In the Garden of Seduction

by Cynthia Wicklund

  Sophy put her hand over her mouth, nodding as she giggled into her palm.

  At that moment, Mrs. Witherspoon came up to her two young guests. “Girls, girls, can you believe the success of my little party?” A self-satisfied smile brightened her plump features, which were shiny pink with perspiration from the heat and her own exertion.

  “Quite a crush,” Cassandra said politely.

  “Indeed, but it does make the atmosphere a bit sultry, doesn’t it?” Hanky in hand, Mrs. Witherspoon patted her damp forehead. “Tell me, Cassandra,” she said nonchalantly, her small, dark eyes flicking about the room, “what did you think of my Chinese parlor?”

  Cassandra felt her face grow red. “I—I thought it was extraordinary.”

  Mrs. Witherspoon’s gaze slid in Cassandra’s direction. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She linked arms with both young women. “Come, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “You have?” Sophy asked.

  Their hostess smiled coyly. “You’re garnering notice in high places this evening, Cassandra.”

  Cassandra glanced at Mrs. Witherspoon then focused her attention on the gathering, curiosity aroused. Her scrutiny fell on a tall, dark-haired man who lounged against the doorjamb of the entrance to the drawing room. She would have looked away, but he was staring directly at her. Allowing her gaze to meet his, she found herself drawn in by a pair of smoldering black eyes. Her heart began to flutter queerly.

  She turned her head, ending the eye contact, but quickly realized Mrs. Witherspoon was conducting their footsteps in that same man’s direction. Cassandra wanted to dash from the room. Unfortunately, that was not a dignified response to the sudden misgiving flooding her chest.

  As they reached the man, he straightened from the doorjamb and Mrs. Witherspoon began speaking in a feathery voice. “Lord Sutherfield, I would like to introduce you to Miss Sophy Willis and Miss Cassandra James,” she said. “Girls, this is the Marquess of Sutherfield.”

  He was a marquess! Cassandra sent the handsome nobleman a surprised look and he grinned, his gaze resting on her for just a moment longer than necessary.

  “My pleasure, ladies,” he said on a bow.

  “My lord,” Cassandra acknowledged nervously.

  Sophy merely opened and closed her mouth like a landed fish, gasping for breath.

  “Now, Sophy, you and I shall find ourselves some refreshment. I’m parched, how about you?” Mrs. Witherspoon grabbed hold of Sophy’s arm, dragging her unceremoniously away.

  Mrs. Witherspoon’s ploy was so obvious and so clumsily done, all Cassandra could do was watch in embarrassment as the two women left her standing alone with Lord Sutherfield.

  “I can’t imagine why Mrs. Witherspoon did that,” she said, unable to look at him directly.

  “Because I asked her to.”

  Cassandra gaped at him. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  Lord Sutherfield stared down at her, an unfathomable expression shading his intense black eyes. Once again she noticed the overwhelming magnetism of his regard. He did not speak, but his gaze drifted down the slope of her shoulder to the soft swell of her breast. It was a bold, appraising look and she shivered despite herself. Before she could react, he moved nearer and coiled a few strands of her hair around his index finger. He made a point of examining the silky threads.

  “I’m very fond of this shade of red. Amazing, though, not a freckle to mar those exquisite features. I’m entranced.”

  “Stop it!” she whispered. “Someone will hear you.”

  “You could be right,” he said slowly as if considering her point. “Perhaps you would like to join me where we could be a bit more private.”

  Cassandra felt the blood drain from her complexion. “What do you mean?”

  “Would you like to share a midnight supper with me?”

  She stepped back swiftly as though he had slapped her. “I think not.”

  “Why?” He gave her a boyish grin. “It’s harmless enough, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it depends on which side of the social spectrum one resides, my lord. From my point of view, it would be a disaster. I can’t speak for you.” Cassandra was so stung by his transparent lack of respect, she felt her vision cloud.

  He stared at her for several seconds, apparently reassessing the situation. “I apologize. I thought—”

  “You thought,” she interrupted in an acid voice, “I would be flattered by the attentions of a titled gentleman. Believe it or not, my lord, even those of us who populate the lower classes do have some moral standards.”

  “Now wait a minute—” he began.

  Cassandra leaned close to him again and looked him directly in the eye. “There is only one reason a man of rank approaches a woman of my station. Please forgive me if I seem less than grateful.”

  She spun away from the marquess intent on leaving, only to be stopped by a sudden burst of intuition. Turning slowly around, she glared at him.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said tightly.

  The expression on his face was closed and he did not respond. Impatient and unwilling to wait for an answer, she gave him her back and went in search of Sophy.

  “But, Cassie, why must we leave?” Sophy complained a few minutes later as her friend herded her to the front entrance. “You haven’t told me about the marquess.”

  At the mention of that wayward gentleman, Cassandra could not prevent a backward glance in his direction as she moved to the front door. He stood where she had left him, and he was watching her still.

  She half expected him to appear angry, but she didn’t detect that in his manner. Instead, he took a slow sip of his drink as he scrutinized her over the top of his glass, a calculating look on his lean, swarthy features.

  He nodded at her but nothing flirtatious showed in the gesture this time. She wondered if the hurt she felt showed on her face. She hoped not, for pride was the only thing sustaining her at the moment. Cloaked in what remained of her dignity, she stepped over the sill, following Sophy into the night.

  *****

  Sometime before dawn Simon came to stand on the walk outside Mrs. Witherspoon’s town house, one of the last of her guests to go home. Strange he had stayed so long when he’d been determined to leave hours before.

  He gazed at the stars overhead, winking at him from a cloudless, blue-black sky, and for several moments he permitted his thoughts to rest on Miss Cassandra James.

  He had a difficult time erasing the image of the wounded look in her expressive blue eyes. And it troubled him to admit his lack of sensitivity was the direct reason for her distress. She certainly had given him a royal set-down. He hadn’t much liked it, but in all fairness he supposed he had deserved it.

  Somewhere in the city she was sleeping. That thought conjured an enticing image alive with lush red curls splayed on an ivory satin pillow.

  His breathing accelerated.

  Simon hadn’t lied when he told her he liked her hair. He had, in fact, a partiality for redheads. Miss James had an abundance of luxurious auburn tresses and fine-looking skin, clear and unblemished. A fine straight nose and a full luscious mouth accented a pair of the most incredible deep blue-green eyes he had ever seen. And her body, well, what could he say? She was made in the manner that pleased him most—slim, yet voluptuous.

  The top of her head came just to his nose, and he could imagine placing his hand under her chin and lifting that face to his so he might taste her lips. The very thought caused him to groan inwardly.

  He had better get his baser self under control, he thought, because she was beyond his reach. Odd that should be because he was her social superior in every way. However, she had made it very clear that that did not grant him any special rights.

  Simon shook his head in exasperation. All this confusion because a hot-tempered redhead with a pair of remarkable blue eyes had taken him to task for his lack of good manners. But she had left Mrs. Witherspoon’s earlier tonight because of him. And
he simply could not forget the hurt in that shimmering gaze as she had turned to look at him across a noisy room before disappearing through the front door.

  Some things were not meant to be, and no amount of wishing could change that fact. At nearly thirty-four years, he had obligations. To pursue this girl would be very wrong as he could offer her nothing honorable. Therein lay the difficulty, for he felt certain she would settle for nothing less.

  Simon shrugged his shoulders as if with the gesture he could brush off the entire evening. He straightened himself and headed down the dimly lit walk swinging his cane, forcing a whistle through stiff lips to enhance the carefree effect.

  *****

  Cassandra tossed fitfully in the four-poster bed, frustrated with her failure to sleep. She threw the coverlet back and sat up. She had been at this for hours, and if rest were a possibility it would have happened by now.

  She brought her feet to the floor and slid them into a pair of well-worn slippers before standing and moving to the window. Climbing onto the window seat, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass and idly watched the early comings and the late goings of the few individuals who were now on the street.

  Near dawn, just a hint of pink tinged the horizon where the sun would soon make an appearance. If Cassandra had not been beset by a tangle of unwelcome emotions, she would have enjoyed the early morning peace. Instead, she was grappling with insecurity and, as the pampered daughter of a very wealthy man, the feeling was as unexpected as it was unpleasant.

  Not once in all her young life had she questioned her position in society. Her father was a merchant and she was a member of the middle class—not a bad place to be. Of course, they did not have the privileges accorded the aristocracy, but when one had acquired as much wealth as Mr. Quintin James that became a moot point. Money had a power all its own.

  But money had no power over prejudice. Last night she had been made to feel her lack of social standing in a very hurtful way. She knew Lord Sutherfield would never have been as forward with someone from his own social class.

  She could still feel his eyes as they had roamed without subtly over her figure—not to mention his hands in Mrs. Witherspoon’s Chinese parlor. She felt certain he was the culprit. What had bothered her most of all, though, was her response to his impudence. His clear appreciation of her charms had caused her blood to race in a distressingly inappropriate manner.

  Why had she reacted that way? It was hardly a compliment for a gentleman to be so open about his intentions, although she suspected Lord Sutherfield seldom encountered resistance to his overtures. Cassandra wondered if she had surprised him as much as he had surprised her.

  In all fairness, he was a fine example of the male of the species. Tall, he towered over her and she was not petite. With a powerful and well-proportioned physique, he had broad shoulders and muscular legs.

  That would have been enough to catch the attention of most women but his angular face was equally handsome. High cheekbones and a strong nose enhanced a sensuous mouth, wearing just a trace of sophisticated conceit.

  His hair was very dark and perhaps just a bit overlong, but it was his penetrating eyes that made her feel breathless. They were black, black as coal, and oh my he knew how to use them. Even now she could feel the excitement swirling in her lower belly when she recalled the warmth of his regard.

  This above all things was why she was unhappy with herself. Her outrage should not be warring with her vanity. However, she would rather accept that vanity was the culprit than what she had begun to fear might be the real reason.

  She shivered as an odd, restless feeling settled over her. The time had come for her to wed. At twenty-four, judged by even the most generous standards, she was firmly on the shelf. That had never troubled her before because a young woman who came with a dowry the size of Cassandra’s did not have the same timetable as other less fortunate females.

  Still, last night had brought to mind the uncomfortable knowledge that there just might be another reason for taking the matrimonial step. Again, she thought of how Lord Sutherfield had looked at her, his smoky eyes proposing that which she had not yet contemplated, and again an erotic thrill passed through her.

  So by Cassandra’s reckoning, she had one more reason to be offended with the marquess. Not only had he insulted her with his aggressive behavior, he had awakened in her a yearning she did not wish to acknowledge.

  The street below had begun to fill in earnest with the coming light, pedestrians bustling to and fro, each intent on whatever urgent mission called him. Carriages were lining up, likewise, proof positive the day had now begun. Time to start her day as well. She wandered over to the dressing table and sat down.

  Completing her ablutions, she quickly donned a lilac morning gown. She had no intention of languishing in her room feeling sorry for herself. That gave her time to think, and she had enough of thinking for the moment. Rather than indulge in self-pity, she went downstairs to break her fast.

  Cassandra entered the dining room and greeted her father. “Good morning, Papa. How are you this fine day?” She leaned down where he sat at the table and pecked him on the cheek then moved to the sideboard.

  Quintin James smiled expansively at his only child. “I’m doing much better now that I have some congenial company with whom to share my morning meal. Since you were out so late, I did not expect you to be up just yet.”

  Cassandra returned his smile as she settled into her seat.

  Her father was a bear of a man with a round jolly face reflecting an amiable disposition, and she loved him dearly. But beneath that pleasant, relaxed exterior beat the heart of a capitalist. A brilliant businessman, his wealth was not happenstance.

  “Papa, you know I never lie abed. Besides,” she dropped her gaze to her plate, “I was not so late.”

  “I see.” Her father sat back in his chair and she could feel his probing eyes as he watched her. “All goes well with you?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “Yes, Papa. I just didn’t sleep well.”

  At least that was the truth. She could not risk telling him a falsehood. She had learned long ago he would know.

  “Did you meet Ethan Plimpton?”

  Relieved he had decided not to pursue his earlier question, she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I did. I enjoyed talking to Mr. Plimpton. Naturally, I only had a few moments with him. Everyone was vying for his attention.”

  “Of course,” her father murmured, his tone noncommittal. “He has some radical ideas. I’m not sure I agree with him in all ways.”

  “That is the point, Papa—to make one think. Disagreement is part of the process.”

  He laughed good-naturedly. “Have I raised a blue stocking here?” He did not sound as though he minded.

  “I am my father’s daughter,” she shot back.

  “Touche, my dear, touche.”

  They proceeded to enjoy their meal in companionable silence until the ringing of the door chime captured their attention.

  “Do we have company already? It’s too early to entertain. Have you bewitched some fool again, Cassie?” Mr. James teased her. “I can’t let you out of the house without a pack of young puppies following you home.”

  “No, no, Papa, I swear.” But for just a moment her thoughts touched on Lord Sutherfield.

  The butler appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”

  “I heard, Jennings,” Quintin said, a resigned note entering his voice. “I don’t suppose we can put the caller off until I have completed my meal?”

  “He said it is important, sir. Indicated he would wait if necessary. Said he must speak with you.”

  The old man’s eyebrows shot upward. “Who is it? Did he give you his card?”

  Jennings handed over the calling card.

  Cassandra’s father studied the small piece of paper, a furrow slowly creasing his forehead. He glanced up and across at his daughter, yet the expr
ession on his face was so strange she could not interpret it.

  “Do we know a Mr. Jonathan Peters? Says here he’s a detective,” he said.

  She did not answer instead staring at him in bewilderment.

  He pushed his chair back and stood from the table. “It’s probably nothing,” he said, though he seemed distracted. “I’ll see the man now.”

  “Papa?” she ventured, suddenly uneasy, but he had already entered the hall.

  Cassandra did not leave the dining room, remaining where she sat to wait for her father’s return. Much later, her untouched meal grown cold and unappetizing, Jennings scurried back into the room.

  “Miss, your father asked that you join him in the library at once.”

  The butler, obviously worried and refusing to look at her, did nothing to stem Cassandra’s rising fear.

  “Jennings, what is the matter?”

  He met her eyes then. “I swear I don’t know, miss, but the master is in a terrible rage.”

  “Is the caller still here?” She swallowed convulsively as a lump of apprehension formed like a stone in her stomach.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I see. Then I had best go at once.”

  Cassandra’s words sounded a great deal braver than she felt. She had no idea why she was so frightened, but the portentous atmosphere that had crept uninvited into her home was palpable.

  She arrived in the hall outside the library and paused to smooth her skirt. The action had the added effect of removing the nervous moisture that had collected on her palms. After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped on the door.

  Her father’s muffled voice bade her enter. Again, Cassandra stopped before she could force her reluctant fingers to the knob. She gave it a quick turn, the latch releasing, and pushed the door open. She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

  *****

  CHAPTER 2