So it wasn’t fear of him that made Cassandra hesitate to offer her true identity. It was, more than anything, a rather weary repugnance for the inevitable response her name evoked in so many of the men she had met. Fortune hunters had dogged her steps since the day she had come out into society, and she was very tired of weighing the sincerity of every compliment and searching each charming smile for signs of duplicity or greed.
At least if Sheffield had no idea she was an heiress, she would be able to relax that particular guard. Not that she expected him to attempt to charm her—despite Sarah’s flattering words, Cassandra knew herself to be too dark for fashionable prettiness, too tall, and so pale and fine-boned that she appeared ridiculously fragile—but her social mask had become so fixed that it required a conscious effort to relax.
Which was one reason she had decided to go home for a few weeks.
Cassandra was still undecided about exposing Sarah’s lie when the door opened a few moments later and a trim middle-aged woman in sober raiment entered the room carrying a tray.
“Good evening, Miss Wells. I am His Lordship’s housekeeper, Mrs. Milton. He’ll be down to welcome you shortly but asked that I see to your needs in the meanwhile. Your coachman has gone with some of our men to fetch your coach and horses, and I will take your maid and baggage to the room being prepared for you. We keep country hours here, but supper has been put back to allow you time to warm and refresh yourself.”
As she accepted a cup of steaming tea, Cassandra said apologetically, “I am sorry to have disrupted the routine of the household, Mrs. Milton.”
Her own tone comfortable and placid, the housekeeper replied, “There’s no bother, miss. We have visitors rarely enough, but His Lordship expects things to be done right. Now—I’ll take your maid up and see to her, and as soon as the room is ready, I’ll be back for you.”
“Thank you,” Cassandra murmured. Left alone in the warm parlor, she reflected wryly that the moment for confessing Sarah’s lie was beginning to recede into the distance. Every time she faced someone as “Miss Wells,” it would become more and more difficult to tell the truth.
She removed her gloves and untied the ribbons of her bonnet to remove it as well, having been reassured that she would remain at the Hall at least for tonight. The mirror over the fireplace told her that her dark curls were sadly crushed. She did what she could to restore them but did not worry particularly about it; she was not a vain woman and, moreover, had no desire to present any more than a neat and ladylike appearance to the earl.
She had finished her tea as well as a slice of bread and butter, and was feeling much warmer and more comfortable—and, in fact, a little sleepy—when the door opened a second time and her host strode in.
Cassandra rose to her feet in a response that had less to do with politeness than with something deeper and more basic within her, and her drowsiness vanished.
“How do you do, ma’am?” the earl said in a rather hard, abrupt tone as he came toward her. “I am Sheffield.”
She did not know what, precisely, she had expected, but Lord Sheffield surprised her. She doubted he was much past thirty, which was rather young to be so infamous a reprobate. He was an unusually big man, well over six feet tall, with very wide and powerful shoulders, and he moved with an almost eerie, catlike grace. His thick hair was black, his eyes dark and brooding, his complexion tanned; he was not a conventionally handsome man, but he was quite definitely . . . impressive.
Cassandra offered her hand, having to look up to meet his eyes, which was rare for her. “Lord Sheffield. I am—Miss Wells. Cassandra Wells.” She heard herself continue with the lie but was still unsure why she had.
His hand, unexpectedly well formed and beautiful, held hers for a brief moment and then released it while his frowning dark eyes looked her over with more censure than admiration—or even curiosity—and his voice was still abrupt when he spoke. “You’re traveling alone? What was your family thinking of to allow a girl of your age to travel alone?”
The impatience in his tone did not disturb Cassandra; her uncle was a man of irritable temperament, and she got along quite well with him. Nor was she offended by his assumption of extreme youth; she knew only too well that, despite her height, large eyes and a childlike voice—which she had attempted in vain to mature—caused her to appear a good four or five years younger than her actual age.
If she had removed her cloak, he would have had no doubt of her maturity; slender virtually everywhere else, her breasts were well formed and generous—the envy of her friends but an attribute with which Cassandra had never been quite comfortable because of the way men looked at her. So while she might, if she wished, have added to the lie and allowed him to believe her much younger, her own body made it unlikely she would be believed.
“I am not a child, my lord, and I often travel alone,” she told him, polite and perfectly composed.
He frowned. “How old are you?”
Cassandra had hoped to avoid a direct answer, but the blunt question—however rude—demanded one. Lifting her chin a trifle, she said, “I am twenty, my lord.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “You don’t look it—or sound it. But I maintain that you should not be traveling alone; twenty is still hardly more than a child. Sit down, ma’am.” He stepped away from her to stand with one shoulder idly propped against the mantel. “Have my people seen to your comfort?”
She resumed her seat and replied only to the last rather indifferent question. “Yes, Mrs. Milton has been very kind, and I understand my coach and horses are being fetched.”
He nodded, gazing at her in a very direct way that was a bit unsettling. “They are. According to your coachman, you suffered a broken axle?”
“My coach did,” she murmured.
The hard stare continued for a moment, but then he smiled quite suddenly—and his harsh face was lit with warmth. “I stand corrected, ma’am.”
Cassandra felt herself smiling back at him and coping with the oddest sensations. A kind of fluttering near her heart that she had never experienced before. It was deeply disturbing, almost frightening, and she was very glad when the sensation faded. She thought there was even a touch of relief in her voice when she spoke to him. “Can it be repaired quickly, my lord? I am expected home tomorrow.”
“Your destination is Bristol?”
“Some miles northeast of Bristol, yes.”
The earl’s smile had been brief, the seemingly habitual frown quickly returning, but his voice seemed less abrupt when he said, “The broken axle is not the problem, ma’am; I would be happy to lend you one of my vehicles and send your coach along later once it is repaired. However, the weather has definitely taken a turn for the worse, and I doubt travel will be possible for at least a few days.”
Dismayed, she said, “But there was only a little snow falling when we arrived—”
“There is much more than a little now; it is mixed with sleet as well, and the wind is building steadily. Unless I much mistake the matter, we will be in the midst of a full-blown storm before midnight.”
Cassandra’s consternation increased, but she was too sensible to struggle fruitlessly against the potent combination of fate and nature. It appeared that her destiny included an enforced stay at Sheffield Hall. Sighing, she said, “I am sorry, my lord, but it seems I must impose upon you for the duration.”
He bowed slightly with more courtesy than enthusiasm, his harsh face immobile. “It is, of course, my pleasure to offer you shelter, ma’am.”
She felt one of her eyebrows rise before she could halt the indication of derision at the conventional—and obviously reluctant—offer but was able to respond politely. “Thank you very much, Lord Sheffield.”
There was a sudden gleam in his dark eyes, and a faint smile played about the corners of his strong mouth, but before he could say anything the door opened and Mrs. Milton came to convey Cassandra to her room.
Sheffield bowed again, this time with a slightly
mocking tilt to his dark head. “I would be honored, ma’am, if you would join me for supper. In an hour?”
Cassandra picked up her gloves and bonnet, rose to her feet, and curtsied with a brevity that held a subtle touch of her own mockery. He could deride the often stiff and formal conventions of polite society if he chose, she decided, but there was no reason why she should pretend she didn’t understand his indirect ridicule; she refused to play dumb.
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied sweetly. Then she followed the housekeeper from the parlor. She didn’t look back at the earl, and so she didn’t see his smile—or see it die as he turned his gaze to the bright fire.
Chapter Two
The room provided by her host was lovely, and as Cassandra allowed Sara to divest her of her traveling dress, she decided that if Sheffield was indeed in financial difficulties, he had certainly not scrimped on keeping his estate up to snuff. There were no signs of economizing that she had seen: The house was neither chilly nor drafty and appeared to be in excellent repair; none of the main rooms seemed to be closed up in order to avoid having to heat them; brisk and generous fires burned in the grates; and the linens and draperies seemed in excellent condition. Still, Cassandra was completely aware that such things were not necessarily signs of a full purse. Many a noble family had kept up an appearance of prosperity while falling deeper and deeper in debt.
“The velvet gown, Miss Cassie?” Sarah inquired as she brushed out her mistress’s raven hair before the dressing table.
Drawn from her musings, Cassandra hesitated. The velvet gown, while elegant and entirely suitable for a winter’s evening, was also high-necked and long-sleeved, and not particularly flattering. Sarah, of course, suggested that particular gown because it was imminently proper, with no unseemly display of flesh—with which to tempt a sinner.
Cassandra knew she should accept her maid’s sensible suggestion and wear the velvet gown, but she kept hearing the earl’s brusque voice stating that “twenty is still a child,” and she felt ridiculously belligerent about the matter. She was a mature and intelligent woman, and strongly disliked being viewed as a child.
“No,” she heard herself say in a disinterested tone. “The blue silk, Sarah. And my lace shawl.”
The brush stopped abruptly, and in the mirror Sarah’s expression could only be described as appalled. “The blue silk, miss? But—”
Quite gently Cassandra repeated, “The blue silk, Sarah.”
Sarah considered her mistress to be one of the kindest possible, but she understood that tone perfectly well and knew better than to argue with a mind made up. Swallowing whatever comments she wanted to offer, she murmured an obedient response, finished arranging the gleaming black hair, and then went to lay out the blue silk gown.
Some minutes later as she considered her reflection in the mirror, Cassandra knew a twinge of doubt. The gown, while perfectly proper for evening dining in a private home, was rather revealing. Low-cut, it left her shoulders bare and covered no more than three-quarters of her breasts. The blue silk was drawn up snug beneath her breasts and clung to the remainder of her body with every movement, glimmering slightly as silk did when light played over the material.
Though she could boast a jewel collection to rival any woman’s in London, Cassandra tended to wear very little ornamentation to even the fanciest dress balls; all she wore tonight were tiny gold earrings and a wide blue velvet ribbon around the base of her throat, to which was pinned a cameo. The lace shawl, beautifully made and very old—it had been her mother’s—did not so much cover her bare shoulders as it did cunningly reveal them.
The effect of the outfit was what Cassandra had hoped. While no one could have had the least doubt she was a lady of quality dressed with simple elegance, there was also no doubt she was a woman.
She knew an impulse to change into something less revealing but chided herself sternly. There was absolutely nothing wrong with what she was wearing—it was perfectly proper—and she would not behave like a missish female by covering herself in layers of clothing in order to thwart advances the earl certainly had no intention of making!
With that resolve in mind, she left her room with her head held high—and found the grim manservant awaiting her out in the corridor.
His name, Sarah had reported with a shudder, was Anatole. He was neither butler nor valet, but more of a head steward, responsible for making sure the earl’s household was run as smoothly as possible. He was not English; Sheffield had apparently found him during a trip abroad several years before, and between the two—according to Sarah—was a relationship quite different from the usual between master and servant.
How it differed was something Sarah had not been able to say beyond remarking that Anatole was reportedly quite blunt in his speech to the earl and that he seemed to “take a great deal upon himself” when it came to running the household. Apparently, there were hostilities of a sort going on between Anatole and the Hall’s housekeeper, a longstanding tug of war over who was in charge.
All that flitted through her mind as Cassandra left her room and found Anatole waiting for her, and she couldn’t help wondering if there had been a tussle to determine who would escort her down to supper.
The manservant, his scarred face expressionless, bowed to her with more politeness than he had yet shown. “I am Anatole, miss. Most find the Hall difficult to negotiate at first; I will show you the way.”
She had a good sense of direction and was confident she could find her own way, but Cassandra didn’t object. Composedly she said, “Thank you, Anatole,” and followed him down the hall.
The Hall was both unusually large and laid out rather peculiarly, she thought as they made two turns and traversed three short hallways before reaching the main staircase. But there were candles aplenty to light the way, most in sconces, and by the time her escort had bowed her into a pleasant drawing room, Cassandra was confident she had memorized the way.
Lord Sheffield was in the drawing room. He, too, had changed, from the country buckskins he had worn earlier to knee-britches and a long-tailed coat. His coat was cut so that he could shrug himself into it without the aid of his valet, and his cravat was neatly rather than beautifully arranged, but the less dandified dress suited him admirably, Cassandra thought. He was a physically powerful man and would have looked a trifle absurd decked out in the affectations of a town tulip.
“Good evening, ma’am.” He bowed as she came toward him, but he did not leave his position by the fire and move to meet her. “I trust your room is—”
Cassandra felt heat rise in her cheeks as his impassive query broke off abruptly. His dark gaze was every bit as direct as it had been earlier, unnervingly direct, and she had the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that the blue silk gown had chased all notions of childishness out of his head.
“My room is quite lovely and entirely comfortable, my lord, thank you,” she replied as if he had completed the question, her own voice sedate. She sat down in a chair near the fire, forcing herself to continue meeting that unsettling stare. However, she had not fully considered the earl’s characteristic bluntness, and so his next words caught her by surprise.
“I see I am to stand corrected a second time, ma’am. Twenty is not always a child, after all. You have a magnificent figure.”
For a brief moment Cassandra debated whether she should take offense or else pretend he had not said anything that was certainly frank beyond the bounds of what was appropriate; those were, after all, the only two acceptable ways of handling such disgraceful bluntness. But as she gazed into his dark eyes, she felt a surge of recklessness inside her. After two Seasons of polite conversation and genteel advances from gentlemen, she found the matter-of-fact admiration in the earl’s words and tone curiously refreshing.
“Thank you.” Her voice was a bit dry but calm. She frowned slightly. “Though I suppose I am hardly responsible; I am told I very much resemble my mother.”
The earl seemed amused, whether by
her clear acceptance of his scandalous manners or by her response she could not be certain.
“Indeed? Then I envy your father.”
She had asked for the outrageous response, Cassandra decided ruefully. Unable to hide her amusement, she merely said, “Do not be so quick to envy him, my lord; my mother was also infamous for her temper. She was half French, you see, and prone to throw things when she became enraged.”
“And do you throw things, ma’am?”
Thoughtfully she replied, “I have not so far become more than irritated, I should say. So there is really no telling what I would do when thoroughly enraged.”
The earl was definitely smiling. “While I have no wish to enrage you, I confess I am most curious. I have never seen a lady throw things.”
It was most improper, but Cassandra could not help offering him a hint of her sophistication by casually responding, “Perhaps not, but I am sure you have, in the course of your life, seen some female in the throes of passion.”
“One or two,” he retorted without hesitation.
Cassandra felt another blush rise in her cheeks as she suddenly recollected that the word passion had many meanings, but she refused to allow the unintended blunder to cause her to retreat back into conventional politeness.
With dignity she said, “I should be much surprised, my lord, if you had not observed some female enraged enough to throw things at you. You seem to me a man at whom any female would frequently become infuriated.”
He laughed suddenly, and she felt once again that mysterious and alarming flutter insider her. His whole face changed when he laughed, from something hard and rather forbidding into something warmly and unexpectedly attractive. She was curiously breathless for an instant and knew an impulse to rise and touch him—an urge as shocking as it was incredible.