Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  He smiled at her words. It would be so easy to kiss her now. Her mouth was exquisite. Her eyes were shining as if with tears: “Are you all right?” he murmured. He wanted to see her lips move.

  She stood perfectly still, scarcely breathing. His white shirt glowed almost violet in the dusk, the lacy sleeves pushed back from his lean, strong wrists. She wet her lips, not knowing where to look. She wanted to tell him—she wanted to say—

  “Cass?”

  From somewhere she found the strength to pull her hands away. “I’m fine. Fine. You said to come early because you wanted to tell me something.” She felt grateful for the support the doorpost provided; she’d almost done something irrevocable just now, and she was trembling in reaction.

  He let his hands fall to his sides. “Did I say that?”

  “Yes. You sent a note.”

  “Did I?” She nodded. She was staring over his shoulder, not looking at him. He touched her face, unable to help himself. “That’s odd,” he whispered. “I can’t remember what I wanted to tell you.” It wasn’t true. But he could not say the words Quinn wanted him to say. They would not come out of his mouth.

  She sighed. She wanted to turn her face and kiss the open palm cupping her cheek. Instead she stepped out of his reach. “Then we’d better go.”

  In the dark hallway she was just a dim, shadowy form. The spell should break now, he thought; I can’t even see her. But it didn’t. “Cass…”

  “Your coat—don’t forget—I’ll wait in the hall.”

  He watched her walk away fast, almost running. The sound of her footsteps died away and he thought, Now, now the spell is broken.

  But it wasn’t. He wondered if it ever would be.

  Cass’s nails bit uncomfortably into Riordan’s wrist. “What does he say now?” she whispered tensely.

  He pried the rigid fingers away and held her hand firmly. “He says, ‘Eurydice, Eurydice, answer me! It’s your faithful husband. Silence of death, vain hope. What suffering, what torment wrings my heart.’?

  “Oh!” Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. She let the unearthly beauty of the music sweep her away, forgetting everything but the sadness and the pathos. “Now what is he saying?”

  “He’s going to kill himself. His grief is unspeakable.”

  She buried her face in her handkerchief and blew her nose.

  “Wait, here’s the goddess of Love to talk him out of it. She says, ‘Hold, Orpheus!’ She’s reviving Eurydice. She lives!”

  “Oh! Oh!” cried Cass, overcome, smiling with relief through her tears.

  “ ‘My Eurydice,’ ” translated Riordan.

  “ ‘My Orpheus,’ ” guessed Cass, sighing with contentment.

  The music swelled as the lovers embraced for the last time, and the curtain fell.

  Cass sat back in her seat, drained. “Oh, it was so beautiful, so beautiful. I want to see it again!” He laughed and she smiled back dazedly, her lashes still spiky from crying. “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Yes,” he answered immediately, though he wasn’t sure which he’d enjoyed more, the opera or her reaction to it. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes, I suppose. It’s hard to come back to reality, though, isn’t it? Do I look all right?” She pressed her hands against her hot cheeks.

  “You look magnificent.” It was true, he thought; she was one of those rare women whose looks actually improved with weeping.

  She smiled tolerantly as he put a gossamer-thin shawl around her shoulders and led her out of the box. His arm felt warm and solid under her hand. The press of people forced them to move closely, intimately, down the brightly lit hall to the stairs; to stay together, they put their arms around each other and took small, shuffling steps toward the exit. “We should have waited,” Cass said loudly, standing on tiptoe to speak into his ear.

  He nodded, but he was thinking he preferred it this way, all in all.

  Finally they reached the lobby. Using the advantage of his height, Riordan surveyed the milling crowd. Immediately he spotted a familiar chestnut head. Claudia. She saw him at almost the same moment and waved gaily. He waved back, his smile not quite in place.

  “Who is it?” asked Cass. They had several friends in common now.

  “No one you know.” He would have kept going, but Claudia was gesturing for them to join her and whomever she was with—Marchmaine, it looked like. He didn’t have time to sort out his feelings; he only knew this was an introduction he’d hoped never to have to make. Slowly they made their way through the crowd to the waiting couple.

  “Lady Claudia Harvellyn, allow me to introduce Miss Cassandra Merlin.”

  The name caused a glimmer of recognition, swiftly hidden, to flare in her ladyship’s large brown eyes before she smiled graciously and offered her hand. “How do you do, Miss Merlin? And this is Mr. Marchmaine. You know Gregory, don’t you, Philip?”

  He should have known Claudia would take control and ensure that things went smoothly. As soon as the introductions were over, she began to chat easily and naturally about the evening’s entertainment. “The music is lovely, of course, but what I can never understand is why the poor man doesn’t just tell Eurydice, straight out, that if he looks at her she’ll die. Think of all the trouble it would save!” She laughed charmingly. “Such glorious bombast, what sublime histrionics! Don’t you think so, Miss Merlin?”

  Cass hesitated. “No,” she said with a diffident smile, “I thought it was very moving. I wept,” she confessed.

  Claudia raised her perfectly shaped brows in surprise, or perhaps amusement, but maintained her gracious smile.

  “Did you, now?” declared Marchmaine, screwing his monacle in tighter to look at her.

  Riordan remembered the scene in the eyeglass shop between Cass and Lady Helena, and spoke up hastily. “I confess, I felt a little dampness in the eyes myself. Besides, Claudia, if he simply tells her, we’d miss all that lovely music at the end. ‘Che faro senza Euridice!’ ” he sang robustly, making them all laugh. Claudia’s laugh was a little stiff.

  Marchmaine excused himself to go find a carriage. Riordan was thinking he ought to invite them to share his, but he had no enthusiasm for prolonging this odd encounter, however well it was going so far. The trio chatted politely and inconsequentially a little longer, then began to stroll toward the front doors.

  Claudia inquired of Cass how she was finding her new life in London, conspicuously avoiding any mention of the circumstances that had obliged her to return. Riordan had the uncomfortable impression—for the first time ever—that Claudia’s graciousness bordered on condescension. He watched Cass. She was tense, but her answers were open and direct and perfectly correct. A few minutes later Claudia pressed him to say whether he was coming to her house on Tuesday—Grandmother had asked about him in particular—and her insistence in front of Cass surprised him. Was it possible that she was jealous at last? The idea confounded him, but not as much as the realization that the very thing he’d been hoping for didn’t bring him nearly the satisfaction he’d expected.

  Their carriages arrived simultaneously. Claudia gave him her hand to kiss before the idea even occurred to him, and afterward she held his fingers for much longer than was her habit. With a bemused expression he watched Marchmaine hand her in and the hackney rattle away.

  Cass watched his face for a moment longer and then looked away. She waited for him to remember where he was and that his own carriage was standing in readiness before them. He helped her into it absently, and they rode much of the way in silence.

  Presently she noticed he was looking at her, and forced herself to say something. “Lady Claudia is very attractive,” she murmured, without enthusiasm.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And very intelligent.”

  “Very.”

  She took a breath. “She’s your special friend, isn’t she?”

  “What makes you say that?” he hedged, frowning.

  What, indeed? What had possessed her to
bring up a subject that could only cause her pain? “Because of the way you treat her,” she plunged in stoically. “You don’t pretend with her, you let her see who you are. And because she’s obviously in love with you.”

  He laughed somewhat harshly. If Claudia was in love with him, it was for tonight only. “You’re mistaken.”

  His tone indicated that the subject was closed, and Cass suddenly lost heart in pursuing it. He hadn’t denied the woman was his “special friend.” She stared out the window as a crushing feeling of aloneness settled over her. Her unhappiness was entirely self-made, for all the comfort that brought. She was falling in love with a man she could never have, and she had no idea how to stop. She saw with perfect clarity how far above her he was in every way—social position, respectability, education, accomplishments—and now she’d also seen the lady he would someday marry, or at least the sort of woman he would choose. An honest comparison between herself and Claudia Harvellyn made her ache with wretchedness and inadequacy.

  If only she could get away! She was frightened of the pain seeing him every day was already bringing. To stop a heartache, one ought to avoid the person who was causing it. But in her case that wasn’t possible. Not only had she to endure Riordan’s company, she had to bear the agony of pretending in public that they were lovers. It wasn’t fair! For as long as she could remember she’d dreamt of falling in love, of giving her heart to a kind, gentle man who would rescue her from her loneliness and treasure her for the rest of her life. Instead she’d chosen the very man most capable of hurting her. Was there something wrong with her? Did she enjoy suffering, or was she just a fool?

  She swallowed down the lump of misery in her throat and squared her shoulders. She would persevere. She always had. Besides, what else could she do? She had no choice but to continue to save her money and wait for the day when she would be free to start a new life somewhere—alone. Meanwhile, she would protect her heart as best she could.

  The carriage stopped. It wasn’t until he’d handed her down from it that she realized they were in front of his house, not hers. “I remembered what I wanted to tell you earlier,” he said by way of explanation, and led her inside.

  They found his secretary writing letters in the library. “Good lord, John, are you still here? Don’t you ever go home?”

  Walker smiled, abashed. “I was finishing some work, sir. I can leave now, if you—”

  “No, finish whatever you’re doing. We’ll go in the drawing room. And John—we don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir,” called Walker to their retreating backs.

  Cass let him pull her back down the hall toward the drawing room, wondering what he could have to say to her. He seemed so energetic all of a sudden, so intense, that she couldn’t comprehend his new mood.

  The crystal wall lamps on either side of the door were burning. He lit a taper from one and carried it around to every candle, until the handsome, high-ceilinged room glowed as if for a festive party. Then he took off his coat, threw it on the sofa, and went to stand before the long front windows, unbuttoning his waistcoat. She expected him to draw the curtains over the huge black squares, but he didn’t. He turned around and faced her. “Come here, Cass. I want you to kiss me.”

  Her eyes widened to saucers and she stared speechlessly. After a moment, her arm made a vague, hesitating gesture to the windows.

  “Yes, I know—we can be seen from the street. That’s the point. Wade has spies, and I don’t want them to think we only touch each other when we’re out in the world.”

  She gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re joking.”

  “Not in the least. Come, love, it’s all for the plot. Purely professional and all that. Don’t leave me standing here like an idiot.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she told him, even as her legs began to propel her toward him. She stopped when she was still four feet shy of him, and he made a lunge for her hand, pulling her the rest of the way.

  “Would I lie?” he asked softly, resting his hands on her waist.

  “Most certainly.” She was already stirred by the frank wanting in his dark-blue gaze. Alarms sounded in the back of her head, but she refused to heed them. It was only a kiss; so much hurt was in store for her—couldn’t she take a moment’s pleasure? His face filled her vision before her eyes closed and their lips met in the lightest of touches. She tried not to move, to savor the subtle sweetness of their mingled breath and the soft, intoxicating texture of his lips, but already she wanted more. Her arms came up and she ran her hands through his hair, as she’d wanted to do for so long. “I love your hair,” she almost said, but she was too shy.

  He began kissing her face, her eyelids, murmuring in her ear. He slid his wet tongue along her jaw and delicately bit her chin, then moved down to nuzzle her throat. “I’ve been waiting for this all night.” She wanted to tell him she’d been waiting too, that she was falling in love, that she wanted him so much she was bursting. But she only whispered his name. He found her mouth and kissed her deeply. She was shaking. Holding her head, he entered her, tasting the sweetness, wanting more, more. “God, Cass, I’m weary of pretending I don’t want you!”

  She felt lit up inside. “Touch me, Philip.” Was she saying it or only thinking it? No matter—his hand went to her breast and she gasped in gratitude. They remembered the windows at the same moment and stepped backwards in tandem, like lovers dancing.

  “I lied about Wade’s spies.”

  “I know. I don’t care.”

  Watching her face, he caressed her with both hands, feeling her breasts spring to life under his palms. She stumbled backwards until her shoulders were against the wall. “We mustn’t do this,” she whispered in a weak, temporary burst of sanity. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can’t help it. Neither can you.” He began to unbutton the back of her gown, kissing her all the while and murmuring lovely, absurd endearments.

  “Oh, don’t—” But she knew she didn’t mean it, knew if he stopped now she couldn’t stand it.

  He tugged the top of her dress down, exposing the lacy shift underneath. No corset—thank God for Marie Antoinette, he prayed irreverently, before bending his head and putting his lips on her. He kissed her through the silky material until he felt her knees giving way. Then he gripped her around the middle and took her mouth in a frenzy of wanting.

  “Quinn wants you to be Wade’s mistress, Cass, but I won’t allow it! Come and live with me. I’ll take care of you.” Her eyes were closed, her lips parted; she moved her head from side to side. “Does that mean yes?”

  “Yes. No.” She pushed back, trying to think, suddenly embarrassed because the front of her shift was wet.

  “Yes!” he insisted. “Move in with me, Cass. Your aunt treats you like some poor relation. We’ll—”

  “I am a poor relation,” she said on a quavery laugh, trying to hold his hands still.

  “You know you want to.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. It’s wrong.” Finally she caught his hands and made him stop touching her. Her voice came out high and light. “If you want me, Riordan, you’ll have to marry me!”

  A spontaneous laugh burst from his throat before he could control it. Cass wrenched free and would have escaped if she hadn’t stopped to cover herself. He grabbed her back and pressed her hard against the wall, holding her face in his hands. Knowing an apology would be useless, he kissed her instead, sinking his fingers into the silky web of her hair, inhaling her fragrance.

  “God, you’re so lovely,” he murmured, touching her everywhere, making her kiss him back. He slipped her shift over one shoulder and softly stroked her bare breast until he could feel the tender flesh around her taut peak crinkle under his fingertips. She was trembling from the effort not to give in, and he was seized by a nearly violent need to make her surrender. When her mouth opened to him he kissed her ruthlessly, using his hands to mold her thighs, her buttocks, pr
essing himself against her.

  A soft knock sounded at the door.

  Incredulous, shielding her with his body, Riordan turned his head to see the door opening slowly. Before he could roar out his fury Walker spoke in a voice quivering with embarrassment. “I’m most terribly sorry, sir—an urgent message just now—”

  “Get out!” His rage made Cass jump and Walker blanch.

  “Very good, sir. It’s from Lady Claudia. I’ll leave it here.” He set an envelope on the table and pulled the door closed in haste.

  Cass crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to stop shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut when he rested his forehead against hers, knowing exactly what was coming.

  “I have to see what it says.”

  She pushed him away; trembling uncontrollably, she met his eyes. “Do you?”

  He knew from her voice what it cost her to speak the words. He tried to bring her close, but she held herself back, curving her neck away from him. “Cass,” he said, “I have to.”

  When he let her go, she turned around to face the wall. After a moment she heard him cross the room to the table, heard the ripping open of the envelope. A pause while he read. The sound of paper crumpling and then of him coming back to her. The touch of his hands on her bare shoulders.

  “I have to go. I’m so sorry. It’s her father—she says he’s dying.”

  She started to pull her dress up. He helped her. “Wait for me, Cass,” he whispered, buttoning the buttons. “Will you wait for me?”

  She despised his comfort, the kindness of his hands on her skin. He was leaving, going to Claudia. Other than shame, she felt nothing but a black, bottomless despair. She turned around, dry-eyed. “No,” she said, on a note of finality that chilled them both. “I won’t wait.”

  Riordan smiled down at the stick-thin figure lying so still under the satin coverlet. “How are you feeling, sir?”

  Lord Winston Harvellyn blinked in the dim candlelight and tried to smile. “Had no business bothering you this late, Philip. Women get wrought up. Nothing wrong with me a sound night’s sleep won’t put right.”