Patricia Rice (6 page)

Cassandra had no time in which to berate herself for her
blindness. She could not run and hide. She was a Howard, and thereby of higher
rank than almost everyone in this room. She had to smile bravely and keep going
forward.

She had no awareness of Merrick’s nearness until she heard
the deep rumble of his voice behind her and felt his large hand upon her elbow.
“The room is damp. Shall I send someone to fetch your shawl?” There was neither
mockery nor warmth in the question.

Cassandra steeled herself from the condemnation in his eyes
and looked up into his lean face. To her surprise, she found no emotion there,
only a certain patience as he awaited her reply. She nodded in acknowledgment. “If
you would, please. I was in such a hurry, I forgot it.”

Merrick summoned a nearby footman and sent him on the
errand.

“I trust you are not within these illustrious halls without
a chaperone, my lady. Perhaps you would introduce me to whomever you are
searching for?”

Cassandra mistrusted the velvet softness of his voice, but
she had vowed to be on her best behavior. She saw Catherine advancing upon
them, and she offered Wyatt a brilliant smile before he could be swept away. “If
you could find my Aunt Matilda in these cavernous spaces, I would be happy to
introduce you. Perhaps she is by the fire. She has a fear of cold.”

They did not advance far before Catherine confronted them,
her icy gray eyes sweeping over Cassandra’s revealing costume with derision. “You
are making a spectacle of yourself, Wyatt.” She turned her glare back to Cassandra.
“You would do well to eat with your aunt in her room, Cassandra. The men here
tonight are gentlemen. You’ll not find them very entertaining.”

Malicious mischief welled up, and Cassandra spoke before she
had time to think. “Cat, you have not changed. Do you still use handkerchiefs
to fill your bodice?”

Before her nemesis could utter an outraged reply, Cassandra
made a proper curtsy to Merrick. She felt his gaze resting on her own natural
abundance, and she sent him a knowing gaze as she rose. “It is good seeing you
again, my lord. I wouldn’t wish to intrude upon a private conversation. Good
evening.”

Merrick had half a mind to catch the brat’s arm and give her
the proper verbal thrashing she deserved, but with a guilty start he realized
it wasn’t just a verbal thrashing he had in mind. Lady Cassandra Howard had
grown into a proper armful, and he felt a surge of lust as he imagined any
number of other chastisements he could offer her.

With a jolt, he realized that she hadn’t minded the way he
looked at her. Catherine would have very properly slapped his face, but he
suspected Lady Cassandra would only laugh and encourage him. The idea of
actually dipping his hands into the bold chit’s bodice so shocked him that he
scarcely heard a word of Catherine’s scold. It was time he married and found a
release for his physical needs.

~*~

That one small triumph scarcely weighed against all the
minor disasters of the evening, Cassandra decided later as she retired to her
room. To avoid being asked to play the piano, she had allowed a rather
decent-looking gentleman to lead her out to the terrace.

She had successfully fended off his amorous attentions with
a slap, but not before Merrick had seen it. He had scolded and ordered her to
her room, but she had refused to go. It was the public humiliation of having
her hostess suggest that she see to her aunt’s comfort—at Merrick’s behest, of
course—that made Cassandra’s blood boil with fury.

She could hear the other guests now, laughing and singing
and chattering gaily in the salon below, and she wanted to weep in frustration.
She wasn’t a baby. She was a woman grown. What would it take to make them
realize it?

After seeing that her aunt was comfortably settled in bed
and not inclined to accompany her downstairs, Cassandra grimaced and, chin
lifted in resolution, prepared to storm the citadel. She would not be sent to
bed like a child.

The billiard room wasn’t hard to discover. She had spent
many lonely hours perfecting her game over her father’s table.

The two gentlemen lackadaisically knocking a ball around
stood up in surprise when Cass helped herself to a cue and began to chalk it.
The game quickly became animated and the room filled with others ready to take
on the challenge of her prowess.

Heady with triumph, Cass was slow to notice the silence enveloping
the room. She did not look up until her shawl unexpectedly dropped upon the
table, cascading her balls hither and yon. She straightened with a start. Merrick
stood disapprovingly behind her. The other players retreated to the shadows,
leaving her alone to face him.

“I believe your aunt is looking for you, my lady.”

There was that about his voice not meant to be denied. Had
it been Duncan or any of his friends, Cassandra would have flouted his
authority and challenged him to a game. But this was Merrick, the proper,
upstanding earl whom she wished to marry, although at the moment she could not
quite remember why. Still, she had set herself a goal, and she was in danger of
losing it.

Draping her shawl about her shoulders with studied grace,
Cassandra dipped a demure curtsy and offered a vapid smile. “Thank you, my
lord. It is good of you to play the messenger boy. I bid you good night.” This
last encompassed the remainder of the company as she beat a hasty retreat.

The memory of Merrick’s dark eyes upon her sent her
scurrying even faster. He had been assessing her, she knew, and she feared she
had come out lacking. Heavens above, how would she make him come up to scratch
if he thoroughly disapproved of everything she did? How was she to prove to him
that she could be as she ought?

As the week drew on, the company made it quite plain that
she could not prove what she was not.

Her lack of education did not merely encompass the inability
to play a musical instrument. She had no notion of how to go about fluttering a
fan and batting her eyes and speaking in musically modulated whispers. She did
not know how to sit still and speak idly for hours on end in all-female
company, waiting patiently for the men to join them. She much preferred to be
in male company, riding, hunting, playing cards and billiards as she had done
in the past. Every time she sought more interesting entertainment, Merrick was
there to restrain her.

She cursed vividly and fluently to herself as she was
ordered out of the card room again one miserably rainy day toward the week’s
end. The women were sipping tea and doing needlework and busily cutting into
ribbons friends and neighbors unfortunate enough not to be present.

Cassandra neither knew nor cared about the morals or
finances of these subjects for gossip. She had come no closer to her goal than
before, and things were looking decidedly grim. She was almost positive that
the letter Aunt Matilda received today was a summons from Duncan to bring her
home. She knew what that meant, and she dreaded it with every fiber of her
being. She could not imagine anything worse than being Rupert’s wife.

Passing by the library door, Cass heard her name mentioned
and could not resist hesitating to see who was speaking. If she could only find
Wyatt alone, perhaps she could make him understand the desperation of her
plight. She was more than certain he had no love for Catherine, or she for him.
More than once she had heard Cat speak of the changes she would make in Merrick
when she was wedded. Cassandra didn’t think Wyatt would approve of his
betrothed’s intentions.

She listened as the first speaker laughed.

“She’s a rare handful, I agree. I’ve heard it said she
accompanies Eddings to the worst hells in town. Have you made a pitch for her
bed yet?”

“Good Lord, no. Maggie would have my eyelashes out. The
Howards never were ones for discretion, and word would be out faster than I
could get between her legs. Besides, I hear she’s promised to Rupert, and he
would take the balls off any man daring to encroach on his territory.”

“I heard him bragging about his latest conquest, but I hadn’t
put the two together. He’s really getting leg-shackled, then? She’s a pretty
piece, but she’ll have horns on his head before the wedding bells quit chiming.
Did you see that gown she had on the other night? It was all I could do to keep
from dragging her into the bushes right there and then.”

“She’s a gauche little devil, admittedly, but what do you
expect? I bet in bed...”

Cheeks flaming, tears burning at her eyes, Cassandra hurried
on. Those who eavesdropped never heard good of themselves, she reminded
herself, but the pain of those insults could not be dismissed as easily.
Gauche! It was bad enough that they thought her free with her favors, but
gauche!

That’s what came of never having a proper debut. Or teacher.
She had done nothing right. It had been a mistake to come. She didn’t belong
here. They had made that plain enough all week. They were all laughing behind
her back.

That made her angry. So Rupert had bragged of his conquests,
had he? Did they all think the daughter of the Marquess of Eddings was so
desperate as to settle for a dissipated baronet with the tongue of an adder?
She would have his scalp first. She would thrust him through with his own sword.
She would carve him into little pieces of bloodied meat not fitting for chicken
feed.

She
had
to marry
Merrick. That vow arrived in a blinding flash that burned through Cassandra and
brought a sheen of perspiration to her brow. Wyatt would never allow others to
speak of her so. He would cut out their tongues first. They would have to
respect her if she were the Earl of Merrick’s wife.

Her feet fairly flew up the stairs. She had no time left.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. It had become more than obvious
that Wyatt would never do the dishonorable thing and jilt his fiancée for a
wanton hoyden. It was just a matter of planning. She had been in worse
predicaments and managed to wiggle out of them.

It took an hour’s worth of pacing before she had the details
complete. It would work with the right timing. Wyatt would be furious, but she
would deal with that later.

Excitement replaced the shame and anger of earlier. She had
always wondered about the secrets of the marital bed. Perhaps she would find
out. Surely Wyatt thought her as attractive as those two toads in the study
did. That was all that mattered in a marriage anyway.

If Merrick could marry a plain-looking shrew like Catherine,
he should be grateful for the opportunity of someone who would cater to his
every whim. The chance of having a real home and family was worth crawling on
bended knees for, if necessary. In the long run, he’d be far better off with
her.

As she sat down at the narrow desk in her chamber and
scribbled out the missives that would bring her plan to fruition, Cassandra
painted mental pictures of her dreams. In a real home, there would be no
drinking and gambling and whoring. There would be no screaming fights or
slamming doors or violent curses. There would be no wondering where the coins
would come from to buy the evening’s dinner or worrying which bill collector
should be paid first with the prior night’s winnings.

In a real home, her mother wouldn’t have to hide behind
closed doors and doses of laudanum. She could come out and be her friend again,
as they had been before they moved to London, before they had to live with her
father and brother. They would have lady’s maids, and the men of the family
would look upon them with respect. No one would curse them ever again, or strike
them. She felt certain in Wyatt’s home they would be safe.

It was worth whatever she had to do to accomplish it. Her
reputation could scarcely suffer any more than it had. Wyatt would be angry,
but he wouldn’t beat her. He would do the honorable thing, and then she could
explain why she had done it and offer her eternal gratitude. When he
understood, he wouldn’t mind so much. Surely he wouldn’t.

Sealing the two notes, Cassandra summoned a maid. It would
be better if she had Lotta with her. Lotta would understand and carry out her
instructions to perfection. She would have to make do with this stranger and
pray that things worked out as planned.

Once the maid left, Cassandra dithered with uncertainty. It
was already dark. Dinner was over and the company would be gathering in the
salon. She doubted if anyone had even missed her. What should she do if he didn’t
come?

She must think positively. She must think how to greet him
when he arrived.

Wyatt had seen all the gowns she owned, but not her
nightshift. Would the sight of her in dishabille shock him so thoroughly as to
make the rest of her plan simple? Or would it warn him away? She would wear a
robe. That was it. The robe might make him wary, but surely he would be just a
little bit curious. Merrick was too honest to expect anyone else to be devious,
particularly not the innocent he obviously thought her. Well, he was about to
be disabused of that notion.

Hastily Cassandra unfastened her gown and let it drop to the
floor. It seemed shameless to greet a gentleman with nothing covering her
nakedness but the thin lawn of her nightshift, but she didn’t think really
wanton women wore chemises beneath them. She had to be really wanton to lure
Merrick into this trap.

The chemise joined her gown on the floor. Opening a drawer,
she removed a freshly washed and ironed shift. The ribbon lacing seemed
girlish, but it was her best gown. It was a little tight across the bosom.
Perhaps if she laced it loosely enough...

A knock came at the door, and flustered, Cassandra kicked
the crumpled pile of clothing beneath the bed and grabbed for the satin robe in
the wardrobe. In a few minutes she would be a fallen woman, and she hadn’t even
let her hair down.