“That poor child.” She seemed to have conveniently forgotten her attitude toward that same child several days earlier.
“What a tragedy,” the earl agreed. He sent his transparent gaze to his granddaughter. “I must tell you, Cassandra, I am deeply disappointed that you have been untruthful with me. I must talk to Fenn.”
“It’s not Mr. Fennigan’s fault,” she rushed to the coachman’s defense. “He only did as I asked him.”
“I’m aware of where the blame lies. Fenn is a faithful servant, and I don’t intend to make him suffer for your lack of integrity. I’m certain he felt he had no choice.”
Cassandra was grateful that, although the earl was angry with her for disobeying him, he was still fair enough not to make the coachman pay for her transgression. Strange his attitude in this matter should bring her respect to the fore. Before this, little else had.
Roger’s disapproval was palpable. “If you would lie about the boy, what else would you lie about? Perhaps, Uncle, you need to talk to Lord Sutherfield about where he was this evening.” He cast Cassandra a glance filled with loathing.
That’s right, Roger, work on your hate. It won’t be long until you can hardly stand to look at me, much less marry me.
“If it would ease Grandfather’s mind,” she said, allowing a hint of boredom to seep into her voice.
“Enough,” the earl snapped. “This has been a trying evening, and I do not want any more aggravation. It appears we cannot be civil to one another, therefore, let us cease speaking altogether.”
Just as well, Cassandra thought. The emotional ups and downs of the last few hours had left her exhausted. When they reached the house, she trudged up the stairs to her room on a mumbled good night.
Once inside her bedchamber she undressed. She did not call her maid, unable to bear the thought of talking to anyone. Annie would want to know how the party went, and what could Cassandra say? That she had an amorous tryst with a handsome lord and was nearly felled by the experience? Perhaps she could mention the drunken man, a monster in human form, who had sold his son to that same handsome lord. She could hardly believe the evening’s events and she had been there.
She climbed into the middle of the bed to lie on her back on top of the counterpane. Shadows cast by the one lit candle in the room danced eerily across the ceiling overhead. Crossing her hands over her chest, she wallowed in the gloomy atmosphere of the bedchamber. She felt drained, like a husk, lifeless.
She was afraid. Not of apparitions or a darkened room. No, something more tangible than a vivid imagination troubled her.
Lord Sutherfield had become a large complication in her life. Making love with him in Mr. Stiles’ rose garden had been a shattering experience. Cassandra wanted to believe it hadn’t been the man so much as the moment. Yet that would trivialize emotions that left her feeling altered in a significant way.
So what must she think? Was she simply a mature woman with needs? That explanation was a simple one but a bit too easy. She knew no matter how magical the setting, Roger could never have wrung such a strong response from her regardless of her “needs.”
That brought her to the one fact she did not want to acknowledge. She had begun to care for Simon. Simon—when had she started thinking of him by his given name? Somehow, using his name made her feel closer to him, and that caused a rush of sensation not unlike what she had experienced in his arms.
Cassandra tossed restlessly. How had she come to this, more confused than she’d been in her whole life? She wanted to blame the marquess for what had happened tonight, but that would be unreasonable. He had never lied about his intentions—he wanted to bed her. If he’d never said it, he hadn’t pretended otherwise.
She had stepped freely into his net this evening, and fortunately their lovemaking had not come to a more disastrous conclusion. Simon could have taken her, and she felt certain he knew it. That was the one thing Cassandra did not understand. She had been willing, no eager, yet he had not taken her innocence.
She came into a sitting position, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them. Perhaps it was not too late. If she did not see the marquess any more than necessary, if she kept her ardor in check when she did see him, maybe she could pull through this misadventure only slightly scarred.
Her thoughts turned to poor Timothy Bailey and her eyes clouded. She remembered his tiny white face as he peered into the darkness, a glimmer of hope in his innocent blue gaze. How could he love that horrible man? What a pity to love and be unloved.
And there lay the crux of her anguish. In the intervening hour between learning of Bailey’s rejection of his son and Cassandra’s arrival home, Timothy’s pain had become her pain. She felt like that child, caught in a situation where her heart was at stake, convinced her affection would never be returned.
She believed the marquess when he said he liked her, and she assumed his passion for her was genuine. But for some men passion was an isolated emotion, so Simon’s interest did not fill her with optimism. Wanting her now did not mean he would want her later.
Cassandra wondered if she could be as accepting of her fate as Timothy was of his. She didn’t have the advantage of being unspoiled, without expectations. She wanted a good life, wanted to be happy.
In the hours before dawn, as the candle guttered in its holder and darkness overtook the chamber, Cassandra came face to face with her fear at last. What would she do if a charming nobleman with compelling black eyes held the key to her future happiness—and he decided not to use it?
*****
CHAPTER 10
“You said I was going to be your tiger, milord.”
Simon turned patient eyes on Timothy Bailey where the youth sat next to him on the carriage seat. “You will be, my boy, but give it some time. Your arm is still not healed. Why don’t you enjoy the ride for today?”
“Aye, milord, I can do that,” Timothy chirped, pulling himself up straight like a small soldier, keen blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
“There’s a good lad.” The marquess slapped the reins over the backs of his bays, sending the phaeton at a spanking clip over the open road.
“Do I get a fancy uniform?”
“What?”
“When I’m your tiger, do I get a fancy uniform?”
Simon grinned. “I believe that is the usual procedure for tigers, so yes, you will have a fancy uniform—perhaps two.”
Timothy’s eyes grew round with awe. “D’you mean it? Nobody in me family ever had a uniform. Me sister works in a big ‘ouse in London, but she’s just kitchen help—don’t need no uniform for that.”
“I suppose not,” Simon agreed absently.
The little boy tugged at his sleeve. “Where we going, milord?”
“I thought we would visit the inn in the village. Mr. Stiles says they serve ices there. If you like you may have one.” He smiled again when Timothy shouted gleefully. “As for me, I think I could use an ale. I’ve not been away from the house for several days and I’m as skittish as a cat.”
Tomcat more like, he thought derisively. When Cassandra James went home after Harry’s party four days earlier, he had been so randy, he feared he might explode. In the hours before dawn, he had fallen into his bed, exhausted, but unable to sleep.
The situation with Timothy had not been the reason he’d been kept awake. Simon believed he had solved the problem of the boy for the present. No, a beautiful woman had been at the root of his insomnia.
He had tossed then turned, fighting erotic visions so powerful he had groaned in frustration. Cassandra’s lovely face touched by passion, her perfect breasts exposed in the moonlight—that image held him in its grip.
Why hadn’t he taken her when he’d had the chance? He had told Harry that was his plan. What had stopped him? And why had her gratification been more important than his own? That question had really gnawed at him as he wrestled a torturous state of arousal in the hours after the party.
The need to negotiate a
difficult curve forced his thoughts back to the present. “We are almost there. Are you ready for that ice?” Simon asked.
Timothy clasped his hands together, revealing his excitement. “Aye, milord!”
The village came into view and the marquess steered the phaeton down the main street. The inn, an old stone building dating from at least four centuries, was located at the far edge of the tiny hamlet.
“Milord, look. It’s the angel lady—the one what saved me.” The boy pointed to a table situated under an awning on the westerly side of the inn.
Simon raised his head and sent a piercing stare in the direction Timothy indicated. “That’s Miss James,” he said slowly, studying the situation.
Cassandra James and her cousins Penelope Ingram and Roger Morley sat at the table in the shade, enjoying the sultry day. What a pleasant surprise, he thought cheerfully. This could do much to enliven a boring afternoon.
He jumped down from the carriage and lifted his young charge to the ground. With casual indifference he ambled toward the trio. Miss Ingram turned and her eyes widened in recognition.
“It’s Lord Sutherfield,” she cried. “How wonderful! Do come and join us.” She motioned the newcomers over with a graceful wave.
One thing was clear to Simon as Timothy and he approached the table and sat down. Penelope’s companions were not nearly as pleased by the new arrivals as she was. Morley’s expression deepened into a stormy scowl.
“Afternoon, sir,” Roger said in a tight voice.
“Afternoon, Morley. Nice day to enjoy the fresh air.” The marquess meant his last comment for everyone, and while Penelope and Roger nodded obligingly, Miss James kept her gaze averted. Her lack of greeting bothered him.
A serving girl approached and Simon requested an ale and Timothy’s ice. Small talk was exchanged in the intervening minutes required to fill the order, but Cassandra still did not acknowledge his presence. She wasn’t overtly rude, just unresponsive. For Simon being ignored was unacceptable. He sent her a calculating look before he turned his attention to a more receptive Penelope.
“Miss Ingram, how have you been since I last saw you?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.
Penelope lit with enthusiasm. “Not bad, although I find country life can be rather tedious.”
The marquess saw Cassandra cast Penelope a glance filled with irony, and he had to control the desire to laugh. “True, and so I told Harry,” he said. “That’s why he hosted the party. He hates my boredom more than I do.”
He punctuated his statement with a chuckle, all the while aware that Miss James was listening to the conversation. She wore a cool expression, her chin in her hand as she stared at the horizon. But something about her posture gave her interest away.
“What a wonderful party it was,” Penelope gushed, “and so dramatic. You were very brave to challenge that awful man.” She fluttered her lashes at him.
Simon’s attention transferred to Timothy. The boy was watching Miss Ingram with sorrowful eyes, his ice forgotten. The marquess opened his mouth to change the subject, but Mr. Morley jumped into the awkward silence.
“Pen, didn’t you say you wanted to do some more shopping?”
“What?” Penelope looked surprised. “Did I? Yes, I suppose I did.”
“Then I suggest we finish whatever it is you want to do. The hour grows late, and we will have to leave for home soon.” Roger stood and grabbed hold of her wrist, nearly yanking her from the chair. “We’ll be back shortly,” he said, moving away with Miss Ingram in tow, preventing anyone else from joining them.
Cassandra stared at the backs of the retreating couple. Her uncertain gaze shifted to the marquess, and he could not prevent a smirk from touching his lips. Alone with her—or almost alone. Timothy still sat at the table.
“Don’t worry, my dear, I won’t eat you.” He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, pleased to see her lips tighten in annoyance. At least she was reacting to him. He hated her indifference. “I think Morley is worried that I am a danger to Miss Ingram. He spirits her away every time I meet her.”
Cassandra shifted her attention to the other person at the table without answering Simon. “I’m glad to see you are mending well, Timothy. You are looking much better.”
“I am, ain’t I? Feel better, too.” The child took the last bite of his ice and, placing his spoon in the dish, sighed in pleasure. “‘Is lordship, he’s a right one.” He surveyed Simon with adoring eyes. “Took good care of me.”
“Indeed,” she murmured without glancing in Simon’s direction. “How old are you, Timothy?”
“Nine.” He paused as if he were thinking about his answer. “Yeah, nine, almost sure of it.”
Simon was as shocked as Cassandra looked. He would have guessed the lad at no more than seven, and a small seven at that. No wonder Timothy seemed old beyond his years. What a shame the boy was uncertain of his age. Evidently, the youngest of George Bailey’s offspring had never celebrated a birthday. The marquess was annoyed that he had not thought to ask the question himself.
As Simon watched, he could see Timothy’s attention wandering to some children playing in the stable yard of the inn. “Would you like to join them for a while?” He indicated the group with a nod of his head.
“Could I?” the child asked wistfully. “That’s Willie over there. I ain’t seen him for a long time. I need to tell him what’s happened to me so he don’t worry.”
The marquess nodded his permission. “Careful of the arm.”
His gaze followed Timothy as the boy scampered away, but his awareness was on the woman who sat at the other side of the table.
“Alone at last,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the children. He felt rather than saw Cassandra stiffen.
“I wish you would not start that foolishness with me today,” she stated.
“Foolishness?” That made him angry. “The last time we were together I experienced many things but I never felt foolish.”
She turned a tortured look on him. “You don’t think risking our reputations was foolish? My grandfather is very suspicious. The only thing holding him back is a lack of proof. If he knew I was sitting with you right now he would raise the dead with his anger.”
“This is a public place, Miss James. There is little trouble we can get into here. If you don’t intend to follow his wishes with regards to marrying Mr. Morley, I see no reason you and I cannot associate. From the beginning I’ve had the impression he had no real hold over you.”
“I’ve never said he has accepted the way I feel.”
There was that, although the marquess sensed more to the situation than was visible on the surface. He tried another tack.
“You are embarrassed, aren’t you?”
She raised her arm, waving her fingers at something in front of her face. Simon could not see what she brushed at, and he suspected she was collecting her thoughts.
It seemed she had decided on the truth. “Does humiliated strike a cord with you, my lord?” She looked at him squarely. “I cannot imagine how I allowed myself to act in such a manner. I feel disgraced.”
Her admission was humbling. He wanted to take her hand. No, more than that. He wanted to hold her in his arms, offering reassurance, taking the blame.
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
Simon stared at Cassandra. His esteem for her rose dramatically by her unwillingness to play the injured party.
“It was my responsibility not to push the situation,” he offered. “But I have to be as honest with you as you’ve been with me. I don’t regret what happened between us. If I told you anything else I’d be a liar.”
“I understand.” She rose to her feet. “I better join my cousins now.” Cassandra held out a gloved hand to him. “I want you to know I’ve enjoyed our acquaintance, Lord Sutherfield. Perhaps I will see you in London sometime.”
Simon frowned, and he stood abruptly as he took her hand. “Are you going back to the city?”
She
shook her head. “Not just yet—I don’t know when.” She grasped her skirt, lifting the hem slightly as she prepared to leave. “I hope it won’t be long, though,” she said over her shoulder.
“Cassandra…”
She looked back at him and he expected to see censure in her gaze. Instead, she gave him a smile laced with poignancy. She turned away once more and, with a stride as regal as queen, navigated the cobbled street in search of her relatives.
Simon was flabbergasted. He had approached Cassandra with the cocksure notion he could control any situation that might occur. So why did he feel as though he had been in a game of high stakes and his ace had been trumped?
Was she telling him goodbye? He found that unacceptable. The marquess had an irresistible urge to run down the street and ask Cassandra to explain herself. He returned to his chair and swilled the remainder of his ale. He felt deflated, depressed.
Simon was in a foul mood when Timothy came back to the table a few minutes later.
“Where’s Miss James?”
“She left for home,” Simon muttered sullenly.
“Oh.” Timothy sounded deflated, also. “I like her. She’s the most beautiful lady I ever met.”
“She is that,” the marquess agreed.
“I got an idea.” Timothy’s open face shone with inspiration. “Why don’t you marry ‘er?”
“Well, now,” the marquess said, suddenly uncomfortable, “it’s not as easy as that.” He shifted in his chair.
“It’s not?”
“For one thing, she’s supposed to marry someone else.”
Timothy’s brows snapped together. “Who?”
“Her grandfather Lord Whittingham wants her to marry Mr. Morley.” Simon was amazed at how distasteful the words were as he spoke them.
“That bloke sitting ‘ere with us?” When the marquess nodded, Timothy blurted, “Milord, you’ve got to save her. You can’t let her marry him.” Timothy jumped up and ran around the table, pulling at his master’s arm with sticky fingers.
In the Garden of Seduction Page 16