[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (25 page)

He did not smile, only turned earnest eyes to her. "I have made no secret of my attraction to you, but aside from these little crumbs you toss my way, there is little encouragement." He paused on the path.

"Should I turn my attentions elsewhere?"

"My husband made me a happy widow," she said, looking at him as directly as she knew. "I am in no hurry to sacrifice myself to that altar again."

"No hurry? Or determined to do it never?"

"Once, I would have said never. But that may not be true."

He nodded seriously, his hands clasped behind his back. He stepped aside for a boy chasing a ball down the walk, then raised his head again. "I would not require a declaration of love, you know. I do not expect that."

A stab of guilt touched her. "Robert, I—"

He lifted one hand with a rueful smile. "Forgive me. Do not answer."

Troubled, she said quietly, "I did not mean to mislead you, Robert. I am very sorry if I did."

"You have never given me any indication that we were more than good friends." He offered his arm. "I hope I have not endangered that with my rashness. Perhaps that poet stirred me more than I believed."

"Poetry does have that power at times."

He smiled with his usual jovial good humor. "Come, my lady. Shall we find ourselves some refreshment?"

Cassandra plunged herself into a whirl of activity, accepting every invitation she was issued to every rout, every assembly, every dinner. More soon came her direction, more than she could begin to accept.

It seemed that she'd become something of a curiosity. Partly on her own merits, and partly thanks to her sister Adriana, who'd become a legend in their set in a duel.

But more than herself or her sister, Cassandra suspected the invitations were issued to her in hopes that her brother Julian might accompany her—which he did, but only rarely.

She even, to her astonishment, discovered the pleasures of shopping, a pursuit she'd found empty-headed in the past. But armed with a footman and her coach, she found she could avoid thinking of Basilio for entire afternoons.

It was one such day, spent in mindless amuse-ment at the milliners, that she emerged into a bright, warm afternoon, and spying a tea shop across the street, decided to revive herself with a cup and a pastry. She deposited her packages in the carriage and sent the driver home. There was plenty of time to walk home after, and walking eased her restlessness as well or better than any other pursuit.

Inside the shop, she paused, blinking in the darkness after so bright a day. Voices rose and fell, the constrained low murmur of ladies engaged in gossip, the laughter of a young woman, and the clatter of china and silver. The air smelled of sugar and yeast.

And something more. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she caught the scent of Basilio—a hint of sunlight, that memory of olive leaves. With a little shake of her head, she told herself she was imagining things to make up for her momentary blindness. But as her vision cleared, she saw that she was not mistaken.

Basilio sat alone at a table nearby a window. Sheaves of paper littered the space before him, and an empty cup, and the remains of a pasty. As if he had been waiting for her, one arm was flung over the back of the chair, and his dark eyes pinned her.

She froze, one part of her moving toward him, the other running away.

His smile settled it. It was that easy, nearly impish expression that she could not resist. "I will join my friend there," she said to the girl. "Bring tea and something sweet."

He rose to greet her. "Do you come here often?"

"Never."

"Nor do I." That glitter in his eyes. "It must be fate, no?"

"Or accident," she said acerbically, taking her chair. "But I am famished and it would be more pleasant to take tea with a friend than alone."

"So we are to be friends?"

"I suppose we will."

"I was not sure, last night." He sat down and gathered his papers.

"Is that more poetry?"

"Yes." He held it out to her. "Would you like to read it?" A dangerous light on his face, that faint flaring of his nostrils.

She shook her head. "No, thank you." Arching one brow, she added, "You've been very productive."

"I am inspired." He blinked, his gaze lighting on her mouth, then her brow. A mockingly innocent smile, then. "By your country."

"I see."

The girl brought a tray and Cassandra waited as she settled it: a fine feast of little cakes and jam and tiny, perfect strawberries with a pot of cream. Cassandra made a sound of approval, her stomach feeling suddenly as empty as a dry well.

"How do you find our pastries, sir?" she asked, plucking a strawberry and dipping it in the pot.

"Very good." He watched with intense focus as she carried the strawberry to her mouth. His lips parted the slightest bit, and Cassandra saw the edge of his lower teeth. A bolt of desire raced up her spine. She felt a perverse and powerful wish to simply lick the cream from the berry, showing him her tongue.

But what would it accomplish? More thwarted desire? There had never been any question that they desired one another.

He watched her intently, leaning forward over the table, and suddenly, their eyes locked. Before she could react, she was snared in that world that only the two of them occupied. There was only Basilio's face.

And he felt it, too. Dismay and wonder warred on his mouth.

Her breath caught, and she knew what she had wanted a moment ago with her impulse. Slowly, she looked at the strawberry in her hand, and put it down with a sigh. Pushing the dish toward him, she quietly said, "You must try them. Not as lovely as your plums, but quite good nonetheless."

She watched as he plucked one from the bowl, and dipped it, and raised his eyes. The red fruit met his beautiful lips and he sucked it into his mouth, his eyes on her face, burning.

Beneath the table, their toes, safely covered in shoes, touched, tip to tip. Sunlight streamed down between them. They ate strawberries, one by one, speaking not at all.

When there was only one left, they both reached for it and their fingers touched, nail to nail, in the shallow white bowl. As if dancing to the same strings, they turned, touched fingertips, then drew away.

A dog suddenly jumped against the window, his nails making a sharp tapping sound as he grinned at them, tongue hanging sideways out of his mouth. "It's your Siren!" Cassandra said with a laugh.

Just as quickly, the dog was distracted by some better prize and ran off down the street, but his purpose had been served—they were no longer in that dangerous, drifting world.

He smiled at her when she looked back at him. "I cannot feel tragic while I look at you. I should, perhaps. I should beat my hand against my breast and howl with sorrow. But you make my heart lift. I thought I would never look on your face again."

Cassandra smiled in return. "I dislike tragedy."

"All that excessive emotion."

She laughed. "Yes." Picking up a cake frosted with a thin layer of sugar, she said, "Did you enjoy meeting my brother?"

"Gabriel? Yes—I seem to see him quite often. He's quite interesting."

"He's the one who fences. You'd enjoy a match, I'm sure."

"So he said. Except he said he would enjoy trouncing me."

She laughed. "And he would, I'm afraid."

"Will you come and tie a ribbon around my sleeve?"

"No. That should be Analise."

His face bled of all emotion. "Yes. Analise." He stood, nodding, a tinge of anger on his jaw. "Good day, Cassandra."

She let him go; it was what she had wanted.

The last strawberry lingered in the bowl. She picked it up and examined it, but it no longer held any interest. Her fingers trembled as she held it, betraying the power of emotions he'd roused. She let it drop back in the bowl, wanting to make him ache as she had ached these last months.

It was so unlike her. Twirling the berry by its stem in the pool of thick cream, she congratulated herself on resisting the wickedness, the urge to lead him into temptation.

Friends. She snorted inwardly, dropping the berry. They could not be friends. It was absurd to even consider it, when his very nearness made her tremble, when her mind fell to dangerous visions and

memories when she was with him. How cruel it was to have him here, so close, yet so completely unattainable!

She hoped his visit would not be a long one. Please, not much longer.

She redoubled her efforts to keep busy. She invited her sister Phoebe to come stay with her, and wrote piles of letters to friends and cousins, to her sisters and fellow scholars. She took brisk walks. She poured herself into the Boccaccio translation, discovering it carried her away from herself.

Phoebe sent regrets, saying she had too much to do with summer arriving. No new letters came from Leander or Adriana.

And everywhere, people spoke of Basilio: the dashing poet, the charming Count. The women fluttered and the men tried not to mind. His caricature appeared in the scandal sheets.

Desperate to keep herself distracted, Cassandra approached Julian about the possibility of bringing Ophelia and Cleo to Town for presentation at Court. He promised to consider it for the upcoming season, but failed to understand the magnitude of planning that such an event would require.

To press her case, she insisted he attend open Court with her one evening, hoping he might begin to see what was required if he saw the other marriageable women who would be vying for the same pool of husbands. Julien had agreed.

She had dressed as finely as the occasion warranted, in a deep blue silk brocade with a low cut bodice, and now sat with her shoulders covered with a towel as Kate wound her hair into an elaborate style, then powdered her face.

In a moment of whimsy, Cassandra dug out a box of rarely used patches and adorned herself with a star below one eye and a heart above her mouth. A stunning complement of sapphires—a fall of them around her throat, drops hanging from her ears, a bracelet clasped around her wrist—completed the adornment, and she stepped back to admire herself in the mirror. She would do. Very nicely, if she said so herself.

What would Basilio think of her like this? She smiled sadly at herself. Each time she left the house, she was dressed to stun him if he should appear. His name was so much on the lips of society—at formal dinners, in small clusters at routs, over cards at an assembly; even the Queen was rumored to have read the poems—that it was a miracle Cassandra did not meet him at every turn. But she had not. Which was how it should be.

A footman tapped and told her that Julian had arrived. Brushing away her foolish musings, she hurried down to join him.

Analise had never seen anything so grand as the palace of the King of England and the people in it. There was so much she almost did not know where to look first. Everywhere there was color and glitter—on the walls and the tapestries, in the jewels of the women, and the brocades of the men. Their voices murmured and swelled and fell, interwoven with the music from a quartet playing on a raised dais to one side. Warm sunlight spilled through the mullioned windows, and air blew in through open doors leading to the grand gardens beyond.