Miss Weston's Masquerade (12 page)

It was almost dusk by the time they entered Nice at a decorous trot. Cassandra was too preoccupied with her patients to heed the famous groves of oranges and lemons or admire the white
bastides
, their doors and windows smothered in brilliant blooms.

To her relief, Nice was every bit as civilized and fashionable as the other coastal towns were not. The hotelier summoned a doctor with dispatch and made them comfortable in his best suite, while the wounded postillion was carried off to the servants’ quarters to have his wound dressed by the barber surgeon.

‘Monsieur le docteur
will be here soon,’ the hotelier announced. ‘It would be best if you get your master undressed and into bed while you wait. I will send up wine and hot water.’

‘Undressed...er, I…’

‘You are his valet, are you not?’ The man shrugged his shoulders at the stupidity of the English. ‘You have not had a blow to the head also? You understand what I am saying?’

‘Perfectly,’ Cassandra replied haughtily. ‘I will look after
Monsieur le Comte
. You may leave.’

Nicholas was slumped back against the pillows, his face faintly green in the subdued light. Cassandra bit her lip, undecided how best to get him undressed. She told herself that she was being unnecessarily modest and, in an emergency such as this, propriety could not count, especially with a man suffering from concussion. Even Godmama would tell her not to be such a little ninny.

She pulled off his shoes and stockings, then his neck cloth. He did not stir. Emboldened, she unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it loose from the waistband of his breeches and tried to ease it free from behind his body. After a few minutes struggling to no avail, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him forward to rest against her breast while she slid the shirt free over his head.

She should have let Nicholas back down onto the pillows, but instead, Cassandra found herself holding him, his naked back warm and smooth under her fingers, his heart beating rhythmically against her chest. She had never realised that a man’s skin could be this smooth, that the play of strong muscles would be so alluring to the fingertips.

Her hesitant, gentle touch seemed to rouse him and he stirred, murmuring incoherently. His lips moved against her throat and Cassandra stiffened with shock at the intimacy and pleasure of the sensation. How long they would have stayed like that had not the doctor’s knock at the door intervened, she did not know.

Doctor le Blanc greeted Cassandra in excellent English, clucked with disapproval to find Nicholas still half-dressed and had him out of his breeches, into a nightshirt and between the sheets in a trice.

She was relieved to see how competent and efficient the doctor seemed. He kept up a constant flow of inconsequential but reassuring chatter while he probed and checked Nicholas from top to toe.

‘Very good, my lord, very good,’ he said as Nicholas stirred and opened his eyes. ‘No breaks, I am happy to say, although that is a most serious contusion on your shoulder. It will be painful for some time as it is so near the bone, but nothing a fit young man like yourself cannot endure. And you are concussed, so it is important to rest as much as possible in subdued light. Drink plenty of good water and no strong drink.

‘You have found a most excellent hotel, which is fortunate when you consider the number of your countrymen resident already in our lovely town.’

‘Does that account for your excellent English, monsieur?’ Nicholas asked as the doctor pulled his nightshirt back over his shoulder. It sounded as though his teeth were clenched.

‘But
certainement
, milord. Many of my patients are of the English nobility, here for the excellence of the climate and the efficacy of our sea bathing. I would recommend a course of immersions for your wound.’

Cassandra had retreated to the window when the doctor arrived, glad of the opportunity to regain her equilibrium. She rubbed her fingertips together, still feeling Nicholas’s body so warm and strong and yet, for once, so vulnerable.

It had seemed such a good idea to reassume her former rôle, but however much she might play the boy, she could no longer deceive herself that her feelings for Nicholas were anything but those of a woman for a man.

‘Cass? That is your name, is it not?’ The doctor was at her elbow and had obviously been talking to her for some time. ‘I have sent a message to the apothecary to prepare a salve. It must be applied three times a day and rubbed in well. The day after tomorrow, milord must go down to
la plage
and immerse himself in the sea for ten minutes. It does not matter if he cannot swim.’

‘He swims very well,’ Cassandra replied absently.

‘So much the better. Gentle exercise will help.
Au'voir
, milord, send for me if you have the slightest discomfort.’ He bowed himself out of the chamber as Nicholas shifted uncomfortably against the piled bolsters.

‘Slightest discomfort? French understatement, no doubt.’ He looked across at and held out a hand to her. ‘Cassie, come over here. You saved my life, you know.’

Cassandra walked to him as though he pulled a string and took his warm, strong hand in hers.

His fingers closed over hers and stroked the knuckles. ‘And how are you? It must have been a terrible shock.’

His sympathy was enough to precipitate the tears she had been fighting for hours. Two large drops gathered and rolled down her cheeks and she hung her head to hide them.

‘I thought you were going to be killed. And the knife in the postillion’s back and the blood… and those terrible men…’ She took a deep breath and asked, ‘Do you think I killed him?’

Nicholas didn’t answer. Instead he pulled her onto the bed beside him, gathered her against his good shoulder and held her until the tears dried. Gradually in the safety of his arms, Cassandra felt her tense body relax, her eyes felt heavy. Without conscious thought, she snuggled closer and let herself drift. Under her cheek, Nicholas’s breathing slowed and as she drifted off she realised that he too slept.

She was woken. by a soft knock on the door. For a long moment, Cassandra could not remember where she was. She blinked and looked up to find her eyelashes almost grazing Nicholas’s unshaven chin. As she blinked up at him his eyes opened and the expression in them was like a slap.

‘Cassie? What on earth..?’

The knock came again as she scrambled off the bed, scarlet with confusion, avoiding Nicholas’s eyes as she pulled down her waistcoat.

‘
Entrez
!’ he called when she was a safe distance from the bed, but his voice carried less than its usual authority and Cassandra guessed he was as shaken as she at the position they had woken up in.

The door opened to reveal a little party assembled outside: the apothecary’s assistant with a package sealed with wax, a chambermaid with a tray full of food, a waiter equipped with cutlery and a cloth, and the
patron
to supervise all.

At least they provided some diversion. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed her that she had slept in Nicholas’s arms for over an hour and she had no notion of what she should say to him now.

By the time she had laid a tray on Nicholas’s knees, poured him a glass of wine and settled herself with chicken casserole, she had decided that the only thing to do was to play Cass the valet to the hilt. She must drive from his consciousness all awareness of Cassandra, the woman who had slept beside him in his embrace. She was honest enough to recognise that if he took her in his arms again, she would do nothing to stop whatever might follow and she wanted him to hold her so much…

‘You look much better,’ she said briskly, whipping away the tray and bringing him warm water and cloth. ‘I think you ought to go back to sleep again. I'll leave you in peace and go and find out about the sea bathing.’

‘Cassie?’ He seemed bemused by the transformation from vulnerable femininity to brisk efficiency. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘Wrong? Of course not.’ She shook out the starched tray cloth with a snap, not meeting his eyes. All she wanted to do was throw herself back into his arms and tell him… What? That it was the only place she felt content?

To her intense relief, Nicholas was up and about when she tapped on his door the next morning.

‘What about the salve?’ she asked, gathering up discarded clothing to avoid looking at him.

‘It’s all right, I put it on myself. Smells disgusting, so it must be doing some good.’

Cassandra could feel herself blushing with relief. Her sleep had been troubled by half dreams, half fantasies of rubbing the salve into Nicholas’s naked shoulder and what might follow afterwards. The thought of what Nicholas might assume if he realised how he preoccupied her was mortifying. Why, he might imagine her to have a
tendre
for him.

All it was, she told herself firmly, was the natural attraction of finding herself in the constant company of one of London’s most eligible men, a man who had offered her sanctuary and a means of escape when her world had been turned upside down. As soon as she reached Vienna, this allure, the dreams she had of him, would fade as other companions filled her life.

‘Should you be up?. She shook out a shirt, then folded it briskly.

‘Of course. I can’t lie in bed on a beautiful day like this. It would take more than a blow from a ruffian’s cudgel to keep me on my back. Now, here’s some money You go and do some shopping, buy what you like, some lace or some sweetmeats. I’ll see you here for dinner, I’m going to try the good doctor’s sea bathing.’

‘Shouldn’t I come?’ Cassandra asked without thinking.

Nicholas caught her eye and pointed to the window. ‘Lean out and to your left and you can just see the men’s bathing beach. I assume you didn’t go and look last night.’

‘No.’ Cassandra did as he said, then gasped with shock at the glimpse of bare flesh. ‘Nicholas! They have no clothes on.’

‘Then I suggest you stay well away from the shoreline, Cassie. In fact, take care where you wander if you do go out.’ The door banged shut, leaving Cassandra gaping after him.

Despite the money burning a hole in her pocket, Cassandra didn’t feel like mingling with the crowds. She headed away from the centre, climbing through the narrow streets past the close-packed stone houses to the ramparts crowning the town. Below her lay a vista of the sea to one side and, in the distance, white capped mountains. In between the land was full of fruit trees, already heavy with oranges, lemons and pomegranates and the hot air hummed with the song of cicadas.

Even the simplest house among the groves was neat and white painted, hung about with bougainvillea, roses and climbing vines. Cassandra wandered down into an olive grove, touching the ancient twisting trunks in wonderment. They seemed a thousand years old. She found a shady patch under an olive and sat watching the spear-shaped leaves trace patterns as they filtered the sunlight. Below her a goatherd was leaning on his staff and flirting with a dark-eyed girl who had brought him a dinner basket.

Cassandra leaned back against the gnarled trunk and closed her eyes. This was all she had ever wanted, to get away from home, to travel, to experience foreign ways and see strange sights. This place was idyllic, almost paradise, yet, like Eden, it had its serpent. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the heat of Nicholas’s body under her palms, feel his lips on hers, hear the warm strength of his voice caressing her. It was no use pretending to herself any longer: she was falling in love with him.

And he would never love her, however much it seemed on occasion he was physically attracted to her. The Earl of Lydford had no time for gauche girls fresh out of the schoolroom.

She could imagine his embarrassment, how kind he would be if he discovered her
tendre
. She could live without his love, somehow, but she couldn’t bear his pity.

‘Cassandra, wait a moment.’

She hesitated on the threshold of the bedchamber, her arms full of Nicholas’s freshly pressed shirts, then reluctantly came back into the room.

‘Yes?’

‘I need to talk to you, sit down.’ Nicholas gestured to the chair opposite him in front of the cold fireplace. ‘I’ve scarcely seen you the last two days, you haven’t even eaten your meals with me.’

Cassandra sat down awkwardly, still hugging the shirts to her chest. ‘The doctor said you had to be quiet,’ she said defensively. ‘And you did say I could explore the town.’

‘I have no complaint if you wish to go about and enjoy yourself.’ He hesitated, obviously at a loss to know how to deal with her in this uncommunicative mood. ‘I was worried about you.’

Still she wouldn’t look at him, risk meeting his eyes. Instead she sat scuffing the parquet with the toe of her shoe.

‘I know what it is that’s troubling you,’ he began, then broke off as the fierce blush swept up to the roots of her hair.

Cassandra felt sick with humiliation. How could he have guessed how she felt for him? Oh, the mortification of it. He was going to be kind about it, she could tell. Tolerant of this puppy love. He wouldn't take her seriously, or worse, he would pity her.

‘I can see I was right,’ he began. ‘It pains me to embarrass you, but I think we should talk of it.’

‘How did you guess?’ Cassandra whispered.

‘It was natural you should be upset to find you had fallen asleep in my bed the other evening. After all, you are a gently brought up young woman. But we shouldn’t reproach ourselves for what was entirely innocent.’ He leant forward and patted her hand gently. ‘We had both suffered a terrible shock, but it was natural we should fall asleep like that. Try not to feel so conscious of it, Cassie, nothing happened, after all.’

Cassandra could only gape at him. He thought she was stricken because she had slept in his arms for an hour? And she had so very nearly blurted out her love for him.

Nicholas obviously misinterpreted her expression. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Cassie.’ He stood up and ranged around the room while he searched for the right words for what he had to say. ‘I admit there have been moments when my... instincts have led me to regard you in a way I now regret.’

‘Like that evening in Paris?’ Cassandra heard her own voice sharp with reaction.

‘Yes, like Paris.’ Nicholas turned to face her. ‘But I promise that won’t happen again, Cassandra.’ He managed a laugh, although it sounded hollow in the high-ceilinged room. ‘Do you realise how good you are for me? Why, I declare, by the time we arrive in Vienna, my mother will not recognise the man she left behind, I will have become so responsible and sober.’

Nicholas was as good as his word. Two weeks later, as their carriage neared the Venetian lagoon, Cassandra reflected that she could hardly have had a more sober, correct, boring companion if Godmama had appointed a strict chaperone for her.

Nicholas had dutifully pointed out the beauties of the Plain of Lombardy, encouraged her to read improving passages from the guidebooks he acquired along the way and ensured she went to bed early after a good dinner.

Even the excitements of passing from one independent kingdom or duchy to another were kept from her, for Nicholas insisted she stay in the carriage while he ruthlessly bribed officials and negotiated passports and health certificates at the endless customs posts.

By the time they reached Padua, Cassandra had decided she had been quite mistaken: far from being in love with the man, she actively disliked him.

With bad grace she clumped on board the
burchio
waiting to take them down the Brenta Canal from Padua to Venice and glowered out at the unlovely town crowding the banks.

‘Stop sulking, Cassie,’ Nicholas said sharply, then seemed to relent. In a softer tone, he added, ‘I’m sorry, I should have realised. Are you frightened to go on a boat again?’

‘No.’ She scowled down into the greenish depths of the still water. It was true, she wasn’t afraid, not on this placid canal. She was quite simply bored. ‘I’m bored. I’m tired of dirty inns and bumpy roads and greasy food and no diversions at all. And don’t say you warned me, I know you did.’

That was only part of it. Nicholas had withdrawn into the half avuncular, half patronising manner of their first meeting in London. If he had ever found her tempting or alluring, it was quite plain he no longer did. Sulking was not going to improve matters, but she was too hot, tired, dusty and cross to care.

‘If you don’t take that mulish look off your face, I’ll tell the officials in Venice that you haven’t got a bill of health and they’ll shut you up in the Lazarrette for forty days with all the pestilential seamen.’

Cassandra glowered at him. He was only half-joking and it seemed he was as tired of her company as she was of his. ‘Well, it would have to be more entertaining than the last fourteen days.’

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, and not against the slanting evening sun. ‘You are asking to be put across my knee and have your britches paddled, my lad,’ he began between clenched teeth.

‘I would like to see you try it.’ Cassandra knew she was going too far, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had tried being good and obedient and meek, and he treated her like a troublesome scrub of a boy. The knowledge that she must look like one only rubbed salt in her wounded vanity. Her hair was full of dust no brushing would remove, the fleas last night had been worse than usual and she had had no clean linen for three days.

‘When we get to the
palazzo
…’ Nicholas began, real displeasure in his voice.

‘Oh, be
quiet
.’ Cassandra was on the verge of tears and didn’t care who knew it. Abroad was dangerous and squalid, travel was boring and uncomfortable and Nicholas was a beast. Or perhaps he was just a man and they were all like that.

She sniffed loudly and cast him a darkling look, half expecting him to carry out his threat and put her across his knee. She was saved from whatever retaliation Nicholas was contemplating by the arrival of another party of travellers with a pile of baggage.

Wordlessly he handed her a large pocket handkerchief and then ignored her as they embarked for the fairy-tale city of Venice in a mood of sullen antagonism.

The
burchio
was a long, flat-bottomed craft with an awning of canvas over metal hoops and the passengers were a mixed bag who would have entertained Cassandra under different circumstances. Opposite her a soberly dressed lawyer, with his equally sober young family, divided their disapproving glances equally between the two loud-voiced gallants perched precariously in the stern and a gaudily dressed and painted woman who winked at all the menfolk unwise enough to catch her eye. A party of peasants complete with malodorous goat added to the general discomfort.

By mid-afternoon on the second day, Nicholas, after a look at Cassandra’s set face, began to worry that she was not sulking but sickening. ‘Cass,’ he began in a low voice, then saw her face light up for the first time in many days.

‘Oh,
look
.’ She pointed out under the half-moon of the awning to where the banks of the canal opened out into a vast lagoon. Across the shimmering water the towers and palaces of Venice hung like a mirage as cloud shadows chased across the water and mud made the whole scene unreal and dreamlike. ‘Nicholas, it is beautiful,’ she whispered.