A Dangerous Expectation (The Gentlemen Next Door) (5 page)

Her mouth opened and closed, and when the sound of galloping hooves pounded up their driveway she seemed to seize the opportunity to stand and check outside the window.

"Lady Chesterley," she said grimly. Her shoulders pinched together.

He understood the feeling. It had seemed the two of them had been living in a glass castle and the slightest crack, the slightest interference, would send it all crashing down. Lady Chesterley was just the sort of thrown stone they didn’t need.

"She’s with someone," Cassandra said, leaning closer to press her nose to the glass. "He’s an older gentleman, but still too young—even for her."

Gray felt nauseated as he stood and went to the window. His worst fear couldn’t possibly come true. But as he studied the thin, pinched face peering up at the house, he realized he was wrong.

"It’s my father."

* * *

Cassandra had no business speaking to a duke—least of all Gray’s father. She stayed behind while Gray went to greet Lady Chesterley and her unexpected guest. She scrubbed her arms free of grease and changed into her only other dress, which still hadn’t been laundered and had streaks of dirt on the skirt.

How could Lady Chesterley do this to them? One was not readily available to meet dukes at a moment’s notice! Or perhaps other families were—families who were more refined than hers. Families who were quality and not trash.

She and Gray were on amicable terms—more than amicable, if she was to be honest, if she was to remember the trail of his tongue down her neck that she couldn’t—not now, goodness, what would she blurt out if she were thinking of
that?

She fanned herself, forcing the heat away. The point being—she and Gray had reached an understanding. They were—despite all expectations—happy. Even if he was living in the cottage still and she couldn’t bring herself to let him have more than a few drugged kisses, terrified of what she might reveal. Like the fact that she liked him more than was good for sense. Like she’d never felt less lonely in her entire life, even though she was living next door to a near stranger.

She couldn’t say those things—couldn’t bear what he’d say in return.

Except…just now, he had said he was after her heart. Although she’d heard that teasing tone. He was a good teaser. She mustn’t think more of it.

It did no good to obsess over these things—she had a duke in the house!

She pinned up her hair, took a breath, and made her way down the hall and the stairs to the sitting room.

Gray stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, glaring at his father. The duke sat on the couch—the very couch where she’d seen Gray for the first time—across from Lady Chesterley.

She shot Gray a questioning look—
why the sour face?
But he barely noticed. His attention was purely focused on the thin, wiry duke. He rose to his feet as she entered, but she did not miss his slow perusal from her head to her feet and back to her face.

Do you like what you see?
she wanted to ask, but instead she bit her tongue. Judging by Gray’s face, he was no more excited to see her father than she was, but she needed him on good behavior.

"There you are," Lady Chesterley said. "I was shocked to discover you had never met your father-in-law!"

You would have noticed as well as I did his absence from the wedding,
she thought silently.

The duke snapped his boots together and gave a slight incline of his graying head.

Gray reluctantly offered introduction. "Father, this is my wife, Cassandra. Dear, this is my father, the Duke of Rivington."

"Your grace," she said, dipping into what she hoped was an acceptable curtsey.

"A Drummond," the duke said with a sly grin.

"An Abernathy," Cassandra corrected quietly. Cassandra couldn’t imagine how the same features that made her husband so handsome—the tawny eyes, the strong jaw—made his father’s face eerily unreliable looking, uncommonly sleek, atop his weak frame. How was Gray so well put together?

The words were at the tip of her tongue, the curve of her lips, so she pressed her lips tight. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow.

"I must be going," Lady Chesterley said. "I wish I could stay for dinner."

"Perhaps another time," Gray said softly, "as we haven’t prepared anything formal for tonight." He shot his father a meaningful look.

Was that why Gray was angry? He felt his father to be rude?

"Perhaps," Lady Chesterley agreed, her keen eye looking between them. "Are you sure you won’t accompany me back to town, your grace?"

"Why would I want to do anything but get to know my new daughter?" the duke said, all teeth and flash.

Don’t you mean my many guineas?
Cassandra swallowed the thought quickly, aware of the tightness in her throat. How easily she’d become accustomed to the sense that she could say what she wanted these past few days. How hard it was to be shackled again by politeness and convention.

"Well then." Lady Chesterley rose slowly, as if loathe to leave. "I’ll be on my way."

* * *

Cassandra wasn’t sure she could shovel roasted quail into her mouth fast enough. She also wasn’t sure if she could continue to answer questions with nods and smiles, but the longer she sat with Gray and the Duke of Rivington, the more inappropriate questions sprang to her mind for his grace.

Why is your son so impoverished when the cut of your coat and the gleam of your garish jewels indicate you are not?

Is that why Gray dislikes you so—because you have clearly thrown him to the mercy of strangers?

If you would abandon your own son, a man with a talent for putting others at ease, then what would you have done to someone like me—someone who is not blood, not ton, not at all worthy?

She shivered at the thought and forked parsley potatoes into her mouth.

"Is it true?" the duke asked.

Cassandra’s eyes widened and she froze, another forkful of potatoes halfway to her mouth, as she realized she was being addressed directly.

"My apologies, your grace, is what true?" she asked with a silent congratulation that she’d said, she believed, exactly the most appropriate thing.

"Is it true that shares of Drummond Shipping will soon be open to the public?"

Cassandra blinked, but did not miss how Gray’s fists tightened around his cutlery.

"Not to my knowledge, your grace—however, I do not manage our company’s financial or administrative matters."

"Of course you do not, child."

But my sister does, you judgmental oaf
. She quickly brought another round of food to her lips.

"It’s only that I have heard rumors," he persisted, laying down his fork and knife and bringing his napkin to the corner of his thin lips. "Lord Willoughby has recently acquired shares."

"Lord Willoughby has recently acquired my sister," Cassandra clarified, just as she realized her choice of words was less than civilized.

"Is that how it works, then?" the duke asked in silky tones.

Gray’s pushed away his plate and scooted back his chair, its wood scratching into the floor as he stood.

"Out," Gray said. "Now."

"What’s wrong?" Cassandra asked. "Gray, please sit down."

Gray’s eyes were stormy as he fixed them on his father, who only raised a questioning brow at his son’s impertinence and then brought his glass of wine to his lips for a quick sip.

"This isn’t your home," Gray said.

"It isn’t yours, either," the duke answered.

Coldness settled over the dining room table.

"You bastard," Gray said softly.

"I assure you my pedigree is not in question," the duke said. "Unlike the future of Drummond Shipping."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Cassandra asked, all thought of manners and even civility vanishing.

"You haven’t secured a toehold in the Far East."

Cassandra almost asked why it mattered—only she knew it did.

"The plight of Drummond Shipping has been brought to my attention through Parliament," he continued.

"Parliament is not even in session," Gray spat.

"Like all good Englishmen, I do not need my government in session in order to perform my duties. Should we open up our best lines of trade to commercial matters or keep them invested toward our military? I’ve been thinking heavily on the matter all week—trying to decide what route is in the best interests of God and country."

Gray had the duke out of his chair and against the wall before Cassandra even registered that he’d moved. He dug his forearm into his father’s neck and pressed his face close to his father’s spindly nose.

"Do not threaten her again," he said.

"Gray, let him go," Cassandra begged, her anxiety mounting. Not for the duke—but for her father’s company. The duke’s threat was clear, and if Cassandra had learned anything from living on the streets, it was that the privileged determine everything and you were at their mercy.

That was why she worked so hard to be perfect. That was why she stayed in the shadows instead of making a fool of herself in the sun. Because her father’s company, their position, their tenuously good name, and their wealth could easily be snatched away at the whim of the wrong man.

"It’s not a threat," the duke said, straining his long neck and struggling for breath as his hands pulled at Gray’s immobile forearm. "It’s a fact. It’s not just up to me, although I have a certain influence."

"Gray, put him down this instant." Cassandra ran to his side and yanked on his arm. The moment she touched his shoulder, he backed away, letting his father crumble to the floor.

She’d never seen this side of Gray—wild, angry.

She reached down to help the duke to his feet. "I’m sure we can discuss something to your benefit," she said soothingly as she took him to a chair.

The duke coughed and refused the seat, pulling at his sleeves and smoothing down his coat. "Perhaps we can, my dear. But not tonight."

Cassandra watched helplessly as he took his leave. Once the front door was firmly closed behind him, she whirled around to confront her husband, who was staring at her coldly from the foyer. "How could you?"

"How could
you
?" he retorted, pointing an angry finger at her. "Did you honestly promise him a portion of your company in return for favorable treatment?"

"No—don’t be scandalous," she said, "but I did promise him consideration, which is more than you’ve done."

"What consideration do I owe the man who threw me out on the street because I wouldn’t let him whore me out for money?"

Cassandra blanched. "Awful as that may have been, you owed him the consideration of a guest in a home that is neither yours nor mine," she cried. "You owed him the consideration of a man with the power to destroy my family’s legacy." She watched Gray’s face go cold and pinched and closed, and felt a tightness in her chest. There was no trace of the laughter and humor she’d seen there before. But didn’t he understand how tenuous her position was? "You said you had a home," she said. "Remember? But my home depends on my position in society."

He shook his head. "That isn’t what I meant when I said you were my home now. I didn’t mean brick and mortar."

He strode past her.

"Gray, wait," she said, desperate that he not leave for the neighboring cottage. "You must know how important that brick and mortar is. You don’t understand poverty—you don’t, not the way I do."

He stopped with his hand on the door, his back to her. "I understand poverty of reputation," he said. "Our honor is all that we have, and unlike other possessions, there is no way to buy it back once it is spent."

"I only ask that you be civil to your father—for all our sakes."

"So you did not mean what you said."

"What are you talking about? What did I say?"

He opened the door and made his way out, throwing his words behind him. "You said I would never have to be a puppet for you."

* * *

Gray Abernathy yanked off his jacket and threw it on the bed, pacing the floor in front of his window. He remembered the last time he was this angry. He had recently turned seventeen and refused an engagement his father had orchestrated to a girl a little over half his age whose own father was rich as Croesus.

"What good are you?" his father had stormed as he’d ripped the very coat off Gray’s back and tossed it into the fire. "What do you think pays for these clothes and the bed you sleep in and the food you put in your belly?"

It didn’t matter how much he’d begged and pleaded and pointed out that the girl was only eleven. That while she could barely speak for herself, he could at least speak for her and the terror in her eyes at the betrothal meeting.

"Eleven or not, she’ll bear," his father had said.

He’d left that day to stay with a friend, and when he’d cooled off and returned, determined to find an amicable solution, the door had been closed to him. The servants had been apologetic. His letters to his elder brother had come back unopened and he’d heard another one of his brothers had been betrothed to the girl a short while later—thus securing their family’s financial safety.

He’d been livid with his father. Absolutely livid. Throwing him out? Disinheriting him for refusing to marry an eleven-year-old girl to line the family pockets? Gray had returned to his friend’s guest chamber and had never looked back.

But he’d also always had a guest chamber, he realized, unlike Cassandra.

Now that his father was gone and the anger was slowly seeping out of him, he wondered if he’d been too harsh.

But it was that remark that she’d made.
You said you had a home. Remember? But my home depends on my position in society.

When she’d flung those words in his face, he’d realized, rather sheepishly, that she’d meant a
house
. A physical thing. While he had meant
her
.

He’d come to think of her as home in such an impossibly short time. As a refuge where he could be himself—and where she had said she was also her best self.