Lord Deverill's Secret (8 page)

“Oh, yes, that’s just right,” said Maria, hurrying in, just as the long-case clock in the hall struck the hour. “Thank you, Cassie. I thought I would never be done. Now, Madame Lorette should be here with her harp in a few minutes. It will give her time to tune her instrument before the guests arrive.”

Sure enough, there was a commotion downstairs, and a few minutes later Madame Lorette swept into the room. She was an imposing woman with a heaving bosom, who was resplendent in scarlet. Her gown was ruched at the sides to reveal a white underskirt, and was matched by a scarlet turban adorned with a white feather. After much difficulty, her harp was manouevred upstairs, and she began to tune her instrument. As the rippling notes filled the room, Cassandra was pleased to see that Maria relaxed.

“Now everything is ready,” said Maria. “Our first guests can arrive.”

It was a small, select gathering. Cassandra recognized a number of young ladies from her seminary and was soon busy talking to them about their favourite mistresses, whilst sharing fond reminiscences of the dancing master.

“A lucky man,” came a soft voice behind her, and Cassandra saw that Lord Deverill had joined her. “He had the opportunity of dancing with you before I did.”

“I don’t think he was really so fortunate,” said Cassandra with a smile. “I found it almost impossible to learn the cotillion, and I kept stepping on his toes!”

Lord Deverill laughed.

“Do you enjoy music?” she asked him, as she saw him glance towards Madame Lorette.

“Very much. I used to have a box at the opera. Have you ever been?”

“Yes, I went with my family.”

She found the conversation flowed easily. They talked of the museums and galleries, the theatres and parks, all the things Cassandra had seen on her one visit to the capital. Lord Deverill was knowledgeable and interesting.

At length they took their seats for the concert. Maria introduced Madame Lorette, there was a smattering of applause, and then the conversation died away as Madame Lorette began.

Lord Deverill turned his attention to the music. Cassandra, too, was enjoying the concert, but all the time she was aware of Lord Deverill sitting next to her. She didn’t know how it was, but he affected her in ways no man had ever done before. She seemed to have an awareness of him that was entirely new to her. It was alarming and pleasurable at the same time. She turned to look at him. His face, seen in profile, was strong, but around the eyes something softer lurked.

The recital came to an end and there was enthusiastic applause. Cassandra was about to comment on the music when Lord Deverill was accosted by a dowager, who expressed herself volubly on the subject of harps. Seeing Maria close by, Cassandra went over to her friend and complimented her on the evening.

“I am so relieved that everything is going well,” said Maria. “Madame Lorette played admirably. But that is not the best thing. The best thing is that Lord Deverill is clearly enchanted with you. And he is not the only one. I distinctly saw Lord Armington looking in your direction when he arrived, and he has asked if he can take you into supper. Two earls, Cassie! You are one of the most popular young ladies in Brighton.”

Lord Armington walked over to join them. He was immaculately dressed in satin breeches and a satin tailcoat.

“Might I have the honour of taking you in to supper?” he asked, bowing over Cassandra’s hand.

Cassandra saw Maria mouthing the words, “Try, Cassie,” behind his back.

Cassandra gave an inward sigh, but knowing it would be rude to refuse, she accepted Lord Armington’s invitation.

Maria’s cook had excelled herself, and there were many flattering comments on the food. After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began to split up into groups. Some people went into the card-room to play whilst others indulged in conversations.

Soon the guests would wander into the conservatory, thought Cassandra. Wanting to make sure the footman had replaced the candles as she had instructed, she excused herself.

“I must help Maria,” she said to Lord Armington.

He bowed politely, and she went into the conservatory. She was pleased to see that her orders had been carried out. The candles were new, and had just been lit. They cast a warm glow over the exotic green foliage and the carefully placed furniture. She was about to return to the drawing-room when she found that she was not alone. One of the younger gentlemen had followed her, and was propping himself up against a tall urn.

“Miss Paxton,” he said in a slurred voice.

“Mr. Bradley.”

Mr. Bradley was the son of a wealthy manufacturer, and heir to a vast fortune. His clothes were exquisite, but reflected the most outlandish taste. His tailcoat was adorned with huge gilt buttons and his shoes were capped with rosettes. His stockings were gold, and his waistcoat was dazzling. But despite this magnificence, she eyed him warily. He was clearly drunk, and young gentlemen in their cups could prove difficult to manage.

“I was just about to join the company,” she said.

He took a tottering step into the room.

“No need to do that just yet,” he said. “Come to talk to you about—hic!—selling your town house.”

“Ah.” Here was a piece of good fortune. “I’m glad to know you’re interested in it. It’s a fine house, close to the sea. It’s been very well cared for, and is furnished with style. My brother had excellent taste.”

“I might be interested in buying it,” he said, lurching towards her.

She smelt the alcohol on his breath.

“You must see my lawyer—”

“Come now, no need for lawyers. Thought we could fix it up between the two of us. Just you and me. Thought I could come round and see it. I could come to night,” he said tapping his nose with his finger, or at least attempting to, for he was too drunk to accomplish the feat. “No one the wiser. Come when the servants are in bed. See the whole place. See the drawing-room. See the bedroom,” he leered.

“Mr. Bradley, you’re drunk,” she said with a sigh.

“Not too drunk to know a pretty girl when I see one,” he said, making a lunge for her. He snaked his arm round her waist and pressed his face close to hers. She turned away in disgust, unwrapping his arm as she did so.

“No need to be like that. No shame in needing money. Well, I’ve—hic!—got it. You can name your price.”

“The house will be offered—”

“I’m not talking about the house. I’m talking about the house with you inside it.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said, drawing herself up and hoping her cold tone would return him to his senses.

“Oh, you understand me all right. I’ll set you up there as my…my mistress,” he said, swaying precariously. “You can have anything you want.” He waved his arms. “Anything. Pair of matched bays. Four matched bays. Six matched bays,” he said expansively, almost toppling over. “A carriage. Fine clothes. All the clothes you want.”

“Mr. Bradley, I’m going back to the drawing-room now,” she said firmly.

“What about a little kiss?” he said, leaning towards her.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

His face became belligerent, and for the first time in the encounter she began to feel uneasy. His ridiculousness was fast wearing off, to be replaced by something uglier. She was not ignorant of drunkards and their moods and she could sense something menacing behind Mr. Bradley’s manner. She edged round him, hoping to get past him and go through into the drawing-room, for she felt it was time to bring the episode to a speedy end. But he moved surprisingly quickly and he cut her off.

“Just a li’le kiss,” he said.

Cassandra edged over to a pot which was displayed on a console table and contained a small palm. It would be very useful for crashing down on Mr. Bradley’s head. But before she could reach it he flung his arms round her and they closed round her with surprising strength. He thrust his face into her own and fastened his lips on hers. She turned her head and fought him off. Breaking free, she ran to the door, but he reached it before her and slammed it shut. His face broke into a leer. He rubbed his hands together.

“A bit of a—hic!—game.”

Unable to get past him she made for the pot, grasping it firmly in both hands and lifting it over her head. She was just wondering whether she should go towards Mr. Bradley menacingly or hope her actions would warn him to stay away when the door opened, knocking Mr. Bradley off balance, and glancing towards it she saw Lord Deverill.

“What the devil’s going on here?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow. But beneath his light tone there was a note of steel.

“Mind your own damn business,” said Mr. Bradley. “Miss Paxton and I were just having a bit of fun. You’re not welcome here, Deverill.”

“A pity,” he drawled, “because I’ve a mind to stay.”

Mr. Bradley lunged at him but he stepped aside and then, seizing a vase of flowers, he removed the flowers and flung the water in Mr. Bradley’s face.

Mr. Bradley started backwards, rubbing the water out of his eyes.

“You bloody—”

He started to advance on Lord Deverill, who raised one eyebrow. Mr. Bradley hesitated.

“I think you owe Miss Paxton an apology,” said Lord Deverill.

“What for?” asked Mr. Bradley belligerently.

“For insulting her.”

“Never did anything of the kind,” muttered Mr. Bradley sulkily.

“No?” asked Lord Deverill with a smile that bordered on the dangerous. “Unfortunately, I don’t share your opinion. You will apologize to the lady.”

Mr. Bradley looked up at Lord Deverill’s implacable face and his bravado left him.

“I apologize,” he muttered.

“Apology accepted,” said Cassandra.

She put down the pot, returning it to its original position.

“Now I suggest you go back to your father. And one last thing, Bradley. You’ve had enough wine for one day.”

Mr. Bradley looked sulky, then slunk out of the room.

“Are you all right?” asked Lord Deverill, going over to her.

“Yes. Thankfully you came in just in time. I was prepared to hit him over the head with the pot”—she smiled suddenly—“but I’m glad I didn’t have to break one of Maria’s prized possessions!”

He laughed.

“With luck, it would have broken Bradley’s head first!”

Cassandra laughed, too. Then her laughter died away and there was an awkward silence. He was standing very close to her, and it made her feel on edge. Whether it was the fear left over from Mr. Bradley’s behaviour or the energy left over from preparing to defend herself she did not know, but she somehow found that her pulse was racing and her breathing was shallow.

“When you offered me your help the other day, I did not know I would need it so soon,” she said.

“No. Neither did I. Bradley’s a fool with more money than sense, but he’s nothing worse than that. Take no notice of him.”

“No, I think it is better not to.”

She was aware of his gaze resting on her; indeed he seemed to be finding difficulty taking his eyes away from her. She tried to meet his gaze, but she was suddenly abashed. Dropping her eyes, she traced the pattern of the rug on the floor.

“I hope it hasn’t spoilt your enjoyment of the evening?” he said at last.

There was a rough edge to his voice, and she felt it sending a shiver down her spine.

“No,” she said, and to her surprise, her voice came out with a quaver.

“Good. There are some foolish young men in Brighton, but they are not worth noticing.”

He was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat of him and she put her hand to her hair, instinctively playing with a strand that had fallen loose to calm her rapidly beating pulse. He raised his hand, too, and their fingers touched. She dropped her hand as though scalded, but his continued to rise and tangled itself in her golden tresses.

For Cassandra, the world stopped. She could see him and only him, highlighted in her suddenly narrowed vision, and she could feel nothing but the soft touch of his fingers. She ought to tell him to stop; she ought to pull away; but she could not do it. She couldn’t even breathe, let alone move. She could only watch his face, mesmerized, as she took in the slight changes in his expression. She saw the curve of his mouth as it opened slightly, noticed the whiteness of his teeth and the fullness of his lips, and took in the slight shadow around his chin. She had never been so close to a man before. When dancing, she stood the required distance from her partner, and when talking she had always been separated by the space of a few feet of air. But here, there was so little distance between them that when he took a small step nearer she could feel the fabric of his coat brushing against the front of her dress. She felt the soft touch of his breath on her forehead as she tilted her face upwards, feeling it feather its way down to her cheeks and then to her lips. Instinctively they began to part. She felt his fingers stilling, and then to her painful disappointment she sensed, rather than saw, him stepping backwards. She felt empty, as though something vital had been taken from her just as it was about to be given.

She made an effort to master herself and opened her eyes. He was still very close to her, so that she could see him with great clarity, and she noticed he was holding something. It was a small piece of foliage.

She gave an inward sigh, as she realized that was why he had stepped so close. Making an effort to recover her composure she wondered why she had been so foolish, allowing herself to become mesmerized by a man who had done nothing more than remove a leaf from her hair.

“It must have fallen from the pot when I held it over my head,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

But somehow the tension did not relax. He was still looking at her intently and she swallowed.

“Cassandra…” he said.

“Lord Deverill…”

“My name is Justin,” he said softly.

“Justin…I…”

But she said no more, for without her knowing quite how it happened he was kissing her on the lips and she found herself responding, moving her mouth under his. It was a sweet sensation, slow and sensuous, and she slid her arms around his neck, revelling in the feeling until he let her go.

She looked into his eyes and saw the dark rim she had never been close enough to notice before, accentuating the green and making it glow. But she saw something else, a tortured look she could not understand, unless it was caused by the fact that he had kissed her and should not have done so.