He could not mask his horror, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening as those words struck him like the most savage of blows.
What sort of mother said such things to her own daughter?
“Ophelia has always been the sweetest of us,” she said quickly, as if trying to gloss over the horrible memory. “When my mother, Amaryllis, and Pandora turned their backs on me, she treated me with kindness. She tried her best, she … she showed me pity when they gave me only contempt.”
He reached over her to the bedside table, where she’d placed the invitation and the primroses. Before leading him into the house, she had knelt to retrieve the blossoms. The action had made him smile, as he’d expected her to forget the flowers altogether, perhaps even stomping on them on her way through the garden.
“I am glad you had an ally of sorts,” he murmured.
While he spoke, he began slipping the flowers into her hair. The stems fit in the snarls of her curls and stayed in place. He smiled at the way the splash of yellow looked against her amber locks—as perfect as he’d known they would.
“She will not be one any longer,” she said, seeming oblivious to his actions. “When next I see her, the transformation from sweet, biddable girl, to catty, hateful witch will be complete.”
He paused in the act of tucking one blossom behind her ear. Her face gave not a hint to how she must feel about such a development. But he discerned the lingering hint of anger and sadness in her voice.
It broke his heart.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She is young and does not know any better—only what she has learned under your mother’s tutelage. I hope once she has gone out into the world and learned more about the people in it, more about herself, she will come to see how wrong the dowager is.”
She turned her head to look at him again, her incredulous expression at odds with the softness of her unbound hair and the flowers adorning it.
“Are you always so optimistic?”
The disbelief in her voice made him laugh. “I suppose so. There are enough people in this world always looking to see the worst in others, or tear them down. I much prefer to find the bright side of things wherever I can. Sometimes, when life becomes difficult I find it is the only way to survive.”
She stared at him as if he spoke ancient Greek—as if she couldn’t understand such a notion. Robert was coming to see that she’d survived by going in the opposite direction. Her hard and brittle shell had protected her, and she continued using it as a shield against the world. She did not know any other way.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but forgive me if I am not so idealistic. My mother has made it clear she will never forgive me for embarrassing our family. When Bertram’s father paid her for our silence, I was expected to keep my head down and do my best to avoid bringing more shame onto our good name. It could ruin Ophelia’s prospects, you see, and that was more important than anything that had happened to me.”
His stomach lurched as he imagined Cassandra, young and frightened, hurt in a way he could never fathom. The thought of her having no one to turn to, no one who’d cared to seek justice on her behalf …
“Cass …”
“Mother will never let her forget that I was almost the ruin of our family. To show me any sort of consideration would cause Ophelia to fall out of her favor, and in the end no daughter wants that.”
His throat constricted, the words to comfort her sitting on the edge of his thickened tongue. Even if he could say what he wanted, would she wish to hear it? She’d likely tell him to keep his platitudes to himself, and she would be well within her rights. What could he say to make any of it better?
Instead, he cupped her chin, tilting her toward him. Letting his finger trail over her jaw, he sought her mouth. She raised her head to meet him, taking control of the kiss before it even began, clamping her mouth over his with voracious intent. He surrendered to her, giving what he could without words.
She fell back into her pillow, once again avoiding his gaze.
He returned to his side of the bed, but never stopped staring at her, waiting for her to give him what she decided he was worthy of. Cassandra did not trust easily; that much had been made clear. That she’d even said this much was more than he could have wished for.
“My father was the only person I could count upon,” she said after a long pause. “When he died, it was abrupt, unexpected. If I had known my last moments with him were going to be the last, I would have …”
She heaved a labored sigh, then glanced at him again out of the corner of her eye.
“For that reason, I will attend your father’s birthday dinner … so someone will be there who understands what it is like to watch their father slip away right before their eyes. The night at the White Cock you did something important for me. Having a good experience after
Bertram meant something. I owe you this much in return.”
Shifting closer to her on the bed, he pulled her against his body.
“You don’t have to give me anything in exchange for that,” he whispered into her hair. “I gave that gladly and freely, and once I knew the reason I was even happier to have done it. You owe me nothing, Cass.” “Still,” she insisted. “I’ll do it. Tell the baroness she may count upon my attendance.”
Smiling against the crown of her head, he tried not to let himself become hopeful over this. It didn’t have to mean anything beyond her returning what she saw as a favor. That was all she’d make of it, so there was no reason for his heart to swell and relief to wash over him at her words.
Yet, they did.
“Thank you.”
They lay in silence for a while longer before Cassandra again changed the subject.
“Your scent,” she murmured, inhaling as if to draw it in. “What is it?”
He frowned at the odd question. “It is some concoction I’ve been purchasing from a perfumer in London for years now. It is a blend of orris root, amber, and a number of other things I cannot recall at the moment. It’s called Spanish Leather.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, giving no hint to what she might think of it. “I’d have thought you would smell like sandalwood or Bay Rum. I vow, the men of London are forever reeking of the stuff.”
He crinkled his nose in distaste. “I abhor the scent of sandalwood.”
Glancing up at him, she gave him a half smile. “So do I.”
Chapter 8
Cassandra lifted the hem of her skirts as she allowed Randall to hand her down from her carriage in the circular drive of Briarwell Manor. Inside, she felt as if a nest of snakes writhed about in her belly. Outwardly, she did her best to portray the aloof lady—the daughter of a duke who suffered no fools and would not tolerate disrespect.
In the sennight that had passed since Robert invited her to the baron’s birthday celebration, she had talked herself in and out of coming several times. Sure, she had promised him she would attend, but he'd insisted she owed him nothing. Which meant, if she wished to back out he did not have the right to make her feel guilty for it. But … she would feel guilty, because she’d given her word and he would expect her.
When had his thoughts or feelings begun to matter to her?
They don’t, she told herself as she approached the front steps of the manor.
If she gave him something he asked for, he’d be more amenable to the things she wanted. Heat surged within her as her mind went back to the nights they’d spent together this week—him sneaking off from the manor to walk to the dower house in the dead of night. She no longer needed to suffer for craving more of Robert’s submission and eagerness to please her—not when he lived so close and was all-too willing to come calling whenever he wanted more of what she gave in return. Sleep still eluded her most nights, but as she lay abed staring off into the darkness, she thought of Robert, not Bertram.
That, more than anything, was reason enough for her to do this. She might not wish for Robert to become a permanent part of her life, but after the
things he’d given her, she owed it to him to attend.
Besides, she’d meant what she told him about her own father. If she’d known the duke’s final birthday was to be his last, she’d have made it special for him—spent every second of that day soaking in his presence. After Baron Stanley had died and Robert thought back to this night, she did not want him to remember it as miserable or boring. If her presence could add some sort of excitement to it for him, then she would attend the party and make the best of it.
And, she had to admit that the picture he’d painted while they stood in the garden appealed to her. Rubbing their noses in her presence, forcing them to acknowledge her while showing them all how little she cared for their regard … it sounded like the perfect way to spend her evening.
She’d spent hours on her toilette, ensuring not a hair was out of place before she set out for Briarwell adorned in her finest evening attire.
When the front doors of the manor swung open to admit her, Cassandra held her head high and swept inside as if she owned the place. For the first time in her life, she sought to emulate her mother —a woman who could make anyone feel small with nothing more than a cool stare. Handing her satin-lined cape off to a footman, she followed the stoic butler to a large drawing room, where the other guests had already begun to assemble. It would appear she was the last to arrive, several pairs of eyes swiveling toward her as she lingered on the threshold and waited for the butler to announce her.
“Lady Cassandra Lane.”
Due to her status, the occupants of the room had no choice but to come to their feet and offer her a bow or curtsy. The forced deference amused her to no end, especially once she caught glimpses of expressions telling her most did not wish to offer it. She let her delight show, a smirk curving her lips as she inclined her head in acceptance of their obeisance.
Robert approached her first, looking like something off an artist’s canvas in his black evening kit and white linen. A diamond tiepin glittered against his cravat, and his eyes sparkled with glee as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. The soft brush of his lips over her gloved knuckles sent a little shudder through her. She could imagine him sinking to his knees and kissing her this way, then removing her glove and taking her little finger into his mouth.
Now is not the time, Cass!
“Thank you for coming,” he murmured once he’d straightened.
“I promised I would, did I not?”
“That you did,” he replied with a wide smile. “And you look … ravishing.”
The way his gaze slid over her from head to toe bolstered his words. She’d had this gown commissioned on a whim but had never worn it, preferring not to call attention to herself when out in public. But, this night proved a different sort of occasion, so she had indulged in a rare act of vanity, donning it with pride and allowing Lila to bedeck her with all the finery to match.
The gown featured a satin crimson slip with silver embroidery adorning the hem, under a robe of French gauze in decadent black. The sleeves overlaid with more of the gauze gathered in elegant sweeps at her shoulders, the neckline diving a bit lower than she usually preferred to flaunt the matching rubies she’d clasped about her throat. Lila had used curling tongs to tame her natural spirals into neater coils, sweeping them off her neck and arranging them in a whimsical style that allowed a few decorative strands loose at her temples and nape. If the look on Robert’s face as he drank her in was any indication, she’d achieved the desired effect.
“Come, I want you to meet my father.”
She took his arm and allowed him to guide her across the room. Its occupants sat clustered near the hearth, enjoying a drink before dinner. She recognized Lady Stanley right off, her silk turban adorned with ostrich feathers giving her a commanding air. Beside her sat a rail thin man with weathered features akin to Robert’s. The man had none of his son’s classical beauty, but Cassandra could see parts of him in the baron’s smile as he stood to greet her.
Lady Stanley stood to help him, taking his arm and offering support as he struggled to get upright. Pity for the baron pricked within her chest, who trembled slightly once he’d found his feet and offered her a wobbly smile. His sunken cheeks and weakened limbs gave truth to Robert’s claim that he would not live to see another year.
“Father, may I present Lady Cassandra Lane. Lady Cassandra, my father, Baron Stanley.”
The baron took her hand, his genuine smile growing wider as their gazes met. It struck her much the same way Robert’s did—full of life and joy.
“Welcome, my lady, it is an honor to have you here.”
She found it difficult to keep from returning his smile. “I am honored to have been invited. Happy Birthday, my lord.”
“Thank you. I have been fortunate to see so many of them. Have you met my wife, Lady Stanley?”
Her gaze shifted to the old woman looking at her with a heavy measure of disdain in her eyes. “We have been previously introduced. It is good to see you again, my lady.”
She sounded as if she were anything but, but Cassandra did not let that cow her. She simply gave the baroness her coolest stare.
“Likewise.”
Taking her arm once more, Robert steered her away from the baroness and began introducing her to the other guests.
While the vicar and the Rodinghams greeted her with polite smiles, the rest were not so magnanimous. Lord and Lady Loring—a viscount and his wife who served as two of the ton’s biggest gossips— wore gleeful expressions that told her they couldn’t wait to return to London and report the happenings of this evening to all their friends. She silently dared them with her eyes to speak an unkind word about her, which seemed to unsettle the viscount but did nothing to ruffle his shrew of a wife.
The Fletchers all eyed her with varying degrees of curiosity and condescension. Lady Fletcher was like a mirror image of her friend, the baroness—lips puckered, brow furrowed, eyes flashing with outright dislike. Lord Fletcher seemed the most indifferent, though Cassandra assumed his face might always be set into an implacable expression of boredom. Miss Lucy Fletcher gazed upon her as if afraid she might become sullied if she stepped too close, while Martin Fletcher seemed amused by her. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he only gave her an indolent grin, meeting her challenge head-on.
The widow, Lady Walter, gave a polite nod from where she sat in a quiet corner alone, still dressed in the muted gray and lavender tones of half-mourning. Mr. and Mrs. Fareweather ignored her altogether, turning up their noses and sniffing as if offended by her presence.
By the time all the introductions were done, the butler had arrived to inform them that dinner was served. She was handed over to the baron, who would escort her to dinner as the highest ranking woman in the room. She ended up being the true escort, resting one hand atop his arm and ensuring he kept his balance as they made their slow way to the dining room.
“My son must be green with envy,” he whispered, leaning in close. “He does not have the privilege of taking the loveliest woman at the party in to dinner.”
While flattery tended to put her teeth on edge, the twinkle in the baron’s eyes and the good humor in his voice made that impossible.
Like his son, the man was difficult to dislike.
“Lord Stanley, you are a shameless flirt.”
When he wiggled his eyebrows at her, she erupted into giggles— something she hadn’t done since she’d been a debutante. If the Stanleys union had been a love match, she could see how the man hard charmed his way straight to the baroness’ heart.
“And you are quite a woman,” he replied as they entered through the dining room doors. “It is easy to see why Robert is so enamored with you.”
She glanced over her shoulder to where Robert stood near the middle of the line with Lucy Fletcher on his arm. He looked bored to tears as he listened to her blather on about some thing or another, but when he found her watching him he brightened, giving her a sly smile.
Robert, enamored with he
r?
No, the baron couldn’t mean that. He’d invited her here as a kindness, and for his own benefit. She excited him, that much became clear whenever they were together. The novelty of their affair would soon wear thin, and he would grow bored with her as men were wont to do.
But then, she thought of the way he’d been watching her in the garden, the tenderness in his expression as he’d lain in her bed placing flowers in her hair. Upon rising to look in a mirror, she’d thought she looked ridiculous, her hair in a wild tumble with the blossoms dotting it throughout. But Robert had stared at her as if looking upon a goddess, remarking that the yellow primroses looked fetching on her.
Were those the actions of a man caught up in the thrill of newfound lust?
No. They were the telltale acts of a besotted man.
Damn it all, what had she done? She’d been determined to keep him at arm’s length, but now here she was having dinner in his home, with his family, walking in on his father’s arm.
It is only one dinner, she reminded herself. After tonight you will return to the way things have been. Nothing has to change.
With that thought at the forefront of her mind, she cast off propriety in order to help the baron into his seat. The last thing she wanted was for him to tip over while trying to pull out her chair.
She took her place at the baron’s right, with Lady Loring and her husband directly across from her. Due to the order of propriety, Robert sat farther down the table with Lucy at his side. The other guests filled the chairs in the order they’d come into the room, with the baroness seating herself at the other end facing her husband.
Wine was poured, and before the footmen could serve the first course Lady Stanley insisted upon a toast in honor of her husband’s birthday. The baron bore all the attention with a smile on his face and rosy glow in his cheeks, raising his glass before clinking it against Cassandra’s then Lady Loring’s. Conversation remained light over the first course of turtle soup, lamb cutlets, and venison accompanied by asparagus. She found the food to be far better than she’d expected, and enjoyed it more than the dull conversation happening on her side of the table. The baron and Viscount Loring had begun talking about the hunting to be found in Scotland, while Lady Loring cut in here and there to give her opinion on the barbarism of the sport.
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 17