by Mia Vincy
“I don’t…I wouldn’t…You…Oh.”
Words failing her, Cassandra folded her arms and eyed him mutinously. To suggest that she was not honest! She was simply being civil.
“You should not mock politeness,” she said. “It’s our best defense against killing each other.”
“Our best defense against killing each other would be to return to our separate lives. We’ve gone a whole two years without even being tempted to kill each other, which is more than other married couples can claim. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. DeWitt, trying to ruin our perfect marriage.”
“I assure you our marriage will be just as perfect if we go about our business and ignore each other completely.”
He heaved a sigh. “Have you ever heard of barnacles?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Barnacles. They are horrid marine creatures that cling to the hull of ships and slow them down. They are damn near impossible to get rid of, and there are men whose sole job is to scrape them off. You, Mrs. DeWitt, are as tenacious as a barnacle.”
“I shall take that as a compliment, Mr. DeWitt. I am glad you are beginning to be reasonable and understand that it would be a waste of your precious time to scrape me off.”
Cassandra pushed back her chair and stood. He did not stand, of course, and it would be a waste of breath to point out that a gentleman never remained seated when a lady stood. Her husband was not a pure gentleman, but a strange, hybrid creature, one of the few who could cross between the opposing worlds of gentry and commerce, thanks to a rare combination of his breeding, business acumen, and, she suspected, sheer bloody-mindedness.
Those dark, intense eyes followed her as she rounded the table toward the door. She had to pass right by him and found herself pausing at his side. The bruise on his cheek caught her eye.
“It does look like it hurts,” she said. “Although I daresay you deserved it. You are exceedingly infuriating.”
Hardly aware of what she was doing, she lightly touched her thumb to the bruise. Her fingers brushed his cheek. The scruff was surprisingly soft, and she only barely resisted the urge to stroke it. She glanced down and there was his chest, still naked, still muscular, and yes, with a smattering of dark hair. She hastily withdrew her hand and tangled her fingers in her skirts.
There was something she had to say to him, but she couldn’t think what it was.
“Are you going to kiss it better?” he said.
His tone was light and teasing and she carefully didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she concentrated on the wound. An angry purple mark, that sharp cheekbone, that hot skin, that soft stubble. She could do it. She could press her lips against his face, right there. She often gave her sisters a kiss on the cheek, and her mother too. It was easy enough. Bend down, draw closer to his heat and his energy, and press her lips…
She looked away from his cheek and accidentally met his eyes. Hot liquid brown.
He wasn’t laughing now. He wasn’t teasing anymore. His sudden seriousness vibrated through her and hummed over her skin. Suddenly she realized just how much of him there was, and how close he was. His hand was barely inches from her thigh. She would not even have to straighten her elbow if she wanted to flatten her palm on his chest.
Then—then—he stood. That is, he unfolded upward with a sinuous languor at odds with his usual swiftness. She arched back, and her bottom pressed against the arm of the neighboring chair. He made no move to touch her, but he seemed to loom; he seemed so much taller when they stood this close, and his chest so much broader when it was right before her eyes. Her skirts murmured against her legs, caressed by his robe. She became aware that her lips were parted, all the better to help her breathe, so she closed them. He glanced at her mouth, back at her eyes.
That body had lain on top of her own, their bodies had been joined—briefly, uncomfortably, but joined all the same. It seemed impossible and yet…
“I never kissed you,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t forgiven me for our wedding night.”
“As you said.” Her voice came out husky so she cleared her throat. “It’s best that way.”
“Yes. It’s best that way.”
He glanced back at her mouth, swayed slightly, then looked up and straightened away from her.
“You are highly disruptive. Camilla.”
“Then we have that in common. Jeremiah.”
She edged away from him and out the door, on knees that ought not be so weak, feeling breathless and confused and more than a little disrupted.
Chapter 5
The British Museum was laughing at her, for it turned out to be full of bare-chested, muscular men.
Cassandra hurried through the exhibition rooms, seeking her grandmother, but finding only near-naked gods and warriors. They adorned the ceiling of the entrance hall, soaring two stories above her head. They crowded the galleries, too busy flexing their marble muscles to notice they’d forgotten their breeches. They hung on the walls, etched in intricate detail, down to the last fascinatingly male curve and ridge.
She was staring at one such sketch—a muscular Saint Sebastian, naked but for a loincloth and pierced with arrows—when a clerk approached to offer his help.
As the clerk had considerately kept his clothes on, Cassandra was able to tell him that she sought the Duchess of Sherbourne. Fortunately, the duchess did not pass anywhere unnoticed, and he escorted Cassandra up a broad staircase lined with ornate wrought-iron rails and through a series of galleries housing antiquities and natural curiosities, before leaving her in a room overlooking the gardens, brightly lit thanks to a row of huge, arched windows.
In the room were a dozen or so large wooden crates, each as high as her elbows, their tops pried off and packing straw spilling out onto the floor. Her grandmother stood by one wall, surveying the space.
“There you are, Cassandra, my dear.” The duchess waved her over. “Do come look at these.”
The duchess, the same height as Cassandra but slimmer, wore a stylish olive-green gown with a matching turban over her thick white curls, fastened with a large circular silver pin. Her green eyes were bright and her face, lined in only the most dignified of ways, was alert.
“You’re looking well, Grandmother,” Cassandra said with a bob.
“So are you, my dear.” Her grandmother favored Cassandra’s russet morning gown with an approving nod. “You have more of your father in you than I recalled. I’m glad you could meet me here. Sir Arthur is planning the layout of his exhibition and he particularly asked for my advice. Are you familiar with the work of Sir Arthur Kenyon? He is a leader in his field.” She stroked her chalcedony necklace, smiled, and stepped toward the nearest wooden crate. “Come. You will be astonished by this.”
Cassandra most certainly would be astonished. She would be whatever her grandmother wanted her to be, if it helped Lucy.
So long as “this” was not any form of naked man.
With a smile, she obediently stepped up to the crate and peered over the edge at…
A rock.
It was big and square and white—impressively so, on all three counts—but still a rock.
On the other side of the crate, her grandmother stared at the stone, her hand pressed to her throat. “Isn’t that simply marvelous?”
Cassandra kept smiling and looked harder at the rock. She noticed that its edges were chiseled with patterns: ridges and scrolls and possibly…a pig? Good. Pigs were fascinating; she could discuss them for hours. But, no. Not a pig. Just a pig-like chip in a scroll.
“Sir Arthur brought it from Greece himself,” the duchess said breathily. “’Tis part of an ancient temple, he says. Sir Arthur maintains that classical statues and buildings were painted in bright colors, though most scholars insist he is wrong and that the unadorned marble is the most pleasing and authentic. A fierce dispute is brewing in the Society of Antiquaries.”
Cassandra pictured a group of old men throwing big white rocks at each other. “That s
ounds fascinating,” she said.
She followed the duchess to another crate and offered enthusiastic praise for an identical rock.
“I was never one of the bluestockings,” the duchess said. “Sherbourne would not have stood for it, but even he agrees that a broad knowledge of the world prevents a lady from becoming dull.” She smiled pleasantly. “Your mother was never interested in my advice on my granddaughters’ education.”
“Speaking of my mother—”
“Oh, look, there’s Sir Arthur now.”
Sir Arthur Kenyon was a robust gentleman in his fifties, who bore the hearty look of a man who reveled in outdoor activity. He strode into the room, quizzing glass fixed to his eye. Upon seeing the duchess, he performed a deep, gallant bow. The duchess responded with a gracious nod, her face touched by a girlish smile and an extra hint of color.
Now, that made the rocks more interesting!
“Well, Cassandra, my dear, it’s been lovely to see you,” her grandmother said, her eyes on Sir Arthur.
Cassandra’s mirth faltered. That was polite-speak, as Mr. DeWitt would put it. Translation: “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“I daresay we shall see each other again soon,” the duchess went on. “You will attend your uncle Morecambe’s rout this week, of course, and I shall send an invitation for my ball; it’s in less than three weeks. I look forward to seeing you there.”
With that, the duchess turned and started across the room, toward her beau and his big rocks, leaving Cassandra momentarily speechless.
“Grandmother! Your Grace!” she called, collecting herself and scurrying after her. “There was a particular matter…”
Her grandmother paused, her lips pursed. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s Lucy, she’s nineteen now, and it’s past time for her to enter society and, since you are hosting a ball anyway, perhaps you might be so kind as to—”
“Oh dear, I feared it would be something like this.” Her grandmother spared a quick glance at Sir Arthur before continuing. “Guiding a girl into society requires considerable time. You may think I sit around with nothing to do but wait for my granddaughters to rush in from the countryside and start demanding favors, but my schedule is full and I cannot simply abandon my other obligations to tend to your needs.”
“I didn’t mean…” Cassandra fumbled for a response. “There’ll be no court presentation. Merely if Lucy made her debut at your ball…”
“I don’t see why Lady Charles isn’t seeing to it.”
“Mama is unwell.”
“I see. Well, your father did insist on marrying her. But that was decades ago and it does not signify now.”
“Lucy is special,” Cassandra rushed to say before her grandmother could turn away again.
“What are her interests?”
Making trouble. Breaking things. Getting drunk and singing bawdy songs in the middle of the night.
“She is a renowned beauty. She excels at dancing and singing and putting together outfits and—”
“And I am bored with her already.” The duchess sighed. “Cassandra, my dear, I made my debut nearly fifty years ago. Back then, dancing and gowns were exciting for me too, but let me tell you, the faces change, the fashions change, but the conversations remain the same.”
“If Lucy makes a good match, it will benefit all the family.”
“A better match than yours, you mean? I advised strongly against your marriage to Mr. DeWitt—the son of the man who ruined my Susan!—but your father would not listen. Yet still you expect me to run to your aid, even while you are stirring up trouble too.”
“I’ve never stirred up trouble in my life!”
“Oh? Then what do you call it when your husband and your former betrothed come to blows outside a club in St. James, as they did last night?”
That purple bruise on her husband’s cheek. The feel of his skin under her thumb.
“Harry?” Cassandra said. “I mean, Lord Bolderwood was the one who punched him? Whatever for?”
“You’ll have to ask your husband that, won’t you?” The duchess gave a little shake of her head. “Dreadful man, your Mr. DeWitt, but my husband and my son do insist on receiving him.” She shot another glance at Sir Arthur, as though he might sneak off to Greece if she did not keep an eye on him. “I see you are disappointed, Cassandra, but this has nothing to do with me. Your father made it plain that he neither valued nor needed my advice, when it came to his children. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
And you don’t want to know, Cassandra thought. If you knew, it would break your heart.
Cassandra hadn’t understood back then, either. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Cassandra, my dear,” Papa had said, barely a week after her wedding. Their prize sow Aphrodite had birthed a fine litter, and she and Papa were in the barn admiring the squirming, squealing piglets, while competing to think up the silliest names. Cassandra was daydreaming that her awful wedding night had resulted in a baby of her own, when Papa said, “Now that you’re married, I’ll have the lawyers transfer all my estate to you, which is to say, to Joshua. That’ll save you trouble later on.” She had asked what kind of trouble there could possibly be, and all he had said was, “You never know what will happen.”
Except that he had known. He had known exactly what was going to happen.
But she couldn’t say any of that, so instead she said, “Grandmother, please. Don’t punish Lucy for Papa’s decisions.”
Her grandmother laughed, a jarringly pleasant sound. “How melodramatic you are, my dear. No one’s punishing anyone.” She placed a gentle hand on Cassandra’s wrist. “I simply have too many other obligations. You do understand?”
“Yes. Thank you. I understand.”
This time, Cassandra let her go. As she watched, the duchess tapped Sir Arthur playfully on the forearm and drew him into animated conversation, full of her suggestions for curating the exhibition. Sir Arthur nodded enthusiastically, a wise man who knew better than to dismiss the duchess’s advice.
Cassandra left and roamed unseeingly through the exhibition rooms in search of the exit. Perhaps she was selfish, expecting her grandmother to leap to attention like a scullery maid, but to Cassandra, it was the most obvious thing in the world: One put one’s family first. Yet if she said that, the duchess would agree, smile pleasantly, and repeat that she was too busy.
“I’m too busy” was merely an acceptable way of saying “Everything else is more important than you.”
How Mr. DeWitt would gloat when she confessed her failure. Worse: Going back to Sunne Park and telling Lucy and Emily that she had failed.
Again.
Finding herself nose-to-nipple with two muscular marble warriors, she folded her arms and scowled.
“I will look after my sisters. I will,” she whispered to the warriors. “If you can go into battle with no clothes on, then I can find another way.”
She knew nothing about big old rocks, painted or otherwise, but she knew how to make friends. Her marriage had lowered her social position, but she would rebuild it. She would make so many friends that Grandmother would change her mind and Lucy could blow up Parliament House and they would still be received.
“And don’t you try to stop me,” she said to the statues.
The statues did not try to stop her and Cassandra decided to claim that as a victory.
One day, she would follow her grandmother’s example and lead an active life of her own. But for now, she would put her family first.
Family! With a sigh, she headed toward the gate and her waiting carriage. Her sisters hated her, her mother forgot her name, her grandmother thought her unimportant, and her husband wanted her gone.
If she’d known it would be like this, she would have brought her cat.
Chapter 6
Joshua was sprawled on the settee in his study, thinking hard, when a female voice outside the door sent his thoughts scattering like street urchins before the Watch. His eyes flew
open, only to meet the provoking sight of the flowers on his desk, so he closed them again.
Curse that woman. In the three days since that breakfast, she had stayed out of his way, but her colonization continued ruthlessly. Vases of fresh flowers claimed territory throughout, the conquered staff smiled more, and pianoforte music invaded the air at odd moments, all the more odd because he hadn’t known this house even possessed a pianoforte. Admittedly, the staff moved more quickly too, and the flowers were not unpleasant, and it turned out that music helped him think.
But none of that was the point.
Another voice outside the door: Filby. Good: The butler would not let Joshua be disturbed when he was thinking. Samuel used to sneak in, though; he’d snuggle up beside him, his dark little head pillowed on Joshua’s arm. Sometimes he could still feel the pressure of that head, as though even his muscles remembered the boy.
But it seemed that even Filby could not withstand Cassandra’s amiable invasion.
The door opened. A moment later, it clicked shut. Without looking, Joshua knew he was no longer alone.
He slitted his eyes open, took one look at the invader—as fresh as one of her roses in a pink-striped gown—and closed them again.
“Mr. DeWitt, we must talk.”
“Go away. I’m busy.”
“You are lying on the settee doing nothing.”
“I never do nothing. I don’t know how to do nothing. I’m a man on whom the art of doing nothing is entirely lost.”
He kept his eyes closed, but he felt her presence, stirring the air.
“And why must you persist in this state of undress?” she said.
“Undress? I’m wearing a shirt, aren’t I?”
He checked with one hand. Yes. He was wearing a shirt under his banyan. He opened his eyes, caught Cassandra watching his hand on his chest. Then she saw him watching her watching him, and hurriedly began rearranging the bunch of flowers, although they seemed adequately arranged to him. A faint blush rose in her cheeks, cheeks likely as soft as those petals she was fondling.