“How is it possible I have never met you before now?” he asked, poised above her, still looking into her eyes. “Where have you been hiding?”
Her tone grew serious. “I told you when we danced. I only just came out of mourning.”
Her husband had been dead for exactly one year.
Vincent brushed a finger lightly across her cheek and over her moist lips, swollen from his kisses. “You have been lonely, then?”
“Very.” It was God’s own truth. She had been lonely since the day she realized her husband had never loved her, for there had always been another —his mistress, the great love of his life.
“Did you love your husband very deeply?” Vincent asked.
No one had ever asked her anything like that before, and she blinked up at him, not quite sure how to answer. There had been moments, terrible moments, when she had known nothing but misery.
Vincent closed his eyes, and she sensed he had some experience with the loss of a loved one. “No, do not answer that,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil the mood, and it was wrong of me to ask, and I shall only be jealous of the man who was first to have your heart.”
“There is no need for jealousy,” Cassandra told him, understanding more with every passing moment why he was such a renowned master of seduction. He knew exactly what to say, how to feed a woman’s desire for intimacy. “My heart is yours tonight. As is my body.”
He opened his eyes again and laid butterfly kisses on the tip of her nose, her eyelids, her forehead, and down her cheek.
“Then I shall treat your heart and body with great care.”
Soon he was kissing her again, touching her and pushing her to the edge of heaven, into an overwhelming sensual madness until she heard herself gasp with shock and delight, for she had never known such exquisite indulgence. Her husband had certainly never taken the time.
Shameless, her hands came up to stroke the hard muscles of his chest. He paused to look down at her, his dark, passionate gaze roving down her nude body. She could not wait another moment and felt euphoric when he finally began to make love to her.
He went still, deep inside. His voice was low and controlled. “Tell me, Cassandra, is this a safe time?”
She gazed up at him, distracted. All she knew was her desire. “What do you mean?”
“If it is not, I will take care not to cause any unwanted accidents, but you must tell me now.”
She could barely think. A mighty hunger was escalating inside her. “There is no need to worry,” she replied. “I cannot...”
All at once the words became scrambled in her brain. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, tried to remember her life outside this room, then somehow summoned the courage to speak the truth—to bury the feelings of failure and inadequacy she had known in her marriage.
“I cannot have children,” she explained. “I am barren.”
He lay motionless, staring into her eyes. “You are a beautiful woman, Cassandra. Do not ever forget that.”
She understood that the sentiment was meant to comfort her, to offer her some solace from her self-recriminations. He was indeed a master at this. She softened warmly inside.
He began to move again. She lay her head back upon the bed, gazing up at the strong lines of his jaw and his powerful dark eyes, heavy with desire.
It was magnificent, all of it, and she wondered if this was the kind of love the poets wrote about.
But no, it could not be. He was a man with a reputation, a seducer of women. This was only one night. She could not allow herself to become carried away by romantic notions.
Soon the pleasures mounted, and she watched, listened, and gloried in the sensation of Vincent’s strong, muscular body in bed with her. Something had sparked inside her from the beginning, the first instant she locked eyes with him in the ballroom. It was pure magic, like nothing she had ever experienced, vital and intoxicating, and it could have gone no other way. She simply had to have this night with him.
He groaned with the savage force of his completion, then relaxed and lay heavy upon her. Cassandra closed her eyes and held him tight, blissfully aware of his heart beating against hers while she hugged him to her.
Heaven help her, she did not want to let go. Despite her determination not to be swept away by romantic notions, she wanted to hold onto him forever, to feel this incredible, astonishing intimacy, this crushing closeness she had never known before this moment. A single tear squeezed from her eye and dropped across her temple, seeping into her hair.
She had not expected to feel like this, not with a rake like him. She was overcome. There was a strange, aching pain inside her heart that was both beautiful and terrifying. She felt very foolish.
Gently, Vincent withdrew and rolled onto his back beside her. They both stared up at the ceiling in silence.
“I was not expecting anything like this tonight,” he said in a low voice, as if having read her thoughts. “I was not even going to attend the ball. I had been invited elsewhere.”
He sounded surprised and bewildered. His dark brows pulled together in a frown.
“I did not expect it either,” she said, her voice faint and shaky. “I’ve never done anything like this in my life. It might be common for you, but...I don’t know what came over me.”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. “There was nothing common about it. You’re very...” His eyes dwelled curiously upon hers, as if he didn’t quite know how to finish what he’d started. “You’re very unique.”
She faced him and rested a cheek on a hand. “Are you saying that what we did tonight was special? Because I confess that when we left the ballroom together, I was under the impression you did this sort of thing all the time.” Something made her lighten her tone and touch him playfully on the shoulder with the tip of her finger. “Meet ladies at balls and whisk them away to your carriage, kiss them until they’re dizzy with pleasure, then carry them off to your bed.”
“Your impression was correct,” he replied, his darkly flirtatious countenance returning. “I do this sort of thing all the time, at every possible opportunity. Do not forget it, darling.”
She certainly would not.
“But truly,” he said, rolling onto his side and pulling her close, “it’s been a long time since I’ve had a night such as this.” It was music to her ears. “I hadn’t thought myself capable of it.”
“Why not?”
His eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “I am afraid it’s a long and depressing story and I couldn’t possibly bore you with it. Besides, I don’t want anything to spoil this perfect night.”
She inched closer. “It has been perfect, hasn’t it?”
He sat up and rolled onto her again. She wrapped her legs around him.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you won’t rise from this bed in the morning and feel guilty for what we did, then leave London in shame to hide away in the country and punish yourself. I want to see you again.”
Did he mean it? Surely not.
“I want to see you again, too,” she cautiously replied, “but I...”
His head drew back. “You what?”
She hesitated, for she was not even sure she knew what tomorrow would bring. She had come to London to meet a man who had expressed interest in her as a wife, but in the first moments of their meeting, she knew she could never love him. So, without the joys of motherhood to make such a union worthwhile, what would be the point, except to be provided for? Surely, she could find another way to do that. She would not be averse to becoming a governess or a lady’s companion...
“It’s rather complicated,” she explained. “You see I came to London because my late husband’s cousin and heir, the new Lord Colchester, has been making arrangements to see me married again.”
He frowned. “Already? But you only just came out of mourning.”
“As I said, it is difficult to explain. Lord Colchester is an impatient man.”
Impatient and despicable.
“But you are not betrothed yet, are you?” Vincent stared into her eyes. “Tell me I did not just make love to another man’s fiancée.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she assured him. “But there was a man at the ball this evening who had been corresponding with Lord Colchester and was making inquiries about me.”
“Who?”
She paused. “Clarence Hibbert. Do you know him?”
Vincent’s eyebrows lifted and he laughed. “Clarence Hibbert? For you? Good God, you must be joking.”
She found herself chuckling as well, when she had never seen humor in any of this before. But she supposed it was true. Mr. Hibbert was small, plump, and balding, and he was a complete featherbrain. A rich featherbrain, mind you, but still a featherbrain.
“Joking or not,” she said, “I think I might have spoiled my chances with Mr. Hibbert when I ran off with you.”
“Thank God for that,” Vincent replied. “He’s all wrong for you, Cassandra. Not only is he a bumbling idiot, he is almost three times your age. A woman like you needs a strong, young, robust man with plenty of energy in his body and a good deal of activity in his brain.” He grinned and slid his hands under her bottom, then pulled her tight against his hips. He was already growing firm again. “You weren’t truly considering him, were you?”
“Only until the moment I met him.”
“Ah.” He slid his palm from her waist to her breast and made her sigh with pleasure again.
“The fact of the matter is,” she explained, tipping her head back when he began to kiss her neck, “I cannot continue to be dependent upon Lord Colchester. He will wish to take a wife one day, and I need to move on.”
“So, you will continue in your quest for a husband.”
Cassandra wet her lips. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. I might try to find work as a governess.”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “Work.” He spoke the word as if it were a concept uttered in a foreign tongue. “But Cassandra, you are a lady.”
“A lady with very few options available to me. I cannot live on social position alone.”
“But your husband must have left you an inheritance.”
“Indeed, he left me a very generous one in his will, but unfortunately the money did not exist. He spent everything on his mistress. There was nothing but debts.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed with unease. “Do you not have family who can take you in?”
All at once she wished she had not confessed any of this. The whole night had been so magical, and now she was spoiling it with the realities of her dismal life. “That would be a last resort,” she said. “They are not welcoming people.”
Cassandra took Vincent’s face in her hands, then pressed her lips to his, wanting only to recapture the magic. “Please, let us not talk about this anymore. I shall be brilliantly happy with my future, whichever path I choose. I am a free woman with a will of my own.”
She reached down and began to gently squeeze and stroke him.
He let out a husky groan. “My God, you are incredible. You make me feel so...” He did not finish the thought. He merely dipped his head and closed his eyes.
She blew softly into his ear and whispered, “Tell me, Vincent. How do I make you feel?”
“Alive.”
He laid kisses down the length of her neck, across her shoulders and breasts. Fire ignited deep inside her.
“Poor Hibbert,” he said. “He doesn’t know what he lost.”
“And you cost me a husband, you naughty man. You shall have to make it up to me, you know.”
Vincent inched downward, his tongue pulsing gently across her belly. “Perhaps I shall propose to marry you instead.”
Knowing better than to take Vincent seriously when he was a known libertine and they were both tangled in the persuasive pleasures of erotic sensation, Cassandra shook her head at him. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“No?”
“No. And you shouldn’t tease a lady about something like that, Lord Vincent. As a gender, we take marriage very seriously.”
“What if I was not teasing?” he asked. “What if I mean to have you all to myself, forever and ever, till death do us part?”
She fought to keep her head—because he could not possibly mean it—but desire was clouding all hope of reason. “I hadn’t realized this night was quite as perfect as all that.”
He rose up on both arms and shifted his hips, easing himself into her pliant, heated warmth. “Believe me, it was.”
“Then let us see where it goes,” she suggested, wondering if it was possible for a woman to die of utter happiness.
“I already know where it’s going,” he declared in a low, gruff voice. “At least for tonight.” He reached over to turn the key in the lamp, and darkness enveloped the room.
In the morning, Cassandra was startled awake by a bright, blinding beam of sunlight cutting through the crack in the drapes. She blinked and squinted and sat up, hugging the sheets to her chest.
She was alone in the room, naked, and her head was aching from too much champagne the night before. What time was it?
She glanced at the pillow beside her, trying to make sense of her surroundings and situation.
Oh yes, the pleasure. The sensations. His body in the night...
She looked around the quiet room. Her gown was in a neat pile upon the chair. Her jewels were still on the dressing table where he had set them. His clothes, however, were gone. There was not a trace of him anywhere.
Cassandra swallowed uncomfortably as she imagined Lord Vincent creeping out of the room, making his escape in the predawn hours—which he had no doubt done many times before with countless other women just like her. He had left nothing behind but his scent on her skin, which would not last long, and—good heavens—a stack of money on the bedside table.
A heavy, sickening lump settled in the pit of her belly. She had never been an irresponsible woman, yet she had behaved recklessly with a wicked, albeit charming, rake. He had admitted openly that he was not to be depended upon, yet she had spent the night with him regardless. For a brief time at the height of their lovemaking, she had even imagined it was something more, something very magical. Not just for her, but for him, too.
It had been nothing of the sort, of course. He doubtless made all his lovers feel that way. It was why his path was littered with broken hearts.
She cupped her forehead in a hand and squeezed her eyes shut. What in God’s name had she been thinking? Had she had that much champagne? She hadn’t thought so, but how else could she possibly explain her behavior? It had been so outside of her usual caution and propriety.
Tossing the covers aside, Cassandra sat up on the edge of the bed. She rose to her feet and padded quietly around the empty room, knelt down to pick up her scattered underclothes, and chided herself as she dropped to her knees in search of a stocking under the bed. It was all so very humiliating.
Perhaps the worst part of it all was the fact that she was now fighting tears, which were pooling in the corners of her eyes. She was overwhelmingly disappointed. She was hurt because he was gone, when it had all seemed so wonderfully romantic.
Oh, she would never forgive herself for being so naive. She pulled the stocking out from under the bed and sat back on her heels, praying to God that she would never have to see that rakish Lord Vincent again. She would simply do her best to forget him, and to forget that this night ever happened.
Chapter 1
One Year Later
No doubt this will be the most trying experience of my life, but I must endure it as best I can, for I have made up my mind. I cannot put my own needs first. I must do the responsible thing.
> —from the journal of
Cassandra Montrose,
Lady Colchester,
May 12,1874
On the day that Lord Vincent Sinclair returned to Pembroke Palace after a tedious week securing a fiancée in London, cold hard raindrops were dropping from the clouds like overturned buckets of nails.
With his future bride sitting proudly beside him, he sat back in the rumbling coach and rubbed a hand over his chin. He looked out the rain-soaked window at his majestic family home in the distance, in all its arrogant, pompous glory. Miles away, high upon the hilltop, it gloated, preened, and reveled in its own lofty magnificence. In Vincent’s mind, however, those impressive stone towers and turrets and the ostentatious triumphal arch at the entrance could not disguise the wretchedness in its foundations, for it was built upon the ruins of an ancient abbey whose walls had been knocked down by betrayal and the grisly murder of one of his ancestors.
Of course, that was a long time ago. Now it was a distinguished, dazzling palace. A house of dukes. And hardly anyone knew the intimate truth about the Pembrokes—that brotherly betrayal still breathed behind the tapestries, and a secret madness lurked in the dark, subterranean passageways.
He turned to look at his fiancée—Lady Letitia Markham, eldest daughter of the Duke of Swinburne—but found himself staring only at the back of her head, for she was sitting forward on the seat beside him, peering out the other window. He noted the excessive details of her elaborate hat—the silly lilac bows and ribbons and the complicated wreath of cherry blossoms, all of it secured over a dozen shiny black ringlets and scented with strong, somewhat sickening perfume.
At least she was a beauty, he thought as he turned and looked out his own window again. If he was going to be dragged like a dog into marriage, it might as well be pleasantly done. Letitia was tall, slender, and graceful. She had the face of a goddess, so if nothing else, she would be pretty to look at on their wedding night when he was fulfilling his husbandly duty by depriving her of her virginity.
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 26
