by Mia Vincy
“On and off. I’ve discovered she takes less if she has something to occupy her mind. She used to have an interest in herbs and cordials, so last autumn, Mrs. Greenway and I fixed up the distillery, with new equipment and recipe books. Now she potters about in there most mornings, devising new cordials for us to sample. Her orange and sage wine is…interesting, shall we say. At least she is in the world for half the day.”
She looked as calm as if she had nothing on her mind but her aunt’s choice of porcelain, yet still she was turning herself inside out trying to fix her family, and not one of them seemed to know or care.
He was the worst of the lot, because he knew and he cared, and still he hurt her, time and time again. Yet somehow he couldn’t stop himself, because whenever being with her started to feel right, another part of him insisted that it was very, very wrong.
Then her face was soft and gentle, the face he usually saw by candlelight. His legs jiggled with the urge to hurl open the carriage door and throw himself out.
“What Papa wanted,” she said quietly. “For us.”
“No. Do not go getting romantic ideas simply because your father wanted it.”
“I was going to say I knew nothing of his matchmaking. I thought I was marrying you only to secure the inheritance.”
“And I told him I had no wish to marry again and would accept a marriage in name only.”
“Which is why we agreed to return to our separate lives.”
“Exactly,” he snapped, more irritated by her than he could ever recall being. “It means nothing that our bedsport is highly satisfactory—” He stopped. “It is satisfactory for you?”
“I have no complaints but I feel no need to discuss it. Heavens, what was Papa thinking? That I might be married to a man who discusses the most inappropriate things.”
“That I’m married to a woman who cares more about what is appropriate than about expressing her own needs.”
“A man so devoted to expressing himself that he cares not if he upsets others.”
“A woman so concerned with not upsetting others that she makes herself miserable.”
“A man who has learned only to run away from loss.”
“A woman who has never learned to fight for what is hers.”
The carriage lurched into a hole and their noses nearly bumped. As one, they realized that they were leaning across the carriage toward each other. As one, they threw themselves back against the squabs.
“You are talking utter nonsense again,” she said.
“As are you. Just as well this is nearly over, then, isn’t it?”
“Quite.”
He scowled at her. She glared at him. He folded his arms so he would not pull her onto his lap and shove up her skirts and make her cling to him while he clung to her.
“You said you would visit Sunne Park,” she said into the silence.
“When you need me to impregnate you?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like to put you to any trouble. Perhaps I’ll take a lover. Save you the inconvenience.”
Like blazes she would. “Better get someone with stamina. You’re demanding in bed, once you forget to be polite.”
“Perhaps you could use your expertise to hire someone suitable. You could call him the Secretary In Charge Of Impregnating My Wife Because I’m Too Selfish And Busy To Do It Myself.”
“That’s a stupid job title.”
“They’re all stupid job titles!” she yelled.
He recoiled, stunned. What the blazes was wrong with his secretaries’ job titles? And what did any of it have to do with her womb? And where had their camaraderie gone and why did she not want him and why was it so hard to breathe?
She gathered herself after her outburst.
“Do you know, Joshua, I shall be glad to return to the peace and quiet of Sunne Park without you.”
“And I’ll be glad to return to Birmingham. Birmingham is the noisiest place on Earth and it is still more peaceful than putting up with you.”
“We need put up with each other for only three more days. If Lucy pleases Grandmother at the ball, Lucy will live with her, and Emily and I will leave. You will aid in that by behaving properly at the ball.” She eyed him bitterly. “I trust that getting rid of me will be all the inducement you need to behave.”
“Getting rid of you is all I want,” he lied. “My behavior will be impeccable.”
Chapter 24
It was with rue that Cassandra recalled her claim at the first breakfast she shared with Joshua: that they could coexist in the same house and never see each other.
Well, clever them! They had done exactly that! In the three days since their quarrel in the carriage, she did not see Joshua at all. She heard him sometimes, moving about his room at night, while she lay alone in the too-big bed longing for the oblivion of sleep. Once she heard his voice, when he called to a servant; her heart beat faster and her breath snagged—but all she heard next was the slam of a door.
Only thanks to Mr. Newell did she have confirmation that Joshua would join her and Lucy at her grandmother’s ball.
While dressing for the ball, she was grateful for her maid’s brisk competence, for Cassandra was useless, her body jittery with dread and excitement, her mind repeating a futile scold. This is just another ball and he is just another man, she told herself, as Ruth shoved her toward the stairs and darted off to help Lucy. It was always going to end, and now it has.
Yet halfway down the staircase, she had to pause and grip the bannister, for her legs stopped working and the world emptied of everything but the tall, dark-haired man in the hall.
He was pacing, of course, and flicking his white evening gloves against his thigh. His black evening coat hugged his broad shoulders, and her lonely palms ached to slide across those shoulders, down his chest, over his thighs, to feel his power, the heat of his skin through the silk.
Joshua turned his head toward her then and went still, mid pace, mid flick, watching her with dark, unreadable eyes.
Unfreezing her feet, Cassandra concentrated carefully on each step, for her knees had trouble remembering what to do. Heavens, she was behaving like a giddy debutante in the throes of her first infatuation! Yet no debutante knew this searing desire to press her naked, aching body to a man, or this hollow yearning to disappear with him into their secret world of two, or this chilling fear of their unscalable, invisible wall.
She missed him. Even when she stood right in front of him, she missed him.
“What the blazes is that on your head?” he said. “Is some poor pink bird flapping about London with half its feathers missing?”
“This is the part where you tell me I look lovely.”
“Why should I? You just did that yourself.”
That wicked, teasing smile still affected her. She fought her own smile and curled her fingers around her fan so she would not throttle him, for his cravat was tied too exquisitely to mangle. He was freshly shaven, and oh, how she longed to rub her cheek against his and inhale his spicy scent. The earring was gone, and finally, finally, he had submitted to a haircut, fashionable and flattering.
“You clean up nicely,” she said.
“I aim to please.”
“You do nothing of the sort.”
Yet he did please her, looking so dynamic and handsome and strong.
Looking so…impeccable.
I trust that getting rid of me will be all the inducement you need to behave, she had said during their quarrel.
Getting rid of you is all I want. My behavior will be impeccable.
She swallowed her hurt—who knew victory could hurt?—while something like confusion crossed his face. She was grateful when the footman brought her evening cloak, as it gave her a reason to hide. But it was Joshua who settled the velvet cloak over her shoulders, his hands lingering. Joshua who fastened the clasp at her throat. His knuckles brushed her skin, and she held her breath and studied the full lips she was no longer allowed to kiss.
When he
glanced up, everything stopped. She drowned in the hot coffee of his eyes, his mouth so close their breaths mingled, his chest barely inches from her own. The candlelight flickered and she fancied he looked puzzled, lost, seeking. Hope speared her reeling heart.
Then he whirled away, snatched up his gloves, and resumed flicking them against his thigh.
“Is this ball meant to be tonight?” he said. “Or will they move it to tomorrow so our Miss Lucy can get there in time?”
Cassandra smoothed out her cloak and her tangled thoughts. “She is waiting to make an entrance.” She sighed. “It would have been better had she dressed at Grandmother’s house, but the duchess has not quite forgiven me.”
Then skittering footsteps sounded above and Emily came racing down the stairs, her face bright with excitement.
“She’s coming, she’s coming!” she cried, and turned at the bottom of the stairs to look up. Staff members clustered around, and Mr. Newell and Isaac too, all watching the staircase. Everyone liked Lucy, for she was agreeable to everyone but Cassandra.
When Lucy appeared on the landing and paused for effect, basking in the hushed admiration from below, Cassandra forgot all of it. She forgot their fights, their resentment, their pain, their loss. She saw only her beloved little sister, radiant in her white ballgown, pearls in her glossy dark hair and a blissful smile curving her lips. Lucy, alive with spirit and wit, floating down the stairs, advancing relentlessly toward her new life without them.
Cassandra tried to etch every detail on her memory; she did not know when she would see Lucy again after tonight. She pressed her lips together against the tears and hoped, prayed, that tonight marked the start of Lucy finding happiness again.
“She’s so beautiful,” she whispered. She glanced at Joshua, but he was looking at her, not Lucy. She released a high, shaky laugh and did not know why. “Society will be astonished.”
“Society will never recover.”
He sidled closer, until his chest almost brushed her shoulder and his legs teased her skirts. His closeness slid under her skin, swirled through her body, heating her with need for his touch. His warmth, his scent, enveloped her, and her gown felt so tight it was a wonder she could breathe.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. The caress of his breath sent shivers down her spine. She thought his hand brushed her hip but she could not be sure.
Nearby, the servants and Emily fussed about with Lucy, bringing her cloak and gloves and fan like she was a princess. Cassandra turned her head, caught a glimpse of Joshua over her shoulder, and fought a peculiar urge to weep. They were only words, uttered easily and too late. He was being kind—his kindness was one of the things she loved about him—but kindness was not what she wanted from him now.
“You’ve never complimented me before,” she managed to say.
“What?” He sounded indignant. Acting. Playing. Teasing her again. “Surely I’ve blathered some nonsense about your hair or your gown or your eyes.”
She half-turned, calmer now they stood on familiar ground. “You probably don’t even know what color my eyes are.”
“Of course I don’t,” he admitted cheerfully.
Yes, back on familiar ground, and no reason to be disappointed. Such a silly thing to care about. As if her eye color mattered at all!
“Your eyes are impossible,” he explained. “They can be greenish, or brownish, or greenish-brown, or brownish-green. In the sunlight, they even seem golden. When you weep, they turn green. When you are lustful, they turn brown. When you laugh, they get lighter. When you are angry, they get darker. So how in blazes am I supposed to know what color your eyes are when they keep changing all the time?”
Oh. Oh. The familiar ground disappeared again and there was nothing under her feet, and all she could think to say was, “You noticed.”
In the silence, his own eyes were heavy and shadowed. She could not guess what he was thinking and lacked the courage to ask.
“You needn’t spout such nonsense,” she said briskly, turning her fan in her hands. “I am satisfied with my looks and always have been. I simply get silly when I compare myself to my sisters.”
“Here’s the comparison: Lucy is beautiful like a diamond. You are beautiful like a rose.” He glanced at her fancy headdress. “A rose that has pink feathers sticking out of its head, that is.”
Finally, she laughed, for he was being absurd and she was being a fool. It was she who loved roses; he thought them a frivolous waste of time. Had he said she was beautiful like iron ore or a factory or a pile of work, well, then she could be pleased. Instead, she felt lonelier than she ever had before.
A cool breeze caressed them: A footman had opened the door. Cassandra met Joshua’s eyes and reminded herself that she had achieved what she came for, and everything was exactly as it ought to be. He had made her no promises and told her no lies.
If her heart was breaking, it was nobody’s fault but her own.
“Excuse me, love birds,” Lucy called from the doorway. “Is this ball tonight? Or shall we ask them to move it to tomorrow so you can finish canoodling?”
The first dance was underway by the time they arrived. Cassandra deposited Lucy with the duke and duchess and went her own way. Of course she did, Joshua thought, watching her pink feathers bob through the crush. That was what they did now, and a few clumsy, belated compliments would do nothing to change that. Joshua felt at odds with his own body. He wanted to blame the cravat, the coat, the ridiculous breeches, but he knew it was not that. He seemed to have developed a talent for doing everything wrong.
He wandered around the ballroom aimlessly, sending people scattering with his scowl. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of her. Saw Dammerton approach her; saw her smile. Someone blocked Joshua’s view and when it cleared, the duke was writing on her dance card.
Bloody Dammerton, flirting with his wife, asking her to dance. She liked dancing, Joshua knew, and she was good at it too. Dancing had always seemed such a waste of time, but now he wished he had learned. She would like that. Or not. Dancing did not make babies either.
What an idiot he was, staying away from her. They only had a few more days until Sir Gordon got Bolderwood’s case quashed: Was he going to waste the time sulking? He remembered her philosophy about cut flowers: They did not last but one could enjoy them while they bloomed.
The dance ended and the guests milled about in the echoing chatter of a room suddenly bereft of music.
“What the hell are you doing here?” came a familiar snarl by his shoulder.
Joshua almost groaned at the tedium of another fight with his father.
“Good evening, Father.”
“You promised to stay away from us,” Treyford said.
“This ball is hosted by my wife’s grandmother, and my wife’s sister is making her debut. You knew I would be here, so you ought to have stayed away.”
“You ought not be in London at all.”
Isaac had been right: Treyford hated him because he was a reminder of his shame. Which meant that, under his bluster, the man was ashamed.
Joshua opened his mouth to answer but stopped when a new, excited hush claimed the crowd.
The Duke of Sherbourne, nigh on seventy but spry and alert, claimed the middle of the empty dance floor, Lucy by his side, her fingers resting on his. The sight of the young lady, graceful beyond measure and beautiful beyond words, sent a murmur of admiration through the guests. Joshua felt a broad smile break over his face, his chest swollen with undeserved pride. He scanned the crowd for Cassandra—this was her moment as much as Lucy’s—but his seeking eyes could not find her. His smile faded, his pride deflated, his eyes searched. What a selfish fool he was; he should be at her side.
The duke released Lucy, raised his hands for silence, and then filled it as only an experienced orator could.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. It is my great honor and delight to present to you—my granddaughter, Miss Lucy Lightwell.”
The crow
d applauded politely, murmuring to each other, eating the newcomer up, as the orchestra struck up the rich strains of a slow waltz. The duke bowed, Lucy curtsied, and together they danced across the floor.
Joshua searched fruitlessly for Cassandra again, an odd panic edging through his limbs, and was about to go looking for her when Treyford spoke again.
“Is that the girl?” Treyford said, his eyes on Lucy, a pensive faraway look on his face. “She looks a bit like Susan.”
Lady Susan Lightwell, the youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Sherbourne, Treyford’s first wife, and Lucy and Cassandra’s aunt. Perhaps Treyford had gone to that time, thirty-odd years ago now, when he was eighteen and Lady Susan sixteen, and the pair had eloped and then—What?
Joshua knew nothing more. He did not know why the pair had eloped or why they had parted; how Lady Susan, the Protestant daughter of an English duke, had wound up in an Irish Catholic convent for another sixteen years; or whether Treyford had truly believed Lady Susan was dead when he married Joshua’s mother. The reason Joshua did not know was that he had never asked. He had been too angry to so much as wonder.
Cassandra had seen that he was angry, and he had denied it, but she had been right. Again.
More couples joined the waltz, and he finally spotted his wife, watching Lucy with a mix of pride and sorrow, exchanging the occasional comment with her tall, haughty friend, Lady Hardbury.
As if he had called her name, she turned.
Their eyes met.
The orchestra roared, and then it faded away, and she was the only one in the room.
Then someone jostled her and she looked away. The crush returned, the discordant music, the stuffy air, the tightness of his cravat.
He would go to her, now. He glanced at his father, who had returned from the past and was bestowing his usual scowl, the scowl that always triggered Joshua’s ire, and now—
Nothing.
Joshua studied his father’s face, as if seeing it for the first time and—Nothing. No rage, no fury. Indifference—Distaste—Nostalgia for what had never been—Irritation over the time he had lost. This was all he felt for his father now.