Before he could open his mouth to reply, his mother had risen from her chair and put her embroidery hoop aside. Approaching the bed, she began fussing over the baron, pulling the bedclothes up to his chest and tucking him tight, brushing the meager strands of hair back from his forehead and then pressing the back of her hand there to check for clamminess or fever.
“Really, William, you mustn’t encourage such behavior. My Robert isn’t like those reckless fools with their carriage races, and over-imbibing and wenching and the like. He’s a good boy, aren’t you,
Robert?”
“Of course, Mother,” he murmured, a force of habit.
He would always do his best to keep her anxiety at bay, conceding to how demanding and overbearing the loss of her sons had made her. His father did the same each day, submitting to her coddling and bearing it all in silence. His affection for her allowed him to see that it made her feel better to know the people around her were cared for and safe. She clung to them because they were all she had left.
If she ever found out about his night with Cassandra, she’d probably suffer an apoplexy. The thought brought a slight smirk to his lips as he wondered if she’d still think him such a ‘good boy’ if she knew he’d enjoyed having a woman tie him to a bed and straddle his face.
“Robert, have you heard a word I’ve said?” she snapped, pulling him out his reverie.
He blinked and shook his head, giving her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. What was that?”
“Dinner … tonight with the Fletcher’s. You promised to escort me, remember?”
He stifled a groan and fought to keep his annoyance from showing. After all, he had promised to accompany her to the neighbor’s residence for the evening, as his father was no longer able to leave his bed for long stretches of time without growing weak. However, he remained well aware that this entire affair was nothing more than a matchmaking scheme cooked up by his mother and Lady Fletcher, whose youngest daughter Lucy was unwed with a massive dowry. Never mind that Briarwell made more than enough income to keep them comfortable and a dowry wasn’t needed; his mother obviously thought an heiress would prove the cure to his heartsickness over Daphne.
“Of course,” he said, rather than tell her he’d rather suffer through having his teeth extracted one by one. “I cleared my evening of any plans at your request.”
She smiled and nodded, using a damp cloth to mop at the baron’s forehead. His father didn’t seem to need any such attention, but bore it in placid silence.
“Very good. I cannot wait for you to become more acquainted with Miss Fletcher. She’s such a lovely girl, and quite accomplished, I understand. Her mother says she sings, plays the pianoforte, and is quite adept with water colors.”
So was every other English chit fresh from the schoolroom. One couldn’t throw a stone around these parts without hitting a debutante with a mother standing by ready to titter on and on about how ‘accomplished’ her daughter was.
But, he couldn’t tell his mother that such women did not hold his interest. Not without her pointing out that his pursuit of a more unconventional woman had ended with him being tossed over for another man. Such women were fickle, she would insist, and to pursue a safer option such as Miss Fletcher would be in his best interest.
“I look forward to meeting her.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Robert found himself wishing he had found some way to back out of his obligation. He might have faked a cough, throwing his mother into a fit of panic as she shooed him off to bed and sent for a physician to ensure he didn’t have croup. He might have thrown himself down the stairs and broken his ankle, so his mother could not coerce him into going anywhere for several months.
Or, he might have told his mother to sod off altogether before striding out of the house, throwing himself onto the back of his horse and racing off to someplace where she couldn’t follow and try to drag him back—like a gaming hell or an or a brothel, or an opium den.
That last one might have been a bit dramatic and unnecessary. But, after suffering the company of the insipid Fletcher family and their bland daughter, he’d begun to wish he had done anything other than act the dutiful son.
Now, there was nothing for it but to get through the evening without succumbing to the urge to bash his head against the Fletchers' drawing room wall.
They had arrived early on his mother’s insistence—an entire hour before dinner. Lady Fletcher, a woman who proved a match for his mother in age, stature, and overbearingness, had been thrilled at the chance to put her daughter on display. After settling them into a drawing room and offering him a brandy and his mother a cordial, she’d bustled off in search of Miss Lucy Fletcher, whom they’d been assured was almost finished dressing for dinner.
Robert had taken half his brandy in one swallow, determined to begin dulling his senses as early in the evening as possible. After ten minutes of waiting while his mother remarked upon and criticized every element of the drawing room’s decor she found to be in bad taste, Lady Fletcher appeared with her daughter.
He tried not to judge anyone based on appearance alone, after all there were many who often took one look at him and thought him shallow and empty-headed as if the Almighty could not have blessed him with a brain to go along with his pretty face.
Miss Lucy Fletcher was not unattractive, but neither was she a stunning beauty. That might not have mattered if not for the vacancy he found when he peered into her eyes—as if she were nothing more than a doll being propped up and moved about by her mother. She even spoke with her mother's voice, a low near-whisper he had to strain to hear. He supposed the girl had been taught that it was demure and ladylike, but he found it a trial to hang on to a single word she said when he could hardly hear them.
After the introductions were made, Lady Fletcher had taken to guiding the conversation, doing everything she could to highlight her daughter’s attributes. The baroness had acted as the consummate accomplice.
“Robert, isn’t Miss Fletcher’s gown the most lovely shade of white?”
All the debutantes wore white, and white looked the same to him no matter who was wearing it. Still, he had nodded and smiled, telling Lucy she looked fetching, not mentioning that the sheer number of ruffles on the frock made her look as if she ought to be adorning a table as an ornament.
“Lucy, dear, tell Mr. Stanley about the watercolor landscape you’ve been working on,” Lady Fletcher had prodded.
The girl had flushed and then began explaining to him, in her whisper of a voice, every aspect of her countryside painting with painstaking detail—right down to the technique she’d used on the sheep.
“They’re difficult to paint realistically, you see, for sheep are known for being white, while in truth they aren’t entirely white at all. They appear rather gray at times … dirty, you know. Well, I didn’t want my sheep to appear dirty, but not pure white either. So it took me hours to find the right combination of paints to get it just right.”
Dear God, if ever you thought to strike me dead for some transgression or another, now might be a marvelous time to do so.
His prayer had gone unheeded, and he’d had to suffer through several more minutes of watercolor talk. Such conversation shifted to horses when Lord Fletcher and his son entered the room, a topic that Robert held a marginal interest in. But, right as they’d begun discussing the latest offerings to become available at Tattersall’s, Lady Fletcher had coaxed her daughter to the piano, insisting they ought to enjoy some music before dinner. And yet again, Lucy was thrust back into the spotlight.
She played well enough, but Robert yet again noticed the emptiness in her eyes as she stared off at some point across the room, her chin tilted at an angle just so. The move seemed practiced—as if her mother had shown her how to flaunt her profile to its advantage.
Insipid, the both of them.
Cassandra’s confused muddle of blue-gray eyes flashed through his mind, turbulent and filled with a thousand secrets. No one who had looked i
nto those eyes for more than a few seconds could call her bland. No one who had studied the contours of her face, searching and not just seeing, could call her forgettable.
Tightening his hand around his tumbler, he’d knocked back what was left of his brandy and did his best to tear his thoughts away from her. It would not do to work himself into a state of unquenchable arousal in the company of others. Best to save it for when he could be alone and revel in it, taking his cock in hand and stroking himself off to thoughts of Cassandra on top of him, mastering him, bringing him to life.
Dinner had bored him to tears, with the food proving to be more interesting than the company. He’d done his best to be a good guest, forcing smiles at the right moments and answering any questions that were thrown his way—all while wishing he could devote his entire attention to the veal on his plate.
It was truly good veal.
His mother nudged him beneath the table at regular intervals, her way of letting him know he wasn’t paying enough attention to Miss Fletcher. His responses were mechanical, his head swiveling to the woman seated at his side each time his mother’s elbow made contact with his ribs.
“Miss Fletcher, do you not think these mashed turnips to be quite the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Stanley, Mother says Cook makes the best turnips in all of Suffolk!”
“Miss Fletcher, you played the pianoforte very well. You must have worked quite hard at it.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Stanley … but I enjoy the practice ever so much. Mother says I’m the best she’s ever heard.”
“Miss Fletcher, have you ever been to London?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to go. Mother says I may have a Season next year … if I find I do not like my prospects here at home.”
She’d given him a sidelong glance at that, batting her eyelashes and seeming to try to coerce him into something that would lead her into believing he held any interest in her prospects. As he wasn’t at all interested, he simply smiled and went back to his veal.
Now that dinner and dessert had ended, and Lady Fletcher had urged them all into the drawing room for after-dinner drinks and conversation, Robert found himself counting the seconds until they could make a graceful exit.
He’d reached one thousand, two hundred and ninety-four seconds, when a bit of the conversation finally piqued his interest.
“They’re calling him the Masked Menace. He’s become quite notorious for his escapades along the Great North Road!”
“Martin, really!” Lady Fletcher huffed, clicking her tongue at her son. “Such conversation isn’t appropriate in the company of ladies.”
“Oh, but tales of highwaymen are ever so romantic,” Lucy murmured, perking up at bit.
“There is nothing romantic about a criminal terrorizing London’s lord and ladies, pilfering their jewels and such,” his mother had declared with a disdainful sniff. “He sounds like an awful miscreant to me.”
Robert frowned, rising to join Martin at the sideboard for more port. “What are you all talking about? Who is the Masked Menace?”
“You haven’t heard?” Martin asked, filling Robert’s cut crystal glass first, then his own. “He’s a highwayman who’s made quite a name for himself over the past several months. They say he’s like a specter— coming and going while dressed all in black—complete with a mask and domino as if he’s attending a masquerade. Can you imagine?”
“I can, and it sounds like a perfectly horrid nightmare,” Lady Fletcher declared. “I heard he even used a knife to cut the solid gold buttons off a man’s waistcoat.”
Martin guffawed, spilling a bit of port onto the back of his hand. “Whoever heard of such a thing … solid gold buttons on a waistcoat?”
“The man was one of those fops, you know … high heels and ruffles, and patches and all that,” Lady Fletcher declared, turning up her nose as if said fop stood before them, sullying her drawing room with his flashy sense of style.
“Well, what’s to be done about it?” Robert asked, enjoying himself more now than he had throughout the entire evening. He could imagine London ballrooms and clubs were ablaze with the gossip.
“What can anyone do?” Martin said with a shrug. “The man come and goes so fast no one can get a good look at him. I suppose the Bow Street Runners might have a go at hunting him down, but I’d be willing to wager they’ll never catch him.”
“I hope they do,” the baroness said with an exaggerated shudder. “Until the reprobate is brought to justice, the roads will not be safe to travel. I am so glad you returned from London when you did, Robert. It is far safer here.”
“Indeed,” Lady Fletcher agreed. “Now let us talk of something else. The subject of highwaymen isn’t fit for my Lucy.”
The girl in question blushed and stared off into the fire, likely dreaming about some whimsical highwayman in a black cape come to whisk her away.
“Oh, have you heard we’re getting a new neighbor?” Martin said. “The Duke of Penrose of all people!”
Now, he had Robert’s full attention. The Duke of Penrose happened to be Cassandra’s uncle, who had inherited the dukedom after the death of her father. The former duke had sired four daughters onto the dowager duchess, and so the title and all accompanying wealth and lands had been left to his brother.
“A duke as a neighbor?” Lucy chirped, sitting up a bit straighter. “Oh, that is marvelous news! But, why on earth would he come here?”
“He’s just purchased Easton Park … you know, the abandoned
Fairchild estate.”
Easton Park, the estate neighboring Briarwell, had belonged to Daphne’s family until they’d been forced to abandon it due to strained finances. Of course, it had come to light during Bertram’s trial that the family had been beggared by thousands of pounds paid out to the young lord’s victims. They’d paid for the silence of the women he had assaulted, including Cassandra, making it easy for the rest of it to be wasted away—most of it squandered due to an uncle's terrible gambling habit.
“Lord Fairchild sold Easton Park?” the baroness asked, one hand coming up over her bosom. “I had no idea.”
“Well, he’s been beggared and disgraced by the scandal, and of course the property wasn’t entailed, so it could be sold. Well, Penrose himself decided to purchase it and have it renovated. The tenants are in dire straits, so I suppose he means to set things right. The estate will turn a tidy profit once he gets it up and running again.”
Robert had it on good authority that the vast majority of Easton Park’s tenants had abandoned their homes, many of them seeking work and a better living situation at Briarwell. But, he did not mention that, far more interested in Penrose moving into the neighboring home. The man seemed to prefer dwelling in London, at his massive townhome in Grosvenor Square along with the dowager and her youngest, unwed daughter. Still a bachelor himself, he must be thinking of settling down if he were purchasing another large country estate so close to Town.
“Does he intend to take up residence there?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
Meanwhile, his heart had begun to hammer at the thought of Cassandra living so near he could walk through the woods separating Briarwell from Easton Park and reach her within minutes.
Martin shrugged. “Rumor has it, he intends to continue residing mostly in London, though renovations have begun on the property as well as the tenants’ cottages. I’ve heard he’s allowing a relative to take up in the dower house. The former duchess has no use for it, as everyone knows she prefers living in Town. So one of the sisters will be living there alone … the unwed one … the spinster.”
Cassandra.
His pulse leaped, his blood racing in his veins and leaving a warm tingle in its wake. Cassandra was coming to Suffolk. She would live close enough that he might see her often, could talk to her, perhaps come to know her … submit to being tied to a bed again and ravished within an inch of his life.
A slow smile spread a
cross his face, which he had to wipe away before his mother noticed. It wouldn’t do for her to know he had any interest in Cassandra, who she’d likely find to be even more unsuitable than Daphne. Never mind that she was the daughter of a duke. She was tainted by a horrible scandal and had been shunned by the vast majority of the ton.
As if on cue, his mother made an inarticulate sound of scorn. “I cannot say I am keen on the idea of having such a neighbor. It is … unsavory.”
Robert’s hand clenched around his glass, and he bit back a scathing retort, trying instead to be his usual diplomatic self. “Mother, it is hardly her fault. She’s been the victim of a terrible crime.”
“Yes, but did she have to air it all out so publicly? It is vulgar.”
Yes, it is so horribly vulgar for a woman to want her rapist to be held accountable.
“I understand what you mean, Lady Stanley,” Lady Fletcher chimed in. “Of course no one blames her for what that despicable man has done. But then … one does wonder why she’d allow herself to be led off alone. A proper young lady knows not to go sneaking about with a gentleman. There are consequences for such actions.” “Precisely,” the baroness said with a curt nod.
“Whatever her own mistakes, she has been through enough,” Robert argued, trying to keep from throwing his glass across the room and asking his mother and her friend what the devil was the matter with them. “The scorn of the ton has surely been bad enough, so we ought to endeavor to be kind to her.”
“Oh, but I have heard she is such a surly creature,” Lucy said with a shake of her head, as if she couldn’t understand a woman who wasn’t constantly smiling or being biddable. Of course she wouldn’t. “I don’t think I could ever get along with such a woman.”
Robert’s face went hot, and he realized his agitation had begun to show when his mother reached out to pat his hand with a little laugh.
“Oh, very well, Robert. Of course we will try to be kind to the girl. Really, my Robert is such a gentleman. So kind and always thinking of others. I adore him for it.”
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 8
