by Gayle Buck
“Do those reasons have anything to do with your business interests on the Continent?” asked Cassandra.
He looked startled, then slowly smiled. Again, there was a measure of speculation in his eyes as he looked at her. “As it happens, yes. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to discuss those things with you. You will, I trust, accept my assurances on that head.”
“Naturally,” said Miss Bidwell, inclining her head. “I am certain that you are a man of some affairs, Philip.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Raven, without enlargement.
Cassandra had her own suspicions what the gentleman’s affairs might entail. A wife, for instance. He had certainly been startled enough when they had talked previously, and she had made mention of a romantic attachment. It had almost seemed that he had felt guilty at denying that any such tie existed. “What of Sir Marcus’s wishes? Do they count for nothing, Mr. Raven? You are his godson, after all.”
Miss Bidwell turned completely around to regard her charge. “Belle, have you lost your senses? One does not question a gentleman in such a forward manner.”
Cassandra ignored her companion’s astonished interposition. “Well, Mr. Raven?”
Mr. Raven gave a half shrug as he cut the tender beef on his plate. “What can I say that will not sound either ungrateful or mean-spirited? Sir Marcus made his wishes plain to me; that is, it would give him the greatest satisfaction to know that you and I were to make a match of it, Miss Weatherstone. As you know, I have had to refuse his request. I trust that I was able to do so with enough diplomacy as to spare his feelings somewhat.”
“Perhaps you were too diplomatic, Mr. Raven,” said Cassandra tartly. “We both are aware that my grandfather is an obstinate old man. He does not easily give up his notions. Only witness his latest request, which is that I make myself very agreeable to you. He has ensured the proper atmosphere of courtship by ordering my companion to chaperone us as strictly as though we were attending a Bath soiree.”
“This is plain speaking, indeed,” said Mr. Raven, putting down his knife and fork. He lounged back in his chair, one browned hand wrapped loosely round his mug, an amused expression on his face.
“Quite; uncomfortably so,” snapped Miss Bidwell, shooting a reproving glance at Cassandra.
“Mr. Raven spoke a moment ago about laying our cards on the table. Very well, let us do so,” said Cassandra. She leaned forward and earnestly met the gentleman’s eyes. “Mr. Raven, we are in the unenviable position of dancing to my grandfather’s piping. He wishes for us to become betrothed. We have agreed that is not an option for either of us. However, I have given my word to my grandfather that I will make an attempt to know you better. He naturally hopes that in the process I will learn to love you and withdraw my objections to his plan.”
“Naturally, you are adamantly opposed to obliging him,” said Mr. Raven, looking at her very closely.
Cassandra smiled, her eyes never wavering from his intent gaze. “But of course, Mr. Raven.”
Miss Bidwell made disapproving sounds, but neither principal paid any heed to her. They continued to examine each other’s face.
“No doubt that sword of Sir Marcus’s is intended to cut two ways, Miss Weatherstone, for I assume that familiarity is supposed to engender fonder emotions in me as well,” said Mr. Raven. A tremor of laughter came into his voice. “I must give credit where it is due. You have managed to strip aside all convention, haven’t you?”
“You did say that you recalled that I was one for plain speaking, did you not?” asked Cassandra with a fleeting smile. She felt both daring and frightened at her boldness with Mr. Raven. She had never before discussed anything so openly with any gentleman, including her uncle. Generally, she had always expressed any concerns that she had with her aunt, knowing full well that lady would relay them to her uncle. Apparently, her sister operated quite differently with those in her life, for Miss Bidwell did not seem at all surprised at the completely unconventional turn of the conversation, but rather, resigned.
“And of course Miss Bidwell is supposed to provide just the proper amount of restriction to our interaction, in order to manufacture that piquancy that accompanies a true courtship,” said Mr. Raven, flashing a grin.
“Yes,” said Cassandra, sharing her own smile with him. “And since my grandfather knows very well that I cannot stand to be hedged about in any way, I would have felt obliged to go counter against Biddy’s very proper chaperonage and meet with you on the sly.”
Mr. Raven’s brows rose. “An interesting proposition, I must say,” he murmured.
Cassandra instantly felt uncomfortable and disconcerted. He had taken her up so swiftly. It alarmed her. His gaze was penetrating and speculative. She dropped her gaze to her hands.
“I find this entire conversation preposterous!” said Miss Bidwell, her color considerably heightened. Behind her spectacles her eyes expressed her outraged feelings.
“Just so, Miss Bidwell,” said Mr. Raven gently.
Miss Bidwell’s posture was very erect. “Belle, I assure you that I would never push you so hard that you would wish to flaunt my authority to such an outrageous degree.”
“I know that you would not. Just as I would not go so far as to indulge in clandestine meetings,” said Cassandra hurriedly with a swift glance at the gentleman who was still watching her.
“A pity,” said Mr. Raven regretfully.
Cassandra threw a repressive look at him. She might be heavily embroiled in deception and subterfuge, but at least she knew right from wrong in this instance. “Really, Philip.”
Mr. Raven’s swift grin flashed white against his browned face. “Have I been elevated? Am I now to be ‘Philip’?”
Cassandra sighed, relinquishing the struggle. She was quibbling over shades of convention when what she should really do was question her own standards. “Oh, very well. You may call me ‘Belle.’ But I warn you, it is only to satisfy my promise to Grandfather. It is not at all because I wish to further any familiarity between us.”
“That is quite understood. Believe me, my decision concerning Sir Marcus’s request was never a reflection upon you or your many estimable qualities. Belle,” said Mr. Raven.
“I should think not!” interposed Miss Bidwell, taking instant umbrage.
“Thank you, Philip. I accept your rejection of my hand in the spirit in which it was given. I, too, have no personal objection against you,” said Cassandra.
As they smiled at each other, Miss Bidwell shook her head in total disbelief. “I shall say it now. I am positively appalled at modern manners. One could be forgiven the impression that you were both back in the schoolroom and have just made up a silly quarrel!”
“We always did come to cuffs, didn’t we? As I recall, it was generally Belle’s fault,” said Mr. Raven, in a reflective tone.
Cassandra merely raised her brows and looked at him. She wasn’t about to rise to the bait, especially considering that she had no memories to draw from. Miss Bid-well unwittingly delivered her.
“Belle, you need not answer that. Really, Philip! I had expected better of you,” said Miss Bidwell, almost scolding. “Pray do not expect me to negotiate peace out of whatever squabbles arise between you. I didn’t do it then, and I have no intention of doing so now.”
Cassandra looked at Miss Bidwell with surprise. “Why, Biddy, that is precisely what I hope you will not do. We shall get along famously if you will simply chaperone us in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion.”
“Quite right. We don’t wish any unwanted piquancy added to our so-called courtship,” said Mr. Raven. He was smiling. “Or otherwise we might learn to like each other.”
Miss Bidwell threw up her hands.
* * *
Chapter 16
The weather took a decided turn for the worse just as Young John the groom had gloomily predicted. Before morning, thunderstorms roiled angrily overhead. All day a steady downpour beat against the sturdy walls of the manor and the countryside round about
. That afternoon the deafening thunder crashed continually, accompanied by brilliant flashes of lightning.
Cassandra stood in the east end of the gallery and watched the heavenly display in awe. Water sheeted against the leaded panes, and the roar of the storm battered against the walls. The candles that lit the long gallery were eclipsed by the dazzling bolts that split the black skies.
She did not notice that she had company until she heard his voice. “Belle, what are you doing?”
Cassandra turned, her face lit up. “Oh, Philip! I do so love a good storm! Isn’t it magnificent?” she asked, turning once more to the uncovered windows.
There was a moment’s stunned silence. “Yes, it is magnificent.”
They stood together for a long time, watching the fury of the elements. Then Cassandra turned again to him with a sigh. “It doesn’t appear as though it shall abate for several hours.”
“No, I should think not. Will you walk with me?” asked Mr. Raven, holding out his elbow.
Cassandra accepted his escort, tucking her hand inside the crook of his elbow. She smiled up at him. “However did you manage to find me without Biddy trailing along?”
“Miss Bidwell sent me to look for you, as a matter of fact. She thought you might be alarmed by the fury of the storm,” said Mr. Raven. He glanced down at her. “Are you not afraid?”
Cassandra shook her head. She said cheerfully, “No, why should I be? I am inside where it cannot touch me. It is rather like watching a spectacular theatrical production. I have heard that there is a very good presentation of the Battle of Trafalgar in London. I should so like to see it.”
“Perhaps you will one day,” said Mr. Raven, smiling.
“I do hope so. Have you ever really looked at all of these portraits? Since reading my grandfather’s family history, I have been fascinated by them,” said Cassandra. She nodded at those that they were slowly walking past. “That one is my great-great-grandmother. A frightful old dragon, is she not? Yet she was reputed to be a charitable lady of great compassion. And that one there—can you guess his secrets by looking at him?”
“I haven’t a clue. Why don’t you tell me,” said Mr. Raven, glancing down at her with a half smile on his face.
“He was accused of ridding himself of two wives and a bitch dog by poison,” said Cassandra, dropping her voice for effect.
Mr. Raven cocked a brow. “A bitch dog? One must naturally inquire why.”
“Oh, it is said that the poor creature made too much noise,” said Cassandra. She impishly smiled up at her companion. “He is said to have explained away the deaths of his wives for the same reason.”
Mr. Raven gave a shout of laughter. “A character, indeed.” He opened the door leading out of the gallery and ushered her through it. Her fringed shawl slipped off one elbow to trail on the floor. He caught it back up for her. Cassandra thanked him matter-of-factly, not giving a thought to the intimacy of the exchange.
“Now where are you taking me?” asked Cassandra curiously, as Mr. Raven once more took her arm.
“I am obediently fetching you back to the drawing room, where our dragon of a chaperone anxiously awaits us,” said Mr. Raven, companionably matching his steps with hers.
Cassandra chuckled. “Oh, yes, I had forgotten. Biddy does take her commission far too seriously, don’t you think?”
“Does she? I am beginning to suspect that she is not near strict enough,” murmured Mr. Raven, looking down into her face.
Cassandra caught her breath at the exceedingly warm expression in his eyes. “Philip, I—
Mr. Raven stopped and turned toward her, catching one hand in his. He turned her hand over and raised her open palm to his lips. For a brief moment his lips pressed warm against her sensitive skin. Her fingers curled involuntarily in shock.
Mr. Raven straightened and looked down into her stunned eyes. A smile touched his mouth. “Sh, don’t say a word. We are playing at a game, you and I. Let us go on pretending.”
Cassandra’s heart was beating fast. She stared up into his inscrutable eyes, wondering wildly what he was thinking. “Pre ... pretending?”
Mr. Raven settled her hand back into his bent elbow, his own fingers warmly covering hers. He began walking again. “Why, yes, Miss Weatherstone. Sir Marcus and Miss Bidwell must continue to be encouraged in their hopes that we will make a match of it. Do you mind it that I flirt a little with you?”
“Oh, no. That is ... oh no, not in the least,” stammered Cassandra, her head in a whirl.
“You see, I felt that it might take a bit of practice,” said Mr. Raven matter-of-factly.
“Oh, I see,” said Cassandra, only partially reassured. The kiss that he had pressed to her tingling palm had seemed very real to her. Her fingers still curled when she thought of it.
Mr. Raven introduced an innocuous topic, and she was able to respond without discomfort. But she did not forget that totally disconcerting kiss.
It rained for days. The date of Cassandra’s rendezvous with her sister came and went. There was never any question of riding out to the crofter’s cottage. Cassandra knew that she could never have made it there and back in such violent weather. She very much doubted that her sister, even as intrepid as she knew Belle to be, would have braved the persistent downpour, either. In any event, she couldn’t have saddled the gelding without the groom’s help, and she suspected that Young John would have refused to oblige her under such drenched conditions.
With hardly a twinge of anxiety, Cassandra resigned herself to keeping up the pretense of being her sister for a while longer. It wasn’t so terrible, really, she thought. She was able to visit with her grandfather several times, though never at a very long stretch.
Sir Marcus seemed determined to husband his strength. Cassandra was glad to see that her grandfather was making progress. His voice was becoming stronger. He was more alert, and he was able to sit up for longer periods. Weems continued to fuss over his master, but the valet’s anxious expression was not nearly so pronounced.
Cassandra was learning to love the irascible old gentleman. She found that she was becoming more and more reluctant to face the inevitability of leaving him. She knew that when she returned to her uncle and aunt, it was highly unlikely that she would ever see Sir Marcus again. More than once, Cassandra nearly blurted out her true identity to Sir Marcus, but there was always something that held her back.
Cassandra took note that she was not the only visitor to Sir Marcus’s rooms. Mr. Raven spent hours closeted with Sir Marcus. She knew, because Weems told her, that they sometimes played chess or backgammon. She wondered occasionally what they found to talk about together, but neither gentleman ever volunteered any clues. However, she suspected that the visits were not always amenable, for once she went in directly after Mr. Raven had left, and she had found her grandfather preoccupied and fretful. Sir Marcus demanded that she bring his writing board and supplies to him, and when she had done so, he had told her to go away in an abrupt fashion that surprised her.
Afterward, she had closely questioned Weems, but all the loyal valet would say was that Sir Marcus had been made irritable by something that Mr. Raven had conveyed to him. Cassandra learned later that a letter was sent out in the post to Sir Marcus’s man of business, Mr. Petrie-Downs.
One evening after coffee, Cassandra brought up the subject to Mr. Raven. “I wonder what could have caused my grandfather’s moodiness these past two days? Have you any notions, Philip?”
Mr. Raven’s expression did not change, though his gray eyes flickered. “Perhaps Sir Marcus simply hates being an invalid. It must be very frustrating to be unable to do those things that one is used to doing.”
“Quite so.” Miss Bidwell nodded. “Sir Marcus was always an active gentleman. There was never an endeavor too difficult for him, and now for all intents and purposes, he is bedridden. That is an extremely unpleasant reality, I am certain.”
“Perhaps that is it,” said Cassandra noncommittally. She briefly me
t Mr. Raven’s eyes before she bent her head again to her embroidery.
Despite Cassandra’s intuitive feeling that something was being hidden from her, she had never been happier. Mr. Raven proved himself a consistently pleasant companion. They walked in the gallery in the cold mornings, talked in the afternoons and played backgammon in the evenings. Under the benign yet watchful eyes of Miss Bidwell, they spoke often and at leisure about everything under the sun. When the weather cleared at last, she and Mr. Raven rode together, always sedately accompanied by the groom, Young John.
Cassandra did worry about how she was to get in touch with her sister. She had not yet been able to manage going off on her own without either Mr. Raven or the groom in company. She could only bide her time until the opportunity presented itself. Not for the first time, Cassandra wondered at her own and her sister’s naiveté. They should have made some sort of arrangement for communicating if one or the other was unable to ride out to the crofter’s cottage. However, neither of them had really thought through all of the contingencies of the masquerade.
However, Cassandra spent considerably less time reflecting upon her problem than she might have otherwise if a certain gentleman had not been at the Hall. For the first time in her life, she was the sole object of a gentleman’s notice. Even though she knew that Mr. Raven was merely humoring Sir Marcus, that did not stop her enjoyment. She, too, was humoring her grandfather and never had her word of honor been more pleasant to fulfill. She hoped that Mr. Raven was feeling as entertained as she was. It would have been a pity if the gentleman was actually bored in her company, she thought.
However, never by word nor gesture did Mr. Raven intimate that he had had his fill of her company. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. He seemed to like it that they had been thrown together through Sir Marcus’s obstinate whim.
Mr. Raven referred hardly at all anymore to his and Belle’s childhood, for which Cassandra was grateful. That was the one true anxiety that she had, for she was woefully ill-equipped to respond to oblique references that would assuredly have made perfect sense to her sister.
