Page 40 of The Damsel
If he was going to war with her over Cassandra, then he’d have to drink the bloody tea.
“She is our neighbor and should be treated as such. I’ve had a few occasions to speak with her and I find her to be a charming and lovely sort of person. I know you would too, if you'd try to get to know her.”
The baroness shook her head, giving him a look of disapproval. “I wish you wouldn’t associate with her, Robert. Her reputation would cast you in a bad light. You’d do better in the company of a woman like Miss Fletcher.”
The urge to throw his teacup against the wall came over him, but he pushed it down. He took a deep breath and fought to remain calm. His mother wasn’t completely unreasonable; he just had to think of a way to twist her thinking to fit his own agenda. He wanted Cassandra near whenever possible, and he wanted their neighbors to stop treating her like a leper.
“Well, her reputation would not cast anyone in a bad light if you would become a champion of sorts for her. If you were to invite her, show her kindness in front of our friends … well, they’d have no choice but to follow suit. At least here in our little corner of Suffolk, she could be accepted, with you at the forefront of the effort, of course. Imagine what the vicar would think of you inviting her in, hosting her at your table.”
“He’s right, Rosie,” the baron declared, glancing up from his plate. “You could be a shining example for our neighbors to follow.”
His mother perked up, a smile softening her wrinkled mouth. The baroness loved being the center of attention; all the better if she could be perceived in a flattering way. She might not care a whit about Cassandra, but she would publicly befriend her for no reason other than to boast that she’d been the first.
“I suppose the idea has some merit,” she replied. “And we are short one lady, with Martin Fletcher coming along. If I invite Lady Cassandra, the numbers will be even. Perhaps there could be a bit of dancing after dinner. Oh, William, would that not be marvelous?”
Despite not being able to dance himself, his father smiled, giving the baroness his usual look of pure devotion. “It would be splendid, Rosie.”
With a smile and a nod, she then turned her attention back to Robert. “I have a spare invitation that you can deliver to her residence.”
He schooled his face into an indifferent mask, while his insides erupted into a flurry of sensation at the thought of seeing her again.
She’d left for London one day after their last night together, and he’d been thinking of her ever since, waiting for her to return.
The purple bruise from her bite on the side of his neck had begun to fade to a sickly yellow, the matching one on his chest following suit. Both marks seemed to tingle as if in response to her nearness, just a short walk through the woods and past the swimming hole. His mouth went dry and his stomach clenched, his cock stirring in his breeches. Delivering the invitation would give him an excuse to have the one thing he’d been longing for the past sennight—a glimpse into her eyes, a moment to drink her in. If she allowed him anything beyond that, he would be happy.
“Of course,” he said, keeping his tone even. “I’ll deliver it this afternoon.”
“I will go find the invitation now before I forget. This old mind is not what it used to be.”
“Your mind is just fine, Rosie,” the baron murmured before returning his attention to his meal.
Once she was gone, Robert reached for the paper, leaving his teacup sitting upon the footstool. As he settled back into his chair, he caught his father staring at him, an amused smirk curving his lips.
“What?” he prodded with a raise of his eyebrow.
The baron chuckled. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that it is nice to see you moving on. I know how difficult things have been for you after Lady Daphne.”
Raising the paper so that it obscured his face, he laughed. “That’s Lady Hartmoor now, and … I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, old man.”
“Hmm,” his father mumbled. “Right. Well, I will say this one thing and then speak of no more. Next time, tell Lady Cassandra to aim her love bites a bit lower. The one on your neck is visible when your head is turned at just the right angle.”
THE AFTERNOON SUNloomed high overhead when Robert set out for Easton Park on foot, a handful of fluffy clouds offering a bit of shade. His heart pounded and his stomach flipped this way and that. He’d missed her, if he were being honest with himself. Though, in the back of his mind a part of him wondered why. Aside from the obvious pleasures he’d enjoyed with her, she proved brittle and harsh. But, he’d come to realize that her hardness was nothing more than a wall closing out the world. And who could blame her? The woman had been through hell, both due to her ordeal at Bertram’s hands and her treatment in the aftermath. While the world had shunned her, she’d learned to cultivate an armor of sorts, keeping herself safe from scorn and scrutiny.
She put him in mind of a rose—deceptively soft and beautiful plant that sported sharp thorns along its stem. Those thorns did not make her any less appealing to him. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, they only made him want to delve deeper, to peel back her layers and see what he might uncover.
He was besotted; there was no getting around that. She’d drawn him in with the mystery in her eyes, and now he was ensnared completely, caught in the thrall of her darkness.
As he neared the pond where he’d last encountered her, he glanced down to find primroses growing in bright yellow clusters along his path. Beads of dew still clung to some of their petals, their orange centers calling out to him like a sunny beacon. He crouched to pluck a handful from the ground, imagining how they would look tucked into the loose spirals of Cassandra’s hair. If his luck held up, he’d get to find out shortly.
He arrived to find the gate to her small garden hanging open. It might be best to step through the gate and determine if she was in there before he approached the house.
Turning off the footpath to the front door, he veered toward the garden, clutching the envelope and his fresh-picked primroses in one hand.
A gardener’s work made itself apparent as he stepped into the small space, finding newly-planted foxglove, hyacinth, betony, and hydrangea. The blooms jutted up from the soil in strategic places amongst a flagstone courtyard, with rusted wrought iron benches here and there. A few stone statues filled in the spaces between flowers—angels and fairies, whimsical pieces of art that would be further complemented by the buds one they’d begun to overtake the space.
He found Cassandra seated shaded by a May tree, its branches hanging over from the outside of the wall. Its buds had yet to open, but in another month or so, the blooms would pepper the bench and the ground with white petals. She had not yet noticed his approach, her head lowered over a book, her hair gleaming with reddish tones in the shadow of the tree. She wore a simple morning gown of sprigged muslin, a robin’s egg blue sash offering a vibrant splash of color. Her hair had been pulled back into a simple chignon, though a riot of curls had worked their way free to kiss her forehead, temples, and jaw.
While sitting still, she presented a far different picture than when she was in motion. Without the perpetual anger furrowing her brow and pinching her lips, she was soft and womanly. She made him want to go to his knees and rest his head on her lap, gaze up at her and watch the way the sunbeams shining through the branches lit her hair on fire. The tender feelings were completely at odds with the usual tempest of lust and curiosity she usually provoked. Something deep within him panged, resounding throughout his entire body.
