Stolen Splendor (15 page)

Do not be swayed, Stefan told himself. It is the only
way you will have her. He continued relentlessly. "But I have not come to
speak of our past, though it has much to do with why I am here, but of our
future."

Our future . . . What could he possibly mean? Kassandra
wondered dazedly. She licked her lips, a glimmer of fear coiling in the pit of
her stomach. "What do you want from me?" she whispered, her throat
constricted. So many tormented thoughts had assailed her while she had paced
furiously back and forth across the room, playing out so many scenarios of what
he might do now that he had discovered the telltale clothing and his cursed
money bag. Yet as she faced him now, she could not fathom what he might demand
from her.

Stefan rose from the chair and crossed to stand in
front of her. Startled, she looked up at him, looming so large before her, his
masculine frame so much broader and more powerful than she remembered. His
eyes, so arresting, caught and held her own, penetrating to some hidden part of
her, and it took all her effort not to tremble uncontrollably.

"I want you to become my wife."

Chapter 14

Kassandra stared stupidly up at him, uncomprehending, her
grasp on the poker loosening. It dropped to the tiles with a clatter, but she
did not even blink.

"I want you for my wife, Kassandra," Stefan
repeated, noting the sudden pallor of her skin, her eyes blank and devoid of
emotion. Her lack of response struck a painful chord within him, a feeling akin
to rejection. But he shrugged it aside. By God, what had he expected? He knew
her initial reaction was merely the calm before the storm. "But you must
know I am not
asking
you to be my
wife," he went on, his tone almost harsh. "I have decided that is
what you
shall
be."

His last words sank into Kassandra like a knife cutting
cruelly into her flesh. "Your . . . wife," she murmured, completely
stunned. "You have decided?" Her eyes focused on his face once again,
disbelief, fury, and incredulity boiling just below her facade of restraint.
Never in her wildest imaginings would she have expected this preposterous
demand! She could have exploded, screeched, and raged at him, but instead she
felt a strange inner calm, an answer forcing itself to her lips with striking
clarity.

"Impossible," she stated simply, brushing by
him. "I despise you."

Stefan felt another jagged emotion at her words, a
disquieting pain like nothing he had ever felt before. But again he defiantly stifled
it, his face implacable as he grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly into his
embrace.

Kassandra gasped in surprise, the coldness of his gaze
striking fear into her heart. She tensed in his arms, scarcely breathing,
his
iron grip on her wrists a painful vise.

"But I haven't finished, my lady," Stefan
said, his breath warm on her cheek. He almost smiled, recalling the sword on
the bed and the episode with the knife that morning and thinking of the spirit
she had shown. "I had anticipated your response, as you have already made
known your feelings toward me on two occasions." He paused, pulling her so
close she could feel the beating of his heart against her breast. "I offer
you a choice."

"A ch-choice?" Kassandra stammered.

Stefan
nodded,
his chiseled lips
a grim line. He had to have her—as much for her sake as his own. "I have
already decided what I want. Now you must decide what you want. Either become
my wife . . . or risk a scandal that could destroy not only your reputation,
but your father's career as ambassador as well."

It was done, he had said it,
Stefan
thought dully, a stab of remorse shooting through him at the stricken look on
her face. He had sworn he would do whatever was necessary to have her, yet the
role of villain set uneasily upon him. Still, there was no turning back . . .

"It's a simple choice, Kassandra," he went on
mercilessly. "You know there are those in the Austrian court who would
delight in such a scandal, influential aristocrats with
a
distaste
for the English and their self-serving trade concerns with our
enemies, the Turks. No doubt they would find the story most amusing."

Stefan bent his head and whispered against her ear.
"I can hear them even now. An ambassador's beautiful daughter seeks
sensual diversion in wine taverns . . . How gloriously decadent. You must agree
it would make for a perfect opportunity to contribute to the downfall of an
English ambassador."

Kassandra stared at him, dumbstruck. This was worse
than she could ever have imagined. The man was not merely a
rogue,
he was despicable, the devil incarnate to force her to make such a choice! And
he seemed so sure of himself, as if he already sensed what her answer would be.
Rage mounted within her at this infuriating realization, and a bitter retort, a
vehement refusal of his vile offer of marriage, rose to her lips. She would pit
her word against his own, and see him rot in prison for what he had done to
her!

But she bit back her words, forcing herself to think
clearly. It was true. There were those in the Viennese court who would seize
upon this story with glee, if only to create such a stir that her father would
be recalled to England. Then all he had worked for would be lost.

And she would be branded a whore, however unjustly, the
brunt of malicious gossip and innuendo, just as her mother had been so many
years ago. She felt sickened by the cruel hand Fate had dealt her, could almost
feel the vicious lies and insults that would consume her life if she chose to
deny his offer.

And what of her father's relationship with Isabel? The
countess had made him happier than Kassandra had ever seen him before, a
lonely, driven man rejuvenated by the power of her love. That, too, would be
destroyed.

Would Stefan do that to his own sister? Kassandra
wondered. A sister he clearly cherished? Hope flickered.

"But what of Isabel?" Kassandra
blurted,
her voice strained and shrill. "Have you
thought of what such a scandal will do to her?"

Stefan exhaled sharply. He had suspected she might
think of Isabel and her father, and he knew he had to answer carefully. If
Kassandra sensed he would never do anything to harm his sister, then he would
lose her. She would deny his proposal of marriage, and call his bluff. And if
she did, what then? Would he go through with his threat? He doubted it. No, he
had to play off her fears, which would only make him more loathsome in her
eyes. But there was nothing else he could do; honor, integrity, and his
overriding desire demanded that they wed.

"The choice is yours, Kassandra," he replied
tersely. "You are responsible for the outcome of your decision, and whose
lives will be affected by it."

Sudden tears stung Kassandra's eyes and she quickly
looked down at her tightly held wrists, swallowing hard against the lump in her
throat. She felt chilled to the very core of her being by his answer, so cold,
so ruthlessly uncaring. What had she done to bring this upon herself?
she
cried wordlessly, struggling to understand. Why would he
do this to her, knowing how she felt about him? She shuddered, the tears she had
fought to quell coursing unchecked down her face. Sweet Lord, nothing was
making sense anymore.

"Kassandra, your answer," Stefan demanded
softly.

She
started,
his voice a death
knell upon her heart. Yet there was one burning question she had to ask him before
she would
answer,
one last attempt to dissuade him
from shattering her life. She raised her head defiantly, her chin quivering,
her vision blurred by her tears.

"What of love, Stefan?" she asked simply, her
voice almost a whisper. "Would you not seek a bride who harbored some
affection for you, rather than one who hates you, who abhors you for being no
better than a beast who thinks only of his own selfish desires?"

Stefan flinched visibly at her words, which cut into him
far deeper than he would ever admit. An angry tic worked along his jaw, his
darkened eyes a maelstrom of unfathomable emotion. "Love has nothing to do
with it, Kassandra," he said almost tonelessly. "I have no time for
such a useless emotion. I am in need of a wife, in need of an heir, and I have
chosen you for reasons that shall remain my own. Now make
your
choice."

There is no choice! Kassandra's inner voice screamed
helplessly. Either way I will lose! Mustering all the strength in her body, she
suddenly twisted free of his grasp and, before he could grab her, dashed across
the floor in a flurry of cream lace and flying red-gold hair. But she stopped
abruptly at the nearest chair, her back to him,
one
hand tightly gripping the upholstered rim.

You have already lost, Kassandra, she thought dazedly,
her breasts heaving against her sheer gown. Though she would wish it a thousand
times to be otherwise . . . Stefan had won. Perhaps she could endure the rest
of her life branded as a whore, but she could never, never make her beloved
father, and Isabel, suffer for her own folly.

Somehow she had to accept that, however unwittingly,
she had brought herself to this moment, a fleeting moment that would remain
forever etched in her memory, and to a marriage in which there would never be
any chance for happiness . . . or love.

At least there was a way to prolong the inevitable, she
consoled herself, lifting her hand and wiping the tears from her face, a tiny
ember of hope still glowing within her. And perhaps give her the time she
needed to think of a way out of this cursed agreement.

Kassandra turned, her eyes meeting Stefan's across the
room. "I will marry you."

Stefan let out his breath, his heart pounding fiercely
against his chest. He felt curiously hollow, the wild elation,
the
thrill of triumph conspicuously missing. "You have
made a wise choice—" he began.

"When my father returns from Germany,"
Kassandra broke in with a faint smile at his look of dark displeasure.
"Surely you realize we cannot marry, or publicly announce our betrothal,
without his consent."

Stefan irritably ran his hand through his hair. Damn it
all, that could be months. He had been so captivated by the idea of possessing
her, of the marriage taking place without delay, that he had given little thought
to the proprieties. He had no choice but to agree. To marry without Lord
Harrington's consent would cause a scandal of its own.

"Of course," Stefan replied tightly, moving
toward her, his eyes devouring every tantalizing inch of her.

Kassandra took a nervous step backward as he
approached, clutching her
nightgown
and gathering it
about her as if she could hide her near nakedness from his fervent gaze. Heaven
help her, he wasn't going to force her to . . . to . . . ?

Impassioned thoughts, wanton memories of a shared
afternoon, rose unbidden in her mind, and she shivered, her flesh tingling. She
closed her eyes in a futile attempt to dispel the throbbing images—the rugged
masculinity of his body, his kiss upon her lips, the heat of his breath and hands
upon her, caressing her, evoking sensations she had never before imagined were
possible—but she could not. For a brief moment she was lost in the moment,
reliving it, her senses reeling in a wild tempest of delirious remembrance of
sight, sound, touch, taste.

The sound of the door to her chamber creaking open
forced her back to reality. Her eyes flew open to find Stefan standing in the
threshold, his face lost in flickering shadow. "What—?" she choked,
then
flushed with embarrassment, praying he had not guessed
her thoughts.

"In the morning I will have your belongings moved
to the room adjoining my own, the better to know your comings and goings,"
he said evenly, denying the raging fire that burned in his loins. He'd surmised
her thoughts a moment ago had matched his own, and it had been all he could do
to walk away from her. But he was determined not to force himself upon her
again.

That she had agreed to the marriage was enough, for
now. In time, she would admit to the desire he had seen smoldering in the depths
of her eyes, would admit to wanting him as much as he wanted her. Then, and
only then, would he come to her.

"If need be, Berdine will help you pack your
belongings," Stefan continued. "I will not have my future bride
stealing out on any more solitary trips into the city. Good night,
Kassandra." He began to close the door, but a sudden idea struck him.

"I strongly suggest you bolt your door at night,
if you wish to protect your virtue, my lady," he added, noting that once
again she was staring at him with venom in her eyes, her fingers curled into
tight fists. "For if I ever find it unlocked, I will take it as an
invitation to enter."

"You may rest assured my door will remain barred
against you," Kassandra murmured with vehemence, shaking visibly. "Now
get out."

Stefan obliged her, closing the door firmly behind him.
He paused, listening to the sound of her footsteps rushing to the door,
then
winced as the bolt grated into place.

He walked down the silent corridor to his chamber,
sudden weariness overtaking him as he crossed to the tall window overlooking
the snow-covered lawn, and stood there lost in thought.

He felt no glory in his victory, only a bitter taste in
his mouth. He had won Kassandra, but at what price? Her biting words still rang
in his ears. She despised him, just as he had feared.

What could he have done differently? Stefan agonized.
If he had wooed her gently, would she have come to him on her own accord, the
secret of their first meeting forgotten . . . forgiven? Perhaps, and then again,
perhaps not.