “I’m doing much better now that I have some congenial company with whom to share my morning meal. Since you were out so late, I did not expect you to be up just yet.”

Cassandra returned his smile as she settled into her seat.

Her father was a bear of a man with a round jolly face reflecting an amiable disposition, and she loved him dearly. But beneath that pleasant, relaxed exterior beat the heart of a capitalist. A brilliant businessman, his wealth was not happenstance.

“Papa, you know I never lie abed. Besides,” she dropped her gaze to her plate, “I was not so late.”

“I see.” Her father sat back in his chair and she could feel his probing eyes as he watched her. “All goes well with you?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“Yes, Papa. I just didn’t sleep well.”

At least that was the truth. She could not risk telling him a falsehood. She had learned long ago he would know.

“Did you meet Ethan Plimpton?”

Relieved he had decided not to pursue his earlier question, she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I did. I enjoyed talking to Mr. Plimpton. Naturally, I only had a few moments with him. Everyone was vying for his attention.”

“Of course,” her father murmured, his tone noncommittal. “He has some radical ideas. I’m not sure I agree with him in all ways.”

“That is the point, Papa—to make one think. Disagreement is part of the process.”

He laughed good-naturedly. “Have I raised a blue stocking here?” He did not sound as though he minded.

“I am my father’s daughter,” she shot back.

“Touche, my dear, touche.”

They proceeded to enjoy their meal in companionable silence until the ringing of the door chime captured their attention.

“Do we have company already? It’s too early to entertain. Have you bewitched some fool again, Cassie?” Mr. James teased her. “I can’t let you out of the house without a pack of young puppies following you home.”

“No, no, Papa, I swear.” But for just a moment her thoughts touched on Lord Sutherfield.

The butler appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”

“I heard, Jennings,” Quintin said, a resigned note entering his voice. “I don’t suppose we can put the caller off until I have completed my meal?”

“He said it is important, sir. Indicated he would wait if necessary. Said he must speak with you.”

The old man’s eyebrows shot upward. “Who is it? Did he give you his card?”

Jennings handed over the calling card.

Cassandra’s father studied the small piece of paper, a furrow slowly creasing his forehead. He glanced up and across at his daughter, yet the expression on his face was so strange she could not interpret it.

“Do we know a Mr. Jonathan Peters? Says here he’s a detective,” he said.

She did not answer instead staring at him in bewilderment.

He pushed his chair back and stood from the table. “It’s probably nothing,” he said, though he seemed distracted. “I’ll see the man now.”

“Papa?” she ventured, suddenly uneasy, but he had already entered the hall.

Cassandra did not leave the dining room, remaining where she sat to wait for her father’s return. Much later, her untouched meal grown cold and unappetizing, Jennings scurried back into the room.

“Miss, your father asked that you join him in the library at once.”

The butler, obviously worried and refusing to look at her, did nothing to stem Cassandra’s rising fear.

“Jennings, what is the matter?”

He met her eyes then. “I swear I don’t know, miss, but the master is in a terrible rage.”

“Is the caller still here?” She swallowed convulsively as a lump of apprehension formed like a stone in her stomach.

“Yes, miss.”

“I see. Then I had best go at once.”

Cassandra’s words sounded a great deal braver than she felt. She had no idea why she was so frightened, but the portentous atmosphere that had crept uninvited into her home was palpable.

She arrived in the hall outside the library and paused to smooth her skirt. The action had the added effect of removing the nervous moisture that had collected on her palms. After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped on the door.

Her father’s muffled voice bade her enter. Again, Cassandra stopped before she could force her reluctant fingers to the knob. She gave it a quick turn, the latch releasing, and pushed the door open. She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

*****

CHAPTER 2

Cassandra moved to the center of the library, misgiving causing her undigested breakfast to churn. To one side of the room stood a man she had never met. Jonathan Peters, she assumed. She watched the man for a moment before shifting her attention to her father, who sat behind his desk.

“Papa, you sent for me?”

“Mr. James,” the detective interrupted, his expression uncomfortable, “if you would like to speak to your daughter privately, I can wait outside.”

“That won’t be necessary,” her father said. His voice sounded unsteady, and he had turned an ashen color, appearing almost ill. “Tell your story, Mr. Peters.”

She looked at Jonathan Peters, a smallish man with nondescript features and coloring. What could such a dull little person have to say that could reduce her robust, self-confident parent to tears?

Mr. Peters was clearly nervous. “Miss James, the news I bring is not necessarily bad. A whole new way of life is waiting for you, with opportunities that money alone cannot buy. I hope you will consider what I have to say in that light.”

Cassandra merely stared at him and so he pressed on.

“Twenty-four years ago, in the winter of 1785, a baby was born to a young woman by the name of Mary Lamberton. Several months before the birth, Mary had wed Trevor Lamberton in Gretna Green against the wishes of his father Earl Whittingham. The couple ran away rather than contend with the earl’s wrath. They came to London and lived quietly. At least, Mary lived quietly.

“Trevor did not settle down as a married man ought. He was in one scrape after the other, and weeks before his daughter was born he lost his life in a racing accident. Mary was a widow when she gave birth.

“From what we can determine, Mary developed milk fever and died within days of her confinement. On her deathbed she entrusted the future of her baby with her personal servant, Louise Biddle. After that, Louise and the child disappeared.”

“Interesting story, Mr. Peters,” Cassandra said, her stomach now beginning to tighten with alarm, “but what does that have to do with us?”

“We believe that servant is the woman who raised you,” Mr. Peters stated, “and you are that missing child.”

“That’s impossible! My mother’s name was Louise, yes, but her maiden name was Smith. Tell him, Papa, tell him they’ve made a mistake.”

Her father, not only silent but utterly still while Mr. Peters told his story, could hardly meet her gaze as he said, “I met Louise Smith in 1787. She was applying for a housekeeping position I had advertised in the daily. Pretty young thing she was,” he whispered, glancing at Cassandra briefly before dropping his gaze again. “At that time she was struggling to support herself and her small daughter—”

“Papa, no!” Cassandra cried.

He continued as if she had not spoken. “I had just begun to find success in business, and a wife seemed like the next logical step. And I was no longer a young man, you see. Louise wasn’t much more than a girl herself, but I fell in love with her and her sweet baby.” He looked directly at Cassandra then, his manner almost defiant.

Standing abruptly, he knocked aside the leather chair he was sitting on. His face had turned a bright pink, now with anger. He brought a large fist down on his desk with such force, the two other people in the room jumped.

“No one can tell me she’s not my daughter!” her father bellowed. “My blood may not flow in her veins, but she is my child as surely as there is a God in the heavens.” He looked wildly at Mr. Peters. “Do you think you are going to come in here and take her away from me? She’s all I have left.”

“None of this proves Mama was not my mother, does it, Papa?” Cassandra whispered over a terrible knot blocking her throat.

Righting his chair, her father sat down heavily and stared, eyes unfocused. He looked at her then and a sad smile eased his haunted expression.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said, his voice rumbling with feeling. Leaning over, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a small wooden chest with a carved lid. He placed it on the ink blotter in front of him and slowly pushed the box toward her.

“Your mother gave this to me a few days before her death. I swear, until then I didn’t know the truth. Louise knew she was dying…” He stopped, visibly grappling with emotion then cleared his throat. “She didn’t think it was right to rob you of your heritage by taking this information to her grave.”

Cassandra hesitated briefly before reaching for the chest with shaking hands. Sitting down, she placed the container on her lap but did not immediately lift the lid. She felt as if she held Pandora’s mythical box and, once opened, her life would be irrevocably changed.

She shifted her gaze to Mr. Peters where he stood alone. Cassandra saw the regret on his face, and she could almost pity him his embarrassment.

Almost…

“Who are you, Mr. Peters?” she asked in a quiet voice.

The detective blinked. “Well, I…that is to say, I’m employed with an agency hired by your grandfather nearly twenty-five years ago to find you. Of course, I wasn’t there then—I’m much too young. But I’ve been working on this case for six years.”

“Six years—that’s a long time on one case,” she said thoughtfully.

“There have been others, but we were ready to give up on this one. However, Lord Whittingham is a powerful man and we did not want to disappoint him.”

Cassandra glanced at her father, who watched her pensively, then resumed her conversation with the detective. “Suppose, Mr. Peters, just suppose I accept everything you have to say. What do you or, more accurately, Lord Whittingham hope to gain by disclosing this information now? I mean, it is long past the time it will alter anything.”

The young man looked surprised. “Miss, James, I thought it was obvious. You are the only child of the earl’s only child. And unfortunately, his son is deceased. You are Lord Whittingham’s sole descendant. He wants you to take your rightful place in your natural family.”

“Impossible,” Cassandra said. “If that is why you are here, it would be best if you left at this time.”

Mr. Peters sighed. “We are prepared for your refusal, Miss James,” he said. “If you do not go home freely and, I might add, immediately, Lord Whittingham will bring charges against Mr. James accusing him of kidnapping.”

Cassandra was robbed of speech. She looked frantically at her father again, but his expression told her he had already been informed of this possibility.

“My father said he knew nothing about my birth!”

“When did your mother die, Miss James?”

“Just before my fifteenth birthday.” Cassandra answered slowly, unsure where the detective was headed with this line of questioning.

“Then by his own admission, your father did learn of your origins at that time. For close to ten years he’s kept quiet even as your natural family continued to search for you.” Mr. Peters paused as if driving home his point. “There will be little sympathy for his motives, pure as they may seem to you.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, appalled by the sheer inevitability of her situation. Of course, they would know to choose her one great weakness, she thought. She loved her father. She would protect him.

“Do I have Lord Whittingham’s word, if I do as he asks, he will not press charges?” How could she sound so calm when her heart was breaking?

“Miss James, your grandfather is very relieved that you have been found. He says the matter will end here if you come home.”

Cassandra looked directly at the young man through scornful eyes, her voice taking on a biting quality. “Do not fool yourself, Mr. Peters. I am home and nothing your employer can do will ever change that fact. When do I have to leave?”

“You have a week to prepare. Lord Whittingham has made all the arrangements, and I will escort you to his estate.”

Cassandra nodded, aware that the courage she was displaying would soon desert her. She could not sit here and continue to talk in a rational, controlled manner as if her world were not falling apart. Her ordered life had been tossed into the air like so many pebbles, only to fall in an unknown pattern at her feet.

She stood.

The little wooden chest, forgotten on her lap, tumbled to the floor, though a metal clasp kept the contents from spilling. For several moments no one moved. She shared a look with her father then bent down and picked up the box.

“Mr. Peters,” Cassandra said as she straightened and transferred her gaze to the detective, “you have earned your pay this day.”

“Beg pardon?” He appeared ill at ease.

“There’s always the temptation to slay the messenger. I realize you are only doing your duty.”

“Thank you,” the detective murmured.

“Papa, I will let you see our guest out. I think I need to be alone for awhile.” She stopped at the library door and spoke to the detective once more. “I will be ready one week from today, Mr. Peters.”

She found her way upstairs but instinct must have taken her there, for she couldn’t remember making the journey. Cassandra paused at the threshold to her bedchamber, feeling as if she were seeing it for the first time.

The suite was richly appointed, a tribute to an adored child, from the drapes that graced the mullioned windows to the outrageously expensive Persian carpeting on the floor. Done in varying shades of blue with ivory, it suited her taste perfectly.

Nothing was too good for her. Quintin James had pampered Cassandra all her life, giving her everything she had ever wanted and more, much more. He indulged her, allowing her to do as she pleased, for her happiness made him happy.

To think, this morning she had been upset because a young lord had had the temerity to trifle with her. If this was God’s way of giving her perspective, then she had to admit He had brought his message home most forcefully.

Cassandra stepped through the doorway and walked to the bed. She placed the chest on the counterpane then ran her fingers over the carved top. A numbness had settled over her though she felt thankful for the respite from emotions gone out of control. Her curiosity was dead at the moment—she really didn’t want to know. Regrettably, it seemed she had no choice. Drawing in a deep, unsteady breath she opened the lid.

Inconceivable how several scraps of yellowed paper could change one’s life forever. There were pages filled with disjointed sentences, written in an uneducated hand by her mother Louise in the form of a confession. Those pages comprised the bulk of what was in the box, along with a copy of the Whittingham’s wedding certificate obtained in Gretna Green. Louise Smith had indeed started her life as Louise Biddle. And she had worked in the household of Trevor Lamberton’s young widow. Louise changed her name so she could not be traced after she disappeared with the couple’s newborn daughter. Marriage to Quintin James had hidden her completely. Poor Louise had been guilt-ridden from the part she had played in Cassandra’s abduction, and she had spent most of her adult life dreading detection.

A young Mary Lamberton, overcome with grief at the death of her new husband, had begged her servant to care for the baby. She had no family of her own and no one to whom she could turn for help. Mary hated Trevor’s father Earl Whittingham and adamantly insisted the man should not be allowed near her child. Tragically, she had died a few days after giving birth.

Cassandra could not help wondering what had caused the terrible aversion Mary felt for her father-in-law. Whether fear or spite motivated Trevor’s wife, it was hard to judge. But Cassandra suspected it would be wise to remember Mary’s distrust when she had to deal with Lord Whittingham herself.

Only two other items lay hidden at the bottom of the chest, a lace monogrammed handkerchief grown gray with age and a gold locket. The handkerchief was embroidered with Mary Lamberton’s initials, and Cassandra ran her fingers over the raised stitches trying through touch to absorb something of the woman who had sewn them.

However, not until she reached for the locket did an appalling sense of what had happened today finally take hold of her. She snapped the locket open.

Two fine miniatures stared out at her, one a man, the other a pretty woman. Until that moment, she had been rather detached as she examined the contents of the box as though what was in it would not drastically change her life. But the sight of the couple with the promise of a bright future shining on their young, expectant faces filled her with uncertainty.

The woman, dark-haired with large brown eyes, had a sweet, timid smile, and though Cassandra liked the looks of her, she couldn’t detect a relationship. But the man! Her heart rose in her chest, for he wore a male version of her own features. There was no doubt he was her father, despite his complexion being fairer and freckled and his hair more orange than red. A jaunty grin indicated a devilish nature and, though she suspected he had been a trial while he lived, she identified with the personality emanating from the tiny painting. She swallowed over a sudden ache in her throat.

Here was something she had been missing all her life, and she’d never had a clue. Intuition should have warned her but it hadn’t. She’d been happy, blithely so, and never, given a hundred alternatives, would she have guessed what today held in store. Cassandra wanted to toss herself into the middle of her four-poster bed and weep until she could not produce another tear. Can’t do that, she thought stubbornly, for tears were a weakness she rarely indulged in.

Instead, she planned to undress, lay her exhausted body down and try to recapture some of the rest that had been lost to her the night before. Perhaps when she awoke she would find all of this had been a bad dream—a very bad dream.

It was, however, many hours before she slept.

*****

Cassandra bolted upright in the bed. How long had she been asleep? The room was bathed in darkness, so it must be night. Strange, no one had come to wake her.

Awareness came slowly as she stared at the vague outlines of her furniture. And then a sudden memory of the day’s events caused her to moan aloud. Oh Lord, why couldn’t she have been left to her slumber?

Her head ached and she felt parched. She lay back against the pillow and closed her eyes, for the throbbing in her temples made her feel queasy. She swallowed, her throat muscles protesting the effort to make them work despite her thirst.

Perhaps a glass of warm milk would do the trick. She knew she must be desperate to consider such a remedy, but in the order of things she found most distasteful, warm milk had taken a tumble down the list.

The house was eerily quiet and, more than the milk, she wanted to leave the solitude of her room and make certain the world outside was still spinning. Where was everyone?

Cassandra pushed back the covers and reached for the silk wrapper on the end of her bed. She put it on, stepping into the deserted corridor. As she walked down the passage, she felt a heightened sense of her surroundings—the pictures on the wall, the carpet under foot.

She arrived at the head of the staircase with its carved teak banister and ran her hand along the railing, soaking in the texture and the warmth of the polished wood. Her gaze moved downward to the foyer, as big as a small room. A chandelier fashioned from Austrian crystal hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting refracted light onto the Italian marble of the entry. She lived in opulence and she doubted there were many who lived better. So what was the advantage of her sudden promotion to the nobility?

Besides, Cassandra accepted her position in society, was comfortable with it. She was privileged among those of her class and that had always been enough. Only once had she felt her lack of status, and an egotistical marquess had been the reason. A sly thought made her pause, and a sudden smile curved her lips. Wouldn’t Lord Sutherfield be surprised?

As she began her descent, she remembered other times she had made her way down this regal staircase. Often an attractive young man had been at the base of those steps, watching her with admiration in his eyes. It would be an untruth to say she had not thoroughly enjoyed those moments.

Cassandra had received more than her share of offers. But she had not been tempted to take that final step because she’d never been quite certain how much those offers had to do with her and how much they had to do with her father’s wealth. Papa had been cautious as well.

She thought of her father’s ravaged face when she had left him hours before, and she felt a stab of remorse. She ought to be angry with him for letting this happen as it had, but in reality he was as much a victim as she.

What should he have done ten years ago when he had discovered the truth? His wife had just died and he feared losing his child. And even if he knew about Lord Whittingham’s attempt to find her, he no doubt believed Cassandra would be taken from the only life she had ever known and he would never see her again.

Reaching the foyer, she turned toward the kitchen, but a light under the doorway to the library caught her eye. Who was about at this hour? It was really not a question, for she knew who it must be.

Cassandra knocked. “Papa? Are you in here?” The door was not latched and so, pushing it open, she entered the room.

Quintin James sat in a wingback chair facing the fireplace. His body was concealed from view except for his left arm which lay on the armrest, a brandy glass held loosely in his fingers. He did not move but his voice drifted in a hoarse whisper across the room.

“Come in, lass.”

Cassandra tiptoed to his side and kneeled down beside him. She reached for the glass and gently eased it from his grasp. He did not resist instead turning on her bleary eyes full of sorrow.

“I’m drunk,” he croaked, stating the obvious. “I didna’ mean to, but I couldna’ help myself.”

The slight brogue he had spent so many years erasing from his speech had slipped back with the alcohol. It was a sign of his vulnerability, and it pained her terribly.

“I know,” she consoled him in a broken whisper. Placing her face against his shoulder, she patted his arm.

“I should not be allowing you to make this sacrifice for me,” he said, “and then I worry that you will consider it no sacrifice at all. Can you forgive me for being selfish?”

How did she address that? Either way would make him feel awful. Truthfully, this trip was more than a sacrifice, but telling him that would not make him feel any better. She settled for answering the question he had asked.

“You’re not selfish, dear, just a worried father.”

“I am your father, am I not?”

“Always and forever,” she said fiercely, gritting her teeth with the intensity of her feelings.

He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes as though her words had offered him some comfort. “I feel to blame for what has happened. I should have been able to protect you from this. Though I’m at a loss to know what I could have done.”

Cassandra felt the old familiar catch in her throat. “I don’t blame you, Papa. You’ve been hurt by this just as I have.”

“I’ve let your mother down.”

She much suspected that sentiment was at the heart of his pain. “How can that be? I loved her dearly, but she did not leave you with an easy task.”

“When she gave me the box,” he paused and cleared his throat, “she made me promise to protect you. It was not a difficult promise to make.” His nose had turned a suspicious pink, although she doubted it was from the brandy.

“Had you heard of Lord Whittingham before that time?” she asked him.

“No, but when I realized he existed I made a point of finding out as much as I could.” He grinned then. “I may not have the power of an earl, but I do have ways of discovering what I need to know. And I have a great deal more money than he does.” He seemed to take considerable satisfaction from the thought.

“Were you aware he was searching for me?” That was a tricky question, and she knew it.

He sobered but did not immediately answer her. “I’ll not lie to you, sweetheart,” he said at last. “I was informed of his search. But what would you have had me do? You were fourteen. Your mother had just died, at least the woman you thought of as your mother. I admit I had everything to lose. But I swear it was you I was protecting.”

“Oh, Papa, I wasn’t being critical. At any rate, now lawfully I’m an adult. I mean, what can they make me do?”

He gave her a level stare. “You are leaving in seven days for the Whittingham estate, are you not?”

Cassandra felt a chill of misgiving. “I’m curious,” she said. “That’s not so hard to understand, is it?” But she avoided looking at him.

“I know Lord Whittingham has a purpose for you,” he said in a hard voice. “I don’t understand what it is yet but, mark my words, he will try to force you to do his bidding.”

“How can you be so certain?” She was becoming genuinely alarmed.

“Cassandra, lass, I’ve had dealings with the aristocracy since I first went into trade. Their whole lives are devoted to the generation to come. Attention to the bloodlines is critical. The earl doesn’t think of you in terms of a lost granddaughter. You are a possession found which belongs to his family. He has aspirations—don’t doubt it.”

“Then I’ll have to disappoint him because I’m not staying any longer than I have to.”

“Child, I do not want you to go into this situation blinded by your ignorance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you wondered why he is willing not to pursue charges against me?” When she nodded, he continued. “He knows you love me. It is the one thing he has to keep you in check. He will be ruthless in wielding that power. His lordship does not expect you ever to come back here.”

She felt a momentary shiver of fear. “Why?”

“Aside from his sense of what is right?” He shrugged. “He wishes to punish me for having the gall to interfere with the interests of a peer of the realm. He is outraged and no explanation will appease him.”

“How do you know this, Papa?”

“Mr. Peters gave me a letter from him. Basically, Lord Whittingham has warned me off.”

“Has he threatened you?” She gasped the question.

Her father hesitated for so long she thought he did not intend to answer her. He sighed. “It’s not my intention to send you to your grandfather so hostile that you can’t communicate with him at all. Let us say, he indicated there will be repercussions if I meddle.”

“If he does anything to hurt you, I swear I will do all I can to thwart him.” Her nostrils flared with indignation.

“Ah, my darling girl, don’t you see?” He chuckled, clearly delighted by the turn in the conversation. “His power over you has a thorn in it, and don’t think he doesn’t know it. For the very hold he has on you is the same hold you have on him. You do nothing then he does nothing, but it also works the other way around. There’s a perverse form of justice at work here, and I’m damned glad of it.”

She smiled back at him. “I rather like it, also.”

He turned serious. “You just stand up for yourself, lass, do you hear? Don’t worry about me. If I didn’t believe you would be the one who would be hurt most, I’d go up against him no matter what the cost. I’m not afraid of him.”

“Of course, you’re not!”

That also explained why her father had not rashly jumped into the conflict. She had wondered at his restraint, but if he were worried about the effect on her he would be cautious.

“You know,” he began slowly, “I realized I would lose you one day. A beautiful young woman, it’s a miracle you are not married already. But I expected you to bring my grandchildren to see me. And if I didn’t hate my son-in-law, I’d have welcomed him as well.”

“Papa!” she cried on a watery sniff, torn between laughter and a need to weep. “Those things shall happen yet, you’ll see. We must not give up yet.”

“No, we mustn’t do that,” he said softly.

But there was no conviction in his words, and Cassandra feared the one thing her father must not give up he had already relinquished.

He took her hand and squeezed it, closing his eyes as he did. Within moments he slept.

Cassandra did not leave immediately, needing the comfort of his company, the reassuring knowledge that he loved her. His breathing was deep and regular now, yet she sensed his inner turmoil even in slumber. She leaned over and placed a light kiss on his brow as she rose to her feet.

At the door Cassandra turned and looked back, seeking out the tortured soul who slept in the chair.

A messenger had been sent to this house today with the intention of severing a bond, a bond strengthened by more than twenty years of love and devotion. Did Lord Whittingham believe he could wipe away those years and demand her loyalty simply because he said so?

Cassandra squared her shoulders grimly. That wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever.

*****

CHAPTER 3

“Come, Simon, you’ll enjoy yourself. This is the biggest thing to happen to the countryside in years.”

“If I had known beforehand, Harry, I could have stayed in London and been bored by parties far more exciting than this one. Country balls are notorious for being dull.” Simon leaned back in his chair and lifted his legs to the ottoman at his feet, ankles crossed.

“It won’t be as bad as all that. I’m sorry you were found out, but once your visit was discovered Whittingham sent an invitation over immediately. You needn’t feel obliged to attend, though, if it really is something you’d rather not do. I can make your apologies.”

“I suppose I can muddle through for one evening.” Simon drew in his breath and exhaled heavily as he brought the glass of brandy he nursed to his lips. He took a swig and swallowed.

A week ago he had accepted an invitation from his good friend Harry Stiles to vacation at Harry’s estate in the country for the month of July. Seemed the thing to do, he’d thought at the time, since most of the ton had abandoned the city during the worst of the summer heat, anyway.

And Simon was at loose ends. An odd restlessness plagued him lately, and he had felt if he left London maybe he might leave that unpleasant feeling behind. Another party filled with empty smiles and insincere gestures seemed pointless.

“I think you might find this ball more interesting than most,” Harry said.

“How so?” In the interest of friendship, the marquess tried to keep the boredom out of his voice.

“Seems Lord Whittingham has found a granddaughter who’s been missing for more than twenty-four years. This is to be her introduction to society. Bit long in the tooth for a debutante, but I’ve heard she’s a real beauty.”

“Where has she been?”

“Information is as scarce as hairs on a frog. No one knows much, and those who do aren’t saying. Lord Whittingham has outdone himself putting this thing together, though. It’s an event, you mark my words.”

“He’s hoping to find her a husband, is that it?”

Harry looked amused. “Not to worry, dear boy, there will be plenty of gentlemen who will be more than pleased to take on the earl’s granddaughter and the dowry that comes with her. But you may change your mind.”

“What do you mean?” Simon lowered his brows at his host in suspicion.

“I mean,” Harry said, his attitude turning sly, “she’s a redhead.”

“Is there no one unaware of my predilections?” Simon asked in disgust.

Harry’s wide grin transformed his homely features. “We all have them, my friend. Just so happens the guest of honor satisfies one of yours. Now come on, admit it. It does add a little anticipation to the evening, does it not?”

The marquess could not help himself. A loud guffaw escaped him. “Put that way, Harry, I believe it does.”

*****

Cassandra liked parties—well, loved parties would be more accurate. Only exhaustion or illness could keep her from enjoying one of those festive occasions. Therefore, she couldn’t understand her total lack of enthusiasm for the coming evening’s entertainment.

Grandfather had declared tonight to be her introduction to local society. He had not bothered to ask if she wanted this introduction. Instead, he’d made the arrangements without consulting her, and Cassandra burned with resentment.

She wasn’t ready for this moment, and she had tried more than once to make him understand. However, it seemed she might as well try to get her point across to the marble statue gracing the entry hall in this lovely old mansion. Cassandra took a turn around her bedchamber then plopped down on a small overstuffed chair by the fireplace, surveying her surroundings.

She hated it here.

Not that this place lacked elegance, she thought. Decorated with a sense of excellent taste, her room along with the rest of the house, boasted a well-bred refinement that seemed to be the exclusive territory of old, confident money. Ostentation was not a necessity, but rather something to be avoided. If her grandfather had not been single-mindedly rearranging her entire life, she might have found some pleasure in her visit.

Her arrival two weeks before had been a horrifying experience. Even now she hated to admit just how intimidated she had felt. Nothing could have prepared her for the scene that greeted her when the carriage she shared with Mr. Peters pulled onto the drive of her grandfather’s imposing country estate.

All the employees in the house, from the lowest scullery maid to the exalted steward, stood on the driveway, ramrod straight, pressed and groomed, like a regiment of disciplined soldiers. An army of servants, she had thought as she descended the coach. Panicked, she had wanted to lift her skirts, dash across the yard and disappear into the countryside.

Mr. Peters stayed beside her, and she clung to him, nervous fingers digging into his arm until she had feared hurting him. “Steady now,” he had whispered in her ear. And she was pathetically grateful for his kindness even as she was embarrassed by her show of weakness.

Her grandfather stood at the front of the line, a striking figure with a shock of white hair and blue eyes so light, they were nearly transparent. He came toward her, the intensity of his stare triumphant.

“My dear, my dear! How long I have waited.” He spoke in a deep emotional voice as he firmly clasped her hand, his searching gaze never leaving her face.

Cassandra didn’t doubt the depth of his feelings—feelings she suspected were purely selfish—but she found herself unprepared to deal with them. Until that moment she could almost pretend none of this existed, however, there was no denying this place and there certainly was no denying this man.

If at that point she had been allowed some privacy to gather her thoughts, to calm down, her first day might have been less nerve-wracking. Unfortunately, Lord Whittingham had planned a “small” dinner party that night to welcome his granddaughter home. Cassandra had found herself thrust into the middle of a daunting scene where she was the main player.

The next two weeks had been just as difficult. Lord Whittingham was an intractable man. He used no restraint when he implemented his plans, nor did he bother to ask anyone’s opinion. Tonight there would be a ball and that, as they say, was that.

A knock at the door brought Cassandra back to the present, and she sighed before answering. It must be time. The stiff-backed maid who entered confirmed Cassandra’s assumption.

“I’m here to help you dress, miss,” the woman intoned, her manner cool and remote. Cassandra wasn’t the only one having a hard time accepting this situation, if the maid’s attitude were any indication.

“Thank you, Annie,” she responded, refusing to let her irritation show. Inundate them with good will, that was her approach. They would either come around or they would not. For the moment she didn’t much care.

*****

The dancing came to a halt, the last notes of the stringed orchestra dying away into the expectant atmosphere of the ballroom. The shuffle of shod feet and the swishing of evening clothes accompanied the inquisitive guests as the company moved en masse toward the entry of the Whittingham ancestral home. A hush fell over the crowd.

Simon leaned over and spoke to his companion in an undertone, “Excuse me, Harry, but why have we all gathered at the stairs?”

“I think we’re to be treated to an ‘entrance,’ Simon,” Harry said, and he nodded toward the landing at the top of the curved staircase.

“The granddaughter?”

Harry nodded again. “Lord Whittingham always did have a flair for the dramatic.” He opened his mouth as if to continue, but his eyes widened and his words died on a gasp. “As I live and breath,” he managed at last, “it’s an angel!”

The marquess chuckled as he watched his friend. Harry could always be counted on to overreact, especially when the subject was a comely female.

That was the last coherent thought Simon had for several long moments as he turned his head and permitted his curious gaze to drift upward.

*****

How had her grandfather managed to gather so many people at a country ball? Cassandra stared with misgiving at the sea of faces lifted in her direction, and the anxiety she had tried to keep at bay rolled over her, destroying the defenses she had carefully nurtured all day.

She knew she must look frightened as she searched for a familiar face in the crowded entry. Cassandra hated giving the impression she was overawed by the noble company waiting to meet her as though she might not be good enough for them. She suspected these people would despise her insecurity. With that in mind, she drew her shoulders back, raised her chin and summoned a fairly credible smile before descending the stairs.

Grandfather waited at the foot of the staircase. As she reached the last step, he stretched his hand out in welcome. Beaming at her, the earl took her chilly fingers and placed them on his forearm. He turned to the company.

“This is my granddaughter, Cassandra Lamberton,” he announced, introducing her to the gathering. The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “We are newly met, but I feel as though I have known her all her life. I am sure you will feel the same. Please, make her feel welcome.”

Cassandra sent an assessing glance to her grandfather because he had spoken with such feeling. Did he mean what he said? she wondered. She shook her head as if shaking the thought loose. The earl was an actor overplaying to an avid audience. She did not like or trust him. She must never forget that. He insisted on calling her a Lamberton no matter how many times she objected. Cassandra decided she would make it known to anyone who asked that she preferred the surname James.

She spent the next hour meeting an endless array of people whom she couldn’t remember. The faces had all become a blur. She continued to nod and smile mindlessly.

Cassandra danced with many of the young gentlemen, all of them eager to capture her attention, though she suspected she was more a curiosity than anything else. They flattered her outrageously, and Cassandra acknowledged that she did look her best in the frothy, high-waisted gown of sea-green silk she wore.

But she would be foolish indeed to believe the interest these men showed came from more than her grandfather’s title and the size of his bank balance. She had already faced that problem, for she’d had those same doubts as the daughter of Quintin James. It seemed men had this in common regardless of their station in life.

She greeted the announcement of supper with profound relief, and for a few wonderful moments she found herself alone.

Unfortunately, the calm did not last.

“Cassandra, I must say, that particular shade of green looks well on you. If one must be a redhead at least there is that consolation.”

Oh, no, Penelope—Cassandra could have gone all night without having to speak to her. Grandfather had imported that “treasure” from his deceased wife’s branch of the family—a second cousin’s daughter or some such—because he had the misguided belief that Penelope would be pleasant company for his granddaughter. That certainly had not been the case.

Cassandra gathered her patience and turned a pleasant expression on her cousin. “And you, Penelope, look especially well tonight also. If green is my color, pink surely is yours.”

Penelope Ingram preened under the simple praise. She patted a silvery blonde ringlet, and her lips curled into a smug smile. A tiny dimple appeared at the corner of her puckered mouth, and she looked at Cassandra through large, shiny blue eyes wide with innocence.

“You are too kind. I hope you don’t feel I’ve ruined your evening. I would hate for you to be out of charity with me.”

“Ruined? In what way?”

Penelope’s attitude turned coy. “Competition, cousin.”

Cassandra had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from laughing. If ever anyone lived who couldn’t be bothered about the feelings of another, her cousin was that person. In the two weeks since they had met, Penelope had exhibited an artful shallowness that had left Cassandra breathless.

“Don’t give it another thought. You’ve had no effect on my evening whatsoever.”

Cassandra glanced at her companion then, fearful her words had been unkind, but she need not have worried. Penelope was too self-absorbed to perceive a slight unless it was administered in a very direct way. It simply did not occur to the young lady that anyone might consider her lacking. Penelope wasn’t listening anyway, for someone across the room had diverted her attention.

“Roger is about to join us,” she whispered behind her fan. “He’s rather fascinating, don’t you think?”

Cassandra’s heart sank. Another cousin, other side of the family, and he had plagued her footsteps like a confident hound ever since Lord Whittingham had made the introductions on the day of her arrival. Roger Morley was her grandfather’s heir. And though she could not quite put her finger on it, this cousin made her uncomfortable.

“Cassandra, dear girl, please forgive me for being late.” He swept down on her, bringing the scent of an overpowering cologne with him. Grasping her hand between his two moist ones, he stared into her face through avid hazel eyes. “You look ravishing. It seems an age since I saw you last.”

“You were here for breakfast, Roger,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. She withdrew her fingers as politely as she could and, with some effort, controlled the urge to shudder. He seemed pleasant enough, so why couldn’t she like him? His features were nice, attractive even, and his light brown hair curled thickly on his crown. He was tall and slim—perhaps a bit too slim for her taste—but he displayed no obvious traits that explained the aversion she felt when she looked at him.

With such a baffling reaction, Cassandra wondered if she were being unfair to Roger. She’d been prepared to dislike everyone on this visit and nearly to a person she hadn’t been disappointed. Maybe that was it. Still, his interest had been too quickly engaged and she didn’t trust his motives. Until she had reason to believe otherwise, she refused to let down her guard.

“May I escort you into dinner?” Roger looked at her, hope visible in his gaze.

“I’m not very hungry. This is my first respite from all the excitement. I think I’ll take this opportunity to get a little fresh air,” Cassandra said.

“I could join you.”

Good grief, couldn’t he take a hint? “No, really, I need some time to myself. But Penelope hasn’t eaten. Perhaps…?” She left the suggestion unfinished as she glanced first at Penelope and then at Roger.

It was settled. Penelope looked thrilled and she saw Roger’s eyes light with pleasure. Intrigued, Cassandra studied her cousins as the two proceeded arm in arm to the dining room. She turned, so glad to escape the tiresome pair, she wasted no more time on idle speculation. Moving along the rim of the ballroom, she made her way to the double doors leading to the balcony.

A gentle breeze welcomed her as she slipped from the room into the peaceful night. It felt wonderful to leave the warmth and the chaos of the party inside, and she savored the feel of the crisp air where it cooled her heated skin. Luckily, no one was around to disturb her peace as she moved to the edge of the balcony and leaned against the railing. After a few minutes she felt herself relaxing. She threw back her head and filled her lungs with air.

“Ah, Miss James, you provide a most tempting picture, standing there alone in the moonlight.”

Cassandra froze, her breath stalling somewhere between her chest and her mouth. She knew that voice! She swung around to face the intruder.

“You! What are you doing here?”

Simon Fitzgerald stepped from the shadows, a crooked grin creasing his handsome features. “You remember me then?”

Did she remember him? The man had given her the most stinging insult of her life, and he wanted to know if she remembered him?

“Yes, I remember you.” She spoke on a near whisper, but her response was so strained even to herself the words shrieked at him.

His expression turned serious. “I see you have not forgiven me.”

Now here was a quandary. If she acted nonchalant he would probably assume she had no bruised feelings. On the other hand, if she admitted there was something to forgive then he would know how much he had injured her. She found that thought unbearable.

Surely, there must be a way to show her disapproval without exposing the hurt she had felt. Cassandra’s tongue flicked nervously over her lips as she debated the best way to answer him.

“Perhaps I haven’t forgotten you because I don’t usually associate with gentlemen who have deplorable manners,” she said at last. “I don’t think there is anything to forgive though, for I suspect nothing personal was intended.”

A silent moment passed as he studied her, his opaque gaze gleaming intently in the moonlit shadows of the balcony. Then he shook his head as a slow indolent smile played upon his mouth.

“Now there you are wrong, dear heart.” His deep voice skimmed along her nerves causing her skin to prickle in response. “I meant what I said, and,” here his words lowered to a husky rumble, “I meant it quite personally.”

Cassandra gaped at him. She had given him the perfect excuse—why did he refuse to take it? Instead, he threw it back at her as if he were issuing a challenge.

“It would appear you wish me to think the very worst of you, my lord,” came her pinched reply.

“On the contrary. I desire nothing more than your good opinion. But make no mistake—I have not and will not lie to you.”

“Meaning…?” She wanted to convey the impression that she felt indifferent, but much to her consternation she sounded flustered instead.

He advanced on her, moving so close she could feel the heat emanating from his lean body. She edged back until the railing interrupted her retreat. She resisted the urge to place her hand flat against his chest to keep him from coming any closer.

Then Cassandra made the mistake of looking into his face. His pitch-black eyes ensnared her, dragging her into their smoldering depths. Her mouth dropped open, and in her agitation she began to breathe in short quick pants. She returned his stare, unable to tear her gaze from his.

“What do you want from me?” she begged as her respiration increased, causing her bosom to expand and contract with each labored breath.

It seemed the marquess was no match against such temptation. His gaze fell to her chin, slowly following the line of her throat, before coming to rest on the rounded flesh at the top of her gown.

He brought his attention back to her face. “It’s very clear, isn’t it?” he murmured. “I want you.”

At that point Cassandra found her anger. “Are you mad?”

“I fear I must be—mad for you.”

“How dare you speak to me like that. If you find you can’t respect me, then leave me in peace.”

The marquess pulled back from her, a look of surprise clouding his vision. “I hold you in the highest regard. Haven’t I made that clear?”

“What you’ve made clear, my lord, is that you think I am the variety of woman who would welcome the advances of a man I do not know. When you spoke to me at Mrs. Witherspoon’s, I assumed you thought me lowly-born and, therefore, approachable. But since you are now aware that the earl is my grandfather, your conduct tonight would indicate it’s actually me you hold in low esteem.”

“Why would I have thought you lowly-born?”

Cassandra opened her mouth to speak then shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Actually, in London it was a case of mistaken identity. I saw a beautiful young woman, one I thought I knew. After I realized my blunder in the Chinese parlor, I assumed you were a lady. Mrs. Witherspoon did not tell me differently.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He grinned at her as though suddenly struck by inspiration. “And because I’ve already said I won’t lie to you.”

“You propositioned me,” she said indignantly. “How can you defend that?”

He shrugged. “Wishful thinking. Nothing ventured, as they say. I certainly didn’t expect you to agree. Frankly, it was you who gave yourself away.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“A lady of quality would have understood an outrageous proposal when she heard one and treated it as such.” He sighed as if he had encountered a puzzle. “We will have to rid you of your Puritan ways.”

Cassandra stiffened. “What are you saying? A lady can take an insult better than one who is not? I hardly think that is something for which I should aspire.”

“No, not exactly,” he said on a chuckle, “but perspective is not such a bad thing. Men have a tendency to make fools of themselves over beautiful women. The sophisticated female understands that. And if she decides the man pleases her, she might even decide to give him some latitude.” He peered at her expectantly, eyebrows raised as though he anticipated some of that latitude.

He was so handsome and—dare she admit it?—engaging, for just an instant she felt inclined to give it to him. Fortunately, the insanity ended almost before it began.

Gathering all of her defenses, she looked at him squarely. “I think, Lord Sutherfield, it would be best if you and I did not socialize with each other. It seems pointless and, quite frankly, I rarely engage in things pointless.”

There, she’d been direct. She could almost feel proud of herself. Her attitude was confident, in fact bold. Regrettably, she had not reckoned with the gentleman’s determination.

He leaned down so his face was inches from hers, his expression intensifying, narrowed eyes glinting dangerously. He clenched his jaws together as he stared at her, his lighthearted bantering clearly forgotten.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss James.”

“Excuse me?” she ventured in a tiny voice. Her bravado of a moment before gave way to uncertainty. She edged away from him, pressing so tightly against the railing it jabbed her painfully in the back.

He moved closer.

“I said I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I’ve decided I like you and I’m not a man of easy decisions. I’m afraid you are going to have to tolerate getting to know me, for I am if nothing else, stubborn.”

Cassandra blinked at him, his provocative words sending a quiver of excitement coursing through her body to the tips of her toes and fingers. She must have looked as bewildered as she felt, for his features softened, and he took her chin in his thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t worry, my dear, I promise I don’t bite. What I propose is that we take the opportunity to become acquainted. And then, who knows…?”

A silence ensued as he slowly scanned her face before allowing his gaze to settle on her mouth. He brought his eyes back to hers, and the predatory glow illuminating their blackness produced a delicious shiver along her spine.

Cassandra didn’t know when she first realized he meant to kiss her, but of a sudden every nerve in her body came alive. He leaned down, moving toward her with such resolute deliberation, she was startled into submission.

He found her parted lips then, but only just, as the smooth, satiny surface of his mouth barely grazed her. She felt the light touch of his tongue, and an erotic thrill sent her blood surging forth to roar in her head, to rush through her veins, like warmed honey, thick and sweet.

As quickly as the contact began, it ended. He drew back from her, and Cassandra was dismayed by a stab of disappointment. Her legs had grown weak and she tightened her knees, afraid she might tumble to the ground at his feet.

“Let me pass,” she demanded in a stricken voice.

She pressed her forearm against his middle she brushed past him, but she refused to look him in the face. The thought of the mockery she felt certain she would see on his dark features kept her from chancing a peek.

Cassandra thought she heard him whisper her name, but her courage had completely deserted her. She dashed from the balcony to the safety of the ballroom. Probably not a bad decision all things considered, for on that balcony lurked a dangerous, albeit fascinating, destiny. She’d be the greatest fool alive even to think about a journey down that seductive path.

*****

Simon watched Miss James leave, his narrowed gaze trailing along her lovely back. He was disconcerted and he disliked the sensation. Somehow he had lost control of the situation.

He had wanted to arouse the lady, and on that score he sensed he had been successful. On the other hand, he had found himself drawn in as well, and that had not been a part of his plan. His sudden lack of control was troubling. But Miss James excited him, made him act out of character, and he had no intention of allowing this opportunity to slip away as it had in London.

Simon refused to think what this opportunity could mean, for then he would be forced to give his motives some serious thought. Suffice to say, tonight had brought Cassandra James back into his life, and he meant to take advantage of it.

*****

Cassandra knew her face burned like a beacon, announcing her embarrassment to every curious eye in the room. She had managed to totter a few steps into the ballroom where she made an effort to check her ragged breathing. It was difficult, though, for every time she thought of the gentleman on the balcony her chest tightened again.

“Cassandra, where have you been?”

“Grandfather, I…” she began, shocked by the earl’s sudden appearance. “Have you been looking for me?”

“You disappointed Roger when you refused to go into dinner with him.” Was that censure in his voice?

“It’s been a stressful evening, sir.” That was the truth, though she had trouble meeting his gaze. “I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I needed some fresh air and a few moments to gather my composure.”

“You’ve been on the balcony?”

Cassandra looked at her grandfather because an odd inflection shaded the old man’s words. His pale eyes were trained on something beyond her, and she felt her stomach lurch as she turned to peer over her shoulder. Lord Sutherfield had chosen that moment to emerge from the gloom of the balcony.

The marquess lingered in the doorway where he pulled at the cuffs of his coat with casual indifference, while lazily surveying his surroundings. His glance fell on Cassandra, and it sharpened noticeably before he looked past her to Lord Whittingham.

For several moments Lord Sutherfield’s expression remained unchanged, his scrutiny flicking back and forth between the earl and Cassandra. Then the ghost of a smile eased his mouth, and he nodded almost imperceptibly in their direction. Having done so, he showed them his back and slowly sauntered from the room.

Cassandra could feel her grandfather stiffen beside her.

“Do you know that man?” he demanded of her.

“Only to meet.” She cocked her gaze in her grandfather’s direction, wondering what he would say if he knew she had just kissed that brief acquaintance. In all fairness, she really hadn’t kissed the marquess—he had kissed her. Still, she knew she had been involved in something highly improper.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“I know who he is.” Roger interrupted the conversation.

Unaware of his approach, Cassandra turned an irritated look on him. The one thing she had gleaned about her cousin was that he “knew” a little about everything.

“Yes, I know him,” Roger continued, his nose pinched in disapproval. “He is the Marquess of Sutherfield, and I’ve heard he’s not to be trusted with the ladies.” This last was said presumably for her benefit.

Cassandra gritted her teeth.

“That’s Sutherfield’s heir?” her grandfather asked. “I invited him tonight. I wouldn’t have done so had I known of his reputation.” He turned to her, concern etched on his features. “Cassandra…?”

How irksome that she had been put in a position of having to reassure him. If she had needed to convince Quintin James, she would have put her arm around her father and told him not to worry his dear old head on her behalf. But this was different. She did not know the earl, and she resented having to answer to him. Her feelings for the marquess, nonexistent as they were, belonged to her. She risked a little rebellion.

“The marquess and I are just met—there is nothing more to it than that.” Her tone was haughty and dismissing.

A thundercloud gathered on the earl’s brow. “That’s a good thing, for I guarantee that man has no place in your future.”

Her heart skipped a panic-stricken beat. What in heaven’s name had he meant by that remark?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, sir. Even I’m not in a position to guarantee my future. There are many decisions still to be made, and I am quite capable of doing that myself when the time comes.”

He had frightened her. Cassandra admitted that to herself since her heart had not yet resumed its normal rhythm. But she wasn’t a coward, either. This was the very thing her father had warned her about, and she’d better take a stand right now or this man would own her life.

Lord Whittingham’s next words made it clear how difficult a task she had in front of her. “Make no mistake, Cassandra, you will do as you are told. Whether you like it or not, with your birth comes certain obligations. You will do your duty.”

That tears it! For the second time tonight a man had issued her an ultimatum, and her nervousness was replaced by outrage. The only difference was her response to the marquess’ forward behavior, rather than anger, was a guilty excitement. But she had felt extremely uncomfortable on both occasions, and she’d had enough.

“Grandfather, I can see this is becoming an area of contention for us both. I regret that, but I’m not going to let you plan the rest of my life. I already have a parent who serves that purpose well, thank you very much.”

A deadly quiet followed, and Cassandra flinched inwardly at the queer look, utterly devoid of emotion, that entered Lord Whittingham’s eyes. Roger, a witness to the exchange, shifted at the edge of her sight, and she sensed her cousin’s unease as well.

“It would seem, my dear, your red hair is indeed an indication of your temperament.” The earl’s vision cleared as he spoke, and to her amazement he smiled.

She knew what he was doing. He was placating her. Why, that was as bad as nearly scaring her to death, but he had made a concession, and good manners meant she could do no less. Cassandra was surprised by the effort it took to respond in kind.

“My father has mentioned that on more than one occasion,” she put forth in a bland voice. “It’s been a long day and I suspect I’m tired. Please forgive my rudeness.”

There, she had done what she must, although by referring to Quintin James again she had subtly held her ground. She was afraid sometimes, but she was determined not to give in to her fear. So, having risked renewing the fight, the relief she felt when she realized the earl had decided to let the matter drop was humbling. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as brave as she had imagined.

Lord Whittingham merely smiled again, but his eyes remained cool and distant. He took her arm. “Come, my dear, we’ve neglected our guests long enough.”

*****

“You know, Harry, I think I’m of a mind to extend my stay. Would you find it an inconvenience if I decide to prolong my visit?”

Harry rolled his eyes, a suspicious grin lurking on his thick lips. “Of course not, old man, but I’m surprised. I believed the peace and quiet of the countryside to be wearing on your nerves.”

“Now why do you say that?” the marquess asked. “I’m having a fine time.”

The hour was late with dawn approaching, and Simon tossed off the last in a series of strong beverages he had imbibed throughout the evening. Though pleasantly mellow, he wasn’t drunk. Harry, who did not hold his wine as well as his friend, had stopped drinking some time ago.

They had left Lord Whittingham’s party several hours before, for once Simon realized he could not approach Miss James, he was no longer interested in the festivities. Harry, congenial as always, had offered no resistance, meekly following his friend home. Once there, they went to Harry’s library and spent the remainder of the night in friendly conversation.

“I think a certain beautiful redhead is the reason for your sudden interest in extending your visit,” Harry suggested.

Simon considered denying the claim, but why bother? He looked at his companion and sighed.

“She is a beauty, I’ll admit, and I am interested. I see no harm in a little flirtation after all.”

There was a long silence as Harry studied the marquess. He opened his mouth to speak then clamped his lips together. His hesitation clearly came from a lack of willingness to offend his guest. Nevertheless, he began again.

“Maybe your approach to this young lady should be less cavalier, Simon. The rumor circulating at the party is that Lord Whittingham is determined to have her marry his heir. If that’s true, he won’t tolerate any interference no matter how harmless. I believe it is something you might wish to consider.”

Simon sat straight in his chair, focusing on the only piece of information in Harry’s speech that was worth his attention.

“Who is this heir?”

“Roger Morley.”

“Good lord, man, you must be jesting,” Simon said in disgust. “I’ve met him. He’s a loose-screw. What woman would want to be married to him?”

“Any woman who is attracted by the prospect of a future earldom—not to mention the money that comes with the title. And he doesn’t have the features of a simian. Seems to me that makes him quite a catch.”

“I have a title and money, and I look well enough. Why would I be less of a catch?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, my friend, but you were not speaking of marriage. Flirtation was the word you used.” Harry managed not to sound critical even as he gently tried to make his point.

Simon decided to be offended anyway. “Are you questioning my motives?”

“No, of course, not. But, Simon, be fair.” Harry’s face turned pink with embarrassment. He must have felt compelled to finish, though, because he pressed on despite his discomfort. “This poor girl, if the talk is accurate, has had a terrible upset recently. She is vulnerable and it would be wrong to exploit that. You could be putting her in a position of having to defy her grandfather and all for the sake of a flirtation.”

“What makes you think she would choose me? Perhaps she would prefer Mr. Morley.”

Simon was truly gratified by the look of surprise that altered Harry’s features. Apparently, his friend had not considered that a possibility.

Harry shook his head. “If you want to enter the contest fully prepared to offer the young lady something honorable, I say bully for you, Simon, and may the best man win—but if all you want is to prove you can fix her interest, then I think you should reconsider. When it is over you won’t feel good about yourself. And, frankly, you shouldn’t.”

“Since when did you become Miss James’ champion?” Simon asked, disgruntled, his anger now forgotten. “I swear I don’t need a conscience with you watching over my shoulder.”

Harry grinned. “I spoke out of turn, I’m sure of it. I beg your forgiveness.”

The marquess emitted a loud bark of laughter filled with self-mockery, and the pleasant atmosphere returned. That’s not to say the previous subject had been forgotten, only put aside. A thoughtful Lord Sutherfield went to bed a short while later.

*****

CHAPTER 4

“Cassandra, I’d like a few moments with you, my dear.”

Oh no, the very thing she had been trying to avoid, she thought. “I was just on my way to the stables, Grandfather.”

Cassandra stood in the entry hall, pulling on her leather riding gloves. She picked up her crop from a small table against the wall and stepped hopefully toward the front door.

“Then I’ll join you.”

Her spirits sank even as she smiled at him graciously. She hoped her disappointment was not visible, but she hadn’t had a moment to herself in days. The ball on the previous night had ended a week that had left her feeling nervous and exhausted. All she wanted at the moment was to slip away for some much needed peace. She sighed as she followed her grandfather from the house.

The air outside felt warm, and the sweet scent of roses floated seductively from the garden surrounding the easterly wing of the house. Cassandra squinted into the sunlight, the brightness so overpowering, she held her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. She stared at the horizon, hazy from the mounting heat of mid-morning. The desire to climb on her horse and ride toward that distant horizon without ever having to return made her heart ache.

She missed her father.

They made their way to the stables and some fifteen minutes later were mounted and headed, at the earl’s insistence, in the direction opposite from where Cassandra had intended to ride. Nothing but fields that way, Grandfather said. It was better to keep to the lanes. Such an inspired choice, she thought rebelliously. No, perhaps the word she sought was overbearing.

“Did you enjoy your party last night?” He looked so hopeful, she did not have the heart to tell him the truth.

“It was lovely,” she lied.

The old man expressed his satisfaction by grunting. He did not speak again for several minutes. Cassandra had the impression he wanted to say something, but was having trouble deciding how to approach her. She rather liked the notion that he was as unsure of her as she was of him.

He cleared his throat, keeping his gaze on the path in front of him. “I realize how difficult these last weeks have been for you,” he began. “The truth about your birth came as a shock, I know, but I hope you are finally realizing that coming home was the right thing to do.”

Since she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she remained silent. She was aware of him looking at her, but this time she was the one who could not meet his gaze.

“Cassandra, we have to discuss this sometime. I’ve tried to give you time to adjust, but there are things that cannot be ignored indefinitely. You’re an adult. You should be able to listen to me without pouting.”

Cassandra did look at him then, annoyed. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Pouting? You toss my life into chaos, make demands, and you do not understand my reluctance?”

“Perhaps I could have stated it better.” If the words were meant to mollify, he fell short of his goal because he did not sound apologetic. “However, that doesn’t change the fact that at some point we have to talk.”

“I was unaware you were holding back, that there was something you needed to say,” she said stiffly. How unfair to insinuate that their lack of communication was solely because of her. “Please, feel free to express yourself, sir. I am ready to listen.”

“It is concerning your future.” Lord Whittingham pulled his horse to a halt, turning his massive body to stare at her. His great white brows were pulled into a tight line across his forehead, and his pale eyes pierced her ruthlessly.

Cassandra hesitated, afraid to say something she would later regret. At last she replied, “We did, in fact, discuss this last night, Grandfather. I think we agreed there was nothing to discuss.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” he barked at her. She knew he was aggravated, for his ruddy cheeks glowed with angry red spots. He drew in a deep breath. “Roger has asked me if he may pay you his addresses. Since the request seemed suitable, I gave him my permission.”

“You had no right!”

“I have every right,” her grandfather responded in a hard-edged voice. “I am your guardian. You would be wise not to forget that fact.”

“I’m an adult. My life is my own.” She was dazed by the direction the conversation had taken.

“No one’s life is his own, especially if born to the aristocracy. That is a common attitude, Cassandra, and I’m offended by it. You are my granddaughter—you will behave in a way that will make us both proud of the connection.”

“But I don’t even know Roger. How could I be thinking of marriage to him?”

“Time will take care of that.” He waved his arm as though her argument were insignificant.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him. “What makes a union with Roger so suitable?”

“He is my heir and you are my last direct descendent. If my son had lived,” he paused, drawing in a shallow breath through pinched nostrils, “the title would have passed from him to his son, and then to my great-grandson. Instead, Roger will inherit the title and then, of course, his son. When you marry Roger, his son will be your son. Don’t you see?” he continued ardently. “The title will be back where it belongs—with my great-grandson.”

He hurried on before she had time to interrupt. “I do not enjoy manipulating events to bring about what should have occurred naturally. The title passing through my granddaughter is not how it should happen. I’ll not complain, though, because it is better than nothing. I cannot tell you how I’ve worried over the shift of the family fortune. That’s why I’ve been consumed with finding you.”

Cassandra knew she shouldn’t feel hurt, but she did. He didn’t even pretend affection had been the reason for his search. If he had been merely curious about her, what she looked like, that would have been more acceptable.

“It would seem to me, Grandfather, it’s not so much Roger’s wish he and I marry as it is yours.” Bruised feelings made her sound more caustic than she intended.

“Roger is a dutiful young man,” he admitted. “He will do as he’s told.”

“Well, I won’t!” She snatched angrily at the reins of her horse, causing the animal to dance nervously from side to side. “My father was right—all you want is to use me. Just so you know, I expect more from life than to be a means to an end.”

“Cassandra, calm yourself. There is no reason to lose your temper,” her grandfather said soothingly, apparently aware he was losing control of the conversation. “You may find you actually like Roger. Then all this angry talk will have been for naught.”

“Never. I will never want to marry him. Did it ever occur to you that Roger might deserve a wife who cares for him?”

The old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he stared at her as if she had gone daft. He was shocked—she knew it by the look on his face.

“What?” Cassandra shot back. “Is it too much to expect affection from a marriage? The children of a loveless match suffer, too—if there are any children. And a grandson seems to be your only goal in all of this.”

The disgust that altered Lord Whittingham’s features was a painful reminder of the overwhelming gap they must close if they ever hoped to reach an understanding.

“I prefer that you not make crude references, Cassandra,” he said. “How I regret not having had a hand in your upbringing. Your mother must have been very spiteful to want to rob you of your heritage.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, animosity and frustration now ruling her words. “Perhaps she thought your influence would be a detriment.”

She could see by the fury sparking from his pale eyes that she had offended him, but his criticism had cut deeply. All she wanted was to put as much distance as possible between herself and this opinionated, tyrannical man. With that in mind, she jerked her mount around, kicking the poor animal with all her might. Unfortunately, that sent the horse leaping forward, taking her on a wild ride through an open field.

Cassandra heard her grandfather call after her. Instead of answering him she gave the horse full rein, delighting in her show of defiance. She did not slow down until she knew the earl had not followed her. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain, but he had already disappeared from sight.

She felt deflated then, for all she had done was prove she was capable of acting childish. And yet, given a hundred opportunities Cassandra believed she would have responded the same each time. How could he expect her to marry Roger? The idea caused her stomach to cramp.

She pulled on the reins, bringing the horse to a halt, and scrambled down from the saddle. With no direction in mind, she led the mare through the ankle-high grasses. The walk did her some good, though, because it helped ease the flurry of nerves that had overcome her during her argument with her grandfather.

The sound of an approaching horse caused Cassandra to look quickly over her shoulder again, fearing her grandfather had changed his mind and followed her after all. To her dismay, bearing down on her was the Marquess of Sutherfield.

“Miss James,” he called as he galloped toward her. When he reached her side, he continued, “What a pleasure. I was just thinking about you, and what do you know?—here you are. It must be fate.” He smiled down at her, those avid black eyes roaming over her from head to foot.

Cassandra licked her lips, the nerves returning. “How do you fare today, my lord?”

“Better now,” he said, grinning as he dismounted to stand beside her. He scanned the area over her head as if looking for something. “What are you doing out here alone? Where’s your groom?”

“I was restless. I needed some fresh air.” She was not going to admit that she hadn’t begun her ride alone.

“I’ve been somewhat restless myself,” he said in an insinuating voice as he moved closer. “Seems to have come on me since last evening. Can’t imagine what it could be. Can you?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said, stepping back.

His nearness caused an odd fluttering in her throat, and she swallowed uneasily. Cassandra glanced up at him from the edge of her lashes, reluctant to look at him directly. He had an uncanny way of snaring her with those black eyes that made her feel completely lost.

“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.

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.”

*****

CHAPTER 5

“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.

“A picnic, silly. Regina Barkley and I were discussing it just the other day. There is nothing as fun as an outdoor luncheon, don’t you think so, Roger?”

Roger turned on Penelope a half-witted grin. “I think it’s a grand idea. What say, gentlemen, how about a picnic?”

With everyone’s agreement, Penelope began to jump up and down and clap her hands. “Wonderful! I’m sorry you’ll miss the entertainment, Cassandra. But with your foot…” She shrugged her shoulders.

The uproar that followed was gratifying.

“I think we should wait until Miss James has sufficiently recovered so that she might also partake of the fun,” said Mr. Stiles, whose voice was finally heard above the others.

Cassandra decided she liked Harry Stiles. She sent the homely gentleman a dazzling smile. “Please don’t worry about me,” she said. “I would hate to ruin everyone’s fun.”

“See? She doesn’t mind,” Penelope piped in.

“I see no reason why the picnic should not go on as planned and with Miss James in attendance. An outing and fresh air are just what the doctor ordered,” stated Lord Sutherfield.

“But what of her foot?” Penelope countered.

“Miss James can be carried to and from the carriage.” The marquess’ gaze slid to Cassandra’s face, and he gave her a wink.

Cassandra was discomfited, but before she had a chance to respond, Roger spoke. It apparently had just occurred to him that the marquess posed a threat.

“A capital idea. I shall carry my cousin.” He looked at Lord Sutherfield suspiciously. “After all, she and I are almost…well, anyway,” he sputtered, “I shall carry her.”

Where before the noise had been deafening, an awkward hush now descended. Every eye in the parlor turned to Lord Sutherfield, waiting for him to respond.

“Then, I think we are agreed,” the marquess said. His expression was bland, but his gaze never left Cassandra’s face. “We will have a picnic and Miss James will attend.”

Again an uncomfortable silence ensued.

Mr. Stiles mercifully spoke up. “Perhaps on that note we should take our leave.” Clearly nervous, he ran his index finger inside his collar.

Cassandra could hardly blame him. The situation felt uncomfortable to her as well. Why had Roger chosen this inappropriate moment to announce his intentions? Good thing she was injured, she thought, or she would leap off the sofa and choke him senseless.

Mr. Stiles and Lord Sutherfield made good their escape at that point, and Cassandra sent a troubled look across the room at their retreating backs. She sensed the marquess’ displeasure, but really, none of this was her fault.

And dinner a few hours later was almost as unpleasant. Special arrangements had been made to accommodate Cassandra’s injury so she would be able to dine with the family. Though she had now decided that her desire to leave her room was definitely misguided.

Her grandfather had not been home when the visitors had called, but he arrived shortly before the evening meal. While he was still enjoying his nightly sherry, Penelope regaled him with the afternoon’s events. He listened silently, although clearly he was annoyed. He swallowed the remainder of his drink in one impatient gulp and then stalked into dinner.

“Never did like picnics,” he grumbled at one point. “Frittering the day away, consuming dainty finger foods and making inconsequential chatter.”

They ate their meal in near silence after that. Even Penelope seemed to understand that something was wrong. Her few attempts at conversation fell flat and she too grew silent. Dessert was a delectable cheese custard pie, and the diners stared at it without enthusiasm.

Lord Whittingham placed his fork on the table and sat back in his chair. “Whose idea was it to have this picnic, anyway?” It sounded like an accusation.

Cassandra’s gaze flew to Penelope’s face, but the poor girl looked so frightened, she took pity on her and intervened.

“It was somewhat a collective idea, Grandfather. It just evolved. You know how that can happen,” she finished lamely.

“Tell me, Uncle,” Roger ventured in a cautious voice, “do you object to a picnic?”

The old man’s attention shifted between his three dinner partners, before it finally settled on his nephew. “It’s not the picnic that concerns me. What I mind is the inclusion of Lord Sutherfield.”

“Why do you object to Lord Sutherfield’s presence?” Cassandra spoke before she could stop herself.

The old man looked at her. “His interest in you is too pronounced.”

Cassandra felt a blush warm her face. “That’s absurd.”

“Come now, my dear, the man is interested in you—I can see it. And that places me in a very difficult position. He is Sutherfield’s heir. Offending him is something I would rather not have happen. It would be best if you discouraged him, Cassandra.”

“Are you suggesting I have been encouraging him?” She was suddenly very angry. “And what’s wrong with him, anyway? He’s a marquess and very wealthy.”

“Here now,” Roger blurted. “I thought—”

Lord Whittingham held his hand up for silence and then turned to Cassandra. “I’ve made a decision not to press you about the future for the time being, but I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you about the unscrupulous gentlemen who will cross your path. I should also tell you, with your new status and wealth the fortune hunters will soon be gathering.”

“With my old status and wealth fortune hunters pursued me,” she said in a cold voice. “I do not believe Lord Sutherfield is a fortune hunter.”

“No, and I agree with you. His interest is much more straightforward. But he will trifle with your affections if you are not careful. He has a reputation for doing just that.”

“You know this?” She was sorry she asked the question, for all at once she dreaded the answer.

“I’ve done some investigating,” he admitted.

Cassandra felt deflated. She looked around the table at the people who claimed to be her family. Her grandfather watched her sternly, and Roger wore a sullen expression that did nothing to endear him to her. But Penelope, who had been amazingly quiet, stared wide-eyed at Cassandra with something akin to respect.

“I didn’t know Lord Sutherfield was interested in you,” she said at last. There was a hint of pique in her voice.

“He enjoys a flirtation. There’s nothing more to it than that,” Cassandra said dully.

“I want you to assure me that you will be careful,” the earl insisted.

“Yes, yes, of course.” More than anything at the moment, Cassandra wanted to escape to her room and away from this unpleasant conversation. She did not know these people, not really, and she was not comforted by their presence.

As she sat there feeling lonely, Cassandra realized this was not the first time she had found herself missing Quintin James, but it was by far the worst. It’s a good thing I’m not prone to tears, she thought, for now would be an appropriate time to shed a few.

*****

Roger carried Cassandra to the landaulet and, with some effort, placed her on the seat. He straightened, smiling sheepishly at her, and she noticed his face was covered with perspiration. It had been a struggle as he lurched uncertainly down the staircase and through the front door.

That shaky trip was nothing like the one she had taken in Lord Sutherfield’s arms when he had carried her up the stairs in Mr. Morley’s home. In the marquess’ embrace she had felt secure. Roger, on the other hand, had made her feel as if she were in imminent danger of being dropped, causing another injury.

Roger insisted on placing a rug on her lap even though the day was warm. I knew it, she thought miserably a few moments later as her limbs grew damp beneath her skirts. Penelope climbed in beside her, Roger followed and the trio set off at a spanking clip.

If they had placed an order, they could not have had a more perfect day to enjoy a picnic. Pleasantly sunny, great puffy clouds dotted the blue sky like mounds of clotted cream. The hint of a breeze kept the air fresh, and Cassandra breathed deeply, enjoying her first excursion into the outside world in more than a sennight.

It took only a few minutes to arrive at their destination. The picnic was held on her grandfather’s property in a grove of willows, an entrancing place lush with greenery sporting a small stream. It had, everyone agreed, the perfect picnic ambiance.

A large tent had already been erected, and tables were being filled with platter after platter of the finger foods the earl had claimed he despised. However, a servant carved a great joint of roast beef, so it seemed those individuals with a heartier appetite would not be disappointed. Tantalizing smells drifted toward them as they drew up in the landaulet, and Cassandra’s stomach mewled hungrily.

“Stay here,” Roger demanded, as he climbed down from his seat. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Now where could she go with her injured foot? She watched in envy as Penelope scrambled out of the carriage, having spotted Regina Barkley. Regina and Penelope had become fast friends these last weeks, and Cassandra felt a moment’s sadness, not because she wanted a closer relationship with her cousin but because all at once she found herself missing Sophy.

“How are you today, Miss James?”

That ended her reverie. Cassandra glanced over her shoulder and into the warm regard of the Marquess of Sutherfield. Her pulse quickened.

“Lord Sutherfield, have I detected a pattern here?”

“Excuse me?” He gave her a crooked grin.

“It seems you always appear before I even know you are near. How refreshing it would be to catch sight of you before you catch sight of me.”

He nodded. “I would like that,” he said in a solemn voice.

“Oh?”

“That would mean you are looking for me just as I look for you.”

Cassandra blinked. Her mouth dropped open but not a word came to her in response. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You are a rogue, my lord.”

Lord Sutherfield’s brows snapped together. “Excuse me?”

“Pretty words come easily to you, don’t they?”

“Are you questioning my motives?”

“And if I am?”

“Please forgive me if I have offended you, Miss James. That was not my intention.” Bowing stiffly, he turned and walked away.

“Cassandra, can’t I leave you alone for a moment?” Roger had arrived at her elbow, wearing a look of disapproval. “You promised Uncle you would not encourage Lord Sutherfield.”

“Roger,” she said through gritted teeth, “I was not encouraging Lord Sutherfield. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my foot is interfering with my ability to chase gentlemen this week. Please, how long am I going to have to sit here?”

“No need to be snide, my dear. I know your foot must be paining you. Come, our blanket is ready.”

She allowed herself to be pulled out of the carriage and into her cousin’s arms, though not without a great deal of resentment. She had been looking forward to this day, yet between Roger and the marquess it was nearly ruined.

They stumbled toward their picnic sight and he plunked Cassandra on the ground, grunting as he did so. He straightened and smiled in relief, gratified, she imagined, that he had managed with such a load.

“I’ll get you a plate,” he offered. “What would you like? There seems to be a little of everything.”

“You choose.” She waved him away.

“Right.” He started to leave then turned back to her. “It’s just you and I,” he said. “Penelope is eating with Regina.”

And with that what appetite she still possessed disappeared.

Staring moodily across the grove, Cassandra caught sight of Lord Sutherfield sharing a plate of food with one Miss Cordelia Henry, clearly enjoying himself. And Miss Henry was certainly enjoying his company as well. She felt the sting of jealousy and was angry with herself. I should be pleased that he’s turned that charm on someone else, she thought.

Roger returned shortly with enough food for ten people, and Cassandra set about finding her hunger. Oddly, once she began to eat her appetite returned. She also found it unnecessary to talk with her cousin if her mouth was full.

Apparently, Roger did not mind talking while he ate. “You know, Cassandra, I don’t wish to badger you, but you should avoid Lord Sutherfield.”

“I told you, Roger, he approached me.”

“Yes, I believe you,” he said, his tone pompous, “but you and I will be engaged soon, and I don’t want there to be any ugly rumors attached to my future wife.”

Cassandra listened to this speech, her ire increasing with each word he uttered. “I have not said I will marry you, Roger.”

“I know Uncle has agreed not to discuss our future for the moment, but we must marry. It is what your grandfather wishes.”

He continued to eat, unperturbed.

“Don’t you mind that your life is being decided for you without your permission?”

He paused. “I intend to cooperate—that’s permission isn’t it? It’s my duty.”

“I don’t see it as my duty. I see a selfish old man who will use whatever means are necessary, including using people he’s supposed to care about. If I’m to participate, don’t you think I should feel as strongly as he does about all this?”

“Cassandra, please be reasonable.” Again he was patronizing her. “Your upbringing makes it difficult for you to understand. Let me guide you in this.”

“But we are completely incompatible,” she said, with growing frustration. “You can’t want to marry someone who does not care for you.”

“I’d like to think I would make a decent husband.”

He looked hurt and she regretted having put it so bluntly.

“You’re not that fond of me, either,” she insisted.

“I think you are very beautiful.”

“But you don’t like me.” She wanted to throttle him.

“That will come in time.”

“It will never come, I know that. If you don’t know it now, you will eventually.” She peeked at him sideways, struck by sudden inspiration. “Truth is Penelope and you are much more suited. And I think she is attracted to you.”

“Some things are not meant to be,” was his response. He seemed so miserable of a sudden, Cassandra wondered if he truly meant what he said.

“Roger, I can’t fight Grandfather alone. If we refuse to give in to his wishes, it will be much easier for both of us.”

He set his plate down and turned to look at her directly. “Let me tell you something,” he said in a stern voice, “I will inherit a title and a very large estate because it is entailed. That cannot be changed. But there is very little money to go with it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Most of Uncle’s money is not entailed. It is to do with as he wishes. He will give it to me if I marry you. That money is needed to run the estate properly.” He eyed her, his manner disdainful.

“I can’t believe he’d leave you without the resources to care for his property,” she persisted. “It means everything to him.”

He continued to stare at her, a mulish look on his face, but he did not answer.

“You have nothing more to say?” Cassandra wanted to give into a bout of hysterics. Dignity be damned!

“Maybe it would be best if we did not speak until later on the subject.”

The sanctimonious sound in his voice sent her teeth to gnashing, and that more than anything convinced her she and Roger would never suit. Any man who could set aside a heated argument for future dissection, had no passion in him—no fire. She’d as soon marry an icicle.

“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if we ever speak about it again,” Cassandra said. She knew she sounded petty but could not help it.

Roger stood up and brushed off his trousers. “I’m going to leave you until your temper subsides.”

“And while you’re at it,” she said spitefully, “why don’t you find someone to take me home before my anger ruins the picnic for everyone.”

He stared at her a moment, uncertain. “You can’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked, his features also pinched with anger.

Regrettably, she did not though she was too proud to admit it. She glanced across the grove and, after a moment of anxious searching, her gaze came to rest on Harry Stiles. Surely, he would not let her down.

“Mr. Stiles will be happy to do it.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

“Right then.” He stalked in the direction of Mr. Stiles.

Oh, dear. The second man today to walk away from her because she had managed to insult him, Cassandra thought wryly.

*****

Simon saw Roger Morley walk away from Cassandra. Clearly, the couple had been arguing, for they had been speaking to one another in an animated fashion—at least Miss James looked animated. He watched her where she now sat alone, the sun glinting off her auburn curls, and he smiled to himself. He suspected that lovely hair did indeed reflect her hot temperament. He found the idea very provocative.

He had not enjoyed it quite as much when she had turned those lovely blue eyes on him earlier and sliced him into fine pieces. Miss James was clever. Cleverness could make a woman unpredictable, and he found the challenge appealed to him.

She had called him a rogue. Simon’s first reaction had been anger. But a little time to reflect had allowed him to see the humor in her actions. Another more compelling reason motivated him. He had been honest when he told her he liked her.

Cassandra James had interested him from the first time he’d seen her. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. He sensed a connection with her, something he couldn’t name but could feel. He believed she felt it, too.

Simon brought his gaze back to his dinner companion, the lovely Cordelia Henry. She was an attractive, pleasant young woman. And not once during their lively conversation had Miss Henry called his character into question. She had instead flattered him outrageously. So, why did Miss Henry bore him?

Most women pandered to him. Position and money were an irresistible combination, and he had both. Up to this time, Simon had never cared if a woman was interested in him or his pocketbook. Being a skeptic he usually assumed it was the latter.

Simon watched Morley cross the grove and approach Harry. The two men spoke briefly and then Roger left, leaving Harry wearing an uneasy expression.

The marquess caught Harry’s attention across the distance, and he nodded at his friend. He could see Harry wanted to speak to him and so, with as much grace as he could manage, he withdrew from his lovely companion. He came languidly to his feet and walked to Harry’s side.

“You’re looking unhappy, Harry. What did Morley want?”

“I’m a little uncomfortable, Simon,” he admitted. “He told me that Miss James would appreciate it if I would escort her home.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said yes, of course. The way he asked, I think she no longer wants to ride with him.”

“Is that so?” The marquess felt his spirits rise, and he sent Harry a calculating glance.

“Now wait a minute, Simon. Don’t look at me like that. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking Morley approached the wrong man. I will escort Miss James home.”

“Don’t even bother, my friend,” Harry said in a dry voice. “I would be acting shabbily if I passed my responsibility along to you.”

“Do you want to take her home?” The marquess asked suspiciously.

“I don’t mind and that’s the truth. I’d be a fool not to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman.” Harry sounded defensive. “I also happen to think Miss James is delightful. But I have no designs on her, and I admit I’d rather not be in the middle of an argument.”

“Then let me escort her. I have no problem getting in the middle of her little tiff with Morley. Maybe she’ll need a shoulder to cry on, and I may have the very shoulder she needs.” Harry studied the marquess for several moments, uncertain. “I wish I knew what you want from her. I’d insist you tell me, but I don’t believe you know, either.”

*****

Cassandra sat on the hard ground, her backside beginning to feel tender from having remained in one place for so long. She hated the inactivity. She could blame herself, for she had sent Roger away. She had seen him leave with Penelope a short while ago and, though she knew it was irrational, she felt abandoned.

Several people had come to sit with her intermittently throughout the afternoon, including two or three eligible gentlemen. And Mr. Stiles had joined her for a while, though he had not mentioned taking her home. Nevertheless, she assumed that was his intention, for she had seen Roger talk to him.

But now the grove was beginning to clear, and Mr. Stiles had not yet come for her. In fact, she hadn’t seen him for some time. Had he forgotten her? She had already waved away several people who had asked if she needed assistance. Perhaps she had been too hasty.

Then Cassandra saw the marquess, wearing a broad grin, his attitude cocky as he sauntered toward her.

“Miss James, I understand you need a ride home,” he said as he reached her. He bent low in a courtly bow. “I’m at your service.”

“Mr. Stiles is taking me.” Her voice raised a full octave before she finished speaking.

“No, no—I’m to do it, I’m fairly certain. You don’t mind, do you?”

He could not fool her with that innocent stare, she thought indignantly. She did mind, yes, she did.

“Lord Sutherfield, are you certain? I could have sworn Roger asked Mr. Stiles.”

“Now you mention it, I believe he did. Harry was called away at the last moment and I’m afraid the task fell to me.”

Cassandra sighed then, aware that she had been outmaneuvered. She knew the marquess had arranged this even if she couldn’t prove it. She supposed he was planning revenge on her for insulting him earlier. She did intend to remember one thing for the future, though—it was one thing to tell a person exactly what was on one’s mind, and something else to have to face that person later with the words still fresh between them.

“I’d rather not impose on you, Lord Sutherfield,” she said, but she knew her voice had lost its conviction.

After all, who else was there to help her? She could have a message sent to her grandfather, a course of action she knew the old man would prefer. Thus, she would be ruffling some feathers if she allowed the Marquess to escort her home.

“Doesn’t seem to be any other option, does there, my dear?” he said.

He had been watching her, and she knew he was amused by her indecision. If he intended to be so sure of himself, perhaps she had better reconsider.

“You could send a message to my grandfather. He will send someone for me.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that, Miss James. It could take awhile. You’ll be here alone. I would feel responsible if anything happened to you.”

He smiled at her, attitude guileless, and it took all Cassandra’s willpower not to smile in return. Oh, he was a rogue for certain! It would not take more than one half hour for a carriage to be summoned and come for her. And if he were so worried for her safety, he could wait with her until it arrived. But he wanted to play this game, and suddenly she wanted to play it with him.

“I believe you could charm the devil out of tempting man.” She did smile then because she couldn’t help herself.

“Do you think so?” he asked her. His expression turned wolfish. “I must tell you, though, I would prefer he not stop tempting woman.”

She laughed and he laughed with her. For a brief moment they were in complete harmony. Surprised, Cassandra found herself enjoying the mutual goodwill.

“How about it, Miss James, may I take you home now?”

She merely nodded.

And with little effort, he lifted her into his strong arms and briskly walked toward his carriage.

*****

CHAPTER 6

Lord Sutherfield helped Cassandra into Mr. Stiles’ new curricle and climbed in beside her.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, I am,” she said as she settled her skirts.

“Your foot is not paining you?”

“As long as I don’t put weight on it there is no discomfort.” She slid her gaze curiously in his direction, pleased by his concern.

“Good. Let’s be off.” He flicked the reins and the curricle pulled out of the grove.

They did not speak at first. Lord Sutherfield glanced at her, smiling in a reassuring manner. Cassandra was aware of the warmth of his body, the length of his leg next to hers, and she held herself in a stiff, uncompromising position so she did not lean too close to him.

She felt guilty, for she had been unforgivably rude to the marquess only a few hours before. Despite that he was treating her with courtesy and kindness. She supposed she ought to apologize.

“Earlier today…I mean…”

He turned to look at her.

Oh dear, this was more difficult than she thought. She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon for my rude behavior this afternoon, my lord. I had no right to call you a name.”

“Why, Miss James, that’s the prettiest apology I have ever received. You make me feel very humble.” He grinned at her. “It takes a big man…ah, woman to admit when she is wrong.”

“I didn’t say I was wrong,” she mumbled. “I apologized for speaking my thoughts.” She looked at him directly, defensively.

“That’s all right.” He sighed, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Are you really going to marry Mr. Morley?”

“I’ve not said that,” she said hurriedly.

“Then you’re not going to marry him?”

She shot him an irritated glance. “My grandfather would like me to marry Roger.”

“Why is Lord Whittingham pushing a marriage with him?”

“Roger is his heir. I don’t think Grandfather likes him other than that. Sometimes I don’t think he likes him at all.”

“I confess I’m mystified.”

She shook her head. “You have a title and lands so I imagine you understand his feelings more than I. My grandfather is distressed that his title will be lost to another branch of the family. But if I marry Roger and have a son with him then the title and all that goes with it will come to my son and, therefore, my grandfather’s great-grandson. To Grandfather this will rectify the line of descent.”

“I see,” Lord Sutherfield said. “Roger doesn’t mind?”

“Roger has no spine. He will do as he is told. Grandfather has promised him the bulk of his money—if Roger marries me. If we don’t marry the opposite holds true.”

“I see. What are you going to do?”

Cassandra had no intention of marrying her cousin, but she didn’t know if it was wise to admit it right now.

“Frankly, my lord, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

The marquess took his attention from the road briefly, searching her features. “What happened to your father, your natural father, I mean?”

“I never knew him. He died before I was born. But I consider Quintin James to be my father. I’ve listened to the story of my origins but it has little meaning for me.” She shifted restlessly on the seat, pulling at her muslin skirt with nervous fingers. “I know you’ve heard the rumors.

“Rumors can be unreliable.”

“True,” Cassandra allowed. “A detective appeared on my doorstep a few weeks ago, claiming I was the lost granddaughter of the Earl of Whittingham. Papers left after my mother’s death proved that to be the case.”

“It must have come as a shock.”

“Naturally, but I’m not going to let it change my life. I know who I am. Just because someone has changed the rules in the middle of the game doesn’t mean I intend to play it that way.”

“Maybe you have no choice,” he said thoughtfully. “Sometimes one cannot change the outcome no matter how hard one tries.”

Cassandra set her jaw in a stubborn line. “I’m going to return home as soon as possible, my lord. My grandfather wants to manage my life but I won’t let him do it.”

Lord Sutherfield sent her a calculating look. “You’ve answered my original question. You do not intend to marry Morley.”

“Why do you care what my intentions are?” she asked him testily.

“I’ve told you, Miss James, I like you. I’m worried you might make a mistake.”

“You dare tell me how to avoid mistakes?”

“Calm yourself, Miss James. It’s clear that Morley is not right for you. Actually, I think he is more compatible with Miss Ingram.”

Forgetting her desire to be angry with him, Cassandra leapt on his statement. “You’ve noticed it, also?”

“They are the opposing sides of the same coin. Meant for one another in my humble opinion.” There was no mistaking the irony in the marquess’ voice.

“If only Grandfather would see reason, but Roger will not help me.” In her enthusiasm, she grabbed hold of his arm.

“Do you think Roger is aware of his own feelings?” he asked, his gaze dropping to the slim fingers clutching his coat.

Cassandra drew back her hand. “He has admitted as much to me though he feels nothing can be done about it.”

Lord Sutherfield pulled on the reins, bringing the carriage to a halt, and turned on the seat to face her. “Maybe I can help.”

“How?”

“I could pretend to be taken with Miss Ingram. Maybe a little competition is the very push Mr. Morley needs.”

Cassandra was not sure she liked that idea. “Maybe,” she said slowly. “There’s no guarantee that Penelope will be interested.”

“It’s not her interest that will worry Morley.” He grinned shrewdly. “It’s mine.”

“It’s not right to toy with another’s emotions, my lord. Penelope is not my favorite relative, but I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“If all goes well, Miss Ingram will be very grateful to us both. In this instance we will have to agree the end justifies the means.” He raised his brows at her. “It is, of course, only a suggestion.”

“Yes, well…you could be right.” All at once she was nervous, for he was watching her through smoky, half-lidded eyes. When he did that her thoughts scattered.

“You are especially fetching today, Miss James.” His gaze turned blacker, dropping to her parted lips.

A sensuous smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and she stared in fascination as his perfect white teeth grazed his bottom lip.

He was going to kiss her, and she suddenly found the idea very exciting. Was she disconcerted by the talk of wooing Penelope? She closed her eyes.

Several tension-filled moments passed as Cassandra waited for the marquess to perform as she expected. When nothing happened, she peeked through her lashes. He was peering into her tilted face, wearing a pleased look.

Cassandra felt her body flush with humiliation. If her foot had not been injured, she would have jumped out of the curricle and run the rest of the way home. She must have looked as if that was her intention, for the marquess reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Here now—” he began.

“Take me home, Lord Sutherfield.”

“Miss James, I’m sorry. I was merely enjoying the view.”

“I said take me home.”

She could not look at him, instead staring straight ahead. Cassandra sensed rather than saw him grasp the reins, and the carriage lurched forward as the marquess once again set the horses into motion. Mercifully, he remained silent.

Five minutes later they reached their destination but it could have been forever, for that was how long it seemed to Cassandra.

Again, Lord Sutherfield spoke. “Miss James…Cassandra…”

She swung in his direction and glared at him. “That is the last liberty you will take with me today, my lord. I have not given you permission to use my name, and now I think I never shall. For the sake of decency let me go so I don’t further disgrace myself.”

“Do you wish me to help you inside?” he asked her quietly.

He looked as though he regretted his earlier behavior, but it was too late. If he touched her now she would begin to weep, and she would despise herself even more. It was her fault, she thought miserably. He had made her feel foolish on more than one occasion. Anyone as gullible as she deserved what came to her.

“The footman will help me.”

Cassandra waved over the young man at the front entrance, and when he reached the carriage she climbed down into his arms. Lord Sutherfield mercifully refrained from offering any assistance. The butler opened the door, and she disappeared into the house to nurse her battered ego.

*****

Cassandra dabbed impatiently at the moisture on her brow. She had been sitting in the blazing sun in an open carriage for nearly an hour, her only company the coachman. She was growing angrier by the moment.

This was her first outing since the picnic, Roger escorting Penelope and Cassandra to the local village. But two hours of walking made her foot swell. Unwilling to risk further damage, she had offered to sit in the landaulet until Penelope could complete her purchases. It seemed her cousin was in no hurry.

Two weeks had passed since the picnic when Cassandra had quarreled with the Marquess of Sutherfield. Even now she flushed with shame when she remembered how she had fallen into his trap. Cassandra wondered if she could ever forgive him. What did it matter? He had probably gone back to London and forgotten her.

She glared at the shop across the street where Penelope had entered thirty minutes before. At that moment the door opened and her female cousin emerged, followed by Roger who teetered under a load of packages. Penelope waved and sailed into another shop. Roger sent Cassandra a look of apology before turning and stumbling after the petite blonde.

And there, Roger, is the rest of your life. Sighing, she asked, “Are you as tired of waiting as I am, Fenn?”

The coachman swung around to look at her. “Just doing my job, miss. Sometimes that includes waiting.” He shrugged his shoulders, however, his expression was one of sympathy.

“It’s so warm,” she complained.

“I think we’ll be on our way soon.” Fenn motioned toward the couple now crossing the street.

Sure enough, Penelope and Roger were returning. Cassandra smiled but was once again angered when she realized that her cousins were merely depositing their packages in the carriage in preparation for another foray on the shops.

“Roger’s been so gallant,” Penelope gushed. “I’ve two more places I want to visit and he has promised to carry my packages. I don’t know what I would have done without him.” She bustled back across the street and into the haberdashery.

“Roger,” Cassandra said through gritted teeth, “I want to go home. I don’t care how you do it, but convince Penelope that she wants to go home as well. I’ve been patient long enough.”

Her cousin gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down his throat. “Of course, my dear. I’ll see if I can hurry her up. It is sultry out here.”

Now there was an understatement, Cassandra thought. She watched as her cousin retraced his steps, and ten minutes later Penelope came stomping out of the shop, a sheepish Roger in tow.

“That’s most unsporting of you to bring an end to my shopping, Cassandra,” she said, reaching the vehicle. “After all, my foot is quite all right.”

“Let’s be thoughtful, Pen. It’s an awfully hot day,” Roger said. “The sun is turning Cassandra’s cheeks pink.”

“I can see you are correct,” Penelope responded spitefully. “Being a redhead…how dreadful.” She clambered into the carriage with Roger’s help and, once seated, crossed her arms militantly over her bosom.

Oh lord, now they would be treated to one of Penelope’s sulks. Cassandra winked at Roger in commiseration, for he looked dejected. As a rule she had little in common with her cousin, but today she felt sorry for him.

Roger gave her a halfhearted smile then turned his attention to his fingernails. Since neither cousin showed any desire to talk to her, she sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Several minutes out of the village Cassandra yelled at Fenn to stop the carriage. Something on the side of the road had captured her attention and, before the vehicle came to a complete halt, she stood ready to descend.

“Cassie, what are you doing?” Roger asked.

“Help me, please. We passed something back there, and I want to see what it is.”

“I thought your foot hurt you, cousin,” Penelope put forth.

Cassandra grimaced at her. “It does but I’m still going to have a look.”

Roger helped her out of the landaulet. Lifting her skirts, she trotted down the dusty road. Her foot did hurt. Cassandra felt a twinge in it each time her sole came in contact with the ground, but she did not pause.

She stopped and peered down into the tall grasses at the edge of the road. Something was there. She knelt beside what appeared to be a small bundle of clothing. The bundle moved and a cry tore from her throat. Sobbing as though his heart would break lay a tiny heap of fragile humanity curled into a tight ball.

“You poor little thing,” Cassandra exclaimed, her voice breaking at the sound of the pathetic weeping. “What has happened to you?”

Roger, who had followed, came upon her. “What is it, Cassie?”

“Oh, Roger, it’s a little boy.” She stood up. “I think he’s been hurt. Have Fenn move the carriage here so we can get him to a doctor.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Cassandra spun around to look at him. Roger was staring at her in repulsion, and for a moment she could not speak.

“Why would you refuse to help?”

“He’s a filthy little beggar boy. I strongly suggest you do not touch him. He might have vermin. Come, it’s time for us to return home.” He backed away then turned and started toward the carriage.

Cassandra came to her feet and sent a look of sheer loathing at Roger’s retreating back. She had to restrain the urge to run behind him, using her fists to pommel him on the head and shoulders.

She would have tried to reason with him, but in that moment she realized he was not worth the effort. Picking up her skirts again, she limped to the landaulet, passing Roger on the road. Her foot had begun to throb in earnest.

“Fenn,” she called, “there is a small boy who has been hurt. I want you to move the carriage back there so we can pick him up more easily.”

“I forbid it,” Roger stated as he came to stand next to her.

“And I will tell you, Mr. Morley, if you cannot be of help, get out of the way,” Cassandra snapped at him. “Fenn, please do as I ask.”

The coachman looked first at his young mistress and then at Roger. He scarcely hesitated before setting the horses into a backward motion.

“Now see here,” Roger insisted, but no one was listening. Cassandra raced to the injured child, ignoring the shouts of protest that emanated from the landaulet. Not only was Roger upbraiding her from the road, now that Penelope knew what was going on, she had joined in.

“I’m not riding with that disreputable creature,” she yelled.

Cassandra pinned her with a look as Fenn brought the vehicle to a halt. “That’s too bad, cousin, for you will find it a long walk home.”

“Well, I never!” Penelope sputtered, her face flushing a dull red.

After that Cassandra ignored both her cousins, turning her attention to the child. He had stopped crying and was watching her with something akin to awe. Great blue eyes stared out at her from a pitifully thin, pallid face. He appeared to be about six years of age with nearly white hair, and he was extremely dirty. But beneath all the pain and filth lurked the most beautiful child she had ever seen.

“Can you stand?” she asked him gently.

“I was on me feet ‘til I got here,” he said.

Tears clouded Cassandra’s vision with his attempt at bravado. “Come on, let’s see about getting you into the carriage over there.” She reached down and took his arm to help him from the ground.

A piercing scream caused her to stiffen in shock. The child’s features were contorted with agony, and then she noticed the odd angle of his scrawny arm. Cassandra drew back and covered her mouth in dawning horror.

“Fenn,” she spoke through a throat thick with emotion, “please help me. I’m not strong enough to get him into the carriage without hurting him further. I’ll climb in and you can hand him to me.”

This time the burly servant did not hesitate. “Yes, miss,” he said, lumbering down from his bench. After seeing his mistress settled into her seat, he turned to the boy.

Cassandra watched as the huge man with the meaty hands stooped over and tenderly picked up the injured child. He closed the distance between himself and the carriage in a half dozen easy strides. The boy moaned feebly as Fenn placed him on the seat next to her, and she and the coachman shared a look fraught with pity.

The servant was moved, and that brought her own emotions to the fore. Over and over she swallowed, hoping to stem the flood of tears that threatened to overcome her. She sighed as Fenn regained his seat, and the carriage with its new passenger once again rolled toward home.

“There’s blood on the front of your dress,” Penelope said at last, breaking the stony silence. “Really, this is a most unpleasant development.”

“Penelope,” Cassandra said, “I’m going to assume you are a better person than you sometimes appear. In the meantime I would rather we did not have speech.”

That effectively ended all further communication. Just as well, Cassandra thought, for she was so disgusted with those two selfish people, she knew it would be impossible to be civil.

The child moved restlessly. His little chin rested on his chest so only the top of his head was visible. She believed he was sleeping as his breathing had evened, only an occasional shuddering breath betraying his earlier tears.

She did see some blood, although she didn’t know where it came from. Cassandra hoped his arm was the worst of his injuries. Every lurch of the carriage created by every dip and bump in the road made her cringe with sympathy for her small charge. Thankfully, they were almost home.

*****

Relief flooded Cassandra a short while later as the vehicle pulled onto her grandfather’s drive. Curious servants surrounded the landaulet within moments of their arrival, and an argument ensued over the identity of the child.

“What is this disturbance?”

Cassandra heard her grandfather before she saw him. His voice rose above the commotion, and the servants fell away from the carriage, allowing him to approach.

“Oh, Uncle, I’m so glad you are here,” Penelope cried. “Isn’t this awful? We tried to tell Cassandra, but she would not listen.”

Roger nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

“What is awful?” the old man barked. He looked at his granddaughter and then the child. “Cassandra?”

“We found this little boy by the side of the road. He was hurt…” She faltered when his features deepened into a fierce scowl.

“Why did you bring him here?”

She blinked. “What should I have done?”

“Though this may sound cruel, you should not have taken it upon yourself to save the boy. I would have sent someone to see to him.”

“But something might have happened to him in the meantime.” Cassandra could hardly believe he meant what he said.

Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll not speak of it in front of the servants.” He turned to those who still lingered on the drive. “Does anyone know this child?”

A groom at the back of the gathering raised his hand.

“Yes, Patrick?”

“Me and Joe here, we been talking.” Patrick motioned to the footman standing at his side. “We’re fairly certain that’s Mr. Bailey’s youngest son.”

“Mr. Bailey?” the earl asked.

“George Bailey—one of your tenants, milord—an ol’ sot, he is. Got more children than he can count and he’s beat ‘em all. Beat his wife, too.”

Cassandra listened with growing dismay. She wondered suddenly if the boy knew what was being said. She looked down. Eyes, round and terrified, stared back at her. Two enormous tears collected on his lids and slipped down his dirty cheeks, leaving salty trails.

“I know Bailey.” Grandfather sounded regretful. “There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to take the lad home. Let his father see to him. This is not our affair.”

“No,” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “No, we mustn’t do that. We’ll be sending him back to the abuse.”

“Get out of the carriage, Cassandra,” Grandfather demanded.

She did not move, watching as Roger first climbed down from the landaulet and then helped Penelope descend. She brought her gaze to the earl.

“At least let me see him home. I feel responsible.” She forced the words through stiff lips, for she hated pleading with him.

Although he was displeased, she also sensed his unease with the situation. He examined her for so long her heart began to thud uncomfortably. He turned to Fenn.

“Perhaps Mr. Bailey should see that we are aware of what has happened. My granddaughter’s presence should drive home that point.” He stepped back from the carriage. “Do not be long. It will be dark soon.”

Cassandra and the coachman rode the short distance from the house to the main road without speaking. The only sound breaking the silence was the wheels of the carriage crunching over the pebble and dirt-covered drive. They came to the turn in the lane and she called out, requesting that Fenn stop the carriage.

“Do you know where Mr. Stiles lives?”

The coachman twisted on his seat to look at her. “Yes,” he said after a short pause.

“That’s where I want you to take me.”

“Miss, you’re going to get us in the worst kind of trouble. I can’t disobey my master.”

“Fenn, if we take this child back to his father his very life might be in danger.”

“I have a wife and children. I can’t risk losing my employment.”

Cassandra sympathized with the coachman as he fought with his conscience. “It won’t come to that, Fenn,” she said. “I’ll take responsibility in the event our little detour comes to light. My grandfather can be a hard man but he’s fair. If you are let go, my father Quintin James will find you a position. I will not let you suffer for my disobedience.”

The coachman’s shoulders slumped, and a resigned look entered his eyes. He turned forward on the bench and snapped the reins, sending the horses in the opposite direction from Mr. Bailey’s impoverished abode.

*****

Simon heard the door chime through the haze of a very agreeable dream. His eyes came open and he glanced across the library at Harry. His friend sat straight in his chair, eyes blinking as though he also had just awakened.

“Did I fall asleep?” Harry asked in a raspy voice. “What is the hour?”

“Nearly dinner time by the looks of it,” Simon said. “Rides at dawn and port at noon are enough to take the stuffing out of men with tougher constitutions than we have. I suggest we take it easy on ourselves from now on.”

Harry chuckled. “I must be a boring host if I’m putting my guests to sleep in the middle of a deep discussion. What were we talking about, anyway?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Simon responded. He looked up as the butler came into the library.

“Sir,” the servant said, “a Mr. Fennigan from the Whittingham estate has asked to speak with you.”

Harry glanced at Simon and shrugged his shoulders before heaving himself from his chair. He crossed the room and disappeared through the library door.

Simon stood and stretched. The rural life ate away at his energy, and he ought to be depressed. Oddly, he didn’t care. This respite had been extremely pleasant. The only thing bothering him was not seeing Miss James.

The library faced the drive, and the marquess walked to the window. Curious, he pulled back the drape. Outside on the walk Harry was talking to a mammoth individual, while someone waited in a carriage. Simon squinted into the fading light.

By Jove! is that Miss James in the carriage?

The last vestiges of sleep vanished, leaving behind an intense excitement. He had spent days wondering how to contrive a meeting with her, and here she sat on Harry’s drive, gift-wrapped in a handsome landaulet.

He straightened his vest and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. This was the very opening he had been waiting for. He moved from the library to the hall, heels echoing off the marble floor as he strode through the entry and out the front entrance.

When he reached the porch, the white-faced expression Miss James turned on him made his mouth go dry. She waved him over to the carriage.

The marquess walked in her direction. “Miss James, are you all right?”

Harry stopped him. “Simon, this is Mr. Fennigan. He is employed by my neighbor Lord Whittingham. Miss James and Mr. Fennigan have brought us a little boy they believe has been beaten by his father. Lord Whittingham wants the child returned to his family, but Miss James feels this will put the lad in further danger. She has asked us to help.”

“I really cannot do as my grandfather has ordered me. You do understand, don’t you?” She sounded emotional, looking at him with imploring blue eyes brimming with tears.

He was surprised. His fight with Miss James two weeks earlier had led him to believe she would not be friendly. The drama now unfolding could not have come at a better time. This was a perfect opportunity for Simon to redeem himself. If she wanted him to help this little boy then he could think of nothing he wanted more. He walked to the carriage.

“And whom do we have here?” he asked with tender understanding. She raised her gaze to his, and he could see the gratitude lurking there.

“The son of one of my grandfather’s tenants. Will you call a doctor for him?” she asked. “I think his arm is broken.”

His eyebrows shot upward. “That is serious. What kind of father would do that?” Simon reached toward the child, gingerly removing him from the carriage.

“Be careful,” she cautioned.

Simon, the boy now firmly in his grasp, turned to his host. “We will see he receives the best of care, won’t we, Harry?”

Harry nodded at Miss James. “Don’t worry, dear lady. We will see to the little fellow.”

“You do not know how that eases my mind.” Her voice was thick with tears as she fought the urge to cry. The appearance of most women did not improve with a ravaged face.

She was breathtaking.

A sudden protective desire, utterly alien, seized Simon. “Go home, Miss James,” he said gently. “You’ve done what you can tonight.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered.

Simon waited until the carriage pulled away then carried the boy up the steps.

Inside, Harry stopped him. “There could be trouble, Simon, if the father decides to come for him. We have no legal right to interfere.”

“I know.” He brought his attention to the child in his arms. “Can you stand, young man?”

“Yes milord,” came the thready reply.

“There’s a good lad.” Simon set the boy down. “Let’s have a look at you. Have you a name?”

“Timothy, milord.”

“Well, Timothy,” Simon said briskly, “we’re going to take care of you. What say?”

A strained smile creased the child’s ashen features. “Aye, milord.”

Then he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

*****

CHAPTER 7

Cassandra awoke to blackness. The clock on the mantle chimed the half hour and she squinted at it across the gloom. Thirty minutes past three o’clock. Perfect timing. She threw back the coverlet and climbed out of bed.

She dressed quickly in an old cotton gown. Grabbing a brush, a half dozen rapid stokes brought her hair into order, and a ribbon at the nape of her neck bound the curls neatly.

At the door she placed her hand on the knob, turning it slowly. Cassandra held her breath, waiting for the latch to release. The pent-up air whooshed from her mouth when she heard the distinctive click. She eased the door open and stepped into the hall.

It took only minutes to creep down the stairs and through the kitchen to the exit at the rear of the house, but it seemed an eternity.

The night breeze greeted Cassandra as she slipped outside. She dashed across the yard to the stables. Here she encountered her first obstacle.

Placing a halter on her mare was not difficult, but she had never saddled a horse. If she woke the groom for help, that would end her outing immediately. Traveling bareback was an option, however, then she must ride astride. She shrugged. If she had come this far, why not add the sin of an unladylike ride?

She led the horse from the stables to the back pasture, praying no one would detect her departure. Every tiny noise seemed to thunder in her ears, and she didn’t relax until she had walked several dozen yards from the house.

Though the field was dark, the moon was a great shimmering ball low in the sky, and it lighted her way. A rock loomed out of the early morning shadows. Could she use it to climb on her horse? Her foot was still a tender reminder of her recent clumsiness.

It was a struggle. Cassandra stepped on the rock and threw her body belly down over the back of the horse. The dratted animal did not help matters by insisting on dancing from side to side. Fighting into a sitting position, her legs hugging the mare’s body, she straightened, winded but pleased.

“There now,” she said to her mount. “You thought to stop me, didn’t you?”

Cassandra grasped the reins and turned the horse in the direction of Mr. Stiles’ residence. She sent the mare into a gallop, swiftly crossing the open fields. There was something liberating about riding astride without a saddle. Perhaps something wicked, too, but she didn’t care. She could feel the sleek strength of the horse beneath her, and for a few ecstatic moments she felt one with the animal.

A short while later she approached Mr. Stiles’ manor home from the front drive. Until now it had not occurred to her how she was to accomplish her mission. If she rang the bell, she would wake the occupants. Perhaps if she went around to the kitchen. It was after four o’clock in the morning. Servants were often beginning to stir by that time.

All she wanted was to know how the little boy fared. Leaving him in the care of the marquess had been traumatic. Cassandra had felt a traitor, the boy’s mournful eyes haunting her dreams.

She had ignored her grandfather upon returning the night before. He’d had nothing to say to her, either. His attitude about the child had forced another wedge between them, and she wondered if they would ever bridge the gap. As far as she was concerned it had been a wasted effort from the start.

As Cassandra tethered her mount, the front door was opened. Mr. Stiles stood at the entrance, a look of surprise on his homely features.

“Miss James?” he ventured. “I thought I heard a rider. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Mr. Stiles, I apologize for disturbing you, but I’ve been so worried about that little boy. I couldn’t tell my grandfather he was here, or he would realize I disobeyed him. I had to sneak away—”

“My dear Miss James, you will be in serious trouble if Lord Whittingham discovers you have come.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” She smiled at him hopefully. “Please, let me see the boy for a moment.”

He returned her smile and, after a brief hesitation, nodded. “I suppose it can’t do any harm.” He drew back from the door so she could enter.

“I’m sorry I woke you, Mr. Stiles,” she said as she entered.

“Nonsense. Haven’t been to bed yet—on my way there right now. I was passing through the main hall. That’s why I heard you arrive.” He started to climb the staircase but turned to look at her. “By the time the little fellow was settled, I couldn’t sleep and neither could Simon.”

“Did you call the doctor?” Cassandra fell in behind Mr. Stiles, following him up the stairs.

“Yes. You were correct, you know,” he said as he reached the landing. “That child has a broken arm.” He led her down a long hall, stopping at the last room on the right. “He’s in here.” He opened the door and ushered her into the chamber. Holding his index finger to his lips for quiet, he nodded toward the bed.

Alone in the room with her host, all at once Cassandra realized the impropriety of her mission. She sent Mr. Stiles an embarrassed look.

“Perhaps I should not have come.”

Mr. Stiles dropped his gaze and coughed into his hand. “No need to apologize, dear lady. I find your concern admirable. You sit with him as long as you like, although we should take care that you leave before you are seen. If you need me I’ll be down the hall.” He left the room.

Cassandra pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, bringing her attention to the tiny boy as he slept soundly, nearly lost in the plush bedclothes. His delicate features were drawn and pale and even in sleep his suffering was evident. Someone had washed his face, which brought to light a fine sprinkling of freckles across his impish nose. The doctor had set the broken arm with plaster from shoulder to wrist, leaving just a small hand visible. She placed slim fingers on his forehead.

“He will be all right, you know.”

Cassandra stiffened. Her gaze flew across the room to where Lord Sutherfield lounged against the doorjamb, watching her. She had hoped not to see his lordship because he always complicated matters. She glanced at the boy to hide her confusion, refusing to allow the marquess to see how he had disconcerted her.

“I’m more worried about where we go from here, my lord,” she said finally. “Once he is mended do we send him back to that cruel father? I could hardly sleep thinking about what to do.”

Lord Sutherfield straightened and ambled across the room. He looked as rumpled as the bedding he clearly had come from. She supposed she ought to be used to him in that disheveled state. Still she found it discomfiting.

He leaned against the fireplace, arm thrown across the mantle, and studied her through narrowed eyes. “Have you come to any conclusions?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Perhaps if the father knows he is being watched…”

“That’s what my grandfather said, but Mr. Bailey is an inebriate. Someone under the influence of alcohol rarely has the sense to do what is right, even if there are disagreeable repercussions. If this man is in the habit of terrorizing his family, it is not going to end simply because we don’t approve.”

“I believe you are right.” Sighing, he ran his hand across his mouth. “I think we are going to have to take this a day at a time. Let’s get the boy well. Then we will do what we can to stop the abuse.”

He sounded confident and that gave her hope, as he was in a position to have some influence over the situation. She brought her gaze back to the child.

“Timothy,” Lord Sutherfield said.

“What?” She darted a look at the marquess.

“You were wondering what his name is, weren’t you?”

Smiling, she said, “It suits him.”

“I thought so.” Lord Sutherfield took the remaining chair in the room and moved it to the side of the bed opposite Cassandra. “He’s a brave little chap. I was quite impressed.” Sitting down, he brought his warm regard to her face. “Before the laudanum took effect, he asked me where the beautiful angel with the red hair had gone.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot, for his black eyes had taken on that sultry, suggestive look which always made her pulse leap.

“That was sweet of him,” she said dubiously.

“Oh, no, I think he’s the right of it.” He paused, a half-smile easing his handsome mouth. “I want you to answer a question for me.”

“What?” Why did she have to sound so breathless, Cassandra thought in disgust?

“Have you forgiven me?”

He looked at her with such an expectant expression, she couldn’t find it in her power to deny him. “I will forgive you under one condition.”

He beamed at her. “Anything.”

“Would you try not to make me appear an absolute fool? I find I cannot like it. Vain of me, I’m sure, but there it is.”

“Miss James, you could never appear the fool. And you know,” he confided, his manner ingenious, “I was about to kiss you in that carriage. I was having such a pleasant time admiring your lovely face, I simply didn’t get down to the business at hand. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Cassandra smiled at him because she could not prevent herself.

“Ah, Miss James, you warm my heart. I feared I might never again feel the warmth of your approval.”

Cassandra raised one brow at him in challenge. “I don’t know that you’ve ever felt it, my lord.”

His husky laughter filled the chamber. “What a delight you are. I was right—I do like you.”

“Be quiet, please, you’ll wake the child.”

She wasn’t certain whether she should be pleased or dismayed by this sudden turn in the conversation. Cassandra glanced uneasily at Timothy, but the boy continued to sleep, oblivious. She searched for a change of subject.

“You know something of me, Lord Sutherfield, but I know nothing of you.”

“It’s my history you want? I’m flattered.”

“I’d rather you weren’t,” she muttered ungraciously.

Again he laughed. “I have an older sister, Lydia, another sister, Jillian, who is about your age, two younger brothers, a wonderful mother and scores of relatives—some of whom I hardly know. My father died nearly four years ago.” The marquess sobered then. “I still miss him.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, his attitude philosophical. “It’s the way of the world. We live and we die. The lucky ones are those who leave mourners. It’s a sad thing to pass through this earthly realm and no one cares.”

“Yes, it is.” Cassandra’s gaze drifted back to the tiny form under the coverlet, and she felt a pressure around her heart that was altogether unpleasant. She brought emotional eyes back to the marquess. “Thank you, my lord, for helping Timothy. You and Mr. Stiles have been very kind.”

“Then I’m going to ask a favor of you in compensation.” He gazed intently at her.

She was suddenly wary. “I’ll try, my lord.”

“On those occasions when we are alone, I would like to call you by your given name.”

“We shouldn’t be alone, my lord.” She skirted the issue, for it was risking a familiarity she shouldn’t allow. She decided to ignore the fact that they were alone right now.

“But in the unlikely event that we are,” he pressed, “I would consider it a token of our friendship. And I would like you to call me by my given name.”

Cassandra started to fidget in her chair. She had stayed too long, she realized. Every time she was in this man’s company he stalked her like a wily cat. And it didn’t help that the prey was captivated by the hunter. On the surface, what he asked was reasonable. It hurt nothing, really. But she believed this was his way of pealing back the layers of inhibitions. Each layer was so fine, so insubstantial, so seemingly innocuous, what could she protest? But add those layers together, and she came perilously close to disgrace.

“Lord Sutherfield,” Cassandra emphasized his name, “you place me in a delicate position. I am grateful for your kindness, and I wish to return the favor. Isn’t there something else I could do?”

“No,” he said, his voice full of regret. The marquess hesitated then as though suddenly struck by an idea. “Wait a minute now. Perhaps there is something.”

She felt herself tense with anticipation. All she could manage was a wide-eyed stare, waiting for him to enlighten her.

“I would settle for that kiss we almost shared in Harry’s carriage.”

Cassandra stood abruptly. “That does seem less intimate than sharing names,” she said caustically. “I think it’s time I went home, my lord.”

He caught her as she stomped angrily toward the door. Grabbing hold of her upper arms, he pulled her up against his chest. “Oh, come, Miss James—Cassandra—you were prepared to kiss me before. Why not now? Such a small request.” The marquess’ voice had turned to a gravelly whisper and his dusky eyes gleamed at her meaningfully.

She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She meant to struggle, but didn’t. Instead, a dark excitement deep in her belly burst forth and radiated through her body. She relaxed against him, the fight completely deserting her. Her only denial was a vague shaking of her head.

Her lids drifted downward, and briefly she wondered if he would do to her what he had done before. She need not have worried. His mouth came down on hers as if he were thirsting for her.

Cassandra’s heart rattled with such force, she feared it might explode. A great welling of sensation surged forth immersing her in its sweetness. Nerve endings came alive in places she had never acknowledged, a delicious feeling steadily increasing to a pulsing warmth.

A soft whimper escaped her. It shocked her but she could feel the marquess feasting on her excitement, drawing from her his own gratification.

He did not let her go, instead wrapping one arm around her waist while bringing his other hand to the base of her neck. Snaking his fingers into her hair, he dislodged the ribbon, loosening the red curls.

She melted into his embrace as his fiery mouth continued its relentless exploration, moving aggressively across her parted lips, forcing her to respond. And then his tongue found her, tasting her, pleasuring her.

All at once the marquess released her mouth, although he continued to hold her fast against him. Breathing harshly, he stared down at her, his dark features contorted by lust. His stimulated body was pressed indecently against her hip.

“See what you do to me?” he growled. He made it sound like an accusation.

Cassandra looked at him, stricken. She was reeling, not only from wounded sensibilities, but a raging passion gone out of control. This was dreadfully wrong, and still she had not wanted him to end it. If he kissed her again she was lost.

For several long moments he held her, his gaze traveling over her fevered face. The examination seemed unending, and she stared back at him because his compelling eyes would not free her.

At last he spoke. “Are you angry with me?”

“No, my lord, but you’ve made my point,” she forced the words through a throat gone tight with emotion. “We should not be alone together.”

Lord Sutherfield brought his hand from the back of her neck and set his index finger beneath her chin, lifting her face to his. He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, his eyes taking on a predatory glow. He chuckled softly.

“Ah, Miss James, what an intriguing woman you are. You never fail to entertain me. We do have something in common, you know.”

“We do?”

“Yes, indeed.” He gave her a slow smile. “We are both fighting a burning desire for the other. You do desire me, don’t you, Miss James?”

Was he taunting her? His attitude did not appear derisive. His words did bring her around, though. She felt as if she were surfacing through the sensual layers of an erotic dream. She began to struggle from his grip.

“I may be naive, Lord Sutherfield, but even I know desire does not have to mean anything. I refuse to pretend there is more to it than that.”

The marquess dropped his arm from her waist, and she stepped away from him.

“The man who loves you had better protect his ego,” he said in a dry voice, “for you won’t make it easy.”

“You are the most insufferably conceited man I’ve ever met. You don’t need me to confirm your self-worth.”

“Maybe not, but for some reason it’s important to me.”

He looked deadly serious, but Cassandra was afraid to trust him. She sent her troubled gaze across the room to Timothy. The child slept despite the charged atmosphere in the room.

“I shouldn’t have come. I was so worried about the boy and so angry with my grandfather, I didn’t think.”

“Hindsight,” he conceded. “Though I, for one, am glad you did.”

“You will let Timothy know I was here?”

He nodded. “I will tell him his beautiful red-haired angel flew in and blessed him while he slept.” His eyelids drooped. “I’ll not tell him what the beautiful angel did for me.”

Cassandra’s hand went to her warm cheek. “I blush more in your presence than I ever have in my whole life. Is there nothing you won’t say?”

“If I put before you everything that is teeming in my lust-filled brain, you would run from me in fear.”

“I’m already afraid of you, my lord.”

She reached for the doorknob. Stepping into the hall, she tossed him one more look filled with misgiving and, with as much dignity as she could muster, made her departure.

*****

Simon watched her leave. He stood at the threshold of the chamber, his arm over his head, elbow resting against the doorjamb.

It wasn’t him she feared. He had felt her response to his kiss. But when she had moaned against his mouth, he had thought his own desire would rise up and overtake him. Although he could not deny her face and body drew him in the beginning, her passion incited him. Her fevered answer to his kiss had been the reason he had almost lost control.

He wondered, reentering the room and closing the door, if she knew how near she had come to losing her virtue. He suspected she had been close to yielding to him, and that had been a heady discovery. So why had he allowed her to slip from his grasp when it seemed his most fervent desire was about to be realized?

Simon did not seduce virgins, yet somehow he had separated Miss James from those tiresome females. She wasn’t a woman of easy virtue, either. She was different. He had pulled back because he did not want to hurt her.

He had probably scared her away once more. The last time they were together it took a fortnight and an emergency to bring her back to him. And he couldn’t take credit for that. What would he do if she decided to avoid him again? The idea that he might have to simply wait made him groan with frustration.

Simon sighed as he took his seat next to the bed. “Well, Tim, it’s just you and me,” he said.

He leaned against the chair back and closed his eyes. He had just begun to doze when a tap at the door interrupted his rest.

Harry entered the room. “Do you have a minute, Simon?”

“I thought you had gone to bed.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Harry crossed the chamber and dropped down on the edge of the mattress. He stared at the marquess for a moment before continuing. “I just saw Miss James to her horse.”

“Is that why you could not sleep? Afraid I might eat her?”

“This isn’t amusing, Simon. She looked upset when she left.”

“Did she say anything?” Simon asked cautiously.

“Not a word but she seemed on the verge of tears.”

“What are you asking me, Harry?”

“Damned if I know. No, that’s not true. I suppose I want to know what happened in here. You can tell me to go to the devil if you like, but I’m not going to deny it has me worried.”

Simon pulled in a deep breath and expelled it through his mouth. He came forward in his chair. “I kissed her.” Suddenly, he was unable to meet his friend’s gaze.

“I had a feeling about all this,” Harry said. “Miss James is a fine young lady, Simon. You will compromise her if you continue this way. It would be different if you were not playing cat and mouse with her, but you and I both know your intentions are not serious.”

The marquess’ eyes narrowed. “What is Miss James to you, Harry?”

“I like her—nothing more, nothing less,” Harry said in a bland voice.

“So do I,” Simon agreed, relaxing. “Thing is, I feel compelled to pursue her when I’m in her company.” He raked his hands through his hair, chagrined with his inability to explain himself. “I don’t like my behavior anymore than you do.”

“Perhaps she is becoming important to you,” Harry said, his attitude turning appraising.

“I hardly know her. Only foolish people believe that love happens instantly. No,” he said, shaking his head to emphasize his point, “it’s passion, Harry, that’s all. It’s that damnable red hair—you know how I am about red hair.”

“I see what you mean. That hair on a bran-faced woman, twice the size of Miss James, would have the same effect. A shrew with that glorious mane would be turning you into knots. Yes, yes, what you say makes perfect sense.”

“Bloody hell!” the marquess barked. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m aware that I seem unreasonable.” He stood and walked across the room, then spun around to face his friend. “You want to know the truth? I want to bed her, and if she gives me half a chance I’m going to do just that. If that makes me an unprincipled fiend, so be it.”

Harry stood as well, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s not my aim to be a man’s conscience, Simon. I do feel some responsibility, though. Lord Whittingham is my neighbor and Miss James is his granddaughter.”

“I think we’ve had this discussion before,” Simon said intractably. “I’ll just have to see this thing through to the end, and I’m afraid you will have to bear with me.”

“Maybe you ought to think about settling down. After all, you are of an age,” Harry ventured. “Heirs and all that.”

“Dammit, man, you’re older than I am. How about taking some of your own good advice.”

Harry sent him a smile filled with mockery. “When I find a woman who does to me what Miss Cassandra James does to you, I won’t hesitate for a moment. And why should I? When fate takes a hand, you’re lost anyway, dear boy. All a fight does is ensure much blood will be spilled before the ultimate surrender. I never was one to engage in a battle I couldn’t win.”

And on that enigmatic note he exited the chamber.

Simon gritted his teeth. That annoying little bastard had a full-blown talent for making one think. Unfortunately, thinking was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

What he did want was to steep himself in the memory of the kiss he had shared with Miss James. He wanted to remember her rising passion and where it could have led them. He wanted to imagine her voluptuous body beneath his probing hands, her warm thighs cradling his hips as he made love to her. Those reflections were more than welcome.

Too bad the very fantasies meant to distract him from thinking about the future had the added effect of keeping him awake and frustrated. He returned to his room, but it was some time later before he finally fell into a restless sleep.

*****

The ride home for Cassandra was a blur as a host of images clouded her brain. She had believed Lord Sutherfield when he said he would help Timothy, but until she had seen for herself she could not rest. Still, she had not expected to walk into the situation that awaited her. She was as green as grass, she thought angrily.

Why did he hound her, forcing her to experience feelings that were completely unwelcome? It was wrong for a gentleman to attempt to seduce a virtuous young lady. Cassandra wondered if his actions came from a lack of respect.

Yet he had held himself back tonight. She had been dangerously close to losing her virginity, and she had not been the one in control. That more than anything frightened her. Given another day like today, if he decided to finish what he had begun, would she be able to resist?

She could not honestly answer in the affirmative. She must make sure not to be in that position again, she decided. Lord Sutherfield posed a very real threat, and it was her duty to keep herself out of harm’s way.

The day had broken. The sky glowed pink with the coming sun, and Cassandra entered her grandfather’s stable yard with trepidation. She had no hope of evading the servants. They would be up and moving about by now, but perhaps she wouldn’t have to face her relatives yet.

The head groom met her at the barn entrance.

“Mr. Donner, how are you this wonderful day?” she greeted with false enthusiasm.

“I do well, miss,” he said coolly. “You’ve been out riding? I want you to please call someone if you need a horse saddled. Surely your grandfather would not like you riding without a groom in attendance.”

Cassandra cringed under his disapproving stare. She had forgotten that she was riding astride. She wanted to ask him not to tell on her, but she was too proud to grovel. He had probably made up his mind, anyway.

She slid from the mare’s back without waiting for the groom’s help. “You are right, Mr. Donner. I’m still learning the rules, I’m afraid. I’ll do better next time.”

He thawed a little. “Yes, miss, I understand. You just ask for me. I’ll help with whatever you need.”

Cassandra flashed him a brilliant smile as she turned toward the house. She had lied to the groom, of course. Quintin James would have scolded her roundly if he had caught her riding without a saddle and groom.

She let herself in through the kitchen, ignoring the startled looks of the servants preparing the morning meal. Her grandfather would not be down to breakfast for at least twenty minutes, so she headed for the main staircase. She was grateful that he lived by a rigid schedule.

Only a half dozen steps from her door and safety, her game was discovered.

“Cassandra?” Roger approached her from his room at the end of the hall, a deep furrow creasing his brow. “Why are you awake at this hour?”

She swung around to look at him. “Roger, are you awake as well? This must be an early morning for everyone. Except Penelope, that is.”

“Why are you dressed like that? You look terrible.”

“I wanted to ride my horse in comfort. That’s why I went early, so no one would see me.” She sent him a hopeful smile.

He sniffed, his nostrils pinched with disapproval. “You must learn, Cassandra, there are some things a lady does and some things a lady does not do. Riding over the countryside like a hoyden is unacceptable behavior.”

Her conciliatory effort evaporated into anger. This had been a difficult morning, and she was in no mood for a lecture, especially from the likes of Roger.

“I am sorry you don’t approve of the way I spent my morning, but it’s none of your business, Roger.”

He puffed up like an indignant toad. “It is my business,” he countered. “As your future husband it’s my duty to see that you conduct yourself in a proper fashion. I have my reputation to consider as well as yours. I’ll not be embarrassed by you.”

He could not have said anything to aggravate her more. “Frankly, I don’t care if I embarrass you or not. I’ve told you before and I will tell you again, there is no marriage in our future.”

Something shifted in his gaze that served as a subtle warning, and Cassandra’s breath caught in her throat. Roger grabbed her by the arms, much as the marquess had done, and set his fleshy lips to hers. It was an angry kiss, passionless, and she was filled with disgust.

He flung her from him. “We will marry. I suggest you get used to the idea.”

He turned and stalked away, leaving her with her mouth hanging open.

Cassandra found her room and twisted the knob with a shaky hand. She crossed to the bed and sat down, her knees weak. She had grown careless where Roger was concerned, but this last episode served as a reminder that her cousin was not as harmless as he seemed. Suddenly, she felt less certain of her ability to control what was happening to her.

Strangest of all was the realization that not only Roger but another gentleman had kissed her in the span of an hour. Her response to each man had been so different, she wondered if something was wrong with her. The marquess had left her trembling with desire. Roger had made her feel like emptying her stomach in the nearest chamber pot.

One thing was for certain, she had no intention of spending the remainder of her life married to a man she prayed would not be too demanding. She must convince her grandfather and Roger that their plan for her future was not possible. What she hoped with regard to Lord Sutherfield, she refused to think about.

*****

CHAPTER 8

“Miss, there’s a commotion outside on the drive. Your grandfather has requested your presence.”

Cassandra pushed back her chair, coming to her feet from the desk where she penned a letter to Sophy. “What is it, Toby?” she asked, smoothing her skirt.

“A man has arrived demanding the return of his son.”

Her chest tightened with dread. If it was who she feared, she was about to be in a great deal of trouble. She nodded at the servant, following him from the room.

She passed through the main hall and out the front entrance. A disreputable looking person had taken up a belligerent stance on her grandfather’s front step. The man reeled on unsteady feet, seemingly unconcerned with his drunken condition.

“That’s her,” he yelled.

She sent her grandfather an uncertain glance as the old man turned to look at her.

“Cassandra, this is Mr. Bailey. Says his son Timothy has been missing for more than four days. Claims Timothy was the boy you found by the side of the road.” The earl gave her a penetrating stare as he continued. “I’ve explained to him that his son was taken back on the very night that you discovered him. He disagrees with me.”

Cassandra was not an easy liar, but the need for an immediate answer gave her inspiration. She took a deep breath and blurted, “We discovered the little boy was not Mr. Bailey’s son.”

An odd hush descended upon the servants who had gathered on the drive to watch the proceedings. Mr. Fennigan, part of the small group, watched his mistress with a keen but impassive expression. Presumably, he waited to see what she would say next before he indicted himself.

“I don’t recall you mentioning that,” her grandfather ventured doubtfully.

“He was a little beggar boy. I didn’t think it was important.” She allowed a hint of the disapproval she felt to color her answer.

“She’s a liar,” Mr. Bailey interrupted, slurring. He continued to dance on wobbly legs while jabbing a wavering finger in Cassandra’s direction. “She knows where my Timothy is, and I want her to tell where she’s hiding ‘im.” He spat on the ground.

“You are drunk, Mr. Bailey,” the earl said, his attitude turning glacial. “Therefore, I’m willing to grant you some latitude. I also assume you are troubled by your son’s disappearance, or you would not be acting in such an insolent manner. On the other hand,” he warned, “I’m losing my patience. I will not tolerate you coming onto my property and treating those who live here with disrespect.”

“But—” Mr. Bailey began.

Grandfather impatiently raised his hand to stop the drunken speech. “Mr. Bailey, you are one of my tenets, are you not?”

The threat in the question was far from subtle.

Mr. Bailey’s coloring changed to an alarming shade of purple while spittle formed on his loose lips. “You wouldn’t turn out a man wif a wife and family, would you, milord?” he whined.

“I wasn’t suggesting any such thing,” the earl said, his tone now superior. “Go home, Mr. Bailey. If we learn of your son’s whereabouts, we’ll let you know.”

The man looked as though he wanted to argue but he did not. Her grandfather’s expression would have frightened even the most fearless individual, and George Bailey had to rely on the false courage he received from a bottle. In his confused state he could never match wits with the earl.

Timothy’s father staggered from the yard, muttering oaths to himself and casting dark looks at those assembled on the drive. As he rounded the bend, he reached into his back pocket, extracting a flask. He threw back his head and took a deep swig then continued on his way.

Cassandra waited until Mr. Bailey disappeared from sight before starting down the steps.

“Cassandra,” her grandfather’s voice stopped her.

She paused, steeling herself for a confrontation and then turned to look at him with what she hoped was a guiltless face. “Sir?”

“Avoid that man. He could be dangerous.”

Again he scrutinized her so pointedly she felt her heart begin to thud nervously. “Yes, of course,” was all she could manage.

He walked into the house without another word.

Cassandra checked to see if Fenn was still on the drive. He was. He met her eyes with something akin to panic. She tripped down the steps toward the coachman.

“Fenn, I’m glad you are still here.”

“Yes, miss,” he said in a mournful voice.

“Now, now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Actually, it was much better than I hoped it would be. I feared my grandfather was about to force the truth from us. My knees were like water.”

Mr. Fennigan’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t like lying to his lordship. It’s not only my hide I’m worried about. It don’t seem right somehow.”

Cassandra looked at him doubtfully. “Then I suppose you’re not going to be pleased when I ask you to do me another favor.

“Ah…miss, I don’t know,” the coachman said, and he backed away from her. “We’re in a fix, that’s for certain. We haven’t been caught, but I’d be willing to wager a month’s pay we will be. Let’s not make it any worse than it already is.”

“You saw Mr. Bailey. What kind of father is that?”

He shrugged, his attitude fatalistic. “What can you do when all’s said and done? It is his son.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

He continued to stare at her, plainly unwilling to bend.

“Please, I want you to warn Lord Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles that Timothy’s father came here. They need to be aware in case Mr. Bailey discovers where his son is staying.”

“I could do that,” Fenn said. “But I’m not going to lie if Lord Whittingham asks me directly.”

“I know you are an honest man, Mr. Fennigan, and I wouldn’t ask you to do anything else.”

That seemed to mollify him, and he nodded.

Cassandra reached over and touched his arm. “And, Fenn, one more thing.” She laughed when his face fell. “No, no, it’s nothing that will cause you more trouble. I would appreciate it if you would bring me a report on Timothy’s progress. I’ve been worried.”

Mr. Fennigan nodded again. “That I can do, miss. I’ve been worrying about the lad myself.”

Cassandra smiled at the well-meaning servant. For the first time she actually believed it was possible to develop a rapport with some of these people. And that was a welcome thought, for until this moment she had been afraid to admit how lonely she felt.

*****

“Lord Sutherfield, hate to bother you, but the little bugger—I mean the little fellow will not cooperate. I had to threaten him with coming for you and he called my bluff. I couldn’t let him get away with that, now could I, my lord?”

Simon, pulling at his lip to hide a grin, shook his head at the exasperated footman. “Absolutely not, Peters. You did right. Come on,” he said as he unfolded his body from his chair and put down the book he was reading. “Let’s see if we can make our young person see reason.”

A wet sight greeted him a few moments later in Harry’s green guest room. A hip bath occupied the middle of the chamber floor, although most of the fragrant water had already been splashed onto the expensive Persian carpet.

Next to the tub stood a dripping Timothy Bailey. The boy shook himself like a drowned puppy, sending large droplets of moisture cascading away from his frail body. This explained why Peters looked as though he had been swimming in his uniform.

“I tell you, it ain’t natural,” Timothy howled his outrage.

“What isn’t natural?” the marquess asked.

“To put me whole self in water. Why, I could drown or get a chill. Even me da didn’t make me do that.”

“You can’t be clean if you do not bathe, Tim,” Simon said reasonably.

“I don’t care.”

“I do. Civilized people do not go about smelling like animals. I’m sorry to make you do something you are dead set against, but you are going to have to trust me that it will do you no harm. I want you to be a man and climb back into the bath.”

“Do I have to?” The poor child looked as though his very best friend had turned on him.

Simon merely nodded.

Timothy sent the marquess an accusing stare through great sorrowful eyes. “I’ll do it but I don’t have to like it.”

“You are correct—that is not a requirement,” Simon said as he made his way to the door. “And, Tim, keep that plaster on your arm out of the water. Won’t do it any good if you get it wet.” He stopped to talk to the footman, but he made sure his voice carried across the room. “Peters, I believe the lad will not cause you further difficulties.”

He stepped into the corridor, uncertain whether he had lied to Peters or not.

*****

“Life has become rather dull lately,” Simon ventured later that evening. Harry and he had finished a fine repast and were enjoying a bottle of Harry’s best brandy.

“Has it? I thought we’d had quite a bit of excitement with the arrival of young Timothy a few days ago. What are you proposing we do to enliven things?” Harry’s attitude was good-natured as he sipped his drink.

“A dinner party—possibly some music and dancing. We could invite a few of the local gentry.”

Harry set his glass to the table. “I thought you didn’t like country parties.”

“Maybe I was somewhat hasty. Some things become more tempting when compared to a little inactivity.” Simon gave his companion a bland look.

“I don’t suppose you would like me to place Lord Whittingham and his house guests at the top of the list?”

“I think their presence would ensure the success of your party.” The marquess was determined not to admit he had any ulterior motives. “After all, they are the only nobility in the neighborhood aside from you and me.”

“I have no title.”

Simon laughed. “You are the fourth son of a baron. Your bloodlines are not paltry.”

“I’ve always felt guilty about that,” Harry admitted.

“In what way?”

“My eldest brother has the title, but with it comes tremendous responsibility. You more than anyone should know what I mean. I, on the other hand, have abundant wealth and am still able to do in life exactly as I please. I can marry whom I want when I want. I am a lucky man.”

The marquess listened to his friend with dawning respect and perhaps a little envy. Must be nice to have one’s future decided in such a neat and orderly fashion, he thought. Simon had believed his own life was the way he wanted it as well. Lately, he’d begun to wonder.

*****

Cassandra frowned at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were like enormous blue-green holes in her strained face. She did not need help from her rouge pot, for nerves had sent the color high in her cheeks. Tonight would be a test, and she did not know if she was up to the challenge.

Seven days before Fenn had kept his promise to warn Lord Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles about Mr. Bailey. The coachman had returned with the news that Timothy was doing nicely. He’d returned with something else—an invitation to a dinner party given by Mr. Stiles. Not everyone in the Whittingham household was pleased by the coming event.

Grandfather was reluctant to attend the party because he had reservations about the marquess. However, he felt obligated as he was well acquainted with and liked Stiles’ father, Baron Camberdale. He did not want to cause offense by refusing.

Naturally, Penelope was ecstatic by the opportunity to socialize since she did not tolerate boredom well. She had complained much to Cassandra’s amusement that her uncle’s neighbors were dull and uninspired. As for Roger, he had become morose of late and had no opinion on the matter.

Now the evening of the party had arrived, and Cassandra was experiencing a mixture of emotions. Only one was she able to identify. Fright. She had thought about feigning an illness rather than submit herself to the torture of an evening in the company of Lord Sutherfield, sweet torture though it might be. But that was cowardly. Hopefully, the presence of a large group of people would prevent her from having to share any intimate moments with the marquess.

Having made the decision to brave it out, Cassandra also resolved to do it looking her best. From her wardrobe she pulled the one dress she had saved for a special occasion. Her maid Annie helped her into the high-waisted, bottle green gown made of satin with an overskirt of gauze. The neckline dipped somewhat lower than she preferred, but it made her feel sophisticated. No pastel colors or girlish frocks for her, she decided. Her coloring needed drama.

Cassandra’s hair was piled high, the final touch a strand of pearls and turquoise beads threaded through the auburn curls. Quintin James had imported the necklace from Turkey for her twenty-first birthday, and it was one of her most prized possessions.

At last she was ready. She twirled in front of cheval glass, and the long skirt belled out around her. The candlelight glinted off the nearly transparent gauze over the shiny satin, and the dress shimmered delightfully. She felt like an exotic bird she had once seen in a painting.

“You look beautiful, miss,” Annie said.

Cassandra smiled at the abigail. It had taken some time but she and Annie were beginning to come to an understanding.

“Thank you. Wish me luck. I think I will need it tonight.”

“Not you, miss. You will outshine every lady at the party,” Annie said as Cassandra whisked from the room.

She came downstairs after everyone else. Grandfather and her cousins were sipping champagne and sharing small talk in the parlor. They turned to greet her as she entered the room, and Cassandra suspected she looked well for even Roger’s eyes darkened with appreciation. She knew it for a certainty when Penelope began to pout.

“You have more courage than I, cousin.” There was a sniping quality in the young lady’s words.

“Do I?”

“That dress is very immodest, don’t you think,” Penelope ventured primly, her stare fixed on Cassandra’s exposed bosom.

“Enough of this,” the earl broke in. “Cassandra looks lovely. She’s of an age to carry it off. You, Penelope, need a few more years, but your time will come.”

That little speech left Cassandra wondering whether she should be pleased or insulted. Her grandfather had defended her and that was nice, but he had relegated her to the role of spinster. Nothing like a little unfettered truth to bring one’s ego into check, she mused, smiling inwardly. She joined her family as they moved into the main hall to put on their wraps.

When they arrived at the home of Mr. Stiles, every window in the mansion shone with welcome. A dozen carriages lined the drive. The din of a large crowd could be heard coming from inside, mixed with the lilting sounds of a stringed orchestra. Cassandra tensed with expectancy at the promise of an entertaining evening. Perhaps she too had been suffering from boredom.

They were ushered into the hall by the butler, and Harry Stiles rushed forward, greeting them warmly.

“Lord Whittingham, what a pleasure it is to have you and your family join our little gathering this evening. Come in, come in.”

Introductions were made quickly around the large parlor, for she had already met most all the other guests. As she said her hellos, Cassandra realized that she felt comfortable with her grandfather’s neighbors.

The same thought had occurred to her with regard to the earl’s servants when she had spoken to Mr. Fennigan earlier in the week and then Annie tonight. She wondered when she began to feel that way. Was it possible that she might actually belong? What’s more, did she want to? Somehow it seemed disloyal to her father.

And then she saw him.

The Marquess of Sutherfield stood by the double doors leading to the balcony, watching her. In that moment she was back at a party given by Mrs. Witherspoon. A dark gentleman, much too handsome for his own good, stared avidly at her, not bothering to hide his interest. Something different colored his expression tonight.

For an instant he was unmasked.

He snared her with his gaze, although he did not toy with her as he had on that first evening many weeks before. Cassandra saw the hunger in his eyes, the exposed desire. He sent her a silent message across the crowded room, and a strange throbbing burgeoned deep within her in response.

Then it was if it had never happened. He nodded at her and turned his attention to an attractive brunette on his left. So completely did his attitude change, she wondered if she had misunderstood.

The marquess ignored her after that. He made the rounds, stopping to chat with the other guests. He was a charismatic socializer and divided his time equally between the ladies and the gentlemen. Cassandra tried not to notice how the women were drawn to him, how they flirted, how they vied for his attention.

Only once did she catch his gaze on her as she conversed with another gentleman, a Mr. Haseltine. Mr. Haseltine had monopolized her for twenty minutes, making plain his admiration until she was thoroughly embarrassed. She saw Lord Sutherfield’s eyes narrow slightly as he looked first at her and then her companion, but his expression was unreadable.

Moments later he took Penelope into dinner.

As prearranged, Roger approached Cassandra at that time to take her into dinner, saving her from Mr. Haseltine. She could not believe how happy she was to see her cousin’s sanctimonious face. Cutting off Mr. Haseltine mid-sentence, she grasped the excuse Roger provided and pulled him into the dining room.

Roger steered her toward a small table where Penelope sat alone, waiting for the marquess to return with food from the buffet. Cassandra didn’t understand why Roger chose to sit there, although she had detected his displeasure at the attention Lord Sutherfield was showing Penelope.

Penelope, however, was more than gratified to have caught the notice of the marquess. She sent Cassandra a self-satisfied smile.

“Isn’t Lord Sutherfield the most handsome man?—and such a gentleman, too. Cassie, you believed he was interested in you.”

Roger interrupted. “Lord Sutherfield is not the sort of man to be interested in any woman seriously. I suggest both of you remember that,” he said in a sour voice. “What would you like to eat, Cassandra?”

“You choose. I really don’t care.”

And she did not. Penelope’s vanity and Roger’s discontent had robbed her of her appetite. To make matters worse, Lord Sutherfield was threading his way through the crowd, balancing a plate of food in each hand as he approached their table. Now she would have to talk to him.

Roger gave the marquess a curt nod before turning to leave. Cassandra sensed the animosity emanating from her cousin, which increased her apprehension. At least he was exhibiting some emotion besides the sulks, she thought.

An odd little smile played on Lord Sutherfield’s mouth. “I don’t think Mr. Morley cares for me,” he said when Roger was out of hearing distance. He placed the plates on the table and sat down.

“I’m certain you are mistaken,” Penelope said. “Roger likes everyone, doesn’t he, Cassie?”

Since Cassandra had come to believe Roger liked almost no one, she could not give the expected answer. She found herself looking to Lord Sutherfield for guidance.

He lifted his gaze to hers and grinned mischievously. “Doesn’t he, Miss James?”

Cassandra felt the heat rise to her face. There was no reason she should be embarrassed except his black stare held something so insinuating, she began to squirm in her seat. She hated that he could fluster her with such ease, always putting her on the defensive.

“There are those people Roger likes, and those he does not. I’m not certain what category you fall into, my lord.”

The marquess laughed, a great bellowing laugh that caused heads to swivel in their direction. He looked at Penelope. “Your cousin takes much delight in putting me in my place. So refreshing, don’t you think?”

Penelope merely stared at him in open fascination.

“Oh, hush!” Cassandra was mortified, and yet the warm admiration on his face sent a shiver of excitement racing through her vitals.

Roger returned, his features pinched with disapproval. “This certainly is an unruly table,” he said, taking a seat.

“Thank you, Mr. Morley, for reminding us of our manners,” the marquess said. “We shall try not to upset you any further.” He then lavished attention on a very receptive Penelope.

The tiny blonde was fetching in a lavender gown of watered silk. She giggled and flirted with Lord Sutherfield, ignoring the other two people at the table.

Cassandra nibbled at her supper, fighting the unpleasant sensation of jealously. She should be relieved his lordship was directing that powerful personality at someone besides herself, but she was irritated.

She suspected Lord Sutherfield was executing his plan to make Roger admit his feelings for Penelope. If dark looks and muttered oaths were any indication, it seemed Roger was falling victim to the plot. The young man became so sullen and ungracious, Cassandra began to fear there might be an altercation.

She also had the uncomfortable notion the marquess was trying to expose someone else’s feelings.

The small orchestra in the parlor started playing again and the music drifted into the dining room, signaling the return of the dancing. Roger took his fork and placed it on the table. He came to his feet.

“Miss Ingram,” he stated in an ominous voice, “I believe you and I have the first dance after dinner.”

Penelope stared at him. “Are you certain?” she asked, confused. “Perhaps I’d best check my dance card.” She fumbled with the card dangling from her wrist.

“I remember perfectly. Come,” he said, his manner now commanding.

“If you really think so, Roger.” Penelope raised limpid eyes to his face and, without another word, rose from the table and placed her hand in his.

Cassandra watched the couple leave the room, Roger leading the way and Penelope meekly following.

“What do you think?”

She brought her wary gaze to Lord Sutherfield. “What do I think about what?” she asked cautiously.

“Why, Mr. Morley and Miss Ingram, of course. If Mr. Morley ground his teeth any more, he would be eating gruel for the rest of his life.” He chuckled. “There’s a man who is lost whether he wishes to be or not.”

“I think you underestimate Roger’s resolve, my lord.”

“And that means…?” He raised his brows at her in question.

“He has admitted to me that he has feelings for Penelope. He has also said that won’t stand in his way as he plans his life. There is a price he has to pay to have what he wants, and if it includes marrying me, then so be it.”

The marquess rested his elbow on the table and placed his chin in his hand. “Tell me, Miss James, do you intend to go along with this scheme?”

“Of course, not,” she snapped. “It is one thing to begin a life without affection, something else entirely to despise one’s spouse.”

“Then you are humoring Lord Whittingham, allowing him to believe you will marry his nephew?”

“I’ve told my grandfather how I feel.” Cassandra paused, unsure how much to confess. “There is a chance I may have no choice.”

“Would you like to explain that?”

Something in his voice caused her to look at him sharply. “It’s nothing.” She shook her head, unwilling to continue with the painful subject. Eyes unfocused, she gazed at her plate with its uneaten food.

“No one has come to claim you for this dance.”

Grateful that he had changed the subject, Cassandra flashed him a brilliant smile. She looked at her dance card.

“This explains it.” She felt a bubble of laughter rise in her throat as she showed him the card.

“Ah…Roger’s dance, is it?” Lord Sutherfield’s sultry eyes warmed with appreciation. “Then I have you all to myself. Would you care to take a stroll with me?”

“There is no one waiting for you?”

“Miss James, there is only one woman I want to spend time with, and I’m looking at her. I haven’t signed any dance cards this evening.”

“What a flatterer you are, my lord.” she said faintly

He stood up and gave her his hand. “It’s not flattery to speak the truth,” he said. “Come. We need to show Miss Ingram and Morley that you and I are not nursing broken hearts over their desertion.”

He smiled at her in that way that made her heart flutter with equal amounts of dread and anticipation. Slipping her hand in his, she glanced at him shyly as she eased from her chair.

They entered the parlor but rather than joining the dancers, they took a slow turn around the perimeter of the room. The marquess took her arm and pulled her close to him, a little closer than he ought, and a mellow groan rose from his chest.

Strange, Cassandra thought. That sound mimicked exactly the way she was feeling. She wondered if his heart was pumping as erratically as hers was right now.

“Perfect,” he murmured against her ear.

She peeked up at him through her lashes. “My lord?”

“You and me, arm in arm. I’ve strolled with many ladies over the years, though you fit me best.” As if to prove his point, he drew her nearer to his side, his dark eyes deepening.

“People will begin to comment.” Her protest was a feeble one. She objected because she thought she should, not because she wanted him to comply.

“Yes, they will.” Lord Sutherfield concurred as he pulled her nearer. “They will say what a handsome couple we make. The room will be filled with envy.”

“If we’re to judge by the scowl on my grandfather’s face, it will be filled with something else, my lord.”

“Does it worry you? I don’t wish to cause you trouble.”

She peeked furtively at her grandfather. These last weeks she had done her best to oppose the earl, but lately the desire to do so had eased. If she defied him, she would have to admit it was something besides childish rebellion that motivated her.

“I should be allowed to talk to you. I see no harm in that, do you?” she said as the last notes of the music trailed away into the stuffy air of the parlor.

“To tell you the truth, Miss James, I don’t know.”

Cassandra expected to see that crooked smile the marquess wore when he bantered with her, but his expression was serious. He dropped her arm and stepped back.

“Are you known to trifle with the ladies?” she asked, teasing him gently.

“And if I am?” No hint of amusement shaded the question.

She stared at him, nonplussed.

Smiling, the earl bowed slightly, turning to leave.

Cassandra touched his sleeve. “I’ve not had a chance to talk to you about Timothy.”

His glance shifted to something behind her, and Cassandra peered over her shoulder. The earl was still watching them, and his anger was unmistakable. Lord Sutherfield brought his gaze back to her.

“Lord Whittingham does not trust me.”

“That’s true,” she acknowledged.

“If you will join me outside in one half hour, perhaps we can talk for a few minutes uninterrupted.” The words came out in an urgent whisper, and he looked as though he expected her to refuse.

Cassandra knew he was issuing a challenge by the way he tossed the suggestion at her. It was brazen to ask her to meet him clandestinely.

And she was tempted.

“Where?”

Lord Sutherfield’s eyes lit with eagerness. “There’s a stone bench in the rose garden. It’s a small garden off the west wing. Go out through the French doors in the morning room at the rear of the house. No one will see you, and the garden is only a few steps from there.”

She nodded. “One half hour, my lord.”

He surveyed her features for one more intense moment and then strode from the room.

The music had started again, and a pimply-faced young man with orange hair came to stand at Cassandra’s elbow.

“Mr. Beverly, is this our dance?”

“Yes, it is.”

Mr. Beverly gave her a wide grin comprised of upper teeth resting noticeably on his bottom lip. Grabbing her with sweaty hands, his enthusiasm only outweighed by his clumsiness, he spun her around to the frolicsome melody of a country reel. Several minutes later—it seemed much longer—the music stopped, and Cassandra made a mental note never to allow Mr. Beverly another dance. Her next trip onto the dance floor was with the doting Mr. Haseltine, who was no more adept than poor Mr. Beverly.

Thus she whiled away the time, anxiously watching the clock on Mr. Stiles’ mantle. The marquess had disappeared. Cassandra had not seen him since they had spoken, and she was curious as to where he had gone. If he were not waiting for her when she reached the rose garden, she would never forgive him.

She returned to the dining room on the pretense of getting herself a glass of punch, but she was determining the whereabouts of her family. The earl was nowhere to be seen, and she assumed he had gone to the card room in search of better entertainment. Penelope and Roger occupied a settee to one side of the parlor, apparently mourning their status as star-crossed lovers. Cassandra doubted they had given her a thought.

That accounted for everyone.

She walked to the main hall and headed to the rear of the house. Logic told her the morning room was the last door on the left at the end of the corridor. What if someone was in there? Nervous, her teeth began to chatter as she turned the knob.

The door swung inward and Cassandra tiptoed into the darkened room. A quick inspection told her this was the right place and it was empty.

Moonlight shone through the panes of glass in the French doors, bringing the shapes in the morning room out of shadow. Now was the moment to turn back, she thought, to forget this folly. Too bad she was determined to make a fool of herself.

Cool air rushed over her heated skin as she opened one of the French doors and moved into the night. She came to stand on a small side porch. Two steps brought her down to the main walk.

Cassandra smelled the roses before she saw them. The soft breeze hung heavy with the scent of scores of flowers and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sweetness. The rustling of leaves on nearby trees blended with the cheerful songs of crickets as they sang to one another. It was a magical moment with the earth doing its part to create the perfect setting. What a wonderful place for a rendezvous, she mused dreamily.

She found the stone bench with little difficulty. Cassandra glanced around, but saw no one. The earl hadn’t arrived yet, but perhaps her earlier decision was a bit rigid—she would give him five minutes.

She sat down, carefully arranging her skirts.

*****

CHAPTER 9

The last thing Cassandra had promised herself was to keep her distance from the marquess. Away from him she had resolve, but in his presence she lost sight of why she should avoid him. He wooed her with ardent words and hungry looks, and she responded like clay in his experienced hands. He must be gratified, Cassandra thought, by how easily he could manipulate her.

“Have you been waiting long?”

He came up behind her and a thrill of fear seized her before she realized who it was. Her hand flew to her throat.

“You frightened me.”

“I apologize,” Lord Sutherfield said as he moved around the bench and sat next to her, shoulder to shoulder. “I was caught in a conversation and it took a moment to extricate myself. I was afraid you would not wait for me.”

“I should not be here at all,” she fretted, examining her hands where they lay in her lap.

He leaned forward, and from the corner of her eye she could see him studying her profile.

“I see. I was delayed just long enough for you to regret having come. I wish you wouldn’t feel that way.”

Cassandra looked him at him directly. “An unmarried female of good character does not have a secret meeting with a gentleman, especially a gentleman whose reputation with the ladies is suspect. Why I always forget that when I’m in your company, I’ll never know.”

“I would not deliberately hurt you, Miss James.” He snorted then as if he did not believe his own words. “I want to do the right thing, I really do, but your company affects me as well.”

“It does?”

“Yes, indeed. Why does that surprise you?”

Cassandra stared at his handsome face, the shadows emphasizing his brow, the high cheekbones. He watched her with eyes that burned earnestly, and all at once she was consumed with the need to touch him.

“Do it!” he growled in a hoarse whisper.

He knew—oh, he knew! Was her desire that obvious? Could he see her confusion, her fear, the attraction she fought?

“Do it,” he urged her again.

Although she shook her head, Cassandra did not have the strength to resist his impassioned plea. Her hand moved to his lean jaw. Caressing the hollow of his cheek, she felt the hint of a stubble. His teeth clenched as he sucked in a harsh breath through flaring nostrils.

He grabbed her wrist and pressed his mouth into her palm, raising heated eyes to hers.

Cassandra could feel herself melting. She had no power in the face of such irresistible persuasion. The age-old barriers of self-protection were slipping away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If the marquess continued to pursue her before long repercussions would have no meaning—until it was too late.

He was aware of the effect his lovemaking had on her, and she wanted to be indifferent to him. In desperation she tried to remember why she was here in the first place.

“Timothy,” Cassandra said, slipping her hand from his grasp and drawing away from him.

“What? Oh, yes…” The marquess sat, blinking as though clearing his vision. “I forgot,” he said in a sheepish voice. An odd expression on his face indicated that he, also, had been moved by their exchange.

“You were going to tell me how our patient is doing.” She sounded normal even though her insides continued to tremble.

“Timothy is healing quite nicely,” Lord Sutherfield said in a businesslike fashion. “I’m worried about what we are to do with him once he is well. I know Mr. Bailey has been searching for his son.”

“We can’t return that child to his father.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” His attitude did not encourage optimism that Timothy’s problem could be solved easily.

“No. I hoped you had something in mind.”

“Can’t say I do, but I’ll see what can be done.”

“Would you?” Cassandra gazed at him imploringly. It was her turn to use wiles to gain what she wanted. She had to refrain from batting her lashes at him.

He chortled softly. “When you look at me like that, dear heart, I feel pushed to make the effort. But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Unable to help herself, she laughed with him. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Is that a good thing?” the marquess asked tenderly.

Cassandra glanced at him, before quickly looking away. “I haven’t a clue, my lord. I’ll have to let you know when I discover the answer.”

Lord Sutherfield rose to his feet and took her by the hand. “Walk with me.”

“Shouldn’t I go back to the party? I’m sure to be missed,” she said, allowing him to help her stand.

“What would you do if you were back in London and still living with Quintin James? Would a stroll in the garden be such a wicked thing?”

The question was a shrewd one. She didn’t intend to let him know it, though.

“Perhaps not, but my father doesn’t know you. I think if he were to meet you he’d be as cautious as my grandfather.”

The marquess drew her arm through his and leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “I’d like to think the caution is yours.”

“That makes no sense at all,” she said impatiently.

“It does if it is you rather than me you do not trust.”

Lord Sutherfield’s warm breath drifted down her neck, causing her skin to prickle with excitement. Just when she had herself in check, he began the onslaught anew. Her body responded as it always did when his tone turned suggestive.

Ambling down the winding path, they moved away from the safety of the house. The doors to the parlor had been thrown open to the main garden, and the voices of those guests still partying could be heard drifting from inside. If she were taking her little walk with the marquess right outside those doors, it would probably be considered completely respectable.

They came upon a majestic oak looming out of the darkness at the end of the path, its branches spanning nearly thirty feet. Moonlight seeped through the aged limbs, splintered patches of illumination creating a fey realm beneath the sprawling canopy of the tree. The gauze of Cassandra’s dress sparkled like dozens of tiny, glowing night beetles in the dimness. Just like a sprite, she reflected whimsically, touched by the enchantment of the balmy evening.

All at once, she wanted to make the most of the magical moment. Did she want the marquess to kiss her? Yes, she thought, perhaps she did. She liked it when he kissed her—although she had spent a lot of time denying that fact—and maybe now she would kiss him back.

Several steps in front of Lord Sutherfield, she whisked around to face him. With her hands clasped behind her back, she leaned coquettishly against the massive trunk of the tree. His expression was drawn tight with desire as he moved closer, and an intoxicating power welled within her. How the next few minutes went were hers alone to decide—unless he were a cad. Her instincts denied that possibility. She tilted her head, smiling faintly at him.

His gaze sharpened. “This is a dangerous game, Miss James. Are you certain you wish to play so deep?” Placing his hand on the tree over her shoulder, he drew nearer.

Cassandra could feel the heat from his body, could smell the intoxicating, masculine scent of him. He was close enough for her to see every keen-edged angle of his handsome face despite the insubstantial light. A quivering warmth low in her belly sent her pulse leaping out of control.

She came up on her toes and set her lips to his. Was that the answer he wanted? Cassandra was willing to wager it was not the answer he had expected.

The marquess stiffened. For a moment he did not move, his posture rigid with shock. Suddenly, he gathered her into his embrace, pulling her roughly against him. He took her mouth with a fierceness that was triumphant, and a primal growl emanated from his throat.

Cassandra didn’t resist. She pressed closely to him, running her hands up his chest and over his broad shoulders. She met his ardent kisses with an eagerness of her own, while slipping her fingers into the crisp black hair that curled on his neck.

Lord Sutherfield’s lips moved to her jaw and down her throat. Sliding his thumbs inside the neck of her gown, he tugged the diaphanous material from her shoulders, his fiery mouth following the retreating fabric. And then he appeared to hesitate as he raised fevered eyes to hers.

Now was the time to end this madness, she thought, to dash back to the comfort of Mr. Stiles’ parlor, to pretend this had never happened. She knew he would let her go if that were her wish. But somehow she could not find the strength—or the desire—to do what she should. Whatever inferno had been ignited in him blazed in her as well. She stared at the marquess, unable to leave.

His eyes narrowed for a moment as though assessing her response and, apparently satisfied with what he saw, an easy, sensual grin glided over his features. Again, he began the assault on the top of her dress.

He hooked his fingers in the neckline and slowly drew the sleeves down, exposing her breasts. Not once while he lowered the garment did his gaze leave her face. His hypnotic eyes bored into hers as though he would understand her thoughts, would know her soul.

Cassandra felt the cool of the night air as it touched her skin. Why did she feel no embarrassment? Instead, she was overcome with a rush of exhilaration, and she boldly met his look without shame. His eyes, black pools of turbulence, deepened with understanding, then dropped slowly. With excruciating deliberation, his gaze traveled from her face to the pale flesh now revealed by the silvery moonlight.

“Sweet Cassandra,” he rasped, the words thick with passion, “do you realize how beautiful you are?”

She could not move, could not speak. Lord Sutherfield’s meandering gaze was like a caress, stroking her, filling her with longing. The fire he had kindled in her was raging out of control, and she was helpless to douse the flames.

Cassandra held her breath as she watched his hand move unhurriedly to the pink tip of one firm breast, his fingers splayed open. He set his palm to the soft nipple, rolling it gently, the contact making the sensitive peak stiffen. Her pent-up air came out in a shaky gasp.

Closing his hand around the breast, the marquess once more brought his rapt attention to her face. His ebony gaze glittered with lust, and there was a frightening savagery about his expression. Her heart thudded with such force, she was positive he could feel the agitated organ beating beneath his touch.

He dragged her to him with his free arm, wrapping it around her. She could feel his long, sinewy fingers as he grazed them along her spine up to the base of her neck. Her skin tingled deliciously. And then he brought his heated mouth down on hers. Cassandra met him willingly, almost aggressively. His tongue slipped between her parted lips, and her limbs grew weak at the intimacy of the gesture. He groaned aloud when she returned the favor.

She was not certain exactly when the tenor of their lovemaking began to shift, but step by urgent step the mood intensified. Erotic kisses, warm and languorous, came to a steamy head. The marquess’ breathing grew harsh and his movements more forceful.

Cassandra’s arms were twined around his neck, and he thrust his leg between her knees so she straddled him, forcing the hem of her skirt above her ankles. She did not understand the importance of the deed until he grabbed hold of her hips and began to drag her along the length of his hard thigh. Carnal pleasure raced through her body, a heightened awareness in a secret place that already burned wantonly.

She did not fight the feeling, but moved with it, helping him—helping herself. Over and over the motion was repeated, back and forth, till rational thought dissipated, leaving gratification as her only goal.

Cassandra threw her head back, exposing her throat. Lord Sutherfield found the tiny pulse that throbbed there and covered it with his greedy mouth, then left a damp trail as he traced his tongue over creamy skin to a her breast. This time he tasted the swollen nipple.

“Simon…” his name fell from her lips on a frantic moan. “Simon…”

“Yes, love,” he beckoned her, his voice hoarse in his aroused state. “I’m here. Come with me.”

She heard his entreaty as if from a long distance. Where did he want her to go with him? The mesmerizing rhythm continued unabated, and with it her escalating excitement. From deep in her brain, now clouded with passion, she wondered what it would be like if there were no clothing between them where his thigh rubbed her so intimately.

Without warning, Cassandra cried out as a great coiling spring burst free within her, drenching her stimulated body in rich, voluptuous sensation. Spasm after glorious spasm shook her, before they gradually died away, leaving behind a tingling warmth. Spent, she sobbed breathlessly, shuddered uncontrollably.

Her knees buckled. She clutched at Simon’s coat with trembling fingers but did not have the strength to hold herself erect. He straightened and grabbed hold of her arms.

“My love,” he whispered thickly, holding her close, “you don’t know how you please me. You exceed my wildest expectations.”

Cassandra gazed up at him through misty eyes. How had she pleased him? Did he understand the shocking thing that had just happened to her?

“Please, take me back,” she said in a broken voice, utterly humiliated.

“Can you stand?” Simon asked, his manner turning brusque.

That dark, hungry look still masked his features, and though his words were pinched with frustration, Cassandra sensed his concern. When she nodded, he helped her into the top of her gown with capable hands. That complete, the marquess took a red curl which had come loose from her hair, and with visible tenderness, placed it behind her ear. He drew in a heavy breath that shook slightly and released it through his mouth. He conveyed the impression that he was in control. Perhaps he was not.

Cassandra, too exhausted to do anything but follow, allowed him to take her elbow, leading her back in the direction they had come from. Her legs were still unsteady, and she leaned on his arm for support. Moments later they reached the French doors of the morning room.

She turned to enter the house, her eyes downcast, hoping to avoid speaking to him again.

He grabbed her wrist. “Cassandra, look at me.”

Cassandra could not ignore the urgency in his voice. She scanned his features, desperate to understand.

“What do you want from me?” she begged, now close to weeping.

“I wish I could tell you, love. I’ve never met a woman who so completely deprives me of my gentlemanly instincts. All I know is that I don’t want you to go away from me angry.”

His smile was gentle with understanding. He raised his hand to her face, drawing his thumb across her eyebrow, over her cheekbone, down her jaw. Simon’s gaze glowed with things remembered.

“It was intense back there,” he said, “and if I’ve distressed you, I pray you forgive me. I was sincere when I said I don’t want to hurt you.”

Too late for that, she thought. Cassandra nodded at him in agreement, though, because to tell him how she really felt would have been too painful.

“I look a sight,” she said, changing the subject.

“Hardly,” Simon countered, an ironical gleam in his eye. “But we will probably have to explain why you’ve been missing. Go back inside and lie down on the sofa. That will account for your rumpled appearance. I’ll reenter the house from the front door to insure no one sees me coming from here. Complain of a headache. That’s a plausible excuse for leaving the party.”

It was a scheme as good as any, she thought. Cassandra doubted seriously whether or not they could pull it off, but she was so distraught, she’d stopped caring. She moved into the morning room.

Simon stopped her again. “Cassandra.”

“Yes?” She sent him an indifferent stare.

“This is not the end.”

She had the oddest impression that he was informing himself as well as her. Since she could think of nothing to say, she closed the door without responding.

Cassandra moved to the sofa and sat down, taking her weight off weary legs. Lord Sutherfield didn’t know what he wanted from her, but this was not the end. Wonderful. Exactly what did that mean?

Did it matter, really? Her grandfather expected her to marry cousin Roger—Roger who was infatuated with Penelope. The only thing she wanted was to run swiftly back to London and her father. Life had become too complicated, too overwhelming. She placed her face in her hands.

What had happened out there in Mr. Stiles’ garden? How could she have acted so wantonly? And what, oh, what beguiling sensations had overcome her treacherous body to make her forget herself?

The door to the morning room burst open and Roger, followed by her grandfather, shot into the room.

“Cousin, we’ve looked everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

Cassandra ignored Roger, directing her answer to earl. “I have a headache. I thought it might help if I rested for a little while. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

Her grandfather studied her through suspicious eyes. “I was in here not long ago, Cassandra. You were not on that sofa.”

“You don’t say!” Roger looked shocked.

She sent him an irritated glance, before bringing her attention back to her grandfather. That took a precious moment, which was a good thing because she needed time to think.

“I was ill,” she lied.

“Ill?”

“Yes. The pain in my head upset my stomach. I’m afraid I lost my dinner in the retiring room down the hall. Perhaps when you came in here, that’s where I was…i-in the retiring room, that is,” she stammered.

Cassandra was very glad the lighting was dim, for telling lies always made her face red. At the moment, her cheeks burned. However, it seemed she had picked the one reason that would require no further explanation. Both men stared at her, each wearing the same appalled expression.

“My dear…” The earl cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you’ve been unwell. I think we need to take you home and to your bed.”

“Have I caused an uproar?” she asked cautiously, dreading the answer.

Her grandfather looked embarrassed. “We did not raise the alarm because, quite frankly, I didn’t know where you had gone. With Lord Sutherfield here and all, well…you understand. He hasn’t exactly made a secret of his interest, and you were talking with him earlier.”

Cassandra wanted to challenge his distrust but he was so close to the mark, she could not bring herself to deny his suspicions. Now was not the time to be outraged, especially after her little episode in the garden with the marquess. The earl had a right to be concerned. She was truly concerned herself.

She moved into the hall flanked on either side by her male relatives. Penelope met them in the entry.

“Cassie, where have you been?” she demanded in a shrill voice, loud enough to attract the attention of several people in the vicinity.

“Penelope, I would rather you not publicize your cousin’s disappearance,” the earl said severely. “She’s been ill and resting in the morning room. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

“That’s what Lord Sutherfield thought might have happened.”

Cassandra sent the tiny blonde a look meant to kill. “How clever he is,” she said through clenched teeth, refusing to acknowledge the piercing glance her grandfather sent her way.

A disturbance outside created a welcome diversion. Shouting could be heard coming from the front lawn. Mr. Stiles pushed his way to the hall entrance and yanked open the door with a number of his guests following closely behind him.

Cassandra was one of the first people to step outside, and she searched for the source of the trouble. Mr. Bailey! Oh, no, she thought in despair. What else could go wrong tonight?

The man was reeling, drunk as always it seemed. A groom tried to subdue him, though clearly Bailey was having none of it.

“What is this?” Mr. Stiles barked.

“You’re the gent what’s got my son, and I want ‘im.” Timothy’s father pulled free of the groom and lurched up to the step. “You may be quality, but there’s still a law against kidnappin’.”

“This would be better discussed in the morning when we all have clearer heads,” Harry said.

“You think to put ol’ George Bailey off, do you?” Bailey belched, revealing his contempt. “I don’t think so. For me this is as good as it gets.”

“I wouldn’t doubt that for a moment. Still, I consider tomorrow a more appropriate time for the rest of us. I’m afraid you are going to have to go along with my decision.”

“To bleedin’ hell with your decision,” Bailey exploded. “I want Tim and I want ‘im now.”

“Excuse me, maybe I could be of help.”

Cassandra recognized Lord Sutherfield’s voice as he separated himself from the other guests and approached the intruder.

“Oh, yeah? And what’s a prime blood like you gonna do for the likes o’ me?”

“Let’s not fool ourselves, Bailey,” the marquess said in a cool voice. “I have no desire to help you. My concern is for your son. He was in poor health when he came into our hands. He had been beaten severely and his arm was broken. I admit I’m very reluctant to send Tim back into the same conditions from which he was rescued.”

“See ‘ere, now. I don’t know nothin’ about no beating.” For the first time, Bailey seemed aware of the people who had spilled from the house, and his glance shifted uneasily about the gathering.

“Let’s not bandy words. I have a proposition for you and I would appreciate if you would give me a listen.”

Simon’s voice sounded neutral, almost indifferent, but Cassandra knew he was angry. Something about the way his hand curled into a slow fist warned her. If Tim’s father were wise, it would warn him, too.

“I’ll listen.” Bailey’s posture was still hostile, but he also watched Lord Sutherfield’s clenched hand.

“I would like you to give up your parental rights to Timothy. Now wait a minute.” The marquess raised a hand when Mr. Bailey began to splutter incoherently. “There’s more. In exchange for your promise to give over the care of your son, I will pay the sum of one hundred pounds.”

“Wh-what? Do you mean it? A hundred quid?” Bailey looked dumbfounded.

“Yes, I do. There will be papers to sign. I want it legal.”

“That’s no problem, no problem at all.” Bailey’s attitude took a complete reversal with the promise of unexpected wealth.

Thus Cassandra and the rest of the company watched in silence as Lord Sutherfield negotiated the purchase of Mr. Bailey’s son. One hundred pounds was an astonishing fortune to a man of George Bailey’s background, she thought sadly. Yet she felt dismayed by his willingness to barter away his child even though she assumed extreme poverty could bring out the worst in a person. These were the harsh realities of life, she knew, but somehow it was easier to ignore them when glimpsed from afar. Tonight she had gotten a close and very personal view.

With the promise to return the next day to finalize the arrangements, Mr. Bailey turned to leave. As an apparent afterthought he looked back at Simon.

“Hey, you’re not one of those blokes what likes young boys, are you?” He shook his head. “Don’t matter. I s’pose he could have a worse life than that. Starvin’s worse, that’s for sure.” He laughed raucously as he stumbled into the gloomy night.

“Filthy bastard!”

Lord Sutherfield had said aloud what Cassandra could only think. From the expressions on the faces of those around them, she and the marquess were not alone in their assessment.

Simon looked as though he wanted to rush after the drunkard and throttle him. In fact, he took a step in that direction before Mr. Stiles placed a cautionary hand on his friend’s arm.

“He’s not worth it, Simon. You’ve done a fine thing here tonight. Let it go at that.”

Simon nodded. Squaring his shoulders, he came back to the gathering. He searched the crowd, and Cassandra knew instinctively that he was trying to find her. When he did, his gaze lit with recognition, and he sent her a silent message that she interpreted as regret.

She wanted to be distant with him but sensed his distress over what had happened. Cassandra was overwhelmed by his generosity, and she couldn’t bring herself to reject him. The marquess wished to share the painful moment with her, and it caused a constriction around her heart that was painfully gratifying.

She gave him a look filled with sympathy. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, tell him how proud she was. Unhappily, their situation did not allow them to be more than casual acquaintances. Even now, she was aware of her grandfather’s watchful gaze.

“Was that me da?”

Every eye in the company turned in the direction of the fair-haired child who had appeared in the doorway. His arm, still encased in plaster, hung heavily from his shoulder.

“Timothy, what are you doing out here?” Simon strode toward the boy. “You should be in bed.”

“Couldn’t sleep, milord. It’s very noisy, and I coulda swore I heard me da.”

“He’s gone now,” Lord Sutherfield said, clearly ill at ease. “What say we get you upstairs?”

“He’s not comin’ back for me, is he?” There was no self-pity on the lad’s young face, only a quiet fatalism.

Cassandra shared another wrenching look with the marquess before he came down on his haunches next to the boy.

“No, Timothy, I’m afraid he’s not.”

“Don’t worry, milord.” Timothy patted Simon on the shoulder. “He didn’t much care for me, anyhow. It’s better this way.”

*****

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?

*****

CHAPTER 10

“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.

“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.”

Again a protracted silence filled the room, and again Cassandra waited apprehensively.

“You are headstrong as was your father,” he said at last.

Cassandra sensed her victory, and she sighed inwardly, relieved. Why did she feel guilty then as if she had done an awful thing?

“Did you try to manage my father?” The question was not an idle one. She really needed to know.

“I tried to direct Trevor as any good father would.” His words were bitter. “My son was obstinate and immature, and he fought me at every turn. His marriage to your mother happened because he was rebelling against my authority. I wanted him to marry a more fitting young lady. Months after his marriage he died, proving me right.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t pushed so hard things would have been different.” Cassandra hoped he understood what that statement meant—his interference had not worked with her father, and it would not work with her.

He ignored her last comment. “If you miss James enough to cause this scene, then I suppose I should take your request seriously. But do not assume I have relented. I will expect you back in a few weeks, and we will once again take up the issue of your marriage to Roger.”

Cassandra ran from behind the pianoforte and threw her arms around her grandfather’s neck. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “You will not regret your kindness.”

He stood rigid but gradually relaxed, returning her embrace with obvious self-consciousness. “There, there, no need to be maudlin,” he said as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “You will come back.”

“Naturally.” She could be generous now that he had relented. “I’m lonely for my father. He’s not a writer and I worry about him. I have received one letter for every six or seven I’ve sent, and he always seems sad when he does write. I’m all he’s had since my mother died.”

He stepped away from her. “When would you like to depart?”

“Three days?”

“All right,” he agreed, although she could still hear the reluctance in his voice. “We’ll make the necessary preparations.”

Cassandra almost skipped from the room. How much nicer that they had come to an understanding rather than having a messy disagreement. She hadn’t wanted to defy him. That made things more difficult. This way Grandfather and she could part friends, and for some reason that pleased her.

She would face the prospect of returning here at a later date. Perhaps by then the earl would stop pestering her about Roger. Her cousins would be here alone without Cassandra’s complicating influence. That should give them time to establish their relationship. If Roger had any backbone at all he would stand up to the earl and admit he loved Penelope.

For everyone’s sake.

*****

“Timothy, how do you like fishing?”

The boy sagged under the weight of the fish he carried on a string with his good arm. “Fine, but I’d rather go huntin’ like the gents I seen. You know, with a real gun.”

Simon smiled. “I suppose guns are exciting if you’ve never used one, but I think we’ve had a pleasant day, nonetheless.”

He felt relaxed, mellow, as he walked home with his young charge. Four hours of uninterrupted angling in the tranquil setting of Harry’s private fishing stream had been a calming experience.

Frankly, he needed the rest.

He had not seen Cassandra James for several days, and he was feeling uneasy. Something bothered him, something he couldn’t explain.

“We got company, milord” Timothy said.

“Those two. What are they doing way over here?”

Miss Ingram and Mr. Morley were on horseback several hundred yards across a field from Simon and Timothy. Where is Miss James? Simon wondered.

Evidently, Penelope caught sight of the marquess and his companion before Roger did, because she kicked her horse, directing the animal in their direction. Roger remained where he was for a moment before galloping after her. His frustration was clear even across the distance.

“Lord Sutherfield, how wonderful to see you and your tiny waif.” Penelope smiled at Timothy as she drew abreast of the pair. Her expression was insulting in its condescension. “Have we been fishing?”

Simon put his hand on Timothy’s shoulder because he felt the boy bristle beside him. He realized he would need to have a talk with lad about appropriate conduct when dealing with his betters. However, for today at least, he empathized with the boy’s response completely. He forced a smile.

“Yes, we’ve been fishing, Miss Ingram.” He addressed Roger as the man rode in behind Penelope. “How are you, Morley?”

“Adequate,” Roger said, attitude frosty.

“Glad to hear it. I suppose we’ll be on our way. Nice to see you both.” The marquess turned away, fully aware he had surprised the riders with his brusque departure. Without Cassandra’s presence it was hardly worth his time to be civil to her unpleasant relatives.

“Have you heard, my lord?” A note of spite crept into Penelope’s voice as she spoke to Simon’s back.

Simon glanced around at her, brows raised in question.

“It’s Cassandra, of course,” she said, looking smug.

He hoped his expression did not give away his instant dread. It took some effort, but he kept his emotions under wrap, watching the young lady coolly.

“What about Miss James?”

“She’s gone.”

Simon swallowed. “Gone?”

“This very afternoon—to London. We’ll miss her, naturally.” That statement exposed her as a liar. “She wanted to see her father.”

“I see.” He paused briefly. “I would like to have said goodbye to her.”

He turned away from the couple again, Timothy on his heels, and this time he did not look back.

*****

Simon left Timothy in the stable with a groom. His respiration labored, he trotted toward the house.

“Harry!” he bellowed as he entered the front door. Silence greeted him. “Damnation! man, where are you?”

Harry appeared at the top of the staircase. “Simon, is there a problem?”

“I’m on my way, Harry.” The marquess dashed up the stairs, meeting his friend on the landing.

“On your way? Where?”

“I’m returning to London. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“I don’t understand. The last I knew you’d gone fishing. What happened?”

“Timothy and I ran across Miss Ingram and Morley on our way home. They told me Cassandra James left for London this afternoon. I’m going to follow her.”

Harry stared at the marquess. “What does Miss James leaving have to do with you?”

Simon grinned. “Did I forget to mention it? I’ve decided to marry the lady.”

*****

CHAPTER 11

“Lord Whittingham will be with you shortly, my lord,” the butler stated as he ushered the marquess into the library. “May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?” After being refused, the servant made a dignified exit, closing the door behind him.

Simon walked into the middle of the library too nervous to sit. He did not know Lord Whittingham well, but believed the coming interview would be awkward. The few times Simon had met the earl, he sensed the man’s animosity.

He wanted to pace but restrained himself. Showing his agitation would put him at a disadvantage when it came time to negotiate with his host.

The marquess allowed his gaze to wander around the room, although he registered little of interest until he spied the painting above the fireplace. The canvas depicted a life-size portrait of Cassandra. He stared at the picture, mesmerized.

“Magnificent woman, wasn’t she?”

Simon turned quickly to the man who had silently entered the room. “Was?”

Lord Whittingham’s lips eased slightly in what might have been a smile. “That is my wife Elizabeth. She’s deceased now. You thought she was Cassandra, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that explains my confusion.”

“Oh?”

“The portrait is beautifully done, and the likeness is remarkable. But it did not seem to be Miss James behind those eyes. The woman in the painting is much too serene to be your granddaughter.”

The earl did smile then. “You are correct. Cassandra is a fiery young lady. She’s much like my son, I’m afraid. But it’s her resemblance to her grandmother that convinced us of her heritage.”

“Indeed.”

“Naturally, we couldn’t go on appearance alone. That evidence by itself would have been coincidental. Other proof did surface to substantiate our claim.”

“I have the impression Miss James is not pleased with this turn of events.”

Lord Whittingham studied him through a cool, probing gaze so light his eyes looked like chips of ice.

The marquess held his ground, staring back impassively, but inwardly he flinched.

“Let us be comfortable, shall we, Sutherfield?” the earl said, indicating a chair. He moved behind his desk and once seated, continued. “I know you have not come to exchange pleasantries with an old man, therefore, I’ll be blunt. Cassandra is not here. She left for London yesterday.”

“I’m aware of that. My visit is for you.”

“I see,” the earl said in a bland voice. “How can I be of service?”

“I’m returning to the city myself.” Simon hesitated, unsure of how to begin. No better way than just to say it, he reasoned hopefully. “Sir, I would like your permission to pay my addresses to your granddaughter.”

An infuriated glower replaced the neutral expression on Lord Whittingham’s face. “I forbid it,” he snapped, sitting forward in his chair.

“I don’t understand. A marriage between Cassandra and me would be highly suitable. I have rank and a considerable fortune.”

“You are a rogue, sir. I want more for Cassandra than that.”

The marquess flushed, now also angry. “Those are strong words. Do you have proof to support your allegation?”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

The contempt in the earl’s attitude humiliated Simon, but there was more at stake here than his pride. With great effort he restrained his temper.

“I love Cassandra and I believe she cares for me.”

“How long do you expect that to last? A man who has the habit of flitting among women soon tires of a wife. And if my granddaughter truly cares for you, I will have spared her that crushing blow. I have her life planned and I’ll fight if you interfere.”

“A marriage to Morley? You’re using protection of her feelings as a justification for furthering your ambitions. Even I know she can hardly stand the man.”

“This is not for you to decide, Sutherfield.”

“You are using her like a brood mare. What difference does it make if your great-grandson inherits the earldom or not? Regardless, Morley’s branch of the family succeeds to the title. All you’ve done is hand Cassandra over to them. There is a chance she will not have a son. What then?”

Lord Whittingham’s eyes sparked furiously, his complexion growing mottled. “You dare challenge my judgment?”

“No, sir, I do not. I simply don’t understand your obsession. My title came to a recent ancestor of mine much the way your title will go to Roger. There is a sadness when that happens, naturally, but one must go on.”

“Youth.” The single word exposed the earl’s disdain. “You have no understanding of constancy, what it means to observe life in a continuous line with no break, each generation knowing what to expect. Like all young people you live for the moment. Can’t you see this is more important than individual aspirations?”

The earl did understand. He had grown to adulthood with the same values, the same goals. Perhaps his distress over Cassandra seemed more important to him because it was so personally his own problem.

Simon came to his feet.

“Whittingham, I thank you for seeing me,” he said, tilting his head at his host. “I must tell you as one gentleman to another, I’m not going to end it here. No doubt my motives seem selfish to you, and I do appreciate your position. I don’t come by my decision lightly. However, after I reach London, I will approach Quintin James when I feel the time is right.”

The earl stood also but did not offer his hand. “You do this over my opposition, Sutherfield,” he said in a grim voice. “I am not without influence, and so I’ve told Cassandra.”

What did that mean? Had Lord Whittingham threatened his granddaughter? The marquess chose not to address the issue, instead tossing in a challenge of his own.

“I am not without influence, either, sir—nor am I afraid to use it.”

Let the old man chew on that for a while.

It’s a stalemate, Simon thought dully.

They exchanged a tense stare, an unspoken moment with neither gentleman willing to back away from his position. There was little hope the earl would alter an attitude fostered from birth.

Simon bowed. He respected Whittingham despite the differences he had with him. Because there was nothing left to say, the marquess departed. He still had a long ride ahead of him.

*****

“Papa! Oh, Papa…” Cassandra cried, her voice breaking as she flung her arms around her father’s neck. “I’ve missed you!”

“There, there, child, I’ve missed you, also.” Quintin James put his daughter from him, his eyes suspiciously red. “When I received your letter last week I thought I must be dreaming.”

“I can’t believe I’m here.” She twirled on her toes where she stood in the entry, her gaze taking in every detail of her beloved home. “There’s much to be said for appreciating what one has. What a pity I had to go away to understand that.” She linked arms with him and drew him into the parlor.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked, patting the slim hand that rested on his forearm. “I didn’t think he would let you come.”

Cassandra sent him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t give Grandfather much choice. I told him I was coming with or without his consent. He and I agreed it would be easier if we worked together.”

She avoided her father’s probing stare, the questions lurking in his warm, caring eyes. Instead, she sat on the sofa. “Come, sit with me,” she said. “Tell me how you’ve been. Have you lost weight? You look thinner.”

“Do I?” he asked, joining her. He rubbed his hand over his still generous middle. “There’s not much reason to linger over a table of one.”

“Papa, I’m sorry.”

“Now, now, I’m not wallowing in self-pity. It isn’t as though you were going to live with me forever. I have managed well enough.” He paused for a moment but did not look directly at her. “Lately, I’ve made some new friends.”

Cassandra could not decide what in his tone caught her attention or why she suddenly was filled with misgiving. She sensed a change in her father and it frightened her. What was it? Rather than risk a painful answer, she refused to ask.

“How nice,” she managed over a tongue gone numb. “I think I would like to go to my room and rest for a while. Do you mind? I feel drained.”

“Of course not, my dear. This is an emotional time for us both. We’ll visit when you’ve had a chance to recover.”

Cassandra entered her bedchamber several minutes later, and for the first time she felt at home. She plopped down on an ottoman, absorbing the familiar surroundings—her bed, the drapes, the carpet. Everything was just as she had left it. So why had the atmosphere been strange downstairs? And most frightening of all, why had Papa seemed different?

Was it true one could never go home again?—at least, not to the same home? Had everything changed so that she and her father could no longer relate to each other as they had in the past? Perhaps he had already begun to release his hold on her, had accepted that she did not belong to him. The thought made her throat ache.

Since the moment she had left London, she had thought of little else but returning here. Every day had been a struggle, with a grandfather who wished to dictate her life and a cousin whose only concern was for his own future.

Then there was Lord Sutherfield.

The marquess had insinuated himself into her life like a tiny splinter works its way into tender flesh. The wound was raw, the pain profound. Yet she missed him. How could she pine for someone who caused her such distress?

What did it matter? She would probably never see Simon again. In time she would forget him. Must forget him. Cassandra hoped she was right, for she found it unbearable that the injury to her heart might be a permanent condition.

*****

“Cassie, I’m so happy,” Sophy said as the footman helped her from the carriage. “It seems forever since you and I took a walk in Hyde Park.”

Cassandra joined her on the ground. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?” She turned to the driver. “One hour,” she said. She linked arms with her friend, and they started down the path with the footman following at a discreet distance.

“I come with Lily Tisdale on occasion,” Sophy continued, “but she’s ugly as a mud post, poor thing, and it’s not nearly as much fun. You’re very beautiful and all the gentlemen stare, which makes me feel as though I’m sharing in the attention.”

Cassandra smiled and she squeezed her companion’s arm affectionately. “Sophy, how I’ve longed to see you.”

Sophy’s plain face flushed a bright pink. “You know it’s the truth, even if you’re too modest to admit it. Now that you know you’re the granddaughter of an earl, you may socialize with all those gentlemen who have ogled you in the past.”

“To be honest with you, I don’t think I want to socialize with an ogler. If I wasn’t good enough then, well…” She shrugged. “I am perfectly happy with the people I’ve known all my life.”

“But, Cassie, things are different now. You can’t go back. You have expectations.”

“So I’ve been told repeatedly.” Cassandra could feel her irritation surfacing. “What should I do, refuse to acknowledge all my old friends? Should I stop associating with you because I am the granddaughter of an earl? I refuse to accept that everything is different.”

Cassandra hated showing her impatient side, but since her arrival home three days earlier, Sophy’s opinion had been the attitude of everyone. Worst of all, her father seemed to accept that her life would be changed forever. She felt caught between two worlds, belonging to neither.

“Forgive me, Cassie.” Sophy came to a stop and stared at her companion through large hazel eyes, round with hurt. “I thought you were pleased with your new prosperity.”

“I should ask your forgiveness, Sophy. I’ve wanted to see you so much, and once I do I start an argument. My behavior is insufferable.”

“Are you unhappy?” Sophy asked.

“I don’t know.” That was a lie. “I wanted everything to be the same as if I’d not been away at all. I suppose it was silly of me.”

A shadow fell across Cassandra and Sophy, startling both young ladies. Sophy covered her mouth and squealed in fright.

A horse and rider blocked the path, and for a moment the only thing in Cassandra’s line of vision was a highly polished Hessian-clad foot. A long, lean leg extended beyond the boot, muscles in the hard thigh bunching as the limb gripped the animal.

Even before she saw the man’s face she knew. Her lungs contracted painfully.

“Miss James, did you think to escape me?” His speech was quiet, almost sinister.

She heard Sophy gasp beside her, but Cassandra could not tear her gaze from the compelling figure in front of her. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lord Sutherfield.” She spoke in a feathery voice, trying to find her breath.

“That’s odd. I had the impression you did not intend to say good-bye. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I did tell you good-bye, my lord.”

“Is that what that was?”

“I thought I was very clear,” she defended herself.

The marquess raised black eyes and looked over her head. At the same time Cassandra heard someone approaching on the path. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted her servant trotting toward them, wearing a concerned expression.

“It’s all right, Farley. This is Lord Sutherfield. He…ah, that is to say, he is an acquaintance of mine.”

A stiff silence followed while the footman took stock of the situation. Farley nodded. “If you need me, miss,” he said, sending a look of misgiving in the direction of the marquess. He backed away to a discreet distance but stayed in sight.

Lord Sutherfield dismounted. He held his horse by the reins and moved closer to the ladies. His attention shifted to Sophy.

“I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your lovely companion, Miss James.” He gazed at Sophy in that way he had that made a woman’s heart quiver with excitement.

Sophy was struck dumb. Her eyes had taken on a glazed look, and her mouth hung open in a most unattractive way.

“This is Miss Willis. You’ve met her.” Cassandra spoke sharply but her rudeness stemmed from uneasiness. Sophy’s response to the marquess was not reassuring, for it underscored her own vulnerability regarding the man.

Lord Sutherfield seemed unaware of Cassandra’s ruffled feelings. She knew he was not. He smiled at Miss Willis, took her hand in his and placed a slow kiss on her knuckles. “I remember,” he said, raising a warm gaze to hers.

“Oh…” Sophy did not appear capable of managing more response than that.

The marquess continued to smile in a persuasive manner at his newest conquest, all the while holding her hand. “Do you think, Miss Willis, it would be all right if I had a few words in private with Miss James? Nothing improper, you understand.”

“Yes, yes, I see no harm.” Sophy fluttered her lashes and beamed at him inanely.

Cassandra wanted to strangle her. Why, Sophy looks as though something is caught in her eye, she thought. Couldn’t she see how the marquess was manipulating her?

“Perhaps another day, Lord Sutherfield,” Cassandra stated, rigid with disapproval.

“Miss James, come. You’re not going to treat an old friend like that, are you? Just a moment of your time—even Miss Willis approves, don’t you, Miss Willis?”

He sent Sophy another meaningful look and her friend visibly melted.

“Only a moment, my lord.” Sophy giggled. “I shall be on that bench taking a little sun. Don’t be long.”

Cassandra felt as if Sophy had handed her over to the care of a scoundrel. Her temper rose precariously but it was too late. The marquess had already taken her arm.

“Stay with Miss Willis,” she tossed at the footman as the marquess pulled her down the shaded path.

“Why are you following me?” she spat as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I told you we were not finished, Cassandra. I meant it.”

He looked down at her from the edge of his eyes, and against her will a shiver of excitement coursed through her belly.

“I don’t see how you can think that. It’s not just for you to decide.”

“Of course not, love.” There was laughter in his voice. “You agree with me wholeheartedly.”

“I do not. How can you say that?”

“Because that is how I feel, and I won’t accept that you don’t feel the same. I warn you, I’m used to having my way.”

Simon came to an abrupt stop, surprising not only Cassandra but his horse. The animal snorted his disapproval.

They had reached a bend in the path and could no longer see Sophy where she rested on the bench.

“Lord Sutherfield,” Cassandra began.

“Call me Simon. I insist.”

“All right…Simon,” she bit out. Frustrated, she paused to collect her thoughts. “This has to end. It is one thing to carry on a flirtation in the country, but we are in the city again.”

He grabbed her elbow, pulling her close. “A flirtation? Is that what it meant to you?”

“What else was it?” Something primitive thrummed in her blood when he touched her, and she was seized by panic. If his very nearness sent her emotions spinning out of control, how could she send him away?

“There is a moment in a rose garden that haunts my dreams,” Simon whispered in a thick voice, “a sweet torture that makes sleep almost impossible. I’m disappointed if you weren’t touched as I was.”

Cassandra was unable to lie. “I never said I was untouched,” she said, though she had trouble looking at him.

Something gleamed in his eye when she glanced back at him, something triumphant.

“Then all will be well,” he promised huskily. “I admit I’ve been worried, but now I won’t let anything stand in my way—for both our sakes.” His gaze grew smoky as he tenderly placed his hand to her cheek. He lowered his mouth to hers.

Until that moment she would have denied how much she wanted him to kiss her. She had missed Simon. Cassandra found herself leaning into him and, as his arms came around her, absorbing the warmth and excitement of his embrace.

She trailed her hand up to his neck and tangled her fingers in the hair at his collar, holding on to him. A low growl slipped from his throat.

He deepened the kiss.

A movement on the trail caused them to draw apart guiltily. Simon stood in front of Cassandra, wedging her between himself and his horse to protect her from the curious stares of two couples who came into view. The small group walked passed them without speaking, but she heard the eruption of sudden whispers as they moved out of sight.

“I knew it, Lord Sutherfield,” Cassandra whispered furiously. “You will ruin me before you are through. I must be the most stupid woman alive.”

“You promised to call me Simon.”

His smile was so innocent she wanted to throttle him. “This is ludicrous. I’m not willing to start that with you again.”

She pulled away with the intention of leaving him where he stood, but he grabbed hold of her wrist. His eyes narrowed ominously.

“Understand one thing, Cassandra, I am deadly serious. If I seem lighthearted it is only because I don’t want to frighten you.” He took her arm. “We’ll return to your friend as though nothing is wrong. Your indifference will keep Miss Willis in the dark. After all,” he said, leering suggestively at her, “anger is a strong emotion that means one cares. So yell at me. Make me a happy man.”

Cassandra opened her mouth and then snapped her jaws shut. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking she cared. Silently, they retraced the path to where Sophy waited, the marquess towing his horse.

“Miss Willis,” Simon called, “we have returned. We weren’t long, were we?”

Sophy jumped from her seat on the bench and trotted toward them. “Not at all, my lord,” she gushed. “You’re such a gentleman. You did just as you said you would.”

The marquess raised a brow at her. “Was there some doubt?”

Cassandra’s friend blushed a bright pink. “N-no, of course not,” she stammered, but finished in perfect honesty, “though I am glad to see you both.”

Lord Sutherfield’s laughter filled the air. “Miss Willis, you are a delight. I’m glad Miss James has an ally in you.”

“She is my very best friend,” Sophy said. “Aren’t you Cassandra?”

“Yes, dear,” the best friend murmured mournfully. In a few short moments the marquess had bewitched Sophy, and inexplicably Cassandra felt betrayed. She turned a bemused look on the footman who approached at that moment. “What is it, Farley?”

“The carriage has arrived, miss.”

“Thank you.” Then to Simon, “We shall be taking our leave of you, my lord. It has been nice to see you again.” She held out her hand to him in what she hoped was an impersonal gesture.

“It has.” He gave her a knowing grin as his large fist closed around her small one. “And Cassandra,” the marquess said as he winked at her, “I look forward to our next meeting. Miss Willis, it has been a pleasure.” He mounted his horse and rode from the park.

“Didn’t you say you weren’t interested in oglers?” Sophy burst forth moments later as they settled into the carriage.

“I’m not,” Cassandra answered cautiously.

“That’s the man from Mrs. Witherspoon’s party last spring, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“And he certainly ogled you that evening. I remember clearly.”

“You have a convenient memory, Sophy,” she muttered.

“Unfair of you, Cassandra, and you know it. He is very handsome and hard to forget. He gives me shivers—nice shivers, I might add.”

“That’s his calling card. Women toss themselves at him, and he’s developed quite an ego because of it.”

“Is that why you were cool to him?”

Cassandra moved irritably on the seat. “He’s too forward and I don’t think I should encourage him.”

That was a disingenuous statement for certain, as she had allowed that same forward gentleman to kiss her only moments past. And she had kissed him back.

After a short silence, Sophy ventured, “It seems strange that he would be friendly after all these weeks. He was very familiar just now. I don’t understand because you said you hardly spoke to him at Mrs. Witherspoon’s party.”

“He wasn’t that familiar, was he?”

“He used your given name.”

“Sophy,” Cassandra said in sudden exasperation, “when did you become so observant? All right, I admit it. Lord Sutherfield and I became acquainted while I stayed with my grandfather. The marquess was visiting in the neighborhood, and he and I attended some of the same functions.”

“You didn’t want to tell me?” Sophy sounded hurt.

“You know it’s not that,” she said soothingly. “We engaged in a light flirtation, that’s all, but it’s over.”

“I don’t think Lord Sutherfield considers it over.”

“Simon is a flirt. Wooing ladies is a sport to him. I’m no more special than any other female.”

“So he’s Simon, is he?”

Cassandra’s patience snapped. “Lord Sutherfield is a part of my past I choose to forget. I would appreciate it if you would allow the subject to drop.”

They completed the ride to the Willis residence without speaking.

Sophy descended from the carriage, turning around to her companion. “You’re angry with me.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I’m angry with myself. I’ve been very unpleasant company today. Please forgive me,” she said, reaching out the door of the vehicle and taking her friend’s hand.

Sophy’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. “There’s nothing to forgive. If I had a Lord Sutherfield complicating my life I’d be confused, also. I do think you ought to consider why his admiration upsets you, though.”

Oh blast! Cassandra thought as the carriage pulled away from the curb. Why had her friend chosen that moment to be shrewd? In her own way Sophy had said the very thing the marquess had said. If she didn’t care then it wouldn’t matter.

But she did care and it did matter.

*****

“Cassandra, love, beautiful as always. Anyone who thinks that color rose does not wear well on a redhead has not seen you in that dress.”

“Thank you, Papa. I’m rather pleased with it myself,” she said, entering the drawing room.

Cassandra was gratified by her father’s response because the dressmaker had been less than enthusiastic with the selection.

“It brings out the bloom in your cheeks,” Quintin continued. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, it’s been so long since I attended the opera. I’m looking forward to it.”

Moments later they climbed into their carriage. As Cassandra settled her skirts, her father coughed nervously, an apprehensive sound that immediately caught her attention.

“There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, my dear.” He cleared his throat.

“Yes, Papa?”

“We are to have a companion this evening.”

“That’s nice. Who is it?”

“We’re on our way there now. I believe you will like her.”

Her? Cassandra’s stomach dropped like a lead ball. “Do I know this person?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ve known her for years through my business. Her husband Sir Alfred Camden and I had dealings from time to time. My relationship with Lady Camden was strictly superficial until recently.”

She had to force her next question. “What is it now?”

“Our relationship? Still in the early stages but I have hopes.”

“And Sir Alfred?”

Her father turned in her direction, and she could see his eyes shining in the darkness.

“It’s a long story, Cassie. Sir Alfred killed himself last year over a financial reversal. He left Moretta a widow in straitened circumstances. I befriended her at first.” He hesitated briefly then finished, “Lately, things have become more serious.”

“I see.” It was an inadequate response but all she could manage.

“Have I upset you, dear?”

“You have the right to a life, Papa. I’m more surprised than upset.”

It was the thing to say even if she did not feel that way. Cassandra had been aware of a change in her father since her arrival a week before and had been waiting for a disclosure of some kind. No amount of preparation could have readied her for this, however. She’d come home to reclaim her father, and he had slipped through her grasp while she was gone. This was the final indignity.

His voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Cassie. I’ll not deny I’ve been a little unsure of how to approach you on the matter. I know you will like Moretta.”

Approaching the door to Camden House several minutes later, she decided to hate Sir Alfred’s widow. Not a rational decision but wounded emotions left her feeling no need to be rational. Therefore, her meeting with Moretta Camden was a complete disappointment.

“Quintin, she is even more lovely than you told me,” Lady Camden stated, greeting her guests. “Come in, Cassandra. I’m glad to meet you. Your father speaks of you so often I feel I already know you.”

Moretta Camden was tall and elegant with an aristocratic bearing. Though not beautiful, she exhibited a pleasant exterior with sable brown hair free of gray and sultry green eyes. Moretta smiled affectionately at Quintin.

Yes, Cassandra was disappointed. She had hoped Lady Camden was a shrew who wanted to plunder her father’s bank account. After all, why would a female who came from the upper class be interested in Quintin James, a cit, unless it was for financial gain? Yet, Cassandra didn’t sense duplicity in her.

Definitely disappointed, she thought.

“I’ve good news,” Moretta continued. “My sister Amanda and her husband Lord Inglebert are still in the country. Amanda said I could use her box at the opera. Won’t that be fun?”

“You’re on display from there, Moretta. Are you certain you wish to ‘announce’ our friendship in that way?” Quintin asked gently.

Lady Camden turned an exasperated look on his daughter. “I’ve told your father repeatedly that I have no tolerance for anything so trivial, but he insists on worrying. I married a man who had position and wealth, and see where I am today? I’ve passed the half-century mark and I have little of life left to me. Let the gossipers beware, for I intend to enjoy every bit of the time remaining.” She sent her fond gaze to Cassandra’s father. “I hope, Quintin James, that time includes you.”

Disappointed.

Cassandra hid her bruised feelings beneath a layer of false merriment, joining in the festive occasion as though her heart were in it. It was not. Ninety minutes after learning of Lady Camden’s existence, she found herself seated in a comfortable chair in Lord Inglebert’s luxurious box at the Royal Italian Opera House.

The view from there opened up an entirely different perspective on the theater from the one she had always had from the pit. The boxes lining the upper portion of the opera house were like small stages, each displaying its own drama. Spyglasses were trained on other boxes rather than the performance, and she began to understand her father’s fear that he would be publicizing his budding romance by sitting there.

To her credit Lady Camden seemed perfectly at ease, not at all self-conscious. She laughed merrily, touching Quintin’s arm, whispering in his ear. If she was worried what people might think, she hid it admirably.

Cassandra felt a lonely figure—in attendance but not included. She was glad when the lights were lowered so she could relax the stiff, insincere smile on her face. Under ordinary circumstances this evening would have been exciting, but a heavy depression blunted her pleasure. She retreated into the darkness, wishing she could disappear altogether.

Intermission brought up the lights again, and Cassandra sent her listless gaze roaming to the boxes on the opposite side of the theater. She had the uncanny feeling that someone was watching her, had been watching her for some time. Her regard shifted uneasily then stopped abruptly, eyes focusing.

Simon!

The marquess lounged casually in his seat, right elbow on the arm of his chair, chin resting in his hand. He was indeed staring at her and, even across the distance, Cassandra spied the slow smile that lit his features when it became clear that she recognized him.

Lord Sutherfield’s presence was an exciting revelation, but immediately her enthusiasm was dashed when she realized that he was not attending the opera alone. A female, beautiful with very black hair, sat next to him, languidly fanning herself. The marquess leaned over and spoke to his companion, and the woman stared directly at the occupants of the Inglebert box.

Cassandra looked away from the disturbing scene, desperate to bring chaotic emotions under control. She didn’t care—she absolutely refused to care, she told herself. It was enough that she must deal with the sadness caused by her father’s defection. She had no intention of allowing Simon to affect her as well.

Yes, that was what she told herself.

*****

CHAPTER 12

“Lydia, I think I’ll take a walk and stretch my legs.”

“This walk wouldn’t have anything to do with that lovely redhead across the way you’ve been eating with your eyes, would it, Simon?”

“Dear sister, you are too clever for your own good.”

“I should have known it would be a redhead.” She gave him a penetrating look. “Is it serious?”

The marquess smiled ruefully. “I’m hopeful. I’ve a bit of wooing to do if I am to pull it off, so wish me luck.”

Lydia nodded her head, dislodging a glossy black curl. “Mother will be thrilled,” she said, smoothing her hair with a delicate hand. “That is, of course, if the young lady is an eligible match.”

Simon ignored this last as he stepped through the draperies and into the passage. His eagerness over the last hour went beyond his enjoyment of seeing Cassandra. The man with her must be her father Quintin James. This was the perfect opportunity to meet him. Simon didn’t know the third individual in the James’ party, but the woman seemed vaguely familiar.

The marquess greeted the occasional acquaintance as he wended his way to the other side of the hall, but he did not stop to chat. He surprised himself with his single-mindedness, for normally he embraced life a day at a time. Since his decision to marry Cassandra, however, he had taken on a more disciplined approach to living.

On reflection maybe the change was not all that sudden. He’d not been himself for a while now, thus the time was probably ripe for a new chapter in his life. Instead of the usual depression these weighty thoughts brought him, Simon was filled with a fevered anticipation.

The marquess stopped outside a box and peeked through the draperies, making certain he had found the right one. He saw Cassandra but she was alone. He slipped into the small compartment.

“Miss James, it’s a pleasure to see you this evening.”

She shifted around in her seat to stare at him, though she did not seem surprised by his presence. The sparks that lit her eyes was militant.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I wanted to pay my respects. If I’m not mistaken you are attending tonight’s performance with your father. I thought it would be a suitable time for me to meet him.”

“That’s not a good idea,” she said.

“Come, Cassandra, you know it’s part of the process.”

“What is part of the process?” She came to her feet, sending him a shriveling look.

He could not help himself—he grinned broadly. “I have to meet your father if I’m to pay you my addresses.”

“Do you think me a fool?”

The words were spoken harshly, and Simon was taken aback.

“No, but right now I’m thinking you’re ungracious.” Her rejection had an unexpected sting.

“I’m not obligated to accept your advances, my lord.”

Why was she angry? He could have sworn she was of a different mind when he kissed her in the park several days ago. Had something happened between then and now to upset her? He opened his mouth to ask her, when the drapes moved behind him and two people entered the box.

“Cassandra, my dear, whom have we here?” Quintin James asked.

Simon waited for the introductions to be made, though he was bothered by Cassandra’s hesitation. She stumbled through the obligatory words, giving the impression of one who is uncomfortable. Therefore, the marquess expected the look of consternation that glided over her father’s features. He was unprepared for the critical inspection that followed.

Simon could never remember anyone without rank openly observing him with such cool deliberation. He felt his temper flare in response to Mr. James’ bold appraisal. Unfair, he reminded himself. This was Cassandra’s father. He would be cautious with any man who showed an interest in his daughter, regardless of his position in society.

“How do you know Cassandra?” Mr. James questioned, shaking Simon’s hand.

“We met while she stayed in the country with Lord Whittingham.”

“I see. Have you met Lady Camden?” Mr. James’ voice, though still not warm, at least was cordial. He turned to his companion.

The lady stepped forward and took his hand, and all at once Simon remembered where he knew her from.

An ironic smile touched the woman’s lips. “Yes, that Lady Camden.”

The marquess did not bother to feign ignorance, for that would only complicate an already uncomfortable situation.

“My condolences, madam,” he offered.

“Thank you, Lord Sutherfield. You are most kind. I’m happy to make your acquaintance. You are probably unaware, but your mother and I have known each other for years.” Lady Camden paused then, eyeing him shrewdly. “Are you and Miss James good friends?”

Friends? That hardly described their relationship. Simon could not stop the sudden memory of a moonlit rose garden and the beautiful woman he had held in his arms. He felt Cassandra stiffened beside him, as if she too were remembering.

“Yes, friends,” he said simply.

“Then I have a favor to ask,” Lady Camden continued. “Quintin and I have a problem, and perhaps you can help us solve it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Mr. James put his hand on Lady Camden’s arm, “Moretta, maybe we should…”

“Now, Quintin, doesn’t hurt to ask.” She turned her attention back to Simon. “Miss James needs a sponsor. She is quality and she should know her peers. Her father agrees.”

“And I agree,” the marquess said quickly, ignoring Cassandra’s appalled expression. “Though I don’t think it is quite proper for me to—”

“Of course not, dear boy,” she interrupted. “Actually, I wanted to do it myself, however, I’m not good ton with my husband having exited society in such a disgraceful manner. Then there is my relationship with Mr. James—well, you understand. My old friends are not exactly knocking down my door. I’m afraid my sponsorship would do more harm than good.”

Simon ventured a glance at Cassandra whose face had gone as white as wax. He wanted to comfort her, but he was of the opinion whatever Lady Camden hoped to arrange might be for the best.

“I see. How can I be of service, ma’am?” the marquess asked, still uncertain where the conversation was leading.

Lady Camden smiled brightly. “You are here with Lady Eastwick this evening?”

“As you see.” Simon indicated the box across the way with a tilt of his head.

“Do you think your sister might be willing to do the honors?”

“Your sister!” Cassandra squeaked, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared at the marquess through wide eyes.

Now he understood. Simon could hardly control the desire to howl with delight. His Cassandra was jealous. How marvelous!

“I think Lydia would be pleased,” he said aloud, hiding his glee. “She loves to entertain.”

“Wait a minute—this is going too fast,” Cassandra said in a flustered voice. “My grandfather will help—”

“For heaven sakes, he’s a man,” Lady Camden inserted. “Isn’t he at his country estate? Can’t do it from there.”

“But he gave me a wonderful party when I went to visit him, didn’t he, Simon—I mean, Lord Sutherfield?” She must have been greatly disturbed to allow that slip of the tongue. “I’ll wait until he returns to the city.” Cassandra turned a tortured gaze on her father. “Papa, please!”

A moment of silence followed while Mr. James studied his daughter. “I think it’s the thing to do, my dear,” he said at last. “If Lady Eastwick is unable to help, we need to find someone who can. It’s only right that you take your place in society.”

“I can’t believe you are saying this, Papa. I had hoped you of all people would understand.”

“I promise, Miss James, you will like my sister. Lydia is superb even for a sister.” Simon smiled, keeping his words calm and persuasive. “Give it a try. Nothing says you must continue with your introduction to society if you find it unpleasant. At least, don’t dismiss the opportunity out of hand.”

“I’ll think about it,” Cassandra said. As if done with the conversation, she moved to her seat and sat down. “I believe the performance is about to begin.”

Simon watched the back of her lovely head for a moment before returning his attention to her father. “I’m happy to have met you, sir. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

This time the expression on Mr. James’ face was friendly, almost warm. “Yes, my lord, I expect that’s true.”

The marquess took his leave of Quintin James and Lady Camden, whispering his goodbye so as not disturb Cassandra. Her back to him made it clear how she felt, therefore, he decided not to force the issue. Even so, he was willing to wager she knew when he departed.

He stepped into the darkened corridor, empty now because the opera had begun. He began the trek back to his own box, all the while mentally preparing a plausible explanation for Lydia. Lord help him if she chose not to aid his cause.

Simon felt like dancing through the passage. He now had something concrete to work with, even if he couldn’t take credit for it. Please, please, Lydia, don’t let me down, he thought.

Simon was especially happy knowing Cassandra had been jealous of his sister. That explained her frosty reception tonight and proved she was not indifferent. Somewhere along the line it had become very important that she care for him. Love might be for the common folk but it made marriage more enjoyable.

Marriage—he shook his head, chuckling to himself. Had his thinking really gone that far? He had avoided that trap assiduously, and now he was embracing the idea. Strange what a beautiful redhead could do to a man’s psyche.

Simon entered his box and slid into the seat next to his sister. “I’m late. Sorry.”

“Quite all right, dear.” Lydia turned an amused look on her sibling. “I saw you across the way. Your redhead is a beauty. Is that Lady Camden with her?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the man?”

“Quintin James, Cassandra’s father.”

“Cassandra? That’s the young lady’s name?” When he nodded, she continued, “I haven’t seen her before.”

Simon detected the question in her voice. “It’s a very complicated story. Do you want it now or later?”

“Dear brother, I’m much too interested. If this opera were more compelling perhaps I’d wait. But then again, perhaps not.”

Simon laughed and proceeded to fill her in on Cassandra’s history.

Lydia drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Leave it to Moretta Camden to find a way to complicate my life. It’s not entirely true that I like to entertain and you know it, Simon.”

“I’m aware. That was a white lie, I’m sorry. But it seemed the perfect chance to help Cassandra.”

“And yourself?”

“All right, I admit it,” he said in exasperation. “I’ve already told you I want to marry the lady. If you do this for me it will make the situation easier. Cassandra doesn’t know what she wants at the moment. Despite that, I hope to convince her.”

“You are considered a catch, Simon. Why do you waste your time trying to convince someone who is uncertain?”

The marquess sent his sister a look filled with longing. “There’s no telling where the heart will decide to love, Lydia. I had no idea this would happen as it has. But I have to try. You see that, don’t you?”

Lydia placed her hand on her brother’s arm. “I wanted to be certain you were truly serious. You know I will help with whatever you need.”

Simon brightened immediately. “Thank you,” he said, his chest tightening with gratitude.

“But first things first,” she cautioned.

“Anything.”

“I want to meet your young lady. Do what you must but bring her to me. I can’t accomplish much if we don’t do that.” Lydia returned her attention to the stage, lifting opera glasses to her eyes. “I suppose I ought to watch the end of this abomination in case someone asks me about it.”

Simon stared at the stage although his thoughts were elsewhere. Often his attention drifted to the box across the theater, but not once did he see Cassandra glancing in his direction.

Lydia had given him a damnable chore. He hadn’t planned beyond getting his sister’s cooperation and, now that he had it, Simon wondered how he was going to get Cassandra’s cooperation. If the lady’s attitude tonight were any indication, it wasn’t going to be easy. Not easy at all.

*****

“I don’t want to see him.” Cassandra flounced to the chair, and plopped on the seat.

Her father stood in the doorway to her bedchamber, a frown beginning to furrow his features. “We have a gentleman waiting in our drawing room who has asked to see you, Cassandra. Is it really your wish to send a rude reply?”

“Couch it in any terms you like, Papa.”

“Cassandra, he is a marquess.”

That made her angry. “You make it sound as if the title is the man. It makes no difference to me.”

He hesitated and his eyes took on an assessing light. “Is there something you want to explain to me, something I ought to know? After all, you are acquainted with him, not I.”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, suddenly unable to meet his probing stare. Was it fair to malign Simon? A few choice words and the young lord downstairs would be out on his ear, regardless of his rank. The perverse thought rankled her. Here was the opportunity she needed, and all at once she didn’t want to use it.

“I’ll see him,” Cassandra said grudgingly. She stopped to run her fingers through mussed hair, resenting that she felt the need to do so.

Her father smiled. “I’d have sent him away if you had insisted, but I’m glad I didn’t have to do it.”

“Humph,” she grumbled, following him from the room and down the stairs.

At the drawing room door, he spoke in her ear. “Smile. You look very grim, you know.”

“I feel as grim as I look,” she snapped, “and deception is not my specialty.” Cassandra pushed her way into the room.

Lord Sutherfield stood facing the window to the garden. He turned when they entered. “Miss James, I’m glad to see you. Lovely as always,” he greeted her with a broad grin.

“You act as if we did not see each other last night at the opera, my lord.”

“Cassandra!”

The shock in Quintin’s voice made her cringe. “I beg your pardon, Lord Sutherfield. I must seem rude if my father disapproves.” As much as she tried to make the apology sound sincere, Cassandra suspected she fell short of her goal.

Simon’s lids drooped but he did not hide his amusement. “Miss James, please not to worry. I’m impossible to offend.”

“A bald-faced truth, my lord,” she said, then laughed.

Immediately, she regretted her loss of composure, for her merriment lifted the constraint in the room, and she didn’t want to become too comfortable. Whenever she relaxed, the marquess took the upper hand.

Her father stirred restlessly as though the drift of the conversation confused him. His next words confirmed this. “Is there a jest here I’m not privy to? I sense anger, then humor. Which is it?”

“Probably a little of both, Mr. James,” the marquess said in a wry voice. “Miss James and I seem to be at cross purposes most of the time. I think it’s because she refuses to like me as much as I want her to.”

“Excuse me?” Quintin James stared at his guest. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yes, Mr. James, I am. I would like to court your daughter. You will want to become acquainted with me before you make any definite decisions, but I prefer an honest approach.”

Cassandra had had enough. “I’ve a mind of my own, Lord Sutherfield. Perhaps I don’t want you to court me.”

Quintin backed away, his arms stretched out in front of him as though he were warding off the feuding couple. “I can see Lord Sutherfield and you are in need of an earnest discussion, Cassandra. I will leave you both alone but I take my duties as chaperon seriously. I’ll be across the hall.” He eased out of the room, leaving the door open. “Frankly,” he could be heard muttering to himself, “the way those two are going at it, I don’t expect anything to happen unless it’s a brawl.”

Cassandra glared at the marquess. When she felt certain her father could no longer overhear their conversation, she broke the tense silence.

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m wooing you, sweetheart. Do you like it?”

“The devil you say,” she countered hotly.

“Such language from a lady.” He winked at her.

“It’s my father you’re wooing and you know it. You want him on your side.”

He grinned. “Is it working do you think?”

“Of course not. In the end he will listen to me. I didn’t tell him what a scoundrel you are, but now I think I will. If he understood, he wouldn’t leave me alone with you for even a moment.” She liked that threat and she smiled at him smugly.

“You know, Cassandra, I’m one for interpreting not so much what’s been said but what hasn’t been said.” His eyes took on a hooded look. “Why do you suppose you didn’t inform him in the first place?”

Excellent question. Cassandra was afraid she knew the answer.

“Foolish of me, wasn’t it?” was all she could think to say. “Did you have a purpose in calling today, my lord, aside from disturbing my peace?”

Simon blinked. “Ah...yes, I did. I want you to meet Lydia.”

“To what purpose, my lord?”

Her clipped question angered him. “Damn that ‘my lord’ nonsense. I’ve told you I don’t like it.” He clamped his lips then began again. “My sister has agreed to sponsor you for the season.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“I know what you’ve told me, but I would deem it a special favor if you would meet with her. I’m going to look foolish otherwise.”

Why should she care about that? Yet she did.

He must have sensed the crack in her resolve, for he gave her a crooked grin, remaining silent.

“When?” she asked dully.

“Tomorrow, say, four o’clock?”

“All right, I’ll meet with her, but I make you no promises.”

“Of course not, my dear. I would be disappointed if you came meekly. One of the things I admire most about you is your fire—matches that remarkable hair. I never am sure what to expect.” His voice turned husky. “In fact, I expect the unexpected.” He cast a quick glance at the partially opened door then leaned forward and dusted her lips with his own.

His breath was warm against her mouth as he spoke again. “Your father is wrong, you know—it is never safe when I’m alone with you.” He pulled back and strode from the room. “Tomorrow,” he threw over his shoulder.

*****

“I look terrible. I don’t like this gown at all, Sophy.” Cassandra tossed the gown on her bed and returned to the wardrobe. “Lord Sutherfield’s sister is the wife of an earl. I’d hate to appear like…”

“The daughter of a cit?” Sophy put in gently.

“I didn’t mean that.” Cassandra felt uncomfortable under her friend’s discerning eye. “What I meant to say was I didn’t want to present an unsophisticated appearance.” She pulled another dress from the clothes pole, gave it a critical glance and tossed that one aside as well. “You understand, don’t you?”

“I’ve never known you to worry about things like that, Cassie. And you weren’t unsophisticated on the day of your birth, so you can put that idea away.”

“I suppose. And you’re right. Normally, I don’t give it a thought. I simply feel uncomfortable with the situation.”

“I don’t see why. It’s a very nice thing Lady Eastwick is doing for you.”

“That’s just it.” Cassandra spun around to look at Sophy. “Why is Lady Eastwick doing this? It’s no small favor, I guarantee.”

“Perhaps she’s doing it more for her brother than for you.”

“That makes sense and I agree, but why then does he want her to do it in the first place?”

“I believe Lord Sutherfield may be serious about you, Cassie. It’s the only explanation. He certainly seemed serious that day in Hyde park.”

“I hardly think that’s possible.” Instantly dismayed by a rush of hope, she continued, “When he met us in the park he did what he always does—flirt outrageously,”

“He informed your father that he wanted to call on you. That’s serious, if you ask me.”

A knock at the door relieved Cassandra of the need to answer.

“Lord Sutherfield is here.”

Her father’s voice from the hallway sent her into a flurry of activity. “I’ll be there shortly, Papa,” she called.

With Sophy’s help she found a lavender frock that pleased her well enough. “Do you want to come down with me?” she asked as her maid completed final touches to her hair.

“I’ll sneak out after you are gone. But I expect to hear all the details,” Sophy said as Cassandra left the room.

Cassandra arrived in the hall outside the drawing room and paused long enough to straighten her shoulders. Her stomach was knotted with apprehension. Why? It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the marquess, hadn’t spent time with him. But he seemed different. His approach had changed, leaving her feeling uncertain and defensive.

Simon was watching for her. As she moved through the doorway his gaze lit with appreciation. He walked across the room to her side.

“I always wonder if you could possibly be as beautiful as I remember, and I’m never disappointed.”

“Always the ready compliment, my lord,” she said neutrally. “Shall we go?”

“Yes indeed, Lydia awaits.” If he was aware of her indifferent attitude, he chose to ignore it. His manner was gracious as he escorted her outside.

“Does Lady Eastwick mind?” she asked the marquess after he helped her into his phaeton.

“Mind?” He climbed in beside her and took the reins.

“It’s not right to ask her to help me in such a personal way. She doesn’t even know me.”

“Hence our meeting this afternoon.” He flicked the reins and the phaeton moved away from the curb and onto the avenue. “Before the day is through Lydia and you will be friends.” He glanced over at her, a smile in his eyes. “You won’t be able to help yourself, you know. Everybody likes Lydia.”

That prediction proved to be true. Lydia St. John, Countess of Eastwick, aside from being an exceptional beauty, was a lovely person. Cassandra found herself unable to resist the lady’s charms.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Lady Eastwick, you remind me of your brother,” Cassandra observed as she took a seat opposite her hostess.

“Which brother is that?” Lady Eastwick laughed. “Simon, of course. Though, I never admit to being like him. Please, call me Lydia. No need for us to be formal with each another.”

“How many brothers do you two have? Cassandra sent a look of inquiry over to Simon where he lounged against the fireplace. I think you told me once—I’ve forgotten.”

“I have two brothers.” He grinned. “I believe Lydia has three.”

“Do you see?” Lydia pouted, “forever the tease. You have no idea what it was like being the elder sister to three incorrigible brothers, for I tell you, Robin and Edward are no better. They took their lessons from Simon who is the oldest of the boys, and he’s a wonderful teacher. I told him he missed his calling. If it hadn’t been for our baby sister Jillian to ease the shock of a household of males, I don’t know what I would have done.”

The camaraderie between the siblings struck a cord in Cassandra. “I always wanted a brother or sister. It seems as if you had a lively family full of fun.” She didn’t realize how wistful she sounded until Simon and Lydia shared a look. “Of course, my childhood was wonderful,” she hurried to explain. The last thing she wanted was anyone to pity her.

“I’m certain,” Lydia reassured her kindly. Then to her brother, “You know, Simon, I would like to get to know Cassandra, and I’ve found the presence of a man interferes with the free flow of conversation. Would you mind leaving us for a while?”

Simon straightened from the mantle, a surprised expression crossing his features. “I thought since you didn’t know each other…”

“Yes, dear, I understand what you thought. We really don’t need you, though. Cassandra and I are perfectly able to get acquainted without your assistance. It’s impossible to gossip about you if you are in the room.” She turned to her guest. “Don’t you agree?”

Cassandra felt the mirth rise in her throat. Nodding at her hostess, she allowed her gaze to touch the marquess. Oh, she shouldn’t have looked at him, for his disgruntled appearance made her want to laugh out loud.

Both ladies watched in amused silence as Simon sauntered reluctantly from the room.

“Dear me,” Lydia said once he disappeared through the doorway. “You will have to watch that tendency in him.”

“Pardon me?”

“Simon is controlling, you know. Although, he’s not so different from most men. They all want to rule the lives of their women. Lord Eastwick is much the same but I don’t let him win those battles. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my independence.” Lydia’s eyes twinkled merrily. “Although, sometimes I allow him to think he’s winning.”

“Lord Sutherfield and I don’t really have that kind of relationship,” Cassandra rushed to say.

Lydia studied her for several seconds as though trying to take Cassandra’s measure. When she spoke her words were slow and deliberate.

“You’re not comfortable with all of this, are you?”

“Not really. Lord Sutherfield and I…that is to say…I’m supposed to marry my cousin Roger Morley,” she finally blurted.

“Do tell,” Lydia murmured, settling back in her chair. “My brother knows this?”

“Yes. Yes, he does.”

“Has Simon offered for you?”

Cassandra felt her cheeks flare. She wanted to end this line of questioning, but deep in the interview she saw little hope of evading the issues being raised.

“Lord Sutherfield told my father he would like to call on me, nothing more.”

Lydia continued to watch her through appraising eyes. “Strange he would do that under the circumstances. Simon is a man unto himself, but rarely does he buck propriety. Do you suppose he’s not convinced that you are committed to Mr. Morley?”

Cassandra was forced to clarify her own position. “It’s my fault. I’ve let my attitude show. I’m the one who doesn’t accept a union with Roger. My cousin and I are not compatible, you see. I realize that’s not important by society’s standards and my grandfather would say I sounded common for mentioning it. But that’s how I feel.”

“Common or not there are many who feel as you do. My relationship with my husband is based upon affection, and I would have it no other way.” Lydia chewed on her lip briefly before continuing. “I know you think I’m intruding where I have no right, but I’m trying to understand. After all, if I’m to sponsor you it will be hard to avoid everything personal. And Simon’s involvement does concern me.”

“I tried to tell your brother this is too much to ask. I’m a stranger. You don’t know me.”

“I’ve thought about that, not just from my perspective but from yours. However, there will be a lot of excitement surrounding you and I’ll be in the middle of it. That appeals to me. There is nothing society loves more than a new arrival in its midst.”

“I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Can’t I slip into society without too much notice?”

Lydia gave an unladylike snort. “A beauty such as yourself? I hardly think so. Simon will have to beat away the gentlemen with a stick.” She smiled. “Actually, I rather like the imagery. Might restrain that conceit of his.”

Cassandra smiled in return but decided to forego any further explanations. Clearly, Lydia had determined that Roger did not pose a threat to her brother’s ambition. But she could have told the lady what the marquess really desired. And it had little to do with a proposal that culminated in a wedding ceremony.

Much to Cassandra’s relief the two ladies chatted over tea after that, relegating the conversation to trivial matters until Simon poked his head inside the door.

“May I come in, or am I still persona non grata?” he asked. “I think it’s time I took our guest away.”

That ended the small party, and Cassandra took her leave of her hostess.

The marquess drove her home in the twilight. The warmth of the day had dissipated and a soft breeze had taken its place. Unaccountably, she felt at ease as Simon tooled the carriage through the thinning traffic. They sat shoulder to shoulder, but the charged atmosphere that usually bothered her when she was with him was curiously absent. How nice to simply enjoy his company. She glanced up at him.

“You were right,” she broke the silence.

“Oh?”

“Lydia is a marvelous person, very amicable. I liked her immediately.”

“I’m glad. She liked you, too. I could tell.” He took his gaze from the road for a moment, looking over at her. “Are you ready to let her sponsor you then?”

Cassandra waved her hand impatiently. “I don’t know. It is a situation prime for gossip. My grandfather ought to be doing the honors. He will want to do it, will feel it’s his duty. I have no excuse not to go through him. I’m afraid he’ll be angry with me if I don’t.”

“You left Lord Whittingham in the country, and I had the impression you wanted to be away from him for awhile. Are you certain you wish to bring him to the city just now? Your life will not be your own. Do you think he will bring Morley and, God forbid, Penelope?”

Gracious, she hadn’t thought of that! “You’re correct, I’m afraid. If I involve my grandfather, he’ll use the opportunity to announce my engagement to Roger. Perhaps it would be best if we forget this idea at least for now. I have the rest of my life to meet society.”

She sensed his impatience before he spoke.

“Is that what you really want?

“I’m as sociable as the next person, Simon, but I don’t like to be on display. All this fuss is making me uncomfortable.”

“How about a compromise then?”

“I’m listening,” she said cautiously.

“Lydia can take you about, introduce you to people but without any pomp. You can be someone with whom she’s made friends. Your history can be revealed as you see fit. Even your grandfather can’t object to that.”

“No special parties in my honor?”

“If you’d rather not,” he agreed.

“Provided that you mean what you say, I’ll try. But I can end it anytime?”

“Anytime.”

I must be the greatest fool alive, Cassandra thought a short while later as Lord Sutherfield escorted her to the front door of the James’ residence. She offered him a prim goodbye, and for once he graciously accepted her dismissal without objecting. Shutting the door, she leaned against it then closed her eyes and sighed.

Her involvement with the marquess continued to deepen despite her resistance. It was a lot like being caught in quicksand, she decided, because the harder she struggled the more surely she was caught.

*****

CHAPTER 13

“Did she agree?”

“Well, Lydia, let me put it this way—she did and she didn’t.” Simon cast his lean body into his sister’s fragile Chippendale chair, causing the piece of furniture to creak alarmingly. “We can squire her around but we’re not to make a fuss.”

“But I wanted to introduce her, give her a small party,” Lydia protested from her seat on the settee.

“Most of all she doesn’t want that.”

“What is she afraid of, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” the marquess said grumpily. He sat slumped in the chair, chin in hand. “I wish I understood her. One minute I feel confident I can bring her around and the next I’m convinced it will never happen.”

“I believe I can help you there.” Lydia toyed with the stem of her wine glass. “Not all her thoughts, of course, but enough to give you an idea.”

“I’ve known her these many weeks, and in one short interview you can tell me what I’ve been unable to see for myself?”

“Perhaps you’re too close to see what is right in front of your face.”

“Enlighten me, sister dear.”

“Even though Miss James is a confident young woman, she’s uncomfortable dealing with the aristocracy. Frankly, I detect resentment on her part that all of this has been thrust upon her.”

“Time and enough exposure to her peers will ease that resentment.”

“I agree with you.” Lydia paused and took a sip of her champagne, rolling it on her tongue. “That is not the difficulty, not where you are concerned.”

“What do you mean?” He sat forward in his chair, frowning.

“Miss James is attracted to you. I can see it in her eyes. On the other hand, she doesn’t want to be.”

Simon relaxed and he grinned. “Oh well, if that’s all it is, I can change her mind.”

“You are making a mistake if you take that attitude, Simon. I suspect you’ve been heavy-handed in your approach, and you’re losing rather than gaining ground. You cannot force the issue simply because that is how you want it to be. Lord Whittingham has been doing that very thing, and Cassandra ran away from him. If you don’t want her to regard you as she does him, I think you had best change your methods.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked, beginning to feel morose again.

“Take your time. Don’t push her. Right now the most important issue is trust. She doesn’t feel confident you mean what you say.”

“But I do,” he protested.

“I know that because I know you, dear. However, I don’t believe Miss James understands who you really are. She sees a handsome nobleman who overwhelms her with his lovemaking, and instead of being flattered she’s frightened.”

“Do you really think so?” Simon found the idea that he was frightening Cassandra appalling.

“Miss James is a serious person. Not used to frivolous attachments, I’d wager. She’s protecting her heart. If you’re not careful you might find her marrying Mr. Morley just to escape you.”

The marquess jumped to his feet. Until that moment he had not appreciated how much he had to lose. He began to pace the room.

“Simon…?”

He spun around to face his sister. “She’s told me repeatedly she doesn’t want to marry Roger, but she never says definitively she will not do it.”

Lydia raised her brows at him and shrugged her shoulders delicately. “And…?”

“I thought the earl held something over her, that she might feel she had no choice.”

“A possibility, of course, but unless she’s willing to confide in you there’s no way of telling.”

“I’ll ask her,” he said.

“Simon, don’t put her in the position of having to lie. Just be her friend for now. Without her faith in you there is no hope. Deal with Lord Whittingham and his demands when you are certain that is what she desires. You’re cooking the goose before the bird’s been plucked, in my opinion.”

“Do you think it’s too late?”

“Absolutely not,” she asserted. “And just to make sure you understand where my thoughts are,” she raised her glass to him, “I believe Cassandra James will make you an exemplary wife.”

Her declaration reassured him and his humor returned. “All this you discovered in one brief meeting? I’m impressed,” he quipped. “Either Cassandra is an open book or you are a soothsayer. Which do you think it is?”

“I’d be a fool to tell you, love. Let’s say, women have ways of communicating with one another that men do not understand.” Pulling slim legs up on the settee, Lydia tucked her feet beneath her. “How about a brandy to calm that edginess? You’re as restless as a caged animal.”

“Can’t. Harry Stiles arrived in town today. I didn’t expect him for a week but he sent a note. Said the quiet made him daft so he came early. I agreed to meet him at White’s this evening.”

“You’ll let me know when we are to begin our campaign with Miss James?”

Simon swooped down on her, giving her a quick hug. “Immediately is not soon enough, Lydia.” He straightened, giving her an affectionate smile. “Lord, what would I do if I didn’t have you to help me? I always fancied myself a hand with the ladies. Harry won’t even recognize me tonight, my ego is so battered.”

Lydia laughed aloud. “Go confidently, brother dear,” she told his retreating back. “You’re not a broken man, yet. You still have that handsome face to lead your way.”

*****

Cassandra shifted on the sofa again, nervously picking at her skirts. Being dressed early was a mistake. Waiting for her escort to arrive made her look too eager. The marquess should wait for her. That’s how a fashionable lady conducted herself. She guessed she didn’t have the “fashionable lady” role perfected quite yet.

She was, however, looking forward to the evening ahead. Tonight’s party would be an intimate gathering at Vauxhall Gardens. Sophy had a special invitation from Lord Sutherfield and Cassandra was in complete charity with him. Her father had departed to pick up Moretta and Sophy fifteen minutes before. Since Simon wanted to escort Cassandra, she had stayed behind to wait for him.

Her introduction to the polite world had begun ten days earlier, but the fuss was kept to a minimum—no special parties, no announcements. Sophy had not been part of the proceedings because, as Lady St. John had explained, “She won’t be accepted. It would be unkind to expose Miss Willis to the snobbery.” Guilt made Cassandra wince inwardly, but generous Sophy was thrilled by her friend’s success.

She heard the carriage arrive but remained where she sat while the butler answered the door. She recognized Lord Sutherfield’s deep voice before the servant ushered him into the drawing room. She rose to her feet and extended her hand as he entered.

“Miss James,” he said, taking her cool fingers, “I’m anticipating a fine evening.”

“Thank you, my lord, for including Sophy. You can’t know how much this means to her.” She looked at him shyly. “And to me.”

“What is important to you is important to me.” The sincerity in his words rang true. “Come, Lydia is waiting in the carriage.”

Cassandra greeted Lydia as Lord Sutherfield helped her into the vehicle moments later. “Your brother tells me it was your idea to visit Vauxhall Gardens and to include Sophy. She’s spoken of little else for days.”

“She should feel comfortable in our little group—you and your father, Simon and me. Lady Camden, naturally, and Lord Eastwick if he’s able—who else?”

“Harry, my dear,” the marquess piped in. “Can’t forget good ol’ Harry, can we?”

“Mr. Stiles has come back to the city?” Pleased, Cassandra asked, “When did he return?”

“More than a week, I think,” Lydia said, looking at her brother, a question in her eye.

Lord Sutherfield nodded.

“Did he bring Timothy with him?” Cassandra asked.

“Yes,” he said, “and young Tim is doing quite well. I’m going to send him to my estate in Suffolk. I have a head groom there with a gentle but disciplined hand who will turn the lad into a first-rate tiger. There’s a problem, though.”

“What is that?” This time Lydia posed the question.

“The little bugger wants me to hire all his sisters and brothers, and there’s thirteen of them, for God’s sake.”

Cassandra snickered, putting her hand to her mouth to hide her amusement. “That is a problem,” she said, composing her features. “I think aiding one Bailey at a time is generous enough, my lord. You’ve been more than fair.”

Simon grunted his agreement.

Tell me,” Cassandra asked, “why haven’t we seen Mr. Stiles?”

“Harry doesn’t go out much—to the clubs sometimes. He’s not fond of being alone but he doesn’t enjoy a commotion, either. I had to twist his arm to come this evening, but I told him Lydia would have my hide if I didn’t bring another male. After several threats he graciously said he would be delighted.”

That sent the occupants of the carriage into peals of mirth, setting a merry mood for the remainder of the ride. Cassandra realized that she liked the brother and sister. She felt part of them. If only she could feel as relaxed with Simon when she was alone with him.

He’d been different lately, not as aggressive. In fact, he had been a perfect gentleman and that had caused her to wonder. Was his interest waning?

Everyone was at the appointed place when the trio arrived except for Mr. Stiles and Lord Eastwick. After greeting her father and Lady Camden, Cassandra approached Sophy, took her arm and whispered in her ear.

“I’m glad you came. Without you I could not enjoy myself.”

“I’ve told you not to worry,” Sophy said, also in a lowered voice. “I know you’ve not forsaken me.” Giggling behind her fan, she added, “Now having said that, I’m desperately, madly excited to be here—and with a real marquess in our party.” She slanted an admiring glance at Simon then returned her gaze to Cassandra. “You are very fortunate.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to contradict her, but suddenly it seemed absurd. Lord Sutherfield did look marvelous, dressed all in black, even his vest. His shirt had no ruffles and his coat, severely cut, emphasized broad shoulders and a trim, muscular physique. With his elegant appearance and dignified manners, she could not help imagining what it would be like if he occupied a more permanent place in her life. She also could not help the rush of fear that washed over her.

Lord Eastwick, tall and graying, walked up at that time. Lydia gave a cry of delight. “Albert, you came. I had my doubts you could pull it off.” As she took her husband’s arm, she turned to the gathering. “Albert is with the foreign office and he had an important meeting this afternoon.”

Eastwick’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners, emphasizing humor lines. “I made it clear to my superiors that my wife had an evening planned, and I’d better not disappoint her.”

Lydia laughed and slapped at his wrist. “You did not.” She sobered then, glancing around. “I wonder where Mr. Stiles is. I think we ought to find a table. I suppose he’ll have to look for us when he arrives.”

The night was lovely, balmy, with a clear moonlit sky adding to the mood. Lord Sutherfield played the host, seating Cassandra next to him. The importance of that gesture was lost on no one.

Harry Stiles appeared as the waiter uncorked the first bottle of champagne. “Please forgive me,” he said. “I spent the day reading and lost track of the clock.”

“Not to worry, Harry—just in time,” the marquess greeted him. “Come, meet our guests.”

The introductions were made and Mr. Stiles pulled up a chair, sitting next to Sophy as Lady Eastwick directed him.

Cassandra could not remember a time when she had enjoyed herself more. Everything seemed perfect—the weather, the food, the company. She didn’t want the evening to end.

Her awareness of the marquess as he sat next to her did not abate. She was conscious of the cuff of his coat where it accidentally grazed her arm. Cassandra found herself staring at his hand, his long fingers casually curled on the linen table cover. She remembered when that hand had touched her—and where—and a wave of longing caused an ache in her throat.

Occasionally, Simon would turn a look on her so warm, so intimate, she felt the heat suffuse her face. Curious, she stared around the table, wondering if anyone else had observed his marked attention.

Perhaps Lydia knew, for Simon’s sister sent her a secretive smile, but otherwise no one seemed to notice. Her father was clearly entranced by his partner Lady Camden. And oddly, Cassandra felt that Mr. Stiles, in his own understated way, was flirting with Sophy.

Sophy looked bedazzled. Her plain face was almost pretty as she stared at Harry through bright, shining eyes. Cassandra glanced at Lydia again, and the lady winked at her. Why, the woman had planned this from the beginning, she thought, squelching a bubble of laughter. And Harry was kindly playing his part. Too bad he was a confirmed bachelor, but for tonight Sophy could feel special.

Her mood was light as a puff of cotton, and she supposed it had something to do with all the champagne she’d consumed. Bottle after bottle had been opened and poured, and she had drunk her share. Her thoughts were fuzzy but the attending euphoria made her confusion a moot point. She felt happy, exceedingly happy, blissfully happy. Cassandra wanted to stand and twirl on her toes with her hands waving above her head. Better not drink anymore, she thought suddenly. Well, except for this last bit.

She drained her glass.

The meal at an end, the marquess stood from the table and everyone followed his lead. Cassandra was slightly dizzy, and she clutched at Simon’s arm for support. He turned a questioning gaze on her, and a strange expression settled on his dark features.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She smiled at him inanely. “I think so,” she said, speaking carefully.

His lips twitched. “I see.”

Her father and Lady Camden approached from their side of the table. “Quintin and I want to listen to that new singer everyone has been talking about. I understand he is on the program tonight,” Moretta said. “Is there anyone who would like to join us?”

One and all agreed to the plan. All that is except Simon. “I think Cassandra could do with a brisk walk and some fresh air,” he said. “If you have no objection,” this to her father, “we’ll just stroll the paths for a short while.”

Quintin nodded. “She’s not much of an imbiber. I noticed she drank more than usual.”

Cassandra’s temper flared. Why were they talking about her as if she were a child? She started to protest, but her brain and tongue no longer seemed connected.

*****

Simon knew Cassandra was angry by the way she tensed next to him. He took her hand, placed it in the crook of his arm and led her away.

“Why did you do that?” she asked peevishly as they moved down the path. “Afraid I might say something I shouldn’t?”

“You’ve had too much to drink tonight, Cassandra. One thing about being intoxicated, words are said that are often regretted, usually the next day and accompanied by a massive pain in the head and a queasy stomach. If you’ve never done that you are better off.”

“I s’pose,” she said.

“Let’s not be out of sorts with one another,” he said huskily, pulling her closer. He placed his lips close to her ear. “We haven’t been alone for a long while, and we don’t have much time. I’d rather talk pleasantries, wouldn’t you?”

Cassandra turned a pale face to him, looking through eyes so dilated the blue-green irises appeared black. She swallowed and he watched the muscles move in her lovely throat. All at once he wanted to place his mouth upon the smooth, translucent column, to taste the hollow at the top of her collarbone.

They stopped beneath a colored lamp on the deserted path. His gaze slipped to the exposed flesh peeking from the bodice of her gown, and his respiration intensified. He remembered her soft breasts, the turgid tips and how they had felt against his tongue.

“Am I dessert, my lord?” A subtle expression shifted over her features, going from uncertainty to something more provocative, more inviting.

Simon chuckled. “In my most wanton dreams, love, you are a ten course meal, an epicurean delight.” He took Cassandra’s chin in hand and set his mouth upon hers, drinking in her sweetness. He tasted champagne on her lips and felt the eagerness in her response, and only gentlemanly caution kept him from mauling her on the spot. He drew back, breathing ragged, and studied her through lust-filled eyes.

Her lids fluttered open and she returned his stare. “Why do you always stop when things become most interesting?”

“Not always, Cassandra,” he murmured hotly, “not always.”

Her tipsy gaze focused with memory. “No, not always.” She paused then, her cheeks growing pink under the dim light. “Am I very bad for desiring more?”

Simon knew the champagne was talking for her. She would never have said such a thing if she had not been intoxicated. The confession warmed his blood, nonetheless.

“I can promise you will feel much more, sweetheart,” he growled, linking arms with her and pulling her tightly against him. “I think we’d better walk now, unless you wish an innocent person to stumble across our lovemaking.”

“A kiss is not a bad thing, is it, my lord?” she ventured, her expression guileless.

“Why do you insist on being so formal with me?” he asked, controlling a sudden annoyance. “Is that your way of keeping a barrier between us? You know I want you to call me Simon when we’re alone.”

Cassandra glanced at him sideways through dark lashes, clinging heavily to his arm. “Well, Simon, I can honestly say I do not wish for a barrier between us right now.”

She was doing it again. When she gazed at him like that, he didn’t know whether he was the pursuer or the one being pursued—like that night in Harry’s rose garden, he thought. Either way it didn’t matter. Cassandra wasn’t a casual flirt. Even under the influence of drink, she would not encourage him falsely.

“What do you wish?” he asked.

Simon studied the top of her burnished head as he waited for her answer, the soft curls shining in the faint light cast by the myriad of colored lamps. They were wandering deeper into the secret recesses of the park, with the path becoming darker and the voices of the revelers receding into the distance.

“I wish what every woman wishes,” she stated obliquely then shrugged her shoulders.

A sudden explosion over their heads made Cassandra jump. “What was that?” she gasped.

“Haven’t you seen the fireworks before? Vauxhall is famous for them.”

“Of course. How silly of me,” she said, looking at the sky. “Oh, I love it,” she exclaimed as another incandescent blast lit up the night. “This is so exciting. Let’s sit on that bench over there. I want to watch the whole show.”

Simon allowed her to take his hand and drag him to the stone seat. The spot was in an alcove nearly hidden from the walk, and he wondered if it would not be more prudent to return to the crowds. He sat down and, to his astonishment, Cassandra plopped onto his lap, wrapping her right arm loosely around his shoulders. Good lord, she truly must be smashed.

She glanced at him, her eyes shining with merriment. “This is rather cozy, don’t you think?”

She was teasing him, tempting him. He didn’t mind—quite the opposite—for her actions proved that she was not indifferent. Her supple backside pressed against his thighs was as intoxicating as the champagne they had imbibed a short while earlier.

“You’re a witch,” he stated thickly as he embraced her slender waist.

She smiled at him and turned to the cloudless sky overhead, staring at the fiery exhibition.

Simon could not take his gaze from her beautiful profile tilted toward the heavens. The sparkling fireworks cast a pastel reflection in hues of pinks and blues and yellows across her lovely features and he was entranced.

As the last explosion died out, Cassandra looked at him. “That was the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.” She smiled again and leaned down, touching her lips to his. His heart thumped madly. Her initiating the contact made the moment considerably more arousing.

“For what?” he asked when he felt able to speak.

Her gaze grew bold and assessing. “Love me, Simon,” she whispered. She touched his face then slipped slim fingers into the hair at his collar.

Simon’s scalp began to tingle. Did he understand her correctly? He put his hand to the back of her head, forcing her face close to his.

“Do you know what you are asking?” he grated out.

“It’s time, don’t you think?”

He knew it—Cassandra was drunk. Simon had longed to hear those words, but could he trust her sincerity with her judgment impaired? If she were sober he wouldn’t hesitate. He would seize what she offered and revel in the experience.

If he took advantage of her now, however, Simon feared when tomorrow came she would never forgive him. He needed her to come to him with a clear head, eagerly. Strange how much importance he had begun to place on that notion.

Therefore, he could not take the risk. Simon groaned in disappointment. Perhaps one kiss, he thought. He took her lips, sliding his hot mouth over hers, and he sensed her immediate surrender. Never had he felt so close to breaking his own resolve. Ending the contact, his breath came in harsh gasps.

“You don’t make it easy, love,” he muttered. Being noble was damned difficult.

She frowned. “Easy?”

“I think we better go back to the others now.” Simon allowed the regret he felt to fill his voice.

Cassandra jumped to her feet and staggered away from him. “You’re turning me away?”

“Now wait a minute,” he said, alarmed by her response, “it’s not like that.”

“Why do I throw away my defenses with you? You are forever making a fool of me. You have hounded me for weeks, and when I say yes you throw it back in my face like so much rubbish. Is this what it’s about? Your ability to reject me?”

“Cassandra, you misunderstand,” he said, standing, also. Simon held out his hand to her. “You can’t want me to make love to you like this. I need you to come to me with your thinking intact, not clouded by drink.”

She was in no mood to be reasonable. “You’ve humiliated me one time too many, my lord. I won’t make that mistake again. Ever.” She swung away from him and rushed headlong down the path.

“Cassandra,” he called, following her, “for God’s sake, stop and listen to me.” She was out of sight, but he could hear her slippered feet on the pebbled walk. He began to run when he heard her fall. “Cassie…!”

She had managed to come to her knees by the time he reached her, but she struggled from his grasp when he leaned over to help.

“No, don’t touch me,” she cried.

“Sweetheart, please, I didn’t mean to offend,” he said, squatting beside her. “Do you want me to be a cad? That is what I’d be if I seduced you in your inebriated state. Surely—”

Whatever he intended to say went unsaid, for the ravaged face she turned on him caused the words to die in his throat.

She was weeping. Simon had never seen her cry and her tears, because of their rarity, shocked him. For the first time since he’d met her he was at a total loss.

Cassandra found her feet, scorning his help, and dashed the moisture from her eyes. She smoothed her skirt, examining the hem.

“I’ve torn my dress,” she said, as though that unimportant issue had meaning.

Simon rose up beside her but remained silent. He found her grief impossible to bear. The knowledge that he was the source of her distress hurt him terribly.

“I would prefer that we keep our little argument to ourselves, if you don’t mind, my lord.” She spoke in a careful voice enunciating each and every syllable, presumably to exhibit her sobriety. Then she hiccupped, destroying her carefully wrought control.

If he had not felt so bad, the humor of the situation might have touched him. Instead, he nodded. “Of course.” He took her arm. She did not fight him, thus Simon assumed she needed the support.

Nearly ten minutes passed before they found the rest of their party. Ten long minutes of frozen silence.

The marquess did his best to remain blase upon greeting everyone, but it would have taken an obtuse person not to know something was wrong. Cassandra’s stony behavior did not alleviate the tension, even though she was the one who had wanted to put on a good front. The group quietly dispersed, with Cassandra electing to return in her father’s carriage. “For convenience’s sake,” she said.

Quintin James studied him suspiciously and Simon approached the man, speaking in an undertone.

“Mr. James, your daughter and I have had an argument. I’ve not compromised Cassandra in any way, and I hope to mend the rift. I will call on you tomorrow and answer any questions you might have.”

James nodded curtly. He joined the ladies in his carriage, closing the door behind him with a decisive click.

Simon watched as the vehicle pulled from the curb, sighing heavily as he turned to Harry who stood at his elbow. “Well, my friend, I’m in a bit of a fix.”

“I see what you mean,” Harry responded. “If that lady’s attitude were ice you’d be frozen solid by now. Is it too personal to share?”

“Wouldn’t be gentlemanly if I did.”

“Oh…I see.”

Simon grimaced. “Nothing as bad as all that.”

Harry dipped his head. “Good to hear. Should I look for an announcement soon?”

“Damned if I know—I hope so.” Simon shook his companion’s hand. “Lydia and Albert are waiting for me.”

The marquess walked the short distance to his own carriage and climbed inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Lydia, but I wanted a word with Mr. James. Where is Albert?” he inquired, looking around the inside of the vehicle.

“I asked him to take a hackney so you and I could talk.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Yes, I should have. What in heaven’s name happened back there?” she demanded as he sat next to her on the seat.

“Has anyone ever mentioned your lack of subtlety?” he asked.

“You’re changing the subject, Simon,” she said. “Really though, I’ve never been part of such an uncomfortable moment. Miss James was crying. What did you do to her?”

“Why do you assume I did something wrong?”

She stared at him in the darkness but did not answer.

“Bloody hell,” he exploded. “I just did what you told me to do. I was a gentleman.”

“That rarely brings tears, Simon.”

Simon ran his hand through his hair. “It’s complicated and rather embarrassing,” he admitted.

She remained silent, waiting.

“She wanted me to make love to her,” he stated, unable to meet her eyes.

“You turned her down?”

The disbelief in her voice caused his head to snap up, and he stared at her belligerently. “She had too much to drink, and conventional thinking to the contrary, I am not a cad.” He paused. “Lord, she was insulted,” he said miserably.

“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.

*****

CHAPTER 14

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.”

“Grandfather wants me to wed his nephew. Our union would keep his title in the immediate family. This is very important to him.”

“How do his demands relate to me?” he asked in a steely voice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tell me,” he bellowed. “Has he threatened you?”

Cassandra’s shoulders slumped as she looked at her father’s dear face. “He said he would have you charged with kidnapping if I didn’t go along with him.”

“Is that it? That’s been his threat all along, or have you forgotten? I allowed him to use it before because I thought you should become acquainted with your blood relatives. But this is different. We’re not talking about a brief visit. This is the rest of your life.”

“I can’t risk it, Papa. If anything happened to you, especially if I could have prevented it…” Her throat clogged with tears.

“You think I want you to do this for me? If you’re not happy, I can’t be happy.”

“What of Lady Camden?”

“Of course, I care for Moretta,” he said, “but not to the extent that I would sacrifice you. Cassandra, love, you’re my child. You are more important than anything—or anyone.” He sat on the sofa next to her and took her hand. “We must find a way to release you from your promise and quickly. Lord Whittingham will waste no time publishing the banns.”

“And if you go to the gaol as a result?”

“He’s bluffing. Remember, Cassandra, I’ve built an empire ferreting out the aces hidden in other men’s sleeves. I don’t think your grandfather wants to be estranged from you. This action would destroy any hope you two have of maintaining a relationship. If he’s more foolish than I think he is,” he shrugged, “an extended sojourn on the continent is not out of the question. I believe Moretta would enjoy the trip.”

Suddenly she felt too tired to fight. “Perhaps it’s best to leave things as they are, Papa.”

“What of Sutherfield?” he asked.

“What of him?”

“Are you going to tell me you’re not in love with the marquess and he with you?”

Cassandra looked at him directly then. “No, Papa, I’m not. I do love Simon, much to my regret. But I’m afraid his involvement is not quite that heartfelt.”

“I don’t understand. He said he wanted to court you. I took that as the start of a commitment from him.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I must go on instinct, and I don’t believe he loves me.”

Quintin placed his hands on his knees and raised his large body from the sofa. He ambled across the room, turning in the doorway.

“I saw Lord Sutherfield’s face last night after he and you argued, and I saw the pain in his eyes just now when he learned of your decision to marry this Roger fellow. Intuitively speaking, Cassandra, I consider you way ahead of me. Always have. But my instincts tell me you are wrong this time—dead wrong.”

*****

“You have a caller, miss.” The footman approached his mistress where she sat on a bench taking sun in the garden.

Cassandra glanced at the servant listlessly. “Who is it?”

He placed the small silver tray which held the calling card under her nose.

Grabbing impatiently at the piece of paper, she groaned as her eyes focused on the print.

“I’ll be right there,” she promised. Standing, Cassandra adjusted her skirts and then adjusted them again, wasting as much time as she could before starting down the walk.

She entered the parlor through the French doors that led from the garden, pasting on a smile of welcome, hoping she looked more sincere than she felt.

“Roger, so good to see you,” she greeted, holding out her hand to him.

Mr. Morley turned on her a face so desolate, she stepped away from him in shock. He looked as though he’d been weeping.

“Cassandra,” he moaned, “how could you do it?”

“How could I do what?” she asked, mystified.

“Uncle came from here last night and took great pleasure in imparting the news that you had finally agreed to a betrothal between us.”

“You told me you wanted to please Grandfather in this matter. You’re the last person I expected to be upset.”

“I counted on you to hold him off,” he whimpered. “Now that you’ve said you will marry me, all is lost.”

“What is lost, Roger?” she inquired, her hackles rising.

“I’m in love with Penelope. You know that. This means she and I can’t be together. My sweet darling is devastated.”

Cassandra had some difficulty imagining Penelope in the throes of devastation, but it hardly seemed worth the effort to challenge the statement.

“Roger, the last time we spoke on this subject you informed me we would marry. If that was what your uncle wanted, that was what you wanted. Then you forced on me an obnoxious kiss to seal the bargain. Forgive me if I’m confused by this sudden turnabout. If you find Grandfather’s plan offensive, why haven’t you said so all along?”

He settled on the one part of her speech that seemed to wound his pride. “A kiss I didn’t enjoy anymore than you.”

“Then why did you do it?” she asked more loudly than she intended.

“I thought if I could desire you I could pull it off, but it was too late. Penelope was already in my blood.”

Oh dear, now Roger in the clutches of passion. Cassandra felt a sudden, almost hysterical urge to laugh. If she did not get herself under control, she would disgrace herself and insult Roger. She sat down on the nearest chair, using the action to cover her mirth.

When at last she could speak, she said, “I know you’re not here just to berate me, so tell me what you expect me to do.”

“Cry off, of course.”

“Why me?”

Roger puffed up wrathfully. “I can’t do it. I’m a man. It wouldn’t be honorable.”

“Come now, there’s been no announcement. There’s no honor to test until society is aware of the engagement. Tell my grandfather how you feel before it’s too late. I’ll give you the support you need. This marriage isn’t what I want, either.”

“You don’t understand. There is still the matter of his fortune. Penelope may like the idea of marrying a future earl, but a poor earl—well, you catch my drift.”

Cassandra could almost pity him his predicament if it weren’t for his thickheaded methods. Instead, she found herself feeling contemptuous.

“Roger, I’ve begged, threatened and bargained with my grandfather to no avail. If you want something done you will have to do it yourself. I’ve done all I can.”

“You won’t help me? I should have known better than to appeal to you. Perhaps you don’t find this marriage as detestable as you pretend.”

“Why, you egotistical, pompous—” She stopped herself before she said something she would regret. “I hope you are able to convince Grandfather that this ludicrous scheme won’t work, because the thought of spending the rest of my life with you makes me pray for an early death.”

Roger clamped his lips together in distaste. Bowing stiffly, he turned on his heel and marched from the room.

Just as well, she thought, for if he had not left of his own accord, she’d have delighted in kicking his arrogant backside into the street.

*****

While her maid fussed with her hair, Cassandra picked up the invitation on her dressing table and looked at it again. A furrow creased her brow. Why would Lady Eastwick want to see her today at three o’clock? The note said “for a little coze,” but she suspected there was more to Lydia’s summons than she had indicated.

Grandfather also sent a note earlier in the day saying Roger and he would visit that evening after the dinner hour. She could think of nothing she dreaded more.

“You look lovely, miss,” the diminutive maid said, fastening the last curl in Cassandra’s hair.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Let me know when the carriage arrives.”

Cassandra rose from her dressing table and crossed to the window. She had barely slept in two days and she was exhausted. Two days since Simon walked out of her life—two days since she ceased to care about anything.

Over and over she remembered the fateful moment when the earl had announced her marriage to Roger. Simon had stared at her as though she were a traitor, and something within her had shriveled.

Cassandra feared it was her heart.

She hadn’t cried, not then, not since—she could be proud of that. But perhaps pain such as this transcended tears. Tears were a form of healing. How could she heal what was forever broken?

The maid returned, informing Cassandra that the carriage had arrived on the curb. Sighing, she grabbed her reticule and left the room.

Lady Eastwick met Cassandra at the front entrance of the Eastwick mansion as if she had been impatiently waiting for her guest to arrive.

“Come in,” she welcomed. “I’m pleased you are here.”

Cassandra moved into the sitting room behind her hostess. “You sound as if you are surprised I came.”

Lydia turned to her, a shrewd light in her eyes. “I was concerned that you would feel uncomfortable. I hope I worried needlessly.” She took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her.

“I thought you might be angry with me,” Cassandra admitted, sitting down.

“Why? Because you, like countless women before you, have given in to the demands of the men in your life?”

“Just one man, my grandfather.”

“One or a dozen, doesn’t matter. We women have been pawns since forever. Unless we are worthless we marry for the gain of our menfolk.” Lydia smiled. “Ironic that you will never find a man who protests the order of things until his own personal interests are at stake. Although I’m confused by the unsuitability of Simon’s offer.”

“Your brother never offered for me.”

“Never? His intentions were clear, though, weren’t they?”

Cassandra hesitated before answering. “He told my father he wanted to court me. It did not go further than that.”

“Still, a very earnest step for Simon to take. You didn’t know him well enough to understand the significance of the gesture, did you?”

“He never indicated to me that I should attach any special meaning to his interest. He was always attentive, but…” Cassandra shrugged.

“There you have it.” Lydia waved her hand vigorously in the air. “Young men spend all their time chasing the wrong type of woman with only one goal in mind. They are never serious, but are absolutely appalled when they are not taken seriously. I tried explaining to Simon that he couldn’t pursue a lady in the same aggressive manner he used with his flirts. A proper romance takes finesse.”

In the back of Cassandra’s mind, a tiny flame of understanding flickered into life. “Perhaps he did listen to you,” she said slowly.

“Oh?”

“Recently, he’s been the perfect gentleman. I believed he was losing interest in me.”

“You couldn’t possibly have thought such a thing. Simon is obsessed with you.”

Cassandra shivered, unprepared for the euphoria that rushed through her body. “How can you be certain?” she asked in an awestruck whisper.

Lydia touched her arm. “He told me he loves you, that he wants to marry you.”

Cassandra looked at her hands, her face burning with mortification. “Maybe he felt that way before, but I think your brother has taken a disgust of me.”

“If you are referring to the party at Vauxhall…”

Cassandra’s head popped up and she stared at her hostess in dawning horror.

“Yes, Simon told me what happened and he was frantic. He knew your feelings were wounded. Feared you might do something foolish, and as it turns out he was right to be worried.” Lydia’s words, while not judgmental, had a slight sting.

“After what happened it didn’t seem to matter what I did,” Cassandra explained. “And my grandfather has been so persistent.”

“Can Lord Whittingham force this marriage to Mr. Morley?”

“My father has relieved my mind on that score. Papa doesn’t want me to marry Roger any more than I do.”

Lydia nodded. “As long as we can extricate you from this commitment, I’m satisfied.”

Cassandra looked at the Simon’s sister hopefully. Why was she suddenly filled with optimism as though Lydia could accomplish what no one else had?

“Now,” the countess continued, “this brings us to why I asked you here today. Do you love my brother?”

“I thought that was clear,” Cassandra murmured.

“Not entirely. Frankly, my dear, I think you’ve been using your distrust of Simon’s motives as a shield.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Loving someone is a risky business. There is always the chance of being hurt, but what is there if one doesn’t try? The problem is not your grandfather or Mr. Morley or even my brother.” Lydia leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “You’re going to have to learn to trust your own heart. Perhaps then you’ll be able to trust Simon.”

“What if he should stop loving me?” Cassandra ventured in a small voice, ashamed of the fear that entered her speech.

Lydia shook her head. “No one can tell what the future will bring. He loves you now and dearly. He is suffering as I’ve never seen him suffer. Looking at the situation I see no point to the misery. What is there to keep the two of you apart except foolish pride?”

“Have you seen him?”

The countess sent her a calculating look. “Simon came to me last night, looking awful. Said he needed to get away for a while. He’s given up and I’m worried sick about him. Men don’t endure heartbreak well.”

“He’s leaving?” Cassandra asked, panic-stricken.

“Gone by now, I think.”

Standing, Cassandra spun to face her hostess. She clutched at the top of her gown with nervous fingers. “Where?”

Lydia stood as well. “I think his final destination is Sutherfield in Suffolk. That’s our ancestral home, but he has a hunting lodge not far from there. When he is unhappy, that’s where one can usually find him.”

“If he’s already gone, what am I to do?”

“I’m glad you asked me that,” the countess said, her manner turning sly. “I haven’t been to Sutherfield in some time, but I hate to travel alone. I don’t suppose you’d like to take a small journey to keep me company? I will be ready to leave by morning.”

Cassandra had to control the urge to jump up and down while clapping her hands. She settled on throwing her arms around Lydia’s neck.

“You’re a wonderful person. I hope Simon appreciates you.”

“I have to be honest with you,” the countess said, disengaging herself. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe you are perfect for my brother. But don’t celebrate, yet,” she warned. “You’ve another hurdle to clear.”

“I do?”

“Why, of course, dear. My mother is in the dower house at Sutherfield and Simon is her favorite child.

*****

“I will not allow you to back away from your promise,” Lord Whittingham raged, his face mottled with angry red spots.

“Neither Roger nor I want this marriage, Grandfather. It is time someone stood up to you and said no.” Cassandra glanced at the two other occupants in Quintin James’ library, hoping for some support, but Roger was suspiciously silent, her father merely watchful.

The earl looked at his nephew. “Is this how you feel, Roger? You’ve never spoken of it to me.”

“Well, sir…I, that is to say…the subject never came up.” Roger ran his finger in his collar as though it had suddenly become too tight.

“What subject?” the earl snapped. “This is a business arrangement. Everyone understands the situation. For the sake of the future we do what we must. Remember, Roger, without your cooperation there will be no money.”

“Maybe I can be of some help.” Quintin James stepped forward and all eyes turned in his direction. When no one spoke, he continued. “Just seems to me, if the main issue for Morley is money then I can make it worth his while not to push for this marriage.”

Roger gasped, “You would do that for me?”

“Now see here—!” the earl bellowed, but for the moment everyone ignored him.

“For Cassandra,” Quintin said, his warm gaze resting on his daughter. “I would do anything to make her happy. I am convinced that happiness does not lie with Morley.”

“I won’t let you interfere, James,” her grandfather bit out. “There are sacrifices to be made. Cassandra is my blood, not yours. What I expect isn’t unreasonable.”

“And what are you going to do, Grandfather?” Cassandra questioned him rudely. “Everyone else is doing the sacrificing, not you. You’ve had your life and, if I understand correctly, you wanted to marry my grandmother.”

The earl’s light blue eyes narrowed ominously. “I’ve spent nearly twenty-five years looking for you, Cassandra, and you will not disappoint me now.”

“When does the threat end, sir?” she asked softly.

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“When do you no longer hold my father’s life over my head? After the wedding? Perhaps you’ll want to wait until you are certain the marriage has been consummated or, better yet, when the first boy child is born.” The earl started to interrupt, but she forged on. “Don’t you see? Some things are out of your hands. The line died when your son died. All the manipulation in the world cannot change that fact.”

He looked crushed. Suddenly, her grandfather’s vigorous frame appeared withered and aged. Reaching for the arm of a nearby chair he sat down heavily.

Her words had cut deeply, and Cassandra realized from where his obsession sprang. All these years he had been denying the truth—the loss of his only son, the loss of a future he could not reclaim.

She moved across the room, coming to kneel at his side.

“Grandfather…” When he did not acknowledge her, she touched his sleeve. “Grandfather, please look at me,” she implored. “A tragedy happened twenty-five years ago, and it’s not the fault of anyone in this room. Your son died and his wife made a decision that has impacted every one of us. But that decision doesn’t need to destroy us, too. If you continue this way, you and I will have the same relationship you had with my father, and look what happened. This is our chance to have a new beginning.”

The earl’s gaze slid to her hand where it rested on his arm before he lifted his eyes to hers. “Can’t you see your way to do this for me, Cassandra?”

“You make it very difficult to say no, but I think you ask too much. And it’s not only my life that will be ruined if I agree. You feel because Roger benefits from your death he owes you his future. Penelope loses because she loves Roger and wants to be with him.”

“I had the distinct impression the comfort of your cousins was not a priority with you,” Grandfather said in a dry voice.

Cassandra’s lips twitched. “I admit it, sir. You’ve found me out.” She was vastly relieved that his spirit seemed intact. “I love Lord Sutherfield with all my heart. I’ve come to believe he cares for me as well.”

“Bah,” the old man said, seeming to recover some of his strength. “Sutherfield has not spent a serious day in his life. I’d be irresponsible to permit a match with him.”

“The choice is mine to make, Grandfather,” she said as gently as she could. “I had my doubts at first, but I think we’ve misjudged Simon. Please, won’t you support me in this?”

“You are determined?”

“Absolutely,” Cassandra said, for the first time feeling hopeful.

“Then I won’t stand in your way,” the earl said at last. He stood and grasped Cassandra’s hand, pulling her to her feet. “You are right—I do not want to be estranged from you as I was from your father.”

Cassandra could not speak. She was no less aware than the earl that a dream had just died. A pall hovered over the room, and even Roger had the grace not to look elated.

“I leave for Sutherfield with Lady Eastwick in the morning. Do I have your blessing?” she asked her grandfather.

“I reserve judgment for a later date, but I wish you happy,” he allowed. “You tell that young man I’ll be watching him.”

Though too soon to say they had forged a bond, it was a beginning, a tentative step that encouraged optimism. Her grandfather would never be an affectionate man but in his way she believed he would try.

Cassandra, joined by her father, saw the earl and Roger to the entry.

“Thank you, cousin,” Roger said, his expression meaningful before he turned and followed his uncle down the walk.

Quintin closed the door and addressed his daughter. “That young man sounded almost humble.”

“Papa, am I doing the right thing?” she questioned, oddly uncertain now that her way was finally clear.

“Won’t know until you try. Go on, love, you’ve a journey to prepare for.” He paused and ran his hand over her soft red curls. “And so you know, Cassandra, you’ve always had my blessing.”

*****

CHAPTER 15

The coach pulled into the clearing, and Lydia pointed from the window of the vehicle, indicating the rustic structure with the low roof nestled in a stand of trees.

“It’s not much to look at, but it’s comfortable on the inside,” she said.

“This is Simon’s hunting lodge?” Cassandra asked. “Do you think he’s in residence?” Now that they were here she was nervous at visiting the marquess unexpectedly.

“Earlier today I had my coachman deliver a note to Simon telling him I arrived in the neighborhood last night,” Lydia said. “I mentioned that I might stop in before I continued on to Sutherfield. The servant returned with a note from my brother. Simon is not only in residence, he’s wallowing in self-pity. He wrote back that if I wished to see half a man this was my opportunity.” She eyed Cassandra. “I did not mention that you were with me.”

“I’m afraid he won’t be happy to see me. I had all night on a lumpy straw mattress in that awful inn to think about it. Perhaps you should wait until I find out if he wants me to stay. Then at least I have transportation when he makes me leave.”

“Where is all that confidence you were exuding when we left London?” the countess chided her. “Of course, he wants to see you. He’s mad about you, dear.”

“This is a bold move on my part,” Cassandra said doubtfully.

Lydia touched her companion’s wrist with a gloved hand. “Yes it is and, frankly, I’m not in the habit of assisting in secret assignations. But Simon and you need some time alone to talk.” She shook her head again. “Regrettably, it’s your move to make. My poor, lost brother believes the game to be over.”

“I’m so nervous.”

“You’ll do fine. Now,” Lydia said, her manner turning brisk, “you have until dusk. I will come back at that time, and then you and I will go on to Sutherfield. If all goes according to plan Simon will be following wildly on our heels.”

“What will you do all day?” Cassandra queried.

“Don’t worry about me. I intend to return to the inn and work on my correspondence. My friends despair of me I’m such an inconsistent writer, and I’m badly behind at the moment. I expect that chore to take most of the afternoon.”

Cassandra opened the door and jumped to the ground with the aid of the driver. The man climbed back onto the bench, and she stood in the middle of the small yard and watched the vehicle roll from the clearing. Dust billowed around the wheels of the coach, and as the distance increased between Lydia and herself, so did her uncertainty.

“Miss James, is that you?”

Cassandra whipped around at the sound of the youthful voice. “Timothy! I wasn’t expecting you. What are you doing here?”

“I’m with his lordship. I’m taking care of ‘im.” He beamed at her as though caring for his master ranked up there with most wonderful things. The lad’s beautiful, freckled face had filled out from good food and he looked much sturdier.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, smiling. “What have you in your hand?”

“This? It’s a fishin’ pole. The pole I was using broke, so ‘is lordship sent me to get this one.”

Here’s an opportunity, she thought, her mind working furiously. “Timothy, what say you give me the pole so I can surprise Lord Sutherfield? He’s not expecting me and it might be fun.”

“I dunno, miss.” The boy backed away from her. “He’s waitin’ for me to return.”

“I know, but it would be the biggest of favors. You see,” her tone turned confidential, “Lord Sutherfield and I had a small disagreement and I would like to repair our friendship.”

“Does that mean you’ll marry him?”

“What?” Did she detect an accusation in his question?

“Got into the whiskey last night. Said somethin’ about losing ‘is love, though he didn’t talk so good by that time. But I knew he meant you.”

Cassandra stared at the child as a warm feeling settled around her heart. “You’re very loyal to his lordship, aren’t you?”

Timothy straightened. “I’d die for him, miss.”

Why did a child’s unswerving love clarify her own emotions? Simon must be a wonderful man to have earned such trust. Well, what was good enough for Timothy was good enough for her.

“I’d die for him, also,” she said, her voice thickening. “But I can’t tell Lord Sutherfield I wish to marry him if he and I do not talk. You see that, don’t you? Won’t you remain here so that I can speak in private with him?”

For several moments the boy studied her. Finally, he handed the fishing pole to Cassandra.

“Yes, miss. I’ll stay and make some stew. It’s his lordship’s favorite.” Timothy paused. “You might have a hard time gettin’ his attention, though.”

“Why?”

“I never knew a bloke what likes to fish the way he does.”

*****

Simon leaned back on his elbow, stretching his lean body out on the bank of the stream. Cradling his fishing pole in the crook of his arm, he steadied it with his other hand. The day was warm and indolent, and he had to shake his head to keep awake. Unfortunately, the movement reminded him of the throbbing pain in his temples which only now was beginning to dissipate.

He knew better than to get drunk. Overindulgence had never solved a problem for him, and last night’s drinking binge was no different. Poor Timothy had listened to him ramble on about his troubles until the wee hours of the morning. He assumed the lad had helped him to bed because Simon didn’t remember getting there under his own power. At first light he had stumbled to the large kitchen where the tiny servant had done his best to produce a reasonable breakfast.

What, Simon wondered, had he said on the previous evening in his blackest moments just before the whiskey overtook him? Foolish things, he felt positive. Consumed with misery, his obsession mystified him. There were other women in the world, so why must he set his sights on a fiery redhead who had slipped from his grasp? Problem was, the thought of marriage to anyone save Cassandra James held no attraction.

A movement from behind caused him to sit up straight. “It’s about time, young man,” he said good-naturedly, turning.

The air stalled in his lungs.

Good God, his wildest imaginings had conjured her image! From overhead, the sun formed a radiance, highlighting her glorious hair but disguising her features. Simon blinked several times, trying to clear his vision, however, she continued to stand there watching him.

“Cassandra?” he croaked at last, still unbelieving.

She moved forward, falling to her knees. Her beautiful face came into focus as she neared him, and her concern was apparent. “Please, don’t send me away, my lord.”

He swallowed and blurted the first thing that came to him. “Don’t call me my lord,” he commanded.

The words were spoken harshly but a dazzling smile lit her lovely mouth. She threw her arms around his neck.

“Simon, I’ve missed you so.”

Simon was undone. A tide of emotion rose in his chest, and he grabbed hold of her waist and buried his brow in the warmth of her soft breast. He breathed deeply, allowing her sweet scent to cascade over his hungry senses.

“Why are you here?” he asked when he felt capable of speaking without his voice cracking.

Cassandra pulled back and looked at him. “I like to fish, especially with a handsome gentleman.”

“Is that your only reason?”

“And because I love you,” she said simply, her blue-green eyes shining into his.

“Do you?” Despite a fierce effort, his voice did shake then.

“Yes. I apologize for taking so long to admit it.” Cassandra, her gaze warm with sincerity, combed slim fingers through his hair, and Simon’s scalp began to tingle deliciously. “How did you get here?” he asked, changing the subject to mask emotions spinning out of control.

“Lydia.”

“I received her note this morning. She is here, also?”

Cassandra shook her head. “Your sister went back to the inn,” she said.

“Lord, what was she thinking? Lydia knows how I feel about you. The temptation is…hard to resist.”

“Is it?”

“What are you implying?” He snapped out the words.

She licked her lips as she stared back at him. “I’ll not say it. The last time I did you refused me.”

“By God,” he growled, coming to his feet. “Are you foolish enough to believe that’s what I wanted?” He took her hand, yanking her from the ground and into his arms. He held her tight and glared into her face, now inches from his. “Did you think I should possess you when I wasn’t absolutely, and I mean absolutely positive that is what you wanted? You were very drunk, you know.”

“You’re right, but I felt terrible afterward. I was certain you were disgusted with me for being forward.”

“Disgusted? I’ve felt many things for you, love, however, disgust was never one of them. Aside from the moment I found out you had accepted Morley’s offer, I cannot think when I suffered more pain than that night at Vauxhall. I knew I had hurt you, although Lydia assured me I could have done nothing else.”

“That’s right, you told your sister. How could you?”

He shrugged. “I would have preferred to talk to my dearest friend, but at the time it was impossible.”

Cassandra began to struggle from his grasp. “You intended to tell Mr. Stiles?” she squeaked.

Simon held her fast. “Harry? Couldn’t have spoken of it to him. That wouldn’t have been gentlemanly.”

“Then who?” she demanded, continuing to struggle.

“Don’t you know, Cassandra?”

She went still. “Me?”

“I did try to explain, I swear. You were in no mood to listen, but there must have been something I could have done differently. Can you forgive me for being so clumsy?”

He watched her expression transform in the face of his apology, the last of her reserve flowing away and leaving behind the joy of acceptance. Cassandra melted back into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck as she pressed her cheek against his chest. Simon knew his thudding heart next to her ear exposed his chaotic emotions.

For several moments they stood there, each absorbing the warmth and the nearness of the other. Finally, she looked up at him. Simon met her gaze before slowly lowering his mouth to hers.

“Simon?” she murmured, coming up for air.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m not drunk now.”

Simon stared at her, his heart executing an eager flip-flop.

Cassandra was sending him a look of sultry appeal, her eyes glowing with a come-hither fire, her mouth pouting seductively as she pressed against him.

Suddenly lightheaded, what remained of the blood in his head converged with a burning intensity on his lower body.

“Cassie…?” he rasped.

“Yes!” was all she said.

The soft utterance like an erotic caress skimmed along his senses, giving him permission. He slipped his hands into her glorious red hair and clasped her mouth to his. He kissed her fiercely, a deep, intimate kiss.

She whimpered into his mouth, and Simon’s control snapped.

He pulled her to the ground, vaguely aware of the musky smell of earth and vegetation on the riverbank, the crackle of dried leaves.

Cassandra accommodated him as he lay on top of her, purring her satisfaction as his lips found a sensitive spot on her throat. He trailed ardent kisses downward, gently nipping the rounded flesh at the top of her gown.

Impatient with the cloth in his way, Simon opened her bodice to the sound of ripping stitches. He growled, his hot gaze taking in her lush breasts. He placed his mouth over one pink tip, flicking his tongue repeatedly until the nipple hardened. He felt her shudder, and a surge of aching need slipped unchecked through his loins.

Their frenzied movements caused Cassandra’s dress to shift upward, exposing her limbs, and he eased slightly away from her, tugging her skirt to her hips. As her lovely legs came into view, what was about to happen fell full force on Simon.

“Cassandra, are you certain?” He grated out the words, not sure he could comply if she told him to stop.

“Oh, Simon, please,” she whispered. “Love me.”

The sound of her feminine voice, thick with desire, begging him to do what he wanted most to do, delivered him from all doubt. A few frantic adjustments of clothing wrought with hands that shook almost uncontrollably found Simon poised above her.

With one swift thrust he took her innocence.

He gasped, suspended in ecstasy as the silky warmth of her passage surrounded him. Simon groaned savagely.

Even as he immersed himself in the pleasure, he was aware of her indrawn breath, the sudden sob that escaped her. Though dazed, he raised up on his elbows to look at her.

She was staring at him wide-eyed, the blue-green of her irises nearly obliterated by her dilated pupils. Moisture clung to her lashes, forming a spiky fringe on her lids. One tiny teardrop slid down her face, leaving a wet trail.

“Forgive me,” he rumbled, experiencing her distress as if were his own.

All at once Cassandra smiled at him, a soft dreamy smile that held no accusation. “I love you, Simon,” she whispered. She lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck, and pulled him close to her again. She kissed him, a kiss soft and yielding, her lips trembling beneath his.

Simon had thought he understood the more tender emotions, knew what love was, but in that instant he realized he had understood nothing. And so with the hunger igniting his senses came something else, a feeling less physical, but equally profound. Humbled, his heart felt as though it might burst apart.

He nestled into her embrace as he nestled into her body, moving slowly, willing her to respond, determined to wait for her. He began to ache, every muscle stretched and shaking with suppressed tension, when a sudden convulsive movement on her part told him she had entered the pleasure.

Cassandra moaned in soft pants against his ear, calling his name in a passion-soaked voice that snatched the remainder of his control. Triumphant, Simon took one final plunge, and with it he released himself, seeking his own gratification as he joined her in the rapture.

*****

“Cassandra?” he murmured long moments later, his breath unsteady.

“Umm…?” She sounded faraway, lost to all things worldly.

“I love you,” he said simply.

“I know,” she said, a soft smile playing on her lips.

He chuckled. “Oh, do you? What makes you so certain?”

“Lydia told me.”

This time he laughed outright. “Of course. I should have known.”

Simon kissed her again, a slower kiss meant to convey the overwhelming emotion rippling from the center of his chest. When he released her mouth, her lids fluttered open and she gazed at him dreamily.

“Can we stay here forever?” she asked.

“What a tempting idea. I wish we could.”

They shared another gentle kiss, and reluctantly Simon eased off her and came to his feet. He fastened his trousers, tucking in his shirt. Cassandra stood, working at her clothing as well.

Simon leaned over and picked up his fishing pole and sat back down on the embankment. “What about Roger?” he asked, not looking at her.

“I suppose he’s proposed to Penelope by now. Honestly, I don’t care.”

“Why this sudden change? I thought you had decided to please Lord Whittingham.”

“I confronted my grandfather. I should have done it a long time ago.” Cassandra removed the pins from her hair as she talked, then replaced them, restoring some order to her damaged tresses. “Papa told me the old man’s threats were empty.”

The marquess scowled. “I knew it. He held something over you, didn’t he?”

She eased her backside down on the ground, joining him. “He said he would have my father charged with kidnapping. I don’t know if anything would have come from it because the episode is very old, but I didn’t want to take the chance.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I have influence. I could have helped.”

Cassandra glanced at him before dropping her gaze as if suddenly uncertain. “That’s rather complicated, I’m afraid. Lydia pointed it out to me.”

“Ah, yes, my dear sister,” he said wryly. “What did Lydia point out to you?”

“She said I don’t trust you, that I’m afraid.”

“Is she right?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

“I’m afraid to be with you, but I’m more afraid to be without you.”

“I’ve been afraid as well,” he said roughly. “Afraid that I’d never see you again and, if I did, it would be on Roger Morley’s arm. That thought was unbearable.” Simon leaned over and touched his mouth to hers. “I’ll never hurt you, sweetheart, not willingly, I swear. I love you too much.”

“Do you know what are the loveliest times I’ve spent with you?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“When we’ve talked and only that. It’s the comfort of being with a person one admires, without restraint and no need to prove anything. On those few occasions, that’s when I knew I loved you.”

Now, there was a heart-warming disclosure, but one that nudged his guilt. “Lydia’s right,” he said, feeling disgruntled. “I’ve been too aggressive.”

“No, no,” Cassandra spoke quickly, “I wasn’t suggesting that I didn’t like your lovemaking. In fact I was worried that you had lost interest in me when your behavior became less forward.” She lowered her lashes as if embarrassed. “What I meant to say was just being with you is wonderful as well.”

Simon placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her firmly against him, his body filling with relief and exaltation.

“How about we do some fishing?” he asked hoarsely, clearing his throat. “Have you ever baited a hook?” He handed her a worm.

“Never.” Cassandra wrinkled her nose. “But there’s always a first time for everything.” She took the squirming creature delicately between thumb and forefinger, and her features pinched in disgust as she slid the worm on the hook with a soft squish. She shuddered. “Well, now, I don’t suppose that was entirely unpleasant.”

The marquess laughed. “Of course, not.”

He took her line and tossed it in the water then threw in his own. As he leaned back she curled up next to him, and Simon experienced the first real peace he had felt in a long time. “Where’s Tim?” he asked, realizing in his excitement over Cassandra’s arrival that he’d completely forgotten the boy.

“He agreed to stay at the lodge so you and I could talk. He promised to make us something to eat. Is he the only servant you have here?”

“I wanted to be alone,” he said, looking at her meaningfully. “I sent the caretaker on holiday. The only reason Timothy is with me is because I wanted him brought to Sutherfield, and it seemed easiest to do it myself since I was coming anyway. I’m glad I did. His cooking’s not half bad for a young one.”

“We’d better get this fishing out of the way then, for he’s making us a stew.” Merriment laced her words. “He swore it is your favorite.”

“Ah, yes…Tim’s stew. That is an experience you won’t want to miss.”

Cassandra smiled as though nothing would please her more than to dine on one of Timothy’s culinary creations. She snuggled closer to him and as Simon watched her protectively, she slipped into a light slumber, fishing pole clearly forgotten.

*****

Cassandra stared down into the large cast iron kettle that hung from a hook in the stone fireplace. Great chunks of beef and potatoes seasoned liberally with onion swam in a runny gravy.

“My, this does look good, Timothy,” she said, hoping she sounded more sincere than she felt. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“Me ma,” the child said. “If you want to eat you learn to cook. Ain’t no mystery. You and ‘is lordship sit down—I’ll dish it up.”

“I do believe our Tim missed his calling,” Simon stated. “He has the temperament of a king. I think we should take our places, what say, Miss James?”

He pulled a heavy oaken chair back from the kitchen table, seating her and then himself across from her.

Moments later Timothy brought a large earthenware bowl brimming with his stew and placed it under Cassandra’s nose. Returning to the pot, he repeated the process, this time for Simon’s benefit.

“Thank you, Tim,” the marquess said. “Looks very, er…hearty. Is it the same stew you made yesterday, or is this a new batch?”

“No, milord. This is fresh as can be,” the boy vowed. “If you’re done wif me, I got chores outside.” He backed away from the table, his clear blue eyes wide with innocence. “Should take me hours to finish—way into dark, no doubt.” Timothy turned and dashed outside, closing the door on the surprised couple.

Cassandra found herself staring at her bowl of stew with an enthusiasm her stomach denied.

“Well, well, the lad is intuitive, I’ll say that.” Simon remarked at last, shaking his head. “Can’t give him high marks for subtlety, though.”

Cassandra slid a glance at him from the corner of her eye but meeting his gaze was a mistake. The humor she saw lurking in his warm regard caused her to smile at him sheepishly.

Simon popped a large piece of beef into his mouth and began to chew…and chew…and chew. “Whew,” he said over the leather-like lump, “we must teach Timothy the fine art of tenderizing his creations. As it is we’ll be into next week before we finish off that kettle.” He gathered his courage and with visible effort swallowed, forcing the meat down his gullet.

Cassandra started to laugh, and as her eyes teared, she laughed some more. The marquess joined her. Before many moments, the large kitchen was alive with merriment.

Simon reached out and took her hand across the table. “I’m not a coward, but I don’t think I can make myself eat the whole bowl. I consumed a substantial serving last night, however, at the time I was drunk as a lord. I’m afraid I’m not up to it sober. I assume that’s the reason my jaws ache today.”

Cassandra clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh dear,” she said, trying to control her amusement. “You said he could cook.”

“Right then,” he acknowledged, “except for stew.”

“What are we to do? We’ll hurt Timothy’s feelings if we don’t eat.”

Simon’s eyes took on a considering light. “Do you suppose he’ll notice if we put it back in the pot? It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Before she could finish nodding, the marquess had sprung from his chair. He seized the bowls, one in each hand and, moving with a speed born of desperation, dumped the congealing mess back into the kettle. He returned to the table and set her empty dish in front of her.

“There,” he said, replacing his bowl and sitting down, “the boy’s feelings are spared and so are our bellies.”

“My hero,” Cassandra teased. She batted her eyelashes at him and, though Simon winked at her in return, his expression sobered.

Sighing, he said, “I hate to end this pleasant interlude but the outside world awaits. When did you say Lydia is returning?”

“At dusk. I’m to ride with her to Sutherfield.” She paused. “That is, if you want me to.”

He scowled. “You’d best believe that’s what I want. We have a marriage to plan. Something small and intimate. And I don’t think we should waste any time, either. Today could have consequences.”

Cassandra looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Simon cocked his brows at her, his brows turning suggestive. “Didn’t anyone tell you how babies are made?”

Now why was she embarrassed at the mention of babies after what had transpired between them only a short while ago? But she was, and she stared at him nonplused.

“Frankly, sweetheart,” he continued, more seriously, “it’s more than expediency—I don’t want to wait.”

Her expression relaxed into a shy smile. “Nor do I.”

“A special license at Sutherfield with our closest friends and family will please you?” he asked. “I like the idea of doing this quickly, but I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I’m not a person tied to ceremony, Simon,” she said. “As long as my father is there. And Sophy, naturally.”

“What of your grandfather?”

Cassandra hesitated. “I think he’ll come. I hope he does.” She shrugged fatalistically. “We’ll simply have to see.”

Simon rose to his feet and, taking her hand, pulled her from her chair. He took her in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. When he raised his head his dark eyes swirled with renewed desire.

“Soon,” he muttered roughly, “I mean that, Cassandra. I don’t have the stamina to wait. Now,” he said, putting her away from him, “before my resolve fails me help me gather my things. I want to be ready to leave when Lydia arrives.”

*****

“Who is that horrible little boy with the angel’s face?” Outraged, Lydia stood in the middle of the great room of her brother’s hunting lodge, hands on hips. “He nearly tackled me to keep me from coming in here.”

Simon sent a secretive wink to Cassandra where she waited by the front door. “That’s our young Tim,” he explained. “You’ve heard me speak of him, Lydia.”

“Then I suggest, brother dear, when you teach him to be your groom, you also teach him some manners. I expected a cowed child, grateful for his condition, not that bold little person.”

“He’s looking after my interests. Forgive me, but I’d have it no other way. I like my servants loyal.” Simon crossed to his sister’s side and placed an arm around her. “Don’t be irritable with me, my dear,” he said expansively, squeezing her shoulders, “for I’m especially happy with you right now. Cassie and I are to be married.” He sent Cassandra a warm smile.

“It’s about time you two came to your senses,” Lydia announced, but her smile was satisfied. “We’re on our way to Sutherfield. I hope you’ll be coming soon, Simon, because I’m certain Cassandra will appreciate your support. You know how Mother can be.”

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “I’m packed as we speak. Timothy and I will leave within the hour.”

Lydia linked arms with her future sister-in-law and moved into the yard. Simon followed and helped the ladies into the coach, closing the door as they seated themselves. He glanced up to see Cassandra watching him from the carriage window and his expression softened.

“I’m right behind you, love. Wait for me,” he said.

Cassandra nodded, blowing him a kiss with the tips of her fingers. She sat back on the seat as the carriage pulled from the yard, a feeling of contentment washing over her.

The countess smiled. “My brother certainly looks pleased with himself.”

Cassandra’s only answer was a fiery blush.

“Oh heavens, I’m not going to ask.” Lydia patted her arm.

Cassandra gave a shaky laugh, relieved that her companion was not only perceptive but discreet. She took Lydia’s hand and squeezed it affectionately.

“Thank you, Lydia. I don’t know what I…we would have done without you.”

Straightening her skirts, the countess nodded sagely.

*****

EPILOGUE

London, 1809—Christmas

“Are you all right, love?” Simon leaned over in the pew, closely inspecting his wife’s pale features.

Cassandra smiled wanly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re still feeling queasy, aren’t you?” he demanded. “I told you we shouldn’t come. Everyone would have understood.”

“I couldn’t miss Penelope and Roger’s wedding, Simon. I promised Grandfather I would attend. If he thinks this will give the appearance of family unity then I think we were obligated to try. In his own pig-headed way he’s been making an effort.”

Simon grunted, clearly unconvinced.

Cassandra glanced around the cavernous church, drinking in the majesty of the place. The nuptials had just ended, and the guests were filtering from the building, although she and Simon remained seated.

“Penelope was beautiful, don’t you think?” she asked.

“For a brat she dressed up nicely.”

“Simon!”

“You asked,” came the implacable reply.

Yes, she did. “It was a lovely ceremony, though, wasn’t it?” Cassandra asked.

“Too much ceremony for me, if you must know,” he muttered. “I prefer the way we did it. Quick and to the point and then on to more important things.” Simon raised his brows at her suggestively.

“Yes, and look where I am because of it,” Cassandra said in mock disapproval, discreetly patting her stomach.

His expression became serious as he took her chin in his hand. “Any regrets?” he asked gently.

“Never,” she stated. “I’m happier than I ever thought possible. And the baby makes everything perfect.”

Simon’s eyes glowed with satisfaction and he nodded.

The atmosphere in the church grew hushed and somber with the last of the guests filing out the great cathedral entrance, and an icy blast blew down the aisle as the door closed for the final time. The candles on the altar flickered wildly, creating dancing shadows on the vaulted ceiling overhead.

A penetrating, otherworldly stillness followed.

“In a way this is better,” Cassandra whispered, awestruck.

“How do you mean?”

“Just you and me in this wondrous place.” She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m glad we came.”

Simon took her hand and squeezed it. “Are you up to a reception?” he asked, unable to mask his concern. “We don’t have to, you know.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She came to her feet. “With the baby due in June, this may be my last opportunity to enjoy a party for quite a while. I’m feeling better.”

Simon stood and helped her into her fur-lined cloak. They stepped from the pews, and he paused.

“Wait here,” he said.

Sprinting to the front of the church, he plucked a rose from one of the arrangements gracing the altar. He turned and trotted back to her.

“Simon, thank you. I’ve come to love roses more than any other flower,” she said mistily, running the dainty pink bloom under her nose.

“As have I, my love, as have I.” His gaze turned black with memory. He took her arm and slowly they headed down the aisle toward the exit. At the door he stopped and gathered her into his embrace. “I love you, Cassandra Fitzgerald.”

His words were husky and warm, and Cassandra experienced a shiver of anticipation.

“And I love you, Simon Fitzgerald.”

“Show me,” Simon growled, taking her mouth.

For several long moments they shared their love in that holy place, and then Lord Sutherfield and his lady walked into the brightness of London’s winter sun.

*****

Table of Contents

In the Garden of Seduction