Cassandra could hear him but couldn’t place where he was—until she realized he was partially hidden by one of the chairs and that he was busy kissing parts of Lady Bainhurst’s body that Cassandra had never thought anyone would kiss.
And Her Ladyship actually liked what he was doing.
Why, she was gasping and sighing and cooing as if in the throes of some great satisfaction—until the moment when her voice took on a keening filled with desire. She brought her hands down as if to reach for Camberly, confirming he was where Cassandra thought he was. Frantically, she whispered, “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Cassandra didn’t know what to do or think. She now understood what it meant to be paralyzed. She couldn’t even breathe—and then Lady Bainhurst turned her head in Cassandra’s direction and their gazes locked.
Horrified to be caught spying, Cassandra didn’t know why Her Ladyship didn’t shriek or shout a warning.
Instead, she smiled at Cassandra, the expression reminiscent of the cat caught in the cream. Her voice turned silky. “Take me, Matt. Have me. I’m yours.”
Shock moved Cassandra’s feet. She no longer worried about being discovered. She ran to the door. She didn’t dare look back. She didn’t need to. The image of the two lovers was burned in her mind. She hoped to slip away and she was almost successful. No cry went up, until she made the mistake of shutting the door behind her.
She always shut doors. It was good manners to do so, but this time, her reflexive politeness did not serve her well.
On the other side of the door, Camberly said, “What was that?”
Cassandra didn’t wait for Lady Bainhurst’s answer. Instead, she lifted her hems and began running for her room. She was halfway there when from around the corner at the far end of the hall, she heard the march of boots.
“This way?” a male voice boomed in the stillness.
“Yes, Lord Bainhurst,” came the answer. “They were seen in this hallway.” Someone had tattled to His Lordship about his wife. There was about to be a scene.
Cassandra’s panic doubled.
She did not want to be a witness to the duke being caught with his pants down. Nor did she want Camberly to piece together that she had been the person in the room when he was doing unmentionable things to Lady Bainhurst. She didn’t even wish to be discovered roaming about in her dressing gown.
Instinct took over. She opened the nearest door and jumped into the darkness, shutting the door behind her, but she’d been a second too slow to react. She’d been seen.
“There, that door,” Lord Bainhurst shouted. “Letty.”
“Not that room—” the tattler countered, but it was too late.
Cassandra grabbed the door handle as it began to turn. She tightened her grasp, using both hands and all her strength to prevent the door from opening.
Behind her, she heard movement.
“What the devil—” a male voice said. Wait, not just any male voice—Soren’s voice. She recognized him immediately. She’d sought refuge in his room.
Everything happened at once.
“They are down the hall, my lord,” the tattler tried to explain.
“They are in here,” Lord Bainhurst declared right outside the door. “I saw Letty run inside.”
How anyone could mistake Cassandra for the shorter Letty Bainhurst, she did not know. She also didn’t have time to consider the matter before the full force of Lord Bainhurst’s body slammed into the door. The door withstood the blow, but Cassandra was no longer worried about Bainhurst, not when strong hands roughly grabbed her and turned her around.
“Soren—” she started, releasing her hold on the door and raising her hands to warn him—
Another blow bounced the door open. It hit Cassandra, who fell forward into Soren’s arms, and he was naked. The man did not have a stitch on him.
Light and Lord Bainhurst’s body spilled into the room.
Soren’s reactions were swifter than her own. To her surprise, he physically lifted her, something that had never happened in her adult life, and swung her out of the way of harm. He positioned his body as a wall between her and Lord Bainhurst. It was a gallant gesture, and would have been more so if he’d been clothed.
“Aha—!” Lord Bainhurst declared, finding his balance right before Soren cut him off by grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. Soren shoved him back into the arms of a group of men who had accompanied him and now gathered in the doorway.
However, Cassandra wasn’t as concerned with them as she was at the sight of all of Soren.
She’d never seen all of a living man before.
Certainly, she had admired the male form with vague intellectuality when she’d studied sculptures of it. But those had been art.
Soren was flesh and blood, and he looked better than any sculpture she had ever seen. The light from the hallway emphasized his buttocks, his back, his thighs. They were muscular and strong. Well-formed. Impressive. She couldn’t judge all of him, the “bits” so to speak, because he had his back to her, but what she could see was most admirable.
Unfortunately, everyone else could witness he was naked as well.
And Lord Bainbridge was so worked up in a jealous rage, he had not yet registered that Cassandra was not his wife. He jumped to the worst of conclusions and he did so at the top of his voice.
“Dewsberry? You scoundrel. Hand over my wife.” Doors up and down the hallway began opening as Lord Bainhurst’s shouting woke the other guests.
Cassandra had to do something to save Soren’s dignity. She noticed his breeches hanging over a chair and she reached for them. How humiliating this must be for him. As it was for her. She truly felt overheated.
She offered his breeches to him.
In the face of Bainhurst’s blustering, he felt her gentle nudge and reached for his clothing even as he blocked with one strong forearm Lord Bainhurst’s attempt to run into the room again.
“Bring her out here,” His Lordship demanded. “Let us all see her for the scheming adulteress she is.”
“My lord, return to your bed.” Soren’s voice was steel-edged. If he had used that tone on Cassandra, she would have obeyed him instantly.
However, Lord Bainhurst was not of a like mind. He was frothing with anger. Two gentlemen attempted to reason with him but he shook them off. “I call you out, Dewsberry,” he shouted for all to hear.
“Oh, I will happily meet you, Bainhurst,” was Soren’s cool reply.
“And I will happily run my sword through you. You blackguard. You wife thief. You coward.”
He was beyond reason, and Cassandra realized there was only one solution. She knew Soren was trying to protect her identity from prying eyes, but if she didn’t act, the scene would grow worse, if that was possible.
She stepped away from Soren’s protective presence and presented herself to Lord Bainhurst. “I am not your wife.”
It took a moment for the furious lord to change the direction of his anger, but everyone else in the hall—and she was quite shocked at how many had gathered—was startled to see her. They stood in their night caps and bedclothes, their sleepy expressions giving way to salacious curiosity.
“Where’s Letty?” Lord Bainhurst demanded.
“I don’t know,” Cassandra answered with a calmness she was far from feeling. Indeed, she was close to tears.
He scowled and looked past her. “Dewsberry, where is my wife?”
“She is not here, you fool.” Soren stepped forward to stand beside Cassandra. He had, thankfully, found an opportunity to put on his breeches. However, he was still naked to the waist. And his feet were bare. She knew imaginations around them were jumping to the worst possible conclusion.
Slowly, the knowledge that his wife was not in the room sank into Lord Bainhurst’s thick skull. He looked back and forth between her and Soren and then glanced at the man on his right. “You said—?” He broke off as if just now noticing with alarm the crowd in the hallway.
The man, a weaselly sort, lowered his voice. “I tried to tell you this wasn’t the room.”
“You did not,” was the swift rebuttal. “I wouldn’t have crashed into Dewsberry’s room if I’d heard you. You should have stopped me.”
Before there was answer, a new voice joined the hullabaloo.
“Cassandra?” Her father spoke as if he could scarce believe his eyes. He pushed his way through the crowd toward her.
Before Cass had run into his room, Soren had been in a sound slumber, and he had needed the sleep. The worry over his family’s debts and the doubts that he’d struggled to keep at bay had come up against the knowledge that he would not be winning the heiress. Cass believed herself too good for him, and she was right. She could do better than him.
It was a humbling admission.
He could find another heiress to marry, except he found his heart wasn’t in it. First, he didn’t know if that was possible. Heiresses were not plentiful this Season.
Secondly, Cass’s rejection had hit him surprisingly hard. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. He’d discovered he actually wanted her for a wife.
He didn’t know why. They barely knew each other. A childhood friendship was not a good basis for determining a wife. He’d known Mary for a year before he’d married her and it had soured in a blink. They had turned out to be two completely different people. Then again, he had apparently been wrong about her character. When he’d asked her to marry him, he could never have imagined Mary would leave him, taking with her the knowledge that she carried his son.
She’d kept Logan from him and it was only upon her death that he’d learned he had fathered a child.
Now, that was a betrayal.
At least he and Cass had cleared the air between them, something he and Mary had never been able to do.
Either way, the truth was that, this night, he was damn tired of fighting to keep his birthright. He was ready to turn his future over to Fate. If he lost Pentreath to the moneylenders, well, he’d manage. He must. His son was counting on him. He’d not be the first landless lord and probably not the last.
His final thought before falling into asleep was perhaps, in the morning, he’d find his will to fight again . . .
And then Cassandra woke him and he found himself involved in Bainhurst’s insane accusations that were the certain ruin of Cassandra’s standing in Society. Soren also knew that Bainhurst was entitled to his jealousy. Camberly was a fool in love with the wrong woman.
Now Cassandra’s father was involved.
God help him.
MP Holwell pushed his way through the guests ogling Soren and Cass’s state of undress. He took it all in himself, his scowl deepening. His mousy wife stood right behind him. Like Cass, she was in her dressing robe and a lace night cap. Many of the other ladies gathered around them wore the same. However, it was Cass they damned.
All color had drained from Cassandra’s face. To Soren’s surprise, she took an instinctive step toward him. “Father, it isn’t what you think.”
“It is what I see,” Holwell declared. “You’ve shamed me, girl. You’ve shamed all of us—”
“Now wait a minute—” Soren started.
Her father cut him off. “I’ll hear nothing from you, Dewsberry. Everyone knows you would like nothing better than to destroy my reputation. Well, you’ve done it. You’ve made a mockery of my family name.”
“Father, listen to me, please. It isn’t what you think—”
He grabbed her roughly by the arm and shoved her toward her stepmother. “Enough,” he barked.
Soren lost all reason. A parent should stand up for a child. Not join in her humiliation. He towered over the shorter man. “I wish to marry your daughter.”
Soren didn’t know who was more shocked with his statement, Holwell, everyone in the hall, or himself. The moment the words were out, he had a fleeting desire to call them back, but wouldn’t.
Cass would never recover from this night’s business. Marriageable young women risked everything if they were caught in a man’s room. Even if he and Cass could explain that this was all a misunderstanding, chattering minds would dismiss the truth.
Soren, too, would pay. He would be branded the rascal she’d been dallying with, but all the world adored a rake. His name would be relatively unscathed. While hers would be unsalvageable, save for marriage to him. It was the only honorable option.
His declaration was met with a collective gasp of appreciation from their avid audience. The one thing Society adored better than a scandal was a grand romance.
Lady Haddingdon, decked out in a purple robe and night cap, clapped her hands gleefully. “I knew something was afoot when I caught them in the necessary room together over dinner.”
“The necessary room during dinner?” a man standing behind Bainhurst repeated, his tone putting a lewd twist to the words.
Soren dismissed all of them. His focus was on Cass, who stood with her hands clasped in front of her like a penitent, her head lowered in humiliation. Stand tall, he wanted to tell her. There is no reason for shame.
However, Soren’s answer to his offer came from her father. In ringing tones, Holwell announced, “No child of mine will marry a York.”
“I’ll not accept an answer from anyone but Cass,” Soren challenged.
“Cassandra. Her name is Cassandra,” Holwell answered. “Although the likes of you do not have permission to use it.”
Her father’s rudeness only made Soren more determined to free her from him. The feud between their two families was nonsense. Dewsberry was an old and respected title—or it had been until his grandfather and father had disgraced it. But Soren would see it shine again and, in that moment, he knew with complete conviction he wanted Cass by his side. That desire was not based upon her fortune.
No, his certainty that she alone could help him meet the challenges of his life, and there were many, came from a place deep within him. He knew he was making the right decision.
Besides, even if he was wrong, she did have a fortune.
Holwell was in politics. He valued public opinion. So, Soren played to the public. He went down on one knee in front of her, a half-dressed swain intent on baring his soul.
Cass stared at him as if he had lost his wits. Perhaps he had.
“Miss Holwell, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Bah!” Her father’s sharp exclamation robbed the moment of any sincerity. “Refuse him, daughter,” he ordered. “Put him in his place.”
The hallway grew quiet. People held their breaths as they leaned in for every second of the drama. Even Bainhurst.
Cass looked to her father, then back to Soren kneeling before her. Her brows gathered, but no words left her lips.
Her father was at her ear. “Accept his offer and you will be no daughter of mine.” He then turned and shouldered his way through the crowd. His wife followed as if she was his shadow.
Cass blinked as if in hurt surprise. Soren took her hand, bringing her attention back to him. She looked down at him.
“We’ll be good together,” Soren promised.
For a moment, he believed she was going to say yes to him. Her palm was warm, her fingers long.
And then she pulled her hand free. “I can’t,” she whispered. “It is too much to decide right now.”
On those words, she chased after her parent.
She was gone.
What the devil?
Soren couldn’t believe he had been rejected. Did she not realize her life as she’d known it was over? Rightly or wrongly, circumstances had conspired to label her damaged goods.
Then again, wasn’t she the one earlier who had warned him a Holwell and a York could never be together?
Except she didn’t believe it. He knew for a fact she was not reacting to the feud. Something else spurred her. Something he didn’t understand.
Nor was he the only one surprised by her reaction. The silence in the hall told him that ever
yone was shocked she’d refused him. It was a foolish move.
Soren rose.
His movement stirred the others. They began creeping toward their rooms as if embarrassed for him. Here and there was a murmured “Good night, Dewsberry,” but most were very quiet. He had no doubt they would find their voices on the morrow.
However, he was not through with this evening’s business.
“Lord Bainhurst,” Soren said.
The jealous lord had been conferring with the two men who had been with him when he had attacked Soren’s bedroom door. He looked up.
“There is a challenge between us, is there not?” Soren said.
Everyone who had been quietly dispersing now turned back to Soren.
Bainhurst shot a quizzical glance to his companions. They shrugged their answers. He took a step toward Soren and gave a congenial laugh, as if the two of them were friends. “I did issue one, but that was when I believed you were with my wife. I was overwrought, Dewsberry. I ask you to beg pardon.”
“I will not.”
“But you should,” Bainhurst countered with a self-deprecating chuckle. “The grievance I had, well, apparently I jumped to a conclusion.”
“So you did.”
“Which means that I no longer require satisfaction. And, I offer my most abject apologies for ruining your sleep, my lord.”
“Your apology is not accepted.”
Bainhurst was not laughing now. “But there is no reason to duel.”
“Actually, I find there is a very good reason to duel. You have interfered with my life.”
“I apologize—”
“You have disturbed Miss Holwell’s life—”
“I apologize to her as well,” Bainhurst quickly assured him.
“Your apology is not accepted,” Soren repeated. “I find myself with a strong desire to—how did you phrase it? ‘Run you though with a sword.’ Yes, that is what it was.”
The deference dropped from Bainhurst’s voice. “There is no need, Dewsberry.”
“Oh, I have need, Bainhurst. A strong one.” Soren noticed Camberly standing on the edges of the onlookers. He appeared as if he had just stumbled on the scene and wasn’t completely certain of what was going on, or of the unwitting role Soren suspected he’d played. Something had driven Cass to jump into his room and it had been more than Bainhurst. Had she caught Camberly and Letty doing something they shouldn’t? Or had it all been a coincidence? Stranger things had happened. “You will serve as my second, Your Grace.” It was not a question.
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