Chapter 6
Cassian knew he was playing with fire while teasing Cecilia, but it was too enjoyable to stop. Seeing the unflappable Cecilia Hartwick flustered was not something one saw every day, and to think dogs were the cause.
“You’re a menace,” she murmured while fishing a pencil from her bag.
Shrugging a shoulder, Cassian replied, “In the scope of things, I have been called worse.”
“Yes, I am sure,” she said snidely. “And if the Times had run the article I’d penned for them years ago, they’d have more ammunition against you.”
He blinked, “You wrote them a piece?”
“Many actually,” she replied while drawing a line in the book and then scribbling something in the margin. “None of which were published. I do not know why. Do you have an accomplice at the Times?”
“Yes, and I have the printout encased in a folio,” he grinned. “I look at it from time to time to remind myself how much I affect you.”
“You are also insufferable,” she muttered and scribbled something again.
“Hmm. You seem quite intent on getting back to what you were doing. What has you so fascinated, I wonder.” Reaching over, he quickly snagged the book from her hands and flipped the cover over, “Cecilia. Your book is named after you?”
“No, you heathen,” she tried to grab the book back. “I was named after the book. I know you know nothing about the classics, but this is—” she tried to grab it but failed again. “—this is one of—” she tried again, “—those.”
“Cecilia by Frances Burney,” flipping the book over from where he’d stuck his finger, he read, “to a heart formed for friendship and affection, the charms of solitude are very short-lived. Besides the point of pointing out how self-absorbed you can be, good god, what is this drivel?”
“It is a series of letters written by a man and a woman who fall in love while writing each other,” she huffed. “It is not a simple tale but has layers of ingenuity and—"
“I dream of the moment we meet on the sandy shore as the moon’s rays shine on your divine form. I crave the moment your lips meet mine and I revel in the delicate touch of your lips and the thrum of unspoken promises…”
Her face went beet red. Flipping the pages, his lips lifted, “Is this a Minerva Press novel? It reads like one.”
“No, it’s not— it’s nothing!” She lunged forward and tried to grab the book out of his hold once more, but he simply held it out of her way.
She was far too short to reach for the book, and the only way for her to get it was to clamber on his lap. Cassian knew little Miss Prim-and-proper would not dare do such a thing, as it was simply scandalous.
Cassian, though, was intensely interested in discovering what exactly she was reading.
Now, realizing it futile, she covered her face with one hand, hiding the heat on her cheeks. “Please, don’t read it.”
“All your protests only make me want to read more,” he sighed in mock compassion as he flipped through the pages to the front.
The pages were worn, and the finger marks in the leaves told him the book was loved. She’d written arguments in the margins and corners, debating with the author.
“The lady says, or I hope it is the lady who says, ‘As I gaze into the depths of my tea, I wish the murky depths would clear and give me a glimpse into my future. I feel as if I am staring at a pitchfork in the road.
‘On one arm is the life of a lady, demure, quiet and patient. On the other is the astronomer inside of me that dreams of the stars on the other side of the world. On the banks of the sea, I crave the feel of boarding a ship and sailing away to meet the stars… Oh dear, which way should I go?”
Cecilia swallowed. “May I have my book back, please?”
“In the margin, you wrote, you’ll embitter yourself if you do not try to fulfill your dreams. It is best to try and fail than not to try and wonder if your dreams could have worked out or not. That, Dante, is Purgatory.
“I am impressed, Little Mouse,” he turned another page. “Is this commentary, or is this you admitting your deepest desires on a page?”
His off-hand comment cut deeply to her as it was a secret she had barely admitted to herself.
Horror. Outrage. Embarrassment. So many different emotions had swirled so that all Cecilia wanted to do was flee as far and as fast as she could.
No one knew how deeply she felt emotions, as she was trained to suppress them and keep a docile expression.
He turned around and looked at her intensely. His gaze was so piercing that her muscles froze, and her breath caught in her throat.
Frustrated—and frantic to get the book back, she launched herself at him, reaching for the book, not caring one whit that she was atop him. His arm snatched around her waist and, unintentionally—or possibly knowing him—intentionally, pressed her closer to him.
“Why, Cecilia, I thought you were not interested in growing intimate.” His breath caressed her lips, and her skin grew warm in his scandalous proximity.
Gooseflesh rose on her skin, “I… I don’t…I didn’t mean to…” she stammered.
His presence seemed to make the air around her grow thicker, and her face flushed a crimson red. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Would you care to release me now?”
His eyes shamelessly lingered on her lips, and she didn’t miss the moment of hesitation that crossed him, as if he was battling something inside.
Then, he gave a boyish smirk at her reaction and slid his arm away.
Cecilia felt a twist in her lower stomach, an intensity that was both thrilling and frightening.
His gaze drifted lower, and she felt as though he was slowly undressing her with his eyes, sending her heart racing.
Her arms instinctively rose to cover her bosom.
“The book, please?”
“One moment,” he qualified, while turning to the page with the first quote he had read out. “Who writes this part? To a heart formed for friendship and affection, the charms of solitude are very short-lived?”
“The man,” she answered, face burning as she knew he would read the next comment.
His eyes dropped to the scribble under it.
“If solitude’s appeal fades, I can only assume it’s because one has not yet met the Duke of Tressingham.”
Cassian threw his head back and laughed so long and hard, Cecilia contemplated stopping the carriage and walking the miles to wherever they were heading.
Anything to not feel this mortified!
“’Travelling is the ruin of all happiness! There's no looking at a building here after seeing Italy’.” Chuckling, Cassian added, “One could say the same about the women—”
Having heard enough, Cecilia leaned over and snatched the book back—but the carriage jolted over a pothole and she fell onto his lap once again.
“Second time in less than five minutes,” he noted. “And yet you tell me you don’t wish to be intimate.”
“Not with you,” she huffed, taking the book and her seat. “You have seduced everything female that moves, and bedded every lord’s wife, sister, and daughter, shamelessly ruining the reputations of dozens of women.”
Reaching for the paper again, Cassian tutted, “Reports of my activities, or the lack thereof, are pure hyperbole. I have seduced women, yes, but for every one that is true, five more spin tales.”
Her ears burned, “I’d rather you not regale me with your sordid tales.”
“For now, or not ever?” He asked nonchalantly.
“Ever,” she snapped while returning to her book. Her eyes flickered up, “Are we near your home yet? This Hertfordshire?”
“Not yet,” he peeked through the window, “we have about three more hours left on our five-hour journey.”
Her pencil stopped scratching. “I’ll have need of a rest break, Your Grace.”
Looking at the landscape, Cassian searched for a landmark. “There is a small inn about ten minutes from here. We will stop there.”
“Thank you.”
It was late in the afternoon when they were approaching Stanbury, the market town near Hertfordshire and Fitzroy Manor.
Charming cottages were covered in leafless vines and edged in by hedgerows running this way and that. Shops, pubs, and inns wound together down to a bustling, centerpiece marketplace. The square had roads that splintered off to other quaint villages, country manors, and down to a lake.
His eyes landed on Cecilia, who had her head pressed into the corner of the carriage, fast asleep. The girl was beautiful overall, but when she was asleep and that knot, constant in her brow, had disappeared, she was gorgeous.
When he looked at her, he felt his stomach twist in indecisiveness. Did he want to do as he had thought about during the wedding and pull Cecilia out of her shell? Or did he leave the sleeping dogs to lie where they were?
Cecilia, will you hate me—more than you already do—if I teach you to find your passion?
“Do you truly hate me?” He asked her sleeping form. “Or is that what you keep telling yourself?”
Her lashes were sable fans on the tips of her cheeks, while her button nose led down her slightly parted bow lips. Her top lip was a touch wider than her plump bottom one, but both called to him anyhow.
How swollen will they be if I give her the hard kisses I truly want to give her? I’ve wanted to kiss you since we met that night, no more so than when we finally did kiss.
Nothing is going to happen between us. There is not going to be any connection between us other than what is necessary.
That is the agreement—but what if I ever sought to amend it?
Passing the magnificent black iron gates that marked the sprawling lands of Fitzroy Manor pushed him into a sobering mood. The prospect of being confined in a house for sixty days with a beautiful woman that he could not touch was only slightly preferable to being drawn and quartered.
The carriage jostled its way down a wide, oak-lined drive toward the main house, glimpses of expansive fields and woods appearing between the ancient trunks.
Cassian made himself focus on the business at hand. He was only there to pass the time before the annulment was filed, to renovate part of his home before he was free enough to sail off to Greece.