Page 47 of The Damsel
During the dessert course, Cassandra looked up to find Robert watching the baron, a soft, satisfied grin upon his face. He looked happier than he had at the start of the night, now that he’d tuned Lucy out completely. The girl had turned her attention to those who cared to listen to her blather on about watercolors, and Robert seemed to content himself with watching his father thoroughly enjoy his final birthday celebration.
ROBERT WATCHEDCassandra from across the drawing room, where the men had joined the ladies after retiring to a separate chamber with their chamber pots, port, and cigars. He’d dreaded this part of the evening before, hating that he would be absent while she was alone with his mother, Lady Fletcher, and that hateful busybody Lady Loring. But, if Cassandra had proved anything at dinner, it was that she could defend and take care of herself.
He’d never doubted it, but she had driven the point home with her marvelous performance tonight. First, she’d appeared in the drawing room looking like a fashion in the crimson confection she wore, head held high. He was grateful that every eye in the room had rested on her in that moment, because he felt certain his heart had been in his eyes. How could it not be, when she so effortlessly stoked some deep, hidden part of him he’d never known existed? He’d abhorred every moment of having to tolerate Lucy’s dribble, when he wanted to sit near Cassandra and his father.
Whatever they’d been talking about had kept him smiling all through dinner—which was what Robert had wanted.
Just before the men had parted ways with the women, his father had taken Cassandra by the arm and whispered something in her ear. The two had exchanged a long, meaningful glance, and for a moment she seemed taken aback. Before Robert could catch them up and find out what had been said, she was gone, slipping into the drawing room.
He’d cornered his father to ask what he’d whispered, but the baron had given him a smug smile and refused to answer.
“It was between Lady Cassandra and I, and is no concern of yours.”
Instead of being frustrated, Robert could only chuckle. “I suppose you like her, then.”
“Very much. She’s a good woman, and perfect for you.”
He’d cringed at that, despite agreeing with his father that Cassandra was absolutely perfect. The more time he spent in her company, the harder it became to part ways with her.
It was dangerous, his mounting obsession with her. She hadn’t said so with words, but he read her actions loud and clear. She held him at arm’s length for a reason, and would not allow him to get too close. The moment he overstepped her boundaries, he would cease to be a part of her life in any capacity.
As he watched her from where he sat near the pianoforte, he decided that a piece of her had to be better than nothing at all. If remaining in her good favor meant picking up whatever scraps she let fall at her feet, then he’d gladly do so.
A card game between his parents three other guests began in one corner of the room, while Lucy made a beeline to the pianoforte. Cassandra sat in an armchair, seeming to listen in to the conversation taking place without wishing to engage. She sipped sherry from a cut crystal glass and stared off across the room, a pensive expression overcoming her face.
Unable to stay away any longer, he made his way toward her, leaving Martin and his father to their horse talk over port. With all the furniture in the room taken up by other occupants, he was forced to stand beside her chair. Though, he found he didn’t mind. He had a stunning view of her from here—the swells of her breasts at the neckline of her gown, the curve of her neck, the tendrils of hair curling along her temple and jaw.
When she raised her eyes to look at him, he tried to smile but found himself unable. There was something about the way she was looking at him, an intent gleam in her eyes. It knocked the wind from him, while his heart took up a galloping cadence, threatening to burst free of his body at any moment. He lost himself in that gaze, in the prisms of blue and gray sucking him in like some hapless fool wandering damp, foggy moors. He was sinking into the mire, helpless to save himself, battered by the storm of her rage and passion. God help him, he didn’t want to be free of it. He wanted more and more until she’d consumed him completely and he became a part of her.
Taking a slow, deep breath, he blinked and fought to find his voice. They’d been staring at one another too long in silence, and someone was bound to notice.
Bracing a hand upon the back of her chair, he cleared his throat. “Have you enjoyed yourself this evening?”
He kept his voice low so the others could not hear. With Lucy’s playing no one seemed to overhear.
“I have, actually,” she replied, sounding as if that surprised even her. “Dinner was wonderful, your father is a gem, and Lady Loring was … an interesting table companion.”
Casting a glance at the old woman who had suffered Cassandra’s ruthless set down, he snorted and coughed to cover a chuckle. She lowered her head, shoulders shaking as she seemed to stifle a giggle.
By the time she looked at him again, he’d composed himself. The tilt of her head was so perfect that the urge to kiss her slammed into him hard and fast. All he had to do was bend over and cup her jaw, angling her a bit more to the left. His fingertips would skim her throat, his mouth touching hers and his tongue stroking her lower lip.
She seemed to have the same thought, because her gaze fell to his mouth and held, her own lips parting and her breath hitching. He allowed his hand to shifted on the back of the chair, just enough that his fingers brushed against her hair. He took one of the spirals and smoothed it between his fingers—an action that lasted all of three seconds, but sent a wave of longing rippling through him. He wanted to pluck the pins loose and send it cascading down her back, run his fingers through it and bury his face in the strands, wrap it around his hand and tug, exposing her neck for his lips and tongue.
Bloody hell. If he wasn’t careful he’d give them away to everyone in the room.
He released her hair and took a step back, breaking her gaze. He must learn to control his reactions to her in public if he wanted to preserve their secret.
He’d just worked himself up to engaging her in banal conversation fit for a public occasion, when Martin Fletcher approached.
“I say, have you heard the news out of London?” he drawled, his eyes heavy-lidded from drink. “Terribly sad business.”
Robert frowned and glanced down at Cassandra, who shrugged as if to say she had no idea what Martin was talking about.
“What news?” he prodded. “This Masked Menace business is all anyone is talking about.”
Martin took another sip of his port and sighed. “Lady Downing died in a tragic accident a few day past.”
Robert felt the twinge of pity for the lady and her husband, now a widower. He wasn’t well acquainted with the Downings, but remembered meeting the lady at Almack’s a few Seasons ago. She’d been a quiet woman, sweet and a bit shy.
