“Well, her reputation would not cast anyone in a bad light if you would become a champion of sorts for her. If you were to invite her, show her kindness in front of our friends … well, they’d have no choice but to follow suit. At least here in our little corner of Suffolk, she could be accepted, with you at the forefront of the effort, of course. Imagine what the vicar would think of you inviting her in, hosting her at your table.”
“He’s right, Rosie,” the baron declared, glancing up from his plate. “You could be a shining example for our neighbors to follow.”
His mother perked up, a smile softening her wrinkled mouth. The baroness loved being the center of attention; all the better if she could be perceived in a flattering way. She might not care a whit about Cassandra, but she would publicly befriend her for no reason other than to boast that she’d been the first.
“I suppose the idea has some merit,” she replied. “And we are short one lady, with Martin Fletcher coming along. If I invite Lady Cassandra, the numbers will be even. Perhaps there could be a bit of dancing after dinner. Oh, William, would that not be marvelous?”
Despite not being able to dance himself, his father smiled, giving the baroness his usual look of pure devotion. “It would be splendid, Rosie.”
With a smile and a nod, she then turned her attention back to Robert. “I have a spare invitation that you can deliver to her residence.”
He schooled his face into an indifferent mask, while his insides erupted into a flurry of sensation at the thought of seeing her again.
She’d left for London one day after their last night together, and he’d been thinking of her ever since, waiting for her to return.
The purple bruise from her bite on the side of his neck had begun to fade to a sickly yellow, the matching one on his chest following suit. Both marks seemed to tingle as if in response to her nearness, just a short walk through the woods and past the swimming hole. His mouth went dry and his stomach clenched, his cock stirring in his breeches. Delivering the invitation would give him an excuse to have the one thing he’d been longing for the past sennight—a glimpse into her eyes, a moment to drink her in. If she allowed him anything beyond that, he would be happy.
“Of course,” he said, keeping his tone even. “I’ll deliver it this afternoon.”
“I will go find the invitation now before I forget. This old mind is not what it used to be.”
“Your mind is just fine, Rosie,” the baron murmured before returning his attention to his meal.
Once she was gone, Robert reached for the paper, leaving his teacup sitting upon the footstool. As he settled back into his chair, he caught his father staring at him, an amused smirk curving his lips.
“What?” he prodded with a raise of his eyebrow.
The baron chuckled. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that it is nice to see you moving on. I know how difficult things have been for you after Lady Daphne.”
Raising the paper so that it obscured his face, he laughed. “That’s Lady Hartmoor now, and … I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, old man.”
“Hmm,” his father mumbled. “Right. Well, I will say this one thing and then speak of no more. Next time, tell Lady Cassandra to aim her love bites a bit lower. The one on your neck is visible when your head is turned at just the right angle.”
THE AFTERNOON SUN loomed high overhead when Robert set out for Easton Park on foot, a handful of fluffy clouds offering a bit of shade. His heart pounded and his stomach flipped this way and that. He’d missed her, if he were being honest with himself. Though, in the back of his mind a part of him wondered why. Aside from the obvious pleasures he’d enjoyed with her, she proved brittle and harsh. But, he’d come to realize that her hardness was nothing more than a wall closing out the world. And who could blame her? The woman had been through hell, both due to her ordeal at Bertram’s hands and her treatment in the aftermath. While the world had shunned her, she’d learned to cultivate an armor of sorts, keeping herself safe from scorn and scrutiny.
She put him in mind of a rose—deceptively soft and beautiful plant that sported sharp thorns along its stem. Those thorns did not make her any less appealing to him. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, they only made him want to delve deeper, to peel back her layers and see what he might uncover.
He was besotted; there was no getting around that. She’d drawn him in with the mystery in her eyes, and now he was ensnared completely, caught in the thrall of her darkness.
As he neared the pond where he’d last encountered her, he glanced down to find primroses growing in bright yellow clusters along his path. Beads of dew still clung to some of their petals, their orange centers calling out to him like a sunny beacon. He crouched to pluck a handful from the ground, imagining how they would look tucked into the loose spirals of Cassandra’s hair. If his luck held up, he’d get to find out shortly.
He arrived to find the gate to her small garden hanging open. It might be best to step through the gate and determine if she was in there before he approached the house.
Turning off the footpath to the front door, he veered toward the garden, clutching the envelope and his fresh-picked primroses in one hand.
A gardener’s work made itself apparent as he stepped into the small space, finding newly-planted foxglove, hyacinth, betony, and hydrangea. The blooms jutted up from the soil in strategic places amongst a flagstone courtyard, with rusted wrought iron benches here and there. A few stone statues filled in the spaces between flowers—angels and fairies, whimsical pieces of art that would be further complemented by the buds one they’d begun to overtake the space.
He found Cassandra seated shaded by a May tree, its branches hanging over from the outside of the wall. Its buds had yet to open, but in another month or so, the blooms would pepper the bench and the ground with white petals. She had not yet noticed his approach, her head lowered over a book, her hair gleaming with reddish tones in the shadow of the tree. She wore a simple morning gown of sprigged muslin, a robin’s egg blue sash offering a vibrant splash of color. Her hair had been pulled back into a simple chignon, though a riot of curls had worked their way free to kiss her forehead, temples, and jaw.
While sitting still, she presented a far different picture than when she was in motion. Without the perpetual anger furrowing her brow and pinching her lips, she was soft and womanly. She made him want to go to his knees and rest his head on her lap, gaze up at her and watch the way the sunbeams shining through the branches lit her hair on fire. The tender feelings were completely at odds with the usual tempest of lust and curiosity she usually provoked. Something deep within him panged, resounding throughout his entire body.
Then, she glanced up and locked eyes with him, and her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Her eyes hardened with a silver glint, spine snapping straight and her chin lifting a tick. All the softness had been leeched from her entire being by nothing more than the realization that she wasn’t alone.
Refusing to let that intimidate him, Robert started forward.
“How was your visit to London?”
“Ghastly,” she replied, her voice heavy with spite. “I am glad to be home.”
He wanted to ask her what had happened, but the look in her eyes warned him off. Whatever it was, she’d left it in Town, and obviously didn’t wish to bring it home with her.
“I …”
I missed you.
He bit the words back, knowing she would not appreciate them, even if they were true.
“I have something for you,” he declared, handing over his offerings.
She took the cluster of primroses first, giving him a questioning gaze. His face grew warm under her scrutiny.
“I discovered them on my walk here and they made me think of you.”
That was one truth he couldn’t keep to himself. She stared at the flowers a moment longer but said nothing about them—or what he’d just said. Instead, she busied herself with the envelope.
; “What’s this?” she murmured as she slid the thick card out and turned it over in her hands.
“An invitation to a dinner party on the night of my father’s birthday. Mother and I were talking, and we decided you must come.”
Pursing her lips, she gave him a pointed look. “Your mother wishes to invite me into her home?”
“Well, you are our new neighbor and all.”
She scoffed, setting the invitation aside. “And not one of my new neighbors has come to call since I arrived, the baroness included. Do you expect me to believe any of them will tolerate my scandalous presence?”
Robert gave her a sheepish shrug. “Everyone loves a scandal. None of them will be able to resist bragging about how they survived a night in your company.”
With an annoyed huff, she rose to her feet, the primroses falling to the ground. She paced away from him, tension gripping her shoulders.
He was on his feet in an instant, reaching out to take hold of her shoulders. She stiffened and whirled on him, eyes wide as if he’d startled her.
He held both hands up and took a step back, remembering her rule against touching without permission.
“I’m sorry. It was bad of me to make light of the situation. And you are right … our neighbors have been turning their noses up at you from afar since you arrived. But, that is why I insisted Mother extend an invitation to you. I made her understand that they’re all being ridiculous, and we must be the ones to set the example. You’ll be made to feel welcome, I promise.”
“Yes, while they whisper behind my back and look at me as if I am some insect to be stomped beneath their heels.”
“No, that isn’t the way of it.”
“It is!” she insisted, hands braced upon her hips. “Do you have any idea how much derision I must endure whenever I visit London? I came to Suffolk to escape that, Robert, not subject myself to more of it.”
“Then rise above it,” he argued, coming toward her again.
He reached out on instinct, but then paused before his hands could make contact. At the silent question in his gaze, she hesitated only a moment, then gave a swift nod. He took hold of her waist before she could change her mind, and pulled her toward him.
He wanted to revel in the feel of pliant flesh at his fingertips. She’d just allowed him to touch her in a way that had nothing to do with sex … and it felt as if such a moment ought to be observed, exalted in. But, he was on a mission, and having Cassandra at this dinner party suddenly became imperative.
“Wouldn’t you rather stop hiding for once and rub their noses in it? Arrive wearing the most ravishing ensemble and make them take notice. Force them to see you as someone who commands respect. You certainly changed my perspective of you, so I know you can make them see it, too. Make them see how little you care for their regard and they will clamor for it.”
She blinked, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “And just what did you think of me before?”
“That you were meek, reserved. But, you are none of those things. You are strong, Cass. You are fierce and vibrant, and you’ve been hiding all these years. But, you cannot hide from me anymore. I see you.”
For a long moment, she stared at him in silence, seeming taken aback. He had surprised himself. The words had simply come spilling out of him before he could think to stifle them. But, he did not regret letting her hear the truth. Saying what was in his heart had been liberating in a way, allowing him to be himself without restraint. It would seem being tossed over by Daphne hadn’t killed the romantic living deep inside him.
“Why does it matter to you if I attend?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “I take it this is an annual event?”
“It is.”
“Then he will have another.”
“No, he won’t.”
At her confused expression, he swallowed the grief welling in his throat and pressed on.
“He is ill and has been for some time. The physicians say it is only a matter of time. We expect this to be his last.”
Her expression softened a bit, and her expression grew mournful. “Oh, I … I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t tell you to gain your sympathy. It is simply the truth. While I’m telling you such things, I should also make it clear there isn’t a single person invited who I care to spend so much time with.”
She smirked at that, amusement putting a twinkle in her eyes. “And here I thought you would have many neighbors to call friend. I remember you being quite popular in London.”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Being popular and actually liking the people around you are two different things. Very few of them bother to try to know me. This party will be full of people who barely know me and who I hardly like.”
Her gaze darted away and she bit her lip, seeming to think on his words.
“I will beg if I must,” he teased, giving her a little squeeze and pulling her closer.
Her nearness had begun having the predictable effect, his senses overwhelmed by the soft press of her body and that delicious scent of oranges and clove.
She grinned, the familiar, predatory light appearing in her eyes. He trembled as she stared at him without blinking, her breasts rising as she took a deep, slow breath as if taking in his scent.
“I’d much rather you beg while you're beneath me.”
Her words conjured up memories of their night at the White Cock, him arching and groaning under her, Cassandra riding him with wild abandon. His cock swelled between them, pressing against her mons through the thin layers of her gown and undergarments.
“I’ll beg all you want,” he whispered. “I’ll beg until you’ve grown sick of hearing it.”
Slipping a hand between them, she palmed his cock, drawing a hiss from between his teeth. “Come with me.”
AN HOUR LATER, Robert lay naked in Cassandra’s bed, sated, sore in places, and thoroughly satisfied. She’d led him straight to her bedchamber, where she’d begun tearing at his clothes. He’d been shocked when she turned her back so he could unbutton her gown, then faced him so he could loosen her stays. He tried not to think too much about what that could mean, how she seemed to be softening toward him. There was hardly any time for thought once she’d pushed him onto the bed and crawled over him, taking command of him as easily as she ever had.
The mark on his chest was purple again, her lips and teeth having found the exact same spot. His chest had been marred by the rake of her fingernails, the red streaks still stinging a bit. His scalp ached from her fingers pulling at his hair, his lower lip swollen from her nibbling bites.
He’d never felt better. There was something about the moments following the finish with her—a lingering calm following the storm, a sense of peace and rightness.
Of course, he couldn’t tell her that, so he simply lay at her side and stared at the ceiling, eyelids drooping as drowsiness overwhelmed him.
Since it was the middle of the day and he’d be expected back at Briarwell soon, he couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep. So, he turned onto his side to face her, searching for something to say so she would talk to him. He was not ready to leave yet, and she did not seem in a hurry to push him out the door.
He found her lying on her back, hands folded across her bare abdomen, gaze affixed to the same ceiling he’d been staring at a moment ago. With the curtains drawn and a fire going in the hearth, shadows danced along her profile and made her eyes look darker. Her expression remained stoic, giving away nothing. He could stare at her for hours and still never discern what she might be thinking.
Instead of talking, he buried his fingers in her hair and caressed the long coils. He’d expected her to pull away, but she shocked him by remaining still, though her eyes did shift in his direction.
“What are you doing?”
She did not sound angry or annoyed, just curious. He smiled, twining one of her curls around his first finger.
“It is called affection,” he teased, tweaking the tip of her nose befor
e going back to her hair. “Some people engage in it after intercourse. Often before, too.”
She wrinkled her nose at him and went back to staring at the ceiling. “When I went to London, it was for my youngest sister’s birthday. Ophelia is eight and ten now, and will soon make her debut.”
He did not miss a beat, falling right into her abrupt change of subject. “How wonderful for her. Your mother must be proud.”
She scowled, her lips puckering as if she’d tasted something rancid. “Of course she is. The dowager has always been ever so delighted by her three perfect princesses.”
Robert knit his brow and paused, his fingers halfway through her hair. “I thought there were four of you.”
She snorted. “Precisely. I have never been one of them, and Mother has never hidden her disdain for me. Amaryllis, Pandora, and Ophelia are beautiful. Amaryllis has Papa’s red hair and a pleasing singing voice. Pandora and Ophelia are perfect English roses—blonde and blue-eyed and well-mannered. She groomed them into miniature likenesses of herself, certain that they would make splendid matches. And they did. Amaryllis is a viscountess now, while Pandora wed an earl. Ophelia is likely to be named The Incomparable during her Season and nab herself a titled and wealthy husband.”
The venom with which she spat the words was laced with a pain she couldn’t have intended for him to hear. He couldn’t imagine feeling like an outsider in one's own family. Even though his brothers had all lead short lives, there'd never been any question that they were all equal in the eyes of their parents. William had enjoyed the few perks of being the heir, but such was the nature of duty related to titles. In every way that counted, the Stanley boys had been treated the same by their parents.
“And what of you?” he prodded.
“Before my coming out, I was told I ought to be grateful I possessed a large dowry for it was the only thing I had with which to attract a husband.”
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 16