Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon
By Way Of A Wager (18 page)
SEVENTEEN
The Duc du Barry was full. The footman shook his head sorrowfully and pronounced it positively full. His Grace had fixed him with a stare as cold as ice and as haughty as the devil, and a room was miraculously procured. A disheveled and pathetically weak Frances had been helped up the stairs by Rupert and the duke himself.
Cassandra fluttered about helplessly. The relief after her trauma had been so great she'd experienced an insane desire to throw herself in the duke's arms and confess to all. The stupid masquerade, the foolishness of their flight. If only she'd trusted him! She wanted to sob and be comforted, to put her hands in his and forget the ordeal past. She wanted Miles. Above all else, she wanted him. She loved him. The strong jaw, the comforting strength, the transient eyes, sometimes warm, sometimes steel, sometimes an expression she could not understand at all.
It was funny. She still did not know how the duke had found the sloop. How he'd boarded it at the fateful moment when she'd believed all lost. It didn't matter, somehow. The duke was strong. Always resourceful, he was the type of person who could be relied upon in time of need. Almost like magic. Cassandra's lips curved dreamily. That was it, magic!
How she longed for the enrapturing comfort of his strong, muscular body. The warmth of his form against hers, caressing and gentle. The impulse to cling to him as he'd helped her off the boat and out of harm's way had been immense. Cassandra prided herself on her strength of will. It was that strength that was going to see her through the long and weary night ahead.
The viscount and his mentor were ensuring Frances's comfort. A doctor was on the way. There was nothing more for the strange young man in bottle green breeches to do but wait. Miles, considerate to the last, had noticed how peaky she'd appeared and ordered her to bed, to rest. Cassandra had demurred, but what could she do? She was hardly in a position to beg to nurse her brother. Of all things that would be out of character for a friend of the viscount!
When Miles had pushed her firmly in the direction of his chamber, there'd been no convenient excuse ready at her fingertips. Rupert had thrown her an anxious glance but had merely shrugged helplessly in the face of an unstoppable force. Frances, too, had seemed resigned. He'd frowned ever so slightly but relaxed at the sound of the duke's cool, calm, efficient strictures. What the man did not know could not harm him. If he believed Cassandra to be a young male companion of his ward's, her virtue could not possibly be under threat.
How circumspect of Cassandra to maintain the masquerade. It was essential to her honor that the charade be played out to its end. Not even a Beaumaris could commit a social solecism of this magnitude and not expect to pay the price. Cassandra was too young to be ostracized from Almack's, to be forever cast to the fringe of the monde. No gossip must envelop her name. None, ever! As for the duke, he appeared a good enough fellow. They had a lot to be grateful for.
Later, Beaumaris would have cause to wonder. His Grace had expended a great deal of time and energy in coming to his assistance. It was possible, after all, that his lively young sister had gotten it wrong. It hardly seemed plausible that a pink of the ton like Wyndham would go to such lengths out of altruism. More likely by far he'd seen through her disguise and was motivated by more than just kindness. No doubt he'd be offering for her hand before he knew it. On that amusing thought, the sixth earl of Surrey closed his eyes, lost to oblivion at least for the while.
His sister was close to the same fate. Tiptoeing out of the sickroom, she crossed the landing to Miles's bedchamber. Her feet were aching, she felt exhausted, the chair next to the desk was uncompromisingly hard, and before she knew how it had happened, she was lying, fully clothed, across the length of the four-poster bed. Her recumbent form was covered somewhat haphazardly by a light quilted coverlet of the same hue as the velvety drapes.
Day became night and the candle burned down low as Miles gazed at the sleeping figure. His face was filled with tenderness as the shadows danced and flickered across her face. From time to time, her little white hands would clench and unclench and His Grace discovered in himself the most passionate desire to hold them, to stroke each finger, to kiss the tips and to never stop. Her gorgeous mane of hair was tumbling down from the ridiculous woollen cap she'd chosen to affect. Thank goodness, at least, she'd had the sense not to crop it.
He considered putting an end to the charade, then laughed. If this was the way she wanted it, he'd play her at her own game! It would be interesting to see what would come of it. Life was suddenly full of promise. Her gentle snores had deepened, indicating a sleep of great depth. Seizing his opportunity, he tenderly tucked the soft tendrils back in their woolly prison. Shrugging, he gingerly found himself a space in the great bed and rolled Cassandra over so that she was properly tucked. Her legs were very close to his, her breathing deep and calm.
The duke closed his eyes. This was harder than he had expected. Her small frame exuded such warmth, such promise. If only he could cradle her gently in his arms, he was convinced he'd sleep. No! On his honor as a gentleman he could make no move. No matter that before the week was out she'd be his wife, like it or not. Less, if he could arrange it. Unfair to take advantage. He was bound in conscience to let her be. He sighed.
She shifted. Drat the girl, what was he expected to do? Her body moved closer to him, her scent pure torture. Despite the muddy clothes and the faint smell of cod, her own unique perfume wafted maddeningly into his nostrils. He wanted to shake her awake. She wasn't playing fair.
No, by prolonging the charade he was not playing fair. She was tired, that was all. Her arm dangled across the bed. What could he do but climb under it? He'd wake her if he tried to put it back. Her head snuggled forward, a hair's breath away from his chest. This was madness! The duke groaned. Hadn't the wench caused him enough trouble for one day? Her lips blushed with promise.
Firmly the duke closed his eyes. His body was taut as he tried desperately to think of a distraction. Sheep did not help. He'd counted seventy before Cassandra's little nose had touched his chest. That did it! There was no way he could endure another hour of such sweet and unrelenting torture. With a sigh he extricated himself from her delightful tangle and wrapped a gown firmly around his rigid form. Tiptoeing down the hall, he made his way resolutely to the sickroom where Frances was fast asleep and Rupert in much the same state.
The duke resolved not to be too hard on the young scamp. Honesty compelled him to admit that Cassandra was a handful. Far too strong-willed to be left in the charge of someone as good-natured as Rupert. It was all partly his fault for leaving her in the first place. He should have guessed she'd lead his ward on a regular song and dance. The girl had pluck and courage. Not, however, a particle of sense when it came to affairs of the heart.
Poor Rupert had looked so dejected at his ticking off. The duke had maintained his cold grandeur the whole course of the evening. He was angry, really angry. If something had happened to his life's treasure he would have been forever anguished. He'd lived with tragedy. That would have been as nothing in comparison with Cassandra's death. Thinking on it, his body tensed. All was well now. He must dwell on that and let the past be forgotten. Rupert and the twins were his joy. He'd be lenient with Lyndale.
As if sensing this new mood, Rupert opened an eye. The duke grinned the engaging smile that had made him the idol of his family. Rupert sat up, bathed in happiness. He could not stand to be estranged from his guardian. Darling Miles! It was so good to have him back and in spirits!
“How is Mr. Marshall?” Rupert asked.
Miles cocked his head quizzically. Well, he could hardly expect the scamp to betray Cassandra's secret, now, could he? “Fine. He'll be just fine. Resting soundly as a log, I can tell you that! Couldn't sleep for the snores!”
Rupert could not resist a boyish whoop. “Snoring, now, is he? Well, I never! You'd best catch some sleep, Miles. Long day ahead tomorrow. Good thing you hired Messrs. Brandon, Brandon and Longey! After our last crossing I could do with some traveling comforts!”
“Hard, was it?” The duke looked sympathetic.
“Hard? The devil! You have no idea ...” He broke off, unwilling to divulge more. No need for the duke to scrutinize the details too carefully. He was too astute by half! He gave an elaborate yawn.
The duke cocked his eyebrows, then relented. “Good night, old fellow. Sleep well.”
“You too, Miles. Hope old Andrew doesn't keep you up all night!”
Miles neglected to say he was certain that he would. Instead, he closed the door lightly and padded back to his chamber.
A candle was burning. Alert, the eighth duke opened the door cautiously. Any prowler caught by him would have a lot of answering to do. No prowler. Only a hungry Mr. Marshall reading notes by candlelight.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening.” Suddenly shy, Cassandra felt the whole world had burst into masses of shining stars. Strange how Miles had such an effect on her. It seemed like years, not days, that they'd known each other.
“Care for a glace fruit?” she asked.
Not bad, since she'd been munching from the bowl intended for him all along. Miles grinned. “Why not? Are there any cherries left?”
Cassandra looked dubiously at the bowl. “I rather think I ate the last one. Sorry!”
“Never mind, a nut will do.” Miles picked up a nutcracker and looked at his love curiously. “Can't sleep?”
“No! I can't think why not, rather stupid really.” Cassandra came dangerously near to a blush. How could she tell the man that waking up in his bed had the most curious effect upon her, leaving sleep quite out of the question?
Miles teased her. “Well, you seemed to be doing just fine an hour or so ago. I left you snoring most amiably.”
Cassandra gasped. “Me? Snoring? Never! Why, I never snore! Besides, you've not been in the room this evening! I took particular note to wait up for you.”
The duke cracked his nut. “Did you? Why?”
Cassandra blushed a definite crimson. The conversation was getting difficult. “Oh, I don't know. Wanted to thank you, I suppose.”
“Yes. Most extraordinary circumstances, were they not? I can't help but wonder at your precipitancy. What you did there was really above and beyond the call of friendship, you know.”
Cassandra bit into a peach. The duke had a right to be astonished. There was little she could say in explanation. She hated being tangled in a web of lies. It seemed the more she came into contact with him, the deeper she became enmeshed.
“When exactly did you meet my Rupert?” The devil was in the duke and he knew it. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Cassandra was vague, muttering some unintelligible nonsense. Miles could just make out “Oxford” and “horse” in the gabble. He nodded, as if accepting the offering. Cassandra looked relieved.
“Take off your hat, Mr. Marshall. I'm sure the fire will suffice. It's warm enough in here.”
Cassandra's heart lurched. Out of the frying pan into the fire! There was no doubt that sweet though this time with the duke was, it was nevertheless going to be fraught with pitfalls. “No!”
The duke feigned surprise. “Why ever not?”
“I ... uh ... personal reasons!” Even to Cassandra the excuse sounded lame.
The duke took pity on her. “Personal reasons. Yes, I think I understand. You wear the hat out of sentiment. I too have a lady love. At home. In England.”
Cassandra's heart sank. This was not what she wanted to hear. Why should she be surprised that the duke had an attachment? It was only natural, after all. She had no claim on him. None whatsoever. If anything, the duke's words confirmed her desire to keep her identity a secret. If he discovered her in this compromising situation he would certainly be compelled by honor to wed her. She did not want that. Not at all.
“I also have a keepsake. I like to keep it with me. A trifle really, but nonetheless comforting.” He hesitated, a small smile of impish mischief sparkling behind his eyes. “Would you care to see it?”
Cassandra's heart was heavy. The day had been filled with so many wild emotions. Those that fluttered in her heart now were the heaviest.
“No!”
“No?”
“No!” Cassandra shook her head vigorously. The masquerade was bad enough. She refused to invade the duke's privacy in such an underhanded way.
“Why not? I'm proud to show you. After your behavior today I deem you a friend. It is good, at times, to unburden oneself to a friend.”
The duke turned his back to Cassandra. Pulling back the coverlet, he let his hand wander until his fingers grasped the object in question. “Here. Look at this.”
The sapphire lace kerchief. In a wave Cassandra knew why it had looked familiar. It was part of the wardrobe the duke had procured for her. She'd lost it the first day she'd confronted Wyndham. And here it was, in a foreign land, across seas, in the duke's very own bed!
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