He frowned. “Already? But you only just came out of mourning.”
“As I said, it is difficult to explain. Lord Colchester is an impatient man.”
Impatient and despicable.
“But you are not betrothed yet, are you?” Vincent stared into her eyes. “Tell me I did not just make love to another man’s fiancée.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she assured him. “But there was a man at the ball this evening who had been corresponding with Lord Colchester and was making inquiries about me.”
“Who?”
She paused. “Clarence Hibbert. Do you know him?”
Vincent’s eyebrows lifted and he laughed. “Clarence Hibbert? For you? Good God, you must be joking.”
She found herself chuckling as well, when she had never seen humor in any of this before. But she supposed it was true. Mr. Hibbert was small, plump, and balding, and he was a complete featherbrain. A rich featherbrain, mind you, but still a featherbrain.
“Joking or not,” she said, “I think I might have spoiled my chances with Mr. Hibbert when I ran off with you.”
“Thank God for that,” Vincent replied. “He’s all wrong for you, Cassandra. Not only is he a bumbling idiot, he is almost three times your age. A woman like you needs a strong, young, robust man with plenty of energy in his body and a good deal of activity in his brain.” He grinned and slid his hands under her bottom, then pulled her tight against his hips. He was already growing firm again. “You weren’t truly considering him, were you?”
“Only until the moment I met him.”
“Ah.” He slid his palm from her waist to her breast and made her sigh with pleasure again.
“The fact of the matter is,” she explained, tipping her head back when he began to kiss her neck, “I cannot continue to be dependent upon Lord Colchester. He will wish to take a wife one day, and I need to move on.”
“So, you will continue in your quest for a husband.”
Cassandra wet her lips. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. I might try to find work as a governess.”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “Work.” He spoke the word as if it were a concept uttered in a foreign tongue. “But Cassandra, you are a lady.”
“A lady with very few options available to me. I cannot live on social position alone.”
“But your husband must have left you an inheritance.”
“Indeed, he left me a very generous one in his will, but unfortunately the money did not exist. He spent everything on his mistress. There was nothing but debts.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed with unease. “Do you not have family who can take you in?”
All at once she wished she had not confessed any of this. The whole night had been so magical, and now she was spoiling it with the realities of her dismal life. “That would be a last resort,” she said. “They are not welcoming people.”
Cassandra took Vincent’s face in her hands, then pressed her lips to his, wanting only to recapture the magic. “Please, let us not talk about this anymore. I shall be brilliantly happy with my future, whichever path I choose. I am a free woman with a will of my own.”
She reached down and began to gently squeeze and stroke him.
He let out a husky groan. “My God, you are incredible. You make me feel so...” He did not finish the thought. He merely dipped his head and closed his eyes.
She blew softly into his ear and whispered, “Tell me, Vincent. How do I make you feel?”
“Alive.”
He laid kisses down the length of her neck, across her shoulders and breasts. Fire ignited deep inside her.
“Poor Hibbert,” he said. “He doesn’t know what he lost.”
“And you cost me a husband, you naughty man. You shall have to make it up to me, you know.”
Vincent inched downward, his tongue pulsing gently across her belly. “Perhaps I shall propose to marry you instead.”
Knowing better than to take Vincent seriously when he was a known libertine and they were both tangled in the persuasive pleasures of erotic sensation, Cassandra shook her head at him. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“No?”
“No. And you shouldn’t tease a lady about something like that, Lord Vincent. As a gender, we take marriage very seriously.”
“What if I was not teasing?” he asked. “What if I mean to have you all to myself, forever and ever, till death do us part?”
She fought to keep her head—because he could not possibly mean it—but desire was clouding all hope of reason. “I hadn’t realized this night was quite as perfect as all that.”
He rose up on both arms and shifted his hips, easing himself into her pliant, heated warmth. “Believe me, it was.”
“Then let us see where it goes,” she suggested, wondering if it was possible for a woman to die of utter happiness.
“I already know where it’s going,” he declared in a low, gruff voice. “At least for tonight.” He reached over to turn the key in the lamp, and darkness enveloped the room.
In the morning, Cassandra was startled awake by a bright, blinding beam of sunlight cutting through the crack in the drapes. She blinked and squinted and sat up, hugging the sheets to her chest.
She was alone in the room, naked, and her head was aching from too much champagne the night before. What time was it?
She glanced at the pillow beside her, trying to make sense of her surroundings and situation.
Oh yes, the pleasure. The sensations. His body in the night...
She looked around the quiet room. Her gown was in a neat pile upon the chair. Her jewels were still on the dressing table where he had set them. His clothes, however, were gone. There was not a trace of him anywhere.
Cassandra swallowed uncomfortably as she imagined Lord Vincent creeping out of the room, making his escape in the predawn hours—which he had no doubt done many times before with countless other women just like her. He had left nothing behind but his scent on her skin, which would not last long, and—good heavens—a stack of money on the bedside table.
A heavy, sickening lump settled in the pit of her belly. She had never been an irresponsible woman, yet she had behaved recklessly with a wicked, albeit charming, rake. He had admitted openly that he was not to be depended upon, yet she had spent the night with him regardless. For a brief time at the height of their lovemaking, she had even imagined it was something more, something very magical. Not just for her, but for him, too.
It had been nothing of the sort, of course. He doubtless made all his lovers feel that way. It was why his path was littered with broken hearts.
She cupped her forehead in a hand and squeezed her eyes shut. What in God’s name had she been thinking? Had she had that much champagne? She hadn’t thought so, but how else could she possibly explain her behavior? It had been so outside of her usual caution and propriety.
Tossing the covers aside, Cassandra sat up on the edge of the bed. She rose to her feet and padded quietly around the empty room, knelt down to pick up her scattered underclothes, and chided herself as she dropped to her knees in search of a stocking under the bed. It was all so very humiliating.
Perhaps the worst part of it all was the fact that she was now fighting tears, which were pooling in the corners of her eyes. She was overwhelmingly disappointed. She was hurt because he was gone, when it had all seemed so wonderfully romantic.
Oh, she would never forgive herself for being so naive. She pulled the stocking out from under the bed and sat back on her heels, praying to God that she would never have to see that rakish Lord Vincent again. She would simply do her best to forget him, and to forget that this night ever happened.
Chapter 1
One Year Later
No doubt this will be the most trying experience of my life, but I must endure it as best I can, fo
r I have made up my mind. I cannot put my own needs first. I must do the responsible thing.
—from the journal of
Cassandra Montrose,
Lady Colchester,
May 12,1874
On the day that Lord Vincent Sinclair returned to Pembroke Palace after a tedious week securing a fiancée in London, cold hard raindrops were dropping from the clouds like overturned buckets of nails.
With his future bride sitting proudly beside him, he sat back in the rumbling coach and rubbed a hand over his chin. He looked out the rain-soaked window at his majestic family home in the distance, in all its arrogant, pompous glory. Miles away, high upon the hilltop, it gloated, preened, and reveled in its own lofty magnificence. In Vincent’s mind, however, those impressive stone towers and turrets and the ostentatious triumphal arch at the entrance could not disguise the wretchedness in its foundations, for it was built upon the ruins of an ancient abbey whose walls had been knocked down by betrayal and the grisly murder of one of his ancestors.
Of course, that was a long time ago. Now it was a distinguished, dazzling palace. A house of dukes. And hardly anyone knew the intimate truth about the Pembrokes—that brotherly betrayal still breathed behind the tapestries, and a secret madness lurked in the dark, subterranean passageways.
He turned to look at his fiancée—Lady Letitia Markham, eldest daughter of the Duke of Swinburne—but found himself staring only at the back of her head, for she was sitting forward on the seat beside him, peering out the other window. He noted the excessive details of her elaborate hat—the silly lilac bows and ribbons and the complicated wreath of cherry blossoms, all of it secured over a dozen shiny black ringlets and scented with strong, somewhat sickening perfume.
At least she was a beauty, he thought as he turned and looked out his own window again. If he was going to be dragged like a dog into marriage, it might as well be pleasantly done. Letitia was tall, slender, and graceful. She had the face of a goddess, so if nothing else, she would be pretty to look at on their wedding night when he was fulfilling his husbandly duty by depriving her of her virginity.
He glanced at her again, looked her up and down with indifference, then returned his detached gaze to the view outside the window. To be honest, he wasn’t even certain she was a virgin. Not that he cared. When it came to his duty to his family, he cared for very little. He certainly cared nothing for the woman beside him. She was shallow and self-absorbed and interested in nothing more than his social position as an heir to the Pembroke dukedom and his fantastically enormous fortune. She certainly did not love him.
But that was hardly a problem, he supposed, because he was a man who lived for pleasure. He was known to be disreputable and depraved, made no apologies for it, and Letitia, thank God, understood all of that. There were no preconceived notions of romance between them. She even seemed rather contemptuous of sentimental affections, which in all honesty made this woman his perfect match.
But that was beside the point. What mattered presently was that his father had already given this particular woman his stamp of approval, which was at the root of all this insanity. Vincent had gone to London to fetch Lady Letitia and propose, with the full intention of marrying her before Christmas, because his father demanded he take a wife. If all four of the duke’s sons were not husbands by then, he had made very clear that they would all be disinherited.
The upside was that they would each be awarded five thousand pounds on their wedding day, simply for saying “I do.” The duke had deemed it so in the will—along with the stipulation that he must approve of each new bride of Pembroke. That was reason enough for Vincent to go through with it, with this woman in particular. The money would secure him a residence far away from the palace so that he would never have to return here again.
And of course, how could he forget? There was also the family curse that needed to be thwarted by four marriages, or heaven forbid, the entire palace would be swept away by a torrential flood.
Bloody madness, all of it. Bloody ridiculous madness, with nothing to be done to change it. The doctors and solicitors had deemed the duke sane at the time the will was drawn up, so there it was. Unalterable.
Exhaling sharply, Vincent leaned closer to the window to look up at the ominous clouds in the sky and the rain that showed no signs of letting up. His father was probably in a panic today if the fields were flooding, which they most certainly were. The coach had driven through half a dozen puddles the size of fishponds on the way to the palace.
Dreading the senseless drama he was sure to come home to, Vincent turned to look at Letitia again, and hoped her arrival and talk of wedding plans would distract the old man from the weather.
As for himself, well, he meant to do his duty and be done with it, then God willing, he would be free to live as he chose. How difficult could one wedding be? Surely no more difficult than accepting the fact that his father was stark raving mad.
“Tell me,” Letitia said, turning her ever so pretty head toward him, as if she had sensed his eyes upon her, “how soon will I get to see the necklace? I must be wearing it when we make the formal announcement.”
He looked at her impatient brown eyes and tiny upturned nose and wondered why he had felt compelled to offer that particular jewel when he proposed. It was the famous Pembroke Sapphire—a sparkling stone the size of the continent. It had been the engagement gift presented to his great-grandmother by the fourth Duke of Pembroke.
Another woman had worn it more recently, of course. Another fiancée three years ago. But she had not lived to see her wedding day.
Vincent reflected upon his own infinite bitterness with a perverse touch of amusement. “I will speak to Mother about it the instant we arrive.” He patted Letitia’s hand. “She has been keeping it safe for you, darling.”
Letitia lifted a delicately arched brow. “Well, I certainly hope so. From what I understand, it is a jewel to be reckoned with.”
“As are you,” he casually replied.
“Yes. As am I.” She turned her eyes proudly toward the window again, leaving him to stare at all those ridiculous ribbons and flowers.
They pulled up in front of the palace, and two footmen came dashing down the stairs with umbrellas. Letitia’s mother, seated across from them, stirred from her slumber and murmured, “Have we arrived?”
“Indeed we have, Your Grace.” Vincent stepped out first, undaunted by the wind and violent downpour and the sharp, stinging raindrops on his cheeks, for he found it all rather poetic. It was the perfect backdrop for his arrival.
He offered his hand to Letitia’s mother, the Duchess of Swinburne. She stepped out of the coach and was quickly ushered up the stairs by a footman, who struggled in the violent, blustery wind to hold an umbrella over her head.
Vincent offered his hand to his betrothed, who emerged from the carriage with a scowl.
“I am so sick of this putrid rain,” she said. “Look what it has done to my shoes. It had better dry up before our wedding day, or I swear to you, Vincent, we will have to postpone. I refuse to walk down the aisle with mud on my gown.”
He took the umbrella from the second footman and sheltered his spoiled future bride from the wind and rain. “We shall postpone if it pleases you.”
He really didn’t care, as long as they were married by Christmas.
Again, she raised an eyebrow at him. “I knew I picked the right brother.”
She was referring of course to his older brother Devon, who had recently considered her in his own search for a bride, but had chosen another. Much to Letitia’s dismay and displeasure.
She was also acknowledging the fact that Vincent was bending to her will, for she was the kind of woman who liked to have her own way.
He really didn’t care about that either. He would bend all the way to China if it would secure his inheritance and get him his five thousand pounds. After that,
the bending would, of course, come to an end.
Together they hurried up the steps and found dry cover under the enormous portico and clock tower. Vincent lowered the umbrella, while his fiancée wiped a gloved hand over her skirts.
“I swear, Vincent,” she snapped. “This weather...”
He was growing tired of the subject, and quite frankly, tired of her. It had been a long coach ride from the train station.
“The sun will be shining soon enough.” Turning, he handed the umbrella to the footman and offered her his arm.
Letitia’s mother had already gone inside and was meeting his own mother in the grand entrance hall. The two duchesses were laughing about something, and their voices echoed off the high frescoed ceiling. They both stopped and turned when Vincent and Letitia swept through the door on a tempestuous gale that whipped at her skirts then died away as the doors swung shut behind them.
“Vincent, welcome home,” his mother said, crossing the marble floor with hands outstretched to greet him. She wore an amber silk day dress, and her golden hair was knotted elegantly. She was without question one of the most beautiful women in England, despite the fact that she had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday. Tall and slim and blessed with an inherent warmth and charm, she was adored by everyone who made her acquaintance, and was famous throughout England for her kindness and charity.
“Hello, Mother.” Vincent kissed her cheek, then turned to the dark beauty at his side. “You remember Lady Letitia. It is my pleasure to present her as my betrothed.”
Letitia curtsied.
Vincent’s mother took her future daughter-in-law’s hands in her own and kissed her on the cheek. “My dear, welcome back to Pembroke. We are delighted to see you again, and under such happy circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Letitia glanced at Vincent and inclined her head as if to remind him of something.
He stared at her for a cool moment before he turned his eyes back to his mother. “It was very generous of you, Mother, to offer Great-grandmother’s necklace. We are touched beyond words.”
The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2) Page 2
