In the Garden of Seduction

by Cynthia Wicklund

  Her awareness of the marquess as he sat next to her did not abate. She was conscious of the cuff of his coat where it accidentally grazed her arm. Cassandra found herself staring at his hand, his long fingers casually curled on the linen table cover. She remembered when that hand had touched her—and where—and a wave of longing caused an ache in her throat.

  Occasionally, Simon would turn a look on her so warm, so intimate, she felt the heat suffuse her face. Curious, she stared around the table, wondering if anyone else had observed his marked attention.

  Perhaps Lydia knew, for Simon’s sister sent her a secretive smile, but otherwise no one seemed to notice. Her father was clearly entranced by his partner Lady Camden. And oddly, Cassandra felt that Mr. Stiles, in his own understated way, was flirting with Sophy.

  Sophy looked bedazzled. Her plain face was almost pretty as she stared at Harry through bright, shining eyes. Cassandra glanced at Lydia again, and the lady winked at her. Why, the woman had planned this from the beginning, she thought, squelching a bubble of laughter. And Harry was kindly playing his part. Too bad he was a confirmed bachelor, but for tonight Sophy could feel special.

  Her mood was light as a puff of cotton, and she supposed it had something to do with all the champagne she’d consumed. Bottle after bottle had been opened and poured, and she had drunk her share. Her thoughts were fuzzy but the attending euphoria made her confusion a moot point. She felt happy, exceedingly happy, blissfully happy. Cassandra wanted to stand and twirl on her toes with her hands waving above her head. Better not drink anymore, she thought suddenly. Well, except for this last bit.

  She drained her glass.

  The meal at an end, the marquess stood from the table and everyone followed his lead. Cassandra was slightly dizzy, and she clutched at Simon’s arm for support. He turned a questioning gaze on her, and a strange expression settled on his dark features.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  She smiled at him inanely. “I think so,” she said, speaking carefully.

  His lips twitched. “I see.”

  Her father and Lady Camden approached from their side of the table. “Quintin and I want to listen to that new singer everyone has been talking about. I understand he is on the program tonight,” Moretta said. “Is there anyone who would like to join us?”

  One and all agreed to the plan. All that is except Simon. “I think Cassandra could do with a brisk walk and some fresh air,” he said. “If you have no objection,” this to her father, “we’ll just stroll the paths for a short while.”

  Quintin nodded. “She’s not much of an imbiber. I noticed she drank more than usual.”

  Cassandra’s temper flared. Why were they talking about her as if she were a child? She started to protest, but her brain and tongue no longer seemed connected.

  *****

  Simon knew Cassandra was angry by the way she tensed next to him. He took her hand, placed it in the crook of his arm and led her away.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked peevishly as they moved down the path. “Afraid I might say something I shouldn’t?”

  “You’ve had too much to drink tonight, Cassandra. One thing about being intoxicated, words are said that are often regretted, usually the next day and accompanied by a massive pain in the head and a queasy stomach. If you’ve never done that you are better off.”

  “I s’pose,” she said.

  “Let’s not be out of sorts with one another,” he said huskily, pulling her closer. He placed his lips close to her ear. “We haven’t been alone for a long while, and we don’t have much time. I’d rather talk pleasantries, wouldn’t you?”

  Cassandra turned a pale face to him, looking through eyes so dilated the blue-green irises appeared black. She swallowed and he watched the muscles move in her lovely throat. All at once he wanted to place his mouth upon the smooth, translucent column, to taste the hollow at the top of her collarbone.

  They stopped beneath a colored lamp on the deserted path. His gaze slipped to the exposed flesh peeking from the bodice of her gown, and his respiration intensified. He remembered her soft breasts, the turgid tips and how they had felt against his tongue.

  “Am I dessert, my lord?” A subtle expression shifted over her features, going from uncertainty to something more provocative, more inviting.

  Simon chuckled. “In my most wanton dreams, love, you are a ten course meal, an epicurean delight.” He took Cassandra’s chin in hand and set his mouth upon hers, drinking in her sweetness. He tasted champagne on her lips and felt the eagerness in her response, and only gentlemanly caution kept him from mauling her on the spot. He drew back, breathing ragged, and studied her through lust-filled eyes.

  Her lids fluttered open and she returned his stare. “Why do you always stop when things become most interesting?”

  “Not always, Cassandra,” he murmured hotly, “not always.”

  Her tipsy gaze focused with memory. “No, not always.” She paused then, her cheeks growing pink under the dim light. “Am I very bad for desiring more?”

  Simon knew the champagne was talking for her. She would never have said such a thing if she had not been intoxicated. The confession warmed his blood, nonetheless.

  “I can promise you will feel much more, sweetheart,” he growled, linking arms with her and pulling her tightly against him. “I think we’d better walk now, unless you wish an innocent person to stumble across our lovemaking.”

  “A kiss is not a bad thing, is it, my lord?” she ventured, her expression guileless.

  “Why do you insist on being so formal with me?” he asked, controlling a sudden annoyance. “Is that your way of keeping a barrier between us? You know I want you to call me Simon when we’re alone.”

  Cassandra glanced at him sideways through dark lashes, clinging heavily to his arm. “Well, Simon, I can honestly say I do not wish for a barrier between us right now.”

  She was doing it again. When she gazed at him like that, he didn’t know whether he was the pursuer or the one being pursued—like that night in Harry’s rose garden, he thought. Either way it didn’t matter. Cassandra wasn’t a casual flirt. Even under the influence of drink, she would not encourage him falsely.

  “What do you wish?” he asked.

  Simon studied the top of her burnished head as he waited for her answer, the soft curls shining in the faint light cast by the myriad of colored lamps. They were wandering deeper into the secret recesses of the park, with the path becoming darker and the voices of the revelers receding into the distance.

  “I wish what every woman wishes,” she stated obliquely then shrugged her shoulders.

  A sudden explosion over their heads made Cassandra jump. “What was that?” she gasped.

  “Haven’t you seen the fireworks before? Vauxhall is famous for them.”

  “Of course. How silly of me,” she said, looking at the sky. “Oh, I love it,” she exclaimed as another incandescent blast lit up the night. “This is so exciting. Let’s sit on that bench over there. I want to watch the whole show.”

  Simon allowed her to take his hand and drag him to the stone seat. The spot was in an alcove nearly hidden from the walk, and he wondered if it would not be more prudent to return to the crowds. He sat down and, to his astonishment, Cassandra plopped onto his lap, wrapping her right arm loosely around his shoulders. Good lord, she truly must be smashed.

  She glanced at him, her eyes shining with merriment. “This is rather cozy, don’t you think?”

  She was teasing him, tempting him. He didn’t mind—quite the opposite—for her actions proved that she was not indifferent. Her supple backside pressed against his thighs was as intoxicating as the champagne they had imbibed a short while earlier.

  “You’re a witch,” he stated thickly as he embraced her slender waist.

  She smiled at him and turned to the cloudless sky overhead, staring at the fiery exhibition.

  Simon could not take his gaze from her beautiful profile tilted
toward the heavens. The sparkling fireworks cast a pastel reflection in hues of pinks and blues and yellows across her lovely features and he was entranced.

  As the last explosion died out, Cassandra looked at him. “That was the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.” She smiled again and leaned down, touching her lips to his. His heart thumped madly. Her initiating the contact made the moment considerably more arousing.

  “For what?” he asked when he felt able to speak.

  Her gaze grew bold and assessing. “Love me, Simon,” she whispered. She touched his face then slipped slim fingers into the hair at his collar.

  Simon’s scalp began to tingle. Did he understand her correctly? He put his hand to the back of her head, forcing her face close to his.

  “Do you know what you are asking?” he grated out.

  “It’s time, don’t you think?”

  He knew it—Cassandra was drunk. Simon had longed to hear those words, but could he trust her sincerity with her judgment impaired? If she were sober he wouldn’t hesitate. He would seize what she offered and revel in the experience.

  If he took advantage of her now, however, Simon feared when tomorrow came she would never forgive him. He needed her to come to him with a clear head, eagerly. Strange how much importance he had begun to place on that notion.

  Therefore, he could not take the risk. Simon groaned in disappointment. Perhaps one kiss, he thought. He took her lips, sliding his hot mouth over hers, and he sensed her immediate surrender. Never had he felt so close to breaking his own resolve. Ending the contact, his breath came in harsh gasps.

  “You don’t make it easy, love,” he muttered. Being noble was damned difficult.

  She frowned. “Easy?”

  “I think we better go back to the others now.” Simon allowed the regret he felt to fill his voice.

  Cassandra jumped to her feet and staggered away from him. “You’re turning me away?”

  “Now wait a minute,” he said, alarmed by her response, “it’s not like that.”

  “Why do I throw away my defenses with you? You are forever making a fool of me. You have hounded me for weeks, and when I say yes you throw it back in my face like so much rubbish. Is this what it’s about? Your ability to reject me?”

  “Cassandra, you misunderstand,” he said, standing, also. Simon held out his hand to her. “You can’t want me to make love to you like this. I need you to come to me with your thinking intact, not clouded by drink.”

  She was in no mood to be reasonable. “You’ve humiliated me one time too many, my lord. I won’t make that mistake again. Ever.” She swung away from him and rushed headlong down the path.

  “Cassandra,” he called, following her, “for God’s sake, stop and listen to me.” She was out of sight, but he could hear her slippered feet on the pebbled walk. He began to run when he heard her fall. “Cassie…!”

  She had managed to come to her knees by the time he reached her, but she struggled from his grasp when he leaned over to help.

  “No, don’t touch me,” she cried.

  “Sweetheart, please, I didn’t mean to offend,” he said, squatting beside her. “Do you want me to be a cad? That is what I’d be if I seduced you in your inebriated state. Surely—”

  Whatever he intended to say went unsaid, for the ravaged face she turned on him caused the words to die in his throat.

  She was weeping. Simon had never seen her cry and her tears, because of their rarity, shocked him. For the first time since he’d met her he was at a total loss.

  Cassandra found her feet, scorning his help, and dashed the moisture from her eyes. She smoothed her skirt, examining the hem.

  “I’ve torn my dress,” she said, as though that unimportant issue had meaning.

  Simon rose up beside her but remained silent. He found her grief impossible to bear. The knowledge that he was the source of her distress hurt him terribly.

  “I would prefer that we keep our little argument to ourselves, if you don’t mind, my lord.” She spoke in a careful voice enunciating each and every syllable, presumably to exhibit her sobriety. Then she hiccupped, destroying her carefully wrought control.

  If he had not felt so bad, the humor of the situation might have touched him. Instead, he nodded. “Of course.” He took her arm. She did not fight him, thus Simon assumed she needed the support.

  Nearly ten minutes passed before they found the rest of their party. Ten long minutes of frozen silence.

  The marquess did his best to remain blase upon greeting everyone, but it would have taken an obtuse person not to know something was wrong. Cassandra’s stony behavior did not alleviate the tension, even though she was the one who had wanted to put on a good front. The group quietly dispersed, with Cassandra electing to return in her father’s carriage. “For convenience’s sake,” she said.

  Quintin James studied him suspiciously and Simon approached the man, speaking in an undertone.

  “Mr. James, your daughter and I have had an argument. I’ve not compromised Cassandra in any way, and I hope to mend the rift. I will call on you tomorrow and answer any questions you might have.”

  James nodded curtly. He joined the ladies in his carriage, closing the door behind him with a decisive click.

  Simon watched as the vehicle pulled from the curb, sighing heavily as he turned to Harry who stood at his elbow. “Well, my friend, I’m in a bit of a fix.”

  “I see what you mean,” Harry responded. “If that lady’s attitude were ice you’d be frozen solid by now. Is it too personal to share?”

  “Wouldn’t be gentlemanly if I did.”

  “Oh…I see.”

  Simon grimaced. “Nothing as bad as all that.”

  Harry dipped his head. “Good to hear. Should I look for an announcement soon?”

  “Damned if I know—I hope so.” Simon shook his companion’s hand. “Lydia and Albert are waiting for me.”

  The marquess walked the short distance to his own carriage and climbed inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Lydia, but I wanted a word with Mr. James. Where is Albert?” he inquired, looking around the inside of the vehicle.

  “I asked him to take a hackney so you and I could talk.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I should have. What in heaven’s name happened back there?” she demanded as he sat next to her on the seat.

  “Has anyone ever mentioned your lack of subtlety?” he asked.

  “You’re changing the subject, Simon,” she said. “Really though, I’ve never been part of such an uncomfortable moment. Miss James was crying. What did you do to her?”

  “Why do you assume I did something wrong?”

  She stared at him in the darkness but did not answer.

  “Bloody hell,” he exploded. “I just did what you told me to do. I was a gentleman.”

  “That rarely brings tears, Simon.”

  Simon ran his hand through his hair. “It’s complicated and rather embarrassing,” he admitted.

  She remained silent, waiting.

  “She wanted me to make love to her,” he stated, unable to meet her eyes.

  “You turned her down?”

  The disbelief in her voice caused his head to snap up, and he stared at her belligerently. “She had too much to drink, and conventional thinking to the contrary, I am not a cad.” He paused. “Lord, she was insulted,” he said miserably.

  “I should think so. Simon, I’m sorry. Doing the right thing hurt Cassandra.”

  “Perhaps I should have—”

  “No,” she interrupted, placing her hand on his arm. “You did what you had to do. Believe me, when sober she will realize you did her a favor. If you had taken advantage of her condition, I think all would be lost.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “You did the only thing you could do. Rest easy knowing that. She’ll come around, I promise.”

  “I wish I was as confident as you,” he sa
id minutes later as he walked his sister to her front door. “Cassandra thinks it is my desire to humiliate her. I can’t understand how I’ve conveyed such an impression, for I admire her greatly.”

  “There’s your challenge, then—to make her believe you really care.” Lydia smiled and shook her head. “It never fails to amaze me how a young gentleman spends his youth determined that no woman will ever take him seriously. But when he changes his mind—and all men do eventually—he’s at a loss to understand why the ladies are not convinced.”

  A fair observation, Simon supposed, although admitting it did little to solve his problem. He bid his sister adieu and returned to his vehicle.

  The ride home was an uneasy one, filled with second-guessing. The marquess lounged against the cushions, his feet resting on the opposite seat. It occurred to him to direct his driver to one of the gentleman’s clubs, for he wasn’t ready to retire with his thoughts, but the plan bored him. Wasting a few hours in one of London’s gaming hells held little attraction, either. Unsavory people doing unsavory things, when all he wanted was to hold the woman he loved. How dull, how boring and, as Lydia had implied, how ultimately predictable.

  Ten years ago he would have laughed if anyone had suggested his life would come to this. Yet now, unbelievably, he wanted to marry and he wanted to be a father. The notion of making a baby with Cassandra had an appeal far beyond the sexual act.

  He supposed most men loved their offspring, however, a child by a cherished wife—somehow the sharing seemed more profound. If he formed an alliance without affection, Simon suspected he would be the worse for it and so would his children. Not the reasoning of most of the elite, but he was beginning to believe he had the right of it.

  He had no intention of allowing his argument with Cassandra to languish for even a day, therefore, he was going home to his bed. He needed a good night’s rest and a sober head before he renewed his campaign to win her. He consoled himself with the knowledge that the effort spent would help him realize his ambition. Meantime, he found it impossible not to worry.