Stolen Splendor (20 page)

Kassandra rose abruptly from the sill and began to pace
the library, chewing her lower lip. What of the music box he had given her,
with the tiny nightingale perched on a branch of ivory, which trilled when the
silver lid was opened?

And most unexpected of all, the beautiful Arabian mare
he had presented to her on the first morning of the New Year, its gleaming coat
the same pure white as the snow that blanketed the ground. If he sought to
touch her heart, he had come closest in that moment. She had made no secret of
her love for horses.

Damn him!
she
raged. Did
Stefan really think she would be so easily swayed by these gifts, that all
which had passed between them would be forgiven, even forgotten? A troubling
thought struck her. Perhaps he hoped it was a way to cajole her into leaving
her chamber door, the one leading to his own chamber, unbolted at night . . .

Kassandra stopped suddenly and drew her arms tightly
against her chest. Every evening since she had moved into the room adjoining
his, she had lain awake in her bed, listening wide-eyed to his pacing footsteps
like a lithe, stalking animal's. Then he would try her door, and every fiber in
her body went taut with shivering tension as he slowly turned the knob, only to
find it bolted securely against him.

Sometimes his furious pacing would begin anew, while
other times it would cease and there would be only silence, perhaps a sign that
he slept at last. Then there had been the nights when she heard him leave his
chamber, slamming the door behind him. Moments later she would watch from her
window as he rode out into the darkness on his stallion, not to return until
the next morning

A sharp rap on the door startled Kassandra from her
reverie. Stefan stepped into the library, a smile spreading across his rugged
features. "I was hoping I would find you here," he murmured, his gaze
raking over her. She was ravishing in her lilac morning gown, its simple lines
heightening her singular beauty. He liked the way the silken fabric skimmed
closely against her lithe body, buoyed only by a single petticoat rather than those
infernal hoopskirts. Unfortunately the gown was not suitable dress for the
theater. Regrettably, something more formal was required.

His black brow rose quizzically. "I see you are
not dressed for our excursion into the city, Kassandra. Have you forgotten
about the comedy this afternoon?"

"Co-comedy?" she asked blankly, blushing
under his frank perusal, her flesh
tingling.
Then with
a start she remembered. Her eyes flew to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was
half past one already. Stefan had requested she be ready to leave by two
o'clock. "Oh dear," she began, flustered. "I was reading . . .
and the time has flown—"

"It's no matter," he interrupted, chuckling
lightly. "There is still time for you to change." He took a step
toward her. "If I could dictate women's fashion, I would have you go just
as you are."

Anger shot through her at the blatant desire in his
eyes, yet it was tinged with a strange, unsettling excitement. The man could
make her feel as though she were standing before him as God had created her,
though she was fully clothed. Obviously he was becoming quite sure of himself,
and far too sure of her . . . something she would remedy at once.

"I have decided I am not in the mood for a
comedy," she said in a rush. "Perhaps Isabel might accompany you in
my stead." Her gaze moved to the door, but she knew from experience not to
brush past him. Instead she held her ground, her chin lifted defiantly.

Stefan's expression tightened. "The invitation was
extended to you, Kassandra, not Isabel," he murmured. "I am afraid
you have little choice. Either
be
at the door within
the half hour, or I shall personally see that you are suitably dressed and
carried forthwith to the carriage." He paused, his voice low and husky.
"And if you have any doubts as to my knowledge of women's clothing, rest
assured I am well versed in lacing . . . and unlacing," he emphasized
darkly, "those garments you call corsets. Am I understood?"

Kassandra drew herself up, glaring at him. He wouldn't
dare! Then, as if reading her mind, Stefan nodded, his steady gaze glinting a
challenge. She swallowed hard. Yes, he would, she thought grimly. However
vexing, it was clear that he had bested her once again. "If you will
excuse me, my lord," she acquiesced, her eyes flashing, "I will go
and change."

Stefan stepped aside as she walked by him, her back
stiff and proud. "Within the half hour, Kassandra," he said softly.

She threw him a withering look,
then
fled up the stairs.

Chapter 19

Stefan studied Kassandra's face in the dim light of the
theater, fascinated by her range of expression. Wonder, shock, astonishment,
delight . . . Her face was like an open book, almost as easily read as a
child's, yet endlessly intriguing.

He smiled wryly. He doubted she suspected she was far
more entertaining than the action on the stage. She was paying him little heed,
her eyes drawn with rapt attention to the wild antics of the actors dressed in
flowing Greek costumes. Occasionally she
laughed,
a
bright, carefree sound that delighted him—a sound he heard far too rarely—or
she would shake her head, blushing becomingly at an indecent word or a crude
gesture.

Suddenly Kassandra gasped aloud. Startled, he glanced
toward the stage, his brow lifting at the sight of two young male actors
dropping their breeches in full view of the audience. He laughed shortly. He
had seen this celebrated comedy once before, but this time the author was
taking unusual liberties with his interpretation. Yet despite the bawdy
rendition, the audience seemed well pleased with the entertainment. Uproarious
laughter echoed under the painted and gilt ceiling, and the common people
seated on the ground floor were elbowing and jostling each other roughly, to
further enhance the joke.

Stefan leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting
around the crowded theater and back to Kassandra. He was glad he had paid a
gold ducat for their front box. It offered the best seats in the house,
situated as it was on the second tier above and to the right of the stage. He
hoped Kassandra was pleased as well. Though in this last instant, he thought
ruefully, their box was perhaps closer than she might have wished.

He exhaled slowly, his forehead furrowed. He had never
before been so baffled by a woman. Here he was, wondering if she was pleased,
and she hadn't even wanted to attend the comedy in the first place. It was only
because he had once again forced his will upon her that she had relented. His
actions had probably set him back even further in her opinion, making for
naught his efforts of the previous weeks to win her favor.

Stefan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, stretching
his long legs in front of him. He cursed under his breath. Damn it all, what
was coming over him? Since when had he been at a total loss as to how to win a
woman's favor?

He glanced at Kassandra, innocently unaware of his
dilemma. Or was she?
he
wondered, thinking back over
the past weeks. During their outings together she had seemed to enjoy herself,
though she had remained coolly distant toward him. His gifts—even the costly
Arabian mare that he had handpicked for her from a renowned merchant—had
brought a temporary light to her eyes, a fleeting smile, but then she had
closed herself off from him again.

Stefan's gaze lingered over the sculpted perfection of
her profile, coming to rest on the delicate curve of her lips, seductively
parted in a smile. His blood coursed hot within his veins at the memory of
their soft warmth against his own. She was such a bewitching contradiction. For
despite her outward reserve, his gut instincts told him she was wavering.

He could swear on several occasions he had caught a
glimpse of desire in the depths of those stirring amethyst eyes, a hint of the
tempestuous passion she held so determinedly in check, as if it were a wild
spirit within her, desperate to be free; the very same passion that inspired
him to pursue her so mercilessly.

Perhaps it would just take more time to convince her
that their marriage would not be the nightmare she envisioned, Stefan
considered, though the grim prospect of waiting a moment longer did not set
well with him. It had been difficult enough during the past month. He had spent
many hours with her, during the day and into the early evening, torturous hours
in which he played the part of the perfect gentleman, though he longed to crush
her in his arms.

It was the nights that were pure hell. He'd been a fool
to insist she move into the chamber adjoining his own. The thought of her so
close to him—her fiery hair in disarray on the pillow, her body lushly curved,
inviting, known only to him—was proving too much of a temptation. He grimaced,
recalling nights he'd spent in near pain, his body inflamed from wanting her.
On many an occasion, he had thought of breaking down the bolted door that
separated them, but his sense of honor had always stopped him.

Stefan stared blindly at the stage, gripping the arms
of his chair as a stab of remorse cut through him. Never again would he force
himself upon her. He had seen enough of the aftermath of war and the misery
inflicted upon conquered peoples—death, starvation, and brutal rape—to set his
stomach churning at the thought. He shook his head fiercely, dispelling the
stark images from his mind.

No, he had always sought willing women for his bed. And
so it would be with Kassandra. He would wait until he was certain she wanted
him as much as he wanted her. To insure his intent, he would continue to spend
nights at his hunting lodge several miles from the mansion. He was not about to
jeopardize whatever progress he had made with her by his impatience to possess
her completely.

A burst of thunderous applause erupted from the
audience, halting his thoughts, and he looked over to find Kassandra studying
him quizzically.

"Did you enjoy the performance, my lord?" she
repeated, louder this time to be heard over the hoots of approval and stamping
feet. Though she doubted he'd seen much of it at all, she thought irritably.
She'd been hard pressed during much of the comedy to ignore his constant
staring and keep her mind on what was transpiring onstage.

Stefan smiled, noting her flushed cheeks and slightly
sarcastic tone. So she had felt his gaze after all . . . Never underestimate
this woman, he admonished himself, rising to his feet. "Yes, I did,"
he replied, holding out a hand to her. "The scenery was inspired."

Kassandra ignored his remark, and his proffered
assistance. She rose gracefully from her chair and glanced over her shoulder,
her gaze sweeping the quickly emptying theater, searching for someone. Then she
spied him, the dark-haired dwarf who had also been watching her for most of the
performance from his seat just below their box. He was pushing his way down the
crowded aisle, his booted heels grinding rudely on the toes of unfortunate
patrons in his haste to leave the theater.

Strange, Kassandra mused. She had no idea why the
little man had scrutinized her so. She had never seen him before, though his
fine suit of clothes indicated he was probably the servant to a wealthy
aristocrat. She quickly dismissed him from her mind at the pressure of Stefan's
hand upon her elbow.

"There is a wonderful inn near the Danube, the
Golden Rose, where I thought we might enjoy a light supper," he murmured,
holding back the red velvet curtain that separated the box from the corridor.
"It's a bit rustic, but a favorite of mine."

Kassandra nodded in quick agreement. Though she did not
want to prolong this outing, she had to admit she was hungry. She had eaten
only a thin slice of toasted bread and orange-scented tea since early that
morning. Her stomach growled painfully as she stepped from the box, and she
blushed in embarrassment. A hint of amusement glinted in Stefan's eyes, but he
gave no other indication that he had heard.

Together they walked down the narrow corridor, lit by
small oil lamps set in ornate gilt sconces, then down the plush carpeted stairs
that led to the main hall of the theater. Stefan wasted no time in retrieving
her fur-trimmed cape from a liveried footman and wrapped it about her
shoulders, his fingers brushing her throat as he insisted upon fastening the
embroidered frogging himself. Kassandra shivered at his touch and turned her
face away from him. She did not trust herself to look into his eyes. He threw
on his own heavy cloak and took her arm, guiding her through the milling crowd
to the front entrance.

It was only half past five o'clock, but the sun had
long ago disappeared behind the gray, snow-laden clouds. Streetlamps glowed
hazily along the street, their golden light dimmed by an icy drizzle, and the
air was crisp and cold. Kassandra lifted her hood over her head,
then
plunged her hands into her deep side pockets to warm
them. In her haste earlier that day she had forgotten her long woolen gloves.

"Wait here, Kassandra," Stefan bade her
gently, with a light squeeze on her arm. "I'll be back in a moment."
He strode down the walkway, searching the shadowed street for Zoltan and the
carriage.

Several moments passed, and still Stefan did not
return. Kassandra stamped her numbed
feet,
the satin
shoes beneath her gown no protection from the chilling wind. Her teeth were
chattering, and she doubted she could withstand the cold much longer. She
decided to wait for him across the street from the theater, beneath an
overhanging second-story balcony, where she would at least have some shelter
from the freezing drafts.