A Flight of Fancy (28 page)

“I cannot.” But he stood motionless with his hand on the door latch, gazing at their mingled reflections in the glass on the door. “All that should concern you is that you need not be bothered with me for perhaps as long as you stay here. I thought that would please you—me not being around to importune you further.” Though his tone had returned to its even keel, the dent in his right cheek—the dimple she had once loved to press her fingertip and her lips against—flashed in and out.

She understood that signal as well as a midshipman read flags on a masthead. Better, perhaps. Whittaker was trying not to grin. He was trying not to grin because he was teasing her, daring her.

“Oh, you.” She ground her teeth. “You are a scurvy knave.”

“Tut, tut. Such language.” He faced her and gave her his full grin. “But I suppose that is a step higher than
swine
.”

“I never—I mean, I never should have—I am sorry for calling you that. It was uncalled for.”

“So was what I said.” He raised his hand, then let it fall
without touching her. “Perhaps there is something to the notion that tainted blood is passed down to the children and your father is right in wanting us apart.”

Cassandra stared at him. “What are you saying? What tainted blood could you possibly have? I mean, your father was a gamester. Perhaps it is rude of me to say so, but it is no secret amongst the haut ton. We—you and I—talked of it, but you have never shown any inclination to—”

“Shh.” He laid his forefinger across her lips. “Not my father. My mother.”

“Your—” Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Your mother is—is . . . well, perfect.”

“Yes, now.” His gaze darted past her, flicked around the orangery. “We cannot talk here after all. Anyone outside can see us or walk in, and I would like to tell you something.” He rested his eyes on her face. “I would like to tell you. We used to tell one another secrets.”

“Like children.”

“Like friends.”

For a moment, as they stood within touching distance, their eyes locked. Her chest grew hollow with the loss of him, of everything that had been good between them—the conversation, the shared dreams, the friendly arguments about philosophies and politics. Given the slightest excuse, she feared she would throw herself into his arms and beg him to love her. But her leg had begun to ache, the healing flesh pulling on the old like a patch of new cloth on an old garment. A stab of pain sent a hiss rushing through her lips.

And Whittaker broke the eye contact. “For your safety,” he said too quickly, “we should not be seen together.”

“Then good night.” She took a step backward.

“Wait. Can you get away without anyone noticing?” He laughed without humor. “I expect you did this morning to go flying.”

“They go riding in the morning unless it is raining, in which case they stay abed.”

“Then meet me at the gate from the garden to the parkland at eight o’clock. Do you know where I mean?”

“How do you think I get to the field to meet Mr. Sorrells and Mr. Kent with the balloon?” She inclined her head. “Ah. It is you who keeps the path clear.”

“It is. Tomorrow then. I will show you the rest of the way.”

“But Mr. Sorrells is taking me driving tomorrow if the weather is fine.”

“It will be raining.” As though he held the power to grant such a condition with a word, he opened the door and a gust of damp, cold wind scented with rain blasted into their faces. “Good night, Miss Bainbridge. I will have you returned home by eleven o’clock when civilized gentlemen call.”

He knew—oh, he knew she had stretched the truth when she implied that Philip Sorrells would call for her at the same time Whittaker said he wanted her to meet him. No gentleman would take a lady driving so early at the beginning of November. Sunny day or not, eight o’clock was still early enough for fog to lie thick on the roads and fields.

“You are a swine,” she ground out between her teeth. “I take back my apology.”

He had long since vanished into the dark, wet night. She slammed the bolt home to keep him there, then turned toward the corridor door to her bedchamber, but not to sleep. Her mind raced like some ancient runner from Marathon. As though words memorized from a play, her dialogue with Whittaker ran through her head again and again, but jumbled and disjointed.

He was done with her. Someone wanted to harm him. He encouraged her suit with Philip Sorrells. His mother was not the model of ladylike and godly perfection everyone thought her?

Lost in her mangled memories of the past half hour, Cassandra did not notice Honore seated on the chaise until she flung herself against Cassandra. “Where have you been? Oh, never you mind. I must tell you.” She drew back to show a glowing face and shining eyes. “He kissed me, Cassandra. Major Crawford kissed me. Miss Irving had asked Lady Whittaker if she could borrow something to read, though I cannot imagine that years-old copies of
La Belle Assemblée
interested her. So they were here in the library, and there we were quite alone in the hall. And he took my hand and told me I am beautiful and kissed me.” She spun in a circle. “And now I feel like I am up in one of your silly balloons. Are you not happy for me?”

“I would like to be.”

If she could stop the images, the sense of floating off the earth she had experienced after the first time plain Mr. Giles had kissed her.

“Father will not approve of another military man for one of his daughters.” Cassandra sounded like a killjoy spinster and could not stop herself.

Honore just laughed and hugged her arms over her front. “He says after he finishes his work up here, he will sell out.”

So had Lydia’s first husband claimed—then he returned to his regiment a week after their wedding and she never saw him again.

“He is the younger son of a baronet,” Honore continued, “but it is a very good family and they are not poor. He has a tiny income, I know, but with my dowry, and if he obtains a diplomatic post as he desires, we will be quite well enough.”

Cassandra straightened. “He has asked you to marry him then?”

“Well, no.” Some of the glow left Honore’s face. “I suppose you will tell me I am terribly naughty to let him kiss me without a proposal first.”

“I would not be that much of a hypocrite.” Cassandra closed her eyes. They felt hot again, as they had in the orangery. She would not give in to tears here any more than she would have there. What was done was done. Whittaker had accepted that God did not want them together, that they were bad for one another’s futures.

If only they did not share so much past.

Twin tears escaped her efforts and rolled down her cheeks before she could dash them away.

Honore gasped and dashed across the room. “Oh, Cassandra, I am such a selfish beast going on and on about how happy I am when you look so sad. Is it Lord Whittaker? Do you still love him?”

“It makes no difference if I do. He is done with me.”

“I think not. He scarcely left your side the other night, and the two of you went off alone together.”

“He followed me, yes.” Cassandra dabbed at her eyes with her shawl. “He tried to make me think he still wants to marry me, so I told him how bad the—the scars are.”

“If he loves you, that will not matter to him, surely.”

“But it does. His face. You should have seen his face if you think it does not matter. And tonight—”

Honore grabbed her hand. “You saw him tonight? Where? How? I thought him in the Dale.”

“He was here.”

“Trying to press his suit again? See, he does still love you.”

“No, to tell me I should allow Mr. Sorrells to court me.”

Yet he wanted to see her again, but in secret.

The sympathy on Honore’s face brought more tears to Cassandra’s eyes. Had Lydia been there, Cassandra would have confided in her. Honore deserved her moments of bliss after receiving her first kiss. If Major Crawford did sell out, he would be a fine husband for Honore—handsome, charming, acceptable family.

“So I shall go out driving with Mr. Sorrells tomorrow if the weather is fine,” Cassandra said. “He is a most suitable match, do you not think?”

“For you? Undoubtedly.” Honore laughed. “He may have left university because he was not a good student, but I think that is because he wanted to study other things. Major Crawford did not go to university at all. He is more like me and has no interest at all in the ancients. But he does speak beautiful French. I suppose that is necessary if he wishes for a diplomatic career next.”

“I expect it is. Shall we work to improve yours?” Cassandra decided she may as well assist Honore in her romantic endeavors.

“That would be so very kind of you. He murmured something to me in French when he left, but I understood a bit of it.” Honore laughed. “I am afraid Miss Irving understood all of it, though I never would have guessed that she would know any more of French than what comes in smuggled fashion plates and silks, but she looked rather annoyed with him, which surprised me too. I thought after last Saturday night that she was dangling after—but of course it is nothing with Lord Whittaker, especially with him always at those mills of his.”

“She would be a fine match for him,” Cassandra said. “She is an heiress and beautiful, and not unkind. After all, she did travel here with her young cousins.”

“To catch herself an earl.” Honore rose. “Then again, she was in the paddock helping William improve his riding this morning.”

“Perhaps we should get Lord Whittaker to stay here and press his suit with her.” Cassandra managed to say the words with a credible smile.

Honore stared at her. “You would let him get betrothed to another lady right under your nose?”

“Why not? He encouraged me to do the same with another gentleman.” She dropped her head into the corner of the chaise arm.

“Then he was right,” Honore muttered and stalked to the sitting room door. “I should get to sleep if I can. We are riding bright and early.”

“Honore?” Cassandra spoke her sister’s name with a note of warning. “Do not go marching off without explaining that last remark.”

“What? About not being able to sleep? I will be thinking of the major, of course—”

“Do not go all innocent on me. What did you mean by Whittaker being right?”

“Oh, that.” Honore sighed. “He said that he would never make you jealous by flirting with another female. And I thought it was such a fine idea for him to win you back. But I will have to work out another plan.”

“You, child, are incorrigible. But do not waste your energies on my romantic interests. Concentrate on your own.”

“Happily.” With a flutter of eyelashes and lace frills, Honore vanished into the next room.

Cassandra smiled, then rose and rang for the maid to come help her undress for the night. Once in night rail and dressing
gown, however, she drew out the desk chair and pulled paper from the drawer and the stopper from the ink bottle. She intended to write down her impressions of flying. Perhaps one of the periodicals for ladies would enjoy a tale of a lady floating through the heavens in a balloon. She also wished to mark the changes she might make to create more useful rudders out of the parasol-like sails, to help maneuver the balloon more efficiently instead of being at the whim of the breezes depending on one’s elevation. To be fair, she should consider using the paddles once or twice. They had worked for the men in France. But the sails were working a little for herself and her fellow aeronauts.

Though all these things ran through her head, she found herself writing down as much of her conversation with Whittaker as she could recall. Once on paper, once reviewed, she found all the gaps in what he had said. He was telling her only half-truths about the attempt on his life that morning, as well as the other incidents.

Including the assault on their carriage in London?

In the morning, he must tell her everything else. Rain or shine, she would not leave his side until he explained everything. If the sun came up, Mr. Sorrells would simply have to wait for her.

Rain began to fall before she wiped her quill clean and shoved the stopper back into the ink bottle. At first, drops pattered against the window like a handful of pebbles tossed against the glass. Then the wind picked up and drove a deluge down the window, a pounding cataract that did not cease even as Cassandra awoke, dressed with the assistance of Molly, and drank several cups of scalding tea.

“Best you dress warm-like,” Molly said. “This stone house makes the chill go straight through a body. Shall I bring you some breakfast?”

Cassandra glanced at the mantel clock. Twenty minutes before eight o’clock. “No, thank you. The tea is enough. I have some reading I must get done today so I can return the book, and would prefer not to be disturbed.”

“What if it’s that nice Mr. Sorrells?” Molly glanced up from where she knelt on the floor to straighten Cassandra’s hem and winked.

“Not even for him.” Cassandra laughed at the girl’s sauciness. “It is not a day for driving.”

“Not a day even for ducks.” Molly shivered. “Ring if you need one of us.”

She departed in one direction, and a few minutes later, Cassandra departed in another. Molly, no doubt, joined the other servants in the large but always warm kitchen. Cassandra slipped through the orangery and into the rain, which soaked through her woolen cloak and hood in moments. Without her cane for extra support, she would have slipped on the muddy ground and fallen. But at least the torrents of water and the darkness from overhanging clouds would make her practically invisible from the house. It certainly kept everyone else inside. Only a crazed female would be stepping into the woods to meet a man who had said quite plainly that he no longer wanted her. She should turn back, leave him to wait and drown beneath the trees, and warm herself by the fire with the book she truly wanted to finish that day.

She slipped through the well-oiled gate and into the darkness of the trees beyond.

Even with most of their leaves gone, the trees formed a canopy of interlocking branches that created partial protection from the rain. It dwindled to a manageable drizzle, adding a sense of hush inside the parkland.