A Dangerous Expectation (The Gentlemen Next Door) (3 page)

Nearing the altar, Cassandra finally glanced up and locked eyes with Lord Gray Abernathy, her future husband.

She saw encouragement there, and determination. Almost as if he were willing her to take every step. In that moment, with all eyes on her, it made all the sense in the world to stare only at him. As if he were her guide to the altar.

She finally reached the base of the three small steps to his side. She took one step, then another. On the third she faltered, felt a gasp pass her lips, and braced herself for a bump on the floor. Instead, she felt herself being righted and set on her feet.

He’d caught her—this Gray Abernathy. He’d gently put one hand at her hip and the other at her shoulder.

Cassandra realized she’d never been held before. Not even by Chastity, who was more keen to fuss around her. It was a strangely comforting thing, as if her body remembered it. Had her mother held her before? Was that why her body seemed to crave it?

"You look stunning," he whispered in her ear before pulling away, so there was no risk of her saying in return, "
Stunned may be the operative word of the day
."

This was where he would take her hands, but instead, he held out his palms and waited.

Cassandra looked down at his hands and was surprised to find them rough and scarred.
What kind of duke’s son has mangled hands?
She bit her lip lest the words soar high over the heads of their audience straight to the heavens themselves.

She handed her bouquet to Chastity and lightly placed her hands in his so that they were barely touching, so they hovered in the air above his skin. Somehow she could still feel their heat.

The priest’s words rose in the air as Cassandra forced deep, slow breaths, closing her eyes. She only had to say two words. Two whole words. Nothing more. She could and would get through it.

It seemed the moment came too soon. She opened her mouth and her lips made the formation but she couldn’t make the sound—there was so much more she wanted to say that she was holding back.

Thankfully, the priest moved on—he’d been instructed by Chastity, no doubt.

Gray’s baritone filled the small, stone church. "I do."

The words were like the crash of a cymbal.

It was done. She was
married
.

And now the kiss was to come. A kiss. With a strange man.

She felt darkness closing in on her as Gray pulled her close. Her knees buckled. She waited for the pressure of his lips on hers, but instead he dipped his lips to her ear.

"Don’t worry, I have you."

He pulled away, leaving Cassandra breathless, and strangest of all—disappointed.

Chapter Three

Sixteen minutes. That was the approximate length of the carriage ride back to the house. Cassandra only needed to bear the confinement of being in the carriage with Gray for sixteen minutes. Surely she could go that long without making a fool of herself. She held her breath as Gray stood outside, speaking to the driver.

Chastity poked her head in and grasped Cassandra’s fingers tightly. "Are you sure?" she said.

Gray went eerily silent, as if he’d also heard the question. She nodded, squeezing her sister’s hand reassuringly.

"Then I wish you every happiness." Chastity reached up on her toes and Cassandra bent down to receive her quick kiss.

Then she was gone and Lord Gray stepped into the carriage. He was large, with a chest that barely fit through the opening. He sat across from her and undid his cravat, then the top button of his shirt.

She couldn’t bring herself to look away. Chastity used to say that she had no right being the one uncomfortable around men when she was the one who had such a direct gaze.

Lord Gray must have felt it now because his fingers stilled at his neck before drifting down to his side.

Her hands cramped and she realized her own fingers were tightly fisted into the folds of her dress. She kept waiting for him to say something, to force her into conversation, but he didn’t. His silence began to drive her mad. When he did speak, what would he say and what would he want her to say in return?

Finally, she felt words leaping to her lips. "Your family was not present at the ceremony?" Drat—she shouldn’t have asked it like that—as if there were something wrong with it.

Although there was at least something curious about it.

His golden gaze shot to her face, then drifted out the window. "No, they were not."

"Have you no family, then?"

"None like yours." He smiled, and a dimple graced his cheek. "Your sister is a good match for Lord Willoughby. I’m very happy for them."

"I would have met you at their wedding, then. If not for…."

"If not for," he agreed.

How different would that have been—to meet at the wedding. But she would have noticed him then, too. Every woman would have noticed him.

"I would still have wanted to know your name," he said.

Slow heat licked at her cheeks, down her arms—the way he’d said it—was he flirting with her? She’d never flirted before and she wanted to ask him, "What else did you want to know?" But she couldn’t. Instead, she stared out the window as the carriage made its slow progress past green fields.

"We’re returning to Lord Willoughby’s," she noted. Either that or they were spending the night at Lady Chesterley’s, which seemed too bizarre to contemplate.

"Yes, we are. Your sister already arranged for your personal items to be brought there."

It was just like Chastity to manage her life, although for once she was grateful for it. So they were to stay at Lord Willoughby’s. To
live
in his home? "Did you procure the property from Lord Willoughby?"

"No."

"Then why are we returning there instead of to an inn, or to your home?"

"I have no home."

"No home?" she said, belatedly realizing she’d asked an inappropriate question, yet again. And had kept asking them…but he was answering her and not giving her looks of censure or judgment and it was so easy to forget whether her questions were really in good taste.

He looked up abruptly. "I suppose that now my home is wherever you are."

She swallowed hard. Whatever could he mean?

And what would happen once they made it home—now that they were husband and wife?

* * *

Gray attended to the bags so he could send the coachman away, heeding his bride’s sister’s warning that she was uncomfortable with strangers. He had just given the driver orders to leave when he turned around to find Cassandra standing in the front doorway, her hands braced, as if a strong wind would blow her in at the slightest provocation.

He couldn’t help but admire her figure, her neat waist, the flare of her hips. Her dress had been chosen well, and he involuntarily tightened at the sight of her.

He wanted her. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d been without a woman for months. When a man had to make a living by being amicable and well-liked, a man did not dally in the local female population and risk angering anyone’s father, brother, husband, or lover.

But here there was no one to anger.

He walked up behind her. She lifted her face as she heard him, but made no move to enter the house.

She was nervous.

How ridiculous they were—the heiress and the fortune hunter. He knew what everyone thought of him. That he had seduced her, ruined his way into fortune. That’s what his father would think. That’s what would make his father
proud
.

He felt he had to lighten the mood between them. To make them partners—to make them friends.

"If you want to be carried over the threshold," he said lightly, "you need only ask."

Her green eyes widened as he swept her up against his chest and carried her inside, kicking the door closed behind him. He looked down at her face, and her gaze turned slowly from shock to speculation.

He’d already selected the master suite for her—not because it was the largest, but because it received the morning sun—and walked up the flight of stairs to it, bouncing her closer in his arms so he could open the door without setting her down. As he pulled her tight he noticed again how much her scent reminded him of the ocean, of the open sea and freedom. How did she manage that in the countryside?

Gray could feel her heartbeat against his chest. The closer he came to the bed, the more furiously it beat. Her lips parted, and a flush crept into her cheeks.

He set her down gently and could not resist sliding the back of his hand against her cheek. Then he slowly and deliberately brought his hand to his side lest it decide to graze anywhere else. "Shall I send for your lady’s maid?"

"I have none."

"No maid?"

"Why have done for me what I may do for myself?" Her fingers flew to her lips, as though she were trying to stop the words.

"I understand the sentiment."

"You do?" she asked, eyes widening. "You don’t find it…untoward?"

He couldn’t help a smile. "Of course not."

She looked at him again, this time her brow knitting speculatively.

He was standing in a house that wasn’t his, in a room that wasn’t his. It occurred to him that the only thing in life he had, the only thing in life he could truly call his, was
her
. His fists tightened, as did his chest. Cassandra—she belonged to him, and he to her. For the first time in his life, he was responsible for something. Not just something—
someone
. A beautiful, intelligent woman whose future and happiness were now his responsibility.

He felt lightheaded.

"This, however, you cannot do for yourself." He walked to her, circled around her so he was standing at her back and could look down at her head. She shivered as he set his hands on her slim shoulders. She was warm and he breathed in her scent again. He wanted to taste the skin at the nape of her neck but willed himself to begin undoing the short row of buttons in the back of her gown.

She turned to look over her shoulder, but he stayed focused on the buttons. The buttons! If he looked at her face, he’d be lost. Thank goodness for the shift beneath, which kept him from seeing her skin. Still, his finger brushed against the material, felt the slick fabric dip into the curve of her spine.

Her sharp intake of breath was like a spear to his gut. He wanted her, badly. He quickly undid the last button at the high waist she wouldn’t have been able to attend to without a lady’s maid and circled back around her.

"I bid you good night." He bowed and stepped away.

"You’re not staying?" she blurted.

"I’m staying in the neighboring cottage," he said. "Whenever you need me, just ask." As if she would need him. But one could hope. He paused at the door and looked back into her surprised green eyes. "One day," he said, "I will be worthy of you."

* * *

Cassandra watched her husband’s retreating back with a mixture of relief and disappointment. And confusion. Worthy of her?

Didn’t he understand—she was the one not worthy. She was the guttersnipe to his ducal lineage.

She stood at the door as if waiting for him to return. What was wrong with her? She didn’t want him to return, did she? Or perhaps she did. He hadn’t given her a cross eye yet or a judging glare, although she’d spoken out of turn several times.

When he’d begun to disrobe her she’d thought…. Well, she’d thought very little because there had been so many sensations rushing through her. The stroke of his fingers—an accident?—sent sparks shooting through her. She kept waiting for his lips on her skin. Not that she wanted a wedding night.

But she was…curious. Inquisitive. It seemed that the least she could do in the name of scientific inquiry was…

A muffled laugh bubbled from her lips. This had to be the strangest wedding night she could have anticipated, and after such anticipation of what was to come, she was now strangely bereft and anxious.

She saw her clothes were already unpacked so she changed into a nightgown, carefully putting away her wedding gown.

The large bed beckoned her.

He must have slept in this bed as the guest before her. She could easily picture him there, lying on his side as she’d found him on the couch, looking at her with his tawny eyes. She shivered.

She walked into the bathing room. She would need to send for hot water in the morning—then her eye caught on a pipe that curved over the tub with a nozzle.

Had Lord Willoughby actually had the means and time to install indoor plumbing?

Cassandra walked quickly over to the porcelain tub, resting her hand against it as she leaned over to turn on the spout. There was a groan of pipes but then water came sputtering out and drops of it splashed on her skin.

Warm drops.

She set her hand under the rushing water and was surprised to find it not just tepid, but actually warm. How had Lord Willoughby managed this? She turned the water off, not wanting to be wasteful, and followed the line of the pipes, which joined with a cast-iron contraption.

She dropped to her knees to study it—how fascinating!

She wondered if she could find some tools.

Chapter Four

She had run away. There was no other explanation for it. Gray couldn’t find Cassandra anywhere. He had breakfasted downstairs, alone, expecting she was sleeping in late. He had waited in the library. Then gone to the main parlor.

Now, as he climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, he dreaded finding it empty.

He shouldn’t have said anything last night. Shouldn’t have been so dramatic. Hadn’t he learned that the key to his popularity was always putting forth the happy face? The gleaming white teeth constantly set in a smile, no matter what?

He rounded the banister at the top of the stairs.

A faint clanging noise, like a poltergeist hammering lightly on its chains, punctuated the air. He quickened his pace toward it, suddenly worried that Cassandra might be hurt. That he’d failed as a husband on the first day.