She blinked and glanced up at Millicent, who might be one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. Why a diamond of the first water would want to keep company with a dowdy spinster like her was beyond Cassandra. The Ravishing Widow Dane, they called her. She’d been one of the most coveted debutantes upon her coming out, but had wed a baron old enough to be her father. Fortunately for Millicent, her husband had died within a few short years of their union and she’d been set free. Now, she boasted a fine London townhome and a tidy sum of money left to her by her deceased husband. She’d borne him no children, the lucky thing, and had no responsibility to anyone other than herself. It showed in her lifestyle, this woman who had gone unwed for years, despite boasting a slew of admirers from here to Scotland who would have given their two front teeth to call her theirs.
"I see so much of myself in you," the widow had said upon approaching her and offering friendship.
She'd been one of the only people to show Cassandra kindness following the scandal that had ruined her reputation. Since then, Millicent had given her far more than companionship, and she was grateful for all that the other woman had taught her.
That was why she was here … because Millicent had insisted she must take this final step to be free of the demons of her past. She had agreed to this, realizing she might never find the strength to move on with her life otherwise. The past several years had passed her by in a blur, as she’d walked about beneath a cloud of constant rage, despair, and fear. She didn’t want to feel that way anymore, so had leaped at the chance to free herself from it.
“Yes?” she replied, finding her voice after a long pause.
“Are you certain about this?”
Millicent did not appear annoyed at her for woolgathering, or for her reluctance. Concern creased her brow, her gaze penetrating Cassandra and probing deep.
“Of course,” she stated, her words coming out clipped. “I just haven’t seen the right man yet. You were the one who insisted my selection would be crucial to ensuring success.”
“Naturally,” her friend agreed. “What about him?”
She followed Millicent’s gaze to the rather plain-looking man who had just entered the taproom. He did not look as if he stood quite as high on the social ladder as Cassandra, but that was not altogether a bad thing. She could see why her friend had suggested him: his unassuming presence, average stature, and well-tailored but plain clothing. He would be forgettable, but also seemed nonthreatening. The sort of man she could use for her own ends and forget.
Still …
“He is too short,” she grumbled, glancing down at the supper she had been picking at for the past quarter of an hour.
She had not eaten all day, and the offerings on her plate smelled heavenly. But her stomach churned and she felt as if swallowing one bite would make her sick.
Millicent snorted. “My dear, perhaps I ought to have warned you to lower your standards in that regard. If you use a man’s height against him we may never find the right one.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes, but had to admit that her friend was right. She'd been convinced for quite some time that God had played a cruel joke while creating her. Why else would he make her so plain to look at, then give her such substantial height—as if wanting to make her stick out in a crowd so everyone could stare and notice how unremarkable the rest of her was?
Still, it was her decision, and on this she would not be moved.
“I’d like him to at least stand tall enough for me to look him in the eye,” she argued
Millicent sighed. “Very well. What about that one?”
She followed the discreet point of Millicent’s finger to the tall man making his way toward the stairs. She wrinkled her nose while raking her gaze over the man’s near emaciated form. While she could see he might not be strong enough to harm her, his spindly limbs proved offputting.
“Too thin.”
“Very well. Hmm … oh, he looks charming.”
“Millie, he’s clearly a servant.”
“When did you become a snob?”
She had never been one despite her high birth, but wouldn’t admit her true reason for turning her nose up at a servant. Men who worked for a living were always stronger than those who didn’t—which meant if she needed to fight him off she’d stand no chance.
“Not him, I said.”
Her friend heaved an exasperated sigh. “Cass, you must choose someone, darling.”
“I know that,” she snapped.
Still, as she gazed about the taproom, she found not one man who would meet her needs. Or, maybe they would, but she could conjure no desire to approach them.
And then, she saw him.
Seated at the counter with a pint of spirits and half-filled tumbler in front of him, he was staring right back at her. As if he’d been looking at her already.
Their eyes met, gazes holding as Cassandra wondered how long he’d been watching her. She was not accustomed to being the object of a man’s scrutiny—especially one who looked like the Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley.
It was a wonder she had not seen him sooner, as he was the sort of man who drew notice. She might have been too anxious to pay him any mind, or he’d entered when she'd had her back turned. Whatever the reason, there was no escaping it now—the essential thing about Robert Stanley that drew the eye.
To call him beautiful would be an insult, and to compare him to an angel would be offensive to God himself. He was tall—at least an inch taller than her—with a form that was not too slender or too wide. The fit of his clothes flaunted broad shoulders and a proportional chest tapering into a trim waist. His limbs displayed the athleticism of a man accustomed to country life—but he was not so large as to be intimidating.
His valet might have styled the array of pale blond curls that morning, but the wind had made a mess of them. But, even the tousled strands were alluring, more artful in their disarray than unkempt. His face was the sort that inspired a painter’s brush—pretty yet still masculine, his angular jaw complemented by full lips, an aquiline nose, and eyebrows so perfectly shaped women everywhere must envy him.
The sight of him might have caused other women to swoon, blush, or giggle. But, Cassandra was not like other women and hadn’t been for some years now. In truth, the sight of him filled her with heat composed of equal parts primal attraction and rage.
Attraction, because … well, one had only to look at him to explain that visceral phenomenon. Not hard to determine why contemplating what he looked like under his clothes made that elusive warmth spark deep inside her.
Rage, because men of his sort never ceased to stoke that emotion in her. Handsome, titled, privileged, overindulged. Lords and their sons who thought they could do whatever they wanted, with and to whomever they wished, simply because they’d been born with cocks and all the rights she’d ever been denied. She endured their presence all around her—in the park where she walked, at the occasional soiree, at her favorite coffee house, in the museums and shops she frequented.
They disgusted her, the lot of them, the emotion as acute as it had been from the moment Lord Bertram Fairchild’s attentions toward her had changed from romantic and gallant to nefarious and painful.
She gritted her teeth so hard they ached, as the sensations of anger and lust warred inside her. Heat flushed the back of her neck and her hands itched to strike him, hurt him, make him bleed. Simultaneously, an incessant tingle began between her legs, originating from the bud of her clit. Her mouth watered from the desire to sink her teeth into his neck until he writhed and screamed beneath her.
Making matters worse was the way he stared at her—as if he wanted to peel back her brittle layers and expose the weakest parts of her. As if he wanted something from her she was not willing to give.
This time would be different. Cassandra resolved to prove to herself that she wasn’t the same weak girl she had been upon losing her innocence in the most base and brutal of ways. She was in control, and no man—especially not
the insultingly beautiful Robert Stanley— would get the best of her ever again.
Turning back to Millicent, she smiled. “Him.”
She inclined her head just enough for her friend to know whom she referred to. Millicent’s took Robert in from the corner of her eye.
Then, her brows lifted, an expression of shock flitting across her face.
“Robert Stanley?” he whispered. “Well … that is surprising.”
Cassandra stiffened, her hackles rising so fast she could barely think before she’d lashed out. “What is that supposed to mean?”
That Robert was too handsome to even think of dallying with her? That she stood no chance of getting what she wanted from him? That she’d aimed too high and ought to reconsider the servant?
Millicent’s hand came over hers and the other woman gave her a soft smile. “Only that I hardly expected you to choose a peer. Avoiding them was quite the point of us coming here … aside from the need for discretion."
She deflated, ashamed of herself for her reaction. Of course Millicent hadn’t meant anything by her remark. The woman had never been anything but kind and understanding. Besides, the stories of her past proved nothing if not that they were very much alike despite the difference in their appearances. No one understood her like her friend.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Of course, I’m sorry. Do you think it’s a terrible choice?”
“No, actually. If it were any other man of privilege … perhaps. But Mr. Stanley is known for his charm and kindness. There isn’t a soul who’s disliked him after coming to know him. I’ve never heard any whispers of him acting in an ungentlemanly way toward anyone … and you know I’d have heard if there were anything of note.”
That was true. Millicent’s popularity ensured she kept a constant finger upon the pulse of the ton. She was never without news of the latest gossip and kept her share of salacious secrets, unless it served her to reveal them.
Still, she wasn’t entirely convinced of Robert Stanley’s goodness. She’d only known one man who would have done anything for her without ulterior motive. But then, a girl’s father could almost always be counted upon to treat her well.
Robert couldn’t be as pure and good as the stories claimed; and if she hadn’t already decided he would serve for her own purposes, she might have set out to prove it. However, it did not matter if he were as pure as Christ, or as evil as Lucifer … not when she intended for this night to be the one and only time she ever spent in extended company with him.
“Very well,” Cassandra murmured. “It’s him, then.”
Millicent folded her hands before her and nodded. “I will not insult you by asking whether you are certain, for I know that you are. I will simply wish you luck and remind you of what I have taught you. You are in control, and Peter and I will be here if you have a need.”
Her gaze flitted to the large footman seated beside Millicent. She’d quite forgotten Peter in all this, but the man was good at being unassuming when he needed to be, and now proved no exception. He was one of the few men of large stature who did not make her uneasy— mainly because he’d been the one to teach her how to defend herself with a knife as well as a pistol. Millicent’s servant and lover seemed nice enough, and he’d never done anything to hurt her outside their sparring sessions.
Her friend had offered his services as a protector of sorts for the night—just in case. That he would be near at hand eased a bit of the tension winding her belly into a knot.
“Thank you,” she replied, before standing from her chair.
If she did not act now, she might lose her nerve. Millicent said nothing, freeing her to make her sojourn across the room toward the man who had continued staring at her through their conversation.
He looked shocked as she approached, those bright blue eyes of his widening as if in a panic. That brought a little smirk to her face as she realized she had caught him off guard. Of course he hadn’t expected her to so boldly approach him, even after he'd stared at her for so long.
You had better get used to it, Robert … I am not the sort of woman to simper and recoil from your sort.
To prove it to herself as well as him, she made her way to the stool right beside him and sank down onto it. Facing him with an assessing stare, she arched one eyebrow and stared him down.
“G-good evening, Lady Cassandra,” he stammered, obviously caught off guard.
From across the room, she hadn’t been able to see how haggard he looked, but now the evidence of a hellish day showed itself upon his face. But, even with his mouth tight and drawn, eyes bloodshot with the hint of dark circles underneath, he was infuriatingly handsome. The urge to slap his smooth cheek and watch it blossom with a crimson stain overwhelmed her, but she refrained. She wouldn’t hurt him … yet.
“Mr. Stanley,” she replied. “What are you drinking? Whisky?”
He gazed down at his tumbler, then back up at her with a slow blink. His eyes began to show the glassiness of a man well on his way to being foxed.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good … I love whisky.”
If at all possible, his eyes widened even more when she pried the tumbler out of his grasp before lifting it to her own lips. She held his gaze while taking a sip, enjoying the rich flavor of the whisky as well as its sting going down. Amusement curved her mouth as she set the glass back down on the counter. It was so delicious, toying with him before they’d even really begun. She began to feel akin to a predator stalking a helpless doe … and how very doe-like Robert was, all wide eyes and parted lips, his breath hitching a bit as she edged closer to him.
“Now, then,” she said. “I’d like to discuss something with you, Mr. Stanley … a proposition of sorts.”
Curiosity overtook his features, and he picked up his glass once more. “A … a proposition?”
He frowned, and she could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he tried to puzzle out what she could be talking about. They’d been formally introduced years ago, but had only a passing acquaintance of one another. As a young debutante, men like him had often intimidated her. That had been before Bertram, of course. After the horrific incident that had changed her life, she had avoided them out of a sense of preservation.
They’d never exchanged words outside of mere pleasantries, so of course she must seem quite mad to approach him this way. That did not matter to her. All she cared about was convincing him to give her what she wanted—which should not be difficult. It was appalling how easily a man could be led about by his prick. Millicent had taught her that.
“Yes,” she replied. “I will not mince words with you. There is a room upstairs that I have rented for the entire night.”
Curiosity morphed into shock once more, and he looked as if he’d tip off his stool and swoon in a dead faint.
“I beg your pardon?”
Pursing her lips, she bit back her annoyance, deciding that berating him so early in their conversation would not work in her favor.
“An upper room. I’ve rented one.”
He shook his head and frowned as if trying to decide whether this could truly be happening. “Lady Cassandra, I must insist you allow me to escort you out of this place. A woman of your breeding could not know—”
“I know very well what those rooms are for,” she interjected.
At one time, that knowledge would have shocked her, and she’d have never even thought of looking in the direction of that staircase.
Now, she was far wiser in the ways of the world.
Robert cleared his throat. “I see.”
“I’m not certain you do, so allow me to make this clear to you. The room is secured, and all I require now is someone to accompany me upstairs.”
This time, she felt certain he might suffer an apoplexy when he flushed from his neck to the roots of his hair. He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking very much like a fish out of water. A pretty fish with perfect eyebrows and pouting lips, but a fish nonethele
ss.
Cassandra helped herself to more of his whisky—this time straight from the bottle—while she waited for him to find his voice. After a moment of gaping and sputtering, he finally managed to respond.
“My lady, I don't think … surely you cannot mean …”
Corking the whisky bottle, she looked him in the eye and delivered the words that would either kill him off altogether or make him hers.
“I do mean it, Mr. Stanley. I want to take you upstairs and fuck you.”
Chapter 2
She could have knocked Robert over with a feather, he was so shocked by her declaration. Had she left it at ‘the room is rented, and all I require now is someone to accompany me upstairs’, he might have convinced himself she couldn’t mean what he assumed.
However, she’d driven it home with frank—albeit crass—speech.
I want to take you upstairs and fuck you.
His blood heated at the way the words fell from her mouth, particularly the way her voice had cradled the word ‘fuck’. In her cultured tones it should have sounded odd. Instead, it struck a chord, some primitive part of him reacting to the sound of that monosyllabic word.
On top of that had been her odd phrasing. He’d had whores whisper all manner of filth into his ear, and not one of them had ever declared that she would be the one doing the fucking. It was always ‘fuck me’, ‘take me’. Despite knowing that if he accepted her offer, he would be the one inside her, her wording left him wondering what her offer might entail otherwise.
He would have assumed a lady would refer to it as intercourse, or congress, or even attached some flowery connotation by saying ‘make love’. But, he realized a well-born lady would never refer to it at all, let alone accost a man this way. Even so, he’d always known there was something about Cassandra that set her apart, something that had caught his attention during the trial of Lord Bertram Fairchild.
And, damn it all if he wasn’t more curious about her now than ever, wanting to delve deeper and find out just what that ‘something’ was.
“Well?” she prodded when he did not respond.
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 4