Page 44 of The Damsel
“My father was the only person I could count upon,” she said after a long pause. “When he died, it was abrupt, unexpected. If I had known my last moments with him were going to be the last, I would have …”
She heaved a labored sigh, then glanced at him again out of the corner of her eye.
“For that reason, I will attend your father’s birthday dinner … so someone will be there who understands what it is like to watch their father slip away right before their eyes. The night at the White Cock you did something important for me. Having a good experience after
Bertram meant something. I owe you this much in return.”
Shifting closer to her on the bed, he pulled her against his body.
“You don’t have to give me anything in exchange for that,” he whispered into her hair. “I gave that gladly and freely, and once I knew the reason I was even happier to have done it. You owe me nothing, Cass.” “Still,” she insisted. “I’ll do it. Tell the baroness she may count upon my attendance.”
Smiling against the crown of her head, he tried not to let himself become hopeful over this. It didn’t have to mean anything beyond her returning what she saw as a favor. That was all she’d make of it, so there was no reason for his heart to swell and relief to wash over him at her words.
Yet, they did.
“Thank you.”
They lay in silence for a while longer before Cassandra again changed the subject.
“Your scent,” she murmured, inhaling as if to draw it in. “What is it?”
He frowned at the odd question. “It is some concoction I’ve been purchasing from a perfumer in London for years now. It is a blend of orris root, amber, and a number of other things I cannot recall at the moment. It’s called Spanish Leather.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, giving no hint to what she might think of it. “I’d have thought you would smell like sandalwood or Bay Rum. I vow, the men of London are forever reeking of the stuff.”
He crinkled his nose in distaste. “I abhor the scent of sandalwood.”
Glancing up at him, she gave him a half smile. “So do I.”
Chapter 8
Cassandra lifted the hem of her skirts as she allowed Randall to hand her down from her carriage in the circular drive of Briarwell Manor. Inside, she felt as if a nest of snakes writhed about in her belly. Outwardly, she did her best to portray the aloof lady—the daughter of a duke who suffered no fools and would not tolerate disrespect.
In the sennight that had passed since Robert invited her to the baron’s birthday celebration, she had talked herself in and out of coming several times. Sure, she had promised him she would attend, but he'd insisted she owed him nothing. Which meant, if she wished to back out he did not have the right to make her feel guilty for it. But … shewouldfeel guilty, because she’d given her word and he would expect her.
When had his thoughts or feelings begun to matter to her?
They don’t, she told herself as she approached the front steps of the manor.
If she gave him something he asked for, he’d be more amenable to the things she wanted. Heat surged within her as her mind went back to the nights they’d spent together this week—him sneaking off from the manor to walk to the dower house in the dead of night. She no longer needed to suffer for craving more of Robert’s submission and eagerness to please her—not when he lived so close and was all-too willing to come calling whenever he wanted more of what she gave in return. Sleep still eluded her most nights, but as she lay abed staring off into the darkness, she thought of Robert, not Bertram.
That, more than anything, was reason enough for her to do this. She might not wish for Robert to become a permanent part of her life, but after the things he’d given her, she owed it to him to attend.
Besides, she’d meant what she told him about her own father. If she’d known the duke’s final birthday was to be his last, she’d have made it special for him—spent every second of that day soaking in his presence. After Baron Stanley had died and Robert thought back to this night, she did not want him to remember it as miserable or boring. If her presence could add some sort of excitement to it for him, then she would attend the party and make the best of it.
And, she had to admit that the picture he’d painted while they stood in the garden appealed to her. Rubbing their noses in her presence, forcing them to acknowledge her while showing them all how little she cared for their regard … it sounded like the perfect way to spend her evening.
She’d spent hours on her toilette, ensuring not a hair was out of place before she set out for Briarwell adorned in her finest evening attire.
When the front doors of the manor swung open to admit her, Cassandra held her head high and swept inside as if she owned the place. For the first time in her life, she sought to emulate her mother —a woman who could make anyone feel small with nothing more than a cool stare. Handing her satin-lined cape off to a footman, she followed the stoic butler to a large drawing room, where the other guests had already begun to assemble. It would appear she was the last to arrive, several pairs of eyes swiveling toward her as she lingered on the threshold and waited for the butler to announce her.
“Lady Cassandra Lane.”
Due to her status, the occupants of the room had no choice but to come to their feet and offer her a bow or curtsy. The forced deference amused her to no end, especially once she caught glimpses of expressions telling her most did not wish to offer it. She let her delight show, a smirk curving her lips as she inclined her head in acceptance of their obeisance.
Robert approached her first, looking like something off an artist’s canvas in his black evening kit and white linen. A diamond tiepin glittered against his cravat, and his eyes sparkled with glee as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. The soft brush of his lips over her gloved knuckles sent a little shudder through her. She could imagine him sinking to his knees and kissing her this way, then removing her glove and taking her little finger into his mouth.
Now is not the time, Cass!
