By Way Of A Wager (22 page)

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Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

BOOK: By Way Of A Wager
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Cassandra sympathized but remained firm. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot!” She did not want people whispering that the great St. John had been snared into an unpalatable alliance. She could almost hear the tabbies behind their fans, regarding her with calculating looks and knowing smiles. They'd say the undue marital haste was due to her springing the trap, making sure of her prey.
They'd titter with malice and point to the unfortunate Lady Suzannah, the unwitting “jilt” of the piece. Cassandra could see it all, and see it clearly. Too well she knew the type of gossip that society relished and fed upon. She had no wish for that. Not for herself, not for the duke, and not for the unknown quantity in this drama, the Lady Suzannah.
It was hard to voice her thoughts. The duke was gazing at her, and her heart plummeted, for she felt he did not understand. He did not understand that she needed him to be clear of all ties, all former commitments, no matter how tenuous. She wanted so much to revel in the joy and love and strength of him. She needed to know for herself—and for the world—that his passion was not transient. It must be based not on pity, but on something tangible and enduring. If he was to overset his family's plans for himself, she wanted him to do it openly, deliberately, and with due care for the lady concerned. She would not have it any other way.
The duke lay down the bonnet and cast it across the desk. His face had shuttered and his voice seemed to Cassandra to change to flint. He bowed politely, and the very action brought tears to her eyes. “Forgive me, but I had not thought you entirely impervious to the notion, my dear!” He turned his back to her and went to the hearth, where he poured a restorative from the tall decanter standing at the ready. He swung around to face her, and she noticed his mouth was set in a grim line.
“What is it that you want? If it is the simple matter of banns being posted and a great church wedding with all its attended haut and pomp, you need only say the word.” His voice held a slight edge that was unfamiliar to Cassandra. She could bear to see disappointment in his eyes, but she could not endure contempt. Her heart beat very fast as she extended her hand toward him. It went unnoticed. Gulping the drink down in one deep draught, His Grace afforded her a quixotic if ironic bow, then left the room.
 
 
“Frances!” Miss Beaumaris looked near tears as she was helped into the landau by her solicitous brother. He looked as bewildered as she to find that the happy glow that had earlier suffused her face was replaced by a sickly pallor un-fetching to the eye. This was made doubly alarming by the fact that Cassandra was not a vapid miss prone easily to swooning and some of the more cow-hearted diversions otherwise fitting to her sex.
That something was amiss was plain. Though tired from his recent ordeal, he nonetheless had sufficient wits about him to wrap the silk redingote tightly around his sibling without so much as an inquiring word. He was no fool and easily divined that his host's sudden departure on estate business must be related to the miserable spectacle that now presented itself to him. He was enormously puzzled, given the most favorable interview he had with the duke earlier on in the day. He suppressed a sigh. Such a pity Cassandra could be so hot-headed. No doubt it would be left to him to mend the breach.
His thoughts flitted for a moment to a pair of soothing black eyes and his heart ached for the sight. As soon as he was well he knew that he was destined for another channel crossing. He had promised to return and return he would. Whether the statuesque, intriguing, and altogether delightful nurse of Mont Saint Jean would be interested in his suit he did not know, but he cherished hopes.
If Cassandra could not bring herself to accept St. John's proposal, he had no doubt the new countess of Surrey would be delighted to sponsor her in the future. He set his throbbing head back on the crested cushions and closed his eyes.
TWENTY-ONE
The carriage rumbled along the flagstones and made its ponderous way through the narrow city streets before coming to a halt at Twenty-five Saxon Place. The duke was not in a good humor. He was well aware, by now, that he had been at fault. He had judged Cassandra without taking into account the very qualities he loved in her. Of all people, he knew how little she desired the match for the self-serving reasons others would have done. He knew, with wonder, that riches and consequence were not the lure, and he felt ashamed.
For the first time he had been within striking distance of his heart's desire and he had made a wretched mull of the thing. She loved him for himself and himself alone, and he'd insulted her duly. Not by words, perhaps, but by implication. He felt wretched and he deserved to. That knowledge did not help his temper either.
He settled back on the squabs and consulted the time. It was getting late and he was sadly bored. He realized with a wry grimace that the contretemps with Cassandra had overset him more than he'd first imagined. He was as cross as two sticks as no doubt his groom was well aware. He'd thought nothing of it when the young jackanapes had suggested he travel inside rather than take the whip, but now he had his suspicions.
If the dowager marchioness of Langford was preening herself on his imminent arrival, she would be sadly disappointed. No matter how lovely her protégé, she was not destined to become a duchess. Well, not
his
duchess at all events! With this determined thought, he poured himself a hot lemon toddy from the flask his staff had so thoughtfully prepared.
If he now found himself embarking on a tedious journey to Shropshire with an extremely distasteful task to perform, he would consider it a just punishment. Cassandra could hardly be expected to accept his suit when there was a loose end that needed to be tied. She was not to know how tediously many young ladies had been picked out for his perusal in the past.
Lady Suzannah was only one of a bevy, but her very existence would be sufficient to make the proud Cassandra run shy. He realized, of course, that this trait was just another one of the intangible reasons he felt about her as he did. She had an indomitable mixture of pride coupled with genuine caring. He smiled and resolved never again to judge too hastily if ever he were forgiven. The thought that he might not be cast him in a cloud once more. He downed the drink slowly and stretched his feet.
Not for the first time, he wished his well-meaning, muddling, meddling relatives to go the devil. If only they had left well enough alone, he would not now be in this coil, staring gloomily out of the ducal landau with nothing but a gray sky and the promise of rain to mirror his bleak mood.
No doubt Aunt Elthea, with her frenetic shopping sprees and her insistent puffing off of his consequence, had firmly aroused unwarranted expectations. He could find it in him to be sorry for the girl, who must have spent many a dull hour standing still for seamstresses, milliners, and other necessary persons on his account. Still, she could make a match of it elsewhere. No doubt the reticules and lace and fans and little scented bottles of unspecified substance would be more than sufficient to snare some other poor lord. The duke was even prepared to put in a good word for her with the patronesses of Almack's should that be required. Anything, in fact, short of being leg-shackled to her for the rest of his days.
With these gloomy thoughts, the servants erupted from far and wide carrying portmanteaus, band boxes, and other indispensable items for the journey. His tiger dismounted and set about strapping the luggage to the equipage, a tedious task that would no doubt take yet more time. The duke tapped on the window, and a footman opened the door for him to dismount. This he did with a nimble step and a slight adjustment to his snowy cravat, which was, as ever, impeccable.
“Miles!” Her ladyship beamed.
In spite of himself, Wyndham felt himself smiling as he put her hand to his lips. “Ma'am!”
She beamed at him. “I knew you would come, my dear! We are all in such a pother over here, I hardly know whether we are coming or going! We've been driving in the park all morning, and my head quite spins with the number of people we were obliged to stop for. You can have no notion! And Lady Martin! Well, she insisted on bringing her pugs, and you know what havoc they can cause! I swear I nearly had a fit of laughing when I saw old Colonel Bucksby turn tail at the sight of our approach. He was cornered the other day, you know and quite knocked flat!”
The duke ventured a polite but bewildered smile. He was by now too used to his dear aunt Elthea's ways to be unduly bemused, but he nonetheless could feel the stirring of a faint headache. She continued, blissfully unaware of his plight, or of the hostlers and passersby who were tarrying in faint curiosity. The spectacle of the ducal carriage would have been sufficient to cause comment, but actual sight of the duke! Well, it was little wonder the crowd stared.
“Do come in, Miles! I have only another carriage load of goods to oversee, and I'm quite sure Mildred can do that perfectly! If you would like to come up to the Canary salon, I'll have tea poured.” She hesitated a moment, then corrected herself. “Not tea, burgundy! You look quite fagged to death, Miles!”
Her undutiful great nephew grimaced and had a good mind to tell her why he looked so wretched. He thought better of it, though, when he saw the array of small tarts and petits fours she had summoned for his delectation. The gilt tray was laden with goodies, and he was instantly cast back to the time when he was a small boy in short coats. She had been the best of aunts. He was always assured of a high treat on the occasion of his visits. And petits fours! She had remembered they were his favorite. He always found it hard to be out of temper with the sunny marchioness, no matter how provoked.
“I take it you got my note, Miles. I do find it so hard to confine myself to two wafers!”
“You need not, aunt. You forget you may have all your letters franked, and by heavens I wish you would! Your scrawl is impossible!” He reached out and put her hand in his. It struck him how frail it had become. She glanced at him with dancing eyes, and he realized that age was not a match for her spirit.
“Have you seen my parrots, child?” It had been a long time since he'd been addressed that way, but he made no demur. Before he knew what he was about, he was being whisked off to one of the room's small alcoves, there to be introduced to two brilliant and quite exotic-looking birds. His aunt must have noted his surprise, because she looked extremely smug as she informed him that they were from the wilds of America and cost a pretty penny to boot. He admired them with no small degree of distrust. Their beaks were suspiciously large, and he had a strong but persistent suspicion that his scatterbrained favorite aunt might not have properly engaged the attractive wicker door.
Before he could investigate further, the door opened and a vision of loveliness appeared before him. Her curly dark hair was spangled in the latest mode, and she was bedecked in a primrose muslin tied high at the waist. This did much to emphasize the round curves of her statuesque body and the deep, dark of her fawnlike eyes. A stunning creature. Quite different from the insipid young misses to whom he was accustomed. At all events, to which he was accustomed to being introduced.
His aunt smiled broadly at the impact her gorgeous young protégé had created. She knew Wyndham well and could see his breath taken away. If he was not actually gaping, then he was akin to it. The vision moved gracefully to his side and made a deep curtsy that lacked the simpering coyness to which he was used. She stood up and spoke first, in a delightfully lilting voice that was modulated and schooled charmingly to the English language, despite the odd inflection that was unmistakably foreign.
“I am glad to meet you at last, monsieur le duc.”
The duke made a bow and removed the curly beaver from his head. They made a striking pair, both so dark and so tall. He realized with a sinking heart that his task would not be as easy as he had first thought. Not that he was smitten in any way, but the lady somehow deserved more than a disinterested brush off, or one of the set downs for which he was so famous.
“I am honored.”
His great aunt looked wickedly pleased, and he had the impulse to throttle her.
Elthea stepped forward. “Suzannah, dear, meet my naughty great nephew, His Grace the Duke Wyndham. Miles, may I present Lady Suzannah De Bonhuit? Cake, I think! There will still be ample time before we are fit to leave. You did not forget your fur muff and your pink pelisse, my dear? I had the second chambermaid pack them, but you might do well to check. She is a trifle scatty, I'm afraid, but I do have a fondness for her!”
Miles's eyes met Suzannah's, and he could have sworn he saw a twinkle in them! He had a feeling that if it were not for the unpleasant business that lay ahead, they might well have become friends. As it was, he was impatient to be on the move. Once his aunt was firmly ensconced in her country home, he would be making off. He had a lot of catching up to do, and he needed to make his peace with Cassandra.
The Lady Suzannah must without delay be gently apprised of his betrothal. He was relieved to feel that she would not cause an unseemly stir and so jeopardize his chances of making peace with Cassandra. He opened his mouth to suggest a quiet walk in the marchioness's sumptuous rose gardens when he was caught off balance by an epithet seldom heard in a lady's home “Hell and damnation, curdle your liver!”
“What?” The duke startled. The ladies, far from being shocked, looked uncommonly amused.
Lady Suzannah put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sudden smile and pointed in the direction of the cage. “It is zee birds, I sink!”
His great aunt chortled. “Did I not tell you, Miles? They have the most startling vocabulary! Not fit for a lady's ears, perhaps, but then I never have cared a toss for the conventions!” She gazed lovingly at her crimson-winged denizens of virtue. “I can't tell you how entertaining they've been! We had that old witch Eleanor Peabody-Frampton poking her nose in the other day. Normally I'd avoid her like the plague, but she was announced just as Suzannah was being fitted for her riding dress. Well, there we were rooted to the spot when in she walks in that snooty high-bred manner of hers. You know! Anyone would think she was a princess of the blood, rather than a common squire's daughter. But there! I'm rattling on to no purpose!” She stopped for breath and beamed seraphically.
Suzannah finished the story. “She walked in and zere zey were, zee beautiful birds! Zey see her and say ... well, I will not say what zey say!” Her eyes danced with mischief. “It is shocking! It must be so, no? Ze Peabody person she is not amused. She just mutters somesing ... we do not know what ... zen she clutches her small reticule and is gone. Tsha! Like so!” She clicked her fingers in an expressive movement, then admonished Miles to take the cage and “not forget the stand.” With a sinking heart he knew that his penance was going to be to sit in a carriage with a pair of women and a precarious cage of bawdy-mouthed birds. His decision was instant. He would ride on the box. To hell with the groom!
The great, ivy-trimmed home of the marchioness of Langford was an imposing edifice surrounded by a park and an oak-lined avenue that was the envy of all her friends. Miles was very glad to see it, as he had spent a miserably cold journey enduring the lip of his jovial, impudent, and rather long-in-the-tooth old servant.
Since he had known the duke from birth and seen him breeched, the groom saw no reason to hold his tongue and made several remarks that caused the duke to inwardly seethe. All of them were pointedly about His Grace's lady friend, her prowess on a saddle, and the inability of gentry folk to know a good thing when it stared at them in the face. The duke was not pleased.
The only thing stopping him pensioning the unfortunate minion at once was the fact that he had the rarest skill with horseflesh that Miles had ever come across. Also, it could not be denied that he harbored a loyalty to the duke and his kin that was as touching as it was possibly misguided. Miles was no proof against the man's toothless grin. As they entered the estate, however, His Grace allowed himself a sigh of relief. All things going well, he could disabuse Lady Suzannah's mind of any misapprehension and be on his way well before noon. With any luck, he'd be at a posting house by nightfall and in his own bed the following day. After that ... well, after that, only time would tell.
 
 
“Run along, you two! The unpacking is well under way and I do not, I believe, need you both underfoot.”
Miles winced at this blatant manipulation. He knew his aunt's stratagems well, but was embarrassed for Lady Suzannah. Call herself a chaperone! He'd have words with her one of these days, that was for sure! He glanced at the lady in question and was surprised to see amusement etched on her fine, strong features.
Not a china doll, evidently! He surmised that she must have been expecting something of this nature and found the thought lowering. It was hard, indeed, to play the jilt, however blameless he may be. Still, best to swallow the bitter pill early and set the record straight once and for all.
His aunt cunningly suggested a stroll in the aromatic herb garden. A romantic enough setting, but not one in which he wished to dwell. If it were Cassandra who was staring at him with smoky blue eyes ... well, that would put a different complexion on the matter entirely. As it was, he declined the herb garden as a suitable point for a rendezvous and selected instead the formal morning room.

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