Cassandra’s gown was no more formal than Daphne’s vivid blue lustring, but the men walked in, saving her from having to reply.
Edward took the place beside Daphne on the loveseat. “So you think we’re more casual in the country?”
Seeing them together sent an unexpected dart of jealousy through Cassandra, but hadn’t he warned her he’d have to give more attention to Daphne? She might as well flirt with Sir Ralph. “Country or not, Sir Ralph is looking fit as a flea,” she said as he pulled up a wing chair beside hers.
Gama gave her a sharp look, then relaxed into a smile. “The country air has done me a world of good, I declare. I breathe so much easier already.”
One after another, they remarked on the virtues of the country, except Sir Ralph. “Your beauty quite takes my breath away.” He dropped his voice so low only Cassandra could hear him.
Her laughter held a tease. “Then you must get out in the fresh air more often. Perhaps it will benefit you as much as Lady Hayes.”
The conversation moved to horse racing, a subject Sir Ralph joined in, much to Cassandra’s relief. She was about to excuse herself when Sarah slipped into the room. The girl held an obvious painting with the back showing.
“Sarah, why are you not abed at this hour.” Lady Pugh’s voice indicated the hour was late, yet it was only nine of the clock.
“I was too excited to sleep, Aunt Chloe. Simpkins had my primroses framed, and I wanted to show Lady Wayte.” Sarah turned the painting around.
Cassandra smiled. “It’s beautiful, dear. I couldn’t have done nearly as well at your age.”
Edward got up to take the painting, studying it with a critical eye. “You’ve done well, Sarah. I’m proud of you.” He held it up for all to admire.
“Do you think it’s good enough to hang in our gallery?” Sarah asked.
“What a splendid idea.” Daphne turned to Cassandra. “Could we prevail upon you, Lady Wayte, to inspect the gallery and select the best place for Sarah’s painting?”
Edward lowered the painting. “It can wait until morning.”
“Yes, it’s a charming notion, but Sarah should go to bed now.” Lady Pugh hitched one shoulder and sent a no-nonsense glance to Sarah.
Daphne threw her hands out in appeal. “Of course Sarah must go to bed, but find a place for her dear painting, Lady Wayte. Do, so she may see it on the wall in the morning.”
“I hardly think it would take much time to select a place, Daphne,” Edward said drily. “There’s plenty of space. Cassandra can have it hung after breakfast.”
“Why wait? Sir Ralph knows where the gallery is. He would be pleased to escort you, Lady Wayte.”
Sir Ralph shot to his feet. “Indeed, it would be my pleasure.”
Edward’s scowl told Cassandra what he thought of that idea, but she was tired of Daphne’s argument. She stood. “Very well, I shall avail myself of your services, Sir Ralph, and bid you all a good-night as I must retire after we’ve hung the painting.”
She curtsied to the group, declined Sir Ralph’s arm, and followed him the short distance to the art gallery. Simpkins sat in full view at his post, so she wasn’t concerned about being alone with Sir Ralph.
The art gallery was only a wide hallway leading to the music room, but the variety of painting astonished Cassandra. She recognized fine prints by the old masters and some originals. Interspersed among these were paintings by artists unknown to her.
All were quite interesting. After a few moments of study, she made her decision. “Remove this one, Sir Ralph, and replace it with Sarah’s primroses.” The painting of hounds at play could find another place.
While Sir Ralph switched the paintings, she ambled to a collection of statuary standing in a bay window. Most of the statues depicted Greek gods and goddesses. She stopped in front of a statue of Adonis and amused herself with the idea of painting the duke wearing only a loin cloth to cover his muscular frame.
That notion had the heat rushing to her face, and she fanned herself with her hand, quite forgetting Sir Ralph hovered behind. “I believe the sculptor does his best work when he tries to stretch beyond the human,” he said, giving her a start.
“I wonder if the duke’s father had these commissioned.” She knew they couldn’t be originals.
She turned and found Sir Ralph’s thin lips stretched into a smile. “He was a connoisseur, I believe—as I am.” He waved a hand. “Come, see if you recognize this statue.”
The statue stood in the recesses of the window and because it was night, hid in the shadows. Cassandra stared at the unhappy goddess with arms open in mute appeal, pain evident in her eyes. The sculptor wasn’t skilled, but he didn’t have to be to evoke deep emotions, and for Cassandra, this was doubly true because the goddess bore her name.
“You know who it is?” Sir Ralph asked, then went on to answer himself. “It’s Cassandra. She was revered for her prophecy until she made the mistake of falling in love.”
“Love is never a mistake.” Edward spoke as he moved toward them. “Lady Ashford is ready to depart, Sir Ralph. Has Sarah’s painting been hung?”
The room seemed to lighten with Edward’s presence, and Cassandra smiled. “It has.” She moved to where Sarah’s primroses now hung in a place of honor.
“Then I shall bid you adieu.” Sir Ralph bowed and took his leave.
Edward stood back with his finger on his chin, studying the painting.
“She’s very talented,” Cassandra said.
He turned to give her that disarming smile. “Indeed she is, as you are. I still want to purchase your painting of the young children.”
“Why would you want my painting when you have all these?” She waved her arm wide to take in the whole room.
“We both know your painting is exceptional, but I can understand if you don’t wish to part with it.”
“I won’t sell it to you, but I shall give it to you if you really want it.” If he kept looking at her in that way, she’d be inclined to give him anything else he asked. To change the subject, the added, “These portraits of your parents must have been painted later than those in the library. If I may, these are the ones I’ll use as a model to paint the portrait for Sarah.”
“Of course. They sat for these less than two years before…before the accident.”
“You resemble your father. Were you close to him?”
“Not as close as I was to my mother. My father was away a great deal of the time. When he was home, he spent most of his time with my brother. That was to be expected. Kelvin was the heir.”
She sensed there was some hurt behind the words. “Yet he would have been proud of you.”
“I like to think so, and I didn’t envy Kelvin. I knew my father loved me as much as my brother or sister. Of a truth, what I remember most about my parents is their great love for each other. Unlike most of the nobility, theirs was a love match.”
And he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less for himself. She couldn’t think of anything safe to say, and an uncomfortable silence fell around them.
“What did you and Sir Ralph find so intriguing in the statuary nook?” he finally asked.
She followed him to the bay window. Could he be jealous? “He was admiring the statue of Cassandra. I think he was warning me I might suffer her fate.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Yes, I remember the story. Apollo rejected Cassandra, then she was cursed so none would ever believe her again.”
“Perhaps Sir Ralph was right.”
“Sir Ralph was trying to impress you with his knowledge of art. These statues represent mythology. That’s all it is, Cassandra—myth.”
She looked away. “There are other reasons not to fall in love.” Like protecting the loved one from danger.
“No reason is good enough to prevent love. Turn around, Cassandra, and face me, please.”
Some force beyond her control made her turn and look into his smoldering green eyes, made darker by the dusky alcove.
“You are worthy of love, Cassandra.”
How could he know? He’d touched on her deepest fear—that she’d been so damaged no one could love her. She was condemned to her fate, like flotsam tossed by the waves, never able to reach shore. Like the mythical Cassandra.
She didn’t want this moment to end. His eyes held hers in a trance as an unseen power pulled them together like the opposite poles of a magnet. He touched her lips, ever so softly, and she abandoned all propriety by drawing her arms around his waist, pressing closer, hoping to draw in his strength.
He deepened the kiss and warm quivers ebbed through her, lodging in her breast.
A loud sound of something crashing to the floor pulled them apart. “What was that?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” Edward cupped her elbow and led her out, but the empty foyer lay in silence.
Even Simpkins had abandoned his post.
***
Quietness filled the house as Edward breakfasted from the sideboard the next morning. Cassandra was in the gallery, working on her sketches. Only the greatest willpower kept him from joining her, hoping for a repeat of last night.
Would she welcome his interruption? Probably not, since she wanted to finish the portrait of his parents in time for Sarah’s birthday party next week. So little time. Cassandra intended to leave the day following the party.
He traced his steps to the study, stopping at the window. A faint sun tried to break through the clouds. He hoped rain wouldn’t spoil the horse races this afternoon. Making his way to his massive cherry wood desk, he decided to look over the estate accounts.
His steward was reliable, but Edward’s father believed the estate owner could manage his properties better than any employee. Edward was inclined to agree. He opened a large drawer where the estate accounting records were kept and spread them over his desk.
Numbers ran together. Cassandra’s lovely smile surfaced again, along with his desire to taste those lips. He might not remember Byron’s poems, but he knew how the poet felt. Memory burned into him of her softness melding into him, the scent of lilac in her hair.
The trust he saw in those limpid blue eyes that told him she wanted him as a man and not a duke.
A knock at the door pulled him from that delightful reverie, and Simpkins stepped inside. “Lord George Wayte to see you, your grace.”
Edward planned to pay George a visit. He’d saved him the trouble. “Show him in.”
George Wayte was one of those men who disappeared in a crowd. Average statue, average manners, medium brown hair, brown clothing. He possessed none of the imposing features of the elder Lord Wayte.
Edward got up to find a chair for his guest. “Please be seated and tell me what has you out this morning.”
George carried a short brimmed hat in his hands that he kept worrying absent-mindedly after he settled into the chair. “I hoped we could finalize the sale of my property.”
Edward went back into the drawer and pulled out another paper. “If you’re willing to one minor addition.”
“I’m sure that would be agreeable. What would you want added?”
“You have a Lipizzaner mare I’m interested in buying.”
“The Lipizzaner isn’t for sale, your grace. That’s my wife’s horse.” George offered Edward a wry smile.
“You can get your wife another horse. I have a fancy for the Lipizzaner, and that’s a condition for the transaction.”
George was in a fair way of twisting his hat out of shape. “You have a fancy for the Lipizzaner? You have a fancy for Cassandra Wayte, I’ll wager.”
“Have a care, George. I won’t have the lady brought into this.” Men had fought duels over lesser insults.
“Past grievances give me the right to voice my opinion. You’re as besot over that lady as my father was, I’ll be bound.”
“My relationship with the lady concerns you not at all. Do you wish to sell your property or not? I’m willing to pay twice as much as the horse is worth.” George had no options and no other buyers.
With a twist of the lips, George stared at his lap. “You know I have no choice, though I have no idea how to tell Millicent, and after I persuaded her to invite all of you to dinner tonight, including Cassandra.” He shifted in his chair. “No small capitulation, that. Millicent detests Cassandra.”
Edward expected an invitation but not so soon. Daphne must have twisted Millicent’s arm to arrange the dinner party, and George was right. Millicent might have second thoughts if she knew she would lose her horse. “I suggest you wait until after tonight to tell your wife.”
After dipping his quill, Edward signed the document and turned it over to George who snorted but did likewise.
“Before you leave, might we discuss some of these grievances you hold against Cassandra.”
George’s jaw tightened. “If you must know, I still hold her responsible for my father’s death.”
“You have no proof of that.”
“She stood to gain a fortune. Besides, Daphne was with Cassandra the night of my father’s death. She thought Cassandra’s behavior peculiar.”
“Cassandra already had Lord Wayte’s fortune.” Edward tried to access how far to probe. The situation was like digging into the flesh to remove an abscess. If he angered George too much, he might withdraw his invitation to dinner, at the least. But he wanted to know George’s thinking more.
Why did he persist in accusing Cassandra for his own failures? “Did you know that your father had established a trust for his wife?”
“I did not.” George’s words echoed off the walls. “Had I known, I’d have done something to have made him see sense.”
“Yet you did know what Lord Wayte intended.”
George’s eyes bulged, and his face reddened. Edward feared he might have an apoplexy. “Are you suggesting I had reason to kill my father?” George spewed the question with enough force to leave drops of spittle on the desktop.
“If Cassandra had a reason, you did as well, but I certainly don’t think you’d commit such a dastardly act any more than I think Cassandra would.”
George sagged in his chair. “What would you think if your father had left you with an estate and no money to support it? If your father had set up some actress and given her that which rightfully belonged to you, would you be so charitable to that actress?”
The idea that Edward’s father would even look at another woman was prosperous. “Cassandra was never an actress.”
“She was nothing more than a common farm girl when my father took her in. You might consider that before offering her marriage.”
Edward swallowed the retort that rose in his throat. He had considered it. Arguing with George was futile. Edward probed his brain for some way to bring George into a better frame of mind.
A scripture sprang to mind. If anyone asks for your coat, give him your cloak also. He’d never understood those words until now.
“George, I can sympathize that you’re pockets are to let. I’m going to add an amendment to our contract.” He dipped his quill and began writing as he spoke. "If you can have all the documents ready to turn over to my steward for the sale of this land by Friday next, I’ll add a bonus of…” He wrote the amount and turned the vellum around for George to see.
George’s brows rose to his hairline. “Are you serious? That’s a…a prosperously generous amount.” He lowered his gaze and stared at the contract at length as if he didn’t believe it. “Why would you do this?”
“Simply put, Garcon told me the enormous amount it will take to put those farms to right on this property I’m buying, and I’m persuaded the farms left on Waytefield are in no better condition.”
“True enough.” George shook his head. “But why would you do this for me?”
Edward understood George’s skepticism. “For three reasons, really. First, I didn’t know your father well, but I admired him, and it’s possible he did what he did to force you into growing up because he loved you.
It’s also possible God knew I would be an instrument to give you another chance.”
George’s stunned expression softened, and Edward went on. “Second, you’re my neighbor. If your estate prospers, it will benefit all the estates in the area. But perhaps the greatest reason is I believe if I show you mercy, you will be inclined to extend mercy to others—including Cassandra Wayte.”
He handed George the quill. “Will you sign?”
“I’ll get my man of business to see Garcon within the next few days.” George scratched out his signature.
Edward stood and leaned over the desk to shake hands with George, who still looked as though he didn’t understand what had transpired but was happy enough to take his good fortune. “I can only say thank you for your kind generosity.” George put the lope-sided hat on his head as he traced his steps to the door.
“You’ll join us at four of the clock to put my horseflesh through their paces?” Edward called after him.
“I wouldn’t miss it. I want to see the ladies race, and I believe I’ve persuaded Millicent to join them.”
As soon as George cleared the room, Edward strode to the window to make sure the weather held fine. Not a cloud showed in the sky. He wished his brain was as clear.
Why had he just given George enough money to improve Waytefield’s farms and tenant houses? With no real assurance that George wouldn’t gamble away the whole blunt. Edward might be risking his own estate as much as George ever did in London’s gambling holes. But he believed the Spirit led him to act as he did.
He turned from the window as another idea snagged his mind. So Daphne was present at Waytefield the night of Lord Wayte’s death. He would question her about that, but in a way not likely to alarm her.
Several months ago, he’d promised her a tour of Langsdale. With two hours before the races, the time was right for him to make good on that promise.
Chapter 19
When Cassandra finished her sketches she couldn’t believe how much time had passed. No wonder her stomach rumbled. She hurriedly trekked to her chambers. Within a half hour she’d changed into her day gown and eaten a luncheon of meat pie and apple pastry.
The Duke's Dilemma (The Wolf Deceivers Series Book 2) Page 18
