Stolen Splendor (33 page)

He had no one to blame but himself. He alone was
responsible for what had happened at his hunting lodge. Now he could only curse
the day he had forced Kassandra to agree to their marriage, curse his arrogant
pride, his impatience, his selfishness.

He had offered her everything but love . . . Kassandra,
who was meant for a great love. And when he had finally offered her his heart,
it was too late. She had done what any woman in her situation might have done .
. . found someone to give her what he said had no meaning for him. He had lost
her love to another man.

A far worthier man, he thought grimly. Disconsolate, he
quietly turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor.

Kassandra was just returning from her morning ride, her
cheeks flushed and rosy as she breezed through the front door, only to blanch
at the unexpected sight of her father. She stood rooted to the floor, torn
between unbridled happiness at his safe return, and heart-wrenching distress.

So, the day she had dreaded for so long had finally
come, she thought miserably. She had no doubt Stefan would ask for consent to
their marriage at the earliest opportunity. And she would have no choice but to
accept her father's inevitable reply, even when she and Stefan were so far
apart. She had given her word . . . It might as well have been written in
blood.

Overwhelmed, Kassandra turned as if to flee, hoping to
collect her thoughts in the solace of her favorite garden before greeting her
father. But she froze on the threshold at the sound of her name echoing about
the hall.

"Kassandra!" her father repeated, holding
Isabel's hand as they both hurried to greet her.

"Papa," she
murmured,
a tremulous smile upon her lips. She moved toward him, tears welling in her
eyes. She forced them back, a familiar litany droning in her mind. She must
give him no cause to think there was anything amiss . . . She must give him no
cause . . . She had only to read the radiant joy on his face, and Isabel's, to
know there was too much at stake to do otherwise.

"Papa, what a wonderful surprise!" she
exclaimed as his strong arms embraced her. She buried her face against his
broad shoulder. He smelled of fragrant pipe tobacco and woodsy cologne, scents
she had known since childhood. "I've missed you so."

Miles drew away from her, his admiring gaze sweeping
over her from head to foot. "You've grown even lovelier since I left,
Kassandra," he said with pride. He would not say aloud how much she
resembled her mother, with her flaming hair and violet eyes, for fear of
hurting Isabel. God knows, he would never do that, however unintentionally.

He glanced over at his beautiful betrothed, reaching
for her hand and squeezing it. The past could never be forgotten, nor should it
be, he thought fleetingly. But he had been granted a glorious second love to
fill the void that had long tormented his heart. "She has thrived under
your care, Isabel," he voiced tenderly.

"Yes, Isabel has been like a mother to me during
your absence, Papa . . . and a dear friend," Kassandra quickly agreed.

"Well, if she has thrived, I certainly can't take
all the credit," Isabel objected with a bright laugh. "Stefan is most
to be thanked for that."

Kassandra nearly choked in surprise, but she held her
tongue as Isabel chattered on.

"We've had more than our share of adventures, and
miracles, while you've been away, Miles. I've told you about most of them in my
letters, but some of the things that have happened recently—" Isabel
paused in midsentence, her pretty features darkening with feigned exasperation.
"Did you receive any of my letters, Miles? If you did, your replies were
most infrequent, scarcely four in just as many months. I had begun to think you
had forgotten me."

"Never, my love," Miles replied, shaking his
head. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "I wrote you
often. But I learned during my journey that many post carriages en route to
Vienna were lost this past winter, along with their passengers and cargo. What
with the thieves that constantly plagued the route between this city and
Hanover, it was a wonder the post ever reached its destination." He
uttered a short laugh. "Though I must say some of my letters would hardly
have proved any entertainment at all. King George's home court was a somber
place to spend the winter."

"But what of my letters, Miles?" Isabel
persisted. "I wrote to you every week."

"I received a few, but I think most of them
suffered the same fate as my own," he replied. He put his arm about her
waist. "It is no matter, my love. We are together now, with all the time
in the world to catch up on events." He bent down and lightly kissed the
tip of her nose, then straightened and studied her quizzically. "Though I
did receive the most curious letter, Isabel, addressed to me with your
handwriting. But the paper inside was blank."

Kassandra started, her cheeks firing hotly.

"Blank? How odd," Isabel murmured, perplexed.
Then she gasped, her eyes widening like china saucers. "Well then, Miles,
have you heard the wonderful news about Stefan and—"

"Oh Papa, it is so good to see you again!"
Kassandra blurted, interrupting. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged
him fiercely. "But I'm sure you and Isabel must have so much to discuss,
and" —she glanced down at the dirty hem of her riding skirt for emphasis—
"I really should change. One could practically choke from this dust!"

With an apologetic smile, she hurried to the staircase.
"We can talk later, Papa," she called over her shoulder. She wanted
to gather her skirt and run up the steps, but she forced herself to walk, her
heart thundering.

Sweet Lord, she simply could not face it, she raged
silently. At least not right now. Perhaps later that afternoon, perhaps . . .
Oh, damn it all!

Kassandra moved swiftly down the corridor to her
chamber, swiping at the loose strands of hair that had fallen from the thick
knot at her nape. Her door was slightly ajar, but she thought nothing of it,
her head down as she walked into the sunlit room. She closed it firmly behind
her and turned around, gasping in surprise as Stefan rose from the divan.

"
Wh-
what are you doing
here?" she sputtered, backing against the door.

"I've been waiting for you, Kassandra," he
began, his expression grim. "Your father has returned—"

His voice sent a shiver through her. It was the first
time he had spoken to her since . . . She shook her head, willing her thoughts
back to the present. "Yes, yes, I know," she said, her blood
pounding. "I just saw him."

Was this how it was to be, then?
she
wondered wildly. Her father had just arrived, and here was Stefan, ready to
capture his long-awaited prize, like . . . like some relentless bird of prey.

Stefan sighed raggedly, reading the desperation in her
eyes. It could hardly match
his own
. He was being
split apart, a final furious debate warring within his mind, his heart, his
very soul. He had been possessed by it the entire week, unable to face her,
unable to face himself. Even now, when it was time to make a decision, it raged
like an unquenchable fire within him.

He knew he could still hold her to their agreement. At
least then he would not lose her completely . . .

Or he could let her go . . . She would be free to enjoy
her newfound happiness, and most of all, free of the cruel havoc he had wreaked
upon her life.

Stefan's hands clenched into helpless fists. He knew
well within his deepest heart that he had decided. To take Kassandra for his
wife knowing she loved another man was more than he could bear. It was not
enough to possess her body. He wanted her love—the one thing that would never
be his.

Enough, he thought with resignation. She's lost to you.
Get on with it.

Stefan took a step toward her, his tortured gaze meeting
her own. "I release you from your agreement to marry me, Kassandra,"
he said abruptly. How easily said, he mused, for a statement that would haunt
him for a lifetime.

Kassandra merely gaped at him, so stunned she barely
registered his words.

"It was my plan to tell you this at the hunting
lodge, but it was not meant to be." He paused, swallowing against the raw
emotion constricting his throat, then continued, his voice a dull monotone.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Kassandra. There will be no scandal.
What happened in the tavern is between you and me alone . . . our secret. On
that, you have my word. Now I must go."

Stefan moved toward the door, not surprised when
Kassandra quickly stepped out of his way. It seemed fitting that she would run
from him, even now. He opened the door. "I wish you happiness with your
lover, Kassandra, whoever he may be," he murmured softly. "He is more
fortunate than he will ever know." Then he was gone, the door closing
firmly behind him, his footsteps echoing down the corridor before fading
altogether.

Kassandra could not move. Stefan's words seemed to hang
in the air—I release you, Kassandra, release you,
release
you—as
they tumbled over and over in her mind. She was free of her
cursed agreement . . . free.

Yet how strange, she mused. She felt nothing. No joy,
no wild elation, no relief, no sense of triumph, only a swirling emptiness.
Never in a thousand years would she have expected this . . .

Her legs were wooden as she at last walked to the divan
and sank down upon it, her head resting in her hand. She stared blindly at the
rose-patterned brocade, a single thought pressing in upon her, insistent,
demanding.

What had Stefan said? It was my plan to tell you at the
hunting lodge . . . Yes, those had been his words. But it was not meant to be .
. . Why? Why wasn't it meant to be? Why hadn't he told her?

She drew in her breath sharply. Because before he'd had
a chance, she'd spurned him, saying she loved another . . .

Kassandra raised her head, the haunting memory of his expression
at that moment a striking image in her mind. Why would Stefan have planned to
release her from her agreement to marry him if his words of love were not true?
After all that had passed between them, perhaps it was the only way he could
prove he truly loved her . . .

"Oh, Kassandra, what have you done?" she
whispered under her breath, rising from the divan. She had sworn she would
forgive him anything, everything, if only he spoke the truth. And he had, dear
God, he had! Stefan loved her!

As she loved him . . .

A fierce ache welled up in her heart and she cried out
his name as she fled to the door and flung it wide. There was only one thing
she could do. She had to find him. She only hoped it wasn't too late.

Holding up the skirt of her riding habit, Kassandra
raced down the silent corridor and dashed down the stairs, almost running into
Isabel, who was rounding the corner from the dining room.

"Kassandra, I was just on my way up to
fetch
you. Your father is in the drawing room changing out of
his traveling clothes, but as soon as he's ready, we're to have dinner. We
thought you might join us. The cook has prepared the most wonderful meal—"

"Isabel, please, have you seen Stefan?" she
blurted breathlessly, her eyes darting to the closed door of the library.

"Why, he just left, Kassandra, only moments
ago."

"Just left?

"Yes. I asked him to stay for dinner, but he
mumbled something about going for a ride and wanting to be left alone for a
while." She shook her head. "He seemed upset. And if I know Stefan, I
have no doubt he has set out for his hunting lodge. It's where he always goes
when he wishes to be alone."

Kassandra gave Isabel a quick kiss on the cheek flashed
her a
smile, then, without saying a word, hurried to
the door and opened it before the footman had a chance.

"What shall I tell your father?" Isabel
called out, her brow knit in confusion. When she received no answer, she
shrugged her delicate shoulders, at a momentary loss. Then a slow smile spread
across her features, and she laughed.

"What is so amusing?" Miles queried, walking
up behind her and wrapping his arms about her petite waist. He bent down and
nuzzled her neck, the sweet rose scent of her perfume enveloping his senses.

Isabel sighed and leaned her head back against his chest.
"If I am any judge at all in matters of the heart, I believe Kassandra and
Stefan are soon to end their quarrel," she murmured, almost to herself.

"What quarrel?"

Isabel turned in his arms, her eyes filling with
admiration as they swept over him. He looked so handsome in his light wool
waistcoat and breeches, the air of a dignified statesman clinging to him like a
fine fragrance. He was no longer wearing a wig; instead his dark brown hair,
graying at the temples, was neatly combed from his strong forehead. She took
his hand and walked with him into the dining room. "Oh, it is nothing, my
lord. Come, our dinner is waiting."

Chapter 32

The sun had climbed well up in the midday sky by the
time Kassandra neared the hunting lodge. She slowed her mare to a trot, shading
her eyes from its bright glare as she searched for any sign of Stefan or Brand.
A low nicker drifted to them from the small stable, and she felt a rush of
nervous excitement. That meant Stefan was here, just as Isabel had said he
might be.

She dismounted in front of the stable door, opened to
allow the spring breezes to waft in and out, and led the mare inside the
darkened building. It was empty but for Brand, who snorted and tossed his proud
head in greeting. She settled her mare into a nearby stall, then stepped out
again into the sunlight, but not in time to see another horse and rider melt
into a copse of trees a short distance away.