A Match Made in Bed

by Cathy Maxwell

Cassandra had been kissed before. At one of her literary salons, one of the poets, seeing they were momentarily alone, had seized upon the opportunity to plant a kiss on her mouth right there under her father’s roof.

  It hadn’t been an easy kiss. Roger Edmonds had been far shorter than she. She’d been sitting in a chair, instructing him on what would happen at her salon when he’d taken advantage of the opportunity. It had been decidedly awkward. He kept bumping his mouth against hers as if she should be doing something.

  When he was done and found her unmoved, Roger had insisted he could do better. He’d wanted to call on her the next day and spoke of “loving” her. She’d known better. He’d wanted her fortune.

  Soren wanted her fortune as well—except he knew how to kiss.

  He was also taller than she was. He didn’t need to sit her down.

  And his lips must have had some sort of magnetized property because not only did the kiss pull her to him, their lips fit together very well. There was no sloppy wetness. No furtive probings. He kissed like a man who enjoyed the art of it—and how could any woman resist opening to him? It was as if he breathed her in.

  The kiss broke too soon.

  He was the one who ended it, and she found herself leaning against his chest, his sword arm around her waist.

  Dazed, she looked in his eyes. They had gone very dark. She marveled at the laugh lines that shot off from them, small indicators of his character.

  “I knew there was something between us,” he whispered. “We will do well together, Cassandra. All you need to do is say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  The word flowed out of her. Yes—to not being shuttled off to Cornwall. Yes—to having all life could offer. Yes—to what that kiss only hinted at.

  Soren didn’t waste a beat. He took her hand and held it up, announcing to the gentlemen, “Miss Holwell has agreed to be my wife.”

  The Duke of Camberly cheered while stifling a yawn. Lord Bainhurst called, “Are you satisfied? May we go to our breakfast now?”

  Lacing his fingers with Cassandra’s, Soren walked toward Bainhurst and his friends. He offered the sword to the duke. “I am satisfied, my lord.”

  “You didn’t have to prick my coat,” His Lordship complained. There was little heat in his voice.

  “How else was the lady to know I was serious?” Soren countered.

  Lord Bainhurst ignored him. Instead, he addressed Cassandra. “I am sorry that my rash actions ensnared you in all of this, Miss Holwell. Especially since you will be marrying this scoundrel. Oh, come now, I’m jesting. Dewsberry is a good man. Far better than his sire. We’ve all been worried about him. Make his rickety estate a home, give him babies, and may God’s grace shine on you.”

  The truth struck her. She was going to marry. She would be a bride, a wife . . . someday, a mother. Her dream of a literary salon lingered a moment around her. Yes, it was something she wanted, but she had a sense that she was standing on the precipice of a bigger adventure, of grander dreams.

  It was disconcerting to see the duke and Lord Bainhurst standing side by side. After Lord Bainhurst’s pretty speech, she felt sorry for him. And she was overjoyed she was not marrying Camberly. He was no longer “the one.”

  In fact, after that kiss, she saw Soren with new eyes. And she had not forgotten his naked bum.

  “You are wealthy now, Dewsberry,” the duke said. There was a note of jealousy in his voice.

  “That isn’t what is important right now,” Soren countered. He tugged on Cassandra’s hand. “Come, let us find the breakfast room and we can make plans.”

  He began leading her toward the house. The men fell into step around them. The experience of being included in their number was a heady one for Cassandra. She was very conscious that she was now under Soren’s protection.

  The concept made her feel ladylike, vulnerable, and remarkably feminine. It was nice to be surrounded by men. She liked their energy.

  Mayfield’s breakfast room overlooked the back garden. It was a cheery yellow room. The breakfast dishes had been set up here while most of the guests were eating in the dining room, where there was a longer table and more chairs.

  Given the earliness of the hour, Cassandra was amazed at how many of the fashionable set were up. Dame Hester was eating with her husband and there were at least a half dozen of the others who had witnessed the scene with Soren last night. The dowager was bustling about giving instructions to both servants and guests.

  Soren took charge. He announced, “If I may beg your attention?”

  The room quieted.

  “Miss Holwell has made me the happiest of men. She has agreed to be my wife.”

  All eyes turned to her, and then the room seemed to explode with good wishes. Cassandra was suddenly self-conscious. She was aware that her hair was not done, that she hadn’t even polished her teeth before she had charged out of the house to stop the duel. She thought to excuse herself to properly dress except the guests would not let her leave.

  They acted as if she looked perfectly fine. The hugs from the ladies felt genuine. The handshakes Soren received made Cassandra feel as if she had made the right choice. Lord Bainhurst and the duke acted as if they had played a part in matching the couple and they did so with great pride. She looked around for Willa, who was not at the table yet. Her friend enjoyed her sleep.

  However, Letty Bainhurst was present. She rose from her breakfast, her hair and dress perfect, and whispered to Cassandra, “See? I knew you and Dewsberry would be excellent for each other.”

  People acted genuinely pleased for Soren. It was obvious that he was well-liked among the men. Of course, this was a crowd that if they’d heard the duel had taken place and one of the duelists had been injured, they would be equally forgiving. Such was the nature of this set.

  And she would be one of them. Lady Dewsberry. Her Ladyship. My lady. His lady.

  Cassandra glanced over to Soren and her heart did a funny thing. It actually seemed to grow a little.

  The sensation was extraordinary. She didn’t know that hearts could do that. She also found herself watching him and thinking about that kiss.

  Yes, things could be good between them. She understood that now. This was not a mistake—

  The room fell silent.

  Heads turned to the door where Cassandra’s father and stepmother had appeared.

  Stepping forward, the dowager called in greeting, “MP Holwell, you are joining us just in time. You lucky man, you are going to have son-in-law. Your daughter accepted Dewsberry’s offer.”

  Chapter 8

  Soren knew the dowager was aware of the impact of her words. He could only believe that she’d decided to attack the matter head-on and consequently, give the marriage her blessing, almost as if in defiance of Holwell’s disapproval.

  He didn’t care what the man thought. But he did worry about Cass. She seemed to change right before his eyes. A second earlier, she had appeared as happy and adorably rumpled as a woman who had set out to stop a duel should. Now, she became a shadow of that woman—especially when her father shot her a look of pure malice.

  Soren placed his hand on the small of her back, a light touch to let her know that he was beside her. They were together.

  Holwell’s narrowed eyes noticed the movement. “You bloody bastard. Take your hands off my daughter.” He raised a fist.

  Soren’s response was to circle her waist with his arm. He said, “Your daughter has paid me the honor of agreeing to become my wife. Our families will be joined. I want things to be good between us, for her sake.”

  “If she marries you, she is no daughter of mine.” On those hard words he left, his mousy wife scampering to catch up. It was exactly what he’d done last night, except this time when Cass started after him. Soren grabbed her hand.

  “I must talk to him,” she offered as if apologizing.

  “Then I will go with you.”

  “It is best you don’t.”

  “Cass—”
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  “Please, I must do this myself.” This time when she tugged on her hand, he let her go.

  “Well,” the dowager said, breaking the silence after Cass had left the room. “He is unpleasant.”

  “Did you expect him to be something different?” Admiral Sir Denby Clark said. He motioned for a servant to fetch him another sausage.

  The dowager answered, “I would expect some grace. He’s lucky to have a son-in-law like Dewsberry. He acted like a buffoon.”

  Bainhurst spoke up. “Buffoons don’t show appreciation.”

  “He didn’t have to make a scene,” Camberly countered.

  “He’s angry,” the admiral said. “He marries her off, his fortune goes with her.”

  Wanting to be close to Cass in case she had a need for his support, Soren had been about take his leave of the room, but that statement stopped him. “What do you mean?”

  Cutting into his sausages, a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, the admiral said, “I knew Miss Holwell’s grandfather. We belonged to the same club. A nabob, he was. Made a bloody fortune and he didn’t have much family. Everything went to his only child, although he was not pleased when his daughter married Holwell. He did not like him.”

  “Few do,” the dowager said.

  The admiral nodded. “I thought it odd Bingham let the marriage happen. Always wondered why, but he wasn’t the sort you would have a conversation with . . . until one night. It was in my club. We were the only two in the room and I asked him to have a drink with me because he appeared in low spirits. He told me his daughter had died. She’d caught a fever and there had been no saving her. He himself was in ill health and he feared his death was imminent.”

  Everyone in the room was listening now.

  “He’d settled a substantial dowry on his daughter when she married. It made Holwell a rich man, except he quickly ran through all the money. He was always in need of funds.”

  Soren understood that situation all too well.

  “Bingham worried that once he died, Holwell would have guardianship over his granddaughter’s inheritance until she married. He told me that is how he’d set up his will. His hope was she would choose a good man. But with death facing him, he feared Holwell could not be trusted with the money.”

  “But the Bingham fortune is rumored to be a vast one,” the dowager said. “And Holwell is a MP. He has some money of his own. I’m not defending him but pointing out what I’ve noticed.”

  “Did you have a look at the coach he arrived in?” the admiral asked. “Does even the Regent have a coach that fine? Or any of the other MPs? That night, Bingham confided in me that he suspected Holwell would line his own pocket with his granddaughter’s inheritance, and when I laid eyes on that coach, I think he is. He is also slipperier than a dockside eel. Both Bingham and I agreed upon that. Marry your heiress quick, Dewsberry, and claim the money immediately. That is my advice to you. Because if you don’t, Holwell will do everything in his power to keep it. I’m surprised he is letting his daughter marry at all.”

  His last statement struck Soren.

  There was no reason for a woman as vibrant as Cass to have been languishing on the Marriage Mart—unless Holwell was deliberately manipulating the situation. Would a father be so callous as to let his daughter believe he was acting in her best interests while perhaps furtively doing all he could to undermine her?

  He would if he was greedy.

  Bainhurst muttered, “You still will be a very rich man, Dewsberry. The pearls she wore last night were worth a fortune.”

  But Soren wasn’t thinking of money. His concern was for Cass. “Excuse me.” He set off to find her.

  Cassandra found her father in the front hall with a footman and his bags. He was pulling on his gloves. Helen was already out the front door and walking toward the coach that had been brought round.

  “Father,” she said.

  He looked up, the lines in his face deep with disapproval. “Are you leaving with me? Or are you going to disgrace your family and marry a scoundrel?”

  “He has done nothing to earn that name.”

  “He is a York. They despise us. And now he’s going to marry you, spend your money the way his father and grandfather went through theirs, and leave you to rot like a ship that has been beached after a storm.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Cassandra said, and she didn’t. “I know he needs my inheritance—”

  “And it is all right with you that he is only marrying you for your money?” Her father stepped closer. “Because I’ll tell you, birdie, he will treat you worse than one of his servants. He will bury you in the country so that he can gamble and fritter away your money until you have nothing, including the respect of your family.”

  “Papa—”

  “You will be dead to us.”

  He was so forceful, so certain. Cassandra placed a hand against her abdomen, overwhelmed with the decision she had made. What if her father was right? What if she found herself caught in an unhappy marriage? One where she was not valued as a true helpmate?

  And then she remembered years ago when a bold lad had looked at her at the parish picnic where she’d hidden herself in the sanctuary with a book and had asked if she wanted to be his friend. We can’t tell them, he’d said, meaning their parents. They won’t like it, and yet I can see nothing wrong with you.

  She’d valued that friendship. Cherished it. Because she hadn’t been like the other children. She’d lost her mother. Her father was not well liked. She’d picked that up even as a child.

  Soren had been her first friend and, until now, he’d never asked for anything. Meanwhile, it seemed her family demanded more than she could give. Her father expected her to hold his grudges, she realized. And she’d never been close to her stepmother or stepsisters. They had been jealous of her money. Well, until they needed it for their dowries. Then they had included her, but they didn’t like her.

  Could she truly live out her days at their beck and call with no life of her own?

  “Papa, I don’t want to anger you.”

  “Then do as I say.”

  “I can’t.” The statement had come from a place inside her she hadn’t known existed. She’d always been the dutiful daughter. “I’m ready to start my life,” she tried to explain. “There is so much I have yet to experience.”

  “I’ve given you everything you have wanted.”

  “You have been more than generous, Papa. However, I want to understand what it means to be a wife.” And a lover, she could have added. She wished to know this mystery between men and women. “I want to be a mother. I want to raise a child.”

  Ah, yes, here was the greatest question of her life. What had she missed by not having a mother’s love as a guiding force in her life? Helen did not count. She and Helen had always been wary of each other.

  “Then I will find you a husband,” her father said. “We’ll find a suitable man for you. But don’t trust Dewsberry. You know nothing of him. He’s like his father, secretive and conniving.”

  Her father was right. She did not know Soren well. Still, there was something she couldn’t explain between them, and it was deeper than the pleasure of his kiss. It made her bristle at her father’s accusations. It helped her find her voice. “I’ve made my decision, Papa.”

  “Very well then.” He turned on his heel and walked out the door.

  His abruptness startled her. Cassandra had always tried to please him. They were all the blood family either of them had. She believed he had her best interests at heart—and yet, he was wrong about Soren.

  She moved to the door. Helen had already climbed into the coach. Her father joined her. The Holwell coach was as fine as any prince could boast. The cab was lacquered red and the wheels had yellow spokes. Her father had designed an emblem to go on the door. It was not a crest, but anyone seeing it would know this was a symbol of MP Holwell. He prided himself on the picture of a tree with deep roots and a miner’s pick. The coach was pulled by a se
t of matched grays that would have any lord jealous.

  With a knock on the roof, he ordered Terrance the driver to go. The coach pulled away. Her father sat stiff and unrelenting, his face in profile in the window. He did not even glance at her, and for a second, it was as if someone pulled her in half. She wanted to please him and please herself . . . and it could not be done.

  Cassandra crossed her arms tightly against her waist and watched him go. Did he think she would chase after him?

  After all, she was her father’s daughter. She had pride as well.

  Soren’s voice said behind her, “He will come round.”

  Without turning, her gaze still on the coach as it grew smaller in the distance down the drive, she said, “No, he won’t. He will expect me to go to him.”

  “Will you?”

  She faced him. He needed to shave. After all they had been through this morning, she just now noticed that. And she herself was not all together. Her braid was a shambles. Why, she was not wearing stockings—and she felt drained.

  “Are you saying you won’t have me now?” She spoke half in jest. Or was she testing him?

  “Camberly said we can say our vows in the family chapel. I will procure the special license.”

  “When will we marry?”

  “If I send for the license immediately. I’m certain I can have it by tomorrow morning.”

  Tomorrow.

  In her life, she’d never done anything rash or foolish. She was an heiress to be watched over and directed. The only choices she had ever had in life were for her reading material. Even her clothing had been carefully monitored by Helen and her father.

  But they had left.

  “Tomorrow?” she repeated, a bit dazed. She’d always thought she’d have a big wedding breakfast. She didn’t know what to expect now.

  “Easily.”

  She looked to Soren. He was going to be her husband. Her father’s words echoed in her ears—He’s like his father, secretive and conniving.

  Soren didn’t appear as if he was plotting anything wicked. In fact, she didn’t know him well enough to know what he was thinking.