He gestured to her. “Come in, dear. I have many books on the subject.” His eyes brightened as he swung his legs to the floor. “Horticulture is my passion. Did you know that?”
Of course she knew. Everyone in England knew of his famous Italian Gardens, though they were hardly worth looking at now. He had dug them all up when the rains first began.
“I had no idea we had so much in common, Your Grace. It appears we are kindred spirits.” She smiled and entered the library, closing the door behind her. “Would you be so kind as to select a book that might be of interest to me?”
Not that she had any intention of reading it.
“I would be delighted.”
He rose from the sofa, and she made a point not to look down at his ugly bare feet, for fear she might vomit at the sight of them.
“I hope you are not too distressed by what happened last night,” she said, following him to the bookshelves. “I, myself, have been dreadfully upset by it. I barely slept at all.”
He did not seem to be listening, however. He was distracted by his search for just the right book. “No, no, that’s not the one,” he said under his breath.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes, dear.”
Did he not even know what occurred? she wondered irritably. Did he not know his son was keeping his mistress inside the house at this very moment, and that the woman’s presence here was enough to make Letitia want to shoot someone?
“Surely you know about the storm,” she said.
“The storm?”
“Yes. Last night there was rain and wind and thunder and lightning. I was in terrible pain.” She cupped a hand over her birthmark.
His cheeks flushed with color as he faced her. “Pain, you say?” He looked down at her hand.
“Yes, but thankfully when Vincent’s mistress was struck down, the pain went away.”
Anxiety flashed in his eyes. “Vincent’s mistress?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She has been staying in the dower house, despite my protestations. I thought you knew. I believe she is the reason the rain started again, because I have been having some doubts about my decision to marry your son. That mistress he is keeping—she is most appalling. I do not like her.”
Panic contorted the duke’s features. “You are not changing your mind, are you? You cannot. You are wearing the Pembroke Sapphire.”
“I want very much to do my duty,” she told him, “but at times I fear it is impossible when that woman is threatening my position here.”
Fear and confusion rattled his expressions. He appeared to be searching his mind for understanding or perhaps a solution, then his bushy eyebrows lifted. “Is it the woman with the bloody head?”
“Yes.”
“She is Vincent’s mistress?”
“Yes, and I am devastated, Your Grace. My heart is breaking.” She raised a handkerchief to her nose and sniffled.
“Oh my dear, do not distress yourself.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Tell me what is wrong.”
What is wrong? She had a mind to shake his brains loose. “I just told you, Your Grace. It is that woman with the bloody head—Vincent’s mistress. Everything was going so well until she arrived. The sun was shining, everyone was happy. But now she is fanning the flames of the curse.”
He frowned. “There was thunder last night, and a bolt of lightning…”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, pleased that he was grasping her point at last. “The curse tried to strike her down.”
The duke squared his shoulders and made for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I am going to tell my son to get rid of her.”
She stepped forward anxiously. “No! Wait!”
He stopped.
“Your son is blinded by lust,” she explained, remembering with rancor how he had rejected her the previous morning in his study. “He will not see sense and has not listened to my pleas. I have a much better idea.”
He slowly approached.
“Will you sit down, Your Grace?” She took him by the arm and led him to the sofa. “I think that together we can ensure this woman does not continue to stir the wrath of the curse, for I have a plan. Would you like to hear it?”
He followed her unsteadily and sank onto a soft cushion. “Indeed I would.”
Chapter 20
There was a time, I believe, that my head was buried in the sand when it came to Vincent’s fiancée. I could not bear to think of her when I was falling in love with him. But now I am glad I had the chance to meet her in person.
—from the journal of Cassandra Montrose,
Lady Colchester,
July 9, 1874
Cassandra woke to the sound of her door creaking open and a throbbing pain in the back of her head. Feeling groggy, she opened her eyes and blinked a few times. Perhaps the maid was returning with another bowl of quail soup. When she managed to turn her head on the pillow, however, she found herself looking up at a tall, dark-haired woman with a flawless, ivory complexion. A cold knot formed in her stomach.
“Good morning,” the woman said, lifting a dark eyebrow.
Cassandra looked carefully into her eyes while she fought to suppress a sickening wave of dread, for she had once walked many painful miles in this woman’s shoes. She understood the frustration and humiliation she must surely be feeling as Vincent’s future wife. She knew the jealousy, the fear, the heartache, and the sense of being completely alone when one’s husband was in the arms of his mistress…
“Good morning,” she replied.
Seconds ticked by like minutes, sluggish and excruciating, while she sat up and inched back against the pillows.
“I assume you know who I am,” the woman said.
“Yes,” she said with regret.
A muscle twitched at Letitia’s jaw. “Just so I am certain that we are clear—I am Lady Letitia Markham, the future Lady Vincent.”
Cassandra swallowed uneasily. “I presume you know who I am as well.”
“Of course I know who you are. I also know what you are.”
A black chill rippled down her spine. “I am sorry I was brought here. I did not want that to happen.”
She could think of nothing else to say.
“I am not surprised that you did not want it. Women like you prefer to hide away in the shadows, beneath the cover of darkness, so as not to shine too bright a light on your depravity. Isn’t that right?”
Cassandra clenched her hands together as she watched Vincent’s fiancée slowly circle the foot of the bed.
“Do you think that if your sins are hidden from the world,” she said, “they do not exist? That they hurt no one?”
“I never meant to hurt anyone. That was not my intention.”
Letitia scoffed. “Pardon my mistake. You have a conscience, do you?”
“I only wanted to be with my daughter,” Cassandra explained. “I wanted to provide her with a home. That is why I moved into the dower house. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement until—”
“I think you wanted more than that, Lady Colchester. You wanted my fiancé’s body. Admit it.” Her expression flashed with malice. “You wanted your lover close by, so you could have him in your bed whenever you wished, to satisfy your disgusting carnal urges and wicked vices.”
Cassandra closed her eyes. This was horrendous, all of it.
Letitia raised a handkerchief to her nose. Her voice began to quiver. “I am brokenhearted. I beg you to understand that. I love him and I want to make him happy, but how can I do that when you offer your body to him night after night? I can certainly do no such thing, because I am not yet his wife and I must have a care for my virtue.”
The overwrought sound of her voice made Cassandra look up.
“I do not blame you completely,” Letitia continued. “I understand that Vincent is a very attractive man, and he knows how to seduce women into his bed. Perhaps that is what made you weak. But I had hoped that when I became
his wife, he might improve upon himself and give up those wicked ways.” She sniffed. “I love him so, Lady Colchester. I will die if I lose him. All I want is a chance to make him happy. I beseech you to understand that.”
Cassandra sat very still, looking intently at Letitia and recalling all the times Vincent had claimed his fiancée did not love him or care if he had mistresses. Yet here she was, claiming otherwise.
She began to feel nauseous again, and glanced anxiously at the washbasin across the room.
“Well?” Letitia said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Cassandra could only shrug her shoulders, for her stomach was whirling and churning. She was afraid she would be sick right here in front of Vincent’s angry fiancée.
“So you have nothing to say?” Letitia moved with impatience to the bedside. “All I want is a chance to win his affections,” she went on. “I want our marriage to be a success. Surely you can understand that. Surely you would not wish to stand in the way of it.”
It was all Cassandra had ever wanted for herself at one time—to be a good wife and to have a happy marriage, but that had not been possible because her husband had been in love with another woman. He had loved that woman even on the day they were married, though she had not known it at the time.
If only she had known. She wished she had. She would have done so many things differently. She would never have married him. She would have set him free.
She looked up at Letitia.
“I want you to give him up,” Letitia said. “Leave him and do not ever see him again.”
“But we have a daughter together,” Cassandra replied, “and he cares for her. I promised I would never keep her from him. We have a legal, binding contract between us.”
“Let me worry about that. All you need to do is leave. I don’t know what Vincent is paying you, but the duke wants to be rid of you, so he and I have made arrangements for you to have enough money to start a new life elsewhere.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a thick wad of bank notes. “There is twenty thousand pounds here, and if it is not enough, I can get more from the duke. All you have to do is take it.” She held it out, directly under Cassandra’s nose. “A coach will be waiting out front to take you and your daughter wherever you wish. It is the right thing to do. You know it is.”
Cassandra stared at the shocking amount of money. It was indeed more than enough to set herself up comfortably with June. She would not have to rely on anyone. It would put an end to her wicked life as a rogue’s mistress. Letitia would be happy. Vincent’s brothers would not have to fear the loss of their inheritances.
But what of Vincent?
She felt a wave of sorrow, and lifted her gaze. “Do you know her name?”
“Whose name?” Letitia asked irritably.
“Your fiancé’s daughter.”
Letitia’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Of course I do not. Why would I want to know that?”
For a long moment Cassandra stared at Letitia, then down at the money she still held out in front of her face. “She looks like him. She has his coloring.”
“How lovely.” Eyes blazing with determination, Letitia lifted the money again. “Just take this and I will arrange for your servants to go with you. Think of it as a chance to salvage whatever morals and principles you once had when you were a lady. Surely you want your respectability back. You can’t possibly want to go through life being a married man’s whore.”
There it was again—that word that had cut into her heart so deeply a year ago, that shamed her and ravaged what remained of her self-respect. She had sunk to the darkest depths of despair after that. She’d lost everything and given birth to her baby alone in a cold, dirty boardinghouse, without a single shilling to feed herself or her child. It had taken all of her courage and determination to pull herself back up and better her circumstances by finding work in a hat shop.
Swallowing hard, she reached up and wrapped both her hands around Letitia’s. She felt the thick wad of money, warm and solid between her hands. It was enough to last her a lifetime. She could start over. She could go anywhere in England with a nest egg like that…
Slowly but firmly, however, she pushed it away, hard up against Letitia’s chest, and spoke very clearly, to make sure Letitia understood every word.
“Why don’t you take this very generous offering, Lady Letitia, and that big, fat shiny ring on your finger, and get out of my sight before I chase you out of here.”
Letitia took a step back in shock. A few of the bank notes floated to the floor. “I beg your pardon?”
Cassandra sat forward and spoke viciously. “Just so I am certain that we are clear, Lady Letitia. I love the man you call your fiancé, and I would rather be his whore than a respectable lady like you, who would keep the man she claims she loves from the daughter who means everything to him.”
The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment while they glared at each other.
Letitia crouched down to scoop up the money she’d dropped, then rose to her feet, clutching it to her bosom. “It appears you have chosen your future—a most degenerate one.”
“Indeed I have.”
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.” She turned and walked to the door, but was inclined to spit out one final remark. “The duke will not be pleased.”
Cassandra leaned back upon the pillows as the door slammed shut. For a long moment she sat there in silence, staring at the door, blinking in disbelief.
Had she really just done that?
She turned her head toward the washbasin again and noted with a rather perverse swell of pleasure that her nausea had completely passed.
Feeling almost bewildered by the sudden clarity in her heart and mind, she leaned across the bed and picked up her diary on the bedside table. Opening it to the last page, she ripped out a blank sheet of paper and quickly began to write in frantic, messy penmanship.
My dearest Vincent,
I am afraid I must leave the palace. But I now know what I want from the future. I know what is right…
Vincent jolted awake with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. His heart was pummeling the inside of his chest. He had been dreaming.
Breathing heavily, drenched in perspiration, he looked around the room. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows. How long had he been asleep? Half an hour? An hour?
Wearily, he swung his legs to the floor and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, still burning from lack of sleep. He’d dreamt of that dreadful day with MaryAnn when he rode into the woods in search of her and found her face-down in the mud, dead. In the dream, however, when he turned her over, it was not MaryAnn’s face he saw, but Cassandra’s—pale and ghostly, devoid of life.
He took a moment to calm his breathing and wait for his heartbeat to slow to a more natural pace. He spent that time reflecting upon the precarious state of his life.
For years now he had been avoiding any kind of deep, emotional involvement with women. He had cared deeply for MaryAnn, and that day in the woods nearly destroyed him. It certainly destroyed his bond with his brother, for Devon had been the sole reason MaryAnn was in the woods then.
It was Devon who made the decision to put her on the horse and take the shorter route home over the hill, which was a river of mud. He was the one holding the reins when the horse slipped and stumbled.
Vincent looked over at the small cedar box on top of his dressing table. The love letter MaryAnn had written to Devon was in it, secure under lock and key.
He stared at the box. Something about the dream was pushing him to get up and retrieve the key from its hiding place in the floor…
A moment later he was lifting the lid and withdrawing the letter, which was addressed to Devon in MaryAnn’s passionate, scrolling hand. He slowly unfolded the heavy paper and with shaky hands began to read her tear-stained words.
My Dearest Devon,
Please forgive me for what I must make known. If I could co
nceal it, bury it, I would, but alas, I am helpless, suffering from the pain that lives inside my heart.
Each day when I see you, I must act as your sister, even though I come alive with every look you bestow upon me. Each day I grow weaker against the force of my yearnings, and every morning I awake in agony.
My God, how I fear the disdain that will rage at me when you have read this letter. When I first met you, I was but a girl. How was I to know the passion I would be forced to smother when I became a woman? How was I to know I would fight such a battle with my conscience, after accepting the hand of your brother?
I cannot fight my love for you any longer. I cannot marry Vincent. I must have you, and only you.
Vincent lowered the letter to his side. He remembered dropping to his knees in the mud when he found her, and how violently he had wept by her body. That was when he discovered the letter in her pocket. Later, he’d confronted Devon…
You were alone with her. Did you touch her?
Yes.
Did you kiss her? Hold her in your arms? Make love to her?
Yes.
Devon had not denied it. He had lain in his bed, bruised and broken from the accident that cut MaryAnn’s precious life short, and openly confessed his betrayal.
That had been the end of their friendship. Devon left for America the following day.
A memory flashed in Vincent’s mind—the image of Cassandra lying unconscious under that burning branch. He felt an instinctive urge to run, to flee from the possibility of such heartbreak again if he were to lose her for any reason—whether it was death or anything else. He knew exactly how it felt. He remembered it all too well. It would be unbearable.
For a brief instant he wondered what he would be doing right now if she had not reentered his life. Would he be content in his engagement and ready to accept his fate with Letitia? Would there be no doubts, no pain, no longings?
He glanced down at the letter again. Perhaps he would have been satisfied with a loveless marriage to Letitia. He simply would have continued with his empty life, and continued to nurture the dark hatred he felt toward his brother.
The Mistress Diaries Page 21
