by Kay Hooper
Cassandra, who had been raised to be self-reliant and independent and for whom reading was a particular pleasure, sighed happily and went to explore His Lordship’s shelves. She quickly discovered a treasure: a recent novel she had not yet read by one of her favorite writers. Obviously, the earl also enjoyed adventurous fiction—or, at least, considered it worth adding to his library.
Ten minutes later she was comfortably seated in a chair by the fire and completely engrossed in the exciting activities of pirates sailing the high seas.
In the normal way, once Cassandra was involved in a book, it required either a loud noise or a shake to get her attention. But it appeared that she was particularly sensitive to the earl’s presence, because even though the opening door made almost no sound at all, she looked up as if someone had shouted her name.
“Forgive me, ma’am—I didn’t intend to disturb you.” Back in his country buckskins, he looked unnervingly powerful as he stood in the doorway. His dark gaze was direct as ever and seemed to search her face.
“Not at all, my lord,” she returned politely, using a finger to mark her place as she closed the book. “I hope you do not mind, but I took the liberty of exploring this wonderful library.”
He came into the room rather slowly. “Of course I do not mind, ma’am—please feel free to explore any room you wish.” His deep voice was a little abrupt.
Cassandra was oddly unwilling to allow a silence to develop between them. “My coachman tells me you have supplied an axle with which to repair my coach.”
He shrugged, standing now near the fireplace and looking down on her with a very slight frown. “It is little enough, ma’am, and useless to me.”
“Then why are you frowning, my lord?” She hadn’t realized she was going to ask that until the question emerged.
“Was I?” His brows lifted, effectively altering his expression. “I beg your pardon. Business accounts are sometimes tiresome, ma’am.”
“As are household accounts; I understand perfectly, my lord.” She hesitated, then said diffidently, “Please don’t feel yourself obliged to entertain me while I am here. I have no wish to disrupt the routine of the household—or your routine.”
He smiled suddenly, crooked and slightly rueful. “Even if I wish it?”
Cassandra felt herself smiling back at him. It was doubtless the storm, she thought, making him feel restless and in need of companionship. That was all. But it was difficult to hide her own pleasure when she asked, “What did you have in mind, my lord?”
She felt the now-familiar fluttering sensation deep inside her for a moment, because there was something in his dark eyes she had never before seen in any man’s gaze, something heated and hungry. She was suddenly conscious of her clothing touching her flesh, of the dim wail of the wind outside, and the nearer crackle and pop of the flames in the fireplace. She could feel her heart beating as if she had run a long way, and it seemed difficult to breathe all at once.
It was as if all her senses had . . . opened up. As if all her life she had seen and felt everything through a gauzy curtain until that moment when he looked at her.
There was a part of Cassandra, a rational, sensible part, that urged her to be on her guard. This, then, was his charm, it had to be—this ability to make a woman feel that no one else had ever looked at her, seen her. It was utterly compelling. This was the seductive power the men in his family were known to possess, the ability to enthrall a woman until she threw morals and scruples aside to do anything he wished her to do.
The sensible part of Cassandra offered that warning, but before she could make an effort to—to what? save herself?—his dark eyes were unreadable once again, and he was smiling in a perfectly polite and casual way.
“Do you play cards, ma’am?”
The written adventures of pirates held no appeal for her now, and Cassandra was barely aware of laying her book aside. “Yes,” she heard herself say with astonishing calm. “Yes, my lord, I play cards.”
Chapter Three
He taught her a particularly intricate, often perplexing, and sometimes downright Byzantine card game which he had learned from a colorful ship’s captain on a journey across the Mediterranean, and she astonished him by not only grasping the rules but soundly defeating him in only the third hand dealt.
“How on earth did you do that?” he demanded.
Briskly shuffling the cards, Cassandra showed him a mock frown and laughing eyes. “You should know, my lord. It was you who taught me the game.”
“Yes, but it’s the devil of a game to win,” he told her frankly.
“Then we shall call it beginner’s luck, sir. Did you say you learned it from a ship’s captain?”
“I learned it from a rascally pirate who called himself one,” the earl replied dryly. “And the bas—the ruffian emptied my pockets three nights running.”
Cassandra picked up her hand and regarded him in amusement. “Does it have a name, this game?”
“None that I ever heard. In fact, I rather doubt it existed before Captain Bower invented it in order to fleece those of his passengers raw enough to sit down with him.”
“I cannot imagine you being raw, my lord.”
Ruefully he said, “Oh, I promise you I was. Hardly older than you are now, and not at all up to snuff. It was more than ten years ago.” He looked down at the cards he held, the light of amusement in his eyes dimming and his mouth hardening just a bit as his thoughts obviously turned painful or bitter.
Before Cassandra could respond to what he had said, Anatole came into the library where they were playing cards and asked the earl if luncheon at twelve-thirty would be satisfactory, and by the time he left the room, the earl’s abstraction had vanished and he was once more relaxed. What might have been a brief opening through which she could have learned more about his past was now firmly closed again.
The card game continued until lunchtime, with Cassandra winning once more and then playing the earl to a draw. Which meant, he said, that they were “evenly matched in terms of possessing labyrinthine minds.” Whether or not that was true, it was obvious that each enjoyed the other’s company far beyond what was merely polite.
After luncheon they played chess in the earl’s study, and it proved another game in which they had like minds and tendencies, both employing shrewd tactics and alert strategy. And so they whiled away the stormy afternoon, pausing from time to time in their conversation to listen to the wind reach a crescendo and then fade away only to shriek once again and send sleet rattling against the windowpanes.
“Nasty,” Cassandra observed.
“Very. Check, ma’am.”
“Now, how did you . . . Oh, I see. White must resign, my lord, for I can see you mean to pursue my king across the board.”
“I would never be so unhandsome as that, I promise you. Another game, ma’am?”
But the clock on the mantel chimed the hour just then, and Cassandra excused herself in order to go upstairs to change and freshen herself before supper. She had thoroughly enjoyed the day, and she returned to her room with a smile she didn’t think about hiding until Sarah greeted her with anxious eyes.
“Sarah, he is a complete gentleman,” she assured her apprehensive maid.
“Just be careful, Miss Cassie, that’s all!”
But Cassandra only laughed, certain that her maid’s fears were completely unfounded. Indeed, it seemed her own instincts were to be trusted, for the earl’s behavior during the next two days was so exemplary that even Sarah seemed reassured (or, at least, she stopped issuing dire warnings). He was an entertaining and appreciative companion, forthright without being in any way offensive, and though she did not want to admit it to herself, Cassandra knew she was drawn to him in a way she had never known before.
That moment when he had looked at her with naked intensity was something she remembered far too often for her peace of mind, but it was not repeated during those days. He made more than one flattering observation, but since his co
mments tended to be quite casual and matter-of-fact, she could be sure of nothing except that he considered her attractive—and for all she knew he would have been just as appreciative of any personable young woman appearing on his doorstep.
It did not occur to Cassandra that the severe isolation of the storm had created a kind of refuge for both of them, and that the return of good weather might change that. All she knew was that the glittering but restrictive world of London society seemed very far away.
The storm raged outside, with a fierce wind blowing the existing snow about even when no fresh precipitation fell, and those inside the house became so accustomed to the sounds of fury that their cessation in the early evening of Cassandra’s third full day at the Hall was something of a shock.
She came downstairs after dressing for supper and found that she was early; the earl was not waiting for her. Restless, she wandered into a small salon near the earl’s study, a room she had not so far explored except to note the presence of a pianoforte. There was a fire burning in the grate, though it had been allowed to die down a bit, and though the room was comfortable, it was not really warm. A candelabra set upon the pianoforte provided light that was only adequate, leaving the corners and much else of the room in shadows.
Cassandra sat down on the bench and sorted through several sheets of music until she found something familiar. She considered herself a fair musician without being in any way exceptional, and since she had had little opportunity to practice during recent weeks, her fingers felt a bit awkward on the keys. But it did not take many minutes for her to relax and find her touch, and the first tentative notes of a sonata soon became easier and more confident.
Nevertheless, due to her lack of patience, the piece required all her concentration, and she had no idea she was not alone in the room until the final notes faded into silence and he spoke.
“You play beautifully.”
Startled, she half turned on the bench to find the earl standing only a few feet away. He was turned so that the light of the candelabra flickered in his eyes, making them glitter with a strange intensity.
Trying to collect herself, struggling with a curiously compelling awareness of him, she said, “Thank you, my lord.” She wanted to go on, to make some innocuous comment about the excellent instrument or something equally as nonchalant, but she could not. Her throat seemed to close up, and she could feel her heart thudding.
Sheffield took a step toward her, then another, and quietly said, “It is cool in here, ma’am, and your shawl has slipped. Permit me.”
Cassandra did not move as he lifted the lacy edge of her shawl to cover her bare shoulders. The gesture was more than courtesy; his hands rested on her shoulders briefly, and she felt his fingers tighten just a little before they were removed. Then he offered his hand, silent, and she took it, turning toward him as she rose to her feet.
He didn’t release her hand as he should have done, or tuck it into the crook of his arm casually. He held it and looked down at her with an expression she could not quite read in the shadows of the salon.
Cassandra did not know what was different, but she knew something was. In him or in her, or perhaps both, there was a change. The intensity of the moment lay heavily in the very air of the room, and she had the odd notion that if she moved too suddenly or spoke too hastily, something terribly rare and valuable could be destroyed.
Then Sheffield drew a quick breath, and when he spoke his voice was low and husky in a way that seemed almost a caress. “I think . . . I cannot go on calling you ma’am. Would it displease you very much if I called you Cassie?”
She shook her head just a little, unable to look away from his intent gaze. “No. No, of course it would not.” Her own voice sounded so shaken she hardly recognized it.
His fingers tightened around hers, and he lifted her hand until his warm lips lightly brushed her knuckles. “Thank you, Cassie.”
It wasn’t the first time a man had kissed her hand, but it was the first time she had felt heat shimmer through her body in a shocking, exciting response. She knew he could feel her fingers trembling, and would not have been surprised if he could actually hear her heart beating like a drum. And the way he said her name, something in his voice, pulled at her.
Absurdly, she murmured, “You’re welcome, my lord.”
His mouth curved in a slight smile. “My name is Stone, Cassie. A ridiculous name, I agree, but mine. If you could bring yourself to use it, I would be most pleased.”
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. “Stone.”
He raised her hand to his lips again, the touch a lingering one this time as heavy lids veiled his eyes, and Cassandra felt another wave of heat when he whispered her name. Her name had never sounded like that before, tugging at all her senses and perhaps something even deeper and more basic inside her. And how odd it felt, the sensations he evoked. They seemed to spread all through her body, yet settled more heavily deep in her belly and in her breasts, until she ached.
She didn’t know what, if anything, she would have said, but they heard the soft chimes of a clock in one of the nearby rooms proclaiming the hour just then, and the earl carried her hand to his arm.
“If we don’t go to the dining room,” he murmured, “Anatole will only come in search of us.”
A bit dazed, she allowed herself to be guided toward the door, vaguely surprised that her unsteady legs could support her weight. And it was only then, as they reached the door, that she realized what was different, what had been different from the moment she had turned to find him in the room. It was a silence, a hush so absolute it seemed to have a physical presence.
“I—I don’t hear the wind,” she said.
He was holding her hand against his arm, and his fingers pressed hers. He looked down at her. “I know. I believe the storm is dying.”
It was such a casual and ordinary thing to say, Cassandra thought, a perfectly reasonable thing to say—why did it sound so very ominous? So very disturbing? Why did she want to cry out a protest, or insist fiercely that he was wrong? Why did she suddenly feel almost frantic with anxiety?
She did not comprehend the answer to all those questions until she looked across the dining table at Sheffield some minutes later and remembered that once the storm was gone, the roads would soon be clear enough for travel . . . and she would have to leave the Hall. Her good name was already at risk because she had stayed here with him unchaperoned; if word of that should spread, the storm would probably be an acceptable justification—for now, at least, and for all the most suspicious and cynical members of the ton. But nothing would protect her if she remained here once the weather cleared.
She would have to leave very soon. And perhaps it should have horrified her to realize that she was more than willing to risk her reputation by remaining here—but it did not. It did not even surprise her very much.
Not after he had whispered her name.
Their conversation during supper was quieter than usual, desultory; she thought they were both very conscious of how quiet it had become outside as the storm died away. Cassandra could not seem to keep herself from stealing glances at his face, her gaze falling away swiftly whenever he chanced to look at her. He seemed somehow changed, she thought, his features not so harsh, the expression in his dark eyes direct as ever but warmer now and . . . tender?
Her imagination, most likely. She wanted to be sensible, to keep her head and not indulge in such foolish . . . imaginings. That was dangerous. She knew the pain of romantic flights of fancy brought cruelly to earth, knew that she had in the past more than once failed to judge a man accurately until his true character was revealed by his own actions. She had more than once seen her worth to a man measured in the cold mathematical accounting of her fortune.
But Sheffield—Stone—did not know who she really was. Odd how she kept forgetting that. Or perhaps it was not so odd, after all; she could not recall anyone in the house addressing her by the name Sarah had offered since that first evening.
No one ever called her Miss Wells. She was “miss” or “Miss Cassie,” with nothing else added. And “ma’am” to Stone, until now.
She had never discussed her background in anything but the vaguest terms, and he had not questioned her even to ask the name of the uncle she mentioned, so she had not been forced to choose between the truth and more lies. But the one great lie she had told was now weighing heavily on her.
It was when she was thinking of that during supper that Cassandra almost confessed the truth. She even opened her mouth to do so, but the words would not come. Not because she feared that Stone was a fortune hunter, but because she felt so guilty about lying.
When they left the table—earlier than usual—she had not managed to confess and was unhappily aware of her duplicity. She murmured an assent when the earl asked her to play the pianoforte, but it was not until they went into the salon serving the Hall as a music room that a flicker of amusement lightened her mood. The room that had been so dim and shadowed earlier was now much more inviting, with several sconces and candelabras alight and the fire burning briskly.
“Did Anatole know we would return here?” she asked the earl, sitting down on the bench.
“He seems to know everything that goes on in this house,” Sheffield replied, then smiled as he leaned against the side of the pianoforte. “I believe I have you to thank for ending the feud between him and Mrs. Milton.”
“I merely made some suggestions.” Cassandra played a few notes idly, then began to pick out a soft tune from memory. “All she really needed was a sympathetic ear and someone to advise her to reclaim those areas in which she excels. After all, I doubt that Anatole wants to be responsible for the care of linen and the training of the housemaids—and so on.”
“Very wise of you. And very much appreciated, Cassie.”
She watched her fingers tremble over the keys but managed not to strike a sour note. What was the magic of his voice saying her name? Keeping her own voice casual, she said, “My pleasure. I must admit, I am most curious about Anatole.”
