Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  At the sound of footsteps, she raised her gaze to his, and Aidan was stunned to see—not censure, not loathing, not disgust, but a soft apology, an understanding that made him want to take her by the arms and shake her, remind her how badly he had treated her, and warn her not to trust his motives even now.

  The only thing that betrayed her nervousness was the smudge of pink upon her cheekbones and the smile she gave him, tremulous and uncertain. Was it possible she had decided to forgive him?

  “I can’t accustom myself to how green everything is here,” she said. “After the dullness of the city, it makes one so thirsty to drink it in.”

  “Sometimes when I’m away too long it is like a hunger inside me. that yearning to drink in the greenness. It’s as if I can’t truly breathe anyplace else.” He felt like a raw lad who had bungled his first kiss and come, penitent, to beg pardon. The sensation irritated him, and he brushed it away, impatient with his own odd vulnerability.

  With long strides, he crossed to where she stood and grasped her hand, raising it softly to his lips. “I feel honored that you’ve chosen to dine with us tonight. Honored, and… somewhat surprised.”

  Lashes astonishingly thick swept down over her dark eyes, not coquettishly but with regret. “It seemed to mean so much to Cassandra that I…” She stopped, her gaze flicking up to his for a heartbeat. “She is going to be so disappointed when…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. Norah Linton had endings written all over her face.

  Aidan was stunned at the wrenching sensation in his chest. It was time for him to charm her, beguile her, the way he knew so well how to. It was time for soft pleas and honeyed promises. Instead, his fingers tightened on those slender fingers, so cold, so small in his own. “You’re leaving us, then?”

  “The sooner the better—for Cassandra’s sake. It wouldn’t do for her to get her heart any more set on things that are impossible.”

  He nodded, uncertain why those quiet words made him feel so bereft. “I don’t suppose there is anything I can say that would make you reconsider?”

  Her gaze fluttered up to his, and there were no lies in his eyes as he peered down at her.

  “Norah, I know we’ve not begun right. And this afternoon…”

  Her cheeks went scarlet, the hue making an almost startling change in that face that had been far too solemn and pale.

  “Please! It’s already forgotten,” she protested, so hastily Aidan was certain she had relived that kiss in the ensuing hours as many times as he had.

  His lips curved into a wry smile. “I’m not certain whether to feel shriven of my sins or bruised in the ego, milady.”

  “I—I’m sure it would have been a very lovely kiss. I mean, as kisses go, I’ve not had a great deal of experience. But had circumstances been different, I…” She raised a hand to her cheek as if to cool it. “Please. I just wish to get through this dinner and then go in peace.”

  Peace. Had Aidan ever known what that was? He wanted to plead with her, rail at her, coerce her into staying. He wanted to kiss her again, to melt his mouth into the pliant warmth of hers.

  But he only reached out to squeeze her hand.

  At that moment a hurricane in hair ribbons came bounding out the servants’ door. Norah jerked away from his clasp, but not before Cassandra’s bright eyes had caught a glimpse of their joined fingers. Pure elation shone in her gaze, and Aidan knew—in a sudden, aching instant—just how crestfallen the girl would be when Norah Linton went away.

  Chapter Nine

  “Come to the table,” Cassandra enthused. “Everything is perfect, despite the fact that some people were inexcusably late.” Aidan tucked Norah’s hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her to the seat beside him that had been empty for so long.

  He’d thought the endless ride home from Caislean Alainn had been abysmal, the hours in his study interminably long. But this supper so carefully planned by Cassandra, this eternity of looking into his daughter’s hopeful face, was by far the worst punishment he could endure. Unless, of course, it was his awareness of the woman picking at the food upon her plate as Cass shamelessly grilled her about her life in London.

  “Miss Linton, did you ever have a London season?” Cassandra asked, her eyes shining expectantly.

  “Yes. I had one.”

  “Was it magical?” Cass asked, taking a bite of Cornish hen. “Did you go to breakfasts and balls, and Almack’s, and dance and dance with the most handsome men?”

  “Actually I spent most of my time hiding behind pillars, wishing heartily that whatever entertainment I was attending was over,” Norah said, sipping at her wine. “And as for my dancing partners, they were…”

  Aidan was amazed to see a dimple appear in one cheek.

  “They were not exactly the sort to inspire flutterings in feminine hearts.”

  “You mean they were oafish? Did they—did they attempt to lure you into the gardens and steal a kiss?” the girl asked with an eloquent sigh.

  “Cassandra!” Aidan snapped, all too aware what the fate of a young woman like Norah must have been upon the marriage mart. “Let poor Miss Linton eat her dinner in peace!”

  “I don’t mind. Really.”

  “You see, Papa? She is most amenable! Didn’t I tell you that she was the most perfect—”

  “Cass!”

  The girl desisted, but Aidan’s gut twisted as she charged into an even more unwelcome subject. “My mama had bushels and bushels of suitors, Mrs. Brindle says. She was the belle of the season, she was so beautiful and witty, and—did you ever meet her? Miss Cordelia March?”

  “No. I’m certain even if we had been out at the same time, I would hardly have moved in the same circles as an acclaimed belle.” Norah said it so gently Aidan felt guilt gnaw him afresh.

  “Oh.” A flush spread onto Cassandra’s cheeks, and Aidan was certain she had just realized how she’d blundered into a subject that must be painful for the woman she so desperately wanted to please. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—to… Papa’s forever telling me I shouldn’t go poking about other people’s business, but I just can’t seem to help it. He says I am terminally curious and is constantly barraging me with hopeless clichés about cats being killed and such like.”

  Norah blessed the girl with a smile of pure understanding. “Don’t distress yourself. I’ve long since gotten over any disappointment I felt. In fact, I have actually succeeded in regarding the entire affair somewhat in the light of a diverting farce.”

  “A farce?” Aidan repeated, trying to conceal the hollow sensation he suffered, knowing Cassandra’s dreams of such a season were going to be lost the instant the coach wheels carried Norah Linton away. “I cannot think of a better analogy for the madness that possesses London society at such times.”

  “Papa, you just don’t understand how wonderful it seems. I am quite certain I would adore—” Cassandra bit off the sentence, casting an apologetic glance at Norah. “But maybe I am mistaken. From what you say, Miss Linton, it must have been terrible.”

  Norah laughed, a subtle, musical sound that sank into Aidan’s very bones. “I cannot imagine you hiding behind pillars as I did. Even if you tried, I’d imagine that enterprising gentlemen would come to roust you out.” She had meant to comfort the child, Aidan knew, but the instant Norah recalled what he had confided to her regarding the bleakness of his daughter’s prospects, he could see the unease in her eyes.

  Oblivious to the undercurrents between the adults, Cass rushed on. “Surely you must have had some gentlemen attend you. Your eyes are lovely. Especially when you smile. You’re so comfortable to be with, and you have the most cunning sense of humor.”

  Aidan winced at the reminder of his own callous estimation of Norah’s appearance the night before, the flash of pain he had seen in those expressive eyes. “Cass, what a thing to say!”

  “You can’t fault the child for telling the truth, can you, Sir Aidan?” Norah asked, looking at him in
a forthright manner that made him tug at the disreputable folds of his neckcloth.

  “Actually,” Norah continued, “I did have a few feathers in my cap. The first was an earl.”

  “An earl!” Cass clasped her hands to her breast. “Why, that would be a marvelous match! I’d wager all the beauties you spoke of were green with envy!”

  “Not for long, I’m afraid.” The dimple danced again. “You see, Lord Lavensby had the ill manners to die before he came up to scratch.”

  “How tragic! No wonder you were heartbroken! Did he die a hero? My papa was one—a hero, I mean. At Badajoz in the Peninsular War. You know, I wrote you the tale in my letters.”

  “Battle tales are hardly appropriate fare at the dinner table, Cassandra,” Aidan said, dashed uncomfortable at the reminder of those Banbury tales Cass had used to lure this woman to Rathcannon.

  As if she sensed his discomfort, Norah jumped in. “Lord Lavensby’s demise was nothing quite so noble as your father’s heroics. Nor was his death surprising, considering the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances?” Aidan couldn’t help himself, the barely suppressed laughter in those dark eyes intriguing him.

  “His lordship was eighty-six years old.”

  “Oh! Oh, how disgusting!” Cassandra shuddered, revolted. Aidan, on the other hand, felt a swift stab of empathy for the girl Norah must have been, forced to endure the lecherous advances of a wizened old man.

  “My next suitor was the Honorable Fiddlestone Biltmore. He had the most unfortunate resemblance to a toad.” At Cassandra’s gasp, Norah laughed. “It’s true, I’m afraid. He had a prodigious belly he covered with the most garish waistcoats imaginable, and he was cursed with an uncommonly wide mouth that split huge, round cheeks. And when he laughed, it came out in the most amazing croak.”

  “Not truly! You’re teasing!”

  “No. I vow it is the truth. Fortunately for me, his mama brought him to heel before he was overcome with passion for me. In the end he married an heiress with a rabbity face. I always wondered what their children would look like.”

  “There must have been some one more—more appealing. Just one dancing partner. Anything but a withered old corpse and a toad-person.”

  Those dark eyes lowered for an instant, and her smile softened in a way that made Aidan frown. “Actually, there was one. He wasn’t my suitor, exactly. He was… one of my stepbrother’s friends. He rescued me from behind my pillar on one occasion.”

  “Was he quite handsome?”

  “Half the belles were in love with Philip, the others just refused to admit it. He was handsome and gallant and—and he saw me in the light of a rather grubby little sister, I’m afraid. But I will always be grateful to him for dancing with me that night.”

  “Why should you feel grateful?” Aidan felt compelled to demand, inexplicably irritated with this high-brow gallant. “Did you tread upon his toes? I doubt it could have been much of a hardship to drag you about a ballroom for a little while.”

  The laughter was gone from her lips, leaving them shadowed with remembered pain. “For some reason I had earned the enmity of the reigning belle, and I’m afraid she was quite pointed in her disdain of me. Philip overheard some rather cruel remarks, and—”

  “He came to your rescue?” Cass enthused. “Just like a hero in those delicious French novels?”

  “Damme, girl, if Mrs. Brindle has been allowing you to read those things, I’ll have her head!” Aidan snapped, but he was all too aware of the cruel phenomenon Norah had described. He had seen Delia and her set ruthlessly carving to ribbons girls with less claim to beauty or wealth, girls without that killer instinct more virulent than any he had ever witnessed upon a battlefield.

  “I read the tales at Lila Matterling’s, Papa. Her parents aren’t so hopelessly old fashioned! Now tell, Miss Linton: Did you both fall madly in love?”

  “If we had, I would hardly be here now, would I, my dear?” She dismissed the girl’s query, but Aidan couldn’t help but notice the fleeting pensiveness that tugged at her lips. Why the devil such variations in her expression should bother him was beyond Aidan’s comprehension.

  I haven’t had much experience where kissing is concerned…. Her stammered words echoed in his memory. Had her charming, gallant Philip felt duty-bound to kiss her as well as dance with her?

  For some reason Aidan was damned reluctant to find out the answer. With grim determination, he changed the subject, firmly withstanding his daughter’s efforts to probe more deeply into Norah’s past.

  Yet the whole revelation had left a decidedly bitter taste in his mouth, one that conspired with the inevitability of Miss Linton’s departure to rob him of his appetite.

  By the time Cass flew out to help serve up this mysterious dessert she had aided Cook in concocting, Aidan would’ve been glad of a fire in his own fields if it meant he could escape this grindingly uncomfortable scene.

  But Cass breezed out in the wake of a footman bearing two plates with chocolate cake, drizzled over with a raspberry syrup.

  “Cass, I’m really not that hungry,” Aidan said, eyeing askance the plate-cracking portion she had presented him with. Then he muttered, “Especially after the journey into indigestion your last culinary experiment led me on. Remember how you forgot the sugar?”

  He had only meant to tease, but she affected such a wounded expression he cursed himself roundly.

  “Papa, how could you bring that up now?” she asked, casting a pointed glance at Miss Linton.

  “How could I not? It was almost the end of me.”

  Cassandra’s chin gave a little quiver. “I made it especially for you. But if you don’t want it… well, I’ll not cram it down your throat, even though I did burn three fingers baking it up for you.” She displayed the tiny blisters with the artlessness of a six-year-old.

  “Sir Aidan, surely you can at least taste it.” Norah Linton’s voice was as censorious as if she’d caught him plucking the wings from a fairy princess. “I only wish that I could eat it.”

  Cassandra looked at her with woeful eyes. “You can’t eat at least a little?”

  “Not unless you want me to break out in the most dreadful scarlet spots,” Norah explained.

  Aidan eyed his own plate fatalistically, knowing that between Norah’s refusal and his own fatherly transgressions he would probably have to lick the crumbs from his plate.

  Manfully, he dredged up a forkful of cake fairly oozing with raspberry sauce and put it in his mouth. It was all he could do not to go into fits of choking. Horrendous, bitter, he was reasonably certain that scum-covered dishwater would’ve tasted more appealing.

  He glanced at Norah, hoping that somehow the Englishwoman would do something that would allow him to forgo poisoning himself with Cassandra’s latest brew. But Norah was gazing quite wistfully at her untasted portion. When she nibbled at a bit of plain chocolate cake and smiled at Cassandra, saying how wonderful the stuff must taste, Aidan was convinced that Norah Linton must be a runaway from Bedlam.

  Cass was positively radiant at her praise. “Papa is always tormenting me when I help Cook. When I baked him a birthday cake last year, he was abominable! He even said he dared not feed it to his dogs, lest they turn their toes up dead.”

  “Cass, even you couldn’t eat the stuff,” Aidan protested, aware of Miss Linton’s quelling stare.

  “But I’ve been practicing, and Cook says this is the most delicious raspberry sauce she’s ever tasted. Miss Linton, couldn’t you just take the tiniest taste?”

  “I’m afraid not, but it looks delicious. Whatever did you put in this?” Norah asked, with what could only be genuine interest.

  Cassandra cast him a baleful glare, then preened. “Why, lots of sugar, and berries, of course. Fresh-picked. And then, well, there were some other ingredients.” She gave a most unsettling smile. “But I promised to keep them a secret.”

  Whatever they were, Aidan was damned sure he didn’t want to know. He took another fo
rkful, swallowing it with all the haste of a child taking cod liver oil. To keep from gagging, he washed it down with a gulp of wine. The footman scurried over to refill his glass, and Aidan was tempted to ask him to leave the bottle. He was going to need it.

  He must’ve devised a dozen schemes of slipping the horrendous confection off his plate and into the oblivion where it belonged, but it seemed as if Cassandra watched every mouthful, prodding him unmercifully with wistful comments about his former rejections of her efforts, bolstering her demands by drawing countless compliments from Norah.

  By the end, Aidan was certain he would’ve betrayed his own mother to spare himself one more forkful of the dish he’d already christened Cassandra’s Curse.

  But when he saw the look of absolute delight in his daughter’s eyes when he was finished, he was almost tempted to ask for more. He would have, had he not been prey to a serious wish to survive the night.

  His insides were already markedly unamused. He could only hope they wouldn’t fly into outright rebellion. But in truth, he couldn’t be certain exactly what was putting him so on edge: Cassandra’s concoction, or his own sense of guilt as he watched his daughter catch Norah Linton’s hand, bubbling with enthusiasm as she led her into the drawing room.

  What worse torment could he have endured than listening to their laughter as Norah expounded on her shortcomings in the accepted feminine accomplishments of needlework, music, and drawing, describing in detail the samplers that had been relegated to dust cloths, the watercolor landscapes that had all the pastoral tranquillity of Armageddon, complete with rampaging sea monsters instead of swans.

  It was as though the knowledge that she would soon be leaving somehow put the woman at ease, and the fates were determined to show Aidan exactly how perfectly she was suited to deal with his daughter.

  He lounged in his chair, listening to Cassandra’s chatter and Norah’s replies, their subtle wisdom hidden in drolleries that left Cass gasping with laughter. The same comments left him sullen and resentful, angry and aware, for the first time, how insular his nights with Cass had become. This woman’s laughter blew like spring’s fresh breezes through the room.