by Mia Vincy
He would throw the wretches onto the street for treating her like that, except she would likely object. Besides, he’d have to throw himself out after them, for treating her even worse.
Newell proved worth his weight in gold, for he ushered the two sisters upstairs, putting an end to the drama. Das and Isaac talked quietly in the doorway, and Cassandra sought solace in her cat.
Two weeks ago, Joshua had been perfectly content, alone in this huge empty house. Now it was overrun with a wife, a secretary, a brother, two sisters, and a cat. An infestation, after all. He tried to work up some irritation, but all he could see was the hurt on Cassandra’s face when Emily ignored her and ran to someone else.
“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said, jogging the cat on her bosom. “I never dreamed they would come.”
“They seem fond of Newell.”
“He has become like an uncle to them. It’s terribly inappropriate, I know, but I am busy and we cannot keep a governess.”
“Why not? It cannot be a case of money.”
“It’s more a case of Lucy.” She sighed. “I’ll take them home. Maybe between us, Mr. Newell and I will be able to herd them into a carriage.”
Take them home. Which meant she would leave too, and finally, finally, his life would be back to normal.
Excellent.
“They may as well stay, now they’re here,” he said. “And you do need to marry her off. Let’s launch her right away.”
She glanced up, surprised. “Surely even you recognize that she said shocking things. She is not ready for society.”
“She is perfectly ready for society. The question is whether society is ready for her.”
She groaned. “You want to make trouble. That’s why you’re suddenly so amenable.”
“My dear Mrs. DeWitt! When did you become so cynical? I am merely offering you my support in finding her a husband.” He enjoyed her skeptical, exasperated look. “What a shame the Regent needs no wife, for your Lucy would make a magnificent queen and lead the kingdom into chaos in no time.”
She gave a wan smile. “If only she could find someone who…understands her and loves her and makes her happy. She is not bad, only…” She sighed again. “It’s the least that she deserves.”
It was the least that Cassandra deserved too. But, instead, all she had was him.
Yet even after what he had done to her last night, she had stood by him today, teasing him, flirting with him, comforting him over Das’s betrayal.
“Buchanan,” he said abruptly, his mind leaping into action. “You were right.”
She looked confused. “Who or what is Buchanan?”
“Former junior secretary. Smart, but lazy. He had access to that information—and he resigned recently. All fits.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and grinned at her. “You’re a treasure. Das!”
He whipped away from her, to where Das and Isaac stood outside the door, regarding him warily.
“It’s Buchanan!” he said to Das. “Let’s go cut off his kneecaps.”
It wasn’t much of an apology, but Das seemed to understand. “With pleasure,” he said.
“And Isaac. Make yourself useful, won’t you? Find these witnesses and get the truth out of them. Money, fists, charm: Use whatever works.”
Joshua handed the list of names to Isaac and twisted the letters in his hand. Cassandra stood in the doorway, cat still in her arms, eyes on the letters. Then she pasted on that cursed oh-so-nice-and-polite smile, averted her eyes, and swept off toward the stairs.
“Excuse me,” she said, brushing past him. “I must get Mr. Twit settled and fed.”
He watched her go, up to her bedroom, he supposed. He should tell her about the letters. She would understand. The world would not end. The memories would not crumble into dust. She had a right to know.
He turned back to Das.
“Cassandra’s grandfather, the Duke of Sherbourne—he makes a pretty penny from his investments with me, doesn’t he?”
Das cast him a thoughtful look. “Indeed. You have helped swell his coffers considerably.”
“Yet when my wife sought help from his wife, the duchess was not helpful. Not sure I can continue partnering with a man whose wife treats my wife so shabbily. I shall have to call on him and let him know that. Let’s arrange that.”
“Good idea.”
Joshua looked up the stairs, to where Cassandra had gone.
He looked down the stairs, to where his business lay.
“Your wife is really teaching you to waltz, Das?”
“Yes. She has joined me here in London.” Das considered his fingers a moment. “She is keen to meet Mrs. DeWitt and suggested you might both join us for dinner one night.”
Well. There was a surprise. Joshua never met his secretaries’ families. And a duchess’s granddaughter was not likely to visit the home of an employee. But Cassandra did seem to like meeting new people, and she would argue that Das was more than an employee, and Joshua was curious.
“Have her write,” he said. “It’s probably some shocking breach of etiquette but Cassandra can decide.”
He considered the letters in his hand, considered the stairs leading up, the stairs leading down.
“Mr. Isaac and I can deal with Buchanan,” Das said. “If you have other matters to address.”
“Right,” Joshua said. “I just have to…Right.”
He went to the stairs. He went up.
Joshua found Cassandra alone in her room, fussing about with a gown. As he loitered in the doorway, she offered that polite smile and didn’t quite meet his eyes. How intolerable was her politeness when she wore it like armor! He had stripped it away last night, only to force her to don it again.
Nobody’s fault but his own.
“Where’s the cat?” he asked.
“My maid is seeing to him.”
“Where will he sleep?”
“With me, usually. Unless he, too, runs away in the middle of the night.”
“Ah.”
He let himself look at her bed. His kerchief was folded neatly on the bedside table. Three roses sat in the vase, one slightly the worse for wear.
He whipped his head back to look at Cassandra, who hastily ducked and made a show of inspecting the hem of the gown.
“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Cassandra said, rubbing at a spot that he suspected did not exist. “Lucy, I mean.”
“Astonishingly so.” Yet he knew which of the sisters he would rather look at. “The other one, the redhead—”
“Emily.”
“She’ll be a beauty, too, one day.”
“Yes. And Miranda was called an Incomparable.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“They are all great beauties, my sisters.”
“Indeed.”
He looked at the letters in his hand. From somewhere down the hallway came the laugh. He closed the door against marauding sisters and, after a brief hesitation, locked it. Again he caught her watching him; again she returned to the gown.
“So.” He strode across the room and tossed the letters onto the little table. “If you’ve finished fishing for compliments…”
“I was not fishing for compliments,” she snapped, her color rising. “I was making conversation. That’s what polite people do. But I suppose you don’t want to talk about my sisters.”
“Not really. Do you want to talk about the letters I wrote my wife?”
“I’m your—” She stopped short and smiled that infuriating smile. “It’s none of my business.”
She grabbed a clothesbrush and attacked the hem, fiercely enough to scare away any lingering mud.
“And you say I’m impossible,” he muttered. “Can you be more infuriating?”
She stopped brushing. “What on earth have I done now?”
“Try a bit of honesty. You might find it refreshing. I certainly would.”
“Are you saying I’m dishonest?”
“The only time you are not dishonest
is when you are drunk or lustful. You think politeness is a virtue, but mostly it’s annoying.”
“Then it’s jolly good you feel comfortable saying what you think.”
“Try it.”
She dropped the gown and leaped toward him. “Fine! Yes! I want to know about your first wife. Why she was so marvelous that the thought of bedding me sends you fleeing like I’m some repulsive monster.” She brandished the clothesbrush at him. “And don’t you dare call me dishonest for hiding behind politeness when you hide behind busy-ness. It’s a wonder you found time in your schedule to call on me at all.”
She turned away, snatched up the gown, and resumed her assault.
“I am busy,” he snarled, stalking closer. “I am not one of your fine gentlemen who has nothing to do all day. I have multiple businesses to run. It’s who I am, it’s what I enjoy, and I like my life like that.”
“Then go back to it. You know where the door is. Be sure to lock it again so I don’t come ravish you.”
“Oh for mercy’s sake, stop taking it out on your gown.”
He snatched the brush out of her hand. She grabbed for it but he held it out of reach.
“Give me that,” she demanded. “So I can get dressed and get out of this house and away from you!”
“I don’t find you repulsive,” he said.
“Splendid. Then you won’t be averse to catching me when I swoon over your compliments.”
“Bloody hell.” He hurled the brush across the room. “Cassandra—”
“Are you still here? Don’t let me keep you.” She glared at him. “You know that one. It means Go away.”
She spun away from him, a crazed creature in a crazed dance. He must be hearing the same music, for he spun her back toward him, all the way back, into his arms, against his chest. He did not know this dance, but he knew the next step: He caught her head with one hand and sealed his mouth over hers.
Chapter 18
The meeting of their lips brought back the passion of the night before. Joshua was so hungry for Cassandra that one taste would never be enough.
But he forced himself to lift his head.
“Not repulsive,” he said.
“You are impossible.”
“You are perfect.”
Her eyes were dark with fury and something else, and his heart was wild with longing and something else, and he had no words, so he used his wordless mouth to cover hers.
This time, she welcomed him, pushing up into him, her mouth as fierce and demanding as his. He kissed her with the force of all the words he did not have, and she was telling him something too, yelling at him with her kiss, with her tongue. Her hands gripped his waistcoat, twisting and fisting the silk, pulling it tight over his shoulders, drawing him into her softness, and he drew her into his hardness, needing her closer, closer, closer. He could not deny his need. He could not deny her anything.
They broke off, gasped for air, and she tore at his shirt, his shirt that was too long, the hem inching up his thighs and buttocks and hips, and why in blazes did they need so much blasted fabric restricting them all the time? His desperate hands found the bodice of her gown, hauled it down. Eagerly, he freed her breasts, covered them with caresses and kisses, but it wasn’t enough, not enough, dear sweet mercy, it was never enough.
She whimpered and growled and slapped his side. “Joshua, I can’t…I can’t…Give me…”
He jolted away, scared and wild, only to see that she protested not him but her gown, for he’d inadvertently pinned her arms. He yanked it over her elbows and hands, and she freed herself, the gown falling about her waist.
He had hardly a moment to enjoy the sight before she hooked her arms around his neck, her eyes bright, her mouth swollen, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed. She claimed his mouth and pulled at his hair and kneaded his muscles with those competent hands. He hauled her back against him, but—
Too much. Never enough.
He carried her to the bed, climbed on, laid her down, while she held onto him as if she feared she might fall.
“Joshua,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Tupping my wife, I hope.”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“Your conduct books say a man can’t tup his wife in the middle of the day?”
“They don’t mention the matter at all.”
“You read the wrong books.”
She laughed breathily and tumbled back on the pillows, lifting her hips to help him as he shoved up her skirts, up over her stockinged knees, her bare parted thighs, her quim warm and ready. He pressed his hand against her and she bucked and moaned, so he fell between her thighs, kissed her perfect lips, and sighed as she found his skin under his shirt.
“I need you,” he heard himself say, cursing his own inelegance, fumbling with his falls. “I need…”
His cock sprang free and he shoved his breeches down his thighs. Her hands were warm and eager, wandering over his hips, gripping his buttocks, as she arched into him.
“What you do to me,” he growled in her ear. “I need…Oh mercy, you drive me mad.”
“I do that?” She sounded surprised and smug.
“You do. It’s you, it’s all you. Only you.”
Her wandering hands slid around his hips, to his front, bumping his cock. She gasped and stilled, and he nipped her ear and told her everything was all right. She touched him then, gently, tentatively, torturously.
He pushed her thighs wider, lifted her, and she let him. She tipped back. His eyes didn’t leave hers, so deep, so dark, so drunk with desire, and oh yes, she did want him, as he wanted her, and he pushed deep inside her, as deep as he could go, reveling in the sensation of her heat enveloping him, holding him tight.
Her fingers dug into his spine and he froze. Held himself over her. Cursed himself. He’d gone too hard, too much, too soon.
“Cassandra, sweetheart? Are you all right?”
Her eyes were on him but he had no idea what she saw. Then her lashes fluttered and her lids closed.
“Oh,” she said.
She rolled her hips and clenched her muscles tight around him.
Oh mercy. Sweet, sweet mercy.
“Oh,” she said again, and again she rolled her hips and squeezed.
Inflamed, encouraged, he dipped his head to the soft skin of her breasts, tasted and nuzzled, tugged a nipple between his lips.
“Oh,” she said, and did it again.
He withdrew slightly, sank back in, and she welcomed him, and when he thrust an awkward hand between them, she rocked against him, squeezing him, finding her rhythm, taking her pleasure. She knew now what she wanted; she was discovering how to get it.
“Take it,” he murmured in her ear. “Take your pleasure on me. Use me. Have me. Take it all, love, take it. Take me. Take everything you want.”
He pleasured her breasts, gave her his cock, and watched her, awed, like he was viewing a miracle: Her head was thrown back, a flush stained her throat, and then she froze, her eyes widened, and he felt the soft cry build inside her. He captured her orgasm with his mouth as the pleasure shuddered through her and through him and he felt more pleased with himself and the world than he remembered feeling in years.
She reared up, locking strong thighs around him, her hands searing his skin—he could forgive the miles of blasted fabric in their way so long as he felt her hands on his skin—and he took his pleasure, feeling every inch of her with every inch of him, over and over and over, enveloped in her generous heat, in her limbs, in her. In all of her and only her. And when he came, deep inside her, he buried his face in her neck and surrendered to the waves of pure bliss.
Even after he relieved her of his weight, he stayed deep inside her. He had nothing else to do, and nowhere better to be.
His heart still pounded and, yes, hers did too. He felt the cool sheen of sweat over his back where her hands still caressed him, and he was still inside her, softer now, warm and content. Contentment was all he f
ound in his heart, too, when he searched it. He raised his head and looked at her: her eyes closed, lashes dark on her cheeks, the flush mottling her throat, so warm, so beautiful, bathed in daylight.
Daylight.
Gradually, he became aware of other things. Small things. Approximately six miles of fabric was bunched up between them, what with her gown and his shirt, and his buckskins dug into his thighs and his boots—Bloody hell, he still wore his boots! She deserved better, and surely even he had more finesse than that!
And slowly he became aware of the rattling of carriages, yells from the street, servants exchanging a word in the hallway, footsteps pounding overhead.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
Her eyes opened, a mesmerizing amber-green.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“Oh. I forgot.” Her soft laugh stirred as she lay and listened to the noises of the world they had left. Her face fell. “Oh no,” she said. “I made noise. What noise did I make? I forgot. How could I forget? What if they heard? What if they know that we…Oh.”
She was so adorable, as she tried reconciling her public self with her private self, and he was inordinately pleased with himself for finding this part of her. Grinning, he pulled out of her and off her, let her legs fall. He stroked her hair, kissed her. He picked up her scent on his fingers and his body stirred again.
“We’re married,” he reminded her. “It’s all quite proper.”
“Proper!” she repeated. “Oh you fiend!”
She slapped him lightly, so he kissed her, long and slow, and reveled in the way she kissed him back.
“That was rather inelegant,” he said. “I should have made love to you properly last night.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to. I…”
He had no words and she did not push him. “That was not like our wedding night,” she said instead. “I worried but it was…lovely.”
He said nothing. There was no point wondering if anything might ever have been different.
From somewhere came a laugh, that laugh, and a singsong call of “Mother Cassandra!” and another voice, Newell perhaps, moving the speaker along.