Chapter 30 Tea and Temptation
Chapter thirty
Tea and Temptation
Lady Cassandra Cade set aside reports and forecasts, crossing the cool marble floors of her sitting room to gaze through the open, lofty window of the historic mansion she called home.
Portraits of ancestors lined the oak-paneled walls, their gazes heavy with expectation—a legacy she must uphold.
Did they approve of her decisions? At least she hadn’t disgraced the family name yet.
The classic manor on the bluff afforded her a stunning view of the estate grounds and the river beyond. A compact steamboat pushed a barge toward port, its smoke so thick she could almost smell it.
Cassandra caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass—smooth peachy skin pulled over sharp cheekbones, long auburn strands wound into a stylish updo, and piercing green eyes, missing nothing. Even in casual clothes, she remained stunning. Not as beautiful as Mom was, she concluded.
Daddy expected my husband would hold his seat of power and influence, but that plan fell to dust. Neil had held the title Lord of Marchland for less than a month.
They’d barely finished burying her father when her husband followed him to the grave—yellow fever.
At only twenty-five and childless, her advisors had urged another marriage.
Now, at thirty, she remained without a husband or heirs.
“Your tea, my lady.” Elsie’s timid voice rousted Cassandra from her thoughts.
Pivoting, she inspected the tiny young woman, her dirty apron and dull gray scarf hiding unwashed hair. The teenage maid set a gleaming silver tray with a china cup, saucer, and teapot on the cherry table beside Cassandra’s usual chair.
“Will that be all, my lady?” Hollow eyes searched hers.
Cassandra had felt sorry for the girl who suffered ill health, but she couldn’t allow her to sully the Cade reputation.
“Go to the basement closet and select a more fitting wardrobe for yourself. Then bathe, scrubbing thoroughly. Henceforth, you shall dine in my kitchen with the cook and eat what she prepares for me. If we cannot get you healthy and presentable, I’ll have to place you elsewhere.
This is a good post for you, and I’d hate to see you laboring in a field somewhere. ”
“Yes, ma’am.” The twig of a girl rushed out, hopefully to obey.
Taking her seat, Cassandra poured her tea, wishing for sugar.
She dribbled honey instead. They hadn’t had granular sugar since …
Shaking her head, she picked up the worn paperback, leaves yellowed with age, and found her dog-eared page.
Gone with the Wind was her favorite comfort read, always inspired by Scarlett’s resolve and clever plans.
Cassandra made a ritual of afternoon tea—usually a moment of solitary relaxation, though sometimes shared with company.
Her cousin Suzanne was on friendly terms, and half a dozen prominent Marchland women fawned over invitations to tea.
It was as though teatime was the only civilized activity remaining to enjoy.
A timid knock at the door. Cassandra scowled, huffed, and laid down her treasured book. Before giving a reply, she raised the cup to her rosy lips for another languid sip, inhaling the fruity fragrance. The knock sounded again.
“Lady Cade, a Captain Moreau is here from Nelanta with a letter from Queen Frost.”
Cassandra stiffened, setting her cup aside.
She and Frost were neither allies nor enemies, their tenuous relationship dangling in between.
Many thought she’d fall into lockstep with the queen since they were both women of power with no husbands or fathers to guide them.
But while Azaleen bartered on behalf of all Verdancia, Marchland remained Cassandra’s primary concern.
“Show him in.”
Benjamin Hollis entered with the quiet assurance of a man who had walked these halls longer than she had been alive.
His silver hair, combed neatly back, and the careful precision of his movements spoke of a lifetime spent keeping order.
Ledger books, staff rosters, menus, and supply inventories all lived in his head, yet he still carried a small leather-bound notebook at his side.
To Cassandra, he had always been there—her father’s steward before hers, the steady hand who made sure her household ran as smoothly as the clocks he wound each week.
He bowed. “I beg your pardon for interrupting tea. Captain Moreau.” Steward Hollis bowed again, lingering as a tall, rugged officer strode in and kneeled before her chair.
“Lady Cade,” he addressed with a roguish smile. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She extended a ringed hand, nails polished, and assessed him. Moreau took her hand gently, kissing its back as was customary. His musky scent was not unpleasant.
“Yes, well, you’re interrupting my tea,” she answered impatiently. The captain leaned back and handed her a sealed envelope.
“My apologies.” He rose to stand, displaying an impressively athletic build. Cassandra banished the thought. Wasn’t she constantly surrounded by muscular soldiers? She’d never see this fellow again anyway.
Before she could compose a response, he asked, “Would you like me to stay in the lobby and wait to carry a reply to Queen Frost?”
Supposing it would be most efficient, she answered, “Yes, thank you. That would be satisfactory. Mr. Hollis, please show Captain Moreau where to wait, and serve him a refreshment.”
“Yes, my lady.” With a click of his heels and a slight bow, the formally dressed steward showed their guest out.
Cassandra tapped the envelope on her palm as she walked across the room to an antique roll-top desk. She sat down and opened the letter, laying it beside a recent correspondence from Lord Calder of Stonevale.
Dear Lady Cade, I hope you are in excellent health and spirits.
I have sent two truckloads of newly acquired supplies to Marchland Fortress, including malaria pills and medical supplies.
I was distressed to learn my earlier shipment was destroyed by raiders.
The capital intended to have these necessities for you sooner.
The cross-country highway is becoming increasingly dangerous.
May I suggest Marchland send out regular patrols as far as the Mulberry and Oakmulgee Forests, and I will do the same from Nelanta westward. We can afford no more lost shipments.
I regret burdening you with the most urgent news, but I must. General Stark has received intelligence that the Iron Army is making invasion plans.
We don’t know when the attack will come, but, as our first and best line of defense, it is imperative that Marchland be ready.
I suggest calling up your militia for preparatory drills—not to join the ranks full-time, but so they will know what to do when the time comes.
I’ve sent this same report to General Longstreet.
Although the timing may be poor, I also wish to invite you and your attendants to join us in Nelanta for the Kingdom Day Festival in a few weeks. Lord Calder and Lord Whitfield have also been invited. It would be nice to enjoy a day of merriment amid the stressful times we must endure.
Faithfully yours,
Azaleen Frost
P.S. Lord Whitfield has promised our army five thousand additional troops. General Stark and I are calculating where they are most needed. Because of your strong position atop the bluffs, and because you command the largest force in Verdancia, we will probably station them elsewhere.
“Well, well,” she sighed, and glanced back over Calder’s missive. It was several pages long: the first filled with flattery, the second alluding to Queen Frost’s shortcomings, and the third proposing an alliance between House Calder and House Cade. She’d yet to reply.
A flicker of ambition rippled over her emerald eyes, a self-important smile tugging at her lips. So, I am an important player after all. Support Calder, and Frost might lose her crown. Support Frost, and Calder remains a minority voice. I could ask any price and get it.
A cheerful shout arose from outside her window. Curious, Cassandra rushed to peer out. A troop of soldiers who’d been marching by abandoned their formation, some throwing their hats in the air. “Beer!” sounded the cry. “Hail to the queen!” chanted others.
Cassandra’s mind tallied the score. Frost sends my fortress supplies and my troops beer. What has Calder delivered? I should attend the function, observe them both, and determine which would best promote and protect my family’s legacy in Marchland.
Returning to her desk, Cassandra dug into a back drawer and removed a tiny wooden box. From within, she retrieved a pigeon tube, emptied the rolled paper.
Irons is coming. He has no mercy. But if you surrender Marchland upon our arrival, I can ensure your safety and that of your citizens. This benefits us both.—Crane
Lark burst awake in the middle of the night, panting and sweating. Wide-eyed, she glanced around the women’s barracks. Everyone else slept soundly, soft snores echoing through the room. Her heart raced, and she pressed a hand to it, hoping to slow the stampede.
The day spent with her dad had been magical, as if no time had passed in his absence.
He gave her charge of his archers to teach them to hit their targets.
Then they’d gone for a walk, reminisced about her and Leif’s childhood, treasured moments with their mother before she was gone.
Lark told him about her work with VERT, and he expressed pride in her decision to follow in his footsteps.
Luke excused her from the group to have dinner with her dad, and then he’d shown her the docks, the moonlight reflecting off the river while its steady gurgle passed by, a reminder that some things endure the tests of time.
So where did this terrifying dream come from?
True, she no longer believed Queen Frost was a heartless ogre who enjoyed torturing her subjects, but to dream of her naked, standing under a waterfall, the clear liquid cascading over her sumptuous body?
Ridiculous. Then Lark was in the scene, lying on a towel on the bank beside the mythical falls—nude, of course—while the queen massaged her back with fragrant oils and tender kisses.
The most disturbing part was how real it felt—Frost’s fingers kneading her muscles, the scent of lavender and almond oil, the taste of strawberry lips.
Fantasy! It was pure fantasy. Lark was certain Queen Frost hadn’t given her a second thought, and why would she? She was the queen, for ruin’s sake, and Lark was just a swamp rat with a bow who could do flips.
Her breathing steady once more, Lark peered around the dark room of snoozing women. Why didn’t she dream about one of them, or Skye, even? How could her subconscious mind betray her with visions of something that would never be?
She lay back on her pillow, trying to banish the dream.
Two days, one maybe, and we’ll be back in Nelanta.
I wonder what Queen Frost will want us to do next?
Damn it. Don’t think about her. The more Lark willed herself not to think of the beautiful, azure-eyed, platinum blonde woman with more curves than Mother River, and, no doubt, a soft side she never showed in public, the more she couldn’t stop.