by Lily Maxton
The proposal was no doubt intended to entice him. Instead, he was reminded a little too acutely of what Cassandra had said about his analytical method of selecting a bride.
He stared at Lady Jane contemplatively. She had the largest dowry. She was impeccable—from her taste in clothes to her ancient family name. And, admittedly, he liked her. Henry didn’t truly like many people. But she could be amusing. He already knew Miss Haversham would drive him stark raving mad after a day in her company, and for all his hopes of an undemanding wife, he still couldn’t get enough of a grasp on Lady Emily’s personality to know if they would suit.
But Lady Jane was here and willing. They might get on quite well together.
Perhaps he should simply propose and be done with it.
This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? A well-bred woman to marry quickly, to have his children, so even if some horrible accident or devastating illness befell him, he would have done his duty. And even if either of those things happened, at least he could die comfortable and secure, and…not alone.
“Lady Jane—” He didn’t know what he’d been about to say. Was a proposal on the tip of his tongue? But he stopped abruptly. “Do you like whisky?”
She blinked.
He blinked.
Why the devil had he asked that? It was irrelevant. Anyway, a proper lady didn’t drink whisky.
“Whisky?” She stared at him, puzzled. “I’ve never had it before. My favorite drink is an orange wine that’s made at my father’s estate.”
Orange wine was a fine beverage—refreshing and flavorful. He thought about the differences between the two drinks—one was tart and sweet, the other, smoky and matured with a hint of wildness.
He imagined Lady Jane delicately sipping wine from an expensive crystal glass as he remembered Cassandra tipping her head back, her throat moving as she drank a finger of whisky from a teacup. The two images were glaring in their contrast—one left him curiously indifferent, the other, endlessly, irrevocably fascinated.
“Do you like orange wine?” Lady Jane asked haltingly.
But he was staring at her, his mind muddled and slow. “I can’t say that I do. Not more than anything else, at least.” He resisted the urge to run his hands through his hair in a panicked fashion. Everything in him rebelled at the idea of marrying a woman whose favorite beverage was orange wine.
Which was, of course, ludicrous. Her taste in drinks had no impact upon their marriage. This was what he’d invited them for. He might as well be done with it.
But every time he opened his mouth, every time a rush of intent pushed him to speak, to propose to her so he could go about the life he’d told himself he wanted, something else paralyzed him. So he just stood there with his mouth open, probably looking as stupid as he felt.
If Cassandra were in front of him, would he be paralyzed?
But what was he thinking? He couldn’t marry Cassandra. Even Margaret, the one person who was actually trying to push them together, couldn’t lie about the unsuitability of such a match.
He glanced around, latching onto the first thing he thought of. “Where is my sister?”
Lady Jane shrugged. “I can’t say. But after that stunt during Blindman’s Bluff, I must confess I don’t miss her. If she’s going to be so ill-behaved, she shouldn’t participate.”
Henry agreed, but didn’t like Lady Jane criticizing Margaret in front of him. The Eldridges might not be a close-knit family, they might never speak of love or emotions, they might go months and months without seeing each other and be quite content to do so. But they didn’t let outsiders attack one of their own.
“There she is,” Lady Jane said, a moment later.
Margaret was walking down a slope toward them, another woman next to her. Margaret wore her red redingote, and the other woman wore a deep green one that molded to ample curves and set off the reddish highlights in her chestnut hair.
He paused, his breath painting the air with frost, as he watched his housekeeper walk toward him, as regal and well-dressed as any duchess.
He really was going to throttle Margaret.
Right after he stopped drinking in the sight of Cassandra like a dying man glimpsing heaven.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cassandra didn’t trust Lady Margaret, so when the woman appeared at her office door, it took everything in her not to shove her out of the room and lock the door behind her.
“I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“What would that be?” Cassandra asked, deliberately omitting her title. Yesterday, the woman had grabbed her by the shoulders and practically thrown her across the drawing room to block her brother’s path. She hadn’t quite forgiven her yet.
“Are you going somewhere?” Margaret asked, eyes drawn to the cloak that hung over Cassandra’s arm.
“The village,” she said. “To buy a few things.”
“That’s perfect! We can talk on the way,” Margaret replied. “But that cloak looks a bit old.”
Cassandra looked down at the garment, affronted. She’d saved up her money for months and months to buy this cloak. True, it wasn’t as pretty as it used to be, but it was still serviceable.
“I have an extra redingote,” Margaret said suddenly. “You’ll be much warmer in that, I think.”
“I can’t wear your clothes,” she said.
“Nonsense. I insist. Now wait right here, I shall return in five seconds!”
Twenty minutes later Margaret appeared, carrying a green redingote trimmed with fur and luxurious gloves. Without asking permission, she wrapped the redingote around Cassandra and began to button it, then handed her the gloves.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” She rushed out of the room and returned a minute later, clutching a lace and crystal bead covered reticule that matched the rich green of the redingote. She wrapped the drawstring around Cassandra’s wrist, then stepped back, surveyed her efforts, and nodded. “Well, are you ready yet?”
Cassandra stared at her, incredulous. “I was ready twenty minutes ago.”
“Then let’s not dally any longer.”
Cassandra followed her out, feeling bemused. She had to admit, once she stepped into the bracing cold, Margaret’s redingote was warmer than her cloak, and the gloves were soft and caressing against her hands.
But it wouldn’t do to become accustomed to such expensive fineries. “What did you wish to talk to me about?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you needed to speak with me.”
“Oh yes, but it can certainly wait. We have the whole walk in front of us.”
Their walking boots crunched in the snow, filling in the silence between them. Cassandra looked back toward Blakewood Hall, enjoying the view of the stately home. From this side, the damaged south wing was not visible, only the splendid front, where Grecian columns towered in front of the gray stone façade, under a large pediment that featured carvings of centaurs and nymphs and other fantastical creatures. Symmetric sash windows lined the house in perfect rows, and like a sentinel, an elaborate Grecian folly stood on the snow-covered hill that crested behind the house.
Margaret followed her gaze. “Quite beautiful, isn’t it? The estate isn’t entailed…River owns it…did you know that?”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”
“The house itself was in good condition when he found it, but the lands had been mistreated and overworked. River convinced our father to buy the estate with a large portion of his own inheritance, and they agreed that if River could turn a profit in the first three years, our father would sign the deed to him. I don’t think he slept at all for months—he was always poring over books, consulting farmers, meeting with agricultural experts.”
“But why go through all the trouble?” Cassandra asked, puzzled.
“I don’t quite know why. Perhaps it was a matter of pride, and he wanted to prove himself. Perhaps he simply wanted something of his own. I think even when he inherits the ducal estate, he’
ll still consider Blakewood Hall his home. River may do his best to pretend he’s above human sentiment, but there are a few things he cares about deeply.”
Cassandra remembered the way he’d traced the leather covers of the books he’d given to her—with respect for the knowledge they contained, with something like fondness. She assumed, growing up as isolated as he had, he’d become quite attached to books and learning. Even as a child with a large, warm, loving family, Cassandra had felt their appeal. For Henry, books might have been an anchor, a shelter, perhaps even friends.
Margaret didn’t need to tell her Henry cared deeply about certain things, whether he showed it or not—Cassandra already knew.
She almost wished she didn’t. If she knew he wasn’t anything more than he appeared, he would be much easier to forget.
She listened to the rhythmic crunch of her boots and the gusts of her breath in the cold air, wondering where all this was going.
“Oh look!” Margaret said, pointing toward the right, down a slight incline. “The others have decided to walk, as well. We should join them.”
She should have guessed. She began to turn around before they were seen, but without asking, Margaret linked her elbow with Cassandra’s—in a way that was less friendly and more like a shackle—and started down the hill.
Cassandra’s gaze immediately found Henry, who walked in the front of the group with Lady Jane on his arm. She faltered at the painful sight. They looked…they looked like the epitome of the well-bred couple—tall and willowy and pretty and shiny. Cassandra felt plump and dull in comparison. If Jane and Henry married, they would probably produce stunningly beautiful children who would be envied by all of society.
“Ouch!” Margaret muttered.
“What?”
“Your fingers are digging into my arm,” she said.
“Oh.” Cassandra loosened her grip, feeling a little embarrassed.
“Don’t worry so,” Margaret said under her breath. “You’ve no competition there.”
Competition?
Cassandra wasn’t competing with anyone—she was a housekeeper, for God’s sake, and Lady Jane was the daughter of a duke. They barely lived on the same planet. But she did note the way Henry leaned close to Lady Jane to speak to her and it caused a funny little twitch in her chest. Not a pleasant one.
She contemplated breaking loose from Margaret before she was seen, but Henry suddenly looked up, straight at her.
And everything in her went quiet in response. Her mind raced with memories of their kiss. She’d licked him. She’d licked his chest like the most brazen of women.
Oh God. What had possessed her?
And why was she suddenly tempted to lick him everywhere else, as though he were some sort of flavored ice made for the sole purpose of tasting?
She hoped the warmth in her cheeks would be mistaken for the pink flush from the cold weather.
“Good day!” Margaret called. “I was just walking with Mrs. Davis to the village. Would you care to join us?”
This time Cassandra dug her nails into Margaret’s arm on purpose.
“Would you stop that?” the woman hissed.
“When you stop meddling,” she answered.
Margaret elbowed her sharply in the ribs.
“Oomph.”
Margaret placed a loving hand on her back. “Mrs. Davis is so delightful,” she said brightly. “She was regaling me with the most charming stories.”
She glanced at Cassandra. “Smile and look charming, or I’m going to push your face in the snow,” Margaret threatened.
Cassandra blinked. “That’s not very ladylike,” she said.
Margaret sniffed haughtily. “It can be very difficult to get things done when one must always act like a lady.”
Abruptly, Cassandra felt a flash of affection for the woman.
Lord, she’d spent entirely too much time with Henry if she was starting to like his sister, as well.
“We can’t walk to the village with her,” Lady Jane said, casting a flickering glance at Cassandra that took in everything—the borrowed, too tight redingote, the simple way her hair was put up, the scuffed, worn leather of boots that needed replacing—and nothing of the woman beneath. The glance rankled enough to hurt, though she should have been used to it by now. “Is this some sort of lark?”
An embarrassed prickling swept over Cassandra at the brief, awkward silence. She was starting to wish the ground would swallow her up and save her from all of their heavy stares.
To her surprise, Henry spoke. “I wanted to head toward the village, anyway. We might as well walk together.”
Ridiculous, that her heart should leap. It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. For all of their stolen moments, she still belonged to one category of people, Lady Jane, another. Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra noticed Margaret glaring at Miss Haversham until the woman spoke.
“I think extending our walk to the village sounds lovely,” she said, overly brightly.
“To the village, then,” Margaret said triumphantly.
Henry, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Cassandra, smiled wryly, and that smile traveled all the way to her toes, all the way to her thumping heart.
If she’d hoped avoiding the man would lessen her reaction to him the next time they saw each other, she’d been dead wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Henry was very aware of Cassandra and Margaret walking behind him and Lady Jane. So aware, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. So aware, his footsteps slowed without conscious thought, waiting for them to catch up to him.
Lady Jane was telling him something about a ball in London, which he was having difficulty focusing on, when he heard Margaret behind him. “Oh, dear. I think I have a pebble in my shoe. Lord Riverton? I could use your assistance.”
He knew. He knew Margaret was being Margaret. He didn’t care. For once in his life, he was thankful for his scheming younger sister. He turned with Lady Jane on his arm and then released her to aid Margaret.
She held onto his shoulder tightly and made a great show of unlacing her shoe and running her fingers along the inside. “Well,” she said, sounding convincingly baffled. “I can’t find a pebble, at all.”
And then, in a move that thoroughly impressed him, Margaret somehow managed to switch places with Cassandra and put Lady Jane with Lord Appleby before anyone had time to protest.
“You continue ahead with Mrs. Davis,” she said, waving at him. “I must lace my shoe.”
Henry offered Cassandra his good arm, which she took, staring straight ahead. They walked in silence for a while, the cold seeping into his skin. But the point where they connected blazed as hot as the sun. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Margaret’s coat was a little too snug around Cassandra’s hips and breasts, but he wasn’t about to complain about that.
Was their kiss burned into her mind as it was burned into his?
She suddenly turned toward him, her blue gaze meeting his, and his breath hitched, as though some broken piece of him had just been put back together.
“Lady Jane looks like she wants to stab me through the heart with a sharp quill,” she said.
He didn’t turn away from Cassandra to look. “Be careful,” he warned. “Sharp quills make deadly weapons.”
She smiled, her cheeks turning a slightly deeper red, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who was reliving that kiss. Thank God.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” she said, more seriously. “Your sister is rather…dogged.”
“Indeed. But I can’t say I regret it.”
She looked away. “Oh?” she said, sounding a little sarcastic, a little uncertain, which made his heart ache. “Do Lady Margaret’s clothes make me look like I belong here, walking with your guests? A good disguise, then.”
“It’s not the redingote,” he said.
And it wasn’t. Cassandra Davis had an innate confidence that no garment would either help or hinder. She walked with her chin titled up
and her shoulders back. She might act demure around his guests and, seemingly long ago now, around him, but there was nothing subservient about her.
She also had an innate sensuality. There was something…earthy about her. Not base, not lustful, just…natural. A woman who enjoyed making love and would throw her whole body into the act, and not be overly shy or too coy about it.
And of course, he’d known for a long time how intelligent she was. How much she enjoyed soaking up knowledge. How she could make him smile with only a few well-placed words.
“If not the redingote, the gloves, then?” she said, glancing back at him with a lifted eyebrow, drawing a smile from his lips.
“It must be the gloves. What is that, otter fur?”
Another thing about her, she made him want to play. Made him want to revel in life, in the beauty of the things around him, as he never had before, even as a child.
“Otter?” She looked down at her glove. “I certainly hope a poor otter wasn’t killed to keep my hands warm.”
“But a cow is fair game?”
She chewed her lip. “It’s not right, is it? But cows don’t have lovely little faces.”
He vaguely heard Lady Jane saying something too loudly behind them, about house parties not being nearly selective enough for her taste.
He ignored her. All his attention was focused, like a pinpoint, on the woman holding his arm.
“Oh dear. If animals have to be cute to have your regard, what hope is there for me?”
She rolled her eyes, but looked as if she was fighting back a smile.
He could do this, he suddenly realized, every day for the rest of his life. He could walk with her, and tease her, and spar with her, and touch her, and breathe her in like rain-soaked air after a storm. He wanted to do this.
He’d thought all he wanted in a wife was a well-bred woman who brought in a sizeable dowry, who knew how to behave with decorum, who would be comfortable and immaculate, whom he could grow to be fond of in time, but who’d never make him feel as if he was at the whim of his own emotions.
At the moment, that sounded like hell on earth. A dull, staid sort of hell, where nothing ever happened and nothing ever changed, and life was lived at barely a simmer.