A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (4 page)

She saw his gaze drop to the neckline of her riding dress, where several more buttons had come adrift. Enlightenment came to her in a flash. She was inexpe
rienced, but she was not stupid. A deep blush spread across her cheeks. ‘Oh! I…What have I done?’

‘It isn’t your fault.’

Peter came across the room towards her, but stopped when he was still several feet away. ‘Cassie, it is not your fault,’ he repeated. Their eyes met. Peter put out a hand and touched her cheek, a tender touch. ‘I swear—’ he began, and then the door opened violently and Major Anthony Lyndhurst and the Earl of Mardon burst into the room.

‘Perhaps you did not understand my original invitation, Quinlan,’ Anthony Lyndhurst said coldly. His eyes were almost black with anger. ‘When I invited you to the house party, it was not in the nature of suggesting a debauch. I scarce know whether to call for the vicar or to hit you across the room.’

Peter rubbed his forehead. Nothing but abject apology would do now and even that was barely adequate when explaining to a man how one had almost come to seduce his ward in an inn parlour.

It was several hours later. As befitted gentlemen, neither Anthony Lyndhurst nor John, Earl of Mardon, had expressed their views of his execrable behaviour on the way back to Lyndhurst Chase. They had bundled Cassie up into the carriage, curtly bid him to follow on behind, and given him the distinct impression that if he were cowardly enough to turn tail and flee, one of them would call him out, and if that one failed to maim him, the other would be in reserve to finish the job. Thus it was that Cassie had been handed over to her chaperon without the chance of another word between them and Peter was now enduring a painful interview in the library. He
had not been offered the opportunity to change his wet clothes and he certainly had not been offered a drink.

The wet ride to Lyndhurst Chase had given Peter ample opportunity to reflect on the disaster that was his whirlwind courtship of Miss Cassandra Ward. He could recall with excruciating clarity the moment at which the parlour door had opened. Cassie’s state of enchanting disarray was plain for all to see. Her hair was loose about her face, her buttons were undone to reveal the tender curves of her upper breasts and her gown had slipped from one shoulder. Her appearance could hardly be expected to provoke the same appreciation in her male relatives as it had in him. Worse still, his own state of arousal was difficult to disguise and, judging by the look of searing contempt bent on him by his host, he had no need to waste time in trying. It was obvious to all what had been going on.

‘I can only beg your pardon,’ Peter said now. ‘I meant no disrespect to Miss Ward. We had been talking, and—’ He made a slight gesture. He and Cassie
had
been talking, but even now he was uncertain how they had moved from that relatively innocuous occupation to one that was rather less chaste. And Anthony Lyndhurst seemed quite unimpressed, as was only to be expected.

‘Talking!’

Peter caught his look of undisguised disgust, an expression that seemed to be echoed in the baleful stare given him by the old setter dog curled up in front of the fire. It seemed that no one at Lyndhurst Chase was particularly pleased with him. Peter shook his head.

‘My apologies, Lyndhurst. I appreciate that I have broken every law of proper conduct. There is nothing that I can say to excuse my behaviour.’

Surprisingly, Lyndhurst’s face eased slightly. Peter
kept quiet. There
was
no justification for his behaviour and he was not going to insult either of them by pretending otherwise.

Lyndhurst turned away and strolled towards the window. ‘Can I infer from your behaviour, Quinlan, that you are not indifferent to my cousin?’

Peter looked up. Lyndhurst was gazing out across the gardens towards the lake. His stance was relaxed enough, but the line of his shoulders was tense.

‘I can safely say that indifference is the last emotion I feel for your cousin,’ he agreed. ‘Miss Ward has my greatest respect and admiration.’

Lyndhurst almost smiled. He gave him a searching look and Peter could see that he had read in his face all the things he had carefully left unsaid. Naturally it was out of the question to say:
‘I am helplessly attracted to your cousin, Lyndhurst. I want to ravish her and I almost did so and I am afraid that with the slightest encouragement I shall probably fall madly in love with her…’
Out of the question, the sort of statement a sane gentleman would never make, yet blindingly, hopelessly true for all that.

‘I see,’ Anthony Lyndhurst said. ‘Then will you accede to an immediate betrothal? Under the circumstances I think it would be for the best. There were a number of witnesses…’

Peter winced at the thought. He could not permit Cassie’s reputation to be tarnished. He eased his breath out in a long sigh. He had come to Berkshire intending to marry a fortune. He had come with ruthless intent and he had not expected to experience more than a polite respect for his intended bride. Why, then, did the fact that he was so strongly attracted to Cassie seem to make matters more complicated? Suddenly he felt responsible
for her feelings as well as his own. He did not want her to feel forced into a match because of what had happened between them.

He looked up to see that Lyndhurst was watching him. ‘I would like to have the opportunity to court Miss Ward formally before I make my declaration,’ he began. ‘We have had little time to get to know one another.’

Lyndhurst gave him a mocking smile. ‘You had time enough to compromise her, it seems,’ he said. ‘You may woo my cousin in form after the betrothal, Quinlan.’

There was a moment of silence and then Peter nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I should be honoured to marry Miss Ward,’ he said.

Lyndhurst held out a hand and Peter shook it. Lyndhurst poured him a glass of brandy. Peter accepted it. The atmosphere warmed into something approaching friendliness and the conversation turned easily to mutual friends, shared history and the plans that Lyndhurst had for the entertainment of his house party guests. Neither of them gave another thought to the fact that Cassie might also have an opinion on the subject of her proposed marriage and that it might not be quite what they anticipated.

‘C
ome out, Miss Cassandra. I know you’re under there.’ The tones of Eliza, Cassie’s maid, penetrated the two fat, feather pillows that Cassie had pulled over her head in an unsuccessful effort to blot out the day.

‘Miss Cassandra!’ Eliza’s tone became stronger. ‘Come out before I pull all the bedclothes off you!’

With a groan, Cassie flung the pillows away and emerged blinking into the light of day. It was a lovely morning. Eliza had thrown back the curtains and the room was flooded with sunlight. Cassie lay on her back and stared at the shadows moving across the ceiling. She remembered that all the house party guests were supposed to be lunching by the lake that day, then having an impromptu dance after dinner in the evening. When it had been planned she had thought that it sounded rather fun. Now she did not even wish to get out of bed.

When she had returned from Lynd the previous afternoon, Eliza had bundled her into bed, force-fed her a hot posset to ward off a chill, and had stood guard over her like a lion, so that no one else, least of all Cassie’s chaperon, had had the chance to come near her. Worn out with strong drink, sweet passion and exhaustion,
Cassie had fallen into a dreamless sleep. It was only when she had woken in the morning, her head clear and her mind all too active, that all the unwelcome aspects of the situation had occurred to her.

She had behaved in an utterly abandoned manner. Anthony and John would be furious and disgusted at her shocking behaviour. Lady Margaret, her chaperon, would be icily disapproving. Even Eliza, notoriously indulgent, would censure her. Like as not, everyone in Lynd and at the Chase would have heard what had happened at the inn, because everyone
always
knew everybody else’s business.

She would have to face Peter Quinlan over the breakfast table. She blushed to think of it and to remember what had happened between them. For she did remember it. She remembered every last kiss and caress.

She thought about how she had felt when she had first seen Peter Quinlan on the road, the warm and breathless grip about her heart as her eyes had met his. She was one and twenty; she had experienced—or rather, endured—three London Seasons. She had met any number of personable men and for obvious reasons they had made themselves extremely pleasant to her.

Not a single one of them had affected her the way that Peter had done.

For a moment she had allowed herself to think on the sweet sensuality of their embraces. Even now the recollection made her shiver with remembered passion. But there was no doubt that she had made a fool of herself. For amongst all the other mortifying things that she remembered, she also recollected that she had told Peter Quinlan that she had two hundred thousand
pounds, and what had followed surely could not have been a coincidence.

With a groan, Cassie had pulled the pillows over her head and prayed devoutly for deliverance.

Now she rolled over on to her stomach and regarded Eliza’s small, upright figure with wariness. The maid had been her closest friend and ally since she was a child, a woman whose sound common sense had guided Cassie more than all the governesses and chaperons in the world could do. From her teachers Cassie had gained book learning and, in one notable case, an understanding of radical politics. From Eliza she had learned good principles and received great affection.

‘I know what you are going to say,’ she began.

Eliza extracted a clean chemise from the chest of drawers beside the window and held it up critically to the light. She tutted.

‘This petticoat is creased. It’s not what I am saying that counts, Miss Cassandra,’ she added. ‘Mrs Bell saw you through the window of that inn parlour and she told Mrs Deedes, who told her sister who works in the laundry, who told the upper housemaid who was overheard whispering about it by your chaperon.’ Eliza put the chemise down and shook her head slowly. ‘You’re in a proper state, Miss Cassandra, and no mistake. Your cousins are furious that you’ve compromised yourself fair and square. You will have to get married and no messing.’

Cassie rolled over and watched Elizabeth as she went to the wardrobe and started to search through the dresses hanging there. The word ‘compromised’ seemed to have a cold and very final ring to it.

‘Compromised?’ She paused. ‘Oh, not the blue striped gown, please, Eliza! It makes me look like a lumpy
schoolgirl.’ She sat up, clasping her knees and resting her chin on them. ‘That sounds rather harsh. I had not thought of it in those terms. Besides, it is very contrary of John and Anthony to be annoyed when they were the ones who wanted me to marry in the first place!’

‘There’s ways and ways of doing these things,’ Eliza said, and there was both exasperation and affection in her tone. ‘You never think about the consequences of your actions, Miss Cassandra.’

Cassie opened her mouth to dispute this, then fell silent as she realised that there was some truth in Eliza’s assertion. There was the sound of a step outside the door and her maid shot her a warning glance. A second later there was a brief knock at the bedroom door. Cassie sighed heavily as Lady Margaret Burnside came into the room without waiting to be invited.

Cassie’s chaperon was as immaculately polished as a burnished mirror. Her blonde hair had never been known to permit an unruly curl. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows were like twin crescent moons and her skin was white and smooth. As one of Cassie’s closest relatives on her mother’s side, she was considered by the Lyndhurst cousins to be the ideal person to have charge of Cassie. Unfortunately, Cassie detested her.

‘Good morning, my dear.’ Lady Margaret approximated a kiss a half-inch from Cassie’s cheek. She smelled strongly of violets. ‘I hear I am to congratulate you on your betrothal.’ She smiled patronisingly. ‘That was quick work! The Viscount is indeed an ardent lover. One might even say a
professional
seducer!’

Eliza, who was folding Cassie’s stockings neatly into piles, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like,
‘You’re a fine one to talk.’

Lady Margaret turned her head and gave her a sharp glance. ‘What was that you said, Ebdon?’

‘Beg your pardon, m’lady,’ Eliza said stolidly. ‘I was thinking that Miss Cassandra needed you to give her a fine talking-to on the subject.’

‘You are right, of course,’ Lady Margaret said, with a chilly smile, ‘though it is scarce your place to say so.’ She turned back to Cassie and touched her hand in a gesture of sympathy.

‘Do not reproach yourself, however, my dear little Cassie. I was speaking to Lord Quinlan after dinner last night. He is an absolute charmer and easily experienced enough to sweep an innocent like you off her feet. You should not feel ashamed over falling for such practised seduction.’

Cassie felt the chill inside her increase. Lady Margaret’s words, calculated and spiteful as they were, nevertheless struck a chord. She could not get away from the fact that she had told Peter Quinlan that she was heiress to a vast sum, greater than anyone had ever suspected and after that he had worked swiftly and efficiently to engage her interest, to seduce her, to compromise her into a position where society’s rules obliged her to wed him…She just managed to repress another groan.

She had allowed Peter Quinlan liberties that she had never previously dreamed of permitting any man who was not her husband. It was lowering to admit it, but she had enjoyed his kisses to the point of abandonment. She had participated enthusiastically in her own downfall.

Even worse, Peter had told her honestly that he had come a-courting her for her money and not for herself alone. Yet she, like a naïve little idiot, had fallen for his
charm and straight into his arms. Damn Peter Quinlan for being so attractive and damn the blackberry cordial and double damn her own weakness and
triple
damn Lady Margaret, who was sitting on the edge of her bed now, picking idly at the coverlet with her immaculate fingernails and smiling at Cassie in that condescending manner, which told her just what a silly little girl she really was.

‘I am not intending to marry Lord Quinlan, ma’am,’ Cassie said, bristling with a mixture of shame and anger. She cleared her throat. ‘This is all a misunderstanding.’

Lady Margaret laughed like a hollow tinkle of bells. ‘I do not think so, my love. Not after your performance in that inn. Your cousin is anxious to hush the scandal and has agreed to an immediate engagement. There is nothing for you to consent to. It is all agreed.’ She got to her feet in an elegant swish of silk skirts, but when she reached the door she paused, one hand on the frame.

‘By the way, my love, I should take Lord Quinlan and be thankful if I were you. A young lady in your position cannot afford to be too particular and you will get no better offer.’ Her gaze fell on the blue striped gown that Eliza was stoically folding to replace in the wardrobe. ‘Sweetly pretty, my love, and very youthful. Just right for you.’

There was a painful silence after she had left the room.

‘Betrothal,’ Cassie said furiously. ‘How dare they! They take a great deal for granted!’

‘Spiteful old harpy,’ Eliza said, shutting the blue gown away in the cupboard and shooting the closed panels of the bedroom door a malevolent look. ‘Always stirring up trouble, she is! No better than Haymarket ware neither.’

‘You go too far, Eliza,’ Cassie said hastily.

‘Some of us,’ Eliza said with an ominous sniff, ‘see things that others do not.’

Cassie sighed sharply. For all that she disliked her chaperon, she had never seen any evidence of the alleged impropriety that Eliza alluded to. It seemed most unlikely, given her cousins’ concern for her reputation, that they would appoint a scandalous chaperon. Eliza’s suspicions must surely be baseless.

‘Mr Timms and I,’ Eliza said, with finality, ‘think that madam is no better than she ought to be.’

Cassie sighed again.

‘No doubt that was what you and Timms were discussing the other day on the stairs,’ she said. ‘I saw you looking very cosy together.’

To Cassie’s surprise her normally forthright maid looked almost coy. She closed her lips tightly and a slight flush came into her cheeks.

‘Mr Timms and I were discussing the merits of Holland starch, Miss Cassandra. I’ll have you know that we have been acquainted for many years and nothing more than a few kind words have ever passed between us.’

Cassie could tell that Eliza was ruffled. She jumped from the bed and gave her an impulsive hug. ‘I am sorry, Eliza. I meant no harm. It is merely that I had observed that you value Mr Timms’s good opinion.’

Eliza’s stiff figure softened and she half-smiled. ‘I know you did not mean anything by it, my pet.’ She sighed. ‘Mr Timms and I…well…Sometimes I wish…’

‘Yes?’ Cassie prompted.

‘I wish we had had our own chance of happiness,’ Eliza said, in a rush. Cassie noticed that her hands were busy folding and refolding a petticoat with little jerky
gestures. ‘We have known each other nigh on twenty years, but being in different households with our own responsibilities…Well, it was not to be. And now I think it is too late. No point in talking about it. There it is.’

‘Oh, Eliza!’ Cassie’s brow puckered. She felt a pang of acute sympathy for the maid’s plight. She had had no notion that Eliza’s feelings ran so deep and could tell that the brisk tone she had adopted hid much more painful emotions.

‘Now…’ The maid turned her face away, clearly not wishing to pursue the subject any further. She pushed Cassie gently towards the armada chest, where she had laid out a walking dress in cherry pink.

‘I thought the pink today, to match your pretty face.’ She held Cassie at arm’s length for a moment and smiled. ‘You’re as bonny as a May morning, so don’t let that sour old puss tell you otherwise. She’s only jealous.’

‘Eliza—’

‘And,’ the maid continued inexorably, ‘don’t believe a word she says about your Viscount neither. It’s you he’s come to wed, Miss Cassie, not some old trollop!’

Cassie sat down heavily on the chest, almost squashing the gown, which Eliza whisked out from under her.

‘If he had indeed come to woo me, then that would be a different matter, Eliza, but in truth it is my money he wishes to wed.’ She sighed. ‘Show me a gentleman who does not! Even Great-aunt Harriet once said that it was indecent for a young girl to have so much money as I.’

Eliza put her hands on her sturdy hips and viewed Cassie shrewdly. ‘You are an heiress and you are never going to be able to get past that, my pet, until you can
see a man for what he is and judge whether he cares for you alone. Yon Viscount seems a likely fellow to me. I would give him a chance.’

Cassie looked up. ‘It seems Anthony has already given him his chance by consenting to a betrothal! Of all the mob-handed, arrogant, masculine things to do.’

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, do,’ Eliza said sharply. She gave Cassie a little push. ‘And go and put your clothes on. Don’t expect me to wait on you!’

Cassie slid off the chest and obediently reached for her underclothes. ‘I am minded to wait until I am five and twenty and may have control of my own fortune,’ she said, her voice muffled as she pulled her petticoats over her head. ‘John and Anthony cannot
make
me marry even if I have ruined my reputation. Why should I care? They can all go hang.’

Eliza snorted. ‘There are some as are cut out to be wizened old maids, Miss Cassie, and others like you are not. Besides, you don’t want to be stuck with that Lady Margaret for another four years. You’d run mad.’ She held out the pink gown for Cassie to put on. ‘Don’t you want a home and family of your own?’

Cassie put her hands up to her cheeks suddenly. ‘I don’t know, Eliza. What I do know is that I grow tired of everyone telling me what to do. Live here, marry there…’ She let her hands fall. ‘No one asks me what I want, so…’ Cassie said with determination, ‘I shall simply have to show them. I will show Anthony and John and Viscount Quinlan—’ she invested the name with dislike ‘—that they do not take my consent for granted!’

‘Then the good lord help them!’ Eliza said devoutly. ‘You will be careful, though, won’t you, Miss Cassie? Think matters through sensibly now…’