The Thirteenth Earl (15 page)

“Honored spirit,” he said with all seriousness, “is Miles Markwick in love with Cassandra Seton?”

Jonathan Vane, king of the loaded question.

Lucy’s hand tightened on Cassandra’s, likely the viscount’s as well. Her whole body went rigid, but not as it had in the trance. The question did not sit well with anyone at the table, least of all the medium. She started trembling a bit, her eyes shut even tighter as if she could block out the whole room. Eliza showed the first sign of worry, and Miles’s eyes had opened a crack.

Below them, a bell sounded, but there was no ring. It sounded as if it had hit the ground and rolled. It was not an answer from a spirit; it was a mistake. Cassandra felt the floor around her with her foot, and the bell tinkled.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, unable to mask her triumph. She darted below the table, seized the bell and Lucy’s boot—of course, she had taken it off so that she could ring the bell with her toes, how clever—and plunked them both on top of the table. They all dropped hands.

And stared at her.

Cassandra did not feel like a hero in the moment. She stood over the dainty boot and bell, and no one applauded. No one even spoke. Lucy looked mortified, not like a villain being revealed. She had gone sheet white. An angry flush crept down Miles’s neck. Eliza and Spencer had both folded their hands, waiting to see what would happen. When Cassandra’s eyes finally found Thaxton’s again, she saw gentle reproach.
Badly done, and you know it.

“Good lord,” Miles said, stuffing his tone full of appalled shock. “Miss Macallister, how could you deceive us this way?”

“Pah,” Thaxton said, frowning. “You have no shame.”

“Miles?” Lucy’s voice was small, a plea, filled with disappointment that she could not keep inside any longer. It hung in the air until Thaxton put a hand on her arm.

“It is over, Miss Macallister. If you do not want to protect him anymore, don’t.” He spoke as an aside to Lucy, not for the whole group. “You can tell us if he made you do this.”

She did not answer him. She did not even make any indication she had heard him.

Spencer rose, the scrape of his chair followed closely by his wife’s. They both stood, lending finality to the situation.

“I am afraid,” Spencer said in a voice closer to his late father’s than his, “that we will have to make some painful decisions tomorrow morning.”

Lucy’s eyes brimmed with tears. She looked once more toward Miles, who refused to meet her gaze. She picked up her boot and stomped from the room, one foot bare. Cassandra felt another twinge of sympathy. Something was very wrong here.

“Of course, Lord Spencer,” Miles said, his gaze following the medium’s retreat, “and we would all understand if you wanted to send for Lucy’s carriage immediately.”

“You are odious,” Thaxton said, deadpan. “We shall see if you wish to revise that statement when your Lucy tells us the whole story tomorrow.”

“Lucy is not mine,” Miles spat. He pointed a finger at Cassandra, stabbing it in her direction. “
She
is mine.”

Thaxton was on his feet in a moment, putting his body between Miles’s finger and Cassandra. “She is not property, and I suggest you step back.”

“Gentlemen,” Eliza said, knowing when a female voice was needed to inject sense, “that will be all. It is late, and we can hardly resolve this in so high a temper.”

“I will expect everyone in my study at 10:00 a.m.,” Spencer said, fixing them all with a stern look. “Do not make me come looking for you.”

The earl and countess left in their regal cloud, and Miles seized Cassandra’s arm.

“I will see you to your room,” he snarled. Cassandra saw Thaxton’s hands curl, but he did not move.

“Good night, Lord Thaxton,” she said, trying to shove as much meaning as she could into the words, to convey that she would come to him.

“Do not speak to him,” Miles snapped, yanking her out of the room and fairly dragging her up the stairs. He kept ranting as they walked. “We will be leaving as soon as possible. As soon as you are in your room, I will go to Lady Dorset and tell her that I caught you with Thaxton. I know it is a lie; I do not care. I have positively had enough of your disrespect.”

“I had enough of yours eight years ago.” She could no longer even feign politeness to him, nor did he merit it.

“A wicked tongue will not help,” he said, his face twisted with ugly anger. “Protest all you want, but you belong to me. I can keep you locked in your room for the rest of your godforsaken life.”

“You underestimate my capacity to make you equally unhappy,” she retorted, halting outside her door. “Good night, Mr. Markwick. We are not yet wed, so I must ask that you return to your room.”

He pointed a finger in his face; evidently he pointed a lot when he was furious.

“I will retrieve you at eight in the morning. There will be hell to pay if you are not here.”

Cassandra might have argued longer, but she was smiling to herself, since she knew something that Miles did not. She watched him trounce off; then she spoke into the silence, unable to hide the amusement she felt.

“Thax? You may come out now.”

Thaxton rounded the corner, his mouth slanted.

“You knew I was here?”

“I heard you lean against the wall. Must you lean on everything? It is like you cannot bear to hold yourself upright.” He could hear the repressed laughter in her whisper. “I was going to meet you in your room, you know. You did not have to follow us.”

“I could not very well leave you alone with that scoundrel.”

She opened the door and gestured inside. “Quick.”

She did not need to repeat herself; he was in her room in two steps. She closed and locked the door. Thaxton spun around, taking in the room, his eyes settling on the bed. He felt a little drunk, though he had not had a drop.

“How scandalous,” he said.

“This is not an invitation,” she said, sitting in a chair beside the fire, the dim room and soft light making her glow like an unearthly creature. “We could not keep talking in the hallway.”

He found himself unsure where to begin.

“What do you think will happen?” she said, in a very general way. “Tomorrow.”

“Spencer will decide it is best to keep this within estate walls, and he will send Lucy Macallister away. I dare not speculate on anything else.” He looked down at her hands, empty of adornment. “Where is my mother’s ring?”

She clutched the chain on her neck and pulled it out of her bodice. The ring hung there from a delicate silver loop. Thaxton did not want to ask directly if she had made a decision, since he was afraid of the answer.

“It was safer . . .” She smiled at him, a bit saucily, considering where it had been nestled. He would like to be that safe, he thought.

“Keep it, no matter your answer,” he said. “It is better than it being in the ground, and it belongs with you.”

Same as my heart.

“Whatever my answer, it must be tonight. Miles will find a way to persuade Lady Dorset to leave on the morrow, I am sure.” She folded her hands, a worrisome gesture. “And it might be best if I capitulate.”

“Not amusing, Cassandra.”

“I do not jest. We know that Miles was plotting against you, so it would make sense that I should get him as far away from you as possible. That means my parents’ estate, under the watchful eye of my father. It should have occurred to me earlier, but I selfishly wanted . . .”

“What, darling?”

“To stay with you.”

“Then stay with me.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands solemnly around hers. “I can no longer conceive of a day without you.”

When she did not speak, he decided he would have to make her decision clear. He sank to his knees at the foot of the chair and began to untie the ribbons on her absurdly elaborate shoes.

“What exactly are you doing?” she asked in a rush of words as his fingers explored her ankle, delightfully pointy and sheathed in a stocking.

“It is late,” he purred. “The ladies’ maids are all asleep. There is no one to help you undress.”

“I . . .” she started while he divested her of her left shoe.

He held up a hand. “No, you must not protest. I am more than happy to oblige. You simply cannot sleep in that gown. For one, it is too expensive. But moreover, I want you to be comfortable.”

Thaxton’s hand traveled up Cassandra’s left leg. He found the top of the stocking and peeled it off.

“Comfortable?” she said, her voice hoarse. “I have never been so tense in my life.”

“Momentarily. Give me time.” He moved to the other leg, plunking her shoe on the ground. He repeated the roll of the stocking, taking far too long. “But I promise by the end of the night, you will have never been so relaxed.”

He scaled up the chair, seeing how nervous she was and wanting to reassure her before he got too worked up to do so. The slow undressing was proving to be just as difficult for him; his senses were rapidly fleeing from any kind of logic.

“I am waiting on an answer,” he said, trailing his fingers up her arm to pull off the long glove. “I will take my time helping you undress. While you think.”

She did not speak, but looked at him with impossibly wide eyes. He smiled and kissed her, trying to put every ounce of feeling into it, to convey the feeling he was failing to put into words. The séance had not been a vision of the future, but she was. When he paused to gaze at her, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

“Your back, please,” he whispered, smiling against her cheek.

“Jonathan,” she said wispily, turning her back to him even as she protested, “this is not helping me think.”

“It will. Allow me to undo these laces very, very slowly, respecting every inch of the fine fabric, and enumerate the reasons you should marry me.”

Cassandra shivered when the tips of his fingers touched the sensitive skin at her neck. He twirled a curl around his finger and released it, watching it spring back.

“I do think you are being unfair,” she said, strained. It sounded like she was suppressing a moan, and it instantly made him hard.

“Fair?” he asked, twining one single finger at the top of the bodice, working the knot loose. “I know of no rules for this. This is an illustration of the first reason you should marry me.” The intricate knot fell open, two ends of the ribbon dangling. He trailed one end along her neck.

“Which is?”

“I want you desperately.”

She made a little noise of pleased surprise when he put his lips where the ribbon had been, dawdling. He tilted his head so that he could reach her collarbone, and his tongue traced the side of it. He felt her sharp intake of breath, felt it from the very bottom of her back. He pulled the ribbons through the first few loops, exposing a mere inch of skin, and then her thin chemise traitorously interrupted his full view. Thaxton closed his eyes for a moment—he was losing track of himself already. He inhaled deeply. He had bungled the proposal. He would not repeat the performance now.

“The second reason,” he said, releasing a few more loops. “The second reason is a bundle of many. You are composed when needed, impulsive when necessary, thoughtful, gorgeous, and perhaps smarter than I.”

“Perhaps?” She smiled over her shoulder.

“Perhaps. Reason the third. You challenge me.” Thaxton found that the bodice was loose enough to pull down and felt there was no time like the present. He cupped her breasts from behind, pressing himself into her back. “And I like challenging you.”

Finally, the smallest and sweetest moan escaped her.

“You will notice none of these reasons include saving you.” He turned her around, cradling her. “I am not in the business of that, madam. Let it be known that I want to steal you, not save you.”

“Oh,” she said, not an assent, but a reaction to what his thumb was doing to her nipple through the chemise. He kissed her again, introducing his tongue into it as he busied himself with the buttons on the hip of her skirt.

She was holding back, he could tell. He pulled back but kept her tightly in his arms, her body aroused and edgy in equal parts. It made him love her more, but if she did not unwind, it would spoil the experience, and he needed it to be flawless.

Thaxton took off his jacket and laid it on the back of the very crowded chaise longue. He pulled his flask out of an inside pocket. He had not used it lately, but it felt like a small comfort to have it there, a last vestige of all his fears.

He handed it to Cassandra.

“You need to stop thinking,” he said.

“You want me to drink?” She gaped at him. “I could not.”

“You could. It will help.”

Cassandra stared at him for another moment before taking the flask. As she unscrewed the cap, the metal scraping seemed to fill the whole room. She smelled it and wrinkled her nose. “What is this? Whisky?”

“The very finest.”

She did not take her eyes off him as she took a sip. He immediately knew it was too dainty and slow. Her eyes watered and she coughed.

“Good lord,” she wheezed.

“Take a bigger swig. And more quickly. You should not sip . . . it makes it worse. After a few, it will not seem as horrible.”

“Are you still drinking?”