A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (3 page)

‘Ah.’ The landlord looked unsurprised, as though Miss Ward falling out of trees was a common occurrence in the vicinity of Lynd. Peter suspected that it probably was. The landlord was still weighing him up, his shrewd blue eyes fixed upon him, clearly uncomfortable about something.

‘I’m thinking you’ll be staying at the Chase for Major Lyndhurst’s house party, my lord?’ he said.

‘That is correct,’ Peter agreed.

The landlord blew out his lips. ‘Ah. But you’ll not be Viscount Quinlan?’

Peter frowned. ‘Why not?’

The landlord looked him over. ‘They said he was an older man.’

‘I see,’ Peter said. ‘The hot water and brandy for Miss Ward?’

‘Dangerous, these London folk.’ The landlord looked disapproving. ‘Not sure about these house parties, neither. Opportunity for dancing and gambling and hunting, and not always of the sporting variety neither…Heard Quinlan was an ageing roué who drinks like a fish and suffers the gout. Couldn’t leave you alone with Miss Ward if you were the Viscount. Quite unsuitable.’

Peter briefly considered attempting to defend his reputation and that of all other denizens of the capital, and then decided that the landlord would never leave him alone with Cassie if he did.

‘You may see that I do not fit that description at all,’ he said. ‘You may safely leave Miss Ward with me. I assure you she will come to no harm.’

The landlord looked suitably grateful. ‘Very good, my lord.’

He went out and Peter straightened up, sitting on the edge of the sofa beside Cassie. He was concerned that she should discard her damp riding habit, for there was a grave danger of her developing a chill if she lay there in wet clothes. It was damnably awkward that the landlady was absent. He could hardly start to undress a lady himself. Even he had some sense of decency.

His fingers strayed to the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons at Cassie’s throat. Her collar was high and tight and Peter thought that she would breathe more easily if it
were undone. He slid the first four or five buttons from their fastenings, turned back her collar and exposed the slender whiteness of her throat. Her skin smelled faintly and sweetly of lime blossom and cool, fresh air. Peter stared at the impossibly fragile line of her jaw and the curve of her neck.

His gaze dropped lower. The material of the riding habit strained over Cassie’s breasts, covering her like a lover’s touch. Peter wanted to peel away the layers of damp material that clung to her and explore the nakedness beneath. The idea was so cool and tempting, yet so heated and exciting that it transfixed him.

One copper-coloured curl nestled in the curve of her throat. Peter’s gaze slid down the line of shining mother-of-pearl buttons to the hollow between her breasts. There was a delicate gold chain about her neck that disappeared beneath the neckline of her chemise, slender links of filigree against the paleness of her skin. Peter’s fingers idly traced the line of it to where it vanished beneath the crisp white of her petticoat. The chain felt warm. So did Cassie. So did Peter, who was also aware that his riding breeches were becoming very tight and it was not from the shrinking effects of the rain on the leather.

Cassie turned her head and rubbed her cheek gently against his sleeve. Molten desire pierced Peter at the trusting touch. He got to his feet with a muffled curse. What was he doing, taking advantage of an unconscious woman in an isolated inn? Not just any woman, either, but his promised wife to whom he had not even been formally introduced. Did that make it better or worse that he wanted to ravish her? He was not sure. What was certain, though, was that he was a scoundrel to be thinking in this way. Far from being an experienced woman of the world, Miss Ward was a complete innocent, and
he was harbouring thoughts of her that were impure in the extreme.

Peter strode across to the window and stared blindly out of the steamy panes. He had not counted on feeling an immediate, strong attraction to his bride. He had thought to make a rich match out of necessity, not desire. This made matters decidedly complicated.

The door opened to admit the landlord with a creaking wooden trolley. A bowl of water balanced on the top of it lurched with each step. On the lower shelf was a bottle of repellent black liquid, a glass, a clean white cloth and, Peter was glad to see, a brimming tankard of ale.

‘Blackberry cordial, my lord,’ the landlord said, happily oblivious to Peter’s evident discomfort. ‘My wife swears by it—says it is sovereign against the chill.’

Peter dampened the cloth in the warm water and gently wiped the smears of mud from Cassie’s face, then, taking the glass of cordial, he raised Cassie’s head from the cushions and tilted it to her lips. After a few seconds her lashes fluttered, she opened her eyes and she looked directly at him. Peter’s heart contracted with an unfamiliar emotion. She had brown eyes lightened with flecks of gold and green like the sun on autumn leaves and they were so wide and honest they seemed to see into his soul.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered. Then she smiled. ‘My name is Cassandra Ward.’

‘How do you do?’ Peter said. ‘I am Peter—’

But Cassie’s eyes had closed again and her head drooped against his shoulder. There was no indication that she had even heard him. With a sigh Peter laid her back against the cushions.

The landlord was peering over his shoulder. ‘Reckon doctor will be along soon enough,’ he said, scratching
his head. ‘Excuse me, my lord. I shall go and see what keeps him.’

Peter picked up the tankard and took a long and grateful draught. The whole situation was damnably difficult. On the one hand he wanted to ride to the Chase and warn Anthony Lyndhurst of his cousin’s accident. It was the courteous thing to do. Besides, he would feel better—safer—away from the heated confines of the inn parlour and his own heated fantasies, which were, he was sure, a product of the roaring fire. On the other hand it would be difficult to explain to Lyndhurst why he had abandoned his cousin in the inn without so much as a landlady in attendance. Such behaviour seemed unchivalrous at best and no way to make a good impression on his future cousin-in-law.

He glanced dubiously at Cassie’s sleeping form, then opened the door and stuck his head out into the passage to see what was going on. There was the sound of voices from the taproom and the rumble of barrels on the stone floor. Evidently the landlord was taking receipt of a new consignment of ale. The doctor had not yet arrived.

Out in the yard the rain had set in, sweeping down from the hills and shrouding the countryside in a threatening grey blanket. There was no sound but for the distant rumble of thunder. The village seemed deserted. Hector stuck his head over the top of one of the loose boxes and snorted with bad temper. Peter turned the collar of his coat up against the rain and beat a hasty retreat back into the inn.

To his surprise, he found the landlord had returned to the parlour and was in the act of refilling Cassie’s glass of cordial. She was sitting propped against the sofa cushions and there was colour in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. With her bright gaze, tumbling hair and tan
talisingly unbuttoned jacket, she looked like a wanton angel, but when she saw Peter she broke off whatever she was saying and her gaze narrowed on him thoughtfully. Peter squared his shoulders. This, then, was the moment in which she remembered that he was the dissolute Viscount Quinlan, come chasing her fortune, and gave him the rightabout.

‘I am glad to see you so much recovered, Miss Ward,’ he said.

Cassie gazed at him for a moment longer and then her face broke into a mischievous smile. Under Peter’s incredulous gaze, she drained the glass of cordial and put it down, curled her legs under her and patted the sofa beside her in a most confiding gesture. Peter stared. This was incomprehensible. Respectable ladies—and
surely
Miss Ward was respectable—simply did not behave in so open a manner to chance-met strange gentlemen.

Peter allowed his gaze to travel over her thoughtfully. She was looking very flushed now and it could not be attributed entirely to the heat of the room. She was also blinking in a sleepy manner. One of her elbows slid off the arm of the chair and she gave a peal of laughter.

There was no getting away from it. Miss Ward was not entirely sober. In fact, Miss Ward was
drunk
.

Cassie was beckoning to him. She put one small white hand on his arm and leaned closer. She did not smell of alcohol fumes. She smelled of blackberries and honey, and Peter found that he was already leaning forward to kiss her before he realised and drew back hastily. She might be foxed, but he was bewitched. He would do better to remember that he was a gentleman and she was a lady alone and unprotected.

Cassie evidently had not realised his difficulty. She
was looking at him earnestly and blinking with the shortsighted determination of the very drunk.

‘I have something I wanted to tell you because I like you,’ she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ She did not wait for his confirmation. ‘I am much richer than everyone thinks, you know. I have a fortune of two hundred thousand pounds. I never usually tell anyone because they try to marry me when they find out. Everyone comes hunting fortune.’

Peter stared deep into her eyes. He knew all about fortune hunters. Two hundred thousand pounds…His father had only known the half of it. He could almost see the special licence smoking in his wallet, giving off fumes of greed and guilt.

He got to his feet and vented his guilt and bad temper on the landlord, who was stoking up the fire to an even greater blaze. ‘What the devil was in that cordial?’

The landlord jumped. ‘Why, nothing, my lord. Merely some brandy and my wife’s special blackberry potion.’

‘I am not supposed to drink alcoholic beverages,’ Cassie said merrily, from her position on the sofa. ‘I discovered it when I became foxed on a sherry trifle as a child. The smallest amount makes me
very
intoxicated. Excuse me,’ she added, yawning widely, ‘I feel a little sleepy.’ Without paying further attention to either of them she lay back against the cushions and closed her eyes. A second later, she emitted a tiny snore, followed by one a little louder.

Both men looked at her disbelievingly and then the landlord’s shoulders slumped. ‘Beg pardon, my lord,’ he muttered, ‘I had no notion Miss Ward was so susceptible. There’s barely a nip of brandy in the cordial and no one else suffers any ill effects.’ He shot Cassie’s recum
bent figure a gloomy look. ‘Reckon she’ll just have to sleep it off.’

‘If the doctor takes much longer she will have plenty of time,’ Peter said caustically. ‘Have you sent to Lyndhurst Chase yet?’

‘Aye, my lord.’ The landlord scooped up the offending bottle of cordial and looked as though he wanted to scurry for cover. ‘Physician’s at a lying-in over at Watchstone, but the boy’s gone to the manor to let them know of Miss Ward’s accident and my wife will be back soon.’

‘If her other remedies are as effective as the cordial we may do better without them,’ Peter said.

‘Aye, my lord.’ The landlord hovered in the doorway, clearly anxious to be gone. ‘I will leave you to it, then?’

‘I do not believe either of us have much choice,’ Peter said. He was already resigned to a spell of nursemaiding until a carriage from the Chase reached them. It was not how he would normally have chosen to spend time alone with the enticingly pretty Miss Ward, but it behoved him to remember that he had
some
principles.

‘Pray bring me a bottle of claret,’ he added. ‘It will help pass the time.’ He paused, his conscience pricking him. ‘And thank you. You were not to know that Miss Ward should not touch alcohol.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ the landlord said, looking relieved.

There was silence in the parlour but for Cassie’s gentle breathing, the crackle of the fire and the soft sigh of the rain against the windows. Peter had found a twelvemonth-old copy of the
Quarterly Review
and settled down to read. He perused an article about the sentimental poets and then an obituary of a worthy Member of Parliament of whom he had never heard. He had just
begun skipping through a piece of very bad verse when he realised that Cassie was awake and watching him with those glorious, golden brown eyes. This time on seeing him, Miss Ward’s gaze narrowed to an angry gleam. Peter knew at once that both her sobriety and her memory had returned. She sat up straight as a ramrod.

‘You
are
Viscount Quinlan, aren’t you?’ she said, in an accusatory tone. ‘Do not pretend to me. I know you are the fortune hunter!’

I
know you are the fortune hunter…

Cassie watched as Peter Quinlan folded his magazine and put it aside before getting to his feet and coming across the room towards her. She had not intended her words to be quite so abrupt, and as he drew closer she felt a definite shiver of apprehension. The man’s physical presence was almost tangible: powerful, authoritative and devastatingly male. She had sensed the same sureness and confidence in other men that she admired—her cousins John, Anthony and Marcus—but they had always treated her as a little sister and she had seen them very much in a fraternal role. Now she discovered it was an entirely different experience to be the sole focus of the attention of a man like this. It made her feel quite dizzy. She shifted back against the sofa cushions.

‘Yes,’ Peter Quinlan said, holding her gaze, ‘I am the fortune hunter.’

Their eyes locked. Cassie bit her lip. She had not expected him to be so honest. She had thought that he would be like every other man who had ever paid court to her fortune whilst pretending that he would love and
honour her forever. She was not sure whether his frankness made her feel better—or more alone.

Peter smiled at her. The smile softened the uncompromising lines of his face and reached those dark blue eyes, making them warm. Cassie felt that heat sweep through her from her toes to her suddenly pink cheeks. She prayed that it was the effect of the brandy and not the effect of the Viscount’s proximity. She was prey to various contradictory feelings, but most noticeable was a curious excitement that was sending her blood tingling through her veins and giving the flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach. It was not like her to feel so giddy.

She remembered how she had felt in that moment on the track, when instinct had told her that this was the man she had been waiting for, and not merely to frighten him away with her wayward behaviour. Instinct was sweet and persuasive, but it was notoriously unreliable in Cassie’s experience. It was instinct that had told her to accompany Miss Crabbe to the radical meeting when she was seventeen because she had thought it would be interesting. It was instinct that had led her astray before.

‘So, you admit you are a fortune hunter,’ she said slowly. ‘I thought that you would dissemble. Most men do.’

Peter sat down beside her on the sofa and took one of her hands in his. It did not seem like an impertinence. On the contrary, it seemed warm and intimate and entirely the right thing to do. Cassie blinked, wondering if the brandy had seriously impaired her judgement.

‘I would never be dishonest with you, Cassandra,’ Peter said, and Cassie’s heart did an odd little flip, both at his use of her name and the intimacy of his tone. ‘I cannot deny that I came to Lyndhurst Chase seeking a
wealthy bride, but—’ he smiled again and Cassie’s blood fizzed ‘—I am very glad that I have found it in you.’

His hand was stroking her fingers gently now and the touch was soothing and yet so distracting that Cassie’s head spun. She tried to remember the Viscount’s reputation. These must be the practised compliments of an experienced seducer. She should not lower her guard. She put one hand to her head. It ached slightly from the effects of the cordial and the heat of the room.

‘It is most unfortunate that we should meet when I am not feeling quite the thing,’ she complained, ‘for I am certain to be a great deal less civil to you than had we met under other circumstances, sir.’

Peter smiled again. ‘I think it important that we are both honest,’ he said, ‘so please do not be concerned for my sensibilities. What is it that you wish to say to me, Cassie?’

Again he said her name like a caress. It had never sounded like that on anyone else’s lips. Cassie took a deep breath as she tried to remember just what it was she
had
intended to say. She felt a little shaky.

‘I have resolved not to marry, my lord,’ she said, ‘so I fear that your journey is in vain. I become mistress of my own fortune when I am five and twenty and that seems far preferable to me than giving it away to someone else.’

To her surprise, Peter did not try to persuade her otherwise. He merely sat looking at her with that cool, assessing blue gaze until Cassie felt quite light-headed.

‘I respect your point of view,’ he said at last. ‘However, if you
were
to consider marriage, would there be any circumstances under which you might view me as a suitable candidate?’

Yes, oh, yes.
Cassie just managed not to say the words
aloud. There was something all too suitable about Peter Quinlan in so many ways, and it flustered Cassie to think about it.

‘That is a theoretical question, my lord,’ she pointed out, managing to hold on to her common sense.

‘Granted. But on a theoretical basis—am I acceptable?’

Peter’s fingers tightened very slightly on her own. Cassie repressed a shiver of awareness.

‘I am not sure that you
are
acceptable, my lord,’ she said severely, trying and failing to remove her hand from his grasp. ‘There are grave concerns about your character, for instance. I overheard Cousin John and Cousin Anthony talking about you. John said that you had rakish tendencies and he had doubts on that score about promoting a match between us. What do you say to that?’

‘I think that it is encouraging to think that your cousins are so concerned for your welfare,’ Peter said.

‘You have not answered my question.’

Peter smiled. ‘You noticed.’

‘I did. So?’

There was a look of resignation on Peter’s face. ‘Very well, I confess it. You have me on the rack already, Miss Ward.’

‘This,’ Cassie said severely, ‘is not a very good start, Lord Quinlan. So you are a fortune hunter and a rake. Do you have any redeeming features?’

‘Many. I am very honest, as you perceive.’

Cassie found herself smiling against her will. There was something oddly disarming about such a blatant admission of fault.

‘It is surprising that Anthony and John thought you were the most suitable candidate to court me,’ she said.

‘Perhaps,’ Peter said, ‘they recognise my excellent qualities and hope that you will come to see them too.’

Cassie snorted. ‘I think it very annoying that they are so anxious to marry me off at all. Marriage brought no happiness to Cousin Anthony. He never speaks of it, of course, but I know that he has been miserable ever since Georgiana disappeared and he is forever saying that he has no wish ever to marry again.’ She flung out one hand in a gesture of disgust. ‘Then there is Cousin John. He and his first wife rubbed along together tolerably well in public, but everyone in the family knew that she detested him.’ She turned away from him suddenly, a lump in her throat. ‘Yet they seek to marry me off because they are not quite sure what to do with me!’ She looked at Peter a little defiantly. It seemed odd to be confiding in a man who was to all intents and purposes a stranger, and yet there was something about him that drew her confidence.

‘I could not bear to find that I was tied to a man I could neither love nor respect,’ she finished, a little sadly. ‘He would take all my money and care nothing for me, and it would be intolerable.’

‘Cassie,’ Peter said again. ‘It need not be like that.’

He shifted a little closer to her until Cassie’s thigh was pressed against his. She could feel the sensuous rub of her velvet skirts against his leg. Her skin prickled with new and tempting sensations.

‘I…’

Peter smiled. ‘Yes?’

Cassie wrinkled up her nose as she tried to concentrate. ‘I am sure it would be exactly like that if I were to marry someone like Cousin William,’ she said. ‘He is forever pressing me to wed him.’ She saw a shadow
of expression touch Peter Quinlan’s eyes, but it was gone before she could interpret it.

‘William Lyndhurst-Flint?’ he asked.

‘Yes. He is Cousin John’s brother. He has been trying to marry my money for years. My chaperon favours him as a suitor for me, but I do not care for him at all.’ A flush came into her cheeks. ‘He is a disgusting lecher. He pesters the maidservants. His valet is no better. Master and man have that much in common.’ She caught her breath as Peter put a hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up so that she met his eyes.

‘Has your cousin ever tried to touch you?’ he demanded. His fingers were gentle against her cheek, but his tone required an answer and this time there was no misreading the anger in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ Cassie said. She smiled a little. ‘He tried to kiss me once when he was drunk. I slapped his face. We never mentioned the incident again, but he knows not to try his tricks on me.’

She expected Peter to let her go then, but instead she saw a flash of amusement in his eyes.

‘I might have guessed,’ he said softly. ‘You are a remarkable woman, Miss Cassandra Ward.’

Cassie blushed and dropped her gaze. Peter’s fingers traced the line of her jaw with a featherlight stroke; it seemed extraordinary to her, but it felt as though there was wonderment in his touch. It felt as though he was
discovering
her and could not quite believe what he had found. She was not a fanciful girl, but Peter Quinlan’s touch wove dangerous enchantment.

‘And would you slap any gentleman who touched you?’ he asked. His tone was quiet, but there was something beneath it that made Cassie tremble.

‘I would do if I did not like him,’ she said, meeting
look for look, ‘and I have yet to meet a gentleman that I
did
like.’

Peter smiled. ‘So the real question,’ he said gently, ‘is whether or not you like
me
…’

He touched the corner of her mouth lightly, then slid one finger along her lower lip. There was an expression in his eyes that made Cassie feel weak inside. She swallowed hard. She could feel herself leaning towards him, her eyes already closing as though in anticipation of the kiss…

Her eyes snapped open and she sat back swiftly. ‘I know what you are doing and you won’t succeed!’

Peter burst out laughing. ‘What am I doing, sweetheart?’

‘You are trying to seduce me,’ Cassie said, struggling to ignore the skip of her heart that his endearment provoked. ‘It is too bad of you, my lord. You said that you would be honest with me.’

Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘I assure you there is no pretence, Cassie.’

‘You want to kiss me!’

The amusement deepened in Peter’s eyes. ‘I cannot deny it. Do you want to kiss me?’

Cassie looked at him. The answer was yes, and it was written clearly on her face, but inside her there was a flutter of apprehension as well as a quiver of excitement. She bit her lip. Suddenly she looked—and felt—very young.

‘I…I do not know.’ She strove to be truthful. ‘That is—yes, I do…’ She went hot at the admission, looking at him from under her lashes.

‘You do want to kiss me?’

‘Yes! But…’

‘But?’ Peter shifted slightly. She sensed that he was
holding himself under tight control and the thought heated her blood. He would not force himself on her. Of that she was certain. She felt a rush of relief and pleasure that he was not that sort of man. Experienced, perhaps. Persuasive and powerful, certainly, but he was still no ravisher of innocents. She could feel him easing back from her and she met his gaze very openly.

‘Your wooing is very swift, my lord. I am not certain I can keep up with you.’

The dark desire in his eyes contrasted with the restraint in his touch. He leaned forward and brushed his lips to hers. ‘Do you want to try? It is a simple matter…’

If he had pounced on her or crushed her in his arms, Cassie would probably have pulled away from him, but the gentleness of the caress stole her heart and destroyed her resistance.

She had known him for such a short time. Her head was fuzzy with brandy and desire and yet this instinctively felt right. There was the echo of tenderness and the promise of strength in his hands as he held her. It felt wicked and delicious and yet somehow safe—in a completely dangerous way. She had lived for one and twenty years and yet had never experienced anything like this in her life before. With a flash of transforming feeling she knew that she wanted Peter’s hands on her body. All of her body. With no clothes between them. And she wanted to touch him in return. The knowledge rocked her, made her breathing shallow.

If I marry Peter, I will be able to feel like this every
single
day
, she told herself, and almost fainted at the thought. It seemed outrageous, exciting and deeply satisfying. She put up a hand to the nape of his neck, tangling it in the thick dark hair there, stroking him and pulling him closer. She kissed him—shyly and inex
pertly, her lips bumping against his—and she heard him groan, and then he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding between her lips and invading her mouth, and Cassie’s mind spun.

Their breath entwined. The kiss seared her with its intensity and passion and yet she was not afraid. When he freed her mouth she turned it against the roughness of his cheek, raining kisses along the hard line of his jaw until he captured her lips again, gently covering her mouth with his and tasting its softness. Cassie lay back against the cushions and felt the hard weight of Peter’s body follow her down, his hands about her waist. His lips trailed along the curve of her throat, barely touching, a moist, velvet stroke of pure pleasure. Delicious warmth surged through Cassie’s veins and she arched against him, unable to repress a little whimper of satisfaction as his hand came up to brush against the curve of her breast.

And then, when denial was a mere shadow at the back of Cassie’s mind, Peter wrenched himself away from her. She lay still for a moment, winded with shock and blank passion, and then she opened her eyes to see Peter was standing across the parlour, both hands resting against the cold panels of the wainscot, and breathing as hard as though he had been running.

She half-sat, and he turned his head to look at her. There was a heated glitter in his eyes that scalded her. He looked as though he was in pain.

‘I am going out,’ he said.

Cassie stared at him bemusedly. ‘Out? But—’