by Louise Allen
‘Cherie,’ the Count remarked with a grimace, ‘you are not alone. He frightens me, too.’
Suddenly she realised the two men were grinning at each other and that her alarm was quite misplaced. The realisation made her angry. ‘Men.’ Somehow she managed not to flounce as she marched out of the room, carefully not slamming the door behind her.
Through the crack she heard the clink of glasses and Nicholas’s short laugh. ‘I do declare, Guy, the girl is more trouble than a barrel-load of monkeys. Thank heaven, I do not have a daughter.’
‘Not one you know of, at any rate, mon brave.’
Cassandra stamped upstairs, their laughter ringing in her ear. Men. They were all as bad as each other.
Chapter Seven
Nicholas was no less infuriating the next day, nor more inclined to forgive her.
Madame Robert was just attempting to arrange Cassandra’s cropped locks into a more feminine style when he swept into the chamber.
‘Milord!’ The housekeeper cast a scandalised eye over his shirtsleeves and crimson dressing gown.
‘You may leave us, Madame. I wish to speak to my ward alone.’
Madame Robert dropped a curtsey and left, stiff-backed.
‘I am not your ward.’
‘I wish to blazes you were not my anything,’ Nicholas snapped. From the dark circles under his eyes he had obviously had very little sleep. It had done nothing for his temper but, Cassandra thought wistfully, it had not marred his looks. ‘Unfortunately you have made yourself my responsibility and after last night…’
Cassandra blushed, remembering the heat of his body crushed against hers. ‘How could you be so unkind as to talk about that?’
‘After you confided the truth about your identity to one of the worst rakes in Paris, we need to talk.’ They were at cross-purposes: her indiscretion with the Count was obviously more important than the encounter in his bedroom. ‘Guy will never be able to resist the joke, it will be all over the City.’
‘Is he a rake?’ Cassandra enquired, momentarily distracted. ‘I’ve always been warned about them, of course, but I never thought I’d ever meet one.’
‘Cassandra, of course he’s a rake – and a gamester to boot. Not that he’d have believed a word of your story, of course. He assumes you’re my mistress, I’ve no doubt.’
Cassandra sat down with a thump. ‘Your mistress? Why would he assume that? Didn’t you tell him how old I was?’ How old I am supposed to be…
‘I doubt if it would have made any difference what I told him after you’d sat there batting your eyelashes at him and holding his hands. He’s quite well aware you are only fifteen. You are so naive, Cassandra, you make me feel forty.’ He ran his hands through his hair and broke off to roam irritably around the room.
Cassandra sat fingering the muslin of her gown, wondering what was going on in his head as he paced about like a caged panther. With a sinking heart, she recognised how foolish she’d been. Nicholas’s whole plan had depended on her staying quietly in the house so no whiff of scandal leaked out. Now she had compromised both of them, and possibly Godmama, too. She could hardly be expected to give countenance to a girl widely believed to be her son’s mistress.
‘Nicholas?’
‘What?’ He came to a halt before her, green eyes serious on her face, and she realised how much she was going to miss him.
‘I must go home, mustn’t I?’
‘Impossible. I refuse to send you home to Offley’s tender mercies. No, there is only one solution. You must go to Vienna.’
‘Vienna? To Godmama?’ Cassandra leapt from the chair and took two steps towards him, ready to throw her arms round him, then thought better of it. ‘Oh, Nicholas, thank you, it’s more than I deserve, I know.’
‘Indeed, it is,’ he observed tartly. ‘Now sit down and stop prattling, I must think.’
‘I wasn’t…’ Cassandra began, then subsided into silence, watching his thoughtful face. Vienna. Godmama would bring her out and there’d be balls and receptions and beautiful gowns – and Nicholas would see her as she really was.
‘Mama’s travelling carriage is in the stables, which is fortunate. Gaston will know of a reliable courier to take charge of the journey and Madame Robert will be able to recommend a respectable duenna to look after you.’ He was jotting notes on a set of tablets. ‘Four fully armed outriders, I think, better to be safe than sorry.’
‘But Nicholas, aren’t you coming, too?’
‘Why should I?’
‘But I thought you were going to Vienna next.’
‘No of course not, that was never my plan, not immediately, at any rate. I certainly do not intend to follow the direct route which you will now take. Once I leave here, sooner than I’d intended, thanks to your lack of discretion, I intend going down to the French Mediterranean coast. And then I have my papers to travel into Italy.’ He looked at her and broke off. ‘Cassandra, you did not believe I was about to change my plans in order to escort you personally to Vienna? Heaven help me, girl, haven’t you caused me enough trouble already?’
‘But Godmama would expect…’
‘Mama would have expected me to have boxed your ears back in London and packed you off to your father. Never have I done anything I regret more than bringing you here.’
‘That I doubt,’ Cassandra responded waspishly.
‘Meaning?’
Cassandra recognised his rising temper, but was too angry to heed it. ‘What’s done is done, and you are responsible for me, you said so yourself. I don’t want to go by myself with some hatchet-faced female. And it will be dangerous: you shouldn’t abandon me.’ She was sure she would be perfectly safe with the precautions he had outlined, but it was to tempting not to try and make him feel guilty.
‘I am flattered you should think I could protect you where four armed outriders could not. What you are really afraid of is being forced to behave yourself for a change.’
They were glaring at each other now. Nicholas slipped the tablets into his pockets and stood up. ‘You will do as you are told while you are under my protection. I have a cultural itinerary planned and I intend to follow it.’ He turned towards the door, dismissing her.
‘Cultural activities like last night, I suppose?’ she jibed. ‘Intellectual conversation with half-naked women? A philosophical study of games of chance? I can imagine what an exhausting time you will have. No wonder you won’t come to Vienna with me, it might stop you enriching yourself culturally.’
Nicholas swivelled slowly to face her, anger etched in his features. ‘You, Cassandra Weston, are a shrew. Sharp-tongued, devoid of feminine graces and intolerant to boot. Well, I capitulate. You have your victory.’
Cassandra swallowed her resentment at his insults. ‘You will accompany me, then?’
‘On the contrary, Miss Weston. You will accompany me. You can see what pleasure there is to be had in travelling on rough roads, sleeping in flea-infested inns and eating disgusting food. And, of course, I shall rely on you to draw my attention to all the cultural sights along the way.’
He was exaggerating the difficulties to frighten her, of course. Cassandra beamed at him. ‘Oh, thank you, Nicholas. I knew you wouldn’t have been so unkind as to have left me. Marseilles and the Mediterranean and Italy. I can hardly wait. Will we cross the Alps?’
‘I sincerely hope not. I despair of you, Cassandra, this is not a treat, this is a punishment. Now, get ready and pack your bags. We will leave after luncheon, before the Count has spread the news of your presence round every gossip in Paris.’
‘Shall I travel as your daughter or your niece?’ Cassandra smoothed her muslin gown. ‘We had better decide for the passports.’
‘Daughter? I’m thirteen years older than you are, brat, not twenty.’ Nicholas grinned wickedly, showing a gleam of white teeth. ‘Think again, Cassandra. I have no intention of dragging a lady’s maid across Europe to lend you countenance. I brought you here as my valet, and my valet you will remai
n.’
‘I will say this for you, Cassie, you don’t sulk.’ Nicholas leaned back against the brocade squabs of his uncle’s travelling carriage and eyed her with more favour than he had for several days.
They had been handed back their documents duly stamped at the Porte d’Italie and Cassandra was folding them carefully back into the leather satchel on the seat beside her.
‘There’s never been much point in sulking,’ she observed, with a last regretful look out of the window as Paris receded behind them. ‘When you spend all your time alone, nobody notices.’
‘Poor brat. What a very dull life you must have led. No wonder you wanted an adventure.’ Nicholas closed his eyes and settled his shoulders more comfortably. ‘Wake me up if anything interesting happens.’
Cassandra sighed and gazed out of the window. It was as if the three days in Paris hadn’t happened. Perhaps she’d dreamt it. Her fingers came up involuntarily to brush her lips. No, that embrace had been no dream. She shivered with mixed pleasure and apprehension. It was foolish to dwell so on her first kiss. It hadn’t meant a thing to Nicholas, that was plain. And now she must settle back into the master-servant relationship when they were among people. When they were alone she must be even more careful because if she continued to provoke and tease him, he would soon realise she wasn’t the child she pretended.
Or did he realise, anyway? The Earl of Lydford was no fool. Perhaps he was pretending to believe her for her own sake. If the truth came out into the open, he would have no choice but to send her off to his mother and hope she wasn’t ruined irretrievably.
On the other hand, his taste in women seemed to run to the older, elegant, experienced and, no doubt married, ladies like Lady Broome. He wouldn’t notice well-scrubbed, innocent country girls. The carriage lurched on the rutted surface of the dry road and Cassandra grabbed a hanging strap to steady herself, wishing she’d brought a book with her. An Italian one would have served to polish up the reading she’d already done in her father’s library.
Nicholas dozed on, seemingly unaffected by the jolting. Cassandra sighed. This was about as exciting as driving to Ware market on a Wednesday. Perhaps foreign travel wasn’t as stimulating as all the books said.
After four long, dusty, uncomfortable days on the road, Nicholas could tell that Cassie was rueing ever challenging him to take her with him. The roads east would have been no better, it was true, but at least she would have been treated as a young lady, with all the status of travelling as the ward of the Earl of Lydford.
Instead, at the end of the interminable roads, mercifully shaded with the poplars Napoleon had had planted to shelter his marching troops, all she could look forward to was a hard truckle bed behind a screen in the corner of Nicholas’s chamber.
The inn at Briare had been acceptable, but the food at Nevers had been every bit as bad as he had been bracing himself for, swimming with grease and heavy with garlic.
As the coach swung out of Maçon, bouncing over the cobbles behind a fresh team, he caught her eye. ‘Comfortable?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’ Cassie, it seemed, had vowed not to complain, to give him no excuse to say I told you so. Instead, she smiled back, even as her fingers twitched over the additional flea bites she had acquired the night before in the inn, and turned to distract herself with catching glimpses of the river traffic on the Saône.
She had courage, the infuriating brat. Fleas, garlic, dreadful roads – none of them wrung a word of complaint out of her. And she had never mentioned that kiss. I must have been mad. Nicholas resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands and yank out tufts of hair in an attempt to blank the memory of that innocent mouth under his, that surprisingly womanly body under his hands. He should be ashamed of himself. He was ashamed. True, in law, Cassie was old enough to marry, but that didn’t make it right.
He opened the post road map he had bought in Paris and distracted himself by studying it. ‘Not much more of this,’ he remarked. ‘We should reach Lyons this afternoon.’
‘It isn’t so bad, not the actual travelling, anyway. At least your uncle’s carriage is well-sprung and clean, unlike those filthy hired coaches. Or the diligences,’ she added, as they swung out to overtake one of the public coaches lumbering along at four miles an hour with its creaking wicker sides and piles of luggage.
‘Well, you might be all right, but I’m as stiff as a post.’ He stretched his long legs as far as he could, then put his hands behind his neck to rub the sore muscles. ‘I need some exercise and a change of scene from these squalid hovels and dusty verges.’
‘I have to admit the scenery has been disappointing, although the river’s interesting.’ Cassie knelt up on the seat to look out over the wide river, glittering grey in the sunlight. ‘Everyone seems so poor,’ she added, her eyes following a group of ragged children waiting to besiege the diligence with outstretched palms.
‘The aftermath of the war. Napoleon stripped the country of its men and its resources. The women are handsome, though,’ he mused, admiring a slender young woman, her skirts kirtled up to show strong, tanned legs. She caught his eye as the coach slowed to negotiate the herd of pigs she was driving, and smiled, exposing a few blackened teeth. ‘Perhaps not,’ he added quickly, withdrawing back into the coach.
‘None of them seem to have many teeth left,’ Cassandra observed. ‘The guidebook says it’s caused by the frequent fogs, but I can’t see how, can you?’
‘No, but it is a powerful aid to virtue. Come, let’s play cards.’ He pulled out a pack from one of the numerous pockets lining the doors of the coach and began to deal. ‘Your piquet is becoming passable.’
‘A penny for your thoughts or can’t you decide what to do with that hand?’ he asked when she hesitated over a discard.
She put down a red three and said with her usual devastating honesty, ‘I was thinking how nice you were being, just like an older brother, not the arrogant Earl of Lydford.
Brother, yes that’s the way to think of her. ‘You make me sound like an ogre. Of course I’m being nice, you’re behaving yourself.’ He grinned. ‘And that was a very foolish discard. My point.’
Cassie swung one buckled shoe back and forth, clearly fighting the urge to kick him on the ankle. ‘Aggravating man,’ she muttered.
The Saône and Rhône met at Lyons, cutting their way through the ridge of hills down which the city tumbled to the quaysides. After the succession of squalid villages and provincial towns through which they’d passed, Lyons seemed almost as splendid as Paris.
The postilions turned the carriage in to the yard of the Dauphin, one of the best inns in the city. The tired horses stood steaming in the traces as Cassandra, who was pleased with the way her fluency was coming along, gave instructions in French to the porters and Nicholas was greeted by the patron, effusive in his greetings to the English milord.
‘We are in luck tonight,’ Nicholas commented, as the innkeeper bowed them through the front door. ‘I have secured two bedchambers and a private dining-room.’
‘Yes, I overheard.’
Nicholas arched a laconic eyebrow. ‘You are turning into an passable valet, Cass. The state of my linen is improving, although I cannot say the same for my boots, and your French is excellent.’
‘Your lordship is too kind,’ Cassandra murmured, sketching a bow as she stood aside for him to enter the room.
‘Impertinent brat, and yes, I am too kind,’ Nicholas murmured in return. ‘Wine and biscuits, my good man. And send hot water and two baths. I dislike dirty servants,’ he added, catching the innkeeper’s surprised look at such consideration for a valet.
The luxury of soaking in hot water, after days of surreptitious dabbing with a rag and cold water, was blissful. Cassandra emerged pink and glowing to rummage in the medicine chest for the salve to dab on her flea bites. The jar was almost empty, obviously Nicholas was similarly afflicted. She put on her one remaining clean shirt, buttoned her waistcoat firmly over her breasts, checked with a
sideways glance in the mirror for betraying curves and, satisfied, tapped on Nicholas’s door.
He was sitting, feet up, in the window seat, languidly paring his nails and watching the street below.
‘We need to go shopping,’ Cassandra remarked. ‘I need a shirt and you need neck cloths and we both need flea salve. I don’t believe oil of lavender does anything to keep them away, whatever the books say.’
‘And you need another haircut.’ Nicholas studied her critically. ‘Those wispy little curls are really quite fetching – ’ His green eyes were suddenly warm on her face and Cassandra felt the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘but not on a valet. Come here, I’ll do it now while I have the scissors out.’
Reluctantly, Cassandra came and perched on the edge of the window seat.
‘Look down so I can do the back.’ His fingers seemed to burn on the skin at the nape of her neck as he lifted and snipped each curl. ‘Stop wriggling,’ he ordered, dropping one hand to her shoulder to hold her steady as he trimmed around her ear.
Cassandra could feel the heat of Nicholas’s body, warm from the bath as hers was, his breath feathering her ear, the coldness of the metal as he rested the scissors on her cheekbone for a second. Her breath came short, and under the constricting waistcoat she felt her nipples harden against the fine linen shirt. Instinctively she turned her face to his, her lips slightly parted, and found him watching her, the scissors still in his fingers.
There was a long silence, heavy in the hot room, the only movement the swirl of the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Nicholas bent towards her, his eyes fixed on her parted lips. The scissors dropped from his heedless fingers and skidded across the polished boards with a clatter and they jerked apart.
Chapter Eight
Cassandra leapt to her feet. ‘Where’s the clothes brush? I’ve got hair all over my waistcoat.’ She was almost gabbling, avoiding his eyes as she rummaged in the dressing case for the brush.
A tap on the door and a waiter bringing in a tray of wine and almond biscuits was a merciful distraction. Nicholas seemed quite relaxed as he sipped the wine, but Cassandra still could not bring herself to meet his eyes.
