by Mia Vincy
Every one of those made him money. And not one had ever excited him as much as new ideas like this.
“What about if I look beyond the near future?” he said. “Ideas that have potential, that might lead to something, even if it’s not in our lifetime, but should continue simply because of their own worth? What do you think?”
“I think someone would still need to run your business.”
Joshua waved a hand. “Oh, I could do that too. But everything could change. Get Buchanan to—”
“Buchanan resigned.”
“What? He go off to get married too?”
“Said it was too much work.”
“There is no such thing as too much work.” Joshua rubbed his hands together. “The one thing we can be sure of in this life, Das, is that there is always more work. And isn’t that grand?”
Chapter 4
Mr. DeWitt could be as ill-mannered and unreasonable as he pleased, but he would not disrupt her plans to launch Lucy, Cassandra vowed the next morning, with strengthened resolve.
“Every marriage is different,” Arabella had proclaimed at the theater the night before, with the wisdom of someone who had been married a whole five months. “We must each find what works for us.”
And what worked for the DeWitts was to never see each other.
To this end, Cassandra timed her arrival at breakfast carefully. According to the housekeeper, Mr. DeWitt took a substantial breakfast at eight o’clock sharp before starting work, as was the practice of businessmen, so Cassandra made sure to be there at half past eight: late enough to avoid him, but not so late as to disrupt the staff.
She was highly satisfied, then, to sail into the breakfast parlor and find only Mr. Newell, a copy of The Times beside his plate.
“Today is going to be a marvelous day, Mr. Newell,” she said, as she surveyed the spread of eggs, ham, pears, rolls, and cake: a far cry from her usual, much later breakfast of bread and jam. “I can feel it in every fiber of my being.”
She helped herself to a pear and a generous serve of pound cake: fresh, spicy, and loaded with currants.
“You are in good spirits, Mrs. DeWitt,” Mr. Newell observed. Always pleasant, was Mr. Newell, unlike some people she could name. “I trust you had a good time at the theater last night.”
“Oh, it was splendid! And my grandmother has agreed to meet me today—at the British Museum, of all places—and I am certain she will take on Lucy.”
She took a seat and smiled at the footman who brought her tea, in a fine china pot painted with gloriously fat cherries. The tea was hot and fragrant and just as it ought to be. Yes, everything was going to work out beautifully—ill-mannered, unreasonable husbands notwithstanding.
“What’s more,” she went on, breaking into her cake, “I have recovered from the shock of meeting my husband, and I am reconciled to the fact that he is dreadful. For better or for worse, after all.” She ate a chunk of cake and considered the vows she had naively made. “Those are cunning vows, really,” she added. “It sounds lovely if you don’t think about it too hard, but what they’re really saying is: Too late! No complaining now!”
Mr. Newell removed his spectacles, wiped them, then put them back on. “I fear Mr. DeWitt has ordered arrangements made for you to return home.”
“Cancel them. We can both stay here. For my part, I shall not even notice him.”
That sounded very sensible, and Cassandra would have been proud of herself, except that Mr. DeWitt chose that moment to enter, yawning, wiping a hand over his eyes, and generally making a mockery of her bold statement.
For she could not fail to notice him.
To notice, particularly, his state of undress.
He looked as though he had barely stumbled out of bed and down the stairs. His dark hair tumbled over his forehead, the stubble had grown into scruff, and a fresh purple bruise on one cheekbone suggested that his night had been rather more eventful than her own.
But worst of all: He had neglected to put on any clothes other than breeches and a loose-fitting wine-red banyan. That in itself might not have been horrific, except that the silk dressing gown whirled open around him, revealing an expanse of male chest. Very naked male chest.
“Oh dear, Mr. DeWitt,” she said, staring in helpless fascination. “You forgot to get dressed.”
Her husband stopped short, frowned those dark brows, and tilted his head as though trying to work out who she was. Then he rubbed both hands vigorously through his already disheveled hair. When he lifted his arms like that, the banyan fell back further and the muscles in his chest and abdomen shifted.
Good heavens.
He glared at her. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he muttered nonsensically. “Well, of course you bloody well would.”
“Please, Mr. DeWitt. Your language.”
“If you don’t like my language, don’t sit at my breakfast table looking all…” He waved his hand at her in disgust. “Fresh and friendly and innocent as if you are unaware that you have thrown out my entire schedule.”
“Your entire schedule involved you going to Liverpool, and even now you are not keeping to your own breakfast routine. In a house this size, we should be able to go days without seeing each other, with a little cooperation.”
“Stop being so bloody reasonable,” he grumbled. “Can’t stand it when people go around being reasonable before I’ve had my coffee.”
With another yawn, he tumbled into the chair across from her. She kept her eyes firmly on his face, but the memory of his naked chest danced in her mind. She thought it bore a smattering of dark hair. She thought it reminiscent of the gods and warriors in paintings.
She thought she had better not look again.
“Mr. DeWitt—”
He made a long rumbling sound. “Coffee before conversation.”
As the footman poured his coffee from a silver pot, Mr. DeWitt stared at the cup with such fierce intent one might think he were filling it himself through the power of his will. The moment the cup was full, the aroma pervading the room, he wrapped both hands around it, sipped, and sighed, his eyes closed, his expression stirringly ecstatic.
That coffee so dark and hot…It reminded her of something. Then his eyes snapped open. He looked right at her.
Oh yes. That was what the coffee reminded her of. His eyes.
“Go home,” he said. “If I’m running behind schedule today, it’s your fault for making me stay out late last night.”
“You amaze me, sir!” She spluttered with laughter despite herself. “It cannot possibly be my fault. By the look of you, perhaps the blame lies with drink.”
“Perhaps you drove me to drink.”
“Mr. DeWitt never drinks,” Mr. Newell chimed in, and Cassandra started, for she had quite forgotten he was there.
Mr. DeWitt whipped his head around and scowled at the secretary, then he returned his attention to his coffee and took a hefty swallow. “Newell, you’re fired.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Newell popped a forkful of ham into his mouth.
“Mr. Newell, you are not fired,” Cassandra said. “You can’t fire him. He’s my secretary.”
“I hired him as Secretary In Charge Of Matrimonial Affairs. That makes him mine.”
“And I am the Matrimonial Affair, which makes him mine.”
“That is specious logic. I refuse to entertain specious logic at the breakfast table.” He waved his arms again, the footman by the wall watching the trajectory of the coffee cup nervously. “His job is to deal with you and your affairs, so I don’t have to. He failed, because look, here we are.”
“Which is your fault for changing your schedule.”
“Which wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t disobeyed me.”
“Which I wouldn’t have done if you had been reasonable.”
“I am always reasonable.”
“You are…Oh! You will drive me to drink.” She caught herself waving her arms around too—heavens, even Lucy never inspired her to suc
h transgressions!—and brought them under control. “This is why we need Mr. Newell,” she said. “We cannot possibly communicate with each other directly.”
It seemed that Mr. DeWitt took this as a challenge.
In an exaggerated gesture better suited to the theater, he carefully put his cup to one side. In another slow, deliberate movement, he placed first one hand, then the other, flat on the table in front of him.
Then he half-rose and leaned toward her, that broad, naked chest drawing near.
“Newell,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Tell my wife to go home.”
Cassandra mirrored his pose. “Mr. Newell. Tell my husband that I mean to stay until I have satisfactorily arranged my sister’s entry into society.”
He leaned in closer, so she could see the thick lashes framing his eyes. “Newell, tell my wife that her sister can have a fat dowry, and then pack some desperate gentlemen off to Warwickshire to fight over her.”
She leaned in further too. “Mr. Newell, tell my husband that not every problem can be solved with money and secretaries.”
“Newell, tell my wife that I will not tolerate this pigheadedness.”
“Mr. Newell, tell my husband that the only pigheaded one here is he.”
“And Newell—” Mr. DeWitt stopped, frowned, and turned his head, giving her his strong, scruffy profile. “Where the blazes has he got to?”
Cassandra turned too. “Oh,” she said, seeing the now-empty chair. “We frightened him off, the poor man.”
She turned her head back, at the same moment Mr. DeWitt did; their eyes met and she realized that they were almost close enough to bump noses. Hurriedly, she plonked herself back down, but she found it hard to take her eyes off him, as he lounged back in his chair, all lazy grace and naked chest, and reclaimed his coffee. The sleeve of his dressing gown slid back to reveal a strong forearm. Cassandra quickly busied herself with her teacup.
“Poor Mr. Newell doesn’t like arguments,” she said. “He often has to run for cover at Sunne Park.”
“Is your house such a battlefield?” He sounded amused now. “Pincushions flying through the air? Exploding bonnets? That sort of thing?”
“You’re not far wrong. With Lucy…” She sighed. “I suppose you do not wish to know about Lucy.”
“Not really. She’s the sister you’re trying to launch, I take it.”
“Yes. And she’s…” Never mind. He didn’t want to know. Lucy was her problem, not his. She could not expect her husband to support her; she could only hope that he did not obstruct her. “I do not mean to be difficult or disruptive, Mr. DeWitt. I would not have come if it weren’t important. I must do what is best for my family, and on that point I shall not be moved.”
“You mean, I’m not going to get rid of you.”
“Be grateful it’s only me. It could be worse. Lucy could show up instead.”
Joshua had somehow lost their argument, but he found it hard to mind, as he settled back with his coffee, watching Cassandra drink her tea. Before she lifted her cup, she stroked the painted cherries on the china, and before she sipped, she inhaled the fragrance with obvious pleasure.
When she forgot to be polite, she was highly entertaining. When she was being polite, on the other hand, he could cheerfully consign her to hell.
“What happened to you last night?” she said. “It looks like someone punched you in the face.”
“Someone did.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Not very.”
“Oh.”
She took a knife and quartered her pear.
“Is that it?” he said.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh.’” She looked at him blankly. “Where’s the love and sympathy, wife? You aren’t wondering what happened? You aren’t wondering if I’m in pain? You aren’t wondering if your dear husband will be all right?”
“Mainly I’m wondering why you don’t get punched in the face more often.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. She kept surprising him. “Because I’m rich,” he said.
Still laughing, he went to fetch his breakfast from the spread on the sideboard. When he turned back, loaded plate in hand, he caught her twisted around in her chair to watch him, although she quickly twisted back and pretended a fascination with her cake. Her head was bowed but her shoulders were tellingly tense: Her attention was on him, loitering behind her where she could not see. He was making her nervous, perhaps. It seemed an excellent notion to loiter a bit longer.
Her mass of brown hair was caught up in a simple bandeau, the morning sunlight picking up its red highlights and the fine hairs on the back of her neck, the bumps of her spine. Her hairstyle left her ears exposed, slightly pink if he wasn’t mistaken, as well as the curve of her neck, down to where it met her shoulder. The edge of her gown rode just past the spot where he would place a lingering kiss if they were lovers.
It came to his attention that he was enjoying their conversation immensely, which was utterly irrelevant. It also came to his attention that her eyes looked more brown than green today, that she did everything with a fuss-free competence but betrayed her sensuality by inhaling aromas and caressing the china, and that she was not nearly as saintly as she pretended.
All of which was also utterly irrelevant.
What was relevant was that when she cared, she cared a lot, fiercely and firmly, and this made her more tenacious than he had anticipated.
“I shall ask Mr. Newell, as our Secretary In Charge Of Matrimonial Affairs, to hire a valet for you,” she said, when he was back in his seat. “You need help with your grooming.”
“I already have a valet. Somewhere.”
“Then he will buy this valet a shaving kit and teach him how to use it.”
“Shaving is a waste of time. Bloody beard just grows back again. You object to my whiskers, Cordelia?”
“Cats have whiskers, Jonah. Men have scruff. You look…”
“Disreputable? Do say I look disreputable. I adore looking disreputable.”
She glared at him. He grinned at her. What a marvelous sport this was, being ridiculous and riling her up.
“Old-fashioned,” she finished.
“I never.”
“Men have not worn beards and earrings since Tudor times,” she argued. “Why do you even wear an earring?”
“Because I have ears. We could get matching earrings.”
“That’s a silly idea.”
“Got to have silly ideas to get to the good ones. Matching rings, then.”
She held up her left hand with its slim gold band. “We already wear matching rings.”
“So we do. How adorable we are.”
He lifted his own left hand and they both looked at it. His ring finger was bare, and the bulky ring on his little finger was clearly a signet ring.
“That’s not your wedding ring,” she said. “What is that?”
He dropped his hand into his lap. “Nothing. I mustn’t have a wedding ring then. Most men don’t.”
“Papa got matching rings for both of us, don’t you recall? He always wore one to indicate his devotion and fidelity to my mother.”
She lifted her chin, defiant and tense, challenging him to be cynical again, unwilling to entertain even the possibility of the truth. He could not mock her.
“It matters to you, doesn’t it?” he said quietly.
“As I said, fidelity is the cornerstone of marriage, and a strong marriage is at the core of family, and family is everything.”
But as she spoke, her gaze wavered and she looked impossibly young, lost, and vulnerable, like a newborn lamb just waiting for the foxes to tear her to shreds. If he were a different man, he would comfort her and keep her safe. But he was not a different man, she was not his lamb, and protecting her was not his job.
“Family is a nuisance,” he said, and turned his attention to his food.
Of the many difficulties Cassan
dra had with Mr. DeWitt—his bad language, his roguish grin, his insistence on baring his chest—one of the greatest was his rapid changes in mood. She had grasped that he was a man who was swift in thought and deed, but he was also quick to anger, to humor, to empathy, to indifference. She could not recall meeting anyone who was so quick at everything, and feared she would sprain her neck trying to keep up.
He also ate quickly, though she finished her cake and pear first, and it dawned on her that she would have precious little time to argue her case again, before he cleared his plate and strode out.
Besides, while he was eating, he was not talking. This seemed a rare and wonderful thing.
“I am seeing my grandmother the duchess today,” she said. “It is important that I see her in person, because relations in my family have been a little strained since…” She considered. Since Papa married Mama. The duchess had not approved of her youngest son’s choice of wife, although everyone was always polite and civil, of course. “Not too long. Only for the past quarter-century or so. My hope and expectation is that Her Grace will take Lucy to live with her, oversee her debut, and guide her through society. If we are fortunate, Lucy will make a good match and be happily married by the end of the year. I assure you, I shan’t bother you at all. You will hardly know I’m here.”
He shoved aside his empty plate and grinned.
“How is that amusing?” she asked.
“You excel at polite-speak,” he said. “‘I shan’t bother you at all’ means ‘I don’t want to talk to you any more than necessary.’ ‘You will hardly know I’m here’ means ‘I’m going to pretend you don’t exist.’ Am I right?”
“How marvelous that we understand each other.”
“Which means, ‘Of course you’re bloody well right.’”
“Please, Mr. DeWitt. Your language.”
“You like my language. It gives you an excuse to scold me instead of making an honest response.”