Elizabeth Mansfield (12 page)

That intensity kept his brain prisoner for a long moment, not functioning at all, while his whole body responded to the pleasurable sensations of holding this lovely, lithe creature tightly against him. But as soon as he realized what he was doing, he let her go.

Her wide-eyed gaze had widened even more. With her lips apart, her cheeks alternating between a pallor and a flush and her breath coming in gasps, she seemed utterly astounded. Not angry, not frightened, merely astounded. He, on the other hand, felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. She was such an innocent, and he'd taken advantage of that fact, though quite unintentionally. "Cicely, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

But at the sound of his voice, she took a backward step, and then another, never once taking her eyes from his face. Her third step would take her right into the mud. "Cicely!" he warned, lifting his arms to catch her.

But it was the worst movement he could have made. She took two more backward steps to avoid him and sank to her ankles into the muck. "Dash it all, Cicely," he exclaimed, "your
slippers!
"

She blinked, looked down, stared, looked up at him in confusion and then down again. In a dreamlike fog she lifted her skirts from the mud and studied them in disbelief. Then she met Charles's eye. "Oh, dear," she murmured, "after all your efforts ..." And before his shocked gaze, she began to laugh. She laughed so hard it became infectious, and he couldn't help but join in. For a moment they stood where they were, laughing uproariously. Then, still laughing, she turned, slogged her way across the muddy furrow and dashed up the hill toward home.

He soon caught up with her. "Cicely," he said, now quite serious, "please forgive me for—"

"For ruining my slippers? But that was not your doing. It was completely my own fault."

"You know I don't mean your slippers."

She dropped her eyes. "Yes, I know." She resumed her walk toward the house, but more slowly. "I suppose kissing young women is a habit with you," she said thoughtfully.

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm as bad as that," he retorted, offended.

"Was this kiss just like the others?" she asked, flicking him a glance.

"What do you mean, like the others? What others?"

"Any others. Your usual kisses. Was it... ordinary?"

"Really, my girl, you do ask the most irritating questions. I wouldn't describe
any
kiss as ordinary."

'Then would you describe this one as extraordinary?"

"No," he said promptly, uncomfortably aware that it was a lie. "No, I wouldn't say that, either."

"I see." She tossed back her windblown locks and strode off ahead of him without a backward look.

He did not attempt to catch up with her, but when he came round the corner of the house to the front, he saw her standing at the bottom of the stone stairway. "Were you waiting for me?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes," she said. "I didn't answer your question."

"What question?"

"If I forgive you."

"Oh." He gave her a level look. "Well, do you?"

She studied him a moment, speculatively, her head cocked. Then, abruptly, she threw her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his. It was a tentative sort of kiss, not quite real, and he did not permit himself to respond to it. But, though he held himself away and did not move, he felt his pulse race anyway, and a tingle ran up the entire length of his frame.

In a very brief moment she pulled away, casting him another look of sheer astonishment. Then, shaking herself as if from a dream, she smiled shyly. "Yes, I forgive you," she said and ran up the stairs.

He stood there immobile, looking after her and wondering how that young chit had succeeded in making him feel like a gawking schoolboy.
This will not do,
he told himself severely.
I'd better send for Clive. Right away!

Chapter 15

Another fortnight passed. April turned into May, and still the ladies from Crestwood remained fixed at Inglesby Park. It was a much more pleasant fortnight than the first had been, for the weather was lovely and the invalid grew stronger every day. Her wrist was still bandaged, but the sling had been removed, her bruises were fading, and her cheerful determination to regain her full mental capacities infected everyone, including Dr. Swan himself, with optimism.

Jeremy, however, was beginning to feel the strain, for he found himself being forced to play two roles, both false and neither one to his liking. The first was the necessity of pretending that his name was Charles Percy, Lord Lucas. It troubled him to present himself to Cassie with a false identity, to enact a constant lie. An intimacy was developing between them, yet he couldn't bring himself to ask that she call him by his given name. The name Charles was not his; he didn't want her to grow accustomed to it. Yet every time she called him Lord Lucas, something within him shuddered. And with the lady thus forced to address him with that dreadful formality, he could not feel free to call her Cassie, or even Cassandra. Their constant
my lords
and
my ladys
were driving him mad.

The second role he was forced to play, which he also felt was false, was that of her best friend. In that role he was her prime companion—the one in whose company she was most comfortable. They spent most of their days together. In the mornings he read the newspapers with her, filling in for her the necessary background to help her understand the current political situation; in the afternoons they took long walks when the weather was fine, or spent the time with his books in his library when it was not. Even when they were with the others in the evenings, she seemed to cling to him for support and security. It was not that he minded the companionship and closeness—quite the opposite!—but that he didn't want to be her best friend. He had something much more intimate in mind, but he did not feel free to reveal his feelings while her memory was so badly impaired.

This dilemma was very much on his mind when he sat with Charlie one night after all the ladies of the house had gone to bed. The two men were at their ease before the library fire, glasses of brandy in their hands. It had been a chilly, rainy day for May, and since they'd not gone riding or undergone any physical exertion, they were not tired enough for bed. Besides, they both had matters on their minds they wanted to share. It was Charlie who spoke first. "Women," he muttered in disgust. "Wherever they are or whatever the circumstances, they think it behooves them to flirt. It doesn't matter who the man is. Whatever man happens to be in their vicinity is fair game for their flirtations."

"What are you prattling about, Charlie?" his friend asked bluntly. "Here we are, sequestered miles from London and all female society, except of course for our guests, who are not here for any frivolous purpose. Why all this talk of flirtations?"

"That's just what I'm getting at. Even here, in the midst of all this quiet rusticity, your deuced Cicely must be constantly flickering her eyelashes and casting inviting glances and walking about with that swing of the hips—you know the sort of thing I mean—and all to attract male attention."

"Cicely? Are you saying she's been flirting with
you?
"
 

"Well, you needn't sound so disbelieving," Charlie said, drawing his shoulders back in offended dignity. "There have been females here and there who've found me to their liking."

"Don't be a chinch," Jeremy laughed. "I can't have been your friend for the past two decades without seeing how women throw themselves at you. Not that I'll ever understand why, of course."

Charlie retaliated by throwing a cushion at him. "It's my red hair," he retorted, catching the cushion that Jeremy threw back at him.

Jeremy, as he took a sip of his brandy, eyed his friend curiously over the rim. "I didn't know that Cicely was susceptible to red hair."

"I don't think she is," Charlie said, growing serious. "I think all this damnable flirtation going on between us is merely a symptom of the female propensity for flirtation. And I'm the only male available, now that you're so preoccupied with her mother."

"You're being unduly modest, Charlie. Isn't it possible that the girl has developed a
tendre
for you?"

"What? Merely moments after she's been almost jilted by you?"

"Moments? It's been more than a month since—"
 

"What is a mere month in matters of the heart? No, no, Jemmy, old fellow. If there's any purpose at all in Cicely's attentions to me, it's to discover from me why you changed toward her."

Jeremy snorted. "If she's so eager to learn the answer to that, she could ask me, could she not?"

"One would think so. But she told me in so many words that she couldn't possibly ask you. It would be, in her words, too awkward."

"I don't think you're right about that, Charlie. She hasn't appeared to show me the least interest since she took up residence here."

"That's because you've been so preoccupied elsewhere."

Jeremy looked chastened. "Is it as obvious as that?"

"It is to me. You've completely forgotten the daughter but have gone top over tail over the mother."

"Yes, it's true. That's what has me so blue-deviled."

Charlie raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Why on earth should you be blue-deviled? Lady Beringer seems to be just as taken with you as you are with her. It's midsummer moon with you both."

"I can't be sure of that, you know." "Why not? If you doubt it, do what you just suggested Cicely do with you. Just
ask
the lady."

Jeremy shook his head glumly. "No. No, I can't."

"Why?" Charlie snorted teasingly. "Don't tell me it would be too awkward!"

"Much worse than awkward. Without a memory, you see, Cassie's like a child in matters of the heart. Before her accident, she was a recluse. For some reason, she'd put love out of her life. And, if you remember, she'd come here to make sure I even stayed out of her
daughter's
life. One day, perhaps very soon, she'll remember it all, and may very well find me repugnant. And I
would
be repugnant if I spoke of such things to her now. It would be like taking advantage of an innocent."

Charlie stared at him for a moment, brows knit, but then he nodded in sympathy. "Yes, I know what you mean." He took a quick gulp of brandy before admitting, "I have a similar feeling of discomfort when I'm with Cicely... that same feeling of not wishing to take advantage of innocence."

"Are you speaking of her age? I wouldn't have such scruples about Cicely, if I were you. When I was courting her, I found her to be, in many ways, quite mature for her age. And she does seem to be drawn to older men."

'That may be because she hasn't had enough younger men around her. But I've initiated a plan to test that theory. I've sent for my nephew, Clive." He looked over at his friend with sudden embarrassment. "I thought, with so many guests in the house already, you'd not object to one more. You don't mind, do you, Jemmy?"

"Of course I don't mind," Jeremy said, tossing his friend an amused glance, "though I think it was a cowardly thing for you to do."

"Cowardly?" Charlie demanded in offense.

Jeremy took a last sip of his brandy and got to his feet. "Do you know what I think, Charlie, old fellow?" He strolled over to his friend's chair and grinned down at him. "I think you have so strong a feeling for the girl that it has you terrified." Leaving Charlie gaping at him, openmouthed, he made for the door. "Sending for Clive," he taunted before whisking himself out of the room, "is the act of a desperate man."

Chapter 16

Cassie, now firmly on her feet despite lingering pains from her bruised hip, took to wandering about the Inglesby manor house with the air of an explorer, as perhaps she was. She peeped into unused rooms, wandered up and down long corridors, climbed up into turrets and gazed out on the vistas below. To her it was all new, all strange, all fascinating. And the adventures of the day carried over into the night, for the places she explored during the day returned to her mind in her dreams, replacing the upsetting blankness in the background of those dreams with substantial objects—recognizable forms that had shape and color.

The house was lovely, she thought, though she had no memory of other houses with which to compare it. It seemed to her that it was lovelier than one would expect from the character of the owner. The man she believed was Jeremy Tate, Lord Inglesby, did not seem interested in the details of the house. It was Lord Lucas who shared her enthusiasm for the soft greens and golds of the Persian carpet in the library, not Inglesby. It was Lord Lucas, not Inglesby, who drew her attention to the Sheraton bench in the entry hall, with its simple lines that contrasted so dramatically with its magnificently carved back. It was Lord Lucas, not Inglesby, who took her to see the lovely round turret room atop the east wing of the house.

That room was Cassie's favorite. High above the world, it gleamed with light from the casement windows that surrounded it. From those windows one could view the beautiful grounds below in their entirety, simply by turning around. But Lord Inglesby didn't even appear to remember that the room existed. In truth, it seemed to Cassie that Lord Inglesby didn't possess an iota of the refined taste that his house exuded.

The day Lord Lucas showed her the turret room was a day that Cassie was positive would always be special in her memory, even when her old memories returned. But meanwhile, having so few, she replayed this one in her mind every day. She would go over it slowly, detail by detail, step by step, beginning with the moment when he came upon her wandering aimlessly down the second-floor corridor of the east wing. "Are you looking for something in particular, Lady Beringer?" he'd asked.

She'd jumped, and her heart had begun to pound, as it always did when she met him unexpectedly. (That heart pounding was a strange phenomenon the cause of which she often wondered about. She'd occasionally considered asking the doctor if it was a symptom of her illness. But she suspected it was something else, something she should keep secret until she understood it better, so she said nothing.) "I was just exploring," she explained to him, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "I've been all through the west wing on this floor, but I've never been in this part of the house."