Almost Perfect (5 page)

Escaping the ballroom, Cassie made her way via the gallery to the house’s residential wing and her third-storey chamber. Ryecroft Castle was actually not a castle, but a U shaped house decorated with battlements and towers to make it look ancient. The ballroom and other public rooms were in the base of the U while Lord Ryecroft’s guests stayed in the three storey west wing; the service rooms were in the east wing.

The closer she got to her bedchamber the faster Cassie’s feet moved until she was nearly running. She lifted the latch, only now wishing she’d asked about keys and locks. But who locked their doors at a house party? No one.

She walked into the spacious chamber, one that easily accommodated two people. Although it was August the nights here in lowland Scotland were always damp and cool; a small fire, hardly more than embers now, burned on her chamber’s efficient little hearth. A single candle, its flame jigging and dancing much like the partygoers in the ballroom, stood on a delicate washstand. The burning taper threw its golden light against the belly of the ceramic water pitcher and its matching bowl, then over the stand’s edge to reveal a hint of the glorious reds and blues in the room’s carpet. The pineapples atop the bed’s tall posts were barely visible in the darkness while night had turned the deep red of the bed’s brocade canopy to gray.

Taking up the candle, Cassie turned to the room’s wardrobe. The door creaked a little as it opened. Panic stirred, dark and deep. Her satchel wasn’t where she’d left it on the wardrobe’s floor.

She lifted the hems of her hanging gowns. She moved her shoes. The satchel still didn’t appear out of the darkness.

Her heart thudding in her chest, Cassie ran to her trunk at the end of the bed even though she knew she hadn’t left the satchel in it. The well-oiled hinges made no sound as the lid opened. The trunk was cavernous in the darkness, and utterly empty.

As fruitless as it was Cassie knelt on the floor and looked beneath the bed. Lord Ryecroft had an efficient staff. There wasn’t even a dust kitten.

Cassie sat back on her heels, her heart pounding. Her hand trembled so badly that the candle flame extinguished. Her satchel was gone, her seed money with it. There would be no escape to America. She would hang. Eliza would be forever branded a murderess’s sister, forcing her into the very poverty Bucksden had described before Cassie silenced him with her urn.

All because of her father. Cassie roared to her feet and whirled toward the door, intent on confronting Roland, demanding that he return what he’d taken. She stopped herself before she reached the portal.

She couldn’t confront him, and not just because good manners didn’t allow daughters to scream at their wastrel, thieving fathers in public. Roland always drank at the tables and drinking made his behavior unpredictable. The last thing Cassie needed was for her besotted and outraged father to forget himself and confess to all who listened what Cassie had done in their London drawing room.

That left Cassie no option but to retreat to sit on the bed’s end. Tears filled her eyes. As much as she hated herself for it, she wished she’d used that urn to fell her father along with Lord Bucksden.

Lucien walked away from Cassie, stunned. Dear God, but marriage had only changed her for the better. During her season she’d been bold, quick with a quip or a gentle jest, but tonight!

The moment the music began, that haunted air of hers dissipated, revealing a warm, coy, intriguing, and oh-so-desirable woman. A woman who’d been his willing partner in repartee, meeting his every verbal thrust with a clever parry of her own. With each word they spoke the attraction swirling between them had heightened until it was more intoxicating than any wine.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in the memory of Cassie’s rose perfume, a scent he might yesterday have scorned as commonplace. By the end of the dance he’d been ready to lick it off her skin. It was even more alluring to know that she would have allowed him to do it.

He swallowed, remembering her shudder when their hips touched. He longed for another chance to hold her in his arms, no matter what it took to put her there. Why had Devanney let her share a chamber with her sister? In the depths of the night it was far easier to tap on a woman’s door and talk himself into her bed than it was to convince her to leave her chamber for his.

In the next instant Lucien was grateful that Cassie did share her chamber, for that meant he wouldn’t tap on her door. Cassie Marston was dangerous, indeed. It was one thing to invite a willing widow into his bed, and quite another to be so consumed by his need that he lost sight of what was important: his next marriage so he could satisfy his urge to kill Lord Bucksden.

“Hollier!” Devanney called.

Turning, Lucien waited for his cousin to join him, only to smile at the number of heads that turned to watch Devanney’s progress across the room. At twenty-nine, wealthy and titled, his cousin sat squarely at the center of many a mother’s marital hope for her daughter.

Not that Devanney would have any of them. He was too busy searching the world for his father’s paintings, seeking the one that had driven the wedge between father and son. As far as Lucien was concerned it was better that Devanney searched for paintings than return to the espionage that had nearly cost him his life. It was also far better that Devanney took his time finding the right wife rather than make the mistake Lucien had and marry to suit society’s expectations.

“Egad, but how can a daughter be so different from her sire?” Devanney asked, the single diamond fob on his watch chain sparking as brightly as his smile. “Conningsby’s a sot and simpleton while Miss Elizabeth makes words stand on their heads, filling them with unexpected meanings. I’ve never known a woman who refuses flattery, yet does it so gently and with such skill that I’m flattered by the way she punctured my conceit.”

The music again swelled around them. Devanney turned his gaze onto Cassie’s younger sister. Miss Elizabeth presently promenaded with Egremont, the golden trim on the colonel’s short blue coat and the girl’s white dress setting them off against a backdrop of so many black-jacketed men and women in their jewel-toned gowns.

“Everything about her takes the breath. I wager she’ll keep her husband fascinated for years.” Something in Devanney’s bland comment made him sound like an old man, despairing over a life that had passed him by.

Lucien shook his head, pitying the girl if not Devanney. It was Devanney’s choice to dwell on his past and hold himself out of life’s currents while Miss Elizabeth had no other option.

“If she ever marries,” he said. “What sensible man would offer for her, knowing that all his peers will laugh up their sleeves because of Sir Roland? A shame that. If one of Sir Roland’s daughters could make a respectable match she could lift the other up with her.”

It occurred to Lucien as he spoke that he could have been that man if he’d wed Cassie years ago. His title would have given Miss Elizabeth the stage her beauty deserved to make a brilliant match. But, he hadn’t married Cassie and time had proved his decision the correct one. The last years had seen Sir Roland’s repute disintegrate.

A wave of disappointment washed over him. What followed was the echo of the ache that had plagued him after he turned his back on Cassie. Would rekindling their relationship, even as an affair, result in the same pain when they again parted?

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Mrs. Marston when I mentioned her to you?” Devanney asked.

Lucien shrugged. “It had been years. I’d forgotten her until I saw her tonight.”

“Not possible,” Devanney shot back with a laugh. “No man forgets a beautiful woman, especially not one who looks at him the way she looks at you.”

Irritation stirred in Lucien. “I forgot her,” he repeated, his tone warning his cousin not to persist here.

Devanney’s jaw tightened in refusal. “You were worried about being bored during the party. Will a liaison with Mrs. Marston help you pass the idle hours?”

Exasperation tore through Lucien until he remembered Devanney’s potential prank. That, along with the possibility of aching over Cassie a second time, was more than enough reason not to pursue her. “Mrs. Marston won’t do at all because I won’t have her.”

Devanney drew himself up as if shocked. “I don’t believe you. I saw the way you smiled at her.” He sounded truly aggrieved.

His cousin’s determination to drive him into Cassie’s arms only proved that there was some trick wrapped around Cassie’s presence here. Whatever that prank, Devanney would be unrelenting about seeing his plot through to its end. Lucien would find himself thrown into Cassie’s presence time and again, even to the detriment of her repute. That wasn’t right, not when Cassie had a father already more than willing to heap insults on her.

“No,” Lucien said, his voice hard and his shoulders tense in refusal.

Determination disappeared as the pretense of innocence flared in Devanney’s eyes. “No, what?” he asked, knowing very well what Lucien meant.

“No, you won’t use her in your prank,” Lucien replied with no expectation that Devanney would be deterred. Failure wasn’t in his cousin’s nature any more than it was in his own.

“What sort of cad do you think me? I’d never misuse an innocent as part of a jest,” Devanney protested a little more strenuously than necessary.

Lucien eyed his cousin, not certain how to interpret this. Was there no prank involving Cassie or was she a willing participant? Or, perhaps the prank was ultimately innocent. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t playing, not when Devanney’s goal was to distract him.

At an impasse they stared at each other. Conversations thundered around them. The music rose to a crescendo. Couples danced, the women’s gowns streaks of color brushed onto a golden night. Then Devanney slipped his fingers into his vest pocket. In nervous habit he began to open and close his watch’s cover. Lucien listened in triumph to the gentle click and snap, barely audible over the noise. Devanney didn’t know how to proceed in the face of Lucien’s blunt refusal.

At last his cousin removed his hand from his pocket. “As you will Hollier, but know that I think you mad to turn your back on the widow after the way she fair melted in your arms.”

Devanney meant what he said, that he was willing to let the subject die for the moment. But, he also meant his words as a parting thrust at Lucien. It worked. Lucien swallowed at the memory of Cassie, warm and pliant in his arms. Devanney was right; he was mad, stark raving mad, to refuse her.

“So, will you stay here and dance, awakening the hopes of every mother in the crowd, or does the card room call to you?” his cousin asked.

Once again Lucien scanned the room, this time his gaze touching on the faces of the plain young women he’d thought met his requirements before the waltz. His stomach clenched at the thought of any of them in his arms now. The search for his next wife could wait until the morrow.

“The card room calls,” he replied. Aye, taking coins from some other man’s purse might satisfy some of what now roiled in him.

Relief flickered across Devanney’s face. “Can I impose then? Take my place as host in the card room for the next hours.”

Lucien laughed at that. “I saw Percy slip in there not long ago. What, are you afraid he’ll bankrupt your neighbors?”

Devanney shot Lucien a narrow look. “If he did I’d blame you. You perverted that devious whelp when you taught him a sharp’s tricks.” Jonathan Percy had briefly been Lucien’s ward, during which time Lucien felt it his prerogative to teach the canny brat a bit more than a gentleman’s usual skill.

“No, he’s not the one who worries me,” Devanney continued. “He’s well enough known around here that the only ones who’ll play with him are those who can catch a sharp in the act. It’s the duchess and her daughter,” Devanney said, referring to Eleanor, Duchess of Carlisle to whom he was related through his departed father. “I suppose I should warn you that Eleanor has decided you will marry Barbara. She informed me of this when she invited herself to my party.”

Barbara, the duchess’s youngest daughter, had been trapped for years in betrothal to an ailing fiancé. Her mother refused to allow the wedding until the man recovered while meek Barbara had for once stood her ground, refusing to dissolve the betrothal on the grounds of illness. The poor man’s death had finally resolved the issue between mother and daughter.

“Her Grace took offense when she saw your first dance was with Mrs. Marston. She dragged Barbara into the card room.” Devanney offered a wry grin. “I think Eleanor means her absence from the ballroom as punishment for my failure to control you. You should have seen the look she sent me as they went.”

Lucien laughed out loud. Eleanor was infamous for her snobbery, being swift to snub anyone beneath the rank of baron. She expected everyone called by the title lord or higher to do the same. “And, why should I throw myself into the lioness’s den for you?”

“Because you and I both know there’s nothing the duchess can say or do that will convince you to marry Barbara,” Devanney retorted, “or she, you. Barbara assured me of this. However, she took care to tell me only when she was certain her mother wouldn’t overhear. She says you will not suit. I think the matter of her betrothed has finally put a little steel in her spine.”

“Good for Barbara,” Lucien said, a little amused to find his pride tweaked. Why didn’t she want him?

“So, will you retire to the card room?” Devanney asked. “You can both soothe Her Grace’s ruffled feathers and serve as a buffer to those unfortunate squires and knights who might accidentally address her.

“Oh, by the by, I also saw Conningsby sidle into the card room not long ago. You’ll need to watch him. You know what a nitwit he can be once he has a little wine in him.” Devanney sighed and shook his head. “If only I could have had his daughters here without him.”

The mention of Sir Roland brought Lucien’s thoughts back to Cassie and her earlier sadness. He might not choose to be her lover, but he could still be a friend even if he made an anonymous offer of that friendship. For the duration of the party he could be Conningsby’s keeper, seeing to it that the little sot didn’t overspend at the tables or overindulge in his cups. It was a safe gift, one that would go far to soothe the guilt he felt over the way he’d abandoned Cassie six years ago, leaving without so much as a fare-thee-well.

Smiling, Lucien presented his leg to his cousin and made a bow flowery enough to please even Prinny. “For you, dear cousin, the stars,” he said. It was a phrase from their childhood, one they’d cribbed from an amateur theatric performance.

“Ah, but I wanted the moon,” Devanney replied, saying his piece from their little play.

The music stopped. The dancers bowed to each other, then began to drift to their respective spots. Devanney gave Lucien another little salute.

“Good of you, old man. If you’ll excuse me, I have a partner to claim.”

After Devanney walked away Lucien started for the drawing room-turned-gaming hell. It hardly looked the part with a cheery fire burning on the hearth framed by an ornate mantlepiece. Chinoiserie panels were the only decorations on walls painted a buttery yellow. At the room’s far end draperies of a pale gold had been thrown wide to reveal French doors opening out to Devanney’s garden. A pianoforte, surrounded by delicate gilded chairs and quiet at the moment, stood close to the exterior doorway. Two old women sat there, enjoying an island of peace out of the ball’s storm, sipping their ratafia.

The card tables stood closer to the ballroom door, eight of them with chairs for four players at each. Conningsby skulked along that end of the chamber, awaiting an invitation not likely to be extended since the three occupied tables were already full.

Four local biddies gossiped at the farthest table, playing whist for their enjoyment rather than any monetary gain. Seated at a more central table were Her Grace, Duchess Eleanor, and her youngest daughter, Lady Barbara. Lucien considered Barbara for a moment.

The duchess’s sixth daughter, born late in Eleanor’s life, wasn’t a plain woman, not with her dark hair and sloe eyes, but she behaved as if she was. Then again, if Eleanor had been his mother Lucien might also have wanted to melt into the woodwork.

It occurred to him that Barbara with her humble attitude and defeated nature might well make him the perfect wife. The memory of Cassie’s bold repartee rushed over him and any pretention Lucien had in Barbara’s direction dissolved. Barbara was right. He and she didn’t suit.

Eleanor, wearing a green silk gown cut in a style reminiscent of the previous century and her famous diamonds, glanced at him then almost smiled in approval. If she’d ever been a beauty, time and her disposition had robbed her of it. Her cheeks sagged and dark rings marked her eyes. Her hair was almost as white as the plume she’d pinned in it.

One of her partners, an earl’s younger son thus acceptable because of his bloodline, took the hand. Eleanor threw down her cards. “You cannot have taken that! Who has the ace?” she demanded in a not-so-subtle charge of cheating, one she could make only because of her rank and her sway with the
ton
.

Barbara bowed her head, covering her eyes with a hand. Their fourth, a beardless lord who’d just come into his father’s title, leaned back in his chair to wait for Her Grace’s fit to pass. He and the earl’s son both nodded to Lucien in greeting, then rolled their eyes to display what they thought of Lady Eleanor’s familiar complaint.