by Mary Balogh
He smiled warmly at her all the time he spoke.
The dance was about to begin.
“You are not considering marriage on your own account, Bruce?” she asked him, smiling back.
“I am not,” he said.
“I am very glad,” she told him. “Very glad, that is, for the lady who might have been your wife.”
“I will see my lawyer tomorrow morning,” he said. “I will take him to see your lawyer. You may wish to meet us there at noon, Cassandra. You will get everything to which you are entitled provided you are prepared to swear in writing that you will make no further claim on my estate. Ever.”
He smiled. She smiled back.
“I will be there with Wesley,” she said. “My lawyer will advise me on what I ought to agree to, in writing or otherwise.”
They danced in silence, smiling at the air to the side of each other’s face. And they were watched, Cassandra guessed, by guests curious to interpret what Lord Paget’s appearance here tonight meant. But it could surely mean only one thing to them. Would he have come if he truly believed she had murdered his father? Would he have come if he did not wish her well, if he did not wish to convey the blessing of his family on this second marriage of hers?
Cassandra could almost hear what was being thought, even said—and what would be said in the coming days.
Perhaps they had all been wrong about her, they would surely say. The rumors had been rather extreme, after all. What woman was capable of hefting an axe high enough and firmly enough to cleave a man’s skull in two? Not that they had really believed those stories, of course, but even so … And she had denied nothing, had she? And one could believe a woman with hair that color capable of anything. They must have been wrong about her, though. Not only was Lord Paget here, he was also dancing with her, conversing with her, smiling with her. They were clearly on the best of terms with each other.
Paget had behaved well, Stephen thought as the evening neared its end and he could, at last, claim Cassandra again for one more set.
He could not say he was happy Paget had come or happy that he had felt obliged to invite the man to the ball instead of pounding him to a bloody pulp, which would have been far more satisfying.
But, all things considered, matters had perhaps worked out for the best. Although there would always be people who would think the worst of Cassandra—that was human nature, after all—nevertheless most people would now conclude that they must have been duped by gossip. And most would convince themselves that they never listened seriously to gossip anyway and had not believed this particular item for a moment. Cassandra’s reputation would be restored.
And after coming here and smiling his way through the evening and even dancing with Cassandra, Paget could hardly now claim that she had no right to her personal property or to the monetary provisions made for her in her husband’s will and the marriage contract.
Stephen did not know how wealthy she would be, but he guessed that she would at worst be very comfortably well off. She would be independent. She would be able to do with her life whatever she chose to do.
It was not a realization that depressed him. Quite the contrary. She would have fought him to the bitter end, he knew, if it had seemed that she needed to marry him. And he would have hated to feel obliged to persuade her into matrimony only because she had no real alternative. He would have spent the rest of his life wondering whether she had really wanted to marry him. And wondering if pity had somehow warped his judgment.
Now he could fight for her without any qualms at all. She would say yes. But she would say it because she wanted to, because she had the freedom to decide whichever way she wanted. And he would fight because he wanted her. There would be no other reason.
He smiled at her as he took her in his arms. He had been smiling all evening, of course, but this time he saw only her, and he felt only the love that almost overwhelmed him. He could still scarcely believe it had happened to him—long before he had started to look for it, and in a totally different direction than he would have turned if he had been deliberately looking.
“I suppose,” he said, “you are still determined to break off our engagement once the summer comes?”
“Of course,” she said. “And only I can honorably do it. I will not fail you, Stephen, or trap you. This is all very temporary.”
Did she feel anything for him? It was impossible to know. He was as certain as he could be that she felt a fondness for him. He knew she was physically attracted to him. But did she feel anything approximating to love? To romantic love? And to that deeper love that would endure through a lifetime?
She was free now to love.
Or not to.
But she was not free to tell him that she loved him, was she? She had promised to break off their engagement when the Season was over.
I will not fail you, Stephen, or trap you.
This was going to be a difficult courtship. They were trapped in an engagement that she was honor-bound to break and he was honor-bound to convert into marriage.
Love seemed a minor consideration.
Except that it was everything.
They waltzed in silence. And they waltzed in a space that seemed to contain only the two of them. He could smell the flowers she had helped choose, and the scent of her hair and of her. He could feel her body heat and hear her breath. And he could see the proud arch of her neck, the beauty of her face, the bright glory of her hair, the sunshine of her gown.
And it seemed to him that the darkness that had been in her had gone, to be replaced by light. Had he had some small hand in that? If he had, and if she was lost to him at the end of the Season, then perhaps there would be some consolation in the lonely years he would face before he could begin to forget her.
Not that he would lose her.
And not that there would be any consolation.
Most things in life had come easily to him. Even when he was a boy he had known that Meg had carefully saved enough of the portion their mother had brought to her marriage so that he might go to Oxford and receive enough of an education that he could find steady, gainful employment for the rest of his life. Since he had inherited his title and all that went with it, life had been very easy indeed for him. And very happy too. He had never had to fight hard for what he wanted.
He would fight now.
He wanted Cass.
“You look almost fierce,” she said.
“Fiercely determined,” he said.
“To do what?” she asked him. “Stay off my toes for the last few minutes of the waltz?”
“That too,” he said. “But not just that. Determined to enjoy what remains of the Season. Determined to see to it that you enjoy it too.”
“How could I not enjoy a little piece of eternity in company with an angel?” she said.
But she laughed as she said it, her eyes dancing with merriment, and he did not know if it was a flippant, essentially meaningless answer or something that came so deeply from the heart that it had come out sounding unbearably sentimental.
The waltz was at an end, and so was the evening.
Within twenty minutes everyone had left except for a few stragglers, mostly family, and Wesley Young’s hired carriage had pulled up outside Merton House and Young was waiting to hand his sister in. Miss Haytor and Golding were already inside the carriage.
Stephen stood on the pavement at the bottom of the steps, both Cassandra’s hands in his own. He raised them one at a time to his lips.
“Good night, Stephen,” she said.
“Good night, my love.”
And she was. His love, that was.
How could he convince her of that without burdening her with the truth?
Courtship was not an easy business at all.
Perhaps it was as well. There was that saying about anything worth having being worth fighting for.
Old sayings had a tendency to be filled with truth and wisdom. She raised a hand from inside the carriage a few momen
ts later, and then she was gone.
The next month went by for Cassandra too slowly and far too quickly.
She wanted it over with so that she could begin the rest of her life. Everything had been settled with great ease between her and Bruce with the aid of their lawyers and Wesley. Not only was she to be granted what she was owed by the marriage contract, but also she was to be paid the pension to which she was entitled by Nigel’s will, including all the back payments. Her jewelry had already been sent from Carmel.
She was a comparatively wealthy woman. She could live more than comfortably for the rest of her life, especially when she intended to live that life somewhere in the country with only the expenses of a small cottage and a few servants to consider.
Mary was going with William, of course. He was already in the process of purchasing land in Dorsetshire and the small manor that stood upon it. They hoped to move there in the autumn. In the meanwhile they stayed with Cassandra, and Mary insisted upon continuing as housekeeper, maid, and cook.
Belinda was excited at the prospect of moving to a big house far away with her mama and papa.
Alice was going to marry Mr. Golding, and she was going to do it within the month. Cassandra had shamelessly promised that she was going to marry Stephen, and Alice had believed her and decided to follow her heart. She was bubbling over with happiness, and Cassandra felt not the smallest pang of guilt for her lie. She was just going to have to convince Alice when the time came that she had had a sudden change of heart and could not marry Stephen after all.
It would be too late for Alice to confront her with the deception by then.
Cassandra needed for Alice to be happy. Only so could she forgive herself for her selfishness in keeping Alice with her all these years.
But time moved too slowly even though there was much to make Cassandra contented, even happy. And there was much to look forward to. The agent who had helped William find his land and manor was now looking for a suitable cottage for her.
Time moved slowly because every day brought her closer to Stephen and deepened her regard for him. She saw him every day, sometimes more than once. She might go riding with him in the morning, perhaps, and join a party to Vauxhall with him in the evening.
She liked him. Oh, she did indeed. It was almost worse than the love. She could be friends with this man in a friendship that would last a lifetime. She was sure it must be so. Apart from Alice, who had been her governess and surrogate mother for many years, she had never had friends. No one, anyway, with whom she could relax and talk—and laugh—on any subject on earth without having to make an effort to keep the conversation going. And no one with whom she could be comfortably silent for minutes at a time without her mind racing for some subject—any subject—with which to fill the silence.
She loved him too, of course. She yearned for him physically, a desire made even worse by the fact that she had had him twice and knew how close to her grasp a physical heaven was. But it was more than just physical. She cared for him in a way that was far too deep and complex for any words. Or if there were words, she certainly did not know them. The word love, she thought, was like a tiny doorway into a vast mansion that filled the universe and beyond.
Sometimes she wondered why she could not simply marry him and be happy for the rest of her life. He had said he loved her, after all—once. And he always seemed happy when they were together.
But how could he not appear thus when he was a man of honor?
And how could she possibly force him into marriage?
Whenever she began to wonder why not, she forced herself to list the reasons. She had deliberately singled him out for se diction. She had trapped him into becoming her protector. She had taken money from him—which she had since repaid in full. She had not stopped him from kissing her out on that balcony at Lady Compton-Haig’s ball. She had allowed him to announce their betrothal immediately afterward. She had not put a firm stop to the farce the day after. She had … Well, she usually stopped there. Why go further? The list was shudderingly long as it was.
Of course she could never marry him.
Sometimes the list kept growing longer in her head even when she tried to stop thinking. She was three years older than he and had been married before. Her father had been a gambler, her husband a drinker. Such a woman was not a suitable bride for the young and charismatic Earl of Merton.
But, though the last month of the Season crawled along far too slowly, it also galloped along at an alarming pace. For once it was over, Stephen would be returning alone to Warren Hall for the summer and she would be going to an as yet unknown destination—her new home.
And they would never see each other again.
Ever.
It was July. People had already started to trickle out of London to return to their estates or to seek out cooler, fresher air close to the sea or at one of the spas. The parliamentary session was almost at an end. The frantic pace of social activities was beginning to wind down for another year.
And Cassandra had left town. Oh, it was for only a few days, it was true. She had gone into Kent for Miss Haytor’s marriage to Golding and would be back. But Stephen was starting to feel nervous—or continuing to feel nervous, to be more accurate. He had courted her quite relentlessly for a whole month, but he was still not sure if she felt anything more for him than a fondness and a friendship.
Neither was enough for him.
Now that it was too late, he wondered if he ought to have told her every day that he loved her. But if he had done that and it had not worked, he would probably now be wondering if he ought to have kept quiet about his feelings.
There were no rules of courtship, it seemed. And there were no guarantees that even the most persistent of efforts would bear fruit.
But he could not wait much longer to press the issue. He had been delaying doing so, he realized, because he feared her answer. Once the question was definitely asked and her answer definitely given, there would be no room left even for hope.
Assuming, that was, that her answer would be no.
When had he become such a pessimist?
Cassandra had expected to be back in town on the Tuesday after the wedding. But Stephen ran into William Belmont by chance on Monday and discovered that she had returned just before he left the house.
Stephen lost no time in going to call on her.
She really was not expecting him. And Mary had become careless, having seen him almost every day for the past month and a half. She did not go to the sitting room first to see if Cassandra would receive him. She merely greeted him with a smile—she was outside polishing the brass knocker on the door—and then went ahead of him to tap on the sitting room door, open it without waiting for an answer, and let him in.
Cassandra was standing before the empty fireplace, one wrist propped on the mantel, the other hand pressed to her mouth. She was weeping quite audibly.
She turned her head toward him, red-eyed and aghast, before turning it sharply away again.
“Oh,” she said, making an attempt at bright normality, “you took me by surprise. I look a mess. I arrived home only an hour ago and changed into something comfortable but not very elegant.”
She was plumping a lone cushion on the chair beside the fireplace, her back to him.
“Cass.” He had hurried across the room to set both hands on her shoulders, making her jump. “What is the matter?”
“With me?” she asked brightly, straightening up and deftly evading his grasp as she went to move a vase a tenth of an inch from its original place on a table behind the chair. “Oh, nothing. Something in my eye.”
“Yes,” he said. “Tears. What has happened?”
He followed her and handed her a handkerchief. She took it and dabbed at her eyes before turning toward him, though she did not look at him. She smiled.
“Nothing,” she said, “except that Alice has got married and is going to live happily ever after with Mr. Golding, and Mary and Belinda are going awa
y with William, also to live happily ever after, and I was indulging in a little self-pity. But they were partly tears of happiness too. I am happy for all of them.”
“I am sure you are,” he said. “Will you live happily ever after too, Cass? Will you marry me? I love you, you know, and they are not just words spoken to make you feel better about the situation. I do love you. I cannot imagine life without you. Sometimes I think you are the very air I breathe. Can I hope that you love me too? That you will forget about ending our betrothal and marry me instead? This summer? At Warren Hall?”
There. It was all blurted out. He had had a month to prepare a decent speech, but when it had come to the point he had not been prepared at all. And he had not chosen a good moment. She was in deep distress, and his words had not helped. Almost before he had stopped speaking she was across the room and looking out the window.
But she did not say no. He waited with bated breath, but she did not say anything at all.
She was not silent, though, he realized after a few moments. She was sobbing again and doing a damnably poor job of stifling the sounds.
“Cass.” He went to stand behind her again, though he did not touch her this time. He heard a world of misery in the one word he had uttered. “It is not just self-pity, is it? Are you trying to find a way to let me down gently? Can’t you marry me?”
It took her a few moments to bring herself sufficiently under control to answer him.
“I think I probably have to,” she said then. “I think I am with child, Stephen. No, I don’t think. I am. I have been trying to tell myself otherwise for a few weeks, but I have … missed for a second time now. I am with child.”
And she wailed so uncontrollably that all he could do was grasp her by the shoulders, turn her, and hold her against him while she wept into his shoulder.
He felt weak at the knees. His heart felt as if it were somewhere near the soles of his boots.
“And that is so dreadful, is it?” he asked when her sobs had subsided somewhat. “That you are with child by me? That you must marry me?”
Not like this, he thought dully. Not like this. Please not like this.