Two and twenty and already a widow. And a penniless one at that.
The flames crackled, spraying a shower of sparks along the grate. She’d married her childhood friend, the Honorable John Williams Winterset, at the tender age of eighteen because he’d needed her, because she cared deeply for him, and because she’d had some romantic notion that this grand gesture made her a better person.
However, she’d failed to consider that marrying an already-ill man would rob her of much of her energy, youth, and vitality. And when John finally succumbed to the illness, she’d be left poor, exhausted, hurt, and devoid of a future for herself.
She shook her head, waving her thoughts away but they returned anyway. Most men of worth did not marry a woman who had no dowry, no inheritance, no proof that she’d provide a child. She’d been married for three years, after all. Most wouldn’t understand that John had been too ill for most of their marriage to participate in such amorous activities. Or perhaps they would, if they listened to her long enough for her to explain it. But many would simply pass her by as they looked at fresh-faced debutantes.
She sighed, settling back into her chair. She shouldn’t dwell so, she was far luckier than many. She’d grown up in the shadow of the house she now lived. She, John, and Raithe having been fast friends since childhood. They’d done everything together as children. Raithe had eventually inherited the title of Baron of Balstead and when John had died, he’d taken her in as his best friend’s widow. He’d even offered to marry her himself. A generous offer to be certain and one she likely should have accepted. Except…she’d married a childhood friend once and it had nearly broken her. She simply couldn’t do it again. Raithe was like her brother, it didn’t feel right.
So he’d offered to help her in another way.
He’d collected a group of lords, all excellent prospects for marriage, to arrive at this very house. They thought they were coming for a party. Instead, they were prospective grooms.
Raithe assured her he’d picked men who operated on the fringe of society. Rakes, gamblers, drinkers, they were not the most upstanding gentleman, and, therefore, they’d be more inclined for the unconventional match she presented. Yet each was wealthy and stable in his own way making him a suitable enough husband.
She wasn’t looking for love or even desire. She wasn’t even really interested in another union, but it was a necessary evil.
If she were going to enter into another marriage, her husband may as well provide for her financially, even if his wealth didn’t make her happy or fulfilled or… She closed her eyes. She was casting judgment before she’d even met any of the men.
She curled into the chair, clearly a man’s seat, oversized and overstuffed but perfect for drawing up one’s knees and sulking. At least this match would be about her future comfort and care. Her insides twisted into knots. Was it wrong that the very idea of another marriage filled her with dread rather than excitement?
“Mrs. Winterset,” the butler called from the door. “The first of Lord Balstead’s guests has arrived.”
She unfurled from the chair, standing and turning toward the butler. Raithe had extended invitations to six men, five of whom had accepted. They each thought they were arriving for a week of debauchery.
But the party was supposed to have started days ago and none of them had arrived. In complete frustration, Raithe had left to find them, sure something had happened en route to delay their arrival. Raithe had assured her there was no possible way they’d learned of the deception. He must have been right because one guest had finally come. “Who is it?”
“The Duke of Danesbury,” the man said with a frown.
She covered her midriff with her hands. Had he met Raithe on the journey here? Did he know the other guests were delayed? He surely didn’t understand that there were no other women, no gambling, no drinking…. Just Cassandra.
“Show him in,” she murmured, her stomach turning over once again. She wished Raithe were here now.
He nodded and pivoted back out the door, disappearing down the hall. She turned back to the fire, leaning against the mantle and once again watched the flames. Her hands began to tremble and she drew in a long slow breath to steady her nerves. Then, she schooled her features into a blank mask, placing a hand at her stomach to keep the butterflies at bay. Would this Duke of Danesbury be angry to discover the party that should be in full swing wasn’t happening, was never even a real possibility?
She drew in a long breath, wishing again Raithe were here now. This was his idea. Lying had never been her strong suit. Perhaps if it had been, John would have been happier with his choice to marry his childhood friend.
A rustle at the door told her the butler had returned and she pushed off the mantle, closing her eyes for just a moment before she swiveled to greet her guest.
“May I present the Duke of Danesbury,” the butler announced.
She dipped into a deep curtsy, before she straightened, meeting the gaze of the man who Raithe had tricked into attending this gathering. “Your Grace.” But her voice caught on the end of the second word. Before her stood the most frighteningly intriguing man she’d ever seen. Tall, well over six feet, broad and muscular, his dark hair and penetrating grey eyes stabbed into her. His nose was a bit crooked, his jaw hard. She barely held in a gasp as he turned his head slightly to the left, revealing a large jagged scar slicing from his eye to his mouth, dividing his cheek into two mangled sections of flesh.
He frowned, rubbing the scar. “I expected more people to be in attendance.”
Well, that was direct. She pressed her lips together, drawing in a deep breath. How did she explain? “So was I, Your Grace.”
His brows drew up as his gaze travelled down her frame. “I’ll take a whiskey. Neat.”
Her eyes widened for just a moment before she pressed her lips together straightening her shoulders. “Mr. Harris, would you please tell the kitchen to prepare a tray for our guest? He must be hungry after his journey.” Then she crossed the room to prepare the drink.
“I didn’t say I was hungry.” Danesbury crossed to the fire, holding out his hands to the flame.
She poured the whisky, her hand trembling a bit as she attempted to hold the crystal decanter steady. “I won’t force feed you, then.” She returned to the fire, drink in hand while the other one coiled into a fist.
He notched his chin to the side as he assessed her, his scar on full display as he raised a brow. “I think I might like to see you try,” he said with a bit of a grin, as he watched her moving toward the fireplace.
That made her relax, her shoulders lowering and her breath coming out in a long, slow exhale. They were jesting. Good. “I would never dare.”
He laughed then, a little chuckle that sounded far more melodious than his speaking voice. She unfurled her fingers from the fist at her side, glad this meeting had taken on a light mood.
She’d reached the fire and she held out the drink to him, her fingers steadier as they reached toward his very large outstretched hand. But he didn’t take the whisky. Instead, he reached for her wrist, his long, tapered fingers wrapping about the bare skin exposed between her sleeve and her glove.
His hand was hot, firm, commanding, making her breath catch as he slowly drew her closer. “I’m glad we understand each other already,” he said in a voice that was deceptively soft. Despite its low tone, it still carried a command that she felt powerless to disobey as he drew her closer. “I think you’ll do fine.”
Her brows drew together even as her lips parted. Understand each other? She didn’t understand anything as she tilted her chin up to look in his face for answers. What she saw was raw, dark power. The kind of power that stole her breath from a bit of fear and, if she were being honest, excitement. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
But her words were cut short as he lowered his mouth to hers.
Damian assessed the woman before him. Dark hair and large hazel-green eyes were not to his usual taste. Neither was her s
lender build. He generally preferred more buxom blondes, but something about her was fetching nonetheless. Perhaps it was her delicate features, or the plumpness of her lips.
Her shoulders were narrow, her slender frame the same, adding an air of vulnerability to her gentle curves.
Pulling her closer, he grasped her natural waist, his palm fitting in the indent snug and perfect. Her lips parted in what was a clear invitation even as her eyes widened. Swooping his head down, he captured her lips with his own. She tasted of tea, fruity and clean, refreshing, as her soft lips stilled under his. Then, after a few moments, her lush mouth softened, melding into his for just a moment.
Satisfaction and desire rolled through him. Something about the way her lips clung to his didn’t speak of a woman pretending at passion. Her yielding mouth was far more of a surrender and victory roared in his veins, making his ears thunder with the rush of blood.
He slanted her lips open and claimed the soft inside of her mouth with his tongue. She tasted even better as her smaller tongue gently probed back. Fire coursed through his veins as he gathered her closer. He knew he was barreling toward something and he should slow this kiss down but his body craved her already.
He’d gone a long time without a woman. As a duke, many of them would fall willingly into his bed, he knew that. But he tired of their barely concealed disgust at the mangled side of his face. They hid it, but there was always a tell in the second before they placed a mask over their repulsed reactions.
Which was why he’d gone so long without being with someone. How long had it been? Years. But when he finally decided he couldn’t stand celibacy any longer, he’d gone out to his club, intent upon drinking and perhaps gleaning a recommendation or two for a lady who might suit his needs when he’d overheard Lord Balstead’s invitation for debauchery.
Balstead’s reputation had preceded him. He was a man with an excellent palette for women and drink and Damian had used his weight as a duke to strong-arm an invitation to this party. He wasn’t disappointed. He’d received a lovely, private welcome from a beautiful woman, who, if she was disgusted by his scar, hadn’t let on, even for a moment. And her kiss. Her kiss was that of a woman who desired him. Which at this moment, was everything.
His hand ran up her slender back, feeling the gentle curve of her spine as her body melded to his. When he reached her shoulder, he traced her collarbone and then slid his hand down her chest to cup her bosom. It wasn’t overly large but it filled his palm, and she groaned into his mouth as he gave her flesh a gentle squeeze. He wanted more.
But he’d likely pushed too fast. Because that was the moment she broke away, pulling back.
Damian slowly opened his eyes, his lids still hooded from the sheer passion in that single long, drawn-out kiss. He wanted more. With a determination he was known for, he began pulling her close again.
“Your Grace,” she cried her voice breathy and high in a way that only made his blood burn hotter. “You misunderstand.”
He raised a brow, still holding her wrist which he lightly stroked with his thumb. The skin underneath was silky soft and so tempting that he longed to bring the delicate underside to his lips, taste her flesh, lick it. “Really? What do I not understand, exactly?”
She trembled under his touch, even as she swallowed. “I am not what you think. I am—”
“What is it I think, exactly?” he asked, drawing her just a bit closer.
“That I am a lightskirt or a—” She didn’t finish, her hazel eyes growing wider still.
He frowned. Her gaze did not hold passion at this moment but a touch of fear. Not what he’d had in mind at all. “What are you then?”
Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. He followed the trail with his eyes, wishing he could follow it with his tongue. A shiver of anticipation rolled down his spine. “I am a dear friend of Lord Balstead’s.”
His frown deepened and he drew his brows together. “He invited a dear female friend to his house for this party?” What kind of man would do such a thing? Perhaps Lord Balstead was more risqué than he had imagined. Why else would he jeopardize a friend’s reputation?
She shook her head. “No. Well yes. Sort of.”
What the bloody hell? “I think you’d better explain yourself and quickly.”
She nodded tentatively, her gaze casting to where he still held her wrist in his hand. Her pulse jumped under his thumb, beating wildly and erratically as she gently tried to pull her limb from his grasp. “Of course, Your Grace. If you might just release me, I’ll happily explain.”
That made his brow rise. “Release you? Whatever for?” He liked touching her like this. She’d evoked a response he hadn’t experienced in ages. Regardless of what she’d revealed about her relationship with Balstead, he enjoyed the feel of her pulse under his touch and the very fact she’d greeted him alone told him she was no virginal, inexperienced maiden. Which suited him perfectly.
“Because…” she huffed. A breathy sound that was likely supposed to express annoyance but only made his body clench tighter. “I am about to marry.”
He let out a growl of dissatisfaction. That wouldn’t do. Not at all.
Chapter Two
Why had she just lied? She tried to pull away, giving her hand a bit of a tug. Her heart was racing in her chest. She could barely catch her breath after that kiss, his touch overwhelming all her senses. If he’d stop touching her, she might be able to compose her thoughts.
Duplicity was not her strength anyhow, but with a large, devilishly handsome duke touching her, she could barely think. Her inability to string together reasonable sentences had likely contributed to her attempt to lie her way out of the situation in the first place. If her mind had been working, surely she would have come up with a better plan.
Raithe was supposed to be at the estate, explaining to this man that there was no debaucherous party. And also discussing the fact that the duke was here as a potential candidate for Cassandra’s hand. Instead, she’d just completely ruined any chance of a marriage by professing herself already engaged. Brilliant.
He still held her wrist between his fingers. “You’re about to marry?”
She swallowed. Think, Cassandra. Her upper teeth caught her lower lip as she looked into the fire. “That’s the plan.” She nearly huffed a breath at herself. Why couldn’t she formulate an intelligent or at least witty answer.
“I’ve only just realized that I don’t know your name, love.”
His voice had dropped lower, deeper, and even more tantalizingly dangerous. She ached in places she wasn’t sure she’d known even existed before this moment. “Mrs. Winterset,” she whispered, trying to control her body’s speeding pulse.
His fingers tightened, her first indication she’d just said something wrong. “You’re already married?”
She shook her head. “I’m a widow.” She looked back at him then, the dark grey depths of his eyes drawing her in. She clenched and unclenched her fingers. “But I need to wed again. I’m…” There was little to say but the truth. Her face heated as she shifted her weight. “I’m not financially…”
His eyebrows rose. “I see.” And then he moved her just a bit closer again. But now, she could feel the heat radiating from him. The fire, which had warmed her minutes before was now overly hot and a flush surely filled her cheeks given how much they flared with heat. “And who have you chosen for your next groom?”
“I…” she shook her head. What did she say now? “Raithe…that is to say Lord Balstead…”
“You’re marrying Balstead? As his dear friend?”
Oh dear. That wasn’t what she’d meant to happen. “No. Lord Balstead has chosen—”
He let out a sudden bark of laughter. “Are you trying to tell me that you allowed Balstead, the most well-known rake in all of London, to choose your husband for you?” And then he let her wrist go. “Have you met the man? Signed the contracts?”
Well, she may as well stick as close to the truth as possible. “
No.”
He finally removed the whisky from her hand and took a large swallow. “Interesting.”
She winced. Her situation wasn’t simply interesting. No. Her current circumstances filled her with shame, made her want to rewrite every decision she’d made thus far in life and in this conversation. At least she didn’t want him, this large and arresting duke, to find out the truth. The more he poked around her explanation, the more he would realize she had lied. “I thought my situation rather mundane,” she said, unable to admit the reality.
“And how do you know Balstead?” he asked, turning toward her. “What’s the nature of your relationship?”
She narrowed her gaze as she took a decided step back. “We’ve known each other since childhood. My husband was his best friend.” John. His face rose in her mind, thin and pale, only his eyes still burning with life and resentment.
“Hmm,” he answered, taking another swallow.
“My lady,” the butler called as he entered the room. “The refreshments you requested.”
She sighed with relief at the interruption. There was a tension about the duke that was both a bit frightening and terribly exciting. If she could just break that pull she’d surely be able to gain control of this situation. “Thank you,” she answered automatically.
Cassandra crossed to the tray and assessed the contents. The staff was more than capable, she just needed a reason to put space between her and His Grace.
She pressed her hands to her stomach, covering her abdomen as she turned back to her…guest. “Please, help yourself.”
He took another sip from his drink, his grey eyes burning into hers. “I already told you. I’m not hungry.”
Probably better. The last thing she needed was for him to cross the room and be close to her again. His proximity scrambled her thoughts, unnerving her. “Lord Balstead should return very soon with the rest of the guests.”
Romancing the Rake: Seven Regency Romances Page 56
