by Laura Parker
Anger pinked her cheeks again as she remembered the moment. Her son’s ravenous appetite had saved her any more such insults, and she had no intention of returning to them. “Tell the marquess I feel unwell and am unable to return to his banquet.”
“I’ll tell him,” Hannah replied sourly, “but I doubt he’ll hear of it. Come tomorrow your bastard’s to be christened heir to Briarcliffe. You’ll have precious little say in his life after that.”
Cassandra did not raise her head until the woman had gone. Six weeks earlier she had given birth to a son, and she had not slept a full night since for fear he would be taken from her.
“Be easy, Adam,” she whispered, bending to kiss the small head at her breast. “No one will take you from me. I won’t allow it.”
In answer to his mother’s gentle tone, the baby sighed and released her nipple. As his head lolled away from her breast, a milky stain marbled his smiling lips.
Cassandra watched, entranced, as one sable-lashed lid opened briefly and an eye winked into view. It had not ceased to be a wonder to her, the deep startling blue of his eyes. The burning color of those eyes was not the famous mirror-bright Briarcliffe gaze but held the deep fiery blue of sapphires.
As she gazed lovingly on the small dark head with its tiny features and lips sweetly pouted, she frowned. She could no longer remember the features of her child’s father. Sable-black hair, an eyepatch, and a wicked emerald gaze: they were her only memories of her ravisher. How sad, she thought. Her son would never know his father.
For a moment an absurd longing seized her. It was a desire developed somewhere in the middle months of her confinement, and in her loneliness she had given it full rein. A natural need, she reminded herself, but one of impossibility. The desire embarrassed her. How could she want such a thing? The father of her child was a common criminal, hanged for a crime of which she had no knowledge. He was a wicked man. But in moments like these, with none to look upon her soul but herself, she was taken with the shameful desire to see the gypsy once more, to tell him that he had a son, something of himself left behind in the world.
She winced as another familiar feeling swelled within her. In all the months, long after his features had blurred in memory, she could not still the leap of her pulse at the reminder of Merlyn Ross’s touch. He had earned the condemnation of the courts and ruined her life. Yet, on that night ten months before, in his company, she had learned the secret lure of desire.
Cassandra closed her eyes against the remembered warmth of his kiss. “No!” she whispered fiercely. If the memory of a single night could so beguile her, how much better would be the passion shared with one she loved. This madness in her blood was nothing more than the longing of a woman who knew the possibilities of desire. The real Merlyn Ross would be detestable in her sight today.
Laughter from below drifted once more into her hearing as she bent and kissed her son’s moist brow before hoisting him to her shoulder to gently pat a burp from him. “You’re growing, my fine lad,” she murmured proudly. To her motherly satisfaction, the warm weight of his body seemed to increase daily.
She rose from the chair in her sitting room and crossed into the nursery which adjoined her bedroom. As she bent to place the child on his stomach on the feather mattress a rill of misgiving touched her. She had not even been consulted about the name to be given her child. Tenderly she pulled the blankets over him and began a slow massaging of his small back. She did not know what name the marquess planned to give the child. It did not matter. She would claim her motherly rights. He would be called Adam.
“Lady Cassandra?”
The whispered call interrupted Cassandra’s thoughts and she raised her eyes. Kendal Dermont stood at the door, his pure white jabot shining brightly against the somber brown velvet of his coat. His waistcoat was beige silk embroidered with white thread, but his white stockings and black leather shoes proclaimed him a superior servant.
“Mr. Dermont!” she admonished softly, a finger to her lips for silence.
“You’re to come to the great hall at once, Lady Cassandra. The marquess requires it.” Kendal was careful that his tone was quiet, but he did not immediately back away. His eyes had missed nothing, including the gaping open of the lady’s gown as she bent over the crib. Beneath the low-cut bodice, the full creamy roundness of her breasts was briefly exposed to his view.
Cassandra stood up and pretended not to notice the look in his eyes as she rearranged her bodice, but a direct order from the marquess could not be so easily ignored. She knew it was better not to test his uncharacteristic goodwill that had begun with Adam’s birth, at least until she knew what he intended for her future. “Tell His Lordship I shall come down in a few moments.”
“Told you the marquess would have his way,” Hannah jeered as she stepped into the room. With a wave of her bony hand she shooed Kendal away and then motioned Cassandra to turn around. “Take a deep breath and hold it,” she ordered as she began lacing up the back of the ball gown. “Lord, you’re near popping out of this gown. No wonder Kendal was hanging back. Got a eyeful, he did. And him always the first to call you a reedy bit of muslin. But you showed him a pair of melons would shame a farmer’s daughter. You looking to birth another bastard, you’ve made a friend.”
For months Cassandra had ignored the woman’s crude remarks. Now her fingers curled into fists until the emerald and sapphire ring on her left hand bit into the flesh of her palm. She turned on the older woman, rage smoldering in the dark velvet of her eyes.
“How dare you call my son that filthy name! Get out of my sight before I repeat your slander to the marquess!”
The speech astonished the servant. Her mouth fell open and then her gaze became twinkling sly. “Twas like that, was it? Could’ve told the marquess the minute I spied that melting look in your eye when you gazed on the boy ‘twas no common rape planted the seed.”
She cackled with laughter. “You’re a sly puss, playing so meek and mild a body wouldn’t think butter would melt on your tongue. No one’s guessed how you loved every minute of lying with your gypsy lover.”
Cassandra choked on her fury. It had never occurred to her that a woman’s natural inclination should have been to hate the spawn of rape. Yet it was clear for all to see that she loved the child beyond all reason.
She glanced at the woman and knew that nothing would be gained by another word. Instead, she raised her chin and passed into the hall.
When she reached the top of the staircase into the great hall, music swelled up toward her as if in greeting. The melody entered her thoughts and she paused, one small hand tightened on the top banister until the knuckles whitened. Music Master Simmons had been particularly fond of the elder Bach.
No. She gave her head a small shake. She must not remember old sorrows and regrets tonight. Too much anguish lay in a past that could not be changed. Indefinable urges surged through her, stiffening her spine. She did not care what the company below thought of her, but she must be strong and fearless for Adam’s sake. ‘I’ll not be fodder for their spiteful tongues,” she whispered to herself.
She descended the staircase, aware of nothing so much as a vast annoyance for the noisy company below whose volume drowned out the beautiful music. Beneath the huge blazing chandeliers the assembly shimmered in rich colors of scarlet, blue, yellow, and plum the hall appeared as a huge aviary of tropical birds in exotic plumage.
The rich, throaty feminine voice caught her attention first and then Cassandra spied the woman. She was seated at the foot of the staircase surrounded by a half dozen admirers. Her gown was a cool rich green, and above the low neckline her pale, beautifully rounded bosom and shoulders rose as if emerging from a jade sea. Here was the most exotic bird of them all, Cassandra found herself thinking, regarding the lovely woman whose red hair had been powdered to a pale pink. In a sudden rush of envy, she wished she were the woman in the bright gown, for then she would not feel quite so foolish or awkward
.
Cassandra glanced at a nearby mirror and the reflection of herself in the tight fitted gown with its wide paniers. Here was no exotic creature. The beautifully made gown of heavy gold satin seemed to bleed her face of color. At her throat and hanging from her ears were the brilliant Briarcliffe diamonds that the marquess insisted she wear, but they were cold and heavy, like a prisoner’s collar about her slender neck. The image reflected back was of a small, white-faced girl overwhelmed by the brilliant cloth. With a sigh she looked away, giving her full concentration to descending the stairway.
When she reached the bottom step, she looked to see that the marquess did, indeed, require a word with her. He stood staring at her from the middle of the room, balanced on a pair of gold-handled walking canes. A full-bottomed wig framed his face in masses of gray curls, while diamonds winked in the rows of white silk ruffles spilling from his shirtfront. More precious gems decorated his fingers. From his head to his red-heeled shoes, he was every inch a nobleman, but that was not what made her eyes widen as she neared him. He was smiling, a genuine smile of pleasure.
“Gawking ain’t the way of nobility, lady,” the marquess snapped, his clear eyes twinkling like the diamonds in his jabot. He lifted the lorgnette attached to his coat with a ribbon to gauge the effect of the gown he had selected for the mother of his new grandson and found it wanting. “God’s blood! Put you in the most expensive material on the Continent and still you defy me! You wear the gleam of gold like a shroud.”
Cassandra made no comment on the observation she had just made herself. She was tired and worried and could not pretend a joy she had forgotten how to feel.
“Hannah! Where’s that blasted woman?” The marquess looked around as if expecting to find the maid standing in the shadow of one of the hothouse palms that ringed the room. It seemed to make no difference to him that his guests had halted their conversations in order to better listen in on his.
“Damme! Lady Cassandra, you look like death!” The marquess teetered dangerously on his canes. ‘I’ll have no puling woman on my hands. A lusty Briarcliffe boy, ‘tis what you’ve bred and what I intend to raise!”
Reading mortification on her face he continued in the same raised tones, “You’re surrounded by Briarcliffes; the sooner you realize nothing else matters beside that, the better off you’ll be. Come the morning the newest one, Dominic Shelby Briarcliffe, will greet the world.”
Cassandra looked from the marquess to those nearest her and saw the suppressed smiles before they turned away. “Perhaps it would be better if I retire with my son,” she suggested in a tight voice, ignoring the name the marquess had just given the child. Dominic was the marquess’s first name and one she would never condescend to use.
“You’ll not. You’re to stay here and smile prettily at my guests.” The marquess lifted one cane to shake it at her. “I won’t pretend to understand it, but you’ve caught the eye of the Duke of Moreston. Wants you to come to visit him at Thorton Place.” He winked at her and leaned near, whispering, “I said you’d have your head once you birthed my grandson. ‘Tis said Moreston’s a stallion. He’ll calm the fret in your blood.”
Cassandra lowered her eyes to shield her contempt for the suggestion from his sight. The Duke of Moreston was the man who had left a faint purple bruise on her right shoulder. Instead, she said, “There’ll be many guests tomorrow, and if I am weary my son will fret. Therefore, allow me to bid you good night, my lord.”
The marquess’s silvery gaze narrowed. “You’ve taken on more than you should. Birthing a babe the size of Dominic has taken the starch out of you. That’s why I’ve sent for a proper wet nurse. Come the morrow, she’ll suckle Dominic.”
“A wet nurse?” Cassandra questioned. “But you promised—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” the marquess cut in. “Dominic needs the rich country cream of a buxom maid, not the thin blue milk of a gentry lass. Moreston’s returning to London directly upon his departure from Briarcliffe. You deserve a reward for the service you’ve done me. I’ve promised you a trip to London. I’m not an unreasonable man.”
Cassandra felt as if a ghostly hand had touched her and she shivered. “I—I don’t want to go, not yet,” she whispered under the watchful eyes of the company. “My son will let no other hold him but me. He cries the moment Hannah touches him, even to change his linen.”
The marquess waved this away. “ ‘Twill soon be put right. Dominic—call him by his Christian name, lady—must learn to command himself. He’s to be a marquess.”
Before she could gather sufficient ammunition to argue, he turned away, leaving her to accept the snickers and murmurs of his guests as best she could.
For a moment Cassandra stood her ground, chin lifted defiantly against anyone who might dare to approach her. But the time for confrontation had passed and she realized that no one would approach her. Indeed, no one seemed to notice that she remained in the hall. Too quickly the notion was dispelled as a voice sounded at her elbow.
“Ah, m’dear. Thought you’d flown. Told the marquess it don’t seem fair, hiding you away after a quick look-see.”
With an inaudible sigh, Cassandra turned to face the Duke of Moreston. His plain round face was even ruddier than she remembered, clashing violently with his pink habit, and when he spoke again she knew why. The warm stale vapors of wine and tobacco brushed her face as he slurred, “Care t’dance? The wre-wretched minuet makes a dammed fine figure.”
Searching desperately for a way of putting him off under the watchful eyes of the marquess, she said, “A breath of fresh air would suit me more at present, Your Grace. Do you not find the company unpleasantly warm?”
The duke rocked back on his heels, expelling an immoderate chuckle. “Damme! You’re a rare treat, madame. A turn about the gardens … fresh air … a little private chat … seclusion.” He reached out and gave her elbow a painful pinch that made Cassandra want to tread on his instep. “L-lead the way, m’dear.”
This idea appealed to her even less than the first and she automatically cast her eyes about in hopes of finding a familiar face, but none of the brilliant company was known to her. And then she saw the newcomer.
He was at the opposite end of the hall, but she felt his gaze touch her as palpably as if his hand had fallen on her arm. As he approached she became aware of many things. He wore his gray wig in the complicated French style called the Solitare. Two rows of curls rode each ear and the long back curls were looped and tied with a black silk ribbon, the ends of which had been brought around over his white cravat and tied in a bow under his chin. His silk stockings and red-heeled shoes with silver buckles labeled him an aristocrat.
It wasn’t only his dress that caught her eye. True, he wore severe black, softened only at wrists and jabot by a delicate fall of pristine lace. Against the backdrop of color and glittering jewels, he looked like a raven among peacocks, self-possessed and predatory. But it was his one-eyed stare that captured her attention.
For one wild moment Cassandra did not breathe. He was familiar, tantalizingly so. Her eyes flew to the black silk ribbon that slashed across his brow at an angle. There must be other men who wore eyepatches, she told herself. There were other tall men who moved with such easy grace. It was the impression of height and darkness and power that made her think of …
Ridiculous, romantic, foolish, delirious, all those names and more she attached to the emotion quaking through her in the brief moments before he was standing before her. She did not know him, and yet …
“Merlyn?” she whispered incredulously.
The stranger moved sharply, as if stung by the sound of her voice, and then he lowered his head slightly so that she could look fully into his face. His complexion was made fashionable by a dusting of rice powder and rouge, and a satin beauty patch road the ridge of his right cheekbone. He wore a patch, yes, but the single eye gazing down at her was not green but blue, the brilliant blue of sapphire.
W
ith a slight bow he took her small hand in his firm grasp and brought it to his lips. “Enchanté, madame,” he intoned in a deep voice with just a hint of the French accent. “The Comte de Valure extends his apologies for arriving late. But then, one may sometimes presume upon old acquaintance to beg pardon.”
“Comte,” Cassandra acknowledged uneasily. Who was he? She did not know him, certainly. And yet he addressed her as if they were old friends.
“I say, Comte, Lady Briarcliffe and I were j-just going for a stroll. Too dashed much of a crush in here.”
The Frenchman gave the duke the briefest of glances before saying, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it appears to me that Lady Briarcliffe is more in need of a goblet of champagne. I believe I see a footman over there.” He pointed in the general direction of the thick of the crowd.
Cassandra saw the duke’s frown turn to consternation and inserted smoothly, “Oh yes, I should love a glass above all else. Please, Your Grace. If you would.” To the last she added a shy smile.
“Your obedient servant,” the Duke of Moreston murmured reluctantly. He turned away, his eyes squinted and his gait unsteady, and lurched toward the middle of the room.
The sinking feeling in Cassandra’s middle took a sudden upward spiral as her gaze rose abruptly to meet the comte’s once more. He was looking at her as if studying her likeness against a long absence. So intense was his gaze that she knew she should be insulted, yet there was nothing suggestive in the look upon his stern features. Still, she felt compelled to speak and break the silence. “You have the advantage of me, monsieur. I don’t recall our meeting, and it’s impossible that I might have forgotten it.”
