He paused, silence filling the space between them. “I thought the party was supposed to start four days ago. Why isn’t there anyone else here?”
Finally, an easy question. “There was a storm. A bridge was washed out on the coastal path north and the guests were delayed.”
“Did you know what sort of party he was hosting?”
Cassandra frowned. She had some idea of what Raithe did with his free time, though they’d never discussed it and she hadn’t asked when he’d mentioned his duplicitous plan. He hadn’t been the same since he’d lost his wife and child. She sighed. Here Raithe was helping her, when perhaps, she should be helping him. “I didn’t ask. What Lord Balstead does is his own business.”
His Grace started a slow step toward her and the tray. Her fingers, still across her stomach, curled into her own flesh.
His voice was a deep rumble dancing across her skin with an intimacy that made her shiver. “I have to confess, I am disappointed to learn that you will marry.”
Her breath caught in her chest and held there. “You’re not actually interested in my hand?”
He paused, his eyes travelling down her body. “Do not misunderstand. As a duke, marriage is inevitable, but I’m not particularly interested in marrying anyone at the moment. I am, however, quite intrigued by the idea of bedding you.”
She fisted her hands into her stomach once more. “Your Grace. That is not—”
“Hear me out,” he replied, easily. “As a widow, it is far more acceptable for you to take a lover. And I would make it worth your while.”
Cassandra stared into the flames of the fire again as her heartbeat rushed in her ears. She didn’t wish to marry. Not really. The first had been a disaster and she’d not lie…his offer was tempting for so many reasons. She knew such a relationship was wrong. The sort that might damn her forever, but she wasn’t certain she could bear another failed attempt at wedlock. Straightening her spine, she decided to hear the duke out. Perhaps his offer would be the best solution to safeguard her in the future.
Damian watched Mrs. Winterset with an intensity that should have frightened her. It almost frightened him. He hadn’t wanted to be with a woman the way he wanted her for such a long time. Not since Amelia.
A cold shiver ran down his spine at the memory of that viper. Without meaning to, he reached up and touched his cheek, the hard, mangled ridges of his scar reminding him why he needed to set very specific terms with Mrs. Winterset. That was vitally important.
But it rather shocked him that he wanted to make an offer at all. Five years he’d gone without touching a woman and now…like lightning, he was ablaze again.
Damian studied her expressive eyes, which flickered with every emotion as she considered his words. Surprise widened them, fear, then interest made her gaze soften. “How would you make becoming your paramour worth my while?”
He cleared his throat, thinking quickly. “A home, the deed to be signed over to you at the beginning of our term. An allowance while we’re together, and a sum upon our departure.”
She caught her lip between her teeth again, a gesture that he was found very arresting. He pressed his hand to his thigh to keep from swiping his thumb across the supple flesh. Wouldn’t do to scare her off yet. He’d already kissed her without permission. He needed to gain some control over the situation. Over himself.
She looked away, staring out the rain-soaked windows. “What guarantees would I have?”
Satisfaction pumped through his veins. “A contract, of course. One that states all our terms of agreement in writing.”
One of her hands lifted from her stomach, trembling slightly it raised up to her cheek. “How long?”
That question irritated him and his chin pulled back, his mouth settling into a frown. Why did that matter? She’d be well cared for in the present and the future. Besides, something told him he’d need a long time to discover and enjoy all her marvelous assets. “I don’t know.”
She drew in a ragged breath. A shadow passed her face. “I would assume for a home and a life’s sum, it would be for some time. A year? Two?”
What did it matter? “Generally, these things last until the benefactor tires of the arrangement.”
He watched her shoulders slump, her brows drawing together and her mouth tightening. “And what if you’re not satisfied with my…”
She clasped her cheek and the flesh around her fingers turned white. He wanted to snatch them back from her delicate skin. Was the pressure of them painful? He stepped a bit closer, his brow knitting in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be satisfied?”
She tucked her chin into her chest, unable to meet his gaze, but her face had gone from pale to bright red, indicating her embarrassment. Concerned, yet cautious, he reached out and touched her, gently placing his thumb and forefinger under her chin to lift her head until she tilted her face toward his once again.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she pressed her lips tightly together. “I don’t know. I’m not the sort of woman men normally…”
He quirked a small smile. He supposed her admission was true. While incredibly beautiful, her looks erred on the side of sweet rather than sultry, her curves gentler, her temperament soft rather than daring. All of her attributes suited him perfectly. He wasn’t looking for a vixen who wished to taunt and tease him. “I care little for what other men want or like.” Besides, when she was with him, she’d have little time or energy to wonder about other men.
Her lips parted, her eyes widening in surprise before she smiled, a small, sweet smile. “I believe that.”
He slid his fingers down the sweeping column of her neck. Her skin was like silk under the rougher skin of his hands. “What is your answer?”
She shivered, not pulling away but swaying further from his touch. “I need to think. I’m not sure…”
“Are you worried about your potential fiancé?”
She jolted under his hand, her arms wrapping about her waist. “I…” She stepped back then, bumping the table behind her, which held all of the refreshments.
He darted his hand out, bending down to steady the tray. His face came level with hers. He tilted his chin down to better align his lips with hers. Her scent wrapped about him and her eyes dilated.
Her chest rose and fell in a series of quick movements, her breath fanning across his cheeks, warm and sweet as the rest of her. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice satisfyingly breathy. His cock hardened, need making every muscle tight. Damn, he wanted this woman.
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of whatever man Balstead has lined up if you need me to.”
“Take care of him?” her voice tightened, coming out as a frightened choke.
Bloody hell. He was scaring her. He’d always had an intensity that others found off-putting. He returned to lightly caressing her cheek. “I just meant that I’d tell him of your decision not to marry him. That’s all.” Guilt stabbed at him. He’d be selfish to keep her from marriage, at least for a while—but damn it, he’d been without a woman for too long and now needed her with every fiber of his being. Naked, in his bed.
She relaxed slightly, her shoulders slumping and her breath slowing. “I think it best that I take a bit of time to consider your proposal.”
He cocked his head to the side. He’d prefer to seal the deal today. Patience was not one of his virtues. “Would specific numbers help with your decision?”
She shook her head, the skin of her jaw sliding along his hand. “I don’t know. I just assumed I would marry. Deciding to go change the plan as you’ve suggested is a big decision and…”
He waved his free hand. “Many women marry after taking a lover. With the sum of money I leave you, you’ll be free to do whatever you choose. Perhaps your current fiancé will wish to rekindle—” He stopped, his other hand dropping to her waist. The very idea of another man touching her irritated him immensely. He gave his head a shake. Of course, he felt that way now, he’d yet to bed her. In his experi
ence, over time, this passion coursing through him would cool. It just needed an outlet.
Her skin paled, making her hazel eyes appear even larger. “I don’t think that would be wise.” Then she carefully stepped to the side, slipping from his grasp. “I need time to consider your offer, Your Grace. Thank you for your understanding.”
He narrowed his gaze but dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s Damian.”
“Damian,” she repeated just above a whisper. “Dinner will be at seven.”
He drew in a deep breath, resisting the urge to pull her closer. “Can I expect your answer by then, Mrs. Winterset?”
She shook her head, a grimace furrowing her brow. “I don’t know.” Then she spun and fled the room.
He watched her go, dissatisfaction rumbling through his chest. He’d scared her off, God damn it. But he hadn’t been with a woman for so long and she was absolutely perfect for him. Holding himself back would be incredibly difficult now.
With a grunt of frustration, he reached down and plucked a small sandwich from the tray, then popped it into his mouth. The ham melted on his tongue like butter, the bread was soft and tasted just a touch sweet. It was delicious and he had to confess. She’d been right. He was hungry after all.
He ate another, still staring at the door. He was starving for something else far more important. Her.
Chapter Three
Cassandra retreated to the safety of her room, barring the door behind her and then pressing her back against it, her head clunking against the wood. How could she have let this situation spin ridiculously out of control?
Because she’d had such a visceral, heated response to him from the moment he’d stepped into the room. The entire interaction replayed in her mind as she continued to lean against the door. She remembered every touch, every glance, and all the words as her heart continued to hammer in her chest.
Closing her eyes, she placed a hand over the racing organ, willing it to slow its wild beat. What had come over her?
A duke. That’s what.
She gave her a head a shake, finally pushing off the wood. She needed to consider his proposal. And his enticing kiss.
Perhaps, she’d consider the kiss first. It had been…wonderful. Or perhaps even more than just fantastic. The light touch had stolen her breath and made butterflies dance in her stomach. It had stolen her reason and certainly her sense. Was that simply because he’d caught her off guard?
It was possible. Then again, the reason she’d responded so ardently to him was more likely because he was just new and different and any excitement would quickly wear off. Her fingers pressed into her cheeks. Even if she said yes to his plan, would he grow resentful of her lack of zeal too?
Then she shook her head. His reaction didn’t matter. Or she’d like to believe it didn’t. This would be an arrangement. In some ways, perhaps, far more superior than the one Raithe had been trying to make for her. She’d not have to face crushing resentment when the duke grew disappointed with her. He’d just end their relationship. Unlike a husband. With a marriage, there was no escaping when one partner was unhappy with the other.
But with the duke, there was an end…and then she’d be free. With money, and a home, she could quietly live out her life. No worries about whom she might disappoint or how she’d failed as a wife.
She nibbled her lip. What would others think of her?
He was right, of course. Widows were free to take lovers but what of Raithe? He’d been like her brother and she doubted he’d approve.
She sighed, rubbing her face. Raithe would surely understand her aversion to marriage because he seemed to share it.
Her more pressing concern was how she’d keep the duke happy long enough to collect all the benefits he offered. Because, somehow, the longer their arrangement lasted, the more likely it was she’d disappoint him.
She shook her head. That didn’t matter. This time around, she’d make a decision that benefited her, not someone else. John certainly hadn’t appreciated her sacrifices during his sickness, particularly on the days he felt the worst.
She started to undress, determined to take an afternoon repose and compose herself for dinner. She’d need her wits in order to make the proper choice for her future.
But her thoughts still swirled even as she lay in bed. Did she actually give up on the idea of getting married forever? Somehow the thought made her stomach churn despite her worries that she’d fail once again at the endeavor.
Unable to rest, she finally rose again and prepared for dinner, choosing a green gown that highlighted the color of her eyes and cinched at the natural waist to show off her curves. After her maid completed fixing her hair into an elegant coiffure that pulled back from her face in loose waves, Cassandra made her way downstairs early, wanting to compose herself before the duke’s arrival, but she found him already waiting in the sitting room when she arrived.
Her heart began to beat wildly the moment she saw him. She stopped short in the doorway, resisting the urge to turn and flee. Honestly, she just might have done it, but his eyes caught hers and he stood, never breaking contact. “Mrs. Winterset.”
“Your Grace.” She gave a stiff curtsy and then took a single step into the room. She hated the sound of her married name on his lips. It was a reminder of John, of her failures, of the situation in which she found herself.
His eyes narrowed as he moved closer, then took her elbow and led her to a high-backed chair.
The light stroke of his fingertips sent tingling sensations curling through her arm and down her body. They both stopped in front of the seat, the light pressure on her elbow increasing the slightest bit. “Have you come to any decisions?”
She gave her head a shake, frowning. What was his hurry? “Opting for a life as a mistress is difficult.”
“Why?” he asked, leaning down as though to better hear her answer.
She turned away, looking out into the darkening sky. “I suppose it changes who I am. Or at least who I thought I was.” Her hands fisted into her skirts.
He stepped away then, crossing the room and pouring not one but two glasses of wine. “How so?”
“Well.” She drew in a deep breath, slowly exhaled before speaking. “When I married my first husband I had grand illusions that—”
“Don’t tell me,” he interrupted, turning back to her with two glasses in hand. “You thought you were in love.”
“No.” She sipped her wine to stall and to gather her courage. “I thought I was a good person.”
He stopped, bringing his own glass to his lips and cocked his head to the side. Funny, when he considered things, he presented his scar rather than hiding it. “Explain.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already told you so much about myself. I know almost nothing about you.”
He leaned closer, clinking his glass against hers, before raising it in the air. “To getting to know one another better.” Then, he finally brought the glass to his own lips and took a drink.
She took another sip, too, not sure if she actually wished that or not. She tried his trick, turning her head to the side and assessing him. It actually worked. She found that he wasn’t all that scary, scar and all, but something in the way she reacted to him was frightening. The way she seemed unable to form a thought in his company. The way her pulse beat wildly and her limbs barely worked.
“What is it you wish to know? How I got the scar?” She saw him straighten, harden and she knew the question irritated him. Not that she’d asked.
“No actually, it wasn’t.” She smoothed her skirt. “But I was wondering, whenever you’re assessing me, you turn your head, presenting your scar. Why?”
His eyebrows shot up and a small smile played at the corners of his lips. “No one has ever thought to ask me that before.”
She took another sip of her wine. “Is that good or bad?”
“Good.” He moved closer and her eyes dropped away from his and back down to the floor. Whenever he was close, she could
n’t concentrate. “The truth is the scar disconcerts people. I get more honest answers when I present the mangled skin.”
She drew in a small breath. It was brilliant and rather intimidating. To know that his scar repulsed people and to use their revulsion as a tool to get what he wanted. It took a strong constitution to weather people’s disgust. “I’m not certain I could ever be that brave.”
He took another swallow of his wine. “It’s not bravery. It’s cunning. And I don’t give a damn what other men think of my face.”
She noted he said men. “And women? Do they find it dashing?”
She caught the flicker of a grimace before his face returned to a blank mask. “At the moment, Mrs. Winterset, I only care if you find it dashing or grotesque.”
Her insides shivered again. But she didn’t wish to think about herself or her past.
She wanted to continue to talk about him. Without thought, she lifted her hand and ran the tips of her gloved fingers across the jagged skin. “It adds to your look of danger and power. For that reason, the scar is dashing, but it also looks as though it caused you a great deal of pain.”
He covered her hand with his, pressing the palm to the cheek. “It did indeed hurt very much. But it wasn’t the damaged skin that caused the real pain.”
She gasped in a breath. What did that mean?
Why had he just shared that painful detail about his past?
Damian never shared with others the pain he’d experienced that day he’d been scarred for life or the dark ones that followed. How someone he loved could so cruelly hurt him, scar him completely, inside and out.
“What was the real pain?” Her words were so low, he might have missed them but her fingers flexed against his cheek.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What did you mean, you thought you were a good person?”
She slid her fingers down his cheek and along his jaw. “We’ve hardly talked about you at all.”
“It’s my turn to ask.”
Romancing the Rake: Seven Regency Romances Page 57
