Chapter 7
Oddly enough, there was no guest wing in the house. The East wing had three sets of bedrooms, a drawing room, a study, a library, a music room, and a gorgeous view of the backyard.
Gazing out at the yard, she spotted a low, T-shaped ramshackle building. The stone walls had the patina of age—its sagging roof resembled a collapsed soufflé. The pale walls were surrounded by thick knolls of grass.
“Is that the outbuilding you are going to reconstruct?” she asked, pointing.
“Yes,” Cassian nodded, grabbing her arm and steering her to the West wing.
That wing was a mirror of the East wing, only instead of a music room and a study, it had an expansive solarium, a billiards room, and a suite of rooms she could use for her own offices.
“But the West wing—” she spun “—has the library.”
He sighed. “You want to see the library again.”
“Yes.”
As they walked back to the library, her shoulder brushed his lower arm, yet she held her head straight. It made no sense how the air seemed to crackle and sizzle around her when Cassian was within two feet of her.
Cecilia could not wait to escape it—to escape him.
Five minutes later, she entered the dimly lit library and gazed in admiration. His collection of books had shelves spanning from the floor to the timbered ceiling.
She could spend two lifetimes exploring the literary hedgerows circling the plush seating in the middle. She could imagine the now-banked hearth flickering at the center of the room, and constructing a window seat at the far end near the tall bow windows overlooking the moonlit gardens.
“But the solarium and my own study….” Cecilia spun in circles.
Cassian was rubbing his eyes. “Do you want to see the East wing again?”
“Yes, please.”
As they took a second trip to the other wing, Cecilia peeked her head into the billiards room and sighed, “Can we move the library here?”
“No.”
“But we can easily—”
“No.”
She turned to him and crossed her arms. “I can change the rooms if I want.”
Cassian rolled his neck a second before he grabbed her and hoisted her on the billiards table, slamming his hands on either side of her and staring into her eyes.
“Cassian!”
His eyes were predatory slits while his voice took on an authoritarian growl that she had never heard before.
“If you do not make a decision in the next five minutes, I will choose for you and put you in any room that I decide on, and that will be where you stay for the next two months. Do you understand?
“I am exhausted, I need a meal and a hot bath, possibly half a day’s worth of sleep to catch up on the sleep I have missed in the last few days. Do you not want the same?”
The words were stuck behind the substantive lump in her throat. What was this mesmer in his eyes?
“I—”
“Oh,” a female voice gasped at the door. “I-I am so sorry.”
Cecilia’s eyes darted to the maid at the doorway, clutching a broom and dust pail. “I-I will return.”
“No, Abigail,” Cassian exhaled. “Stay. And you—” His eyes were set on Cecilia. “Ignore her and answer me. Do you want to relax after a long, trying day?”
“…Yes.”
“Good.”
A strange zing went up her spine as their gazes locked and she saw her own shock reflected in those tempestuous grey depths. His subtle scent pervaded her senses; he wore no cologne, smelling of clean water, citrus soap, and his own male musk, an indescribably stirring combination.
Swallowing, Cecilia nodded as his hands slid upward to cup the back of her neck, his grip strong. His gaze stole the breath from her very lungs, but it was not an unpleasant thing. “Do you know where you want to stay?”
“…Yes,” she breathed.
“And where is that?”
“The West wing.”
His brows lifted. “You are telling me you are not going to make a home in the library?”
“The rooms in the East wing, where I can set up my own drawing room, I can easily recreate a small library there,” she said, praying to any deity that would listen to her that she could escape his magnetic gaze.
Finally, he stepped away, and her skin was awash with gooseflesh. “Follow me. And Abigail, you are now Her Grace’s lady’s maid.”
After a lovely hot meal, Cecilia found herself inspecting her suite of rooms. The three chambers, her bedchamber, bathing room, and substantial wardrobe, were incredible.
Pale silver silk covered the walls, which were trimmed with freshly painted wainscoting. The bed was an enormous four-poster with roses carved into the posts and white velvet hangings.
Finding a spot near the window, she wrapped her arms around her middle.
Earlier today, when Cassian had pinned her with such a scintillating, scorching look, she had felt something strange. His words had said one thing… but the look in his eyes spoke of something else.
I’d wanted to ask him what that was… but why do I think I would not like the answer?
A rich dark blue Aubusson rug framed a seating area where a matching blue damask sofa and armchairs were placed along the wall near a low, carved coffee table. Through the far door, she could make out an adjoining bathing room as luxurious as the room she stood in.
“These are some lovely chambers,” she said to Abigail. She spotted some faded paneling and chipped washing bowls that told her Cassian had not periodized this home.
How long has he been away from this place?
“Yes, Your Grace, they are,” Abigail nodded with a touch of pride. “His Grace makes sure all his properties are well-taken care of, and he rotates his people.”
“He does?”
“May I be frank, Your Grace?”
“Yes, of course,” Cecilia assured as she headed to the washing room and the porcelain tub. She let the robe slip away and tested the water with her fingers before lowering herself into its warm embrace.
Taking her seat at the side of the tub, Abigail said, “I have the feeling that while he is very personable with a wide range of people, he does not allow many of them into his affairs. He’s more comfortable with a small set of people he can trust.”
Settling her head against the lip, she closed her eyes to breathe in the rose-scented water as Abigail washed her hair.
“Did you know his parents?” she asked.
“No, Your Grace,” Abigail answered. “The only person I imagine would know them is Mr. Andrews.”
“That does make sense,” she murmured, tilting her head to let her maid rinse her hair.
When Abigail finished with her hair, Cecilia took up the cake of soap and quickly washed. The water had cooled considerably, and her neck was aching from the awkward angle. Gingerly, she rose and reached for a towel to rub down before stepping out of the tub.
The exhaustion inside surprised her, but thinking it over, she knew it made sense—she had traveled all day, and though she had spent many days in her rooms, she had slept poorly for the past week.
It was not too surprising that her body was demanding sleep now that her mind had been unburdened. Donning a nightgown, she sat as Abigail dried and rolled her hair in rags.
“Will that be it tonight, Your Grace?” Abigail asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she smiled while slipping on a pink silk nightcap. “I will see you tomorrow. I take breakfast promptly at nine, toast and marmalade, fruit, coddled eggs, or at times, sweetened milk porridge.”
“I will tell Cook, Your Grace,” Abigail answered. “Have a good night.”
“Thank you. You too—oh, and before you go, can you tell me when His Grace takes his breakfast?”
Pausing at the door, Abigail hummed. “His Grace is… unpredictable, Your Grace. There are times he does breakfast, and there are times he imbibes coffee as his primary sustenance. He has been known to request mince pies for breakfast and at times, even sweet tarts.”
“I see,” Cecilia replied. “Thank you, and good night.”
Making her way to the majestic bed, she pulled the freshly laundered blankets before slipping under the cool sheets.
As much as she wanted to think over the events of the day and piece them apart moment by moment, there had been so much happening that it exhausted her. Nothing could keep her awake as her weighted lids sealed shut.
Clad in his robe and a pair of loose trousers, Cassian took a lamp and headed to his father’s old study. Pushing the door in, he looked around the rectangular room.
Behind his late father’s desk hung large, gilt-framed portraits of his venerated Fitzroy ancestors. The first one of his many grandfathers spanned all the way back to Henry the Eighth.
“I bet that painted bastard was a dunghill too,” Cassian’s lips curled in a sneer of derision.
His father, Algernon Fitzroy, had directed all his attention to his older son, Roderick, leaving Cassian in the care of his mother. In all the years of schooling, from Eton to Oxford, he had never seen that tyrant happy.
His stomach soured. He could taste the metallic pain flooding his mouth when his father had stuck him to the ground after getting a near-failing grade on arithmetic.
From that day, he had given up on making the best grades because nothing less than trumping all his schoolmates and his seniors had ever given his father a flicker of approval.
He remembered his father’s eyes as cold and dark as midnight when he would repeat, “A powerful man is made by his sacrifices; he is not blinded by sentiment.”
Cassian snarled. “If I had a mind, I’d reopen your casket and drop my degrees on your corpse.”
Stepping into the old, abandoned study, he dragged his fingers over the large desk and came away with a streak of dust on his fingertips.
As a matter of fact, everything in this room was covered with years of dust. The room was more of a mausoleum than a study, as it was the one room he had ordered Andrews to abandon.
“How are you, old boy?” Cassian asked the portrait of his father, painted twenty years ago. Grabbing the gilt frame, he lifted the portrait off the wall.
“How is the afterlife? Are you burning in hell for your sins, are you languishing in limbo, or have you already unseated the Devil from his throne?” The disdain in his voice was hard to miss.
As distant and cold as he was, his father had had a one-track mind. With everything the old man had done, he had expected excellence and gained it as well. To his father, anything outside of excellence inevitably lumped you into the box of failures with the rest of the miscreants.
Moving to drop the painting on the table, he stubbed his toe on a pile of books and uttered a curse. Yanking the heavy tomes up, he dropped them on the table and hacked up a cough when the dust flew into his face.
“What do I do with this place…” he mused aloud. “Should I flood it with water or burn it to cinders? The only problem with that plan is that it would take the rest of the house with it…”
Going to the shelves, he shifted a set of books to the side and rolled his eyes at the ancient set of law, trade, and etiquette books.
His finger brushed the worn spine of another book, and plucking it up, he read, “The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe. What is Mama’s book doing here?” Flipping it over, he pondered, “I wonder if my new wife will like this one. She might argue with the authors as well.”
“Sir?” Andrews came to the door. “What are you doing in here so late? It is veritably midnight.”
“Sleep eludes me this night, Andrews,” Cassian murmured while going to a cabinet that housed a plaque commemorating his brother’s marksmanship award from Oxford.
Plucking the cabinet open, he plucked the gun out just as his butler rested his lamp on the desk beside Cassian’s. “Do you recall Roderick ever shooting this gun again?”
“No, Sir,” Andrews answered. “If I recall, your father purchased that rifle simply for your brother to use in the competition. Since he won, there was no further need for it, and you know how your father views things that are of no more use to him.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Cassian lifted the rifle and lowered his eye to the sight on the rifle.
Pulling away, he checked the barrel—of course it was empty. He remembered the weekends his father took Roderick out to teach him to shoot, walking right past Cassian as if he did not exist.
The one boy who had a father never lived long enough to be one.
When the news of his father’s and older brother’s deaths had found him in Italy, it had come by a letter from his father’s solicitor. A man as cold and calculating as his father had been.
It is my onus to make you aware that since you were on your rambunctious roamings, your father and brother perished in an accident while returning from Manchester.
When you receive this missive, you must come directly to me upon your return to settle your father’s estate, facilitate the transfer of the ducal title and dukedom to you, and arrange for their burial.
Adolphus Green.
Solicitor.
Cocking the gun haphazardly over his shoulder, he searched the cabinet again, seeing if there were bullets stored. “Andrews, please send in a purchasing request for the bullets for this rifle.”
“I will do so on the morrow. Is there a reason you came here, Your Grace?” Andrews asked.
“Macabre memories, I suppose,” Cassian replied while grasping his mother’s book firmly.
Looking around, he said, “Tomorrow, box up all the rest of these books and throw them out. Burn them for all I care. Also, send for fresh stationery and writing materials, I need to correspond with my solicitor.”
“That will be done, Your Grace,” Andrews said as he fixed his robe. Grasping his lamp, he headed to the door, “Have a good night, sir.”
When the butler departed, Cassian rested the gun and the book on the table, then went off to his father’s sideboard. If he remembered correctly, the man stored premium Madeira wine and Jamaican rum in there.
Fishing the bottles out, he took two with him while reminding himself to get Andrews to share the rest with the staff. Grasping the gun and books, he headed to his rooms and kicked the door closed behind him with his heel.
The next time he saw that room, it would be clear of all the haunting memories and the lingering specter of his father.
I shall exorcise you out of my life, out of this house.
Inside his room, he rested the book and the gun on his end-table, before he popped the bottle of rum, took a sniff, and jerked his head away.
“Good god, the smell alone can put me over a barrel.” After the fumes petered off, he put the bottle to his mouth and took a bracing mouthful.
It scorched his windpipe and set his stomach afire.
Peering at the dark bottle, he shrugged. “Just enough to go to sleep. You cannot be drunk tomorrow, you have a new wife, remember. Then again…” he took another sip. “She’ll probably be too preoccupied with avoiding me to even notice.”