She would make it up to him; she’d be the best wife any man ever had. She’d prove to him and all his friends that she was a decent woman, deserving of their respect. It would take time, perhaps, but she had limitless patience. And one day, if it killed her, Philip Riordan was going to fall in love with his wife.
He and Wally were shaking hands. Riordan looked grateful, she had time to think, before he turned and came toward her, ending her speculation on what that might signify.
They embraced as soon as the door closed.
“I missed you,” Cass said, throwing away caution. “You were gone so long.”
“I know. I thought they’d never leave.”
“The way you spoke to them was wonderful.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest softly. “What did you say to Wally?”
“I impressed upon him our urgent desire that he depart the neighborhood tomorrow morning. The earlier the better.” He left out the part of the conversation in which he’d sincerely thanked his friend for his energy and persistence. If Wally had been surprised by that, Cass would be thunderstruck, and Riordan wasn’t ready to share his new feelings with her just yet. In truth, he was terrified. That he’d married the traitor’s daughter with the deplorable reputation was a shock. That he was falling in love with her was incredible. He needed time to get used to the idea. And cowardly or not, he wanted to understand better what her feelings were before he handed her his heart on a plate.
He pulled away to look at her. She was biting her lip. “What is it?”
She shrugged one shoulder in that totally French way she had. “So, you’re anxious to be away. I only thought—”
“Not us, silly, them. I want them out of the way by tomorrow. Then I can have you all to myself.”
“Oh!” She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him exuberantly.
He hugged her hard, deepening the kiss. “Do you like me at all, Cass?” he asked lightly, as if everything didn’t depend on her answer. He kissed her eyes shut and ran his tongue along her lashes. “Do you think you can stand being married to me?” The question made her want to cry. Her heart filled to bursting; she almost answered with her terrible truth. “It’s not fair to ask such a question when you’re kissing me this way,” she parried breathlessly.
He smiled, moving back to her lips. “Why do you think I chose this moment to ask?”
“Answer a question for me,” she said a moment later. “How will you explain to your friends that your wife won you in a card game?” She kept her tone airy to match his, but every nerve was taut.
Riordan knew the question wasn’t idle. He didn’t give a damn what his friends thought of him, but he already had a shrewd idea of what they were likely to think of her. “I’ll tell them I never played a luckier hand,” he whispered, nipping her earlobe and then salving it with his tongue.
Cass shivered with delicious pleasure. He backed her to the bed, slowly but steadily, kissing her all the while. Her knees struck the mattress and he tumbled her back, following her. She turned her head when his mouth came down again. It was difficult to keep up the conversation, but she wanted to know more. “And your family? What will you tell them? I suspect the Earl and Countess of Raine will be a teeny bit disappointed in your choice.”
“Someday I’ll tell you all about my family, and then you’ll understand why their approval is a matter of monumental indifference to me.” With one smooth, downward gesture he undid the sash of her dressing gown and spread it open. His eyes glittered with purpose, and she was fast losing her train of thought. “Cass, you have such beautiful breasts.”
“And Quinn?” she gasped, clutching the coverlet, unwilling to let the subject drop but unable to concentrate on it. “Won’t he disown you or something?”
“Probably. Or cane me. Oh Christ, you taste good.” He moved to her other breast. His voice was a ragged murmur. “A little while ago I thought you’d had dozens of lovers, and I said I didn’t care.” He shifted so that he half-lay between her thighs, bent over her. “Forgive me, Cass, I’m such a fool. I’ve got no right to ask.”
Her fingers were in his hair, holding his head where she wanted it. Her toes curled and uncurled, a few inches from the floor, she couldn’t bear this much longer. “What?” she almost sobbed.
“How many men have touched you this way before me?” His tongue made excruciatingly slow circles around her nipple before his lips pulled gently, sending a sweet, aching arrow of wanting through her.
It might have been fun to tease him, but she was incapable of anything but the unadorned truth. “No one,” she panted. “Once Jacques Toussaint tried to—do this, through my gown, but his aunt came in and we—”
He stopped the rest with his mouth, laughing with relief, ashamed of himself but unspeakably happy. “Oh, sweet, sweet, Cass. How I adore you.”
Her heart missed a beat or two. She couldn’t help herself, she wrapped her bare legs around his hips. It felt so wanton and wonderful, soothing her calves back and forth over the silky material of his robe. His unmistakable reaction gave her a first taste of feminine power. Awed by her own boldness, she put a hand between them and untied his robe—not with his practiced skill, but with a shy enthusiasm of her own that charmed him utterly. Without thinking, she asked, “And how many women have done that to you? No!” She put her hand over his mouth. “I retract the question. Please don’t answer.”
He shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the floor. By now there was a sizeable heap of clothing beside the bed. “The question’s irrelevant,” he told her as his fingers stroked her hip, her strong thigh, urging her legs farther apart. “A better one is how many will do it in the future.” He slid both hands under her buttocks and lifted her. “The answer is one. Only one.”
She gasped, her chin pointing to the ceiling. “Philip!” He withdrew slowly, returned, withdrew again. He was huge, he filled her completely. This was perfect. She brought his mouth down and kissed him, moving to his rhythm. For a few moments she enjoyed the illusion of control, even a suggestion of authority. But as the patient, merciless assault went on and on, her self-command floated off and disappeared, a forgotten cloud, leaving nothing but pure sensation. Never had she been more aware of her body, less able to think.
That was how he wanted her. Again and again he took her to the brink and held her there, the ruthless expert, savoring his power to drive her beyond endurance. She was weeping, almost mad from the pleasure and the wanting, and he wanted to keep her there forever. Using his body and his mouth, his whispered words, he made her wild. “Do you like this, Cass?” he murmured against her throat, holding himself away, not moving. Her answer was unintelligible. His dark-blue gaze pierced her, wouldn’t let her look away. He teased her with a touch; she groaned in frenzied frustration, twisting. “Do you like it?” He wanted his answer. Another touch, light and tantalizing, meant to torment her.
But it was enough. Abruptly she burst free, with a low, rising moan that ended on a note of triumph, cheating him of the pleasure of releasing her. He felt the storm rage inside her until, like her, he was goaded past restraint. Shuddering, quaking, he started his own perilous fall. But he’d never dived from such a height before. “Cass!” he ground out, holding to her frantically. And with sweet, feminine graciousness, she cushioned his fall and saved him.
“How does it come about, wife, that you’re not what you’re reputed to be?”
Cass swung around from a dreamy contemplation of the black, star-filled sky and regarded her husband thoughtfully. She took a tiny sip of wine and replaced the glass on the rail behind her. “Perhaps that’s a question you should ask Mr. Quinn.”
“Oh, believe me, I shall.” He slid down a little farther in the chair and steepled his fingers, resting his chin on top. “I suppose this means you never jumped naked into the fountain in the Tuileries while scores of young men looked on, clapping and cheering?”
Her eyes twinkled. “That’s something you’ll never know.”
“Too bad. It was such a lovely fantasy.” He sobered. “Why didn’t you tell Oliver his conclusions about you were false?”
“I did, in the beginning. Not very forcefully, I suppose.”
“Why not?”
She thought back to her first meeting with Quinn. “I think because I was proud. And hurt. My father had just died and I…didn’t have much energy. My aunt had told me that my reputation in this country was in a shambles, and what Quinn said merely confirmed it.” She shrugged, smiling a little, telling him it wasn’t important.
Riordan remembered his last interview with Lady Sinclair. “But your aunt as good as told me your reputation was deserved. Doesn’t she know better?”
“She did, before. But she really thought you and I were lovers. And Colin and I, too.” It was the first time Wade’s name had been mentioned between them since they’d left Ladymere. They both ignored it. “Anything else she might have said was for spite.” She frowned. “When did you speak to her?”
“The day after you left.” He got up and came toward her. “I’m not angry anymore, Cass, but when I found out you’d left without telling me or leaving any word, I wanted to—”
“But I did! I left a message with my aunt to send to you. Colin was in such a rush, there wasn’t time for anything but a quick note. Aunt Beth said she’d send it to you by messenger.”
“She lied. I almost had to drag it out of her.” Literally, he recalled.
“I knew I should’ve left the note with Clara. Do you know, Philip, I truly think Aunt Beth hates me.”
He saw the bewildered look clouding her eyes and took her in his arms, gazing over her head at the dark, silent pasture. “I’m glad you wrote to me, Cass. I couldn’t stand the thought of you going off with him. Until I got to Ladymere, I didn’t even know it was a house party; I thought it was only you and Wade.”
She smiled, savoring the notion that for a little while he might have been jealous. Suddenly her smile faded and she pulled away. “Philip! Oh, my lord, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“But we were never alone, and you were so drunk, and then afterward we—we were doing something else, and I didn’t think of it. I feel like such an idiot—”
“What, Cass? What?”
“What Wade told me! Philip, he admitted everything!”
He took her by the arm and led her to the chair under the eaves. Putting her in it, he made her slow down and tell him all that Wade had said. Afterward he questioned her, patiently and thoroughly, until he knew the conversation by heart and there was nothing more to learn. Then he made her tell him everything that had happened over the weekend, moment by moment. He felt a prickly fear when she described nearly being caught searching Wade’s study.
“Should I have told you sooner? I know I should have, but what could you have done, really? Written Quinn a letter, I suppose, but—”
“It’s all right, love, don’t worry about it. It’s a fascinating piece of news, but there’s nothing to be done immediately. When we’re back in London will be soon enough to tell Oliver.” He sat on the arm of her chair, bracing one hand against the back. “So it’s to happen in November. Interesting. That coincides with the opening of Parliament. November fifth this year, I think.”
“Does the king do it? Open Parliament, I mean.”
“Yes, it’s a ceremony. Every year the Members of the Commons are summoned before the throne in the House of Lords to hear the king’s speech. The Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod knocks at the door to call us; to show our independence, it’s part of the ritual to pretend not to hear him knock the first time.”
They were silent, thinking.
“I don’t think you should see Wade again,” he said after a moment.
She looked up. “I don’t see how I can stop. It’s more important now than ever that I stay in contact with him. Now that he’s finally taken me into his confidence, he’ll tell me much, much more.” Riordan said nothing, but his resolute expression didn’t change. “You know, Philip, he’s really not interested in me as a lover,” she told him softly.
He laughed, incredulous. “My naive young wife, why would you think that?”
“Because we’re not compatible.”
“What does that mean?”
“We like different things.”
“How do you know? You were never lovers.”
“No. But—he likes—he wants to—”
She was embarrassed, and a sudden, sickening thought occurred to him. He lifted her hand, which had been resting on his knee, and held it. “Did Wade hurt you, Cass?”
She hesitated. “Yes. Once. It wasn’t really too bad.”
His fingers tightened reflexively. “Tell me.”
She told.
He stood and put his hands behind his head, staring blindly at the night sky. He swore foully. “I remember that night. I saw him. I thought you were—” He broke off, cursing himself now.
Cass rose and put a light hand on the small of his back. “I should’ve told you before, perhaps. But we were both so angry with each other, and then I didn’t think you’d care anyway. But it’s over now.”
He whirled around. “Did you really think I wouldn’t care?” he demanded fiercely. “Did you, Cass?”
“Yes!” she cried, stung by his anger. “You were vile to me in those days, in case you don’t remember! And I’d done nothing except what you wanted me to do, what Quinn was paying me for, and you treated me like some—prostitute!” Mortified, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She tried to turn away, but he held her shoulders and made her face him.
“Everything you say is true, I can’t deny it.”
“Then why were you so cold?” She had to swallow down the painful lump in her throat. “I couldn’t understand it, because you’d been so nice to me before, but as soon as Wade came—”
“Don’t you really know, Cass? I was jealous. I was sure you were Wade’s lover and it made me furious. I’m so sorry. I hated myself for hurting you. I couldn’t seem to stop.” It was the closest he’d come to admitting how much he cared for her, and it frightened him. He lifted her chin. “But you’ve already forgiven me for misjudging you, remember? Think how cruel it would be to take it back now.”
His forefinger traced the gentle outline of her lips, and she sent him a trembly smile. “I had forgiven; I just hadn’t forgotten. Now I’ve done both.”
He pulled her close. “Oh, sweet Cass, I don’t deserve you.”
“Perhaps you don’t—because now I remember what we were doing when I forgave you. I think you’re a smooth manipulator, Mr. Riordan.”
“Indeed I am. Watch how smoothly I manipulate you into the bedroom, Mrs. Riordan.”
“That’s no test,” she scoffed. She stood on tiptoe. He bent his head and she sank her teeth softly into his earlobe, a trick he’d taught her. “A real test is when you make me do something I’m not already longing to do.” And she took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
“I love this room.” Cass pulled the sheet up to cover herself and looked around. In truth, after more than fourteen hours inside it, she was just beginning to see the room. The open windows were covered in some gauzy homespun material that allowed light and privacy at the same time. The walls were white-washed, the roof thatched. Bright rugs covered the smooth wood floor. “Best of all I like this bed. It’s so out of place—a brocade canopy in the middle of all this rusticity.”
“Is that really what you like best about the bed?” Riordan asked in some consternation. He handed her her half-drunk glass of wine from the night table.
She took a judicious sip. “Maybe not entirely. The sheets are nice, too. And the colors in this coverlet—yeow!” Wine splashed on her fingers and stained the coverlet in question as Riordan made a grab for her under the sheet. She was ticklish under her arms, he’d recently discovered, particularly the right arm, and now it was one of his favorite points of attack. She was flat on her
back, laughing and shrieking, holding the glass high in the air. His head dipped abruptly and he lapped at the tiny puddle of wine in the hollow of her throat. Her laughter turned to a contented hum, and he felt the delicate vibrations through his tongue.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be drinking wine,” she murmured against his hair.
“I can if it touches your skin first. That purifies it.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Presently she asked, “Were you a—a serious drinker before, a—”
“A drunk? I suppose I was. At any rate, I certainly drank a great deal.”
“What would happen if you drank the rest of the wine in this glass right now?”
He thought. “I have no idea. Given that, I think it’s best that I don’t.”
“I’ve often wondered what happened that made you give it up,” she said diffidently, asking but not asking.
He was quiet for a long time. At the moment she decided he wasn’t going to answer, he rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head. “It’s not a very pretty story, Cass, but I’ll tell you if you like.”
She turned toward him, leaning on her elbow. “Only if you want to.”
He smiled faintly and stared at the ceiling. Only if he wanted to. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was explain to Cass what a colossal mess he’d made of the first twenty-seven years of his life. Where should he begin? Last year? Ten years ago? Twenty?
“I didn’t have what you would call a happy childhood. Not that that forgives or explains anything, but I thought you would want to have the whole sordid picture.”
She recognized the dry, half-amused tone of his voice but wasn’t fooled by it. “Tell me what it was like,” she said quietly.
“Our house was in Cornwall—still is, though I haven’t seen it in years. My father inherited a great deal of wealth, so much that, try as he might, he hasn’t spent it all even yet. I hardly ever saw him; when I did, he was usually drunk and abusive. My mother wasn’t much in evidence either, but when she was she always seemed to be with a man who wasn’t my father. I remember when I was six or seven, I was playing outside and I went into the little summer house we had on the grounds. She was there with a man, Lord somebody or other. I had no idea what they were doing, I just knew it was something I wasn’t supposed to see.”
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