Page 50 of The Damsel
“Robert, there you are,” his mother said.
Their guests had begun rising from their seats and exchanging farewells. As he’d suspected, the party was now at an end. His father looked exhausted but happy, his eyes bright and clear.
“Is Lady Cassandra all right?” the baron asked.
“Just a bit under the weather. I will escort her home myself. She’s quite ill, and I would not feel right allowing her to leave on her own.”
His mother opened her mouth as if to argue against it, but his father cut in before she could.
“Of course you shouldn’t,” the baron declared. “Do give her our sincerest well wishes. We hope she recovers soon.”
“I will.”
He turned to flee without another word, though he heard his mother through the drawing room doors.
“William, it is hardly proper …”
“…the right thing to do, Rosie, the woman is ill.”
The run back to his chambers seemed to take forever, but before long he was safe behind the closed door again, the party and guests forgotten.
He found Cassandra seated on his bed, her vacant stare focused somewhere across the room. She’d taken down her elegant coiffure, leaving the neat curls hanging down her back. Her face appeared pink from a fresh scrubbing, though crying had left her eyes red-rimmed.
Coming farther into the room, he gave her as good a smile as he could manage.
“I see you made use of the washstand,” he remarked, uncertain where else to begin.
If he tried to pry into what had happened downstairs, she might retreat from him again. For now, they seemed to be at a standstill, coming to a truce of sorts. He only wanted to give her what comfort he could—what comfort she would allow.
“The tooth powder also,” she said, her voice still small and strained. “Fricassee chicken tastes far better going down.”
He chuckled, edging closer and offering his hand. This time, she acquiesced without a fight, letting him help her to her feet.
“Turn around.”
She shocked him by obeying, giving him her back. He took advantage of her assent and swept her hair over one shoulder before trailing his knuckles down her spine.
“May I?”
The need for her approval proved difficult to ignore, and he could not act until she’d given him what he needed to proceed.
“Yes,” she replied.
He began opening the back of her gown, resisting the desire to bend his head and kiss the back of her neck. He had not brought her here for carnal reasons, and did not want her think he had. She stepped out of the sumptuous gown, which he laid over the back of a chair before busying himself with her stays and petticoats. Kneeling at her feet, he removed her slippers, then slid his hands up her legs to untie her garters and pull down her stockings.
Once she stood before him in only her chemise, he went to work on his clothes. She remained placid, watching as he untied his cravat, then removed his coat. His layers fell to the floor—waistcoat, shoes, stockings, braces. Choosing to remain in his shirt and breeches, he stepped forward and swept her off her feet. She stiffened in his hold, but he refused to set her down. He carried her back toward the bed.
Turning to bury his face in her neck, he inhaled that intoxicating scent of oranges and clove. She whimpered, but still seemed resistant to his hold, the lack of control it forced her to accept.
“Shh,” he whispered against her ear. “You promised not to fight, Cass. And I’m only taking you to bed … to sleep.”
She relaxed a bit, and he held her for only a moment longer before laying her on the bed—which Felix had already turned down. Climbing in after her, he lay on his side facing her. She looked younger and smaller somehow—curls falling about her head in a haphazard tumble, lips pink and pouting, eyes wide.
He reached for her again, this time wrapping an arm around her waist and urging her against him.
Again, she angled away from him like a skittish doe jumping out of a predator’s reach. But, just as he had outside, he pressed the issue, wrestling her over to his side of the bed.
“I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to let me,” he murmured, smiling when she narrowed her eyes at him.
