Patricia Rice (17 page)

Any attempt to escape was thwarted by his mother and
Catherine. They must have been lying in wait for him, or else he had a
traitorous footman on the staff. Glaring at the closest servant, Wyatt waited
as the two women approached.

His mother screeched in dismay at his appearance, and
Catherine’s venomous glance spoke volumes. Merrick bowed mockingly.

“Forgive me, ladies. I had not meant to offend your delicate
sensibilities with my appearance. I was inexcusably delayed by Mother Nature.
Perhaps you could go in to dinner without me?”

By this time Catherine’s parents had joined them in the
foyer, and Merrick nodded to Baron Montcrieff. The jovial older man gave him an
understanding grin, but his wife’s grim expression kept him silent.

“I have had quite enough of your insults, Wyatt.” Catherine
spoke before anyone else could offer a placating word. “You had time enough to
escort that little trollop through the countryside, but you do not have the
decency to let your grooms handle their own jobs while I sit waiting for you to
put in an appearance. I’ll not be treated as an old shoe by anyone. I demand an
apology.”

Wyatt gazed down into her small, tight features, wondering
at the hostility in her voice. She was twenty-five, well able to attend a small
family dinner without her parents, but she continued the act of demure young
maiden—except at times like these. When loosened, Catherine’s tongue could be
as strident as any jackdaw’s.

He couldn’t help wondering what Cassandra would have done in
this situation. Knowing the little wanton, he rather imagined she would do
something completely perverse like calling for his bath and insisting on
bathing him.

Merrick started with the shock of that thought. Where had it
come from? Why would he even imagine such a lascivious thing about a gently
bred young girl? He must be more tired than he thought.

The sight of his mother’s ire upon learning he had spent time
in the “little trollop’s” company frayed what remained of his patience.
Cassandra’s visit to Thomas had brought sunshine to the sickroom and laughter
to a household that had lived on the edge of hell these last weeks. Whatever Cassandra
might be, her heart was in the right place.

“We have already had this argument, Catherine. We have
agreed we do not suit. Now, if you will excuse me...” He nodded curtly and
strode off, leaving his mother to deal with the consequences of his rudeness
and her own overbearing interference.

The package arrived late Friday afternoon. The grubby
little boy who delivered it insisted that he had already been paid and rode away
in a splatter of mud on a bedraggled pony. When Lotta carried it to her
mistress, Cassandra stared at the package as if it were a can of worms.

“I ordered nothing else from the dressmaker’s, just this
gown I have on and the other. It cannot be for me.”

The maid gave her an impatient look. “Why question it? If a
mistake has been made, someone else must pay, not us. Or perhaps your brother
has condescended to spend some of your husband’s money on you. Enough money
exchanged hands to pay for a thousand gowns.”

Cassandra studied the papers wrapping the package—ordinary
dressmaker’s wrapping. Only the word “Armor” blackened in one corner gave any
clue to the sender. Cassandra gulped and hid her dismay.

Lotta removed the paper and withdrew a lovely blue-green and
white-striped silk with a simple bodice draped in lace and a skirt ending in a
flounce and a slight train. Both women stared at the confection in awe and
admiration.

“Look at the wider skirt,” Cassandra whispered in delight. “It
is the very latest thing. And the trim... It is so much lovelier than those
plain straight things I have been wearing for years. How could he...?”

She bit her tongue. Under no circumstances could she reveal
her knowledge of the giver, but she knew who it was.

Even she knew it was highly improper for a gentleman to give
a lady a personal or valuable article unless they were betrothed. What had
possessed the proper Earl of Merrick to do such a scandalous thing? Her eyes
widened as she thought of the expensive gifts her father and brother sent to
their Fashionable Impures. This was the kind of gift a man gave his mistress.

Not totally displeased with this idea, Cassandra began to
shed the hideous cotton gown she had been disguising herself in. It was all
very well and good to swear never to be looked at by another man, but her heart
longed for the feminine niceties she had forsworn by retreating to rural
solitude.

It fitted beautifully, the draping of lace adding a becoming
modesty to her generous figure, the silk clinging to her waist. Beneath the
silk lay matching ribbons, and Cassandra gazed at them longingly before glaring
at her rebellious tresses.

“How I long to cut all that off! Wouldn’t it look nice with
just a fringe of curls and those ribbons? I hate Duncan for not allowing me to
see a hairdresser.”

Since of all the things Duncan had done, that was the least,
Lotta ignored this childish tantrum and reached for the brush. “Sit down. You
just don’t know how to work with hair.”

With a few deft twists and turns and a number of precious
pins, Lotta succeeded in taming Cassandra’s unruly hair into a neat roll at the
back of her head, with only a few wispy curls dangling in a tantalizing cloud
about her face and throat. The ribbons added the finishing touches.

Cassandra gazed at her reflection in delight. “You’re an
artist! I almost look like everyone else now.”

Lotta snorted. “You’ll never look like all those other
insipid misses. You can just pretend to for the ladies’ sake. The men will see
the difference soon enough.”

Cassandra’s shoulders slumped as she prepared to strip off
the confection in favor of her cotton gown. “I don’t want men to see the
difference. I’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”

A knock at the side entrance put an end to this argument.
Jacob’s stiff voice greeted the visitor.

The room Cassandra had chosen for her own had been little more
than a potting shed off the sunroom. One door was swollen shut and impossible
to open. The other didn’t close properly, and there was no way of barring it.
One could only hope the arrival was still another delivery boy.

A man’s deep baritone dispelled that hope. Cassandra glanced
nervously toward the door into the entrance hall. Merrick! He had come for her
just as he said. Glancing down at her gown, she knew his timing to be
impeccable. He had probably watched the box delivered and waited just long enough
to be certain she had time to try on the gown. Despicable cad! How had he known
that she would try it on and not send it back, as would have been proper?

Foolish question. Cassandra listened as Jacob insisted the
lady was not at home, as she had told him to do. Merrick’s reply did not seem
angry, but he did not go away either.

~*~

At the door, the earl pinned the lanky butler with his
stare. “The lady has a previous engagement with me. Move aside and let me in,
and I will wait for her.”

“There is no salon, my lord, I cannot do that. Lady
Cassandra would be most upset should her friends see the inadequacy of her
establishment. You will have to come back later.”

“Over your dead body, my good man. You will step aside or I
shall remove some of those rotten boards in the window and enter that way. Cass
will be upset no matter what either of us does. You might as well accept that
fact right now.”

Realizing Merrick had the right of it, Jacob reluctantly
stepped aside.

Merrick entered the dark interior Cass called home. While it
might still be daylight outside, in here all was gloom except for the
occasional sunbeam through a chink in the walls or ceiling. Setting his jaw,
Merrick stalked unerringly across the flagstones. He shoved at the nearest
door, finding it thoroughly embedded.

He had seen a light shining through the boarded window
beside the door, so he knew someone was on the other side of this wall. They
wouldn’t waste candles on unoccupied rooms.

Following the flagstones, he reached the roofless corridor on
the other side of the conservatory. Here, he discovered light streaming through
a partially open door. This, then, was her hiding place.

He shoved the door open and stared at the vision glowing in
candlelight. The soft blue-green made Lady Cass’s hair seem more gold than red,
and he wasn’t at all certain that he approved. Yet she looked as demure as any
mother could desire. Her armor was quite complete. She had been right. The
proper attire would sway the old biddies before ever a word could be said.

He bowed stiffly. “I see you are ready. Excellent. My
carriage is waiting.”

“I’ll not go, Merrick,” Cassandra responded nervously. “I
don’t wish to cause more trouble. I just want to be left alone.”

That was entirely unlike the Cass he knew, and Merrick frowned.
“You’ll cause no trouble. Mrs. Scheffing knows you are coming and is agreeable.
You are gowned appropriately. You have Bertie and me to stand at your side.
What trouble can you possibly cause?”

Lotta scornfully marched past him. “You can look at her and
ask that? I did not take you for a blind man.” She walked out, leaving them
alone.

Merrick studied strawberry-golden curls dancing about
slanted eyes fringed with thick lashes. Full pink lips formed a natural pout to
beckon a man’s kiss, and skin fair and rich as any bowl of cream enticed the
touch. All that, without even looking lower at the woman she had become.
Merrick kept his groan to himself.

“You’re beautiful. I’m not blind. But beautiful women walk
this earth all the time. They don’t hide their looks in dismal caverns. Now,
come, they’re waiting for us.”

“Look what I’ve done to Thomas,” Cassandra whispered
entreatingly. “And Rupert. That was my fault. All my fault. I’ll not have it
happen again. Leave me be, Merrick. Stay away from me.”

It was much too late for that, Merrick could have told her,
but she was frightened enough. She had learned grown-up games much too young to
know how to deal with the results.

Patiently he took her hand, and placed it on his arm. “Cass,
you’re braver than that. I’ve seen you stroll through a gambling hell that
would have made an Amazon faint. You can face a room of old biddies and a few
young striplings. What happened between Thomas and your husband was one of
those things that life hands out upon occasion. There was nothing you could
have done to prevent it.”

Oh, yes, there was. She could have agreed to be Rupert’s
wife as promised, and none of this would have happened.

Reluctantly she took Merrick’s arm and walked out, ignoring
the incredulous look on Jacob’s face. She couldn’t yell at her servant for
allowing the earl in when she had given in to him herself. It was amazing how
Wyatt was able to do that.

Dinner was an agony of form and address, but Merrick somehow
maneuvered a place at her side and kept a running commentary that allowed
Cassandra to relax to a degree and follow his example. When some particularly
catty remark reached her ears, or when someone asked a pointedly personal
question, Merrick stepped in before Cassandra’s temper could ignite. To be
defended was such a novel experience that she managed to complete the meal in a
silence of amazement.

Due to the entertainment, the gentlemen couldn’t linger over
brandy and cigars. Cassandra was grateful for this small favor, although she
was increasingly aware that she was now a target of disapproval for
monopolizing the earl’s time.

Drawing a breath as they entered the music room, Cassandra
bravely disengaged her hand from Merrick’s arm. “The ladies will expect you to
circulate, my lord. You need not stay by my side all night.”

Merrick glanced down at her questioningly but obliged.

A gaping emptiness opened where Wyatt had stood, and even
though others strove to fill it, she felt curiously alone. Aside from Lotta,
she had never had a close friend to confide in. She couldn’t fathom why Merrick
invited her confidences.

Bertie sat by her through the recital, and Cass lost herself
in the music, supremely unaware of his presence. It would be marvelous to play
like that, but without teachers, she had never been able to beat out more than
the most perfunctory of tunes.

When the recital ended, the audience demanded selections
from its members. Proud mothers paraded their daughters’ talents, and Cassandra’s
fear built. Surely they would not call on her.

As if sensing her weakness, Mrs. Scheffing smiled at her. “And
you, Lady Cassandra, will you not play? I can remember your parents had a grand
music room. Surely you have absorbed some of their love for music?”

Cassandra bit back a sharp retort. The only music the late
marquess enjoyed was the sound of his own voice brutalizing a tavern ditty. If
her mother loved music, she had not stirred from her bed in years to
acknowledge it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Scheffing, but I really cannot spoil the
lovely music I have heard here tonight. Perhaps another time.”

A polite murmur of insistence arose, and Cassandra nearly
panicked until a familiar male voice intruded.

“Lady Cassandra has an excellent voice, Mrs. Scheffing. I
could be persuaded to play for her if she would sing.”

With a slight flush, Cassandra met Merrick’s dark eyes, but
the happy applause prevented refusal. Obviously Merrick’s talents were known.
Reluctantly she rose to join him by the pianoforte.

“What if we know none of the same tunes?” she whispered as
he seated his elegant frame on the bench.

Laughter crinkled his eyes as he glanced up at her. “I can
assure you, I know every tune that you know, and I know which ones not to play
before polite company. Shall we try ‘Greensleeves’?”

The first haunting notes of the old melody rang from the
pianoforte, and Cassandra’s soprano joined in so quietly that it was a second
or two before anyone realized her voice and the instrument’s were not one and
the same. The passionate music rose and swelled with the refrain, filling the
room with a haunting tale of lost love. By the song’s end, many were
surreptitiously drying their eyes.