The Unofficial Suitor (18 page)

Cassie’s heart skipped a beat when it came to her that Mr. Hawke looked like a man accustomed to taking what he wanted from life. Just as she realized this, he looked down at her and their glances met. Gazing deep into his eyes, she could read quite plainly that what he wanted this time—what he was intent upon having ... was her.

How long they stood there, she had no way of knowing, because it seemed to her as if all the world stood waiting, as if time itself paused. Then he raised his eyebrows again, this time silently asking her if she would ... would what? Would go with him? Would trust him enough to give herself into his keeping? Would marry him?

“Would you like some champagne?” he asked.

At the sound of his voice, the strange spell he had cast over her was broken. Lowering her eyes, she felt no relief at his polite question, however, because it was not the question he had been asking with his eyes, and there was no way she could pretend that she had misunderstood the message he had conveyed so clearly without words.

Releasing his arm, she said merely, “Yes, please. I find I am indeed quite parched.”

He had scarcely moved away from her side when someone else spoke to her.

“But my dear Lady Cassiopeia, what is this? Have you been abandoned by your escort? Shame on him for treating you so cavalierly.”

Turning, she saw the smiling face of her second official suitor. “Good evening, Lord Rowcliff. Mr. Hawke has not actually abandoned me. He is merely fetching me a glass of champagne.” Although she knew Lord Rowcliff was several years older than herself, his face still had a boyish quality about it that made her feel as if she were his elder.

“The fortunate Mr. Hawke—how I envy him that he is your lucky escort this evening. Would that I were granted such a favor.”

Unformed—yes, that was the word for Lord Rowcliff. His expression was so open, so guileless, so carefree, it seemed to her as if he were newly created—as if life and fate and fortune had not yet set a single mark upon him. Where Mr. Hawke was an enigma, with hidden depths to his character that she was afraid to explore, Lord Rowcliff, on the other hand, was an open book, whose pages could be riffled and perused by anyone.

“Mr. Hawke is not actually my escort,” she was quick to respond, lest the gossips should spread their tattle tales around town, linking her name with Mr. Hawke’s. “We are both merely members of Lady Letitia’s party this evening.”

She was not sure why she was so worried about word of Mr. Hawke’s interest in her getting back to Geoffrey. Did she simply wish to avoid an unpleasant confrontation with her brother—a scolding for not obeying his direct command? Or was she ... no, that was patently ridiculous. She could not possibly be trying to protect Mr. Hawke from Geoffrey’s wrath.

Watching the said Mr. Hawke approach her carrying two glasses of champagne, she could not picture his requiring anyone’s protection. In fact, she could not imagine his ever needing any woman, period. He seemed too self-contained, too sure of himself, too thoroughly in control of his life.

So forceful was his personality, it seemed to her that she could have closed her eyes and still have known he was approaching. On the other hand, even when she had her eyes open and was staring right at him, Lord Rowcliff did not seem completely real. With only a minimal response from her, he chattered away quite charmingly, but somehow his words conveyed no meaning to her.

Unformed, insubstantial, inconsequential, he was like a figment of someone’s imagination—like a hero in a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe, possessing all the gifts of the gods, such as good looks, wealth, and an inoffensive manner. Unfortunately, Lord Rowcliff had no more depth of character than those paper heroes.

Which induced Cassie to pose the as yet hypothetical question—assuming she could somehow discourage Lord Fauxbridge from offering for her—would she be any better off married to Lord Rowcliff?

* * * *

Digory Rendel watched his sister pace back and forth in the shadows of the kitchen garden. It was too dark to see her face, but her whispered words left no doubt in his mind as to her emotions. She was as angry as he had ever known her to be.

His sister. He rather liked the sound of that—his sister. Never, not in all the years he had taken care of her, had he allowed himself to call her that. Even in his own thoughts he had always been careful to think of her as Lady Cassie. But now, he decided, convention be damned, she was his sister and he loved her more than anyone else on the face of the earth. Even though he could never acknowledge their relationship publicly, at least in his own mind he could claim her.

“And then,” she now concluded indignantly, “after all my efforts to prevent Lord Fauxbridge from having an opportunity to speak with me privately, I returned to Lady Letitia’s box only to find that Ellen had accepted for me!”

“Accepted?” Digory asked. “Surely he did not make a formal offer for your hand at the opera?”

“Of course not, but it was almost as bad. He arranged with Ellen to take me to meet his mother tomorrow afternoon. Do you realize what that means? Arthur was quick to point out to me the significance of such an invitation, as if I were too green to recognize the trap I am being pushed into.”

“Arthur?”

“Dillingham. Ellen’s old beau. Although I am surprised he was even awake long enough to notice what was going forward. He was snoring through most of the opera.”

“Quite a romantic evening you have had,” Digory said with a chuckle.

“Do not laugh at me! It was the worst evening of my life. Oh, why do people think titles are so important? Why? Tell me, Digory, because I cannot understand it.”

“Can you not? Have you yourself never felt proud of the fact that you are Lady Cassiopeia, the daughter of the Earl of Blackstone? Can you honestly say you have never been glad that you were not just plain Miss Anderby?”

She caught her breath with a gasp, and he realized his voice had sounded harsher than he had intended. It was, after all, not Cassie’s fault that he was a bastard—that their father had tricked his mother into lying with him and had then abandoned her.

“But my name is all I have to be proud of.”

The darkness hid her tears, but he could tell from her voice that she was crying. Pulling her into his arms, he held her close and whispered, “Your strength comes from inside you. It is not your title or your father’s title that makes you strong.”

They stood there together a long time, and he wished he could know what she was thinking. Finally she stopped shaking and moved out of his arms. He offered her a handkerchief, and she wiped her face, then said quite matter-of-factly, “I agree. It is not my title—or at least not only my title—that is making so many men throw themselves at my feet.”

“No one can fault them for admiring your beauty,” Digory commented mildly. “Men have always been susceptible to a pretty face.”

“Then men are all fools! Tell me, if I were ugly, would you be here in London helping me? Or are you like all the rest?”

“If you were not so beautiful, I would not be here,” he said, and she gasped as if he had struck her. “But you could be skinny as a rail and have spots and a dreadful squint, and I would still think you lovely, because you have a beauty of the soul that can never be diminished, no matter how old and wrinkled your face may become. Your mother was the same, God rest her soul.”

“Oh, Digory, I wish I had known my mother. Sometimes—” there was a catch in her voice, then she went on, “sometimes I need her so much.”

There was nothing he could say to that—no words of his that would help her.

Finally she spoke again. “Tell me about your mother. Is she still living?”

“She was laid to rest in the churchyard when I was six,” he said. “But she died before I was born. Our father killed her. She did not have the strength of character to survive after he rejected her. But I was fortunate, because my great-aunt raised me. She was a very plain woman, who never in her life managed to attract a man’s attention, but when it became necessary, she defied convention and willingly shared our lot as social outcasts. She supported my mother and me by doing fine sewing. She was even strong enough to endure the degradation of accepting work from the assorted wives of the Earl of Blackstone, who was the cause of all our misfortune.”

“I am surprised you do not hate me.”

“Why should I hate you? Because of the sins of your father? That would be as pointless as loving you because you have fair skin and enchanting dimples.”

There was a slight sound somewhere in the darkness, and for a moment they both froze, but nothing more was heard. Finally he whispered, “You had best get back to your room now before you are missed. And do not fret yourself unnecessarily about Lord Fauxbridge.”

She moved away into the darkness, but then her voice came out of the shadows, and every word she spoke tore at his heart. “Is it too much to ask then, that I be allowed to marry a man who loves me for myself?”

Her question lingered in the night air even after he heard the sound of the door to the house opening and then closing behind her. There was no answer he could give her, but in his heart he promised her that he would lay down his own life before he would allow her to be forced into marriage with a man who did not appreciate her inner beauty.

As he slipped through the garden gate into the mews, every one of his senses was alert, yet even so, the attack was so swift and so silent, he was caught off guard. One minute he was feeling his way along the fence, and the next moment he was lying face down on the ground, someone’s knee on his back, the pressure so great it felt as if his chest were being crushed.

Before he could draw a breath to cry out, he was gagged and his hands were bound, not only quickly, but most efficiently. Then as if he weighed no more than a child, he was picked up and carried away effortlessly. He could only wonder at the strength of his attacker, because he himself was not at all a small man.

Being dangled head downward over a very hard shoulder, Digory had ample time to consider the irony of his situation. All those years of smuggling and spying, he had escaped capture by Napoleon’s soldiers and the English preventatives, only to come to grief in the heart of London. Despite his present danger, he could not keep from being amused at the thought. If his crew ever got wind of this night’s events, they would razz him until the end of his life.

Strangely enough, he did not for a moment consider that the end of his life was now at hand, partly because if killing him had been desired, it would have been much easier to accomplish than kidnapping him.

And also because no one in London had a motive for killing him, especially not the man he suspected was behind this abduction.

* * * *

Beside him, Perry waxed eloquent about the attributes of a hunter he had purchased that day, but Richard paid him scant attention. Sitting in a comfortable chair in front of a cheerful fire, his thoughts were neither comfortable nor cheerful, which was unexpected, given the progress he was making with Lady Cassiopeia.

He should, in fact, have been overjoyed that she had once again turned to him for help. He should have been celebrating as enthusiastically as Perry, because unlike the earlier occasion in Cornwall, this evening she had not even attempted to bargain with him.

Richard’s thoughts went back to that low-ceilinged tavern where he had first made the decision to marry Lady Cassie—a decision he had made without even knowing who she really was. At the time, he had merely wanted a wife who would love him as fully and as completely as Molly had once done.

What he had not wanted, and what he had never expected, was to fall in love himself.

The pain of losing Molly had been so great, he had sworn an oath never again to give his heart to anyone—man, woman, or child.

To be sure, he was fond of Perry, and as for John Tuke, the bond between them was strong, but it could not be called love. No, John was like another part of himself—a better part—his conscience, as it were. Moreover, John was strong enough that Richard was never going to lose any sleep worrying about his friend’s safety and well-being.

But ever since he had realized that he loved Lady Cassie, he had been tormented by thoughts of what might happen to her. He had looked into her eyes and then into his own heart and had recognized how easy it would be to lose her. Despite her courage, she was so terribly vulnerable. So many things could happen to her—even a chill or a fever might carry her off.

In his heart, he knew that if she died of an accident or illness, he would surely curse God and thereby damn his own soul to an eternity in hell.

And if she married someone else? Then the hell for him would be here upon this earth. But that at least, he was confident he could prevent.

“I love her, Hawke, I absolutely love her. She is the sweetest, dearest thing I have ever seen!”

Perry spoke so vehemently, his enthusiasm pulled Richard out of his trance.

“You are in love? Your grandmother will be happy to hear that. Unless, of course, the object of your affection is an opera dancer.”

“Opera dancer? Hawke, I swear, you have not heard one word I have been saying! I was telling you about a mare I saw today that Charles Neuce was riding.” Chuckling to himself, Perry got up to fetch another bottle of brandy from the table by the window. “I have told you before, a good horse is worth more than any woman. Unfortunately, it appears you have once again seen fit to disregard my advice since you show all the signs of a man who has fallen in love with a two-legged filly. Well, despite your example, I shall use better sense and reserve my heart for the four-legged variety.”

Perry was correct—at least partially correct. His vow notwithstanding, Richard had to admit to himself that he loved Lady Cassiopeia more than life itself. And he was also forced to acknowledge that he had already made himself vulnerable.

In the Bible, had Samson lost his strength because Delilah cut his hair? Or had he become a weakling simply by giving his heart to a woman?

Before Richard could pursue this line of thought, there was a light knock at the door, and Perry opened it to admit John, who was carrying a trussed-up body over his shoulder.