“So you are a man of plain tastes, my lord?” Cassandra rose and took his arm, very conscious of his nearness and the contact as he escorted her toward the dining room. She was far more accustomed to being on eye level with most gentlemen; the earl’s height and evident strength made her aware of him in a way she had never known before.
“When it comes to what I find on my table, yes, ma’am. I have no liking for heavy sauces, and that preference is apparently a knife to the heart of any fine cook.”
That may have been so, Cassandra thought much later, but the earl seemed to enjoy his cook’s efforts as much as she did herself. The food was excellent—and the company was even more so. After her exhausting day she had thought herself too weary either to care what she ate or to be much interested in conversation, but both beliefs were in error.
When the meal was finished, Sheffield suggested that she forgo the custom of withdrawing while he enjoyed his port in lonely splendor, and she was pleased to accept; in her uncle’s house that practice was confined to evenings in which there were no guests present, and she had always enjoyed the relaxed and casual conversation with her aunt and uncle.
In the earl’s snug dining room it seemed to her just as comfortable. He drank his port, she leaned her elbows on the table, and they talked on in the frank manner so quickly established between them, discussing subjects ranging from the treacherous unpredictability of the weather this time of year to the war with France.
He seemed quite interested in her opinions even when they disagreed with his, and never once treated her as anything other than an equal with an intelligent mind fine enough to challenge his own. Cassandra had encountered that unusual attitude in only one other man, her uncle, and she responded to Sheffield with a pleased freedom from constraint that made her virtually glow.
The conversation turned eventually to the social scene. The earl laughed often, much entertained by her perceptive and pungent descriptions of society, particularly when she became somewhat indignant on the subject of young girls “married off to the highest bidder”—that being her opinion of London’s glittering social Season.
“When did you come out, ma’am?” he asked her.
“Last Season. I was presented at Court, of course, and
that
was interesting enough, but the rest tried my patience sorely.”
“Balls and routs? Dancing at Almack’s? Theater parties?” His voice was matter-of-fact.
Cassandra, who knew that the earl was welcome at any private social event as well as Almack’s should he happen to grace London with his presence, felt curious as to why he had for years—to her knowledge—avoided such events. While many in society clearly still disapproved of him, and mothers of marriageable daughters quailed at the mere mention of his name, he undoubtedly had friends and connections who urged him to attend their social gatherings.
But she shied away from asking the question, reluctant to bring up the subject of his place in society both because she did not want to betray what knowledge she had and because she was afraid the discussion would change the frank and easy manner between them. So she merely answered his questions.
“Yes. And visits of ceremony, and rides in the park where one cannot even shake the fidgets out of one’s mount with a brisk gallop. The necessity of changing one’s clothing half a dozen times each day. Having one’s toes crushed at least twice each evening by an unwary step, and being forced to suffer both the sly digs of matchmaking mamas with daughters to settle and the measuring scrutiny of gentlemen silently debating one’s attributes and possibilities.”
Sheffield chuckled. “I daresay you encountered quite a number of the latter, ma’am.”
Since she wanted to avoid any mention of the fortune hunters who had dangled after her, Cassandra merely said briskly, “According to the current standards of beauty, I am both too dark and too tall to be accounted any more than passably attractive, my lord, as you well know. However, I must say that a number of gentlemen seemed to believe that my possibilities were worth their interest.”
“Yes, there must be a few intelligent men among the town bucks,” the earl stated casually. “Doubtless you have received several offers. Then why are you unattached, ma’am? If this has been your second Season, you must be conscious of the usual pressure brought to bear upon young ladies expected to become betrothed quickly to a suitable candidate.”
Cassandra hesitated, but then answered truthfully. “I have a blessed advantage most of my contemporaries lack. My uncle—who had been my guardian for fifteen years—has the novel idea that I might like to decide my own future. To that end, he has left the decision of marriage—whom I wed and, in fact, whether I choose to do so at all—up to me.”
“And so far, no aspirant to your hand has persuaded you to abandon your independence?”
Surprised at his understanding, she nodded a bit hesitantly. But then, lest he believe she was boasting of conquests, she said with a touch of wry humor, “My aunt tells me that I have stuffed my head with too many romantic notions, but I must say the thought of accepting a sensible and cold-blooded arrangement to spend the rest of my life with a virtual stranger is something I simply cannot support.”
“Then you’re holding out for a love-match?”
Cassandra was surprised again, this time that there seemed to be no mockery in his question. And her surprise led her to reply more honestly than she might otherwise have done. “I—I suppose that is what I want. Perhaps it is a foolishly romantic desire, but I know myself too well to believe I would be happy with anything else.” She looked at him curiously, bothered by an elusive note in his voice that she couldn’t define. “Do . . . you believe in love-matches, my lord?”
For the first time that evening, his gaze fell away from hers, and he studied his glass of port as if the shimmering liquid held secrets. His mouth was hard, a little twisted, his voice suddenly bored and yet a bit harsh when he answered.
“I believe, ma’am, that whatever the wishes of we mere mortals, the pressure of those around us is often impossible to resist. As I have no doubt you will discover—the first time someone refers to you as an unmarriageable spinster.”
Cassandra felt a twinge of hurt, yet at the same time she had the odd idea that he was telling her something far more important than his words indicated. Was his absence from the social scene these past years less a matter of his supposed sins than his animosity toward society? And, if so, what had caused it? Was there more to the tale of a young lady’s good name scandalously ruined than Cassandra knew or could imagine?
She wanted to ask, but the earl’s closed, brooding expression warned her that this was not the time. Instead, suddenly weary and aware of how late it had grown while they had sat talking, Cassandra pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.
“If you will permit me, my lord, I will retire. It has been a very long and eventful day.”
He rose as well, and his voice remained bored, the earlier relaxation and enjoyment completely gone. “Of course, ma’am. If you require an escort—”
“No, I believe I can find my way. Thank you very much, my lord, for your aid and hospitality as well as a very pleasant evening. Good night.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
She felt his gaze on her as she left the dining room, but Cassandra did not look back at him.
The port decanter is empty, my lord. Should I refill it?”
The emotionless voice roused Sheffield, and he thrust his empty glass away from him in a gesture of controlled violence. “No,” he replied shortly.
“Very good, my lord.”
“What’s the time?”
“Nearly midnight, my lord.”
“As late as that?” The earl frowned down at the polished table but made no move to rise.
Silent, Anatole removed the decanter and glass. He then knelt to put more wood on the fire, which leapt up eagerly to snatch at the new fuel and brightened the snug room with its renewed energy. With that task completed, the manservant rose and pinched out a guttering candle, then polished the gleaming sideboard and adjusted two of the chairs at the table.
The earl scowled at him. “Would you have the goodness to leave me in peace? Your endless fidgeting would try the patience of a saint!”
Anatole stood by the table, still expressionless. “Of course, my lord.” He did not move.
Sheffield, staring broodingly down at the gleaming table once again, muttered, “She is very young.”
“If I may say so, my lord, not in her self-assurance and manner. Quite an intelligent young lady, and not at all flighty unless I miss my guess. It was pleasing to hear Your Lordship so enjoy the evening.”
“She has a—an engaging frankness. And amusement rather than missish dismay when I respond in kind.”
“An excellent attribute, my lord.”
“She’s lovely as well. ‘Too dark and too tall to be accounted more than passably attractive,’ indeed! As if any man with a particle of sense would prefer some ordinary female with pale hair and washed-out eyes to her glorious raven curls and smoky eyes. And however childlike her voice, her splendid shape proclaims her most definitely a woman.”
Anatole preserved a diplomatic silence.
Sheffield swore beneath his breath. “I am being a fool even to entertain thoughts of . . . We met only hours ago, I cannot possibly feel . . .” He stopped, then said stolidly, “In a day or so the weather will improve, and she will be gone.”
“I believe, my lord, that the storm will be a severe one, and native members of the staff agree. Travel may not be possible for a week or longer.”
“A week.” There was a silence, and then the earl said, “I have been alone too long.”
“Perhaps it would be more accurate, my lord, to say that you have been alone long enough.”
After a moment the earl looked up at his manservant. He was frowning once again. “If you for one moment suppose that I am so lost to all sense of decency as to take advantage of a young lady under my protection—”
“No, of course not, my lord,” Anatole soothed. “But to spend time with the young lady here, where all is peaceful and where there are no . . . difficulties . . . surely that is a
situation
of which to take advantage.”
Sheffield’s scowl faded but did not entirely disappear, and he did not reply to the comment. Instead, he pushed back his chair, rose, and spoke abruptly. “Have we supplies enough to weather the storm?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The earl nodded, hesitated, then sighed a bit wearily. “I am going to bed. See that I am awakened at first light.”
Scarred face still impassive, Anatole bowed. When his master had gone, he banked the fire for the night and began extinguishing candles. The building wind of the storm outside made itself heard for the first time, and as he paused to listen to the eerie sound, Anatole smiled to himself.
Cassandra slept well, though when she awoke the next morning, she had the discomfiting awareness that her dreams had been highly sensual ones. She did not remember specifics, but found it oddly embarrassing that she woke smiling.
Sarah did not seem to notice anything amiss. While Cassandra drank her morning coffee, Sarah chattered on as usual, commenting on various members of the household staff and offering her opinion that Anatole would win the conflict with Mrs. Milton, because the housekeeper had stated her intention of leaving the post she had held since the earl was a boy.
“Leaving?” Cassandra frowned at her maid. “When?”
“By spring, she said, Miss Cassie. She’s all upset about it but says she can’t have Anatole taking over her job and still hold her head up.”
Cassandra thought about that as she finished her coffee. It wasn’t her place, of course, and the earl would probably not thank her for interfering, but she had experience directing a large household staff and was reasonably sure she could soothe Mrs. Milton’s territorial spirit. She was less certain of Anatole but thought shrewdly that he would not object to her suggestions so long as he remained head of the household staff.
She rose and dressed, choosing today a subdued dress of gray merino that was rather plain but suited her coloring and figure most admirably and which was one of her warmer dresses; though the temperature inside remained comfortable, the wind could be heard from time to time, and its howling had a chilling effect upon the mind. She had ventured a look outside her bedchamber window, only to find a white world in which swirling snow hid all else, and resigned herself—with a lack of regret she knew she should find appalling—to an extended stay at the Hall.
It was still early morning when Cassandra left her room and, armed with directions from Sarah, found her way to the second-floor linen closet, where Mrs. Milton was at work sorting out pieces needing repair.
“Mrs. Milton, I am sorry to disturb you, but I just wanted to thank you for providing me with such a lovely and comfortable room.”
Her sincere appreciation had the desired effect, and after no more than five minutes of casual conversation she was seated in a small parlor while the housekeeper poured out her woes to a willing and sympathetic ear. The situation was much as Cassandra had suspected; though Anatole had not, in fact, deliberately trespassed upon the housekeeper’s territory, the rest of the staff recognized in him a stronger personality and a higher authority and had been going to him for their orders. Mrs. Milton had done little to remedy the matter except to complain to some of the other staff members—which had served to lower her even more in their eyes.
Cassandra was careful to keep her suggestions thoughtful and tactful, basing them, she said, on a similar situation that had occurred in her uncle’s house. By the time she was finished speaking, the housekeeper was nodding happily, convinced that only a minor adjustment or two would solve her problem.