Page 32 of The Damsel
“I am tired and I know you are, too. Let’s go to bed.”
Her closeness overwhelmed him—the heat of her body, her scent intertwined with his, the playful gleam in her eye. He had no desire to put his damp clothes back on and walk home in the cold and dark. The call of the soft, warm bed, and the soft, warm woman he’d be sharing it with was too great a temptation to resist.
They spread the counterpane over the bed together. Once settled in bed, he glanced over at Cassandra. She lay on her back, her bedraggled hair spread across the pillow. She stared at the ceiling, her gaze pensive. After a long moment, she turned her head to meet his gaze.
“I don’t sleep much,” she said. “When I find it difficult to rest, I swim … it helps me clear my head.”
There was a lack of conviction in her words that had him wondering if there might not be more to it. She might protest if he pressed, but a part of him wondered again if she’d gone under the water with the intention not to resurface. Perhaps, if he hadn’t dived to retrieve her, she might have changed her mind or let fear get the better of her. Or, she might have remained down there until she drowned. He shuddered at the thought.
“I do not sleep well either … most nights,” he confided. “It has gotten worse, recently. And when I am restless, I walk. Tonight I happened to wander a little farther than usual.”
Because of her … he’d walked to the edge of his family estate for a simple glimpse of her home. He was pitiful, sniffing about for pieces of her, because he suspected it was all she’d ever let him have.
Did he even want more than she’d given him? Months after Daphne had tossed him over for another man, Robert certainly wasn’t ready to go throwing his heart into another woman’s hands, nor did he think Cassandra wanted it. Why would she? Experience had taught her to see the worst in men, and there wasn’t much he could say or do to persuade her otherwise.
But if there were … if he could …
No. The thought was preposterous. He liked her, and they suited one another well in the bedchamber. There didn’t have to be anything more than that. With a woman as complicated as Cassandra—and he’d barely even scratched the surface—it seemed there never could be.
Chapter 6
LONDON, 1 WEEK LATER…
Cassandra paused before the front door of Penrose House, hand poised upon the knocker. Hesitation was not like her, but encountering her mother and sisters always required a moment in which to gird herself with the proper armor. The dowager duchess was a lot to take in all on her own—with her three favorite daughters surrounding her like a flock of birds, she’d be even more unbearable. The moment she said something insulting, it would become like a frenzy of sharks. One drop of blood in the water, and Cassandra would be torn to shreds.
She’d only come because it was Ophelia’s eighteenth birthday, and if she didn’t, they’d never let her hear the end of it. It would be the only invitation she’d receive for several months, since Ophelia’s coming out meant rounds of parties and balls at which she would not be welcome. Her reputation had stained the family name enough—the dowager would not want her underfoot during her sister’s first Season.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked, then stood back to wait for a footman to appear. She was admitted inside with the usual courtesies, her pelisse taken by the footman as the butler led her to the drawing room where the ladies of the house spent most mornings, lounging about and waiting for callers. This drawing room had the best light, the dowager often claimed—this, of course, being of the utmost importance for gentleman callers who needed to bear witness the full effect of the Lane daughters’ beauty.
She paused in the doorway as the butler announced her arrival, taking in the familiar scene with a bitter taste in her mouth. Pandora lay across the sofa in a most strategic fashion, a floral shawl draping her shoulders over a cream morning gown. Her golden hair had been swept up and pushed away from her face with a matching bandeau, a few stray curls left kissing her temples. She glanced up from the letter she’d been reading to meet Cassandra’s gaze, lips pursing into a pout, blue eyes showing clear disdain. Without a word, she went back to her letter without acknowledging her sister beyond that single glance.
Amaryllis sat in an armchair near the fire, her auburn head lowered over an embroidery hoop. She’d been the only one of the Lane daughters to inherit their father’s burnished red hair, often leaving many to compare Cassandra’s and find it lacking. The eldest of the sisters, Amaryllis had been the first to wed and now boasted three children—two of which were male, making her viscount husband quite happy.
In the center of the room, sharing a couch and poring over fashion plates and swatches of fabric, were the dowager duchess and Ophelia. The youngest Lane daughter still possessed a girlish face with rounded cheeks, limpid eyes, and the same fair coloring as Pandora. The young bucks would be after her in droves, a fact that thrilled their mother to no end.
Holding a lorgnette over her eyes, the dowager sat inspecting a fashion plate. Despite having heard the butler, she pretended as if she weren’t aware that her second-born daughter stood within the room.
“This will make a lovely ensemble for your debut,” she said to Ophelia. “Though, perhaps with fewer of those frills. You’re a young lady … not a table ornament.”
“Oh, I quite like the frills, Mama,” Ophelia said in a near whisper. “They look so … womanly.”
Cassandra fought not to roll her eyes. Her sisters had been trained to speak in low, soft voices that would be ‘pleasing’ to a man’s ear. It was the dowager’s opinion that everything a young lady did was to be, in some way, aimed at satisfying a husband, both before and after the wedding. Cassandra’s dissent had only been the first of many offenses to put her on the outskirts of her mother’s affection—her public scandal proving the very last straw. It had been made clear on multiple occasions that she was merely tolerated because it would be unseemly to shun her completely.
“With your slight figure, so many flounces will overpower you. Trust me, Ophelia … Mama knows best.”
“Of course, Mama.”
The dowager did not acknowledge Cassandra until she had set the fashion plate aside. Observing her through the lorgnette still held over the bridge of her nose, her mother inspected her from head to toe. As always, her puckered lips portrayed her disappointment.
“Cassandra. How good of you to come.”
She found an empty armchair near the hearth facing Amaryllis, who glanced up from her embroidery with a murmured ‘good afternoon’.
“I could hardly miss Ophelia’s birthday,” she said before offering her youngest sister a tight smile. “You look lovely, as always. How does it feel to be eight-and-ten now?”
Her sister sat up and squared her shoulders with a smug grin. “Ever so wonderful. We’ve been planning my wardrobe for the upcoming Season. I’ve already been measured for my court dress.”
Cassandra tried to muster excitement over it for her sister’s sake— but it proved difficult when thoughts of her first Season made her sick to her stomach. It had begun with white gowns and dreams of making of good match, and had ended in pain, blood, and humiliation.
