The Conquest of Lady Cassandra

by Madeline Hunter

  He decided it was not in his interests to explain that.

  He stopped, her incomparable softness surrounding him up to the hilt. He lowered and angled his head so he could tease her breasts. Her sparkling sigh sang in his ear. She flexed and tightened around him in subtle squeezes. She felt so damned good. He used his tongue to flick at her tight, dark nipples until she whimpered.

  She bent her knees and shifted her hips, drawing him in even deeper. She pouted and shifted again.

  “You are impatient,” he said.

  Her lashes rose. “Unlike you, I have not already been in ecstasy this afternoon.”

  “You know you will be soon. I have never left you discontented.” He withdrew and reentered, savoring every instant of the sensation. “It does not always have to be hard and mad, Cassandra. There can be great pleasure in appreciating the nuances.”

  “Much like forcing oneself to savor a bonbon very slowly?”

  “Or keeping good brandy in one’s mouth awhile.”

  “I do not care for brandy, but I do like bonbons.”

  He felt the tight frustration that had been coiling in her unwind. She kept him deep and close, but no longer from impatience. He moved again, and little signs of delight eddied through her expression.

  They did not storm the mountain. They walked up hand in hand, stopping every now and then to admire the view. When the storm finally broke in him, there was no thunder this time. He experienced it as a sudden downpour that drenched his essence with a warm, poignant rain.

  Cassandra noticed that the last of twilight was dimming, but she did not move. She remained nestled in Ambury’s embrace, afraid she would ruin the mood if she even breathed too deeply.

  She did venture a sidelong glance at him. His eyes were closed but he did not sleep. His arms were too alert to her.

  Had this pleasure moved him as it had her? She had thought perhaps it had somewhat at least. There were moments when she was sure they had a perfect bond and understanding, and shared the intimacy to the fullest. She wondered now if it were possible for a man to know it quite like a woman, however. She also wondered if he had planned this, for his own purposes. Perhaps he thought to conquer her with tenderness.

  That was an ignoble notion, but she could not disregard it. The vows had not bound her enough to make her pliable and obedient, but this sort of chain definitely would. This was why Emma took care to soothe Southwaite’s pride and temper, she guessed. Not out of duty or fear or lack of free will, but because she had let him send tethers into her heart that made her want him to be happy.

  Ambury rose up on his arm and looked down at her. “You asked me when I proposed if I would accept your having lovers after the heir and a spare. I have decided that I will not.”

  She rather wished he would not issue decrees like a conqueror so soon. “I trusted that you would be reasonable.”

  “It is a reasonable answer. You will not take lovers. Ever.”

  “It is far too soon to decide this. You need to wait until the novelty of marriage has dimmed, and I am more of a nuisance.”

  “My views on it will not change.”

  She should explain that he was not being at all reasonable. He appeared uncompromising, however, and at the moment, the idea of another lover did not appeal to her at all. Better to fight battles that counted for something.

  They drifted back into the intimate peace they shared. Perhaps if he did not want to share her, he had experienced something similar to what she had tonight. Such as a man could, that was.

  “Cassandra, I need you to bring me to your aunt so I can talk to her. Do you trust me enough to do that?” The question floated to her in the gathering dark. At least he was asking, not commanding.

  She had trusted him when he proposed. There was no reason not to now. Except for the earrings. That had not been a small deception, and it touched on everything that mattered to her when it came to trust.

  Her mind weighed that heavily. Her heart did not possess the ability to be so ruthless. Trust glowed there, no matter what her thoughts concluded. Acknowledging her heart gave her peace and relief, and brought a smile to her spirit.

  “I will take you to her tomorrow afternoon.”

  Chapter 23

  The letter arrived with his breakfast the next morning. It stood out from among the rest of the mail. He recognized the stationery at once, then the seal and the hand. It had been almost a year since he had received a missive from Penthurst.

  He broke the seal and unfolded the paper. It bore only one word. Did he imagine that he saw something of his own surprise in the way that name had been penned? Penthurst had to have found the discovery very interesting.

  Yates certainly did. Interesting and confounding. Enough that he left the breakfast room, returned to his chambers, and banished Higgins. He took out his violin and trusted that it would not fail him.

  The music created its separate world, like it always did. It filled his mind, defining and organizing. He did not think about anything much at all as he played, but lost himself in the purity of sound while the composition worked its magic.

  When the piece was over, he set down the instrument. He still did not have answers, but he at least knew the questions. He merely had to decide if he wanted to ask them. Then he had to decide if he should ask them.

  He wandered down the little corridor and pushed the door to Cassandra’s chambers. The maid in the dressing room shook her head, indicating Cassandra had not risen yet. He went to the bedchamber and stood over the bed. She appeared beautiful lying there. Just looking at her brought calm to the chaos closing in again.

  Her lashes rose and she looked up at him. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I thought you were asleep.” I wanted to look at you. I do not know why.

  “I woke up a while ago. I did not move, so I could secretly listen.”

  It took him a moment to realize she referred to the music. She pointed languidly at her window. “It is open, and yours is too, so the music travels here nicely.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She looked adorably drowsy and disheveled.

  “It is so lovely. Why don’t you play for people?”

  She did not mean just people. She meant her. He swallowed the inclination to shrug and say he did not know.

  “Perhaps because my father did not like it. He enjoys music enough, and admires musicians. He had no moral opposition, nor did he think it below me or inappropriate.”

  “Then why would he dislike it?”

  “He had other plans for my time, especially when I left university. Playing well takes a lot of practice. Hours and hours.”

  “What did he want you to do instead?”

  “Parliament. The Commons, so that I could begin forming the relationships that would give me power when I succeeded him. Inheriting the title only goes so far. I had no interest in that, and resisted, and played—the violin and in other ways.” And now when he needed to know what those in power knew, he went to men like Penthurst, who had not followed youthful impulse quite so much.

  “I can see how you would not want to play for him, of course. But others—when you played at Emma’s grand preview in the spring, everyone was spellbound. Men had tears in their eyes. It is a great gift you have, and that you share when you do perform. They know they have souls when they listen to you play.”

  She flattered him enormously. She also put a name on the real reason he did not perform. It made him uncomfortable to see people moved like that. It embarrassed him to make grown men weep. He felt inadequate when people said he touched their souls, because his music never did any of that for him.

  He kissed her for the compliment. “I am going to visit my father. We will go to your aunt in a few hours.”

  “Do you mind if I listen through the open windows?” she asked. “I do not want to…intrude.”

  “I do not mind.” He headed down to his father’s apartment, admitting that he found the idea of touching Cassandra’s soul appealing.

 
“How is he today?” Yates asked the valet when he entered the sitting room.

  “Tired, sir. But otherwise it is much the same. He is awake now, if you want to see him.”

  Yates walked to the large chair where his father sat in his robe and cravat. He supposed that the day he came here and found the neck piece gone and the face unshaved, he would know a turn had been taken for the worse.

  His father’s eyes were closed, and he appeared very calm. Almost beatific in his peace. Perhaps because the valet had opened the window.

  “Yates. Good of you to visit.”

  Yates sat down in the chair all visitors used. He looked at the window again.

  “I am wondering if you feel well enough to talk about the estate. I have some information and also some questions.”

  “I think sometimes we will never be done with it, but ask what you must.”

  “I learned more information about those earrings. The ones you kept asking about, that had gone missing after the last inventory. As you know, my wife owned them for a while. She received them from her aunt, Lady Sophie Vernham.”

  His father reddened with anger. “I am very disappointed in her, to have abused a friendship in that way. Your mother overlooked much with Sophie, and will be distressed to know that her goodness was repaid with common thievery.”

  “The story about Sophie Vernham’s jewels was not that she stole them, of course. She claimed they were gifts from lovers.”

  “A shrewd ruse on her part, I think now. She does not claim such a thing with those earrings, I am sure.”

  “No, she says she bought them at a pawnbroker.”

  His father looked at him, surprised. “Does she? It is possible, I suppose. I would rather not think she took advantage here, and helped herself. The idea of that makes me sad.”

  Yates leaned forward with his arms on his knees. He caught his father’s eye. “Is it possible that she neither stole them nor bought them? Is it possible that Grandfather gave them to her?”

  It took his father a few moments to absorb the implication. He struggled to sit upright. The effort and his anger made him red in the face again. “No, it is not possible. My father hardly knew her, and he did not have affairs of any kind and did not approve of men who did. If you start one of your tasteless investigations into him, you will come up empty-handed, I assure you. Oh yes, I know about that disgraceful avocation of yours. I forbid you to subject this family to such common meddling and the vicious gossip it engenders.”

  It was as close to a row as they had come in the last few months. The earl’s indignation looked set to expand even more.

  “I expected the answer you gave. However, it was a possibility that I had to inquire about. Remember that you are the one who charged me with finding out how the jewels went missing.”

  “I told you to find the thief, not have flights of imagination about your grandfather, of all men. With your marriage, you want to think the best of the aunt. I understand that. Let us accept the explanation of the pawnbroker and leave it there.” He sighed deeply and seemed to exhale his agitation. He closed his eyes. “Yes, I think that is the kind thing to do all around.”

  “Do you want to rest? My other questions can wait.”

  “There is more?”

  “Quite a bit more.”

  Did he imagine that the eyes that peered at him looked more wary than tired? “Best have it out now, then. One never knows about tomorrow, eh?”

  “That odd property on the coast—the land with the contestable title—is on the list of locations for the government’s new defenses. The rents will be significant.”

  “The government will never lease land that is not clear. You did not pull strings for this, did you? If so, you wasted your time.”

  “I did not. Someone else did. Barrowmore.”

  His father went still. The entire chamber did.

  “That is odd,” his father said.

  “Isn’t it? I have to think that Barrowmore thinks to profit somehow. That probably means that his family has the other deed. Don’t you agree?”

  His father looked out the window for a ten count before nodding.

  “It is strange that two pieces of property that left this estate mysteriously ended up in the possession of my wife’s family. A logical mind has to assume it was not a coincidence. I am asking you as your son and heir to tell me how it happened, Father.”

  His father did not return his gaze. Instead, he stared sightlessly with a slack expression.

  “I did not know about the jewels,” he finally said. “The property, yes. He gave it to her. Your grandfather gave it to Sophie. Tied it up in some trust or other, so she gets the income until I die, then title passes to her and her heirs.”

  “So there was an affair after all.”

  “There was not any affair, I tell you.”

  “It is the only explanation. He may not have admitted it to you, and he may have gone to his grave with his reputation for high morals intact, but gifts of jewels and property to a woman normally mean one thing. Hell, is the Highburton name so sacred that you would let me accuse a woman of being a thief rather than admit your father was fallible?”

  “I tell you that I did not know about the jewels. I still do not know if they were a gift too.”

  Of course they were. His father was being as stubborn on this as he had been during all those old arguments. He refused to accept the obvious because his rigid view of living would necessitate damning his own father.

  “Nor, despite your certainty to the contrary, was there an affair between them,” his father said again.

  Of course there was.

  “Ask her, if you think my memory and judgment is ruled by blind sentiment. She will tell you.”

  He planned to.

  He had learned what he needed to know. He stood. His father looked up at him.

  “I did not expect you to be so thorough, Yates. I only counted on getting your attention for a while, so you were not ignorant when it all went to you.”

  “I have enjoyed being thorough, and learning the details about the estate from you.”

  “You will probably still vote with the damned Whigs when you get the title.”

  “Quite likely. Do not blame yourself, however. It is a perversion of my character that you did your best to correct.”

  His father chuckled lowly while he pulled his robe closer.

  “The breeze has cooled. I will close the window.” Yates went over and shut the casement. “Does my music bother you when you are resting? I realized today that you can probably hear it if this window is open. My chambers are above. I was inconsiderate not to think of that.”

  “It does not bother me. It is pleasant, and often useful. I never understood all that poetic foolishness about music. I find it is good for clear thinking, myself, not emotional excess. You will think me coldhearted to say so.”

  Yates turned to look at him. “Not at all. If you ever require clear thinking, let me know, and I will play for you.”

  His father waved dismissively. “Your mother says you do not like to perform. I’ll enjoy what comes through that window there, when it comes.”

  Yates paused behind the big chair as he walked out. He rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “It is true that I do not like to perform for audiences, but I will gladly play for you.”

  His father reached up, squeezed his hand, then patted it like a father comforting a boy.

  “What is this place?” Ambury asked. He eyed the blue door, then looked left and right at the mix of common people passing them on the lane. This was not a fashionable neighborhood at all, and Cassandra hoped he would not scold about her coming here in the past.

  “It is hard to explain,” she said. “It is a home, and also a refuge, and also a place of business. Come and I will show you.”

  She brought him to the door and sounded the knocker. Voices from within floated through the open window nearby. Ambury heard them and raised an eyebrow.

  �
�French.”

  “Yes, mostly.”

  A thick elderly woman opened the door. Without a word, she turned. Cassandra followed with Ambury at her side. They stepped into the house’s dining room, only it was not used for eating.

  Rows of tables filled the space. Women sat at them with sheets of paper and saucers filled with colors at hand. Brushes and rags dipped and dapped.

  Ambury angled his head to examine one of the papers on the table near them. “They are coloring engravings for the print trade.”

  Some of the women were young, and others looked quite old, but most were of middle years. Many wore garments that had gone out of fashion in recent years, with fitted bodices and full skirts. A few even sported wigs, although the powder had turned stale and yellow.

  “They are émigrés, of course,” Cassandra said. “Women of good birth, mostly. They come here and earn a few shillings to keep body and soul together. A few live here, but most do not.”

  “You put your aunt here? There is not a man to be seen. This is hardly safer than Southwaite’s home, or that of my parents.”

  “My brother would never find this place. If he did, he would never be allowed to enter. These women know how to protect themselves, and each other.”

  Ambury did not look convinced. He eyed the tables, and the heads bowed over them.

  A low chatter filled the space, and occasional laughter. The women seemed to enjoy the work and the chance to gossip and chat.

  A door at the far end of the chamber opened, and Marielle Lyon entered, carrying another stack of engravings. She handed them out to women who had finished their last ones, pausing to bend her delicate face close to inspect some of the work.

  Cassandra caught her eye and gestured. Marielle set down her stack and came toward them. She too dressed in the old style, and ink stains marred the torn lace at her elbows. Even so, she possessed an enviable, ethereal elegance.

  “That is Marielle Lyon,” Cassandra said to Ambury. “She is a friend of Emma’s.”

  “I have heard of her. Is this her home?”