Impetuous

by Candace Camp

  However, sometime after dinner, as Cassandra was turning away from Mr. Winton’s boring, braying sister, escaping at the first reasonable lull in the conversation, she almost ran right into Sir Philip, who was standing behind her. She gasped, then laughed.

  “Sir Philip. I am sorry. I did not mean to run you over. I did not realize you were standing there.”

  He deftly drew her away from the loud Miss Winton, saying in a low voice, “I was hiding behind the curio cabinet. I did not wish to call attention to myself, as I feared I would have to join your circle. Having been ensnared by Miss Winton for ten interminable minutes earlier this evening, I was very cautious.”

  “Wise man,” Cassandra murmured.

  “I haven’t spoken to you all evening. Every time I head in your direction, you disappear. Are you avoiding me, Miss Verrere?”

  “Of course not.” Cassandra preferred not to think how pleasant it was to be talking to Sir Philip as they skirted another pocket of guests and eased into the hall. “But you are the honored guest. Everyone wants to talk to you.”

  “At tedious length,” he acknowledged.

  “I did not think I should take up your time, since I spent the entire afternoon in your company.”

  “Still, you could have had a pang of pity for me,” he told her, his eyes glinting in the gentle light of the hall sconces. “It would have alleviated my boredom a great deal to hear a few minutes of intelligent conversation.”

  “Sir Philip, you flatter me.”

  “No flattery, Miss Verrere. The simple truth. A bit of your astringent wit would have worked wonders against the cloying sentiments of most of the guests. If I hear another description of a daughter’s or niece’s insipid watercolors or lifeless execution of sonatas, I fear I will strangle someone.”

  Laughter bubbled up from her throat. “How unkind of you, sir. You have not seen these works of art or heard the pieces.”

  “No, but I have heard of them, and I have met the young women in question, and if anything greater than mediocrity could issue from them, I would be most amazed.”

  “Dunsleigh is not a place of great accomplishments,” Cassandra admitted, unaware of how her eyes sparkled as she smiled or of the creamy texture of her skin.

  Sir Philip, on the other hand, was well aware of both things, as well as of the outmoded, ill-colored dress she wore. He was also aware of an urge to buy something lovely for her. He wanted to see her in some elegant dress the color of which played up her cool gray eyes and the style of which emphasized her delightful slender, high-breasted figure. Something, say, like the dress her aunt had worn tonight—not the awful frilly style, of course, but the material, a lovely shimmering silk that made him think of light summer rains and the rainbows afterward.

  However, the offer of a top-notch modiste’s gown was a present that no woman of good character could accept from a male other than her father or brother or other relative. Even a strand of milky pearls to circle her long, elegant throat would be unthinkable from any but a fiancé. For the first time that he could remember, Sir Philip chafed under such social restrictions. He thought how absurd it was that a man could lavish presents upon a woman of easy virtue, whereas even the poorest woman of gentility could accept nothing from a man. He would have liked very much at that moment to give Cassandra something lovely and see her eyes light up with pleasure.

  “There you are!” came Aunt Ardis’s ringing voice.

  Cassandra and Philip glanced up, startled, to see her bearing down upon them from the drawing room doorway. Philip could not hold back a heartfelt groan.

  “Whatever are you thinking, Cassandra?” her aunt scolded with heavy playfulness, wagging an admonitory finger at her. “Keeping Sir Philip talking out here in the hall!” She reached them and linked her hand through his arm. “You must excuse her, Sir Philip. I am afraid my niece has never been much in society.”

  “Yes,” he responded coolly. “I find her most refreshing.”

  Aunt Ardis smiled at him archly. “Now, don’t you be using that charm on us poor country girls, eh, Cassandra? You will leave a string of broken hearts behind you.”

  He made a polite demurral as Ardis led him away. Cassandra, watching them, sighed. All the glow seemed to have gone out of the evening. From then on, she felt as if she were merely marking time, waiting for the party to end.

  Eventually it did, breaking up within minutes after Sir Philip’s departure. As soon as the last guest left, Aunt Ardis collapsed into a chair, as if she had brought off the evening successfully with great effort on her part. However, she soon recovered enough to launch into a discussion with Joanna over the success of the evening, hashing and rehashing every movement Sir Philip had made and each attention that he had paid to Joanna.

  Cassandra grimaced and went straight up to bed. The light was burning dimly in the room she shared with Olivia, and she could see that Olivia was already asleep. Olivia, deemed too young by her aunt to participate in the delights of the evening, had refused to even watch the festivities through the stair rail, as her brothers had, and Cassandra suspected that she had gone early to bed.

  She undressed quietly, careful not to disturb her sister, and crawled into bed for a brief nap, leaving the lamp burning low. She could not sleep deeply with light in the room, and she awoke after a couple of hours, as she had known she would. Olivia was still sleeping soundly beside her. Cassandra crawled out of bed and dressed without making noise. She did not pull on the usual number of petticoats to fill out the skirt. She wanted to be as free and unhampered in her movements tonight as possible. Opening the lid of the chest at the foot of the bed, she pulled out a blanket, which she tucked under her arm. Then she picked up her sturdiest pair of boots, turned out the flame of the lamp and slipped out of her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

  She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness of the hallway, lit only by the long windows at one end. She moved like a wraith along the passage and down the stairs to her uncle’s study. Once inside, with the door closed, she dared to light a candle to help her see. She crossed to a cabinet and pulled a wrapped object from inside it. Carefully she peeled back the cloth to reveal a revolver. From a drawer she took out a handful of bullets and loaded the gun, then slipped both the gun and extra bullets into the capacious pocket of her skirt. Cassandra had never used a gun except for target practice, but her father had been a believer in a complete education for his girls as well as his boys, and he had had their gamekeeper instruct her in the use of firearms. Always a quick student, Cassandra had proved to have a steady hand and a good eye, and she was confident that she could defend herself if the need arose.

  A final stop in the kitchen got her a lantern, which she lit, then lowered the shields on all sides but one. She left the house and crossed the garden, taking the familiar path to Chesilworth.

  It had taken her only a few minutes of thought after Jack Chumley’s startling news to realize that the best thing to do would be to return tonight to the mansion and try to catch the intruder. Her plan was simple: she would make her way to the hill behind the house and there, beneath the cover of a clump of trees, she would settle down to watch for signs of a light in the house. When a light appeared, she would sneak closer and take a good look at who it was. She had brought the blanket to make sitting for some time on the ground more bearable, and she had brought the pistol for protection. She had thought at first about actually confronting the intruder, but even though she was armed, she thought it might be too dangerous. There was, after all, only one of her, and there was no telling what a cornered man might do. It would be better, she knew, to control her impulses and merely find out who was searching for the letters.

  She could not bring herself to believe that it was either Sir Philip or Mr. Miller. Sir Philip could be a most aggravating man—but a thief? It hardly seemed possible. He was, as he had
pointed out, a very wealthy man already. Would he risk being exposed as a thief—or at least a trespasser—to acquire what was to him a relatively small amount of money? He would get half of it anyway! And Mr. Miller had had the most honest of faces. Surely a man who laughed so easily and talked so openly could not be a villain inside. Still, she had nothing to go on except her instincts, and she wanted proof.

  She reached the copse of trees behind Chesilworth and spread out the blanket to sit on. Turning off the lantern, she sat down to wait. She stared across at the dark hulk of Chesilworth. There was no sign of a light in the attic or anywhere else. After a while her back began to ache, and she shifted so that she was leaning against the tree trunk. More time passed. Her eyelids began to grow heavy as she watched, and she had to struggle to keep them open. Suddenly she came to with a jerk, and she realized that she had fallen asleep, her head lolling forward.

  Cassandra rubbed her face with the heels of her hands and gave herself a bracing lecture on the value of staying awake. Yet, despite her best efforts, she soon felt herself nodding off again. It was just that the night was so velvety dark, the house so unchanging, the sounds of the night so soft and somnambulant.

  She blinked, suddenly fully awake, and leaned forward. There it was, the flash of a light. The light appeared again, and she realized that its carrier had gone behind the side garden wall and then reemerged behind the house. A huge cold knot formed in Cassandra’s chest. She wasn’t sure whether she was more excited or terrified. She rose to her feet, reaching into her pocket to close her hand reassuringly around the pistol.

  Leaving the cover of the trees, she started down the hill toward Chesilworth. She did not want to carry the lantern, for its light would make her as obvious to the intruder as his had made him obvious to her. But without the light the uneven ground was shrouded in shadow, and she had to go slowly for fear of stepping in a hole and twisting her ankle or slamming into a hillock of grass.

  The intruder’s light was gone. Either he had shut it off or he had disappeared around the corner of the house. No doubt he was looking for another entrance, since Chumley had blocked the broken windowpane. In retrospect, Cassandra wished that she had told Chumley not to. Seeing that piece of wood across the empty pane, he would be bound to realize that his break-in had been discovered. It might make him wary of going in. He might guess that someone was out in the dark lying in wait for him.

  The thought hastened Cassandra’s feet. Her eyes were intent on the ground. Suddenly she sensed something to her left, but before she could turn, a heavy weight rammed into her, knocking her flat on the ground.

  Frantically Cassandra struggled, lashing out with her arms and legs. One of her elbows connected sharply with something hard. She heard her attacker gasp and mutter a low curse. His hold on her lessened involuntarily, and Cassandra seized the opportunity to try to crawl out from beneath him. But he was too quick for her, and he grabbed at her shoulders. One hand caught in the neckline of her dress, and as Cassandra tried to twist away, it tore, ripping straight down the front. His hand slid down across her bare chest and onto the top of her breast.

  “Christ in heaven!”

  Cassandra found her breath again and shrieked a half second before the sound of his voice registered in her ears. He turned her over roughly and pinned her arms to the ground. For a long moment they simply stared into each other’s faces, barely visible in the dim light.

  “Sir Philip!” Her chest felt as if someone had stabbed her. “It was you? You are the thief?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I SHOULD HAVE known,” Sir Philip said with weary bitterness. Letting out a muffled curse, he sat up, releasing her.

  But Cassandra did not move. She felt too heavy, as if her heart weighed her down. “But why?” She could feel tears lurking embarrassingly close. “Why would you try to steal the letters from me?”

  He stared at her, the import of her words only now sinking in on him. He let out a disgusted noise. “You think that I— You little fool! I’m not the intruder! I thought you were.”

  “Me? That’s insane. Why would I break into my own house at night to look for the letters when I am already doing so every afternoon?”

  “I didn’t mean you, you.”

  Cassandra stared at him. “Exactly what me did you mean?”

  He let out a low growl. “What I am trying to say is that I did not realize it was you when I jumped at you. I saw someone skulking down the hill. It is rather dark, you know, and I assumed it was the thief coming to break into the house again. So I ran at him—and took you down.” He touched his cheek gingerly. “Damn, but you wield a mean elbow!”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you were hiding, trying to catch the intruder?” Cassandra asked in exasperation.

  “Of course. As soon as your man told us about it this afternoon, I realized that I must come here tonight and lie in wait to see if I could catch the villain. But all I caught was you.”

  “That is what I was doing.” She giggled, swept with relief. Of course, it could not have been Philip she saw with the lantern. Surely he could not have doubled back and attacked her from behind so quickly—and how would he have even known she was coming down the hill?

  “But he was here!” she exclaimed, sitting up. “I saw a lantern moving behind the house. That is why I started down the hill.”

  “You were planning to confront him?” Neville almost shouted. “Really, Cassandra! The man is probably dangerous! What’s to stop him bashing you over the head?”

  “Don’t worry. I have a gun.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the pistol.

  “A gun!” His voice slid comically upward. “And you tell me not to worry? For God’s sake, put that thing away. You are a menace to yourself and everyone around you!”

  “Me!” she retorted indignantly. “I am not the one who goes about knocking people to the ground without even waiting to see who they are!” She pulled her legs under her and tried to stand, but Philip was still sitting on her skirts, and she could not budge. “What are we sitting here for? The intruder is—”

  “Long gone by now,” Neville interrupted wearily. “Do you honestly think he has been hanging about while we screamed and wrestled and shouted at one another?”

  “Oh. I suppose not.” She pulled at her skirts in irritation. “Would you get off me?”

  He looked at her. Cassandra was suddenly aware of the sexual import of what she had said. Her words seemed to hang in the air between them, and she could not help but recall that only a moment before he had indeed been on top of her, his muscular body pressing into hers. Her heart began to hammer within her chest, and she could feel the betraying heat rising in her face.

  “I didn’t mean—that is—” She stumbled to a halt, realized that she could only make it worse by enlarging on her statement.

  She stole a peek at Sir Philip and saw that his eyes were not on her face but had drifted downward. It wasn’t until then that she remembered the ripping sound when he had grabbed her. She was aware suddenly of the caress of the night air on her bare chest, and she glanced down, horror-stricken. The bodice of her dress was torn at a slant from the neckline on one side almost to the waist on the other. It hung open, exposing her whole front, clad only in a thin white cotton chemise. The tops of her breasts swelled above the beribboned chemise, and her nipples pointed obviously beneath the material, aroused by the cool touch of the air.

  Cassandra swallowed, her embarrassment so acute that she was past blushing. How could she possibly manage to be caught again in such a compromising position with this man? Looking at his face, however, she knew that there was another feeling inside her, something that was not embarrassment at all, but a dark, hungry sensation, titillating and almost proud as his eyes ate up her near-naked form.

  Sir Philip’s eyes were pools of darkness, his mouth heavy with desir
e. Looking at her made him hungry, she knew, and that thought aroused an answering heaviness in her own loins. His gaze dropped lower, going to her legs, clearly outlined beneath her skirts, with no concealing petticoats to hide the shape. Slowly, caressingly, his eyes moved upward again until he was gazing into her face.

  “I want you,” he said baldly. He felt suddenly so light-headed with desire that he could scarcely think. Cassandra’s hair was hanging loose around her shoulders, pale and silky, inviting his touch, and her lush body was so close….

  Cassandra wet her lips. She could think of nothing to say. She could feel her nipples tightening even more, just at his words. She thought of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth. She remembered his hands caressing her breasts, his mouth fastening on her nipple.

  “That wasn’t a dream, was it?” she asked huskily. “That night when we met…I wasn’t dreaming. You were doing those things….”

  “Yes.” Blood was pounding in his loins. “I kissed you.” Cassandra’s hand went unconsciously to her breast. “I touched you.”

  He reached out, laying his hand over hers. She looked up, startled, and her eyes were caught by his. Mesmerized, she stared into the dark depths of desire glittering in his eyes, and her hand dropped away. His palm settled on her breast. His fingers curved around the soft orb, hot even through the cloth of her chemise. Heat flooded Cassandra’s face, but she could not tear her gaze from his. She was too breathless to speak, and her brain could not find the words to protest, anyway. Her thoughts were too jumbled, too searing.

  His hand moved up and then down beneath the light chemise, gliding over her naked breasts. He caressed her, finding the point of her nipple and taking it gently between his forefinger and thumb. Cassandra drew in her breath sharply at the sudden, intense pleasure as he manipulated the little bud of flesh. Heat flooded her abdomen, and there was suddenly moisture between her legs. A groan escaped her, and the soft noise almost catapulted his own desire past control.