“I always want the money. That’s why I have so much of it. And no, I wouldn’t mind if a friend tried to fleece me; I would respect the effort.”
“You probably would.” West sounded far from admiring. “You may be a soulless bastard with the mindless appetite of a bull shark, but you’ve always been honest.”
“You’ve always been fair. That’s why I’m asking you to tell Lady Cassandra about my good qualities as well as the bad ones.”
“What good qualities?” West inquired sharply.
Tom had to think for a moment. “How rich I am?” he suggested.
West groaned and shook his head. “I might feel sorry for you, Tom, if you weren’t such a selfish arse. I’ve seen you like this before, and I already know where it will lead. This is why you own more houses than you can live in, more horses than you can ride and more paintings than you have walls. For you, disappointment is inevitable. As soon as you obtain the object of your desire, it loses its power to enchant you. Knowing that, do you think Devon or I would ever allow you to court Cassandra?”
“I wouldn’t lose interest in my own wife.”
“How could it be otherwise?” West asked softly. “All that matters to you is the chase.”
Chapter 2
AFTER LEAVING THE MUSIC ROOM, Cassandra had hurried upstairs to her room to wash her face. A cool, wet compress on her eyes had helped to soothe the redness. There was no remedy, however, for the dull ache that had started as soon as she’d watched Pandora’s carriage pull away from the house. Her twin, her other half, had begun a new life with her husband, Lord St. Vincent. And Cassandra was alone.
Fighting the urge to cry again, Cassandra slowly descended one side of the grand double staircase in the great entrance hall. She would have to mingle with guests in the formal gardens where an informal buffet had been set out. Guests came and went as they pleased, filling their gold-banded plates with hot breads, poached eggs on toast, smoked quail, fruit salad, and slices of charlotte russe made with sponge cake and Bavarian cream. Footmen crossed through the entrance hall as they headed outside with trays of coffee, tea, and iced champagne.
Ordinarily this was the kind of event Cassandra would have enjoyed to no end. She loved a nice breakfast, especially when there was a little something sweet to finish it off, and charlotte russe was one of her favorite desserts. However, she was in no mood to make small talk with anyone. Besides, she’d eaten far too many sweets lately … the extra jam tart at teatime yesterday, and all the fruit ices between dinner courses last night, and that entire éclair, stuffed with rich almond cream and roofed with a crisp layer of icing. And one of the little decorative marzipan flowers from a platter of puddings.
Halfway down the stairs, Cassandra had to pause and gasp for air. She put a hand to her lower ribs, where her corset had been cinched more firmly than usual. As a rule, everyday corsets were close-fitting to support the back and promote good posture, but they weren’t punishingly tight. She only tight-laced for special occasions such as this. With the extra weight she had recently gained, Cassandra felt miserably bound up and breathless and hot. The stays seemed to trap all the air near the top of her lungs. Red-faced, she sat at the side of the staircase and leaned against the balusters. The corners of her eyes were stinging again.
Oh, this has to stop. Vexed with herself, Cassandra took a handkerchief from the concealed pocket of her dress and pressed it hard over a new trickle of tears. After a minute or two had passed, she became aware of someone ascending the stairs in a measured tread.
Embarrassed to be caught crying on the steps like a lost child, Cassandra struggled to rise.
A low voice stopped her. “No … please. I only wanted to give you this.”
Through a blur, she saw the dark form of Tom Severin, who had come to stand a step below her, with two glasses of iced champagne in his hands. He extended one to her.
Cassandra began to reach for it, but hesitated. “I’m not supposed to have champagne unless it’s mixed with punch.”
One corner of his wide mouth tipped upward. “I won’t tell.”
Cassandra took the glass gratefully, and drank. The cold fizz was wonderful, easing the dry tightness of her throat.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He gave her a brief nod and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Cassandra said, although she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to stay or leave.
Mr. Severin turned back to her with a questioning glance.
During their brief encounter in the music room, Cassandra had been too flustered to notice much about him. He’d been so very odd, jumping out like that and offering to marry a complete stranger. Also, she’d been absolutely mortified for him to have overheard her tearful disclosure to West, especially the part about having her dress altered.
But now it was impossible not to notice how very good-looking he was, tall and elegantly lean, with dark hair, a clear, fair complexion, and thick brows set at a slightly diabolical slant. If she were to judge his features individually—the long nose, the wide mouth, the narrow eyes, the sharply angled cheeks and jaw—she wouldn’t have expected him to be this attractive. But somehow when it was all put together, his looks were striking and interesting in a way she’d remember far longer than conventional handsomeness.
“You’re welcome to join me,” Cassandra found herself saying.
Severin hesitated. “Is that what you want?” he surprised her by asking.
Cassandra had to consider the question. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I don’t want to be alone … but I don’t especially want to be with anyone either.”
“I’m the perfect solution, then.” He lowered to the place beside her. “You can say whatever you like to me. I make no moral judgments.”
Cassandra was slow to reply, momentarily distracted by his eyes. They were blue with dapples of brilliant green around the pupils, but one eye had far more green than the other.
“Everyone makes judgments,” she said in response to his statement.
“I don’t. My sense of right and wrong is different from most people’s. You could say I’m a moral nihilist.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who believes nothing is innately right or wrong.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful,” she exclaimed.
“I know,” he said, looking apologetic.
Perhaps some gently bred young women would have been shocked, but Cassandra was accustomed to unconventional people. She’d grown up with Pandora, whose twisty-turny, hippity-hoppity brain had enlivened an unbearably secluded life. In fact, Mr. Severin possessed a kind of contained energy that reminded her a little of Pandora. One could see it in the eyes, the quicksilver workings of a mind that ran at a faster speed than those of other people.
After another sip of champagne, Cassandra was relieved to discover the urge to cry had passed, and she could breathe normally again.
“You’re supposed to be a genius, aren’t you?” she asked, recalling a discussion between Devon, West, and Mr. Winterborne, all friends with Severin. They’d agreed the railway magnate possessed the most brilliant business mind of anyone they knew. “Sometimes intelligent people can make something simple into something very complicated. Perhaps that’s why you have difficulty with right and wrong.”
That elicited a brief grin. “I’m not a genius.”
“You’re being modest,” she said.
“I’m never modest.” Mr. Severin drained the rest of his champagne, set down the glass, and turned to face her more fully. “I have an above-average intellect and a photographic memory. But that’s not genius.”
“How interesting,” Cassandra said uneasily, thinking, Oh, dear … more oddness. “You take photographs with your mind?”
His lips twitched, as if he could read her thoughts. “Not like that. I retain information more easily than images. Some things—charts or schedules, pages from a book—I can recall in perfect detail, as if I’m looking at a picture. I rememb
er the furniture arrangements and the art on the walls of nearly every house I’ve ever visited. Every word of every contract I’ve signed and business deal I’ve negotiated are in here.” He tapped his temple with a long finger.
“Are you joking?” Cassandra asked in amazement.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Why on earth is it unfortunate to be intelligent?”
“Well, that’s the problem: Recalling vast amounts of information doesn’t mean you’re intelligent. It’s what you do with the information.” His expression turned wry. “Remembering too many things makes the brain inefficient. There’s a certain amount of information we’re supposed to forget because we don’t need it, or because it hinders us. But I remember all the failed attempts as well as the successes. All the mistakes and negative outcomes. Sometimes it’s like being caught in a dust storm—there’s too much debris flying about for me to see clearly.”
“It sounds quite fatiguing to have a photographic memory. Still, you’ve made the most of it. One can’t really pity you.”
He grinned at that, and hung his head. “I suppose not.”
Cassandra finished the last drops of champagne before setting aside her glass. “Mr. Severin, may I ask something personal?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you offer to be my oyster?” A hot blush climbed her face. “Is it because I’m pretty?”
His head lifted. “Partly,” he admitted without a hint of shame. “But I also liked what you said—that you never nag or slam doors, and you’re not looking for love. I’m not either.” He paused, his vibrant gaze holding hers. “I think we would be a good match.”
“I didn’t mean I don’t want love,” Cassandra protested. “I only meant I’d be willing to let love grow in time. To be clear, I want a husband who could also love me back.”
Mr. Severin took his time about replying. “What if you had a husband who, although not handsome, was not altogether bad-looking and happened to be very rich? What if he were kind and considerate, and gave you whatever you asked for—mansions, jewels, trips abroad, your own private yacht and luxury railway carriage? What if he were exceptionally good at …” He paused, appearing to think better of what he’d been about to say. “What if he were your protector and friend? Would it really matter so much if he couldn’t love you?”
“Why couldn’t he?” Cassandra asked, intrigued and perturbed. “Is he missing a heart altogether?”
“No, he has one, but it’s never worked that way. It’s … frozen.”
“Since when?”
He thought for a moment. “Birth?” he offered.
“Hearts don’t start out frozen,” Cassandra said wisely. “Something happened to you.”
Mr. Severin gave her a slightly mocking glance. “How do you know so much about the heart?”
“I’ve read novels—” Cassandra began earnestly, and was disgruntled to hear his quiet laugh. “Many of them. You don’t think a person can learn things from reading novels?”
“Nothing that actually applies to life.” But the blue-green eyes contained a friendly sparkle, as if he found her charming.
“But life is what novels are about. A novel can contain more truth than a thousand newspaper articles or scientific papers. It can make you imagine, just for a little while, that you’re someone else—and then you understand more about people who are different from you.”
The way he listened to her was so very flattering, so careful and interested, as if he were collecting her words like flowers to be pressed in a book. “I stand corrected,” he said. “I see I’ll have to read one. Do you have any suggestions?”
“I wouldn’t dare. I don’t know your taste.”
“I like trains, ships, machines, and tall buildings. I like the idea of traveling to new places, although I never seem to have the time to go anywhere. I don’t like sentiment or romance. History puts me to sleep. I don’t believe in miracles, angels, or ghosts.” He gave her an expectant glance, as if he’d just laid down a challenge.
“Hmm.” Cassandra puzzled over what kind of novel might appeal to him. “I’ll have to give this some thought. I want to recommend something you’ll be sure to enjoy.”
Mr. Severin smiled, tiny constellations of reflected chandelier lights glinting in his eyes. “Since I’ve told you about my tastes … what are yours?”
Cassandra looked down at her folded hands in her lap. “I like trivial things, mostly,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Handiwork, such as embroidery, knitting, and needlepoint. I sketch and paint a little. I like naps and teatime, and taking a lazy stroll on a sunny day, and reading books on a rainy afternoon. I have no special talents or grand ambitions. But I would like to have my own family someday, and … I want to help other people far more than I’m able to now. I take baskets of food and medicine to tenants and acquaintances in the village, but that’s not enough. I want to provide real help to people who need it.” She sighed shortly. “I suppose that’s not very interesting. Pandora’s the exciting, amusing twin, the one people remember. I’ve always been … well, the one who’s not Pandora.” In the silence that followed, she looked up from her lap with chagrin. “I don’t know why I just told you all that. It must have been the champagne. Could you please forget I said it?”
“Not even if I wanted to,” he said gently. “Which I don’t.”
“Bother.” Frowning, Cassandra retrieved her empty glass and stood, tugging her skirts into place.
Mr. Severin picked up his own glass and rose to his feet. “But you don’t have to worry,” he said. “You can say whatever you like to me. I’m your oyster.”
Before she could restrain herself, an appalled giggle escaped her. “Please don’t say that. You’re no such thing.”
“You can choose another word, if you like.” Mr. Severin extended his arm to escort her downstairs. “But the fact is, if you ever need anything—any favor, any service, large or small—I’m the one to send for. No questions asked, no obligations attached. Will you remember that?”
Cassandra hesitated before taking his arm. “I’ll remember.” As they proceeded to the first floor, she asked in bewilderment, “But why would you make such a promise?”
“Haven’t you ever liked someone or something right away, without knowing exactly why, but feeling sure you would discover the reasons later?”
She couldn’t help smiling at that, thinking, Yes, as a matter of fact. Just now. But it would be too forward to say so, and besides, it would be wrong to encourage him. “I would be glad to call you a friend, Mr. Severin. But I’m afraid marriage will never be a possibility. We don’t suit. I could please you only in the most superficial ways.”
“I would be happy with that,” he said. “Superficial relationships are my favorite kind.”
A regretful smile lingered at her lips. “Mr. Severin, you couldn’t give me the life I’ve always dreamed of.”
“I hope your dream comes true, my lady. But if it doesn’t, I could offer you some very satisfying substitutes.”
“Not if your heart is frozen,” Cassandra said.
Mr. Severin grinned at that, and made no reply. But as they neared the last step, she heard his reflective, almost puzzled murmur.
“Actually … I think it just thawed a little.”
Chapter 3
ALTHOUGH CASSANDRA MAINTAINED A circumspect distance from Mr. Severin during the informal buffet breakfast, she couldn’t help stealing covert glances as he mingled with other guests. His manner was relaxed and quiet, and he made no effort to draw attention to himself. But even if Cassandra hadn’t known who he was, she would have thought there was something extraordinary about him. He had a shrewdly confident look, the alertness of a predator. It was the look of a powerful man, she reflected, as she saw him talking with Mr. Winterborne, who also had it. They were very different from the men of her class, who had been raised from birth in ancient traditions and codes of behavior.
Men like Severin and Winterborne w
ere common born but had made their own fortunes. Unfortunately, nothing was so mocked and disliked in upper-class circles as the brazen pursuit of profit. A man had to acquire wealth discreetly, pretending it had come through indirect means.
Not for the first time, Cassandra found herself wishing “unequal matches,” as they were called, weren’t so deplored by high society. During her first Season, she had met nearly every eligible gentleman of her class in London, and after counting out the confirmed bachelors as well as those who were too elderly or infirm to marry, there were no more than two dozen worth considering. By the end of the Season, she had received five proposals, none of which she had accepted. That had dismayed her patroness, Lady Berwick, who had warned she could end up like her sister Helen.
“She could have married anyone,” Lady Berwick had said dourly. “But before the Season had even begun, she squandered all her potential by marrying a Welsh grocer’s son.”
Which was a bit unfair, since Mr. Winterborne was a splendid man, who loved Helen body and soul. He also happened to be extravagantly wealthy, having built his father’s grocery shop into the world’s largest department store. However, Lady Berwick had been right about society’s reaction. It was said in private parlors that Helen had been degraded by the marriage. In the most elevated circles, the Winterbornes would never be completely accepted. Fortunately, Helen was too radiantly happy to care.
I wouldn’t mind marrying down, if I were in love, Cassandra thought. Not at all. But unfortunately, true love never seemed to happen to someone who was looking for it. Love was a prankster, preferring to sneak up on people who were busy doing other things.
Lady Berwick appeared at her side. “Cassandra.” The older woman was tall and majestic, like a four-masted sailing ship. She wasn’t what anyone would describe as a cheerful woman. Usually she wore the expression of someone who’d just found crumbs in the jam. However, there was much about her to admire. She was a pragmatist, never fighting against what couldn’t be helped, but achieving her goals through sheer will and persistence.
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