Lady Thief (29 page)

Sheffield took a step toward her, then another, and quietly said, “It is cool in here, ma’am, and your shawl has slipped. Permit me.”

Cassandra did not move as he lifted the lacy edge of her shawl to cover her bare shoulders. The gesture was more than courtesy; his hands rested on her shoulders briefly, and she felt his fingers tighten just a little before they were removed. Then he offered his hand, silent, and she took it, turning toward him as she rose to her feet.

He didn’t release her hand as he should have done, or tuck it into the crook of his arm casually. He held it and looked down at her with an expression she could not quite read in the shadows of the salon.

Cassandra did not know what was different, but she knew something was. In him or in her, or perhaps both, there was a change. The intensity of the moment lay heavily in the very air of the room, and she had the odd notion that if she moved too suddenly or spoke too hastily, something terribly rare and valuable could be destroyed.

Then Sheffield drew a quick breath, and when he spoke his voice was low and husky in a way that seemed almost a caress. “I think . . . I cannot go on calling you ma’am. Would it displease you very much if I called you Cassie?”

She shook her head just a little, unable to look away from his intent gaze. “No. No, of course it would not.” Her own voice sounded so shaken she hardly recognized it.

His fingers tightened around hers, and he lifted her hand until his warm lips lightly brushed her knuckles. “Thank you, Cassie.”

It wasn’t the first time a man had kissed her hand, but it was the first time she had felt heat shimmer through her body in a shocking, exciting response. She knew he could feel her fingers trembling, and would not have been surprised if he could actually hear her heart beating like a drum. And the way he said her name, something in his voice, pulled at her.

Absurdly, she murmured, “You’re welcome, my lord.”

His mouth curved in a slight smile. “My name is Stone, Cassie. A ridiculous name, I agree, but mine. If you could bring yourself to use it, I would be most pleased.”

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. “Stone.”

He raised her hand to his lips again, the touch a lingering one this time as heavy lids veiled his eyes, and Cassandra felt another wave of heat when he whispered her name. Her name had never sounded like that before, tugging at all her senses and perhaps something even deeper and more basic inside her. And how odd it felt, the sensations he evoked. They seemed to spread all through her body, yet settled more heavily deep in her belly and in her breasts, until she ached.

She didn’t know what, if anything, she would have said, but they heard the soft chimes of a clock in one of the nearby rooms proclaiming the hour just then, and the earl carried her hand to his arm.

“If we don’t go to the dining room,” he murmured, “Anatole will only come in search of us.”

A bit dazed, she allowed herself to be guided toward the door, vaguely surprised that her unsteady legs could support her weight. And it was only then, as they reached the door, that she realized what was different, what had been different from the moment she had turned to find him in the room. It was a silence, a hush so absolute it seemed to have a physical presence.

“I—I don’t hear the wind,” she said.

He was holding her hand against his arm, and his fingers pressed hers. He looked down at her. “I know. I believe the storm is dying.”

It was such a casual and ordinary thing to say, Cassandra thought, a perfectly reasonable thing to say—why did it sound so very ominous? So very disturbing? Why did she want to cry out a protest, or insist fiercely that he was wrong? Why did she suddenly feel almost frantic with anxiety?

She did not comprehend the answer to all those questions until she looked across the dining table at Sheffield some minutes later and remembered that once the storm was gone, the roads would soon be clear enough for travel . . . and she would have to leave the Hall. Her good name was already at risk because she had stayed here with him unchaperoned; if word of that should spread, the storm would probably be an acceptable justification—for now, at least, and for all the most suspicious and cynical members of the
ton.
But nothing would protect her if she remained here once the weather cleared.

She would have to leave very soon. And perhaps it should have horrified her to realize that she was more than willing to risk her reputation by remaining here—but it did not. It did not even surprise her very much.

Not after he had whispered her name.

 

 

Their conversation during supper was quieter than usual, desultory; she thought they were both very conscious of how quiet it had become outside as the storm died away. Cassandra could not seem to keep herself from stealing glances at his face, her gaze falling away swiftly whenever he chanced to look at her. He seemed somehow changed, she thought, his features not so harsh, the expression in his dark eyes direct as ever but warmer now and . . . tender?

Her imagination, most likely. She wanted to be sensible, to keep her head and not indulge in such foolish . . . imaginings. That was dangerous. She knew the pain of romantic flights of fancy brought cruelly to earth, knew that she had in the past more than once failed to judge a man accurately until his true character was revealed by his own actions. She had more than once seen her worth to a man measured in the cold mathematical accounting of her fortune.

But Sheffield—Stone—did not know who she really was. Odd how she kept forgetting that. Or perhaps it was not so odd, after all; she could not recall anyone in the house addressing her by the name Sarah had offered since that first evening. No one ever called her Miss Wells. She was “miss” or “Miss Cassie,” with nothing else added. And “ma’am” to Stone, until now.

She had never discussed her background in anything but the vaguest terms, and he had not questioned her even to ask the name of the uncle she mentioned, so she had not been forced to choose between the truth and more lies. But the one great lie she had told was now weighing heavily on her.

It was when she was thinking of that during supper that Cassandra almost confessed the truth. She even opened her mouth to do so, but the words would not come. Not because she feared that Stone was a fortune hunter, but because she felt so guilty about lying.

When they left the table—earlier than usual—she had not managed to confess and was unhappily aware of her duplicity. She murmured an assent when the earl asked her to play the pianoforte, but it was not until they went into the salon serving the Hall as a music room that a flicker of amusement lightened her mood. The room that had been so dim and shadowed earlier was now much more inviting, with several sconces and candelabras alight and the fire burning briskly.

“Did Anatole know we would return here?” she asked the earl, sitting down on the bench.

“He seems to know everything that goes on in this house,” Sheffield replied, then smiled as he leaned against the side of the pianoforte. “I believe I have you to thank for ending the feud between him and Mrs. Milton.”

“I merely made some suggestions.” Cassandra played a few notes idly, then began to pick out a soft tune from memory. “All she really needed was a sympathetic ear and someone to advise her to reclaim those areas in which she excels. After all, I doubt that Anatole
wants
to be responsible for the care of linen and the training of the housemaids—and so on.”

“Very wise of you. And very much appreciated, Cassie.”

She watched her fingers tremble over the keys but managed not to strike a sour note. What
was
the magic of his voice saying her name? Keeping her own voice casual, she said, “My pleasure. I must admit, I am most curious about Anatole.”

“In what way?”

“He is not English, is he?”

“No, Greek.” His attention caught by a smoldering log that had fallen half out onto the hearth, the earl went over to the fireplace to nudge it back into place. He remained there, leaning a forearm on the mantel and looking down at the flames. “I encountered him on that ship I told you about, the one with the rascally captain. He was the first mate.”

“And you offered him a position?”

Sheffield smiled oddly as he looked across the room at her. “Nothing so ordinary, I’m afraid. Shortly after we docked in Italy, he saved my life.”

Cassandra stopped playing abruptly. “He—?”

“Yes. I was set upon by thieves, and there were too many for me to handle. If not for Anatole, I would have been knifed in the back and left to bleed to death. It was the first time he saved my life—but not the last.”

Obeying her instincts, Cassandra rose and went to him, halting so that they faced each other. “You must have been very young,” she ventured, remembering that Anatole had been with the earl for a number of years.

“I was twenty-one.” He gave her a twisted smile. “Wild and bitter and bent on getting myself killed because I was convinced life had nothing more to offer me. God knows why Anatole chose to follow me across half the world, but he did. He kept me alive until I’d the sense to look out for myself, and after that he made himself useful—in fact, indispensable.”

Cassandra studied his hard face curiously. “And you returned here—?”

“Four years ago. It took the next two years and more to get this place in some kind of order. The house had been closed up since I left England, and had been allowed to virtually fall into ruins, so I had my work cut out for me.”

Which, she thought, was a fair explanation of why he had vanished so completely from the London social scene; he had been either out of England or else very much occupied here for the past ten years.

“I see,” she said.

“Do you? I have not been what anyone of sense would call a suitable match for a young lady, Cassie.” Matter-of-factly, Sheffield added, “I had succeeded to the title when I was nineteen, and found myself the possessor of a vanished fortune, useless properties, and a name painted black going back five generations. Naturally, it did not take long for me to add to the sins of my ancestors. I left England very much under a cloud and not quick enough to avoid the scandal I’d caused.”

Cassandra had certainly been curious about his background and, in particular, the sin that had earned him the condemnation of society, but in that moment all she wanted to do was to ease the strain in his low voice.

“Stone—I heard all the rumors about you when I first came out.”

He was obviously surprised, and not a little wary. “Good God, are they using the sins I committed more than ten years ago to frighten debutantes?”

She kept her voice solemn. “Oh, yes, and it’s quite effective. They never explain what, exactly, you were guilty of, but then it never seems to be necessary. All those horrified whispers and sad shakes of the head are enough to cause any girl to think twice if she is contemplating some reckless act.” Pondering the matter, she added thoughtfully, “I daresay you have saved any number of parents from the consequences of rash daughters. I shouldn’t doubt it if they were not actually eager to welcome you back to society.”

The earl smiled slightly, but his gaze was very intent on her. “I was not ostracized, you know. I can return if I choose to do so.”

“I know.”

“I suppose I should go back from time to time—if only to prove I lack horns and a tail.”

Cassandra smiled. “Don’t forget the cloven hooves.”

“Has there been no other scandal in England since I sinned?” he demanded a bit ruefully.

“Not really.
I
believe it was because of the war.”

“The war?”

“Yes. You see, so many of the young men were occupied with the war for so long that they simply had not the time or energy to get much tangled in scrapes and scandals.”

In a grave tone he said, “I begin to see that the sin I was most guilty of was one of bad timing.”

Sin.
She wondered if he was fully conscious of his use of the word. “And you could hardly be blamed for that. After all, you were very young.”

“Older than you are now,” he retorted.

Cassandra laughed but said, “In any case, you should probably return to London society at least long enough to show that you have become perfectly respectable.”

“For all you know, that might not be the case at all,” the earl warned her in a voice that was not
quite
humorous. “They say some things are in the blood, and mine is certainly wicked enough to give any rational young lady pause—even without tales of my dissolute past. Perhaps I am only biding my time for my own amusement.”

“Until?” she said, interested.

“Until I have . . . won your trust. It is the classic method of rakes, you know.”

“Perhaps.” She was smiling.

He looked into her big gray eyes and then shook his head a little in wonder. “You are not the least bit afraid of me, are you, Cassie?”

“Should I be?”

“Virtually alone with me in my house, cut off from the outside, no chaperon—”

“Should I be?” she repeated steadily.

He reached up and touched her face very gently, the very tips of his fingers tracing the delicate arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, and the clean line of her jaw. “I would not harm you for the world.”

Cassandra wondered if she was breathing, but it did not seem important. She felt feverish, yearning, vulnerable, and yet enthralled. His touch was like something she had felt in a dream, and if it was a dream, she did not want to awaken. She heard her voice and was not surprised that it was husky. “Then I have nothing to fear.”

For a moment it seemed that he leaned toward her, but then his hand fell to his side and he smiled at her, only the intensity of his dark eyes hinting at something not nearly as calm as his voice when he said, “You promised to play for me.”