Page 9 of The Damsel
“When did you become a snob?”
She had never been one despite her high birth, but wouldn’t admit her true reason for turning her nose up at a servant. Men who worked for a living were always stronger than those who didn’t—which meant if she needed to fight him off she’d stand no chance.
“Not him, I said.”
Her friend heaved an exasperated sigh. “Cass, you must choose someone, darling.”
“I know that,” she snapped.
Still, as she gazed about the taproom, she found not one man who would meet her needs. Or, maybe they would, but she could conjure no desire to approach them.
And then, she saw him.
Seated at the counter with a pint of spirits and half-filled tumbler in front of him, he was staring right back at her. As if he’d been looking at her already.
Their eyes met, gazes holding as Cassandra wondered how long he’d been watching her. She was not accustomed to being the object of a man’s scrutiny—especially one who looked like the Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley.
It was a wonder she had not seen him sooner, as he was the sort of man who drew notice. She might have been too anxious to pay him any mind, or he’d entered when she'd had her back turned. Whatever the reason, there was no escaping it now—the essentialthingabout Robert Stanley that drew the eye.
To call him beautiful would be an insult, and to compare him to an angel would be offensive to God himself. He was tall—at least an inch taller than her—with a form that was not too slender or too wide. The fit of his clothes flaunted broad shoulders and a proportional chest tapering into a trim waist. His limbs displayed the athleticism of a man accustomed to country life—but he was not so large as to be intimidating.
His valet might have styled the array of pale blond curls that morning, but the wind had made a mess of them. But, even the tousled strands were alluring, more artful in their disarray than unkempt. His face was the sort that inspired a painter’s brush—pretty yet still masculine, his angular jaw complemented by full lips, an aquiline nose, and eyebrows so perfectly shaped women everywhere must envy him.
The sight of him might have caused other women to swoon, blush, or giggle. But, Cassandra was not like other women and hadn’t been for some years now. In truth, the sight of him filled her with heat composed of equal parts primal attraction and rage.
Attraction, because … well, one had only to look at him to explain that visceral phenomenon. Not hard to determine why contemplating what he looked like under his clothes made that elusive warmth spark deep inside her.
Rage, because men of his sort never ceased to stoke that emotion in her. Handsome, titled, privileged, overindulged. Lords and their sons who thought they could do whatever they wanted, with and to whomever they wished, simply because they’d been born with cocks and all the rights she’d ever been denied. She endured their presence all around her—in the park where she walked, at the occasional soiree, at her favorite coffee house, in the museums and shops she frequented.
They disgusted her, the lot of them, the emotion as acute as it had been from the moment Lord Bertram Fairchild’s attentions toward her had changed from romantic and gallant to nefarious and painful.
She gritted her teeth so hard they ached, as the sensations of anger and lust warred inside her. Heat flushed the back of her neck and her hands itched to strike him, hurt him, make him bleed. Simultaneously, an incessant tingle began between her legs, originating from the bud of her clit. Her mouth watered from the desire to sink her teeth into his neck until he writhed and screamed beneath her.
Making matters worse was the way he stared at her—as if he wanted to peel back her brittle layers and expose the weakest parts of her. As if he wanted something from her she was not willing to give.
This time would be different. Cassandra resolved to prove to herself that she wasn’t the same weak girl she had been upon losing her innocence in the most base and brutal of ways. She was in control, and no man—especially not the insultingly beautiful Robert Stanley— would get the best of her ever again.
Turning back to Millicent, she smiled. “Him.”
She inclined her head just enough for her friend to know whom she referred to. Millicent’s took Robert in from the corner of her eye.
Then, her brows lifted, an expression of shock flitting across her face.
“Robert Stanley?” he whispered. “Well … that is surprising.”
Cassandra stiffened, her hackles rising so fast she could barely think before she’d lashed out. “What is that supposed to mean?”
That Robert was too handsome to even think of dallying with her? That she stood no chance of getting what she wanted from him? That she’d aimed too high and ought to reconsider the servant?
Millicent’s hand came over hers and the other woman gave her a soft smile. “Only that I hardly expected you to choose a peer. Avoiding them was quite the point of us coming here … aside from the need for discretion."
She deflated, ashamed of herself for her reaction. Of course Millicent hadn’t meant anything by her remark. The woman had never been anything but kind and understanding. Besides, the stories of her past proved nothing if not that they were very much alike despite the difference in their appearances. No one understood her like her friend.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Of course, I’m sorry. Do you think it’s a terrible choice?”
“No, actually. If it were any other man of privilege … perhaps. But Mr. Stanley is known for his charm and kindness. There isn’t a soul who’s disliked him after coming to know him. I’ve never heard any whispers of him acting in an ungentlemanly way toward anyone … and you know I’d have heard if there were anything of note.”
That was true. Millicent’s popularity ensured she kept a constant finger upon the pulse of theton. She was never without news of the latest gossip and kept her share of salacious secrets, unless it served her to reveal them.
