A Match Made in Bed

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Then we are fine with each other?”

  “I won’t marry you,” she answered.

  “I haven’t asked you.”

  Annoyance flashed in her eyes.

  “I won’t lie, my father left nothing in his estate,” he admitted. “However, even worse would be having a wife who doesn’t want me.”

  He’d already learned that lesson. Marriage was tricky business.

  She nodded as if agreeing he was right—she didn’t want him.

  A keen stab of disappointment shot through him . . . but he would survive. He always survived.

  She moved toward the door. This time, he didn’t stop her.

  However, instead of leaving, she paused, her hand on the door handle. She glanced back at him. For a moment, she had the appearance of an exquisite porcelain model of a true English Rose with her blond curls and her blue eyes dark and considering.

  Oh, there was depth to Cassandra Holwell. There always had been.

  “It is not that I don’t believe you wouldn’t be a good husband,” she said.

  “Are you going to give me that Holwell and York nonsense again?”

  She had the good grace to blush.

  “Then what is it?” he prodded. She had opened the topic. Let her finish it.

  “I want greater things for my life, Soren.”

  “Such as being a duchess?” There was that touch of jealousy again. It shamed him.

  If she noticed, she did not give an indication. Instead, she said, “I want the power to do something important. Something that matters. I can’t do that in Cornwall.”

  You are wrong, he wanted to tell her, but then her mind was set.

  “Ah, Cass, you just want a poet for a husband.” He kept his voice light.

  It was the right touch. Her eyes lit with humor. “It is the bookworm in me. Or perhaps I just want poems written in my honor.”

  “I can write poetry.”

  “I can’t imagine it, Soren.”

  “If I can draw a dog, I can certainly write a poem. Let’s see . . . I called you a dog because I’m as dull as a log,” he recited. “But you are actually very pretty, and now I’m trying to be flirty.”

  His poor attempt startled a laugh out of her, and he was charmed. He’d forgotten how special her laughter was. She was usually too cautious and conscientious to be completely herself—until she laughed.

  What he was thinking must have shown on his face, because she sobered, but she did not run . . .

  Perhaps there could be something between them—?

  The turning of the handle beneath her palm broke the spell between them. The door opened on Cass. She stepped back just as Lady Haddingdon attempted to enter the room.

  The first person Her Ladyship laid eyes on was Soren.

  “Why, Lord Dewsberry? Am I in the wrong room?” She looked up to squint at the hand-printed sign on the door and Cass used the moment to slip past her.

  “Excuse me, my lady,” she murmured, and made her escape.

  “I’m not in the wrong room,” Lady Haddingdon said. “I believe you are, my lord.”

  “I am indeed,” Soren agreed with a short bow. “With your leave?” He didn’t wait for an answer but moved past the woman to chase after Cass.

  And what would he do if he caught her? She’d made up her mind.

  Nor was she in the hallway. He walked back into the dining room. They were on the beef course. He moved to his place at the table, expecting Cass to be there.

  She wasn’t.

  Her seat was empty.

  Nor did she return.

  Down the table from him, Soren saw MP Holwell smile his satisfaction.

  Of course, Cassandra could not return to the dining room. If Soren’s purpose had been to rattle her, his confrontation in the necessary room had done the trick. She would not be able to sit beside him for the rest of the meal in peace.

  For years, she’d proudly nursed her grudge against Soren. It was what had made her a Holwell, she’d told herself. Yorks were not to be trusted, even though at one time Soren had been her ambassador. Because he’d befriended her, everyone else had included her as well, until the day he’d left without saying good-bye. He’d just disappeared.

  Now she knew he’d been as surprised to be sent away as she’d been to lose him.

  Seeking solace in the bedroom assigned to her, Cassandra sat on the bedside chair and tackled her own culpability in the incident in the schoolroom. She had jumped to some conclusions. Silly ones, she realized . . . and yet, at the time, it had been as if he’d broken her heart.

  During that same period, she’d acted out quite a bit herself. Her father had recently married Helen. Cassandra had found herself with two stepsisters who treated her as if she was of no consequence.

  When she’d first met them, she’d thought them perfect. They were of average height and had average-sized hands and average-sized feet, something they often pointed out to her as if hers were gigantic. They rarely discussed ideas because they were more interested in what Helen referred to as “feminine” pursuits—handwork, gossiping, primping. They studied art and music and practiced dance steps.

  In contrast, Cassandra could not even stitch a button on a piece of clothing. The whole process, as simple as it was, annoyed her. And she had a terrible voice. Music lessons had been wasted on her. Helen had said as much repeatedly. Cassandra was also not particularly concerned with household matters. Helen had accused her of being too willing to rely on a housekeeper, which sounded like a perfectly good idea to Cassandra.

  Running her fingers absently over the perfect pearls around her neck, she thought of her mother’s legacy. After all, once she married, she would be wealthy enough to afford whatever she wished. She’d be free of others’ opinions and she could hire the best housekeeper in the world and let her sing while she sewed on buttons.

  Nonetheless, it had not been easy to have stepsisters who laughed at her—that is, on all matters save Soren. They thought he was the most handsome, most daring lad in Cornwall and had ceased purposefully irritating her. Other girls started to include her. She hadn’t been considered an odd goose, and that had felt good.

  Then there was the slate incident, followed by Soren seemingly disappearing from her life, and she’d been forced to soldier on alone. She had been miserable. The best thing that had happened to her was her father moving them all to London. In the city, she met Willa and Leonie and began to thrive.

  Cassandra sat for a long time mulling over the past but with a different lens. Perhaps she shouldn’t have blamed him for everything—

  A knock on the door sounded before it opened. Her father and stepmother entered the room.

  “Here you are,” her father said with his usual blustery good humor he wore for appearances’ sake. It was a sign that he was happy with her. “We have been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Is dinner over?” Cassandra asked, rising. She’d been so preoccupied with her thoughts, she had lost track of time.

  “Oh, yes,” he answered. “In fact, most are already to their beds.”

  “Has Maggie been here yet?” Helen wondered. Maggie was Helen’s lady’s maid, whom she and Cassandra shared when they traveled.

  “No, she has not,” Cassandra answered.

  “When I’m done with her, I’ll send her to you. I’m exhausted. Traveling today and then enduring that endless feast downstairs has taken its toll. Do you mind if I go off to bed, Thomas?”

  “Not at all, my love. And this will give me a chance to speak to my daughter alone.”

  “That is what I thought you wanted. A private moment. Good night, Cassandra.” There was no kiss on the cheek between them. Theirs was not that sort of relationship.

  “Good night, Helen,” Cassandra dutifully answered.

  Once they were alone, her father placed his thumb on her chin to pull her head down for her to look at him. “What did Dewsberry do to you? Did he say something?”

  Yes, Papa, he said he wa
nts to marry me.

  Those words never left her mouth. She held up a dismissive hand. “He barely spoke to me for the short time I was at dinner. And even if he had, I would not have paid him any attention.”

  “I saw him trying to talk to you.” He released her chin. “I know he’s interested. He’d take any woman who had money. He’s done up, broken. He barely has two shillings to his name.” He laughed his pleasure. “You missed what happened after dinner. The Marchioness of Haddingdon followed him around all evening. Made a complete cake of herself.”

  “She’s at least thirty years older than he is,” Cassandra protested.

  “What is age when money is involved? She’s rich. That is all a scoundrel like Dewsberry is interested in. I should tip off her son. He’d horsewhip Dewsberry if he knew.”

  The suggestion horrified her. “You sound happy that one of our Cornish neighbors is in trouble.”

  Her father laughed. “I am, because I don’t want him for a neighbor. He’s finished, Cassandra. All those York pikers who have looked down their arrogant noses at the Holwells can kiss my arse. I might buy Pentreath myself—”

  “Buy Pentreath?”

  “Aye, the rumor is that it will be on the chopping block soon. I have my lawyer studying the matter. But enough of this. What of the duke?”

  It took a mental pivot for Cassandra to overcome her shock that Soren could lose his ancestral home, to her father’s interest in the duke. “I don’t think Camberly is interested.”

  This was not the first time she’d had to give her father this news. He was ever hopeful and always encouraging. He obviously didn’t see her the same way gentlemen of his choosing did. Those who did offer for her rarely met his standards. He was very particular.

  “I don’t know about that,” he countered. “Yes, I was confused when he paired you up with Dewsberry and sat the two of you halfway down the table out of his and my reach; however, I believe he was being clever. I wish you’d been in the reception room when the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner. You might have been in for a surprise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He tapped a finger against his nose. “Before dinner, His Grace set a straight course for you when he entered the room.”

  That was true.

  “I watched him during the meal.” Her father paced as he spoke, a parliamentarian presenting his case. “Willa Reverly may have been sitting beside him but he had his eye on you. He noticed you had not returned. He appeared worried.”

  “He did?”

  “Oh, yes. He asked about you.”

  “Really?” Cassandra felt her spirits lift.

  “Aye.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. What could he say? You were not there. But he didn’t pay another moment’s attention to Miss Reverly. Perhaps he had been attempting to make you jealous?”

  Camberly had asked about her. That was startling news. She had thought him lost to her.

  She had a momentary thought of Soren, and dismissed it. Her father was right. The Yorks had mishandled the gifts of their birthright. Even though Soren seemed different from his grandfather and father, a wise woman would not turn over her fortune, or her life, to him.

  “So, tomorrow!” Her father clapped his hands and beamed approval. “Dress your best, look your prettiest. You have a duke to catch!” On those words, he wished her a good night and left the room.

  Minutes later, Maggie knocked and helped Cassandra undress, plaited her hair into one long thick braid, and set out her clothes for the morrow. To be honest, the ivory, white, and pale shades that were the wardrobe of an unmarried woman did not suit Cassandra. They washed out her features. She could well imagine herself dressing vividly like Lady Haddingdon. She’d look better. In the end, she chose an ivory cambric with a thin stripe of green, her favorite color. It was hung on a wall peg for the next day.

  “Good night, Maggie.”

  “Good night, Miss Cassandra.”

  Alone, Cassandra took out her traveling valise. It had a false bottom. She lifted the panel to reveal a velvet-lined compartment. She placed the precious pearls and the diamond-tipped hairpins carefully beside a set of garnets the size of a robin’s eggs. At home in her dressing table was a necklace and bracelet of sapphires. These jewels and vague memories that time worked hard to rob from her were all she had that was personal of her mother. She guarded the jewels carefully.

  When she traveled, which she rarely did, she protected her jewelry in this secret compartment. At home, she’d devised a special hideaway and told no one about it. She didn’t know what she’d do if her mother’s jewelry was ever stolen, especially the pearls. They were her favorites. Her father had told her that the king had once begged her grandfather Bingham for them and been refused.

  Cassandra blew out the bedside candle, climbed beneath the covers, and waited for sleep. It did not come.

  Her mind was too busy. Furthermore, Mayfield’s lumpy mattress must have been as old as the house. Nor did the sheets smell fresh. And the bed ropes needed to be tightened. They were stretched to the point that between them and the mattress, she could not be comfortable.

  She struggled to sleep for a good hour and more. Outside her door, she listened to other guests find their rooms until there was silence.

  Staring up at the ceiling, Cassandra knew there was no hope for her. Her usual nighttime ritual was to read a chapter or two. Reading settled her mind and body; however, in the excitement of arriving at Mayfield, she’d left her book in the coach.

  There was supposed to be a small reading room at the end of the hall outside her door. When she’d first arrived, a maid had told her about it. There must be a book there.

  Cassandra rose from the bed and donned her dressing robe over her nightgown. The robe was a sensible garment of soft wool in a green the color of the deepest forest, because no one cared what a debutante wore to bed. She should dress if she was going to leave her room, but that would call for far more effort than she wished to expend. Her hope was to find a book and return to her bed without anyone being the wiser. Picking up the candle in its holder, she slipped her bare feet into the kid slippers she had worn to dinner and left the room.

  Several wall sconces lit the hallway. All was very quiet. She walked toward where she thought the reading room was.

  In truth, Mayfield was a bit of a rabbit warren. Apparently, earlier dukes made their mark on the house by adding wings to create a maze of hallways. Her parents’ room was down another hall from hers.

  As she hurried toward the reading room, she noticed how actually shabby the house was. Downstairs, there was a semblance of stately wealth, but here were discolored rectangles on the walls, signs that a portrait had once proudly hung there and was now gone. Cassandra didn’t understand why someone hadn’t applied a brush and paint to the problem. Or hadn’t seen to the tightening of bed ropes before important guests arrived.

  The reading room was dark, the door partly ajar. Cassandra took a moment to light her candle off a wall sconce. She expected the room to be full of books. Why else call it a reading room?

  So she was a bit surprised when she saw empty bookshelves.

  However, the room was set up for reading. In front of the cold hearth were tall, upholstered chairs and a rug. Deeper in the room was another chair, larger than the fireside ones. On a small table beside it was a book. One lone book . . . with all of these bookshelves.

  Cassandra could weep. If there had been other books in this room, they had apparently been sold off.

  Curious about what that remaining book was titled, Cassandra quietly closed the door and crossed to it. She set the candle down and picked up the book. Plutarch’s Lives. If someone was going to hold fast to a book, this was a good one to keep. It would also help her sleep.

  She picked up her candle and was about to leave when a weight or a body slammed against the door from the outside. A woman giggled—and, in a panic because Cassandra had no desire to be caug
ht in her nightclothes walking about, she blew out her candle, plunging the room into darkness.

  Barely a beat later, the door burst open. Lady Bainhurst and the Duke of Camberly, wrapped in an amorous embrace, tumbled into the room.

  Chapter 5

  Cassandra wasn’t certain what to do. She was too stunned to make her presence known, and then it quickly became obvious the moment to do so had passed.

  Not only that, but the duke and Lady Bainhurst were too involved in themselves to politely interrupt.

  She lowered herself back into the chair, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She thanked the Lord she was wearing forest green. Perhaps she could blend into the room’s deep shadows.

  There was moaning, fervent promises, puckering and kissing. Camberly, the poet of her dreams, kicked the door closed behind him, or so he thought. It hit the frame and then bounced open, the light from the hall highlighting his mouth on Her Ladyship’s ear and his hand cupping her rear as her fingers tore at his neck cloth.

  “You didn’t close it,” Lady Bainhurst chided between wet-sounding kisses.

  “I don’t care,” he answered, his voice guttural and demanding. He carried her down to the floor. “No one is up anyway. There is just you and me . . .”

  And me, Cassandra could have added, if she’d had the nerve.

  She sat in the haven of the chair and put her hands over her ears. She wasn’t that much out of sight. If they weren’t so preoccupied with each other, they could see her. She looked toward the door for escape. It was not that far away. Should she risk sneaking by them?

  The sounds coming from the rug evaded her best efforts to shut them out. Lady Bainhurst was making small giggling, yipping noises. Camberly was growling. He sounded much like a rooting pig.

  Cassandra didn’t want to peek to see what they were doing, but she found she must. Curiosity had always been a besetting sin.

  Lady Bainhurst was on the floor. She lay on her back, her arms flung out over her head. Her hair was loose from its pins, her bodice undone, and her skirts pulled up well above her waist.

  The duke was nowhere to be seen.