One of his eyebrows lifted and then his hand was gone as he stood. “Meet me for dinner this evening. Seven again? We’ve much to discuss.”
She stood too, her brow furrowing. “You’re not listening to me.”
“On the contrary.” His chest expanded, and he appeared an impregnable wall. “I have listened a great deal. In fact, I do believe it’s your turn to listen to me.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him. He had her there. “But—”
“No buts. Dinner.” Then he turned and started out of the room. Then he spun back. “Unless you’d like to come with me. We could do some shopping after I’m done with the barrister. You’ll need a new wardrobe.”
The man was impossible. First, she was never going back to that shop and certainly not with him. But also, buying her clothes would mean that she had become his responsibility. Considering she’d just told him no, it was terribly presumptuous that he’d come out the victor. She placed her hands on her hips. “I won’t—”
He gave her an alarming grin. It was boyish and charming and made him look like an entirely different man. “You will. But it can wait for another time. I’ll see you tonight.”
* * *
He whistled as he kicked his horse faster, heading back toward Balstead’s home. Patting his pocket, he made certain the papers he’d had drawn up were still tucked safely in his pocket.
He knew several things for certain. First and foremost, he wanted Cassandra with a passion that was consuming him. He’d hardly slept or eaten. And a taste of her had only sharpened that desire.
But also, she had a temperament that suited him. While he’d only known her a day, he was a decisive man and he’d already made up his mind. She was kind, caring, but she lacked strength and money, and needed a man willing to fight her battles.
He’d spent the night thinking, and drinking, and he’d come to several conclusions. He wasn’t likely to find another woman who would both incite such passion and suit him personally. In addition, she was too moral to be a mistress. She’d take the roll but she’d withdraw from him, sooner rather than later.
And for whatever reason, that unsettled him. Likely because he wanted her to run hot in his bed, not cold.
Therefore, rather than take her as mistress, he’d decided to act on his other inclination, to just marry her, which was the correct course. She’d make an excellent wife and mother and he doubted very much she was capable of even the smallest acts of violence. Everything he’d witnessed showed him she was nurturing.
And of course, there was the bedsport.
He’d enjoy teaching her about passion. She clearly needed a husband. One who could provide for her financially and personally.
In his mind, he’d already helped her in one area of her life. He’d aid her in more and he’d certainly keep her in whatever lifestyle she’d envisioned. Surely, she was better off with him than the other suitor that Balstead had chosen.
Balstead. He was the only hitch in this plan.
The man was a rake and a force in his own right. He’d chosen a groom for Cassandra and he might think he’d made the best possible decision.
His gut tightened. He’d have to explain to Balstead himself, unless Cassandra was inclined to do so. But he was getting ahead of himself.
First he needed to ask and gain Cassandra’s consent. Balstead was tomorrow’s problem or, with any luck, the day after.
The manor came into view and he slowed his horse, trotting up the long drive. Strange, Balstead’s home reminded him of his time with Amelia.
Perhaps it was just the bucolic setting. After his face had been scarred, he’d retreated to London. There was anonymity in crowds.
At home, he’d have to face the curious and sometimes revolted stares of people who knew him.
But as he sat on his horse, memories assaulted him. Amelia in his bed, in his home. The laughter and heat they’d shared. The quickness with which that passion had turned dark.
First, she’d begun to fight with him, suffering from fits of jealousy. Even a wrong glance at one of the maids would send her into a fit of rage. She’d scream, yell, hit. He hadn’t really been afraid, he was nearly larger than her by half. And then when she’d repent, the passion such anger evoked had been explosive.
But the longer their relationship lasted, the worse her temper became, and the more easily she flew into irrational anger.
And then he’d made the difficult decision that their relationship wasn’t tenable.
The ensuing fight had left his face scarred.
She’d left that day, never to return. He’d discovered three months later that she’d taken her own life.
Regret lanced through him, hot and deep. He’d have cared for her the rest of his life. Even with how they’d ended things. And he might have married her anyway except…he needed an heir and she, well… He ran a hand over his face. She had not been fit to be a mother.
The thought of a child being subjected to her rage, knowing her capable of such violent behavior even toward him, was more than he could bear.
He grimaced as he stared at the house, the sun sinking low in the sky as night fell. It bathed the world in shades of pink and orange. He was burning for another woman now.
He touched the papers in his pocket once again.
This time, however, he’d weighed her personality as well as his attraction. And…he’d not allow himself to fall in love. He’d slate his lust, make an heir, and settle into a life of companionable matrimony. Most likely he’d leave her in the country as he travelled about his duties. They’d live their own lives and he could trust her to raise their child with a gentle hand. Easy. Simple.
It was an excellent plan.
But his plans rarely worked out the way he intended.
Chapter Eight
Cassandra stood in front of her wardrobe assessing the dresses that hung in front of her. What was wrong with her clothes?
She sighed. Likely everything. The frocks were old, worn, and had never been in fashion. She’d married young and John had hardly had funds for new clothes. Not that she’d cared. She was happy in her gowns, but it seemed to upset him that he couldn’t provide better for her.
Raithe had attempted to give them money at various points, but John always refused. His pride had demanded that he not borrow money from his friend. Raithe swore the funds were a gift, but his assertion only seemed to upset John the more. He didn’t need charity, he’d railed.
Cassandra drew in a deep breath. Moments like those, he’d look at her with such resentment. As though he wouldn’t need charity if he didn’t have her.
She hung her head, allowing her fingers to trail over the only silk gown she owned. What would John think now to see her living on their friend’s largesse?
He’d turn over in his grave.
And the duke’s offer?
Would he hate her or the duke? Likely both.
Fortunately, her parents were not alive to see how far she’d fallen. Her mother had died before her marriage, her father shortly after. Though, if either of them were alive, she might not have considered his offer at all.
Her hands trembled as she pulled a serviceable wool gown from the four from which she had to choose. The dress would be a reminder to her later tonight that she’d said no and that she intended to keep her word.
It was a simple, somber gown more suited to a vicar’s daughter than a duke’s mistress. She’d need the reminder because he was the one man who’d really made her feel alive.
She rubbed her brow. She supposed John had wanted her. At the start. But more often than not, those interludes would end in frustration for both of them and always for her.
She sighed again as she began to dress. Raithe had assigned a maid to her, but Cassandra couldn’t bring herself to use the woman’s services. She wasn’t accustomed to it and her wardrobe wasn’t fit for such an extravagance. Nor was her personality.
The clock gave a single chime alerting her that it was si
x thirty. She finished dressing her hair, a simple twist at the nape and then started out of her room. Maybe tonight, she’d be waiting for him instead of the other way around. She needed some measure of control to make it through this evening.
Making her way downstairs, she settled next to the fire in the sitting room across from the dining room. She twisted her hands in her lap as her eyes fluttered closed. What she should be thinking about was one of her father’s sermons. A stark reminder of how she should behave.
Instead, Damian filled her thoughts. The way he’d touched her, kissed her, made her feel. Her breath caught as her hand touched the knot of hair she’d twisted into place.
“Miss me?” Damian’s deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
She didn’t open her eyes as she considered her answer. She settled for avoidance, answering his question with one of her own. “How was your day?”
He chuckled, striding into the room. Or she imagined him striding by the long deliberate footfalls in the thick carpet. “My day was very fruitful.”
That made her eyes pop open as she turned to him. Her lips parted in an unasked question.
His grey eyes met hers, darkening as he assessed her. “And yours?”
She shook her head, unable to look away or lie. “Less so.” She’d spent most of the day pacing as she’d attempted to school herself for this evening.
That would have been fine except any lectures she’d given herself had flown out of her head the moment he’d arrived and filled the room with his dark, brooding, and arresting presence. She ran her hands down the wool of her dress as a quick reminder to stand her ground.
Tonight, she needed to remember she was a vicar’s daughter.
“Shame,” he replied, sitting across from her once again. “Would you care to hear about my day?”
She hesitated; surely this was part of his plan to coerce her. “Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice,” he replied, pulling a carefully folded stack of papers from inside his coat pocket. “I never asked, but who are you engaged to currently?”
Her breath caught. She hadn’t said because she wasn’t actually engaged. “I don’t…”
“It doesn’t matter.” He waved his hand. “We’ll deal with him later.”
She shook her head, not liking the way the lie was sitting in her stomach. “I doubt we’ll have to deal with him at all.”
Damian stopped, mid pull, to give her a long, unblinking, look. “What do you mean?”
She looked down at her clenched hands. “I told you. I’ve never even met the man. I don’t know—”
He nodded. “You’re right. He’ll likely not be very invested either if you’ve never even met. Still, it’s something I’ll have to discuss with Balstead. When do you think he’ll return anyway?”
They were going to bring Raithe into this? She swallowed a lump. Raithe would support her lie, of course. He hadn’t been honest with this man to begin with. But the very idea that Damian would discover her deception...it filled her with dread. She wasn’t accustomed to lying and he was not a man who compromised. Ever.
At this point, it would be far easier if Raithe didn’t return until after Damian was gone. She gave her head a small shake. The thought of telling Raithe she’d accepted a position as the duke’s mistress helped remind her why she needed to remain strong and keep her wits. “What I meant to say was that I rejected your offer. There is nothing I’ll need to say to him.”
He quirked a brow, removing the sheets fully from his coat and leaning forward to hand them to her. “I understand that you’re reluctant to form a relationship with me outside the bonds of marriage. Which is why I’ve amended my proposition.”
“Amended?” she reached for the papers, her hands trembling. Slowly, she slid the stack from his hand, and unfolded the documents. At the top, in large elegant scroll was written, Contract for the Marriage of His Grace, Damain Danesbury to Mrs. Cassandra Winterset.
The papers fell from her hands. “You wish to make me your duchess?”
Perhaps she should be glad, but a slow dread filled her stomach. She couldn’t accept such an offer.
* * *
The fire in the hearth crackled and a log snapped loudly as Damian watched as her face turned an ashen shade of white. It was not the reaction he’d expected. Though, he wasn’t certain what sort he had thought she might have. It would have been nice, he supposed, if she’d tossed herself into his lap and kissed every inch of his face, scar and all.
After all, it wasn’t every woman who got an offer to marry a duke.
He’d thought perhaps she’d smile at the very least, but she looked as though she were about to lose her favorite dog or…hell, she’d looked happier about his offer to make her his mistress. “I sense I’ve made a miscalculation of some kind or another.”
She shook her head, her gaze casting to the papers now lying on the floor. “You have not.”
“Then why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”
She swallowed, deliberately leaning down to retrieve the papers and carefully folding them again, placing them in her lap. “I think we should discuss a few pertinent points.”
He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t know what she’d say but he was damned curious. “Continue.” He’d like to have the entire conversation with her in his lap. But he kept his distance for now.
Her fingers twisted together, her knuckles turning white. “I don’t like dishonesty. I’m—”
“I’ve been truthful with you from the first moment,” he said, relaxing back.
“I know. And I’d like to do the same. I never conceived during my first marriage. As a duke, I’m sure having an heir is important to you.”
Was that what this was about? He waved his hand. “If your husband was as sick as you say, I am not at all surprised. My guess is you were hardly physical?”
Her hands stilled. “Oh. That is true.” Color flushed her cheeks. “That would make a difference?”
Jesus. She didn’t know even the basics? His fingers clenched into fists. “Very much so.”
“And what we did last night. Would that cause me to…” The delicate shade of pink that had colored her cheeks grew positively red.
Well. If he were going to give her a lesson, he may as well include a demonstration. “Come here, Cassandra.”
She shook her head. “I’d better not.”
He tried not to grumble in protest. She was being difficult but for once in his life, he’d attempt to use a more delicate hand. “Fine.” Then he stood, leaning against the mantel as the scent of smoke lightly filled the air. “A man has seed he must plant into a woman’s womb. The seed comes from—”
“Oh.” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Of course. How could I not have realized? And he’d have to finish in order to plant this seed?”
“Correct,” he said, his gaze wandering down her again.
She worried her lower lip, then inhaled a deep breath as if choosing her words very carefully. “My mother didn’t explain very much and John was often frustrated that I—”
“No.” He held up a hand. He was frustrated that he couldn’t do more. “Not that you couldn’t.”
Her shoulders rose and then fell as her gaze cast down again. “I wish I could believe that.”
He stepped closer to her, reaching down a hand. “Well believe this. If you take my offer, I will show you all the parts of marriage he never did.”
Slowly, she lifted her hand, placing it in his as she allowed him to pull her from the chair. Just before she rose, she scooped up the contract she’d dropped earlier. “If you were considering marriage, why did you ask me to be your mistress first?”
He shrugged, wishing they didn’t have to talk about him. “I thought about marrying a woman I felt very little passion toward. Passion gave me this.” He pointed to his face, ran his index finger down his puckered scar. “But I’d be a fool not to see that you have a steady tempera
ment.”
She drew in a deep steadying breath. “In that case, I accept.”
“You do?” He pulled her closer, reaching for the hand that held the contract. He placed a hand at her elbow and guided her over to the small writing desk in the corner.
Taking the papers from her hands, he unfolded them, signing his name at the bottom of the last page.
With the tip of the quill, he pointed to several paragraphs. “Your allowance for clothing, your pin money, the sum I will leave for you in the event you are widowed once again.”
She gasped and reached for his biceps, holding onto his arm. “That is…” Her voice stalled. “I never expected.”
“I told you I would care for you financially.” He turned to look at her. “You’ve signed no other contracts?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain.”
He handed her the quill. “Your turn then.”
She took the quill from his hand, dipping it into the ink and then leaned over the paper, signing her name to the bottom. “There is something else I want to tell you. When you first arrived, I said that I was—”
“It’ll have to wait,” he answered. “We’ve got something more important to attend to.”
“What?” she asked, straightening back up.
“I intend to bed you tonight.” Then he clasped her hand in his and made his way to the door.
Chapter Nine
Cassandra tried to hold in the yelp of concern that nearly bubbled out of her lips. This evening was progressing far more quickly then she’d ever thought possible.
She’s accepted an offer of marriage, to a man who stole the breath from her chest. She’d be a duchess. And she’d built this shiny new future on a single lie. That she was already engaged. “But…what about our dinner?”
He stopped so suddenly, she nearly bumped into his back. “Mr. Harris, we’d like a tray brought up to Mrs. Winterset’s room,” he said, then he began moving again.
When to Dare a Dishonorable Duke: Romancing the Rake Page 6