Her words were like a drench of ice water. “No! You can’t leave, you just got here.” He drew a deep breath as he struggled with his panicky reaction. “Of course you want to return to your real life, but no urgent mission awaits you. Stay a week or two. Relax, ride good horses, let yourself be cosseted and treated like a fragile flower. You deserve that.”
He held his breath as he waited for her response. He knew she would leave, but please God, not immediately!
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll stay a week.” Her hand began to wander down his body. “I shall certainly miss this.”
She cupped him and pure fire shot straight through his veins. “So will I,” he said raggedly. As he bent to the rich nourishment of her mouth, he wondered if he could survive without this sweetness and fire.
Despite her fatigue, Cassie lay awake for a long time after Grey fell asleep in her arms. She wanted to cherish every remaining moment with him. She’d been too weak to refuse to stay longer, but a week must be the limit. Lady Elizabeth had been so friendly and welcoming that Cassie was ashamed of being at Summerhill under false pretenses.
There was also the stark fact that the longer she stayed with Grey, the harder it would be to leave. She’d never felt such closeness with another man. He was willing to open himself to her as no one else had.
As she thought back to the night’s intense lovemaking, she realized that there had been a shift in the balance between them. At the beginning, he’d needed a woman, any woman, and she had accepted that in return for the simple delights of passion.
That had changed as they’d grown to know each other better. She’d become special to him, and he’d become special—incredibly so—to her. In the past, she’d given him healing intimacy in return for pleasure. Tonight, he’d returned healing and wholeness to her. It was time to leave. While she still could.
Much as Grey would have liked to sleep until noon with Cassie, he’d regained enough gentlemanly discretion that when he woke and saw the first faint light of dawn, he groaned and swung himself out of the bed. “Time to leave.”
He leaned over and kissed Cassie’s bare shoulder. He noted with amusement that she was now so relaxed that she only made a sleepy sound of acknowledgment rather than leaping from the bed with a knife in her hand.
He pulled the covers over her bare shoulder, then dragged on enough clothing to be decent. Carrying his shoes in one hand, he slipped out into the corridor. It was still very dark inside the house, but it wouldn’t be long before busy maids were stirring.
Now that he was back at Summerhill, his profound reluctance to return had almost vanished. Before, facing the demands and commotion that would be aroused by his return from the dead had seemed an insurmountable barrier.
He’d been right about the commotion. His return would have been easier if his mother had opened Kirkland’s message and been prepared for him. But now that was over, and he was feeling … like himself.
That self wasn’t the callow Lord Wyndham who had flitted off to Paris for amusement, but an older, knocked-about, and hopefully wiser man. A man who belonged here at Summerhill. This house, this land, these people were his. He felt like a flower that had been jerked from its native soil and withered away in the rubbish for years. Now he’d finally been replanted where he belonged.
He felt strong enough that for the first time, he dared wonder if there was any chance of persuading Cassie to stay. He’d wait a few days until she’d had time to experience the beauty and peace of Summerhill.
And then, they’d talk. He was no longer willing to let her go without at least trying to change her mind.
Chapter 35
Grey’s rooms were at the opposite end of the sprawling house, but he was able to reach them unseen. Feeling happy over his decision about Cassie, he opened his door, then halted at the sight of his brother sitting in front of the fire.
Fully dressed except for his coat, which he’d replaced with a casual banyan, Peter was sprawled in a wing chair and holding a drink as he stared into the flames. He looked like the careless, drunken Grey of a dozen years before.
“Peter?” Grey asked, surprised. As he glanced about, he saw that some of the furnishings and decorations had been changed.
“Ah, the young lord and master has arrived to claim his property!” Peter rose and made an exaggerated bow, sloshing his drink and almost falling over. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw me out of here earlier, but I suppose you were too busy rogering your doxy.”
Fury blazed through Grey. “Don’t you dare talk about Cassie that way!”
“Why not?” Peter opened a cabinet that contained glasses and bottles. “Damned bad form to bring your mistress to your family home, but you never did care for anyone but yourself.” He pulled out a brandy bottle and tilted it back to drink directly. “How much does she charge? She looks expensive, but during my years as heir apparent, my allowance was substantial. I should be able to afford a night or two.”
Grey launched himself at Peter, so enraged he was barely aware of how he punched and threw his brother, then pinned him to the ground. Nothing mattered but destroying the man who’d said such vile words.
He was dragged back to awareness by a hoarse whisper, “Grey! Grey, in the name of God, stop!”
Yanked from his killing rage, Grey realized that he had pinned Peter to the floor and was choking him. His brother’s face was darkening and he could barely gasp out his plea.
Grey wrenched himself away and buried his face in his hands as he gulped for breath. He thought he’d mastered his furies. Instead he’d almost murdered his brother. An unspeakable crime that he’d rather die himself than commit.
A few feet away, Peter lay on the floor retching out his guts on the priceless Chinese carpet. The effects of too much brandy and being strangled, no doubt.
As Peter pulled himself to a sitting position and leaned against a wing chair, Grey rose and dipped a towel in the water pitcher, then handed it to his brother. Wordlessly Peter wiped his mouth and face, then drank the glass of water Grey had poured.
“Dear God, Peter, I’m so sorry,” Grey said, sickened by himself. “You shouldn’t have spoken so about Cassie, but nothing can justify almost killing you.”
“I shouldn’t have said such vile things about your guest,” Peter replied, sounding more sober. He folded the wet towel and pressed it against a rapidly developing black eye. “Where the devil did you learn to fight like that?”
“The Westerfield Academy.” Still shaken, Grey poured himself two fingers of brandy, then sank down on the carpet a yard from his brother and leaned back against the sofa. “Ashton is half Hindu, and he taught his classmates a fighting technique he’d learned in India. It’s become a school tradition.”
“I should have gone there instead of bloody Eton,” Peter muttered.
“You were less worrisome so it wasn’t considered necessary.” Grey exhaled roughly. “Say anything you like about me, but I won’t hear a word against Cassie. She’s the finest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Then it’s a pity she looks like the very best grade of Bond Street ware.” Seeing Grey’s thunderous expression, Peter said hastily, “I believe you that she’s no whore, but she is … not what one would expect of your bride. Why did you bring her to Summerhill when Father is dying and you’re returning from the dead? Not exactly ideal circumstances for introducing a new member of the family.”
Grey said, “The good news is that Father isn’t dying. He woke up and spoke to me. Mother is with him now.”
Peter’s face brightened. “Wonderful!”
Grey took a sip of his brandy. It was tempting to get drunk, but he and Peter wouldn’t have fought if his brother hadn’t been drunk enough to ruin his judgment. Or perhaps his temper. Peter was obviously not happy about losing his expectations.
“Cassie is here to keep me sane.” Grey’s laughter was bitter. “I thought I was making progr
ess on that front, but apparently not. If she’d been here, I wouldn’t have come so close to fratricide.”
“She can stop you when you run mad like that?” Peter asked skeptically.
Grey smiled fondly. “She certainly can.”
“You seem sane enough now,” Peter said hesitantly.
Grey realized he needed to explain more. “Cassie went alone into the castle where I was imprisoned and freed me and the priest in the next cell, who had become my only tie to reality. She got us to sanctuary and guided me out of the country, lending me her strength and sanity when I had none. Believe me, I am much improved. I owe her more than I can ever possibly repay.”
Peter frowned. “She sounds admirable, but is it reason enough to marry her?”
Choosing his words carefully, Grey said, “I want to marry Cassie, but she hasn’t said yes yet. She wants to wait and see how things develop.” He drew an uneven breath. “She’ll leave soon. I may never see her again.” Saying that aloud was agonizing.
Hearing the pain in his brother’s voice, Peter said awkwardly, “I’m sorry. Can you … manage without her?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Grey said brusquely. “What about you, Peter? I thought you were happy I’m alive, but when I came in, you acted as if I was your worst enemy.”
“I am happy you’re back. Truly. And I rather like Cassie, from what I’ve seen of her. But”—his brother ran stiff fingers through his tangled blond hair—“I looked up to you so much. When you disappeared, it was … it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I spent years waiting and hoping. We all did.”
Grey winced. “If only I’d had the sense to return to England when I was warned to do so!”
“That would have made all our lives easier, but you couldn’t know the consequences. If you’d been interned, we’d have learned of it and could have settled down and waited for you to come home. As it was …” Peter shrugged. “Of course we assumed the worst.”
“From what Cassie tells me, being interned isn’t bad. Boring, but living a fairly normal life.” And not being driven mad by isolation. “Of course, if I’d been interned, I’d still be in France, waiting and wondering if this bloody war would ever end.”
“But we would have known you were alive.” Peter sighed roughly. “Instead, without anyone quite admitting you must be dead, people started treating me as the heir. Seven years after your presumed death, the earl said it was time I styled myself as Lord Wyndham. Mother moved my things in here when I was at university. I began to think of myself as the next Earl of Costain. I learned how to run the estate, started paying attention to Parliament. And now”—he spread his hand in a hopeless gesture—“you come back and it’s all snatched away. All that effort and planning for nothing.”
Grey glanced around the sitting room, which was easily ten times the size of his cell in France. And the suite had a bedroom and dressing area as well. “You can have these rooms. I don’t need them and it hardly seems fair to drive you out. But I can’t let you have the title and the entailed property. The law doesn’t work that way. As long as I’m alive, I’m the heir.”
“I know.” Peter struggled to his feet and poured more water before sinking wearily back onto the carpet. “I’ve spent the night drinking and wondering what to do with my life. I’ve no taste for becoming an idle wastrel.”
“The traditional occupations for a younger son are the church, politics, or the military. None of them interest you?” When Peter made a face, Grey asked, “Is there something less traditional you’d really like to do?”
Peter hesitated, his expression torn. “The theater. I want to be an actor.”
“An actor?” Grey asked incredulously.
His brother’s expression closed. “You see why I don’t talk about it. Not that I ever thought the theater was possible. Until you returned, Summerhill was my fate.”
Grey studied Peter’s handsome, youthful face. His first reaction on meeting his grown brother the day before had been how much they resembled each other. It was true that they had similar height, build, and coloring, and anyone seeing them together would immediately know they were related.
But they’d always had very different temperaments. Grey was outgoing, interested in people and in solving problems. Peter had been more of a dreamer, enjoying art and music and, yes, the plays that were occasionally staged during house parties. He said slowly, “I remember that even as a little boy, you enjoyed taking part in plays. The adults always found your earnestness rather charming. But your interest was serious even at that age, wasn’t it?”
Peter nodded. “I fell in love with acting the first time I stepped onto an improvised stage. I love the language, the drama, the larger-than-life characters. It’s …” The flow of words cut off and he sank against the chair behind him. “It’s impossible.”
“Have you had the opportunity to act in recent years?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” his brother admitted. “But last summer I stayed with a friend up in Yorkshire. There’s a good-sized theater there, and the company manager did a special production of As You Like It with local people acting in many of the roles. That’s the play with the “All the world’s a stage” speech. The idea was to get friends and neighbors buying tickets to see the show. I auditioned and was cast as Orlando.”
Orlando was the romantic lead, if Grey remembered his Shakespeare. With Peter’s looks, he was a natural for such roles. “Did the play do well?”
“Most of the acting was dreadful, but the manager, Burke, made pots of money.” Peter paused, then said shyly, “After the last show, Burke took me aside and said that if I ever wanted to act professionally, there would be a place for me in his company. He knew I was a gentleman, but I auditioned as Peter Sommers so he didn’t realize that I was heir to an earldom.” His mouth twisted. “At least, I was then.”
“Which would you pick if you had a choice?” Grey asked. “The earldom or being a successful actor?”
“Acting,” Peter said instantly. “I wouldn’t even have to be well known. A journeyman’s career with steady work would be beyond my maddest dreams.”
“Then do it,” Grey said flatly. “The parents won’t be best pleased, but I will support you in this. And if they cut off your allowance, I’ll see you don’t starve.”
His brother’s jaw dropped. “You’d do that? You wouldn’t be ashamed to have your brother become a common player?”
“I think you’d be an uncommon player.” Grey smiled ruefully. “Ten years in a dungeon strip away a lot of ideas about what is proper. You were willing to do your duty as heir to Costain when that seemed necessary. Now that it isn’t, I think you should do what you love. Even if you fail, better to try and fail than to spend your life wishing you’d tried.”
“I won’t fail,” Peter said intensely. “I’m good, Grey. And I’ll do whatever is necessary to succeed.”
Grey grinned. “Am I forgiven for surviving?”
“Now I have even more reason to be grateful you’re alive!” Peter was bubbling with delight. “I’ll write Mr. Burke and tell him I’m taking him up on his offer. It will be small roles, I’m sure, but a start.”
“I’m glad. Today Yorkshire, tomorrow London!” Grey set aside the rest of his drink since it was now daylight, and brandy was a damned odd breakfast. “I suggest you wait a few days till Father is stronger before announcing your plans.”
“I’ll wait until I hear from Mr. Burke before I speak up. And if he’s changed his mind, well, I’ll find another theater manager to approach.” Peter cocked his head to one side. “What about you, Grey? Have you ever had secret dreams of what you want?”
Grey had never thought about it, but his answer was immediate. “This.” He made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Summerhill. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known that I am Summerhill, and it is me. The land, the people, the responsibilities of the earldom. I’m even l
ooking forward to sitting in Parliament and helping to steer the ship of state. There’s nothing else I’ve ever wanted.” Except Cassie.
“Then it’s a damned good thing you’ve returned from the dead,” Peter said with a grin. “Because you’ll make a much better earl than I would.”
Perhaps, perhaps not. But like Peter, Grey was determined to do what was necessary to succeed.
Chapter 36
Cassie was awakened by a maid with a small pitcher of hot chocolate and a note from Grey. “Would you like to go for a ride after breakfast? It’s a perfect day to see Summerhill .”
She glanced out the window and saw the pale, clear sunshine of early spring. He’d promised her fine horses. She scribbled, “Yes, please!” on the note and directed the maid to take it to Lord Wyndham. A good thing Kiri had found a riding habit, golden with dark brown trim, for Cassie’s hastily assembled wardrobe.
After donning the dashing habit, Cassie headed downstairs for a proper breakfast. News of the earl’s recovery had lightened the atmosphere. Lady Elizabeth had been staying at Summerhill since her father’s injury, but now she looked forward to going home. Peter positively beamed at Cassie, and Grey greeted her with proper formality while his eyes made wicked suggestions.
Lady Costain had been with her husband, but she came down to the breakfast parlor to say, “Costain wants to meet you, Miss St. Ives.”
“Is he strong enough for visitors outside the family?” Cassie asked, hoping she didn’t have to meet him.
“He is much stronger, and quite firm about meeting you,” the countess replied.
No escape there. “Then it will be my pleasure,” Cassie murmured.
As she rose, Grey said, “I’ll go with you. I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”
Cassie headed for the steps, grateful for Grey’s company. As they climbed the wide steps side by side, he said, “You look very lovely in this gold habit.”