Willa was as petite as Cassandra was tall and perfectly formed in every way. Her hair was raven black, and the two were dear friends—well, except when it came to their competition to earn the attention of the Duke of Camberly.
They’d even made a flirting game of it, attaching points for different actions of courtship—a point for an introduction, three points for each dance, five points if he called upon them. When a woman had been on the Marriage Mart as long as they had, she needed a bit of competition to sharpen her skills . . . not that either of them required the edge of a game when it came to Camberly.
He was young and amazingly handsome. He had broad shoulders, a lean jaw, and dark hair that emphasized the jewel blue of his eyes. What woman wouldn’t want to become his duchess?
Cassandra was actually ahead in the game by one point. She’d been wondering how many points being invited to this weekend would earn her when Willa had made her appearance in the reception room. They had not known the other was coming.
And now here was Camberly, ignoring his other guests and spending his time focusing on both of them.
Everyone knew he needed to marry money. She and Willa were the only two marriageable women invited to the dowager’s house party as far as Cassandra could see. Did this mean the duke intended to decide between the two of them? Perhaps even this very week?
The thought made her giddy. She wanted Camberly. He was “the one.” The very embodiment of all her romantic dreams. No other could match him. And she was not going to let Soren York ruin this country party and her one chance for marital happiness with his presence.
Willa proved what a good friend she was by momentarily turning her attention from hanging on to the duke’s every word to murmur, “I don’t see Dewsberry.”
“He’s here,” Cassandra insisted. She sat up straighter so that she could unobtrusively gain a better look around the room.
There had been someone lurking in the hall leading to the dining room. That was when she’d first experienced the suspicion that things weren’t completely right. However, she’d been so distracted with Willa’s presence and what it meant to her chances with the duke, she’d not been interested in concentrating on her inner sense.
Then again, the duke had come from that direction, making an appearance that had surprised everyone in the room by his lack of fanfare. Still . . . Soren was here.
The tingling of the hairs at the nape of her neck had never failed her, especially since she’d been exercising it more than she wished for the past month. Soren seemed to be everywhere she went in spite of her best efforts to avoid him because she knew what he wanted—marriage.
Dewsberry might be an old and respected title, but the earldom was done up, ruined by generations of poor decisions and unwise gambling. Soren was hunting her because of the money she would inherit upon marriage and because her father’s lands abutted his. He was that obvious. However, she thought herself safe here. Why would Camberly, who also needed a rich wife, invite a competitor?
Unless the duke thought to hand off whichever heiress he didn’t want to Dewsberry?
The walls in the room seemed to close in around her.
She would not marry Dewsberry. She couldn’t.
Her father would never allow it. The Yorks were his enemies. They looked down on the Holwells, and neither she nor her father would subject themselves to their high-handed treatment.
But also, Soren had betrayed her. She could recall perfectly the pain of what he’d done to her. It had been close to eleven years ago, and the hurt, the disappointment, was still surprisingly raw.
From the other side of the room, her father caught her eye. He was of average height, with bushy eyebrows and hair that had gone gray at a young age. Helen stood at his side as she always did. She had a short nose and a determined chin. Her hair had once been red but had faded to a dull brown. Her father had noticed Cassandra wasn’t paying attention to the duke. With a scowl and a jerk of his head, he silently commanded her to focus on her business. His goal was for her to marry a titled man. He wanted his descendants to be “the highest of the high,” such as a duke.
And he was right; she was not listening to Camberly.
She plastered a smile on her face and an expression of feigned interest. The duke was talking about friends. She pretended she understood the thread of the conversation. Apparently, he’d been at a horse race? Or riding in a park? She wasn’t certain.
Fortunately, the duke and Lady Bainhurst liked to hear themselves talk so there hadn’t been much call for her or Willa to offer a response. Besides, women in need of a husband were expected to listen more than “jabber,” something her stepmother was always upon her about.
You have too many opinions, Cassandra, she liked to say. We’ll never find a husband for you. Two daughters I’ve easily married off, but you? I don’t know. I just don’t know.
This Season, Cassandra was truly making an effort to be all that she should be. She’d had offers in the past, but her suitors had been penniless younger sons or worse, tradesmen. Her father had rejected them all—
The duke’s next words snapped her out of her worried woolgathering. “. . . Take my good friend Dewsberry. There are few men who are better riders. He has a gift for understanding horses.”
Willa, bless her heart, dared to ask what Cassandra feared. “Is Lord Dewsberry here?”
“Of course,” the duke answered. “Such a good man.”
“Yes, he is,” Lady Bainhurst chimed in brightly. “And quite handsome, don’t you agree, Miss Holwell?”
So. There it was. Her intuition was once again correct.
Cassandra looked at the duke’s classic male beauty and dropped her gaze to her lap before choking out, “I suppose.”
It was a lackluster response but then, look at what she was losing. It was now apparent to her that the duke was more interested in Willa. Why else would he be hobnobbing with them in a room full of far more important people?
As for herself? Camberly was playing matchmaker.
At that moment, the butler stepped into the room.
Expectantly, everyone looked in his direction. “Minerva, Duchess of Camberly,” he announced. “Escorted by the Earl of Dewsberry.”
Willa leaned back toward her. “You are uncanny.”
“I wish I hadn’t been right,” Cassandra answered under her breath as she and Willa rose politely with the others in deference to the duchess.
The butler stepped aside and Soren came forward with the aged dowager on his arm.
“Shouldn’t you be the one escorting your grandmother?” Lady Bainhurst said to the duke.
“I’d much rather be right here,” he answered.
Yes, here . . . with Willa, Cassandra thought.
Her friend must have sensed her bitter disappointment. Willa gave her hand a commiserating squeeze, a beat before shooting a dazzling smile up at the duke. And she did have to look up because she was so petite and he so tall; they would always appear the oddest of couples.
Yes, Cassandra was that jealous, and it was unflattering. Still, she couldn’t control it . . . because she and Camberly would have made a far more handsome couple. They were both tall. He’d spend his life bending down to kiss Willa.
Lady Bainhurst added insult to injury by sidling closer to Cassandra. “You know Dewsberry is in the market for a wife? The two of you are both Cornish, are you not?”
“We are.”
Cassandra could also add, I’d rather be staked to a seven-foot-high stone pillar and let birds peck my eyes blind than wed Soren York. But that would have sounded churlish.
She’d save those words for Soren.
He now escorted the dowager around the room so she could personally welcome her guests, but Cassandra knew they would end up here. She could admit that, as Lady Bainhurst had pointed out, Soren was not unattractive. Nor was Her Ladyship the first woman to say this about him.
It was true he lacked the duke’s flair, but Soren bore himself well. H
e’d been a military officer, which, considering how adventuresome he’d been as a lad, seemed a proper career for him.
He had blue-gray eyes that often saw more than they should, and yet revealed nothing about himself. His hair had been white blond in their youth. Time had toned it down to a light brown, and someplace throughout his adventures, someone had broken his nose. It was obvious when he was in profile.
Cassandra could also concede that his shoulders were as broad as Camberly’s . . . perhaps even broader—still, he was not the man for her. They had nothing in common save for both being from Cornwall, a place she hoped never to see again.
Her father was watching Soren, as well. Was he surprised a York escorted their hostess? These had been doors her father had knocked on and knocked on for years without admittance. His feelings were clear when, upon seeing the duchess and Soren close at hand, he moved so that he would not have to show respect to a York.
If the duchess noticed, she gave no sign. Instead, she tapped Soren’s arm to direct him toward the settee. “And here we have three lovely English roses,” she announced as she approached.
Cassandra, Willa, and Lady Bainhurst offered proper curtseys. Cassandra refused to make eye contact with Soren. It was the one thing she could do without being impolite, and she knew he would know he was being ignored. He was no fool.
However, Willa and Lady Bainhurst were under no such strictures. “How wonderful that you are here with us this weekend, Lord Dewsberry,” Lady Bainhurst said, offering her gloved hand.
Soren gallantly bent over it. “It is my pleasure as well.”
He had a deep voice with a distinctive sound. It was a bit gravelly, a bit husky, definitely masculine, and unforgettable.
Cassandra wished she wasn’t going to have to listen to it for the next few days.
“Miss Reverly, how good to see you again,” he said.
Willa bobbed another curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. It is a pleasure to see you as well.”
And then he gave his attention to Cassandra.
She could feel the warmth of it. Worse, the dowager, the duke, and seemingly everyone in the room watched them. Cassandra had no choice but to acknowledge Soren.
“Miss Holwell, I’m happy to see you as well.”
She borrowed Willa’s manners. “Thank you, my lord,” she chirped, dignifying him with the barest of curtseys. Her father would be scrutinizing her every movement.
The dowager pursed her lips in a sound of satisfaction. “Why, I say, what a good couple you make. I’d not realized it before.” She emphasized her words by pretending to push Cassandra closer to Soren. “So tall and equally fair. I wonder, can you both trace your ancestry back to the same Viking raid? Would that not be something?” she declared to the room.
Heads nodded agreement until Cassandra said, “I do not claim Viking blood.” The words came out snippier than she would ever have intended.
Eyebrows were raised, especially the dowager’s.
There was an awkward moment.
Soren stepped into the breach. “We Cornish, Your Grace, are not particularly proud of our raider history. Especially those of us who actually do have names that could be traced back to those days.”
“Ah, yes, York.” She smiled munificently at Soren, letting him and everyone else in the room know she found him a favorite—and then her watery gaze slid to Cassandra. “I’m certain Holwell is not a Nordic name. It doesn’t even have a particularly melodious sound.”
As if York did?
Cassandra wisely kept her thoughts to herself, and a vapid smile across her closed lips.
Thankfully, the Camberly butler stepped into the room. “Dinner is served.”
“Thank you, Marshall,” the dowager answered. She looked to the duke. “Your Grace, you will escort me in.”
“Of course, Grandmother.”
“Ah, and Bainhurst, you have come for your wife,” the dowager said to a hard-looking man in his forties. His hair was close-cropped with a good amount of iron gray among the black. He was of average height, with frowning lines around deep-set eyes. At one time he’d probably been quite handsome. That time had passed, to Cassandra’s way of thinking. He was too full of himself now, too prideful. She could feel it about him immediately. This was a man one should never cross.
And he was especially pleased to have a young and beautiful wife. He staked his claim to her by placing a heavy hand on her shoulder.
For her part, his lady didn’t flinch. Cassandra realized that the very pleasant Lady Bainhurst she’d been enjoying conversation with might also be a cold creature who could well take care of herself. There was no basis for the thought, just a strong awareness of an undercurrent of something Cassandra did not understand.
The dowager busily paired Willa to the overly plump and gossipy Mr. Bullock, who tiptoed when he walked. He was vastly annoying. Willa’s father smiled his satisfaction because Mr. Bullock was a confirmed bachelor. Mr. Reverly probably thought, as Cassandra did, that this pairing was saving her for Camberly’s attention.
And then the dowager announced what Cassandra had feared she would say. “Lord Dewsberry, will you please escort Miss Holwell in to dinner?”
“It would be an honor,” Soren responded.
Cassandra had been aware of him moving into position behind her. He’d known.
She dared not look at her father. He would not kick up a fuss right here with everyone’s eyes upon them, but she knew she’d be hearing his opinion later.
He had no need to fear. Cassandra had let down her guard around Soren once and he had wounded her in the cruelest way possible. A wise woman would gird her loins against him. And if Cassandra was anything, she was wise. Without looking at Soren, she placed her hand so lightly on his arm, she barely touched his sleeve.
The dowager finished her assignments. They would all process in. They might be in the country; however, London rules would be observed, albeit an hour earlier for dining. She led the way to the dining room with the duke, followed by Lord Bainhurst and his lady, with all the pomp due a formal event.
Others fell in line. Soren moved and Cassandra went with him, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. She’d stepped wrong and would have fallen except for her hand quickly gripping his arm.
It was a humbling moment. Soren knew what had happened, and he knew that he had saved her.
She had yet to look at him, although from the corner of her eye she could see the hard line of his jaw . . . and a hint of a smile as if he was pleased with himself.
The thought struck her that he truly did need a haircut. What was wrong with him, or his valet, that he wasn’t a bit tidier?
Then she chastised herself for even noticing.
At that moment, as the line entering the room slowed to a stop so that people could be properly seated, he turned and looked right at her with his all-too-knowing eyes.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of so much as a glance. She could feel the heat of his stare. Instead she focused on the bald patch on Lord Rawlins’s head in front of her.
“You are welcome,” he said quietly, a hint of laughter in his voice.
He’s nothing to me, she began repeating to herself. Nothing at all.
She must keep those words in mind.
Chapter 3
The dining room was set for forty with gilt-edged plates and silver centerpieces. The light of what seemed to be hundreds of candles reflected off the place settings and glassware. Footmen dressed in forest green velvet and cream satin stood ready to pull out chairs. It was all a bit much, and yet emphasized the power of the House of Camberly and paid honor to the importance of the company.
Soren also knew this party was costing Camberly more blunt than he could afford to spend. He’d complained to Soren about his grandmother’s extravagances. Apparently there was no reasoning with Minerva. She wanted what she wanted, and it was up to the Duke of Camberly to see she received it. Soren was glad his mother wasn’t as reckless. She might be
cold but she wasn’t a spendthrift.
The guests flowed around the table searching for their names on the place cards at each setting. The scent of cooked meats and breads was in the air, and the convivial atmosphere was enhanced by the fact that everyone in this room believed he or she had been invited as a Person of Importance. They mattered.
Cassandra had removed her hand from Soren’s arm as quickly as she was able. All without so much as a full glance his way.
Soren watched her look for her seat. The duke was naturally at the head of the table, with Miss Reverly on one side and Lady Bainhurst on the other. Disappointment crossed Cass’s face when she noticed. She acted as if she’d hoped she was nearer the head of the table and then realized that there was only one seat unclaimed, the one next to Soren.
She straightened her shoulders and accepted her chair assignment with the stoic grace of a French noble heading to the gallows.
Soren took it upon himself to pull out her chair.
“Please, allow me,” he said.
She hesitated as if debating taking the chair or bolting for the door. The dowager and other ladies were already seated. The gentlemen now waited upon Cassandra. Even the servants, queued up in the doorway with trays of soup dishes in their hands, waited for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and sat with the weight of an anvil. As a matter of form, he tried to give the chair a little push toward the table. It didn’t budge. She must have had her heels dug in. She was doing it on purpose, another silent message that she was not pleased he was one of her dinner companions, as if her iciness hadn’t been enough.
Of course, once her bum hit the seat, the gentlemen at the table were free to take theirs and—finally!—all eyes were off the spectacle Cass was making of herself.
And of Soren, since he was the gallant performing a servant’s job.
Why the devil had he thought to do a bit more than he should? She was making her feelings toward him very obvious.
Several raised their eyebrows at him and more than one smirked in a knowing way. Yes, all the world knew he was making a play for the Holwell Heiress. And her rudeness was ensuring they knew he did it because he didn’t have any other choice. Damn it all.
A Match Made in Bed Page 2
