by Lily Maxton
“That is quite enough!” Lady Jane snapped, broken out of whatever startled reverie that had held her captive.
“I haven’t guessed yet,” he pointed out calmly.
“She’s not even—”
“Let him guess,” Margaret broke in.
Margaret? He recalled her hovering by the doorway. Had she some hand in this?
He turned his attention back to Cassandra. Every pulse of lust in his cock urged him to say her name. To claim her in front of everyone. But he had enough presence of mind to know it would be a horrible idea to alienate his potential bride before he’d even proposed. Because they’d all assume he’d taken his housekeeper as a lover, even if it wasn’t true.
“Lady Emily? No. Miss Haversham? I’m truly stumped.” He peeled the blindfold off and looked down into Cassandra’s flushed, wide-eyed face. “Mrs. Davis?” he said with feigned surprise. He forced a laugh, gaze sweeping over his silent, startled guests. “Nice trick. Now, I think it’s only fair that I have a real turn—no servants allowed.”
Miss Haversham giggled, and the tension in the room began to ease. Lord Riverton had not been memorizing his housekeeper’s face with his palms and fingertips. Of course he hadn’t been touching her with something that bordered on reverence.
Someone had simply wanted to have a good laugh at the woman’s expense.
She took a step back from him, hurt flashing in her eyes.
She was hurt? He was the one who’d been made to look like a fool!
He steeled himself against her vulnerability, met her gaze calmly.
And the normally composed Mrs. Davis sucked in a deep breath, turned, and practically ran from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What is wrong with you?” Margaret hissed later that afternoon, cornering him after the other guests had retreated upstairs.
He shrugged her off irritably. “I might ask the same of you,” he said, sitting down by the fire with perfect equanimity.
“You hurt her feelings.”
That had him jumping to his feet again, anger surging through him. So much for pretenses. “The two of you should have thought about that before you behaved like idiots.” And made him look like an ass in the process.
“Mrs. Davis had nothing to do with it,” his traitorous sister told him. “I sent for her and waited by the door. I pushed her in front of you. The poor woman looked like a trapped animal.”
He stared at her, baffled. And, admittedly, a little relieved to know that Cassandra had been caught off-guard, too. “Why?”
His sister stepped toward the mantel and picked up a porcelain figurine of a shepherd, examining it. “This is ugly, River.”
“Margaret!” he snapped.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “I spied on you, and I saw your touching little snowball fight. You looked ridiculous, by the way.”
God’s blood, heat actually rose in his face. It wasn’t as though she’d seen them in bed together. Nonetheless, there was something about Margaret witnessing that intimate moment that felt like a violation. It had been private, damn it. Whatever she’d seen, whatever she guessed—it was private.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” she continued, picking up one of the pastille burners and giving it a sniff. She frowned and put it back. “It is quite the diversion,” she said, “my brother falling in love with his housekeeper.”
He froze. “I’m not in love with her,” he said, his lips barely moving.
She tutted sympathetically. “But the strange thing is, you haven’t claimed her yet,” she said, ignoring him. “Why not?”
“Why do you give a damn?” he asked.
“Well, if a man ever looked at me like you look at her, I would expect him either to proposition me or propose to me on the spot.”
He’d barely wrapped his mind around the part about someone propositioning his sister when the rest of her statement wheedled its way in. He’d imagined taking Cassandra to his bed many, many times, only to shove those tantalizing images from his mind. If the glaring fact that she was a servant wasn’t enough for him, she’d made her position clear. She still clung to the memory of her dead husband.
But his sister had jumped straight to marriage?
“I can’t possibly propose to my housekeeper.”
Margaret turned from the mantel and peered at him calmly. “Why not?”
If it weren’t beneath him, he would have spluttered. There were hundreds of reasons.
Thousands.
“I’ll be a duke,” he said finally. “She’s hopelessly below my station.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Dukes have occasionally married women further below them than a housekeeper. Didn’t a peer recently marry a courtesan? You can’t do worse than that.”
“Our parents would be livid.”
“You know they’re not happy if they don’t have something to complain about. And they can’t cut you off. Blakewood Hall is yours.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Oh,” she said, putting a finger to the side of her mouth. “What was the point again?”
Was it still a sin to murder someone if they were as annoying as Margaret?
“She does not wish to marry again,” he gritted out, hoping that would silence his sister. He should have known better.
She lifted her eyebrows coolly. “You’ve been discussing the topic with her, then? Interesting.”
“No, I have not,” he seethed. Which was obviously a lie. “You just want to meddle because you’re bored. You see a way to infuriate our parents and you couldn’t care less about the scandal it will cause. You can’t actually think such an unbalanced match would be a good idea.”
“Of course it’s not a good idea,” she said. “But why is it always one thing or the other with you, River? Can’t I care about you and want to infuriate our parents?”
“It would be easier to believe one without the other.” She somehow managed to look down her nose at him, even though he was taller. “I’ll tell you something, River. I might be bored, and I might enjoy watching you knee-deep in scandal, but I truly believe that if someone came along and took your title and your wealth away, Mrs. Davis would still like you, even with those scars, even when you’re not plying that false charm of yours. Can you say that about any other woman?”
Henry felt a stab of hurt, even as her words lifted his heart, but then he ruthlessly tamped the rebellious organ down. He wasn’t an infatuated schoolboy. Hearing the news that Cassandra liked him shouldn’t cause any reaction whatsoever.
“No,” he said honestly. “But a marriage shouldn’t be based on affection, anyway—it should be based on something more enduring—lineage, manners, breeding—I need to uphold our family—”
“You’re giving me a headache,” she interrupted, sounding disgusted. “You sound just like Papa.”
“I didn’t ask for your advice,” Henry said coldly.
She sighed. “Fine. Arguing is useless with someone as thick-skulled as you.”
She swept away, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the drawing room. He waited…waited…and when he was certain she wasn’t coming back, everything inside him turned to ice at a startling revelation.
Some desolate corner of his soul had desperately wanted Margaret to argue long enough to convince him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cassandra stood by the narrow bed in the room Kitty shared with Mary. The maid was tucked underneath the bedspread, illuminated by the light from a small window. She stared at Cassandra with a strained expression, her face pale, the coverlet pulled up to her chin.
“Don’t send for anyone,” she pleaded.
“But I want you to get better, Kitty.”
“It’s only a headache. Well, it’s a right painful headache, I’ll admit, but it’s a little better today.”
“You’re not…” Cassandra lowered her voice. “You’re not with child, are you?”
Kitty’s face went blank befor
e it cleared and she gave a strained giggle. “I’m not. You should have seen your expression, Mrs. Davis.”
Cassandra straightened, annoyed. What had been in her expression? Concern? Hopefully not the small hint of wistfulness she’d felt. She and Robert hadn’t been married long before he’d sailed, and the times they’d seen each other after were few and far between. She’d never carried his child, as much as she’d wished it during those long weeks while he was at sea.
But she was being selfish. She had honest work to occupy her time, and she had a dozen nieces and nephews to watch grow, to dote upon.
She should count her blessings, not feel wistful at the mention of a child.
“I’m going to send for a tonic from the apothecary,” Cassandra told the maid. “Perhaps it will ease the pain a bit.”
Kitty nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Cassandra threw herself wholeheartedly into her work that day because the alternative was to dwell on the awful moment last night when Margaret, waiting to ambush her, had thrown her directly into Henry’s path.
Or think about all the moments afterward.
It should have been ridiculous, a blindfolded man, groping at her face—Blindman’s Bluff was a children’s game. It was only used in drawing rooms because it gave young men and women an excuse to touch each other.
But it hadn’t felt ridiculous. It had felt more like Cassandra was a snake, and Henry, a charmer, wrapping his spell around her with each whispered word and gentle caress until he’d held her enthralled. And just like that snake, she hadn’t been able to move away, to save herself, even knowing every single houseguest had been observing them. She’d just wanted him to keep talking, keep touching, keep charming.
How utterly embarrassing. She’d probably looked half-mad, staring up at him, startled and yearning and aroused, all at the same time. In front of everyone.
She groaned, realizing she’d just added up a column of prices incorrectly, and let her head fall into her hands. “Dear God.”
“Is something amiss?” someone asked from the doorway. His voice. She’d know it anywhere, even with her eyes closed.
She scrambled to her feet, barely able to keep herself from lashing out, “What isn’t?” at him. Pain sliced through her whole body at the visceral memory of his betrayal. “Lord Riverton,” she said with arctic cool.
He looked impeccable in a dark coat and pale green and gold waistcoat. Contrary to everything logical, he still looked handsome to her, even with his scars particularly vivid in the afternoon light. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
She glanced around the housekeeper’s office, trying to remember the last time he’d been here. She usually went to him if he needed something done. “How can I help you, my lord?”
The room became too small with him in it. He sucked up all the extra space with his presence. The settee against the adjacent wall was old—heavy and dark compared to the new, more delicate, furniture—and glaringly old fashioned. But he didn’t remark on it. She saw his head turn, and realized he was examining the Black Forest clock that hung on the wall.
Would he think she was silly for having it? Sentimental? A woman who’d never traveled anywhere, with an object from another land displayed proudly on her wall?
“Fine craftsmanship,” he said.
“Yes. It’s quite beautiful,” she said defensively.
He glanced at the pile of books he’d given her, which rested on a chair in the corner. “Have you been studying?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She studied the books every night by the light of a tallow candle before she went to sleep. But thinking about the language made her think of the debacle last night. Though she enjoyed the sound of German, she’d never thought it could be sensual. Not until Henry had whispered all sorts of reckless, beautiful things in her ear.
“What are you doing here?” she asked when he merely continued to casually examine her things.
“I don’t know,” he said, surprising her. Henry didn’t often do things on whim. “I simply wanted to see you.”
Her heart jerked. Almost instinctually, she lifted her chin in defiance, aware she was in her plainest gown—serviceable light gray with no lace and no frills. At least she hadn’t started wearing a spinster’s cap yet. “And do I meet with your approval?”
His gaze swept over her like a physical caress. “That’s a rather inane question, Cassandra.”
She grew even more defensive. “Why?”
“You’ve never dressed to please me.”
She stiffened. “That would—”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You’d be lovely in anything you wore.”
She blinked.
Oh.
She took a step backward. Why was he here? She folded her hands tightly in front of her, seeking some semblance of calm, even as her sense rioted.
She needed distance. She needed to be rational. She needed to remember exactly to whom she was speaking—Lord Riverton, a future duke, a man who would someday own a large portion of England, and who could pretty much do anything he pleased. Including throw her whole universe into agonizing disarray.
She grasped at the first painful topic she seized upon.
“You never told me what happened between you and Julia Forsythe,” she said. “I know she carries your child.” Admitting that fact was like a physical blow. She knew wealthy men kept mistresses, she knew they sometimes had by-blows, but to know Henry had a child by another woman…
It was yet another illustration of the differences between her world and his. Robert, even if he’d had the means and hadn’t been married, would never have kept a mistress. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk a child out of wedlock.
“You want something to hate me for, don’t you?” Henry asked.
Did she? Maybe. But she wanted the truth just as much.
She looked down, at her hands folded over her stomach. She’d always thought she had strong hands, capable hands, but there was a slight tremor in them now. She pressed them together harder. “Then tell me.”
He stared at her for the space of a few heartbeats. “Very well. I’ll give you your reason. Julia had not been my mistress for long…a month or so…when she told me she wanted to end our arrangement. Such a thing had never happened to me before, and it angered me, so when I found out she was pregnant with my child, I decided to use it against her. We drew up a contract listing all the advantages I’d give our child if she continued to bed me.”
Cassandra’s pulse was fluttering wildly in her throat. She suddenly didn’t want to hear any of this. But she had asked, so she steeled herself.
“That’s despicable.”
On second thought, she needed to hear it. She needed to know who this man was at his worst. Her emotions were becoming too tangled around him, too uncertain. What she needed was to see him, clearly, face to face.
“You did something,” she said, “while Julia was still here. Something that upset her greatly. What was it?”
Cassandra remembered that day well. Henry had made a brief visit to Blakewood Hall, after Julia had been in residence for several weeks. After he left, Cassandra had found Julia sitting on the floor of her bedchamber, staring at the wall like a broken rag doll. Cassandra knew the expression of despair, because she’d carried it once herself.
What could he have possibly done to make Julia so distraught?
A muscle in his jaw bunched. “She didn’t fulfill her side of our contract, so I told her I wouldn’t be fulfilling mine.”
Cassandra’s heart plummeted. “You threatened to cut off support to your child.”
“Yes.”
“Because she wouldn’t share your bed.”
“That’s right,” he said tauntingly, challengingly.
“But why?” she demanded, her voice strangling in her throat. “Did you want her so badly?”
“No,” he answered, turning aside.
“I don’t understand,” she said, struggling to come to term
s about this terrible thing he’d done.
“I kept her in the finest house. She had a carriage and team of four at her beck and call. She had beautiful dresses, servants. I made few demands on her. And yet, she wanted to end the arrangement after only a few weeks.”
Cassandra tilted her head to study him, his sister’s words coming back to her.
River measured his worth in possessions.
He’d given Julia everything that should have kept her with him, everything that made him worth anything, believing it would inspire her loyalty. But instead, she’d rejected him.
Cassandra didn’t blame her. He’d treated her as no more than a trophy. A gilded object to possess and show off.
“She wounded my pride,” he said quietly. “And I wanted to hurt her for it.”
Cassandra gazed at him for a long moment. The trouble with knowing both sides of a story was that you ended up torn between them.
“Don’t you see how vindictive that was? It was the behavior of a child,” she said, wishing she didn’t understand his feelings quite so well. She wanted to stay angry with him.
“Yes. I acted like a petulant child,” he admitted, though his face betrayed not a single emotion.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
Finally, a spark. “Of course I regret it!” he said harshly, swinging back toward her. “After the fire—” He slashed a hand toward his scarred face. “After enduring this, I understood for the first time what helplessness felt like. How despicable I was to threaten her like that. You were right when you told me I deserved the pain and the scars. But they don’t change what I did. Julia will never forgive me, and there’s no reason she should.”
Cassandra never thought she would hear Lord Riverton utter such remorse, but she believed him. People could change, couldn’t they? People could learn. It wasn’t fair to look at someone and believe they would never be better than they were at that moment, that they could never strive for more and achieve it.