In the Garden of Seduction

by Cynthia Wicklund

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Timothy said, tears gathering in his eyes.

  Not much to go on but the marquess understood perfectly.

  “Can’t you love ‘er even a little?”

  He gave the child a halfhearted smile. “You’re an intuitive chap, aren’t you? I suppose as long as I’m making the extra effort to be honest today, I should admit that I could love her more than a little.”

  Timothy’s expression brightened immediately. “And she cares for you, I know she does.”

  Why did that announcement cause an aching constriction in his chest? “What makes you think so?” the marquess asked offhandedly.

  The child, warming to his subject, grinned hugely. “The way she looks at you from the side of her eyes, like she’s watchin’ but not really watchin’. You know what I mean.” He spoke as if they were two men of the world, sharing confidences.

  Simon chuckled. “That’s all very nice but what does it prove? Regardless of how I feel about Miss James or she about me, she’s supposed to marry Mr. Morley.”

  “Shoot ‘im. That’ll get him out of the way.”

  “You bloodthirsty bugger.” The marquess laughed. “Do you want me to go to prison? Can’t carry on a marriage with Miss James from there.”

  “I mean a duel, milord. That’s legal, ain’t it?—fair and square?”

  “Hardly, although I admit it’s done often enough. I think you’d better put your mind to more upstanding solutions, young man.”

  “That’s what I’ll do, milord. I’ll figure it out for you. Leave it to me.”

  The marquess sighed. Timothy Bailey had a man’s spirit in a boy’s body. What did it hurt to give him hope? He rose from the table. “I think it’s time we left for home.”

  They rode back to Harry’s as the aging sun slipped behind a fiery horizon. The air had cooled, and he put his coat around Timothy, who slept. Exhaustion lined the boy’s face, and the marquess wondered if he had kept the child out too long.

  Simon felt restless as he steered the phaeton at a slow clip over the narrow road. He had started the day optimistic, but was now filled with a disquieting anxiety. He would be the first to admit his aversion to facing difficult situations unless necessary. Regrettably, Miss James had thrust him into a quandary impossible to ignore.

  He had not faced what these last weeks had come to mean to him. So much easier to go on a day at a time without analyzing disturbing feelings too deeply. Cassandra had asked on more than one occasion what he wanted from her. Simon had disregarded the question because he didn’t know the answer. Too bad, for she would no longer allow him to sidestep the issue. He did come to one conclusion as the approaching dusk enveloped the solitary carriage. No matter how confused his emotions were at the moment, the idea that he might never again see Cassandra James was unacceptable.

  With that clarity of thought everything else fell into place.

  *****

  Cassandra snipped the coral rose from its bush, leaving enough stem on the bloom for putting in a tall vase. She loved her grandfather’s garden, especially the roses. Strange no one ever bothered to bring cut flowers into the house. Since her arrival she had made it her mission to place fresh arrangements in all the main rooms. Even the earl had noticed and approved.

  She ran the fragrant bloom under her nose, inhaling the delicious, apple-like scent. Cassandra’s eyes drifted shut, and immediately she lapsed into a perfume-soaked dream. The magic of a moonlit garden surrounded her, and a mighty oak with spreading branches stood sentinel. A sultry breeze ruffled her hair as it wafted seductively over exposed skin.

  A handsome man, dark and intensely passionate, held her close to him, stroking her, drawing from her breathtaking emotions. She responded to his touch like a violin beneath the hands of a master musician. Her heart tumbled in her chest, revealing a desire spiraling ever upward then erupting in sweet, erotic sensation.

  Cassandra’s eyes flicked open and, as the bright sunshine dazzled her vision, a feeling of desolation came over her. Hold that moment precious, she told herself sadly, for you will never experience another like it.

  Whether she wished it or not, Cassandra loved Simon Fitzgerald. She had arrived at that conclusion gradually over the week following the party given by Harry Stiles. Meeting the marquess in the village had only confirmed what she already suspected. Confronting her fear had been painful but with it came relief.

  What troubled her most was an inability to understand why she felt as she did. The marquess was handsome but handsome men had wooed her before. Certainly, she could not deny his darkly sensual nature and the power his lovemaking had over her. She believed, though, that she began to love the marquess when he championed Timothy Bailey. He worked well with the boy, seeming genuinely to care. And Timothy adored Simon.

  Cassandra wished she wasn’t going to miss that little drama, how it played out, how the child would grow now that he’d be nurtured properly. He was Lord Sutherfield’s responsibility, and she must be satisfied with knowing Timothy was in good hands. Surprising that she should have such confidence in his lordship.

  She cut one more rose before walking down the path leading to the parlor. Entering the house, she set the basket of flowers on the pianoforte. A cut glass vase was waiting for her and she began to fill it.

  Cassandra was proud of her encounter with the marquess three days earlier. She had been aloof and impersonal, confusing him she felt certain by her lack of response. She had told him she felt disgraced. He had been regretful.

  And he had let her go.

  Beneath the smugness she was hurting. He did not care as she did, and Cassandra was glad she had found out in time. If she continued permitting—no, inviting—liberties no proper lady would tolerate then she had only herself to blame when a frivolous relationship ended in pain and heartache.

  Roger was another complication. He didn’t love her and she didn’t love him, but there he was in the middle of her life making her miserable.

  Cassandra had decided to talk to her grandfather. She must convince him that his plan was unreasonable. She wanted to go home, wanted to see her father. She missed Sophy. Surely, he would not be cruel enough to keep her here once she explained.

  “Cassandra?” The earl stood in the parlor doorway that opened on the hall. “The flowers are lovely.” He was in an expansive mood.

  Here was her chance. The idea made her nerves tense, causing her to jab her forefinger on a thorn. She yelped, raising the finger to her mouth as a large drop of blood oozed from the tender wound.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” her grandfather asked, moving into the room.

  Cassandra nodded, collecting her scattered thoughts. Having made the decision to talk to him, she must do it. She stayed on the opposite side of the pianoforte from him, using it as a physical barrier, hoping it would separate them emotionally as well.

  “Grandfather, there is something I would like to discuss with you.”

  “Yes?” His expression did not discourage but something wary lurked in his piercing blue eyes.

  “I want to go home.”

  His features hardened. “You are home.”

  “This is not my home. I am a visitor here.”

  A dull flush rose in his cheeks. “You are my granddaughter.”

  “You make it sound as if I’m a possession, a pawn to move about at your discretion.”

  “Cassandra, you’ve had a deprived upbringing. You do not understand the ways of the aristocracy.”

  “And so you’ve gone to great pains to remind me. But I’ll tell you this—I understand that I don’t want to marry Roger. It isn’t just a lack of love. I find my cousin detestable. And he doesn’t much care for me, either. Why would you want to consign us to a living hell?”

  “There is more at stake here than your or Roger’s happiness,” he said angrily. “Given time you will come together, and both of you will have the comfort of knowing you did the right thing.”

 
Cassandra’s frustration rose to a frothy boil. “I’m going home,” she said in a brittle voice. She held her breath.

  A long, tense silence ensued, neither speaking. The earl struck first.

  “Do you wish to visit your father in prison?” he asked in a quiet voice no less deadly for its calmness.

  Her heart thudded in disbelief. “You’re still holding that threat over me?”

  “My dear, you’ve known me long enough to understand I will do what I must.”

  “I also hoped below that hard exterior lived a man with whom I could reason.”

  “Cassandra, your tone becomes insolent.”

  Her apprehension mounted but if she backed down at this juncture, she would be in his control forever, sacrificed to his ego. Quintin James would hate that.

  “I’m returning home, my lord.” She spoke in a formal manner meant to further alienate them. “I would prefer to leave with your blessing, but I am leaving, nonetheless.”

  Again a protracted silence filled the room, and again Cassandra waited apprehensively.

  “You are headstrong as was your father,” he said at last.

  Cassandra sensed her victory, and she sighed inwardly, relieved. Why did she feel guilty then as if she had done an awful thing?

  “Did you try to manage my father?” The question was not an idle one. She really needed to know.

  “I tried to direct Trevor as any good father would.” His words were bitter. “My son was obstinate and immature, and he fought me at every turn. His marriage to your mother happened because he was rebelling against my authority. I wanted him to marry a more fitting young lady. Months after his marriage he died, proving me right.”

  “Maybe if you hadn’t pushed so hard things would have been different.” Cassandra hoped he understood what that statement meant—his interference had not worked with her father, and it would not work with her.

  He ignored her last comment. “If you miss James enough to cause this scene, then I suppose I should take your request seriously. But do not assume I have relented. I will expect you back in a few weeks, and we will once again take up the issue of your marriage to Roger.”

  Cassandra ran from behind the pianoforte and threw her arms around her grandfather’s neck. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “You will not regret your kindness.”

  He stood rigid but gradually relaxed, returning her embrace with obvious self-consciousness. “There, there, no need to be maudlin,” he said as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “You will come back.”

  “Naturally.” She could be generous now that he had relented. “I’m lonely for my father. He’s not a writer and I worry about him. I have received one letter for every six or seven I’ve sent, and he always seems sad when he does write. I’m all he’s had since my mother died.”

  He stepped away from her. “When would you like to depart?”

  “Three days?”

  “All right,” he agreed, although she could still hear the reluctance in his voice. “We’ll make the necessary preparations.”

  Cassandra almost skipped from the room. How much nicer that they had come to an understanding rather than having a messy disagreement. She hadn’t wanted to defy him. That made things more difficult. This way Grandfather and she could part friends, and for some reason that pleased her.

  She would face the prospect of returning here at a later date. Perhaps by then the earl would stop pestering her about Roger. Her cousins would be here alone without Cassandra’s complicating influence. That should give them time to establish their relationship. If Roger had any backbone at all he would stand up to the earl and admit he loved Penelope.

  For everyone’s sake.

  *****

  “Timothy, how do you like fishing?”

  The boy sagged under the weight of the fish he carried on a string with his good arm. “Fine, but I’d rather go huntin’ like the gents I seen. You know, with a real gun.”

  Simon smiled. “I suppose guns are exciting if you’ve never used one, but I think we’ve had a pleasant day, nonetheless.”

  He felt relaxed, mellow, as he walked home with his young charge. Four hours of uninterrupted angling in the tranquil setting of Harry’s private fishing stream had been a calming experience.

  Frankly, he needed the rest.

  He had not seen Cassandra James for several days, and he was feeling uneasy. Something bothered him, something he couldn’t explain.

  “We got company, milord” Timothy said.

  “Those two. What are they doing way over here?”

  Miss Ingram and Mr. Morley were on horseback several hundred yards across a field from Simon and Timothy. Where is Miss James? Simon wondered.

  Evidently, Penelope caught sight of the marquess and his companion before Roger did, because she kicked her horse, directing the animal in their direction. Roger remained where he was for a moment before galloping after her. His frustration was clear even across the distance.

  “Lord Sutherfield, how wonderful to see you and your tiny waif.” Penelope smiled at Timothy as she drew abreast of the pair. Her expression was insulting in its condescension. “Have we been fishing?”

  Simon put his hand on Timothy’s shoulder because he felt the boy bristle beside him. He realized he would need to have a talk with lad about appropriate conduct when dealing with his betters. However, for today at least, he empathized with the boy’s response completely. He forced a smile.

  “Yes, we’ve been fishing, Miss Ingram.” He addressed Roger as the man rode in behind Penelope. “How are you, Morley?”

  “Adequate,” Roger said, attitude frosty.

  “Glad to hear it. I suppose we’ll be on our way. Nice to see you both.” The marquess turned away, fully aware he had surprised the riders with his brusque departure. Without Cassandra’s presence it was hardly worth his time to be civil to her unpleasant relatives.

  “Have you heard, my lord?” A note of spite crept into Penelope’s voice as she spoke to Simon’s back.

  Simon glanced around at her, brows raised in question.

  “It’s Cassandra, of course,” she said, looking smug.

  He hoped his expression did not give away his instant dread. It took some effort, but he kept his emotions under wrap, watching the young lady coolly.

  “What about Miss James?”

  “She’s gone.”

  Simon swallowed. “Gone?”

  “This very afternoon—to London. We’ll miss her, naturally.” That statement exposed her as a liar. “She wanted to see her father.”

  “I see.” He paused briefly. “I would like to have said goodbye to her.”

  He turned away from the couple again, Timothy on his heels, and this time he did not look back.

  *****

  Simon left Timothy in the stable with a groom. His respiration labored, he trotted toward the house.

  “Harry!” he bellowed as he entered the front door. Silence greeted him. “Damnation! man, where are you?”

  Harry appeared at the top of the staircase. “Simon, is there a problem?”

  “I’m on my way, Harry.” The marquess dashed up the stairs, meeting his friend on the landing.

  “On your way? Where?”

  “I’m returning to London. I’ll be gone by morning.”

  “I don’t understand. The last I knew you’d gone fishing. What happened?”

  “Timothy and I ran across Miss Ingram and Morley on our way home. They told me Cassandra James left for London this afternoon. I’m going to follow her.”

  Harry stared at the marquess. “What does Miss James leaving have to do with you?”

  Simon grinned. “Did I forget to mention it? I’ve decided to marry the lady.”

  *****

  CHAPTER 11

  “Lord Whittingham will be with you shortly, my lord,” the butler stated as he ushered the marquess into the library. “May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?” After being refused, the servant made a dignified exit, closing the doo
r behind him.

  Simon walked into the middle of the library too nervous to sit. He did not know Lord Whittingham well, but believed the coming interview would be awkward. The few times Simon had met the earl, he sensed the man’s animosity.

  He wanted to pace but restrained himself. Showing his agitation would put him at a disadvantage when it came time to negotiate with his host.

  The marquess allowed his gaze to wander around the room, although he registered little of interest until he spied the painting above the fireplace. The canvas depicted a life-size portrait of Cassandra. He stared at the picture, mesmerized.

  “Magnificent woman, wasn’t she?”

  Simon turned quickly to the man who had silently entered the room. “Was?”

  Lord Whittingham’s lips eased slightly in what might have been a smile. “That is my wife Elizabeth. She’s deceased now. You thought she was Cassandra, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but that explains my confusion.”

  “Oh?”

  “The portrait is beautifully done, and the likeness is remarkable. But it did not seem to be Miss James behind those eyes. The woman in the painting is much too serene to be your granddaughter.”

  The earl did smile then. “You are correct. Cassandra is a fiery young lady. She’s much like my son, I’m afraid. But it’s her resemblance to her grandmother that convinced us of her heritage.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Naturally, we couldn’t go on appearance alone. That evidence by itself would have been coincidental. Other proof did surface to substantiate our claim.”

  “I have the impression Miss James is not pleased with this turn of events.”

  Lord Whittingham studied him through a cool, probing gaze so light his eyes looked like chips of ice.

  The marquess held his ground, staring back impassively, but inwardly he flinched.

  “Let us be comfortable, shall we, Sutherfield?” the earl said, indicating a chair. He moved behind his desk and once seated, continued. “I know you have not come to exchange pleasantries with an old man, therefore, I’ll be blunt. Cassandra is not here. She left for London yesterday.”