“What folly. If that was a compliment, I don’t need your flattery, Althorn. It no longer matters.”
“You are artfully made up, but I see the sadness on your face, and I am grieved I caused this to happen. The color you wear appeals and looks well on you.” His gaze raked over her. “It is also the color of passion and royalty, did you know that?”
“Yes, I believe I read it somewhere. I liked the color because it is powerful. There are times when I tire of the pastels and feel a need to change to a forceful color. I do like change, your Grace, but I don’t think you do. I am determined to take charge of my future. All is not lost for me. I have you to thank for that. I congratulate you on your artful change of subject.”
He held her attention. “I don’t like change for change sake, but I do not mind change if it relieves the monotony of our lives. Some people fear change, others embrace it, and others do not know what to do with it. I prefer to embrace it and have done with it,” he answered.
“Now you are the philosophical one tonight, Althorn.” This conversation was far safer for her. No barbs. No slings. No ridicule. No regretful memories. No more pain. No more tears. No more—hope. If I had the opportunity, I would take strong drink to all the No’s in my life.
****
The inn’s suite of rooms reserved for the earl and his family were comfortable and furnished in the architecture of a town house suite.
The duke arrived promptly at two p.m. and was greeted by the butler. He stood waiting her descent down the stairs.
She’d dressed in a pale yellow muslin dress that she hoped complemented her champagne colored hair. She attempted to assess his mood from the landing glance but was unable. Cassandra walked down the stairs, a radiant smile on her face, raised her hand to her ear and brushed back a wisp of curl. “Good afternoon, your Grace.” She curtsied and motioned to the second, and smaller sitting room.
“Lady Cassandra.” He nodded as he closed the door.
She pirouetted and almost ran into him. “Kindly leave the door open.” He obliged. Her left hand flew to her throat; she looked away and then back. “I regret my actions may have spoiled our pleasant relationship. You wished to speak to me, your Grace?”
Cassandra sat on a tufted Bergere chair. Althorn stood, and she braced herself for the inevitable outcome.
She saw his hand at his breast pocket. “I have given thoughtful consideration to your business proposal and, much to my regret, cannot enter into such a marriage of convenience. There is no wish to hurt you, and I admire your strength of purpose when you selected me.”
“I see. You have given grave thought to my proposal.” She spoke in a bare raspy whisper. “I regret I have presumed upon you to consider an arrangement. You were right about my sanity. The whole notion was preposterous between us.” Her laugh came out forced and gay with false bravado.
“You are a bright and cultured woman, Cassandra. Since you introduced the subject to me, my mind has been assaulted with thoughts. By God, you have backbone, and I admire that. You are also compassionate, but I do not love you. That is a simple fact. My apologies.”
“A fact of which you continue to advise me. I’m aware of your lack thereof.”
“I didn’t intend for you to cry yesterday. I could never live with a contrived marriage. I would make us both miserable.”
“I understand.” She held her head proudly. “I will always consider you a friend.” She rose to conclude the meeting. He handed her an envelope. Cassandra accepted it with reticence, read the contents, and then placed it in the desk drawer. Even though expected, dizziness threatened to capture her. “I wish you well,” Cassandra murmured and curtsied, her lashes lowered.
“Before you go, Cassandra—a favor?”
She turned and looked over one shoulder. “And that is?”
“Don’t hate me.” His voice held a rasp.
“I could never hate you, and I always repay kindnesses, your Grace.” She walked toward the door and watched him depart taking her heart with him forever.
Chapter Twelve
Althorn wasn’t pleased at his portrayal of a heartless scoundrel. Better to hurt her now than hurt her badly in the future, though. He would miss her bright smile, sharp wit, and their encounters on the beach—and balconies. Oh, well. There were other women.
He took a sip of his hot cocoa and a bite of his toast, thumbed through the mail in the breakfast room.
The duke’s dowager mother smiled and reached for the paper, coincidentally near her, and adjusted her spectacles to read. Her mind was alert. She had regained motion with her body, but her speech was his main concern.
She handed him the newspaper and pointed to the gossip column.
Tattler Tales: What fashionable lady with the initials CM visited the French modiste to place a trousseau order especially designed by her? There is talk the chemise for the wedding night is a custom design made from a proprietary diaphanous fabric that leaves little to the imagination. Ladies flocked to the shops to purchase copies for themselves.
Hint: The chemise has no back. The lady has a ward and has been seen often in the company of the scandalous Duke of A. More tomorrow. We have not been made aware of any attachment between the two, but would she shop for such seductive lingerie if there were not an agreement between them, or is she secretly pledged to another man? The King’s soiree is tonight and we will be there to view the event. How delicious.
Note: Wait for our next column to learn about the revolutionary black corset wear in embroidered red rose bud clasps ♥ in the front. The easier to remove? Viva le Revolution. Mon Dieu.
Althorn’s face reddened. His mouth tightened in amazement at his utter control. “Cassandra looks for a husband, Mother. I assume she’s found a suitable candidate. My name is referred to, but I’m not the intended groom.” With fisted hands, he walked away without another word. “Come, Clayo, it is time for our walk,” he huffed. The duke exited through the back gardens to the beach. Damn her and her decadent underwear. Who would she proposition next? Would the decadent garment tempt? And why did he care?
He strolled with Clayo alongside him in the opposite direction of the Castle Inn where he knew Cassandra still resided. It wasn’t like him to avoid women, but he considered her too dangerous to see too often. He knew precisely how long they hadn’t seen each other—three days, seven hours and forty-five minutes. Somehow their paths didn’t cross within their small Brighton social circle. He came to the conclusion she avoided him, too.
Tonight was the King’s soiree and everyone in residence would be there. A discreet inquiry was pursued at Lady Cassandra’s accommodations; the duke was assured she still resided there.
He mustered his energy and wanted to concentrate on the escort of Lady Constance Fayton, a widow he knew was anxious to become his next mistress. They conversed about the prospect, but he didn’t wish to finalize the decision. For some reason, he held back. His mind was occupied with the gossip about the damn chemise and black corset-wear so he willed himself to be pleasant to the lady he escorted this evening.
The woman in question was a beauty with ebony colored hair—a direct opposite to Cassandra. But with his mother still ill, it wasn’t propitious to conclude arrangements with Lady Constance. New mistresses demanded a lot of attention and education in the likes and dislikes of a man in bed sport. It could be a chore and exhausting.
He and Clayo turned and walked back to the villa. Little interested him. There was no beautiful lady with two children by her side—and no telescope. No sandcastles to build. No playful antics and flirtation with a willful captivating woman. He went to his study and skimmed the correspondence on his desk. His mind adrift, he checked his watch with the long case clock. Time did not move swiftly.
With a grunt, Althorn sat at his Chippendale desk and proceeded to answer correspondence. Hours later, he checked his timepiece, exhaled, and tackled the ledgers next. After more hours spent on the estate books, he placed all in the cabinet behind him
and exited his study to prepare for the evening’s activities.
When properly dressed, he instructed his valet not to wait up for him. He bounded down the steps where Chester waited. The servant handed him his accessories as he left and entered his ducal carriage with the impressive lion crest and tapped for the coachman to proceed to Lady Fayton’s residence.
His mind was still in a quandary; restlessness threatened to sour his mood. Soon, the coach arrived. The footman flipped the step down and he departed. After he ascended the steps to her residence, he was shown into the drawing room where he waited for the woman. When she entered the room, he complimented her on her attire with practiced unemotional flair.
“My dear, the color of the persimmon gown enhances the allure of your ivory skin.”
She smiled, arched her brows, and didn’t speak further. He assisted her to don her cape and Lady Constance took her small reticule.
In due time, they entered his carriage. He noted her warm smile when she placed her hand on his thigh and looked at him in adoration. He allowed his gaze to pass over her. “I’ve had a bothersome day, Lady Constance.” He looked off into the distance through the partially curtained window.
She released her hand from his thigh. “Your Grace, it is common stance to have dreadful days with the pressure you have in management of so many estates. What you need is a distraction.”
The lady had no guile. It became an annoyance. He was in charge of who he slept with, and when. A visit back to her home after the ball? No. Yes. Maybe?
He bestowed a meager smile. “It will pass. Let us enjoy ourselves this evening.” He reached for her hand. The duke frowned when he realized there was no tingle in the clasp. No lightning strikes. No desire in the loins. The only point to her credit was her availability—and his lustful need. His mouth soured.
At the soiree they were ushered in and waited in the usual line to present their written invitations to the doormen in order to greet the King and his mistress. He wondered why he was never shocked the King flaunted his mistresses to all the nobility present and no one uttered a word of impropriety. The paunchy King’s extravagances were well known to all and between payment for the war and his decadent lifestyle, England’s treasury lessened every day—and night.
They were presented to the monarch who spoke amiably. “Perhaps we could game tonight, Althorn. Will fortune smile on you?”
“No, Your Majesty, I do not believe so,” he answered in a humorous tone. “This could be your night to win.”
With a hearty laugh, the King said, “Good, then I shall seek you out. My coffers are bare.”
They moved on to the ballroom. The first dance was a waltz. He led Lady Constance to the floor and whirled her around in his expert fashion, but his eyes sought someone else. Then without a need to search further, he knew Cassandra was there. Her scent floated through the crushed warm air. She danced with a tall, blond-haired gentleman.
Althorn envied her smile at the gentleman friend and her dimples seemed to wink the way they did when she was with him. Dammit. Her dress was a creation of lavender silk, cut low, off the shoulders, and amply showed her bosom. Her narrow waist gave way to a flowing skirt. Tiny satin slippers hugged her feet and the departure from fashion was her matched lavender gloves instead of the usual white, and the jeweled opal ring on her left hand finger. Damnation, was she engaged already?
He couldn’t help but keep her in his eyesight. Her long hair was caught in a chignon at the nape of her neck and wild flowers were entwined in her tresses. Another fashion oddity that not only suited her well but would certainly become a new fad. She looked like a high priestess come to beguile them all with her obvious assets and pagan fertility rituals.
When he and Lady Constance passed them on the floor, he nodded to her as he twirled. His stomach roiled and his lower extremities tightened. Damn her. She bewitched him, but he would not succumb to such trickery.
Althorn watched as she partnered with each gentleman, but the Greek God danced three times with her—one more than was appropriate! It was indeed improper, and he tugged on his evening vest to remove a fleck of lint as Cassandra was led out to the balcony. His gaze followed her like a stalker.
Damn, what purpose kept them there? They missed one whole dance—and two more highly questionable sessions with the golden-haired man. Most of all, Althorn knew how she reacted to passion on dark balconies under star-studded skies.
Lady Constance danced with the members of the court she knew well. Althorn needed no excuse to seek fresh air and strolled to the balcony without a backward glance. At least, that was what he said to himself. The couple was seated on a stone bench of cherubim, and laughed as they spoke. Without hesitation, he walked toward them.
The duke was rude enough to clear his throat and let his presence be known. The startled gentleman looked up and frowned at Althorn’s scowl. The gentleman arose; he stood taller than Althorn and was about to address him but Cassandra intervened. “Your Grace, I do not know if you are acquainted with Sir Philip Fairbanks, the court’s ambassador to Italy. This is his Grace, Althorn.”
The duke nodded, as did the ambassador. “I don’t recall you, sir. Do you spend a great deal of time in Italy?”
Fairbanks answered politely, “Unfortunately, yes. It does take me away from London, but I’m here for a few months on a special mission.”
“I see. I do not wish to interrupt and merely wanted to extend my good wishes to the lady.” As he walked away, he turned to address her again, “Don’t forget the last waltz is ours, Cassandra.” That would get a message across. Why did he deliberately use her given name?
Althorn spotted the Duchess of Ravensmere. Still concerned and jealous, both emotions dominated, he went to her and spoke in a serious tone. “Forgive my intrusion, your Grace. I do believe your cousin requires your assistance on the balcony. She might not be able to control the situation with this unknown rogue.”
“If true, Althorn, why did you not assist?” she asked in surprise. “In future, you may refer to me as Samantha. All the honorifics stifle conversation.”
“Thank you, I will. I didn’t feel I had the right to challenge the gentleman under the present conditions.”
“It has never stopped you before. Very well, I shall investigate. Thank you.” She glided toward the open French doors in agile motion.
On the balcony, Sir Fairbanks looked at Cassandra. “That was most improper. Is he always like that?”
“Yes. The duke has a superior station in life and he enjoys the status. He has quite a reputation, you know. And before you ask, we are merely good friends.”
“He called you Cassandra. That is a most intimate form of address.” His voice sounded firm with a tinge of rancor in it.
She lifted her head high. “Good friends often take liberties. I sometimes call him Gordon, his Christian name. It does not signify.”
“I do not wish to appear accusatory, but I hope it is the only liberty he takes, Lady Cassandra.”
She stood. “The duke and I are friends, sir, not lovers. I will speak no more on this subject. And…you,” she turned to him with disdain, “will never speak your insinuations in that tone again. I shall cause you to regret such utterances. Never doubt I can do so.” She took her fan and used it briskly. “I don’t appreciate your inference. You, sir, also take unmerited liberties. You have no right to be possessive. It doesn’t suit you. I believe we should return to the ball.”
She walked in front of him, looking straight ahead and literally collided with her cousin, Samantha, who nodded to Sir Fairbanks.
“Here you are, darling. I looked for you after you missed the dance and became concerned perhaps you didn’t feel well.” She put her arm through Cassandra’s and steered her through the French doors and into the ballroom.
“He sent me to rescue you, Cassandra.”
“I didn’t need rescue. The duke can go to Hades for all I care. I don’t require his interference. I am not foolish any more.” S
he glanced at her dance card and waited for the next gentleman to claim her, but she did mark Althorn’s name for the last waltz.
She stood to the side watching her cousin dancing with Sir Fairbanks. At one point, they whisked past and she overheard him say, “May I ask, Duchess, are you related to Lady Cassandra?”
“Yes, we’re close cousins, and I treasure her reputation much.”
“I heard about the broken engagement. The man certainly was a fool,” he commented.
“Our family is grateful it happened. They weren’t well suited. We’ve all survived the gossip.”
“Althorn is a good friend of hers?” His question probed and his gaze became distracted as he searched the room. He realized she was standing nearby and smiled.
“They are good friends, I’m told. Does he have an attachment to her?”
“I do not believe so.” Samantha fanned herself.
“Then why did he send you to retrieve her?” Sir Fairbanks asked.
“I don’t recall I said he did,” she answered.
“Duchess, I am a politician. It became obvious. We conversed and sat appropriately apart. He was indeed rude. I am not used to such behavior to my person.”
“Perhaps, good sir, Althorn was protective…of a friend.”
Before the conversation could go further, the Duke of Ravensmere arrived to claim his wife, nodded to Sir Fairbanks, and bowed to his Duchess. “I believe this is the dance I’ve waited for, darling. If you will excuse us, I have to stand in line to dance with my own wife.”
Cassandra held in a chuckle and ducked into the shadows so Sir Fairbanks wouldn’t seek her out again.
Chapter Thirteen
Cassandra walked toward the opposite side of the room as far from the duke as possible and literally collided into Sir Fairbanks who proceeded to charm. There appeared to be annoyance at their interruption by the duke.
“My lady, you have a family who guards you zealously.” He held her by the elbow as the orchestra recessed.
My Divinely Decadent Duke Page 9
