In the Garden of Seduction

by Cynthia Wicklund

  “Thank you, Mr. Morley, for reminding us of our manners,” the marquess said. “We shall try not to upset you any further.” He then lavished attention on a very receptive Penelope.

  The tiny blonde was fetching in a lavender gown of watered silk. She giggled and flirted with Lord Sutherfield, ignoring the other two people at the table.

  Cassandra nibbled at her supper, fighting the unpleasant sensation of jealously. She should be relieved his lordship was directing that powerful personality at someone besides herself, but she was irritated.

  She suspected Lord Sutherfield was executing his plan to make Roger admit his feelings for Penelope. If dark looks and muttered oaths were any indication, it seemed Roger was falling victim to the plot. The young man became so sullen and ungracious, Cassandra began to fear there might be an altercation.

  She also had the uncomfortable notion the marquess was trying to expose someone else’s feelings.

  The small orchestra in the parlor started playing again and the music drifted into the dining room, signaling the return of the dancing. Roger took his fork and placed it on the table. He came to his feet.

  “Miss Ingram,” he stated in an ominous voice, “I believe you and I have the first dance after dinner.”

  Penelope stared at him. “Are you certain?” she asked, confused. “Perhaps I’d best check my dance card.” She fumbled with the card dangling from her wrist.

  “I remember perfectly. Come,” he said, his manner now commanding.

  “If you really think so, Roger.” Penelope raised limpid eyes to his face and, without another word, rose from the table and placed her hand in his.

  Cassandra watched the couple leave the room, Roger leading the way and Penelope meekly following.

  “What do you think?”

  She brought her wary gaze to Lord Sutherfield. “What do I think about what?” she asked cautiously.

  “Why, Mr. Morley and Miss Ingram, of course. If Mr. Morley ground his teeth any more, he would be eating gruel for the rest of his life.” He chuckled. “There’s a man who is lost whether he wishes to be or not.”

  “I think you underestimate Roger’s resolve, my lord.”

  “And that means…?” He raised his brows at her in question.

  “He has admitted to me that he has feelings for Penelope. He has also said that won’t stand in his way as he plans his life. There is a price he has to pay to have what he wants, and if it includes marrying me, then so be it.”

  The marquess rested his elbow on the table and placed his chin in his hand. “Tell me, Miss James, do you intend to go along with this scheme?”

  “Of course, not,” she snapped. “It is one thing to begin a life without affection, something else entirely to despise one’s spouse.”

  “Then you are humoring Lord Whittingham, allowing him to believe you will marry his nephew?”

  “I’ve told my grandfather how I feel.” Cassandra paused, unsure how much to confess. “There is a chance I may have no choice.”

  “Would you like to explain that?”

  Something in his voice caused her to look at him sharply. “It’s nothing.” She shook her head, unwilling to continue with the painful subject. Eyes unfocused, she gazed at her plate with its uneaten food.

  “No one has come to claim you for this dance.”

  Grateful that he had changed the subject, Cassandra flashed him a brilliant smile. She looked at her dance card.

  “This explains it.” She felt a bubble of laughter rise in her throat as she showed him the card.

  “Ah…Roger’s dance, is it?” Lord Sutherfield’s sultry eyes warmed with appreciation. “Then I have you all to myself. Would you care to take a stroll with me?”

  “There is no one waiting for you?”

  “Miss James, there is only one woman I want to spend time with, and I’m looking at her. I haven’t signed any dance cards this evening.”

  “What a flatterer you are, my lord.” she said faintly

  He stood up and gave her his hand. “It’s not flattery to speak the truth,” he said. “Come. We need to show Miss Ingram and Morley that you and I are not nursing broken hearts over their desertion.”

  He smiled at her in that way that made her heart flutter with equal amounts of dread and anticipation. Slipping her hand in his, she glanced at him shyly as she eased from her chair.

  They entered the parlor but rather than joining the dancers, they took a slow turn around the perimeter of the room. The marquess took her arm and pulled her close to him, a little closer than he ought, and a mellow groan rose from his chest.

  Strange, Cassandra thought. That sound mimicked exactly the way she was feeling. She wondered if his heart was pumping as erratically as hers was right now.

  “Perfect,” he murmured against her ear.

  She peeked up at him through her lashes. “My lord?”

  “You and me, arm in arm. I’ve strolled with many ladies over the years, though you fit me best.” As if to prove his point, he drew her nearer to his side, his dark eyes deepening.

  “People will begin to comment.” Her protest was a feeble one. She objected because she thought she should, not because she wanted him to comply.

  “Yes, they will.” Lord Sutherfield concurred as he pulled her nearer. “They will say what a handsome couple we make. The room will be filled with envy.”

  “If we’re to judge by the scowl on my grandfather’s face, it will be filled with something else, my lord.”

  “Does it worry you? I don’t wish to cause you trouble.”

  She peeked furtively at her grandfather. These last weeks she had done her best to oppose the earl, but lately the desire to do so had eased. If she defied him, she would have to admit it was something besides childish rebellion that motivated her.

  “I should be allowed to talk to you. I see no harm in that, do you?” she said as the last notes of the music trailed away into the stuffy air of the parlor.

  “To tell you the truth, Miss James, I don’t know.”

  Cassandra expected to see that crooked smile the marquess wore when he bantered with her, but his expression was serious. He dropped her arm and stepped back.

  “Are you known to trifle with the ladies?” she asked, teasing him gently.

  “And if I am?” No hint of amusement shaded the question.

  She stared at him, nonplussed.

  Smiling, the earl bowed slightly, turning to leave.

  Cassandra touched his sleeve. “I’ve not had a chance to talk to you about Timothy.”

  His glance shifted to something behind her, and Cassandra peered over her shoulder. The earl was still watching them, and his anger was unmistakable. Lord Sutherfield brought his gaze back to her.

  “Lord Whittingham does not trust me.”

  “That’s true,” she acknowledged.

  “If you will join me outside in one half hour, perhaps we can talk for a few minutes uninterrupted.” The words came out in an urgent whisper, and he looked as though he expected her to refuse.

  Cassandra knew he was issuing a challenge by the way he tossed the suggestion at her. It was brazen to ask her to meet him clandestinely.

  And she was tempted.

  “Where?”

  Lord Sutherfield’s eyes lit with eagerness. “There’s a stone bench in the rose garden. It’s a small garden off the west wing. Go out through the French doors in the morning room at the rear of the house. No one will see you, and the garden is only a few steps from there.”

  She nodded. “One half hour, my lord.”

  He surveyed her features for one more intense moment and then strode from the room.

  The music had started again, and a pimply-faced young man with orange hair came to stand at Cassandra’s elbow.

  “Mr. Beverly, is this our dance?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Mr. Beverly gave her a wide grin comprised of upper teeth resting noticeably on his bottom lip. Grabbing her with sweaty hands, his enthusiasm
only outweighed by his clumsiness, he spun her around to the frolicsome melody of a country reel. Several minutes later—it seemed much longer—the music stopped, and Cassandra made a mental note never to allow Mr. Beverly another dance. Her next trip onto the dance floor was with the doting Mr. Haseltine, who was no more adept than poor Mr. Beverly.

  Thus she whiled away the time, anxiously watching the clock on Mr. Stiles’ mantle. The marquess had disappeared. Cassandra had not seen him since they had spoken, and she was curious as to where he had gone. If he were not waiting for her when she reached the rose garden, she would never forgive him.

  She returned to the dining room on the pretense of getting herself a glass of punch, but she was determining the whereabouts of her family. The earl was nowhere to be seen, and she assumed he had gone to the card room in search of better entertainment. Penelope and Roger occupied a settee to one side of the parlor, apparently mourning their status as star-crossed lovers. Cassandra doubted they had given her a thought.

  That accounted for everyone.

  She walked to the main hall and headed to the rear of the house. Logic told her the morning room was the last door on the left at the end of the corridor. What if someone was in there? Nervous, her teeth began to chatter as she turned the knob.

  The door swung inward and Cassandra tiptoed into the darkened room. A quick inspection told her this was the right place and it was empty.

  Moonlight shone through the panes of glass in the French doors, bringing the shapes in the morning room out of shadow. Now was the moment to turn back, she thought, to forget this folly. Too bad she was determined to make a fool of herself.

  Cool air rushed over her heated skin as she opened one of the French doors and moved into the night. She came to stand on a small side porch. Two steps brought her down to the main walk.

  Cassandra smelled the roses before she saw them. The soft breeze hung heavy with the scent of scores of flowers and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sweetness. The rustling of leaves on nearby trees blended with the cheerful songs of crickets as they sang to one another. It was a magical moment with the earth doing its part to create the perfect setting. What a wonderful place for a rendezvous, she mused dreamily.

  She found the stone bench with little difficulty. Cassandra glanced around, but saw no one. The earl hadn’t arrived yet, but perhaps her earlier decision was a bit rigid—she would give him five minutes.

  She sat down, carefully arranging her skirts.

  *****

  CHAPTER 9

  The last thing Cassandra had promised herself was to keep her distance from the marquess. Away from him she had resolve, but in his presence she lost sight of why she should avoid him. He wooed her with ardent words and hungry looks, and she responded like clay in his experienced hands. He must be gratified, Cassandra thought, by how easily he could manipulate her.

  “Have you been waiting long?”

  He came up behind her and a thrill of fear seized her before she realized who it was. Her hand flew to her throat.

  “You frightened me.”

  “I apologize,” Lord Sutherfield said as he moved around the bench and sat next to her, shoulder to shoulder. “I was caught in a conversation and it took a moment to extricate myself. I was afraid you would not wait for me.”

  “I should not be here at all,” she fretted, examining her hands where they lay in her lap.

  He leaned forward, and from the corner of her eye she could see him studying her profile.

  “I see. I was delayed just long enough for you to regret having come. I wish you wouldn’t feel that way.”

  Cassandra looked him at him directly. “An unmarried female of good character does not have a secret meeting with a gentleman, especially a gentleman whose reputation with the ladies is suspect. Why I always forget that when I’m in your company, I’ll never know.”

  “I would not deliberately hurt you, Miss James.” He snorted then as if he did not believe his own words. “I want to do the right thing, I really do, but your company affects me as well.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes, indeed. Why does that surprise you?”

  Cassandra stared at his handsome face, the shadows emphasizing his brow, the high cheekbones. He watched her with eyes that burned earnestly, and all at once she was consumed with the need to touch him.

  “Do it!” he growled in a hoarse whisper.

  He knew—oh, he knew! Was her desire that obvious? Could he see her confusion, her fear, the attraction she fought?

  “Do it,” he urged her again.

  Although she shook her head, Cassandra did not have the strength to resist his impassioned plea. Her hand moved to his lean jaw. Caressing the hollow of his cheek, she felt the hint of a stubble. His teeth clenched as he sucked in a harsh breath through flaring nostrils.

  He grabbed her wrist and pressed his mouth into her palm, raising heated eyes to hers.

  Cassandra could feel herself melting. She had no power in the face of such irresistible persuasion. The age-old barriers of self-protection were slipping away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If the marquess continued to pursue her before long repercussions would have no meaning—until it was too late.

  He was aware of the effect his lovemaking had on her, and she wanted to be indifferent to him. In desperation she tried to remember why she was here in the first place.

  “Timothy,” Cassandra said, slipping her hand from his grasp and drawing away from him.

  “What? Oh, yes…” The marquess sat, blinking as though clearing his vision. “I forgot,” he said in a sheepish voice. An odd expression on his face indicated that he, also, had been moved by their exchange.

  “You were going to tell me how our patient is doing.” She sounded normal even though her insides continued to tremble.

  “Timothy is healing quite nicely,” Lord Sutherfield said in a businesslike fashion. “I’m worried about what we are to do with him once he is well. I know Mr. Bailey has been searching for his son.”

  “We can’t return that child to his father.”

  “Do you have any suggestions?” His attitude did not encourage optimism that Timothy’s problem could be solved easily.

  “No. I hoped you had something in mind.”

  “Can’t say I do, but I’ll see what can be done.”

  “Would you?” Cassandra gazed at him imploringly. It was her turn to use wiles to gain what she wanted. She had to refrain from batting her lashes at him.

  He chortled softly. “When you look at me like that, dear heart, I feel pushed to make the effort. But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  Unable to help herself, she laughed with him. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Is that a good thing?” the marquess asked tenderly.

  Cassandra glanced at him, before quickly looking away. “I haven’t a clue, my lord. I’ll have to let you know when I discover the answer.”

  Lord Sutherfield rose to his feet and took her by the hand. “Walk with me.”

  “Shouldn’t I go back to the party? I’m sure to be missed,” she said, allowing him to help her stand.

  “What would you do if you were back in London and still living with Quintin James? Would a stroll in the garden be such a wicked thing?”

  The question was a shrewd one. She didn’t intend to let him know it, though.

  “Perhaps not, but my father doesn’t know you. I think if he were to meet you he’d be as cautious as my grandfather.”

  The marquess drew her arm through his and leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “I’d like to think the caution is yours.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” she said impatiently.

  “It does if it is you rather than me you do not trust.”

  Lord Sutherfield’s warm breath drifted down her neck, causing her skin to prickle with excitement. Just when she had herself in check, he began the onslaught anew. Her body responded as it always did when his tone turned
suggestive.

  Ambling down the winding path, they moved away from the safety of the house. The doors to the parlor had been thrown open to the main garden, and the voices of those guests still partying could be heard drifting from inside. If she were taking her little walk with the marquess right outside those doors, it would probably be considered completely respectable.

  They came upon a majestic oak looming out of the darkness at the end of the path, its branches spanning nearly thirty feet. Moonlight seeped through the aged limbs, splintered patches of illumination creating a fey realm beneath the sprawling canopy of the tree. The gauze of Cassandra’s dress sparkled like dozens of tiny, glowing night beetles in the dimness. Just like a sprite, she reflected whimsically, touched by the enchantment of the balmy evening.

  All at once, she wanted to make the most of the magical moment. Did she want the marquess to kiss her? Yes, she thought, perhaps she did. She liked it when he kissed her—although she had spent a lot of time denying that fact—and maybe now she would kiss him back.

  Several steps in front of Lord Sutherfield, she whisked around to face him. With her hands clasped behind her back, she leaned coquettishly against the massive trunk of the tree. His expression was drawn tight with desire as he moved closer, and an intoxicating power welled within her. How the next few minutes went were hers alone to decide—unless he were a cad. Her instincts denied that possibility. She tilted her head, smiling faintly at him.

  His gaze sharpened. “This is a dangerous game, Miss James. Are you certain you wish to play so deep?” Placing his hand on the tree over her shoulder, he drew nearer.

  Cassandra could feel the heat from his body, could smell the intoxicating, masculine scent of him. He was close enough for her to see every keen-edged angle of his handsome face despite the insubstantial light. A quivering warmth low in her belly sent her pulse leaping out of control.

  She came up on her toes and set her lips to his. Was that the answer he wanted? Cassandra was willing to wager it was not the answer he had expected.