Samantha James (11 page)

“There are servants to attend to your every need. You have only to ask for whatever it is you wish. And Lilliane assured me your new wardrobe will be done within a fortnight.”

“That is not what I meant! What about your—your father?”

His smile was tight-lipped. “This is a large estate. Your paths need never cross. Believe me, I know. Now come here, Yank. I would have a kiss to remind me of my dear, loving wife during the nights we are destined to spend apart.”

Oh, the wretch! After all he had done, he expected her to be meek and willing? Her hurt was now blunted by outrage. “No!” she challenged. “And you cannot make me!”

The light caught the stubborn tilt of her delicate chin. Why was it he’d failed to see that in her? His eyes glittered.

He smiled. “Doubtless I could, Yank.”

“Doubtless you would!” she snapped.

His lazy calm was deceiving, for doubtless he did. Three long strides brought him before her. Even as she sought to step back in protest, strong hands caught her shoulders.

She had one terrifying glimpse of fiercely glowing eyes and then that hard mouth came down on hers.

He did not beseech her willingness; he demanded it, as only a man could do…as only a man who knew much of women would do. Cassie’s heart began to beat the pounding rhythm of a drum. There was no escaping the searing fusion of his lips upon hers; his hand anchored on the back of her head kept her mouth where he wanted it. His kiss was searing and blatantly bold, hotly persuasive, drawing from her a response she was helpless to withhold. She fell prey to a treacherous warmth, dark and sweet. Her breath caught, and a jolt shot through her as his tongue plied hers. Yet the sensation was scarcely unpleasant—no, not at all…

He pulled her against him, as if he would acquaint her with every muscle. Her breasts were crushed against the breadth of his chest. She could feel the sinewed length of his thighs hard against hers. A slow curl of heat unfurled deep in her belly.

Cassie was trembling when at last he let her go, awash with dizzying sensation. An arrogant smile touched his lips. He traced the outline of her mouth with the pad of his thumb, then stepped back. “Think of me, Yank,” was all he said.

Sanity returned in a rush of self-loathing. She had fallen into his arms as if she were ripe for the
taking—and ever so eager! No doubt he thought she was his to mold at his whim and leisure.

“Wait!” she cried.

He turned, already at the threshold, his expression one of idle indifference. In that instant, Cassie hated him as she had never hated anyone.

Reckless courage washed over her. “Do not expect me to be so trusting from now on,” she stated clearly. “For tonight you have shown me what kind of man you really are.”

His eyes were pure frost. “Indeed, Yank. And what might that be?”

Cassie took a deep breath. “You are heartless and cruel to do what you have done—and to your own father!”

He seemed to go utterly still. His reply, when at last it came, was as quiet as hers had been vehement. “Better that you see me for what I am, Yank, than for what I am not.”

A
gentle knock on the door roused Cassie late the next morning. Opening her eyes to brilliant golden sunshine, it took a moment to recall she was at Farleigh Hall. The knock came again and she called a sleepy, “Come in.”

A short, rotund woman with graying hair bustled in, a tray in her hands. “My lady? I’m Mrs. McGee, the housekeeper. I’ve brought your breakfast.”

Cassie had already levered herself to a sitting position. She pushed at her hair, conscious of her tousled appearance. No doubt the household staff welcomed her shocking appearance here no more than their master. She was immediately on guard as Mrs. McGee placed the tray on her lap.

She lifted the silver pot. “I hope you don’t mind, milady, but I took the liberty of bringing a pot of chocolate instead of tea.” She poured a steaming brown liquid into a fine china cup and briskly whipped out a napkin.

With her cheery smile and plump red cheeks, Mrs. McGee’s warmth was unmistakable. Cassie instinctively relaxed her guard, but she was half-afraid to pick up the fragile cup for fear of breaking it—never in her life had she seen anything so
dainty and delicate! Carefully sliding her fingers around it, she raised it to her lips and took a cautious sip. She’d never had chocolate before and she detested coffee.

But the brew was warm and sweet, unlike anything she’d ever tasted. “Why, this is delicious!” she exclaimed, in startled surprise.

“Ah, I thought you’d like it. Now eat hearty, milady. Cook makes the best croissants this side of the Channel.” So this was a croissant—Cassie took a bite of the crusty, crescent-shaped roll. It was as good as the chocolate, so light and airy it seemed to melt in her mouth. Mrs. McGee beamed. “As I told Cook when we saw you last night, there’s a lass needs a spot of your cookin’ to fatten her up.”

The croissant suddenly tasted like ashes. Cassie was suddenly mortified. So they had seen her. What had they thought, she wondered, seeing such a scraggly waif with the master’s son?

Mrs. McGee patted her hand. “There, now, milady. Don’t look like that! His Grace told us how that dreadful uncle of yours worked your poor fingers to the bone—and refused to even spare the coin to buy you a decent dress! ’Tis a good thing Lord Gabriel married you and saw fit to bring you here to Farleigh Hall to recover your strength.”

His Grace
. The duke had made excuses for his son’s shabby wife? Cassie had a difficult time disguising her shock. As for being here to recover her strength…oh, but that was rich! In truth, it was far more likely her husband had abandoned her…

Mrs. McGee had flitted to the windows, pushing apart pristine white curtains. “It’s easy to see why
such a bonny lass as you caught Lord Gabriel’s eye.” Mrs. McGee chuckled when she glanced back over her shoulder. Cassie’s cheeks were burning, though not for the reason she suspected. “You must forgive me for callin’ him Lord Gabriel…’tis just that I’ve known him since he was a wee lad barely out of the cradle, and though he’s an earl now, ’tis hard to think of him as Lord Wakefield!”

Cassie found herself intensely curious, almost in spite of herself. “Did you also know his older brother Stuart?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am! I served as lady’s maid to Lady Caroline—that’s Gabriel’s mum—in my younger days. That’s how I came to be here.”

“Was Stuart much older than Gabriel?” Try though she might, Cassie found it difficult to imagine Gabriel as a young boy.

“Four years, I believe. Oh, but they were very different—Gabriel and Stuart. The first duchess—Margaret—was Stuart’s mum, y’know.”

“Yes, I-I know.” Cassie held her breath, hoping Mrs. McGee would go on. Though she hardly hoped that the woman might know why Gabriel so hated his father, perhaps she might gain some insight into this darkly brooding man she called husband. “Were they very much alike as children?”

Mrs. McGee pursed her lips. “His Grace was always ever so proud of Stuart. Gabriel was always inclined to stir things up a bit more.” A faint shadow flitted across her features. “As I always tell my husband, Angus—he’s the stablemaster—the loss of his mum was hard on the poor lad. He and his mum were always so close.”

Cassie picked up the last crumb with a fingertip, hoping she did not appear too eager. “How old was he when she died?”

“Eighteen or nineteen, as I recall. Such a tragic death it was—she was still so young—and so sudden, to be sure! He changed after that, though. ’Course I never did believe all those stories about him running wild in London,” she added hastily. “Oh, dear me, ma’am, I do run on!” She gave an approving nod as she retrieved the tray from Cassie’s lap. “Would you like me to have Gloria start your bath now?”

Cassie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, please. And thank you, Mrs. McGee.”

Mrs. McGee smiled broadly. “You’re very welcome, milady.”

Gloria entered almost as soon as the housekeeper departed. Although Cassie felt shy about disrobing with someone else present, she knew such things were done this way among people of quality. While she bathed, Gloria laid out a new chemise, petticoats, and stockings, all purchased from the dressmaker’s. Cassie fingered the soft cambric of the chemise almost reverently—never in her life had she thought to wear anything so fine! Sliding a garter up to secure the white silk stocking she’d just donned, Cassie’s heart squeezed. She could not help but be reminded of Bess, whose heart’s yearning had been to own a pair of white silk stockings.

“Is this morning dress to your liking, ma’am?”

Cassie turned. Gloria was holding a dress of soft white muslin, the waist fashionably high. A series of buttons climbed demurely up the neckline. “That
one will be fine,” she murmured. While Gloria fastened the hooks and eyes at her back, Cassie battled the urge to cry. Yesterday she’d heard Lilliane murmuring softly about day dresses, morning gowns, walking gowns, ball gowns. She didn’t know one from the other and she feared she never would.

Gloria twisted her hair in a neat coil at her crown, then quietly excused herself. Cassie remained motionless. She might have been a stranger, an imposter, for she scarcely recognized the wide-eyed girl staring back at her.

She had lain awake for a long time last night, her only thought being to flee before this masquerade progressed any further. She despised herself for her cowardice, her lack of bravery, yet where could she have gone? She was in a strange country, with no home, no money.

Gabriel had been right—she
had
felt betrayed. But as furious as she was with him, she was just as furious at herself. Perhaps it was her fault, for deep in her heart, she’d known he married her only to spite his father. She shivered, recalling that awful confrontation between the two men. Despite his promise otherwise, she’d been so afraid that now that she had served her purpose, Gabriel meant to turn her out on her own.

Slowly she slid around on the velvet-topped stool. Her gaze swept around the bedchamber. Lord, but this chamber—this house—was lovely, so much more than she’d ever hoped to have! Was it selfish or wrong to long for such comfort, to cling to all that had eluded her?

It would have been so grand, so perfect…if only she were not such an outsider! A hot ache filled her throat. Never had she felt so lost! She wanted to belong, she thought with a deep, tearing ache in her breast. Somewhere…to some
one
.

Yet Cassie was not inclined to wallow in self-pity, for she was well aware her fate could have been far worse. She might still be back at Black Jack’s, serving ale.

And her body as well.

Gathering her courage around her like a cloak, she ventured downstairs. Davis appeared, as if from nowhere.

“I hope you don’t mind, milady, but I thought you might like someone to show you the estate.” He beckoned and a young man of perhaps fourteen appeared. “Willis here is done with his duties in the stable and would be happy to do so.”

Cassie smiled at the boy. He was as likable as the rest of the staff she’d met thus far, with bright blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Hello, Willis,” she said softly. “Are you certain you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, ma’am. ’Twould be a pleasure indeed.” The youth swept his hat from his head and bowed low. In her youth and inexperience, Cassie did not realize the boy was convinced the new countess was by far the most fetching creature he’d ever seen.

Though Willis was clearly disappointed to learn she did not ride, nonetheless they spent the day exploring the house and grounds on foot. They hadn’t gone far when Willis pointed out the crystal-blue glimmer of water, far beyond the
rolling expanse of lawn; there in the distance was a lake she hadn’t noticed before. A small dock jutted out into the waters. The boy went on to comment the lake was not visible from the house. Despite herself, Cassie experienced a sudden chill.

Still, the day had passed far more quickly, and far more pleasantly, than she had expected. Her feet were aching by the time she sent Willis off for his supper. She paused a moment, a tired smile on her lips. She had yet to encounter the duke, and for that she was heartily grateful.

As she passed the long line of heavy gilt-framed portraits in the gallery, curiosity got the better of her. Clearly these were ancestors of the present Sinclairs; many bore the same devilish slant to the brows, the same thin, arrogant nose. She paused, glancing at the painting of a bold and dashing dark-haired man from the last century, his hand curled around his sword handle, his hat beplumed and tipped at a rakish angle. His eyes were so full of life and laughter that she could not help but smile in return.

Not so with the next. This Sinclair was stern-lipped and distant, she observed with a sniff. There was no need to wonder where the present duke and his son had inherited their severity. Moving on, she stared upward. An elegantly dressed woman smiled down into the face of a very small boy she held in her lap. In the full bloom of youth and happiness, she radiated warmth and laughter. Her breath caught. Was this the duke’s first wife—and their son Stuart? Tousled blond curls covered the boy’s head; his features were angelic.

But it was the last portrait which held Cassie bound for a timeless span. This woman sat demurely on a chair before a marble fireplace, slender hands folded daintily in her lap. Her hair was dark and sleek—like Gabriel’s. So this was the duke’s second wife…Gabriel’s mother. She felt a strange tugging on her heart, for unlike the portrait of Margaret, there was such sadness in her eyes, a world of it…

“You see before you Caroline, Gabriel’s mother.”

It was him—the duke. But the voice at her ear so startled her that she jumped. Recovering quickly, she spun around to face him. Her heart sank, for he surveyed her unsmilingly—and with ill-disguised hostility.

He made as if to turn away and leave. “Wait!” she cried before thinking better of it.

He glanced back, his spine so rigid she feared it might crack. Cassie squared her shoulders, feigning a bravado she was far from feeling. “I think you should know, sir, that I…I did not make my living as Gabriel suggested.”

Commanding brows rose high. “Your name. It is short for Cassandra?”

Cassie nodded.

“Well, then, Cassandra. How then did you make your living?” His tone remained as frigid as ever. “My son said he found you in an alehouse.”

It was a struggle not to drop her eyes before his imperiousness, for he was, she admitted, a highly intimidating figure. “That he did,” she admitted, tipping her chin slightly. “But it was not as he said. I served ale and food, and scrubbed floors and worked in the kitchen—no more—and this I swear.”

He made a faint sound low in his throat—disgust or disbelief, she thought with a sinking flutter in her stomach.

“He also said you were a thief.”

Hot shame flooded her cheeks. “I will be honest, sir. I stole his watch in the hopes that I might sell it. I—I hoped to leave Charleston and make a living for myself as a seamstress.”

She nodded at the portrait of Margaret.

“Gabriel told me how she died,” she said quietly. She paused, then said slowly. “It must have been awful to lose her that way…I do not know what to say, except that…it’s a terrible thing when such ugliness extends to innocent people.”

“A terrible thing? You Yankees are a savage, ill-bred lot—every one of you!”

Cassie inhaled sharply. “I have done nothing wrong, sir, save to be born in a land you despise.” By now her eyes were snapping. “If you brand me as guilty as those who killed your duchess when you know nothing about me, then it seems to me you are no better than they! And by the way, sir, it seems to me that you are hardly above reproach yourself, for I know you lied to the servants about me!”

Edmund was furious at her outburst, that this impudent little upstart dared to talk to him so. But alas, she was his son’s wife…

And she riled his temper every bit as much as his son.

“You need not make excuses for yourself, young woman. I know exactly what you are, and you may rest assured, I have no desire to know more. And in future, do not presume to sit in judgment of me!”

He left Cassie standing in the middle of the hall, staring daggers into his back. Why, the pompous old man! He was even worse than his son!

Gabriel had been right. It was a large house, and easy for the two occupants to avoid one another, particularly when they had no desire to encounter the other. So it was that Cassie was surprised when Mrs. McGee breezed into her bedchamber one afternoon.

“You have a visitor, milady.”

Cassie blinked. “Me?” she echoed blankly, then frowned. “You must be mistaken, Mrs. McGee. I’m afraid I don’t know a soul—”

“Oh, there’s no mistake, milady. She asked specifically for you. I asked her to wait in the drawing room.”

She
. Cassie was not certain she liked the sound of that. She rose, a cold lump of dread knotting her belly. It seemed she had no choice but to see who this visitor was. Her unease deepening with every step, she descended the stairs.

She did not have to wait long to find out. Perched on the edge of the divan sat the most stunningly beautiful girl Cassie had ever seen. Hair the color of ripe wheat swept high on her crown; her features were dainty and heart-shaped. She was dressed in a fashionable pale peach gown trimmed with white satin.