Had she but noticed it, she was seated beside a man quite dazzling in the simplicity of his finery and in the cut of his evening coat. When lightning flashed once more, it was to be observed that a fleeting smile was hovering at the corners of his upturned mouth, leaving a momentary impression of something very warm and infinitely gentle beneath the hard and uncommonly dark visage.
Cassandra could be forgiven for not seeing it, however. In the past few hours, she had experienced exhilaration, humiliation, defiance, and overwhelming despair. Never one to succumb to the temptations of swooning, she proceeded to defy her own rigid principles in this matter by doing just that. Before she knew what was happening or she could make sense of the imperious commands shouted to the driver, her head had slumped against the great red velvet seat cushions and her wish for oblivion had, temporarily at least, been granted.
When she came to, she was aware of voices and a jolting, and most astonishing of all, the human warmth of a body in close proximity with her own. More to the point, she was suffused with an irrepressible sense of well-being and comfort. Feeling safe and uncommonly satisfied, she snuggled deeper in the arms of the mystical rescuer, and thought no more.
It was only when she became aware of a certain fumbling that she began to take stock of the situation. Opening one eye resignedly, she began idly to take in her new surroundings. Through her lashes she saw hands gently reaching out for a white silk kerchief. A shock of warmth as fingers brushed firmly across her face, removing streaks of mud, soiling the brightness of the soft cloth as it floated before her dazed countenance.
Then realization. A cry of alarm. Both eyes flashed open, focusing with clarity on the man seated so boldly next to her. The tremor that flooded through her being as their eyes locked was indescribable. Fully conscious, she sat up, pulling at her straggling hair as she did so.
“It is you!”
The man nodded, a wide grin lightening his frowning features.
“From the river and the blackberries and the ...”
“Ancient Roman good-luck penny. Yes.” He finished her sentence and his smile was tender. She sat up as she remembered all and it came to her of a sudden that the man of her summer's idyll was one and the same with Wyndham, the duke of her careless disparagement. She blushed and the blush warmed his being. She did not notice, too shocked and confused and curiously out of kilter was she with the beating of her own heart. All she knew was that once again, she was compromised.
“Your Grace!” she expostulated wildly. “I know not rightly how I came to be in this chaise, but I beg you, set me down at once!”
For moment her head reeled with the enormity of the situation. How could she, Miss Cassandra Emily Marianne Beaumaris, have allowed herself to be humbugged into entering a man's carriage? More specifically, this man's carriage? She was no fool, and mask or no mask she knew no man but one to invoke such a response in her.
Without benefit of the eyeshade, he looked as dangerous and as devastatingly handsome as when she had first seen him. The duke of Wyndham! The very person she had so idly insulted but a few hours before. She gasped in outrage. Muddled, her thinking was still colored by the Harringtons' treatment of her. Could this be His Grace's revenge? Something told her that this was not the case, but the lowering thought persisted. She was in the suds and well she knew it.
The glint of tenderness reflected in his eyes passed quite unheeded. “Answer me honestly if you will, sir! Are you my lord St. John?”
His eyes gleamed. “The notorious rake you mean? The gilded lily, the dandied fop?” His voice was alight with laughter. “Why, yes, I am he! Where is your hartshorn, my love? I'm persuaded you need it!”
Cassandra's heart sank. Ignoring his last ignoble remark, she sought to make her position quite clear. “Hartshorn indeed! I'll have you know that no Beaumaris has ever had to recourse to smelling salts or medicinal powders, nor ever will! Nor I may add, are we in the habit of swooning!”
“No?”
“No!”
“I'm devastated to have to contradict you, my dear, but after your recent fine performance, I find that rather difficult to believe.”
Cassandra had the grace to blush.
“As to that, I beg your pardon, sir. I had no desire to importune you in any way. It has never happened before, I assure you. I'd appreciate it, now, if you'd set me down. I'm not certain my good name will survive the night with such a notorious rake!”
While Miles appreciated the note of humor she had introduced into the situation, he would have been obtuse had he failed to detect the underlying fear and trepidation that shone from her eyes. He noted, too, that her voice had lost a good deal of its clarity. To be blunt, it was veering dangerously, now, on the side of the trembly.
He smiled as he looked down on her, swathes of unruly hair spilling out from under the pins and clasps so hopefully set in the style known to the ton as “a la Sophie.” As she impatiently waved offending wisps out from under her eyes, her lips parted in as alluring a manner as any man could wish. The memory of the summer morning he'd spent baby-sitting in the absence of a suitable duenna flitted through his mind.
The chit had still been in the schoolroom then, but he could remember her still: ebullient, brimful of laughter and light. He remembered those lips, too... . Silently suppressing a groan, Miles concentrated on her face as she peeped at him a touch defiantly, her chin inclined firmly upward like a knight prepared for battle.
St. John decided to oblige. If battle it was to be, then it would be he who got in the first shot. The evening looked like to take on an interesting turn. “As for unhanding you, sweeting, that will be a pleasure. Forgive my presumption, but I had thought you amenable to our ... eh ... delightful position.”
Crimson, Cassandra recalled that it had been her hand, indeed, that had so convulsively clutched at the intricate folds of the duke's neckcloth. As if to rectify what had gone before, she impulsively thrust the offending wet, gloved hand behind her back, presenting such a charming picture of ruffled innocence that Miles had great difficulty holding back the soft little kisses that were by now yearning to envelop the adorable countenance before him.
With fastidious and quite out-of-character control, he collected himself enough to maintain his rallying tone. “Since you have recognized me, dear one, what say you we call a truce? You may consider me your humble servant, if it pleases you.”
Cassandra remembered the last time they had called a truce and looked up sharply. Something in his tone made her forget, almost, that the man was a gazetted rake and no more a bulwark of comforting, stolid support than her cousin had been. Something she caught in the lilt of his voice was special, attuned to her. She shrugged it off. Such figments of unchecked imagination could bode no good. If she were to have a care to herself, she had best not be trapped by foolish flights of wishful fancy.
“I cannot permit myself to impose on you, Your Grace.”
Her face remained firm and uncompromising as she surveyed the duke before her. “Be so good as to set me down and let me inconvenience you no further. Already, I fear, your carriage is quite the worse for wear!”
She looked down ruefully at the splattered velvet seats that were testament to the truth of her words. In other circumstances she would have laughed out loud at the sight she presented, bedraggled and tearstained, squeezing out a cloak that was slowly dripping water all over the ornately decorated equipage.
As it was, she had never before been this close to tears. The sensation was unfamiliar to her and rather frightening. It seemed such a weird twist of fate that she should be seated now beside the very person who had caused this trouble at the outset.
There was no denying the physical strength of this man, the duke of Wyndham. The same man, she paused to reflect with brutal honesty, who had played such havoc with her heart two summers ago and again that evening in the enchantment of the ballroom.
“Never mind the carriage! I rather like the idea of having it refurbished. What say you to yellow with bright canary wheels to match? Word has it the Prince of Wales has purchased just such a one!”
Momentarily diverted, Cassandra responded with alacrity. “Perfect! If you don't watch out I'll purchase a monkey for the interior, as I believe Lady Caroline Thornby did two seasons ago. What a sight it must have been! I was rather sorry to have missed it, in fact.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I was at Tunbridge Wells, actually. It was just before my grandfather ...”
Her voice trailed off at the memory and brought her back with a jolt to the problem on hand. “I'm obliged to you, Your Grace, truly!” The tears were welling up behind her eyes and she felt in danger of letting them drop, unbidden, on His Grace's immaculate pantaloons. If only he wouldn't smile at her so, she'd be able to summon up enough dignity to save herself the shame of spending a night alone and unattended in his company. If only he weren't so exceedingly devastating, or have such a very polished address! If only she didn't feel quite so attached to his soft dark curls or the smile behind his deep gold-brown eyes.
“It's your fault! Don't look at me so!”
“What's my fault?”
“Oh everything!” she responded crossly. “Can't you see I have no wish to be taken to your home? I assume that is to where you intend to abduct me?”
The smile vanished from his eyes, leaving at once an impression of flint mingled with steel. As if in answer to the changed mood, his eyebrows knitted together in a dark furrow that somehow infused his countenance with a hitherto unsuspected sternness.
“What do you expect me to do with you, my dear? Turn you out in this inclement weather and allow you to sleep under a tree? Only supposing you find a tree, of course! We'll discuss it tomorrow, but I assume you have no wish to return tonight to Surrey Manor? Say the word if you do, and I'll have the horses turned round at once.”
Cassandra sighed. Given a choice of two evils, she knew there was no choice. Her conscious gave a definite twinge when she realized how little persuading she would need to enter this man's home. Her grandfather would like to have disowned her, were he to have known what she'd be up to. He was always quite punctilious about these things. He'd probably have forced the duke into a marriage.
Miles watched the fleeting thoughts as they danced through her mind, her face as expressive a mirror as ever he'd seen. As he watched, his own countenance lost its heavy sternness, leaving only a trace of the strength and power locked behind the gay facade.
“Well?”
“I'll come with you, of course! To be honest, I don't much relish the idea of the tree!”
The tears were banished with that decision. The duke was touched. Too many females of his acquaintance used tears to manipulate or beguile. Miss Beaumaris used none of these tactics, giving as good as she got, but playing fair. Her hair was now quite irremediably wet and wild, forcing him to display, once more, his rigid self-discipline.
It was not too long that they sat thus before the horses slowed to a mild trot and the road turned to cobble. It said much for Miss Beaumaris that by the time they veered into the tree-lined avenue that heralded the entrance of the St. John estates, she'd regained her composure and had even gone so far as to venture a tremulous smile.
As the coach halted at the steps of the great edifice that was Wyndham Terrace, her courage momentarily failed her. Sensing this, the duke lightly squeezed her hand and treated her to a smile so dazzling in its reassurance that all thoughts of fleeing were instantly dismissed. It had been said by no less a personage than Brummel himself that when my lord St. John set out to amuse, he did so in style and with unfailing aplomb. In this most extraordinary circumstance, he was proven right.
The kerseymere shawl prosaically draped over her petite little being, Cassandra allowed herself to be helped from the carriage and set down on her freezing feet. Her eyes were dancing with ill-restrained amusement at the little
on-dit
that His Grace had chosen to impart but seconds before.
Perhaps,
she thought a trifle dolefully,
the Harringtons have achieved their aim and driven me quite, quite mad!
Mad it was, indeed, to be standing, gloves in hand, on the steps of Wyndham Terrace at a quarter of two in the morning. Despite her reservations and fear for her name, Cassandra could not resist the surge of overwhelming relief that flooded through her senses. In the last few months, Surrey Manor had become a mausoleum, its inhabitants as oppressive as the general atmosphere of gloom naturally attendant on a recent death.
Sir Robert, a miser when it came to pecuniary matters relating to himself, had ordered the holland covers to be placed over most of the grand furnishings in all but the great reception salon. These small economies had paved the way to the dismissal of the core of her grandfather's staff, a circumstance that greatly distressed and discomforted the young mistress Beaumaris. Perhaps if she were to set up her own establishment? It was something to think upon.