Chasing Cassandra

by Kleypas, Lisa

  He danced with Adelia after that, and dutifully acted as her escort until the end of the evening, and they both pretended the exchange hadn’t happened. But beneath the surface, they were both aware that any possibility of courtship had been sliced to ribbons with a few sharp words.

  FOR THE REST of that evening and over the course of the next month, Lambert nearly drowned Cassandra in the deluge of his attentions. He was present at every social event she attended, and called frequently at Ravenel House, and sent extravagant flower arrangements and sweets in gilded tins. People began to remark on the increasing familiarity between them, and made small jokes about what a pretty pair they were. Cassandra went along with all of it because there seemed to be no good reason not to.

  Roland, Lord Lambert, was everything she should want, or very nearly so. She didn’t have any significant objection to him, only a number of small ones that would have sounded rather petty if she’d expressed them out loud. The way he had referred to himself as a member of the “ruling class,” for example, and said he expected to turn his attentions to diplomacy someday—even though he didn’t have any qualifications for managing international relations.

  To be fair, there were many things to like about Lord Lambert: He was educated and well-spoken, and had entertaining stories to tell about his experiences on his Grand Tour of last year. He was also capable of warmth and affection, as he’d demonstrated while telling her about his mother passing away three years ago. She liked how tenderly he spoke of his mother, and how fond he seemed of his two sisters. He described his father, the Marquis of Ripon, as stern but not unkind, a father who had always wanted the best for him.

  Lambert belonged to what was called “high-toned” society, in which gentlemen had the bluest blood, the whitest waistcoats, and the most upturned noses. The intricate rules of the upper class were as natural to him as breathing. If she married him, they would stay in town for the Season, and spend the rest of the year at the estate in Northumberland, with all that beautiful unspoiled moorland bordering Scotland. It would be terribly far from her family, but there was the train, which would shorten the travel time considerably. There would be busy mornings and quiet evenings. The familiar rhythms of country life—plowing, planting, the seasonal harvests—would shape her days.

  There would be marital intimacy, of course. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. When she’d let Lord Lambert steal a kiss after a carriage drive one afternoon, the pressure of his lips had been so enthusiastic—forceful, even—that there had been no room left for her to respond. But no matter how that part of their relationship turned out, there would be compensations. Children, in particular.

  “Marriage first and love afterward,” she had told Pandora during a private conversation. “Many people do it in that order. I suppose I’ll be one of them.”

  Looking troubled, Pandora had asked, “Do you feel any attraction to Lord Lambert? Butterflies swirling inside?”

  “No, but … I do like his looks …”

  “It doesn’t matter if he’s handsome,” her sister had said with authority.

  Cassandra had smiled wryly. “Pandora, it’s not as if you married a bridge troll.”

  With a shrug and a sheepish grin, her sister had replied, “I know, but even if Gabriel weren’t handsome, I’d still want to share a bed with him.”

  Cassandra had nodded with a gathering frown. “Pandora, I’ve felt that with someone before. The nerves and excitement and the butterflies. But … it wasn’t Lord Lambert.”

  Her sister’s eyes turned very round. “Who was it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s not available.”

  Pandora’s voice lowered to a dramatic whisper. “Is he married?”

  “My goodness, no. He’s … well, it’s Mr. Severin.” Sighing, Cassandra waited for her sister to say something comical or teasing.

  Blinking, Pandora took a moment to absorb the information. She surprised Cassandra by saying thoughtfully, “I can see why you would like him.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes, he’s very good-looking, and his personality has interesting corners and edges. And he’s a man, not a boy.”

  How like Pandora to accurately identify the reasons Cassandra found Tom Severin so compelling, and Lord Lambert so … not.

  Lambert had been born to privilege, and his character was still unformed in many ways. He’d never had to make his own way in life, and likely never would. Tom Severin, by contrast, had started with nothing except his wits and will, and had become powerful by anyone’s standards. Lord Lambert enjoyed a life of languid ease, while Tom blazed through his days with relentless energy. Even the side of Tom that was cool and calculating was exciting. Stimulating. There was hardly any doubt in Cassandra’s mind that Lambert would be easier to live with … but as to the one she would rather share a bed with …

  “Why isn’t he available?” Pandora asked.

  “His heart is frozen.”

  “Poor man,” Pandora said. “It must be solid ice if he can’t fall in love with you.”

  Cassandra smiled and reached out to hug her.

  “Do you remember when we were little,” she heard Pandora ask over her shoulder, “and you would bruise your shin or stub your toe, and I would pretend I’d hurt myself in exactly the same place?”

  “Yes. I must say it was a bit annoying to watch you limp around when I was the one with the injury.”

  Pandora chuckled and drew back. “If you felt pain, I wanted to share it with you. That’s what sisters do.”

  “There’s no need for anyone to feel badly,” Cassandra said with determined cheerfulness. “I intend to have a very happy life. Really, it’s not important whether I desire Lord Lambert or not: They say attraction fades in time anyway.”

  “It fades in some marriages, but not all of them. I don’t think it’s gone away for Gabriel’s parents. And even if it does fade eventually, wouldn’t you at least like to start out that way?” Seeing the indecision on Cassandra’s face, Pandora answered her own question firmly. “Yes, you would. It would be revolting to sleep with a man you don’t desire.”

  Cassandra rubbed her temples distractedly. “Is it possible to make my feelings do what I want them to do? Can I talk myself into wanting someone?”

  “I don’t know,” Pandora said. “But if I were you, I’d find out before I made a decision about the rest of my life.”

  Chapter 12

  AFTER A GREAT DEAL of pondering, Cassandra decided even though she wasn’t sure what she might feel for Lord Lambert, she didn’t not desire him. She owed it to him, and herself, to find out if there was even a flicker of compatibility between them.

  The opportunity came quite soon, when a charity banquet called the event of the month was held at the Belgravia home of Lord Delaval.

  The evening included a private art exhibition and auction to benefit the Artists’ Benevolent Fund. Recently a talented but only moderately successful landscape painter named Erskin Gladwine had passed away, leaving behind a wife and six children with no means to support themselves. The proceeds of the art sale would go into a fund for the Gladwines and other families of deceased artists.

  Since Lady Berwick had taken a well-earned night off from chaperoning, Cassandra attended the charity benefit with Devon and Kathleen.

  “We’ll try to do a proper job of watching over you,” Kathleen had said with mock concern, “but I fear we won’t be strict enough, as we undoubtedly need a chaperone ourselves.”

  “We’re Ravenels,” Devon had pointed out. “There’s only so much good behavior people will find believable.”

  Soon after their arrival, Cassandra was disconcerted to discover Lord Lambert’s father, the Marquis of Ripon, was also attending. Although she had known she would meet him sooner or later, she didn’t feel prepared. At the very least, she would have worn a more flattering dress than this one, a moiré silk that was her least favorite. The extra weight she’d gained had made it necessary to let out the wai
st, but the square-cut yoke of the bodice couldn’t be altered without ruining it, so the top curves of her breasts plumped over the edge of the neckline. And the wavy “watered” fabric, in a shade of golden brown, gave it the unfortunate appearance of wood grain.

  Lambert introduced her to his father, the marquis, who was younger in appearance than she’d expected. He was dark where his son was fair, his hair a mixture of cinder black and silver, his eyes the shade of bitter chocolate. The lines of his face were handsome but hard, textured like weathered marble. As Cassandra curtsied and rose, she was mildly startled to catch his gaze flicking upward from her breasts.

  “My lady,” he said, “the accounts of your beauty were by no means exaggerated.”

  Cassandra smiled in thanks. “An honor to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

  The marquis studied her with a calculating gaze. “Are you here as an art lover, Lady Cassandra?”

  “I know little about art, but hope to learn more. Will you bid on a painting tonight, my lord?”

  “No, I intend to make a donation, but the painter’s work is no more than mediocre. I wouldn’t have it hanging in my scullery.”

  Although Cassandra was disconcerted by the jab at the late Mr. Gladwine’s work—at a charity benefit for his widow and children, no less—she tried to show no reaction.

  Seeming to realize how unkind the marquis had sounded, Lambert interceded hastily. “My father is very knowledgeable about art, particularly landscapes.”

  “From what I’ve seen so far,” Cassandra said, “I admire Mr. Gladwine’s skill at conveying light—a moonlit scene, for example, or the glow of a fire.”

  “Visual tricks aren’t the same as artistic merit,” the marquis said dismissively.

  She smiled and shrugged. “I like his work nonetheless. Perhaps someday you might do me the kindness of explaining what makes a painting worthy, and then I’ll know better what to look for.”

  The marquis stared at her appraisingly. “You have pretty ways, my dear. It’s to your credit that you wish to heed a man’s opinions and enter into his views.” His lips curved slightly as he remarked, “A pity I didn’t meet you before my son did. As it happens, I’m also searching for a wife.”

  Although that seemed intended as a compliment, Cassandra thought it a rather odd thing to say, especially in front of Lord Lambert. Perturbed, she ransacked her brain for a suitable reply. “I’m sure any woman would be honored by your attentions, my lord.”

  “So far I’ve found no one worthy of them.” His gaze traveled over her. “You, however, will be a charming addition to my household.”

  “As my bride,” Lambert said, chuckling. “Not yours, Father.”

  Cassandra kept silent. With a flare of testiness and worry, she realized both men regarded the marriage as a fait accompli, as if courtship and consent weren’t even required.

  The way the marquis looked at her was disturbing. Something in those flinty eyes made her feel blowsy and trivial at the same time.

  Lord Lambert presented his arm to her. “Lady Cassandra, shall we view the rest of the paintings?”

  She curtsied to the marquis once more and went with Lambert.

  Slowly they wandered through the circuit of public rooms on the main floor of the house, where artwork had been hung up for display. They stopped before a painting of Vesuvius erupting in red and yellow fury.

  “Don’t mind my father’s forwardness,” Lord Lambert said casually. “He doesn’t mince words when it comes to expressing his opinions. What’s important is that he approves of you.”

  “My lord,” Cassandra said quietly, conscious of people passing behind them, “somehow we seem to have come to a misunderstanding … an assumption … that an engagement is a foregone conclusion.”

  “It isn’t?” he asked, looking amused.

  “No.” Hearing the edge in her own voice, she moderated it before continuing more calmly, “We haven’t had a formal courtship. The Season proper hasn’t even started. I won’t be ready to consent to anything before we become far more familiar with each other.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “I understand what you want.”

  Cassandra relaxed, relieved that he didn’t seem to have taken offense. They progressed along the row of paintings … a view of castle ruins at night … the burning of the old Drury Lane theater … a moonlit river estuary. She was unable to focus on the artwork, however. Her mind buzzed with the uneasy awareness that the more often she saw Lord Lambert, the less she was coming to like him. The possibility that she might have her own thoughts and dreams didn’t seem to have occurred to him. He expected—as his father had put it—for her to enter into his views. How could he ever love her if he had no interest in who she really was?

  But dear God, if she rejected this man, this scion of the aristocracy, who was universally regarded as perfect …

  People would say she was mad. They would say there was no pleasing her. That the fault lay not with him, but with her.

  Maybe they would be right.

  Abruptly, Lord Lambert tugged her out of the main circuit of rooms and into a hallway.

  Stumbling a little, Cassandra let out a surprised laugh. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.” He pulled her into a private room, the kind of small, cozy retreat often referred to as a snuggery, and closed the door.

  Disoriented by the sudden darkness, Cassandra reached out blindly to steady herself. Her breath stopped as Lord Lambert’s arms went around her.

  “Now,” came his self-satisfied purr, “I’ll give you what you asked for.”

  Both irritated and amused, Cassandra pointed out, “I didn’t ask to be dragged into a dark room and manhandled.”

  “You wanted to become more familiar with me.”

  “I didn’t mean this—” she protested, but his mouth came to hers, too hard, his lips wriggling against hers with swiftly increasing pressure.

  For heaven’s sake, didn’t he understand that she’d wanted to spend time talking with him to discover their mutual likes and dislikes? Did he have any interest in her as a person?

  The force of his kiss was bruising, almost belligerent, and she reached her hands up to his cheeks, stroking lightly in the hopes of soothing him. When that didn’t work, she twisted her face away and gasped, “My lord … Roland … not so hard. Be gentle.”

  “I will. Darling … darling …” His mouth found hers again, the pressure only slightly mitigated.

  Cassandra steeled herself to hold still, enduring his kisses rather than enjoying them. She tried to will herself to feel some kind of pleasure, anything except this creeping sense of distaste. His arms were crushing bands around her. In his excitement, the surface of his chest pumped like fireplace bellows.

  It was becoming farcical, actually, a scene depicting an impassioned buffoon imposing himself on an outraged virgin. Worthy of Molière. Wasn’t there a scene like this in The Love-Tiff? Or maybe it was Tartuffe …

  The fact that she was thinking about a seventeenth-century playwright at this moment was not a good sign.

  Concentrate, she commanded herself. His mouth wasn’t unpleasant in itself. Why did it feel so different to kiss one man as opposed to another? She wanted so much to like this, but it wasn’t at all similar to that night in the winter garden … the cool night air scented of shadows and green fern … standing on her bare toes as she sought the delicious pressure of Tom Severin’s mouth … sensitive but urgent … and tendrils of warmth began to uncurl inside.

  But then Lord Lambert forced her lips apart, and the wet spear of his tongue filled her mouth.

  Spluttering a little, Cassandra jerked her head back. “No … wait … no.” She tried to shove him away, but he was holding her too tightly for her to wedge her hands between them. “My family will be looking for me.”

  “They won’t draw attention to your absence.”

  “Let go. I don’t like this.”

  They grapp
led briefly, and he pinned her against the wall. “Another minute or two,” he said, panting with excitement. “I deserve it after the flowers and gifts I sent.”

  Deserve?

  “Did you think you were buying me with those?” she asked in disbelief.

  “You want this, no matter what you pretend. With a body like yours … everyone knows it, just by looking at you.”

  A nasty shock went through her.

  He was groping at her breasts now, tugging hard at her neckline and shoving his hand inside her bodice. She felt a rude, rough squeeze over her breast.

  “Don’t, that hurts!”

  “We’re going to marry. What does it matter if I have a taste of it now?” There was a pinch at one of her nipples, sharp enough to bruise the tender flesh.

  “Stop.” Fear and outrage jolted through her. Reflexively she grabbed his fingers and bent them back hard. He let go of her with a grunt of pain.

  Their sharp breathing cut the darkness into rags. After jerking up her bodice, Cassandra lunged for the door, but froze as she heard his composed voice.

  “Before you flounce off, give a thought to your reputation. A scandal, even one not of your making, would ruin you.”

  Which was horridly unfair. But true. Incredibly, her entire future depended on leaving this room calmly, with him, and giving no hint about what had just happened.

  Her outstretched hand curled into a fist and lowered to her side. She forced herself to wait, dimly able to perceive that he was straightening his clothes, doing something with the front of his trousers. Her lips were dry and sore. The tip of her breast throbbed painfully. She felt shamed and sweaty and utterly miserable.

  Lord Lambert spoke in a light, casual tone. It chilled her that he’d switched moods like the flip of a coin. “There’s something you should learn, darling. When you tease a man into a state and leave him frustrated, we don’t take it well.”

  The accusation bewildered her. “What have I done to tease you?”

  “You smile and flirt, and sway your hips when you walk—”

  “I do not!”