by Kay Hooper
He had called her love. And his poor darling. And for the rest of the day, that note in his voice, husky and caressing whenever he spoke to her.
Normally a young woman who was very sure of herself, Cassandra was both excited and bewildered by the earl and by her own feelings, and though she felt few doubts or hesitations when she was with him, alone in her bed that night she tossed and turned restlessly. Her body was feverish, her mind troubled.
They had gone for a long walk in his snow-covered garden after breakfast, taking care in the drifts and attempting to guess what plants lay beneath odd-shaped humps of snow. He had held her hand, and once caught her when she would have slipped, but there were no more kisses or thrillingly blunt statements of desire.
John Potter found them there when he came to report the impassable condition of the surrounding roads, and though Cassandra tried hard, she was afraid her voice betrayed the relief she felt at knowing they could not leave just yet. Sheffield did not comment on the information other than to say calmly that it would likely be another day or two before travel was possible, and when they were alone together again he talked of other things.
The remainder of the day was much as the previous ones had been, with amusing card games and conversation and chess to occupy them—but when Cassandra went upstairs to change for the evening, he stood in the entrance hall and watched her go up; she could feel his eyes on her. And just before she retired to her room much later, she had accidentally (she assured herself) brushed against him as she rose from her chair; he had caught her in his arms and kissed her almost violently, and Cassandra had melted against him with a murmur of pleasure.
“This must stop,” the earl told her fiercely, giving her bare shoulders a little shake and then kissing her again.
“Must it?” Her fingers clung to his lapels, but she wanted to burrow closer to his hard body, to slip her arms around him and press herself against him. The urge was shocking, and she did not care.
Sheffield half closed his eyes as he looked down at her, his face a hard mask. “Yes, dammit.” But instead of shaking her once more, his fingers probed at the delicate bones of her shoulders, then followed the graceful length of her neck upward until his hands cradled each side of her face and his thumbs gently smoothed the heated skin over her cheekbones.
Without thought she moved her head a little so that she could feel the slightly rough texture of his palms. She was dizzy, excited, yearning, and half-frightened all at once, wanting without being able to put a name to what it was she craved so terribly.
“Cassie . . .” He bent his head to kiss her, his tongue sliding deeply into her mouth, stroking hers in a secret, erotic duel that made the fever inside her burn even hotter. Learning rapidly, she responded with a swift and total abandon, and his mouth was wild on hers for a moment before he jerked his head up and ground out a curse so savage it cut through the daze of her need.
She blinked at him uncertainly. “Stone?”
He gave her a fierce look that seemed to her to hold reluctance but something else as well. Anger? Bitterness? Whatever it was, she had little opportunity to try and understand it. He took his hands off her and stepped back until they were no longer touching. Then he drew a breath and said politely, “Good night, Cassie.”
So she had left him, retreating to her room in some confusion, and now she tangled the bedclothes with her restless tossing and turning. Her body ached, and she could not stop thinking, suddenly worrying.
After all that had happened between them, Sheffield had not uttered a single word about the future. He had called her love, yes, and his poor darling—but did it signify anything? How could she be certain, after all, that what he said to her and the way he kissed and touched her was important to him? She had heard it said that, for a man, there could most certainly be passion without love. According to the discreet murmurs of older women, many men were held to make love with ease and without real meaning—what if Stone Westcott was such a man?
He certainly had the blood of rakes in his veins—as he had warned her himself—but did that automatically mean he could feel nothing but passion for her?
She did not know. But he had not so much as hinted there might be a future for them together, and Cassandra was very much afraid that did mean something.
He greeted her quietly but with shuttered eyes and an impassive expression at breakfast, and Sheffield spent that morning and much of the afternoon closeted in his study with his estate agent. That was neither unusual nor unexpected, since storms tended to cause problems on any large estate, and those would need to be reported to the earl and remedies planned. Cassandra did not resent the duties that occupied him—but she wished they could have been postponed a few days.
Even one day might have made a difference, because she was much afraid that was all the time she had left. The temperature had warmed during the afternoon so that the snow was already beginning to melt, and John Potter had offered his opinion that travel might be possible as early as the following day. The main roads were clearing rapidly; the mail had gone through, and the Bristol Light Post Coach as well, so that was strong evidence of improving conditions.
John had the coach repaired; the horses were rested; the weather was breaking. She would have to leave.
From the astonishing, dizzying pleasure and excitement of the previous day to the anxiety and fears of this day was such a plummeting drop Cassandra felt almost ill with reaction. She managed to keep herself occupied during the day but acknowledged to herself the uselessness of it when she realized she had read the entire pirate adventure and could not recall a single word of the story.
The earl was still shut in his study when she went disconsolately upstairs to change for the evening, and when the tall case clock on the landing chimed the hour cheerfully, she wanted to kick it. There were clocks everywhere in this dratted house, and all of them insisted on reminding her of the passage of time.
“Miss Cassie—will we be leaving soon?”
She thought that Sarah’s voice was just a trifle too disinterested (considering her worries earlier), but Cassandra was putting tiny diamond drops in her earlobes and didn’t look at her maid when she replied calmly, “I believe so. The roads are clearing, and so we should be on our way.”
“To Bristol, miss?”
“Perhaps. Or back to London.” She had lost her desire to continue on and felt the need to return to her uncle’s cheerful house in Berkeley Square.
Sarah said no more, and Cassandra tried not to think of tomorrow as she went back downstairs. She had rather defiantly chosen to wear the blue silk dress again, her lace shawl draped across her shoulders, but when she went into the drawing room where they met before supper, he was not there.
Sighing, she went to stand before the fireplace, head bent as she gazed down at the flames, and when she heard his voice a few minutes later, it required every ounce of her control to keep from flinging herself into his arms.
“Good evening, Cassie.” He closed the door behind him as he came in, then moved to stand at the fireplace so that they faced each other.
No one else had ever made her name sound that way, and she felt an absurd prickle of tears that she fiercely blinked away before meeting his gaze. “Good evening.” Her voice was calm; what an actress she seemed to be! “I trust the storm did no lasting damage to your estate?”
“No, nothing that cannot be repaired.” He was frowning a bit, obviously preoccupied, and his eyes were still shuttered.
Cassandra wondered if he had even noticed the blue silk dress he had said made her look beautiful. She made her voice light and careless. “I believe I may be able to travel by tomorrow. John Potter reports that the main road is in quite good shape, so we shall only have to take care until we reach it.”
“On to Bristol?” The earl spoke slowly, and his frown appeared to deepen.
“Oh—back to London, I think. I am promised to at least three balls after next week, and might as well return in time to attend
them.”
He nodded. “It is just as well you mean to go, Cassie,” he said in a very deliberate tone. “These past days . . . shut off from outside contact and thrown together as we have been—”
However he might have finished what he meant to say, Cassandra was left with only painful conjecture when a sudden bustle of noise from the entrance hall caused Sheffield to break off abruptly and start toward the drawing room door.
“What the devil?”
Cassandra was feeling numb, hardly interested in visitors, but when the drawing room doors were thrust open before the earl could reach them and a woman swept in still speaking over her shoulder to Anatole, she could not help arriving at the forlorn conclusion that she was being punished.
“Oh, don’t be absurd, Anatole—we hardly need announcing in my own brother’s drawing room!” Lady Harleston, the wife of the vague but amiable Lord Harleston, sailed into the drawing room as if it were her own, with her much quieter husband following. She was a tall woman in her late thirties, quite handsome in a decided rather than pretty way, several years older than her brother, and it was immediately apparent that between them flourished a somewhat bristly tolerance rather than warm affection.
“Althea, what the devil are you doing here?” the earl demanded grimly.
“A fine welcome, I must say! When we took the time and trouble to get off the main road—on our way back to London, you know—only to make certain the storm left you and the Hall still standing!”
“As you can see, we stand,” Sheffield retorted. “Hello, Jasper.”
“Evening, Stone. Sorry to drop in on you like this, but Althea would have it you was frozen in a drift and needed to be dug out.” Lord Harleston smiled, as good-natured as his wife was sharp-tongued.
“It would have suited me better,” the earl said, “if she had waited until the spring thaw to look for me.”
Lord Harleston’s responsive chuckle broke off abruptly as he saw Cassandra—who had stood perfectly still and hoped she would pass unseen. His mild blue eyes widened, and he looked at the earl in some surprise, but before he could speak, Lady Harleston also took notice of her brother’s guest.
“Why, is that you, Miss Eden?” she demanded, striding forward to shake hands briskly.
“How do you do, Lady Harleston,” Cassandra murmured, hoping wistfully that all this would—somehow!—turn out right.
“How do you do is the question I want answered,” Her Ladyship replied with all her brother’s bluntness and none of his humor or charm. “Were you not supposed to be fixed at Bristol until next week? What on earth are you doing here at the Hall?”
It was the earl who replied, his voice unusually flat. “The lady’s coach broke down, Althea.”
“Today?” Her Ladyship demanded to know.
Deliberately he replied, “No. A few days ago at the beginning of the storm.”
Cassandra had stolen one glance at Sheffield’s face, and that had been enough. He had not missed his sister’s use of the name Eden, and obviously realized he had been lied to; his expression matched his name, and his eyes were completely unreadable. Cassandra wished the floor would open up and swallow her, and be done with it.
Lady Harleston, shocked, exclaimed, “Days ago? And she has been here unchaperoned? Stone, what can you have been thinking of? A child of her age—with a man of your reputation! Do you for one moment think anyone would believe it innocent? When word of this reaches London—”
“Althea,” her husband warned softly.
But Lady Harleston finished her warning defiantly: “—she will be ruined!”
There was an awful silence that seemed to Cassandra to last an eternity. Then she squared her shoulders and, without looking at the earl, said quietly, “If our society believes that a lady may not take shelter from a vicious storm in the home of a gentleman without sacrificing her reputation and marring his, then it is not a society of which I wish to be a part.”
Lady Harleston glared at her brother. “Say something!”
The clock on the mantel chimed. Unemotionally the earl said, “Will you join us for supper, Althea? Jasper? I am sure Anatole has set two more places.”
By the time Cassandra retired to her room several hours later, her nerves were so strained by the effort of preserving a composed front before the earl and his guests that all she wanted to do was crawl between the covers and indulge in a passionate bout of tears. He had seemed perfectly calm, of course, fielding his sister’s insistent questions by simply refusing to discuss Cassandra’s presence in his house, but Cassandra was exhausted.
Sheffield had made no effort to speak to her alone; in fact, he had hardly spoken to her at all. Whether he was furious over her using a false name, disturbed by the unexpected arrival of Lord and Lady Harleston, or simply impatient with the entire situation was not clear. He had retired behind a wall of remoteness, and what his thoughts were behind that impenetrable barrier was very much his own secret.
Now, in her bedroom, Cassandra changed from the blue silk dress into her nightgown and wrapper and allowed Sarah to take her hair down. But she did not want to be fussed over tonight and was about to dismiss her maid when there was a soft knock and Lady Harleston came in. She was not yet dressed for bed and seemed to take no notice of Cassandra’s attire.
“May I speak to you, my dear?” she inquired briskly.
It was the last thing Cassandra wanted, but common courtesy forced her to dismiss Sarah with a nod and murmur, “Of course, Lady Harleston.”
The earl’s sister sat down on a chair near the dressing table and, as soon as the maid had gone, said, “I know we are barely acquainted, but this is my brother’s house, and since you have no older female to advise you in this situation—”
“My lady, I thank you for your concern, but I assure you I require no advice.” Cassandra kept her voice steady and met the other women’s eyes as directly as she could manage. “I took shelter here because there was no place else I could go under the circumstances, and I remained during the storm because I had no other choice. Lord Sheffield has been a most kind and hospitable host, for which I am most grateful.”
Lady Harleston nodded but with an expression that said she had expected to hear such platitudes. “I have no doubt that you considered the circumstances innocent, Miss Eden, and I am perfectly aware you had little choice in the matter. However, the fact remains that you have spent several nights unchaperoned under my brother’s roof.”
Evenly Cassandra said, “During which time I had no need to lock my bedroom door, my lady. We may have been alone together upon occasion, but there were always servants about.” Tactful servants. Not that she cared what they may have seen. She shut from her mind the aching memory of soul-wrenching kisses and forced herself to go on speaking what was nevertheless the literal truth. “I have not been compromised, and I refuse to behave as if I have. I cannot believe any right-thinking person could possibly condemn me, or blame the earl, for a situation which was not of our making.”
Lady Harleston shook her head. “My dear, you’ve been in London this last year and more, and I’ve the suspicion you have more sense than most, so let us speak frankly.”
Just the possibility of the earl’s sister speaking more frankly than she already had was rather terrifying, and Cassandra tried to stem the flow. “My lady—”
She was ignored.
“It’s never been forgotten that he ruined a girl more than ten years ago; I know you’ve heard the tales.”
“Yes, but—”
“She was an heiress, did you hear that? And him with mortgaged estates and a borrowed coach he carried her off in, as well as the reputation of a rake, even though he was hardly more than a boy himself. Her brother was hours behind them, and when he caught up to them at an inn on the North Road, well . . . it was too late.”
“Too late?” Cassandra assumed Lady Harleston meant that the couple had spent an unchaperoned night at the inn. “To travel together, even so far, and spend a
night in the same inn—”
“In the same bed,” the earl’s sister said bluntly.
Cassandra stared at her for a moment, not as shocked as she should have been because she herself had learned first-hand just how effortlessly a Westcott man could seduce. She drew a breath and murmured, “And he refused to marry her.”
“No.”
“But—the tales—everyone believes—”
“I know what everyone believes.” Lady Harleston’s voice was matter-of-fact now. “My brother had too much pride and was too much a gentleman to set the wagging tongues aright, and I was already married with a household of my own and didn’t find out the truth until much later.”
“Then—what happened?” Cassandra was too curious not to ask.
“Stone was head over heels in love with that chit, didn’t care a button about her fortune. He was wild then, quick-tempered and tempestuous like all the Westcott men when they’re young, and I have no doubt the girl was carried away by all the high drama of being pursued by such a romantic figure. In any event, Stone offered for her, and though I don’t know what precisely passed between them, I do know that her brother refused the suit harshly. It seemed he preferred something other than an impoverished earl for a brother-in-law. A likely guess is that he wished to control her fortune himself and had no intention of handing her over to a husband in need of money.”
Lady Harleston sighed. “Naturally, Stone was enraged by the refusal. He managed to convince the girl to run away with him, and they set out for Gretna Green in a borrowed coach. Very bad, of course, but he did fancy himself in love and certainly would have married the chit, so if it had ended as planned the scandal wouldn’t have been so bad. But it did not end as planned.”
Obviously less prim than most ladies of the ton, the earl’s sister added thoughtfully, “I suppose they were both of them carried away by the high drama of it all, and since they expected to be married right afterward, it must have seemed foolish to wait to have each other. Or perhaps he seduced her—though, to her credit, the girl never made that claim, at least not publicly.”