Chapter 8
During what felt like a somber breakfast the following morning, Cecilia tried to rid herself of the strange feeling that had settled upon her. She felt oddly disoriented, but yet level-headed enough to realize that it was only the shock of being newly married to London’s worst rake dawning on her.
Half an hour after nine and with no sign of Cassian, she remembered what Abigail had told her and resigned herself to the notion that she might not see Cassian for some time.
And it ought not matter to her. He was probably relieved to have some time away from her, too.
Here and there, she saw the butler and two footmen carting boxes from one of the hallways to the other, and she grew curious. Finished with her meal, she stepped out in time to come across Mr. Andrews.
“Andrews,” she stopped him. “What is going on?”
“His Grace has ordered me to clean out his late father’s study and that I ought to either throw these books out or burn them,” he said.
Cecilia rocked on her heels. “Burn them? Is he mad! You cannot burn books. What have we turned into? Are we the ancient Romans destroying the temple of Apollo and the Library of Pergamon? Are we heathens!”
The butler’s lips flickered, “Are you counter-ordering me not to destroy them, Your Grace?”
“Of course, I am ordering you to save them!” she answered vehemently. “Please tell me where my husband’s chambers are. I think I need to have a word with him. Now.”
Andrews called a footman over and handed him the book, ordering him to retrieve the books from the cart and place them in the foyer.
“I will take you to His Grace’s chambers,” Andrews replied. “This way, Your Grace.”
He took her to a room in the East wing and tried the knob; the door opened with a soft screech. “I will leave you to it, Your Grace.”
Pushing the door in, she marched inside and blinked twice at how deathly dark it was in here. She barely made out the edges of scant furniture, a large bed, and a body curled up on it.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she went to the drapes and yanked them aside.
“What the deuce—!” Cassian swore as he flung an arm up and yanked his head away from the sunlight streaming into the room. “Close the damned drapes unless you want to blind me! The rays are liquefying my eyeballs.”
Concerned, Cecilia tugged one back in place but left a sliver so light could come in. It did not take her long to see the reason for Cassian’s aversion to light—the dark bottle, barely corked, on his bedside table.
She pressed her lips tight. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” he grunted. “And what are you doing in my bedchamber?”
“I came to ask you why you ordered your men to burn books,” she declared. It was only when the words left her mouth, she realized she sounded more like a shrew than ever. Swallowing, she tempered her tone. “I will not allow it.”
“Fine,” he grunted, flopping on his back. The sheets slipped to his waist, and she felt her pulse skipping a beat as she took in his male grace.
She gazed in muffled awe at the muscular breadth of his shoulders, the granite slabs of his chest with its wiry furring. “Rescue the books like the unfortunate urchins they are. Now, please, close the drapes and let me sleep.”
Tugging the curtains close, she moved to his side. “You are not dying, are you?”
“If you let more light in, my brain will burn if that helps,” he grunted, his dark hair flopping over his eyes. “Are you finished yet?”
“No,” she said, lifting the bottle. Taking it cautiously, she sniffed the beverage. Her nose wrinkled in the burn. “What the devils’ swill is this?”
“Rum, of course. The beverage of choice amongst pirates and drunkards. Try some.”
His suggestion spurred a questioning curiosity inside her, and squaring her slim shoulders, she took a breath and downed a mouthful in one gulp.
Her chest burned, her eyes watered, and she began to sputter. “Goodness, that is—” she sucked in a breath and set the bottle down, hastily corking it, “—repugnant.”
“I suppose your sensibilities are more attuned to sherry,” Cassian lifted an eye and looked at her pointedly. “Isn’t that right?”
She reddened at his tease. “Bounder.”
He shifted again, and the sheets slipped further down his body and down to his manhood, and when she saw the line of hair leading to the thick root of him—she almost panicked.
“Are you sleeping naked?”
“There is no other way to sleep.” He shifted a little more before peeling his eyes open to half-mast. “Has little Miss Perfect never seen a man before?”
“What do you think?” she demanded, training her eyes on the headboard.
His laugh was deep and mocking. Cassian grasped the sheets and began to lift, “Maybe it’s time you see one—”
“Don’t you dare,” she glared.
“Then I suggest you leave my room, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his neck.
Cecilia spun on her heel and managed to temper her stride—and the burn on her face. She found the butler waiting by the doorway of the old study and gave a succinct order.
“Please take the boxes to the set of rooms in the West wing, to the room I’ve decided my private parlor will be,” she ordered. “I need to have shelves built as well.”
“I do have the contact of some excellent carpenters in the town, Your Grace,” Andrews replied. “But if you prefer, we can have furniture from London. However, in the interim, it may be best to take the shelves from the study as well.”
After considering it, she decided, “That does make sense. Please do that. And engage the carpenters for a new escritoire.”
“I will let the Messrs. Augustine know,” Andrews replied. “Is there anything else you would like, Your Grace?”
“A new set of stationery, monogrammed with my new initials, and plain journals,” she said after a moment.
I have the feeling that I will need to write down my thoughts, or I may go insane!
“Of course, Your Grace,” Andrews bowed. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Yes,” she began, “but then, I was distracted, rightfully so, by His Grace planning to destroy books—” she wrinkled her nose, “—such a heathen. I will be in the library whilst you arrange the books in my new parlor.”
Heading off to her rooms, Cecilia took the copy of Cecilia and her pencil, then, in the cavernous library, found a seat near a window and curled into a ball with the book on her knees.
Spinning the book open, she tried to delve into the witty repertoire—but the lucid imagery of Cassian, half-naked, looking very much like sin personified, sprang up to the forefront of her mind.
Covering her eyes, she took in a series of steadying breaths. “It does not matter what my first impression of him was. He is a troglodyte and a hedonist. He is not a good person…”
If only she could make herself truly believe it.
The dull throb of pain in his temples and the back of his head from imbibing strong alcohol was familiar yet unwelcome.
It was even more unwelcome because that little hoyden had flooded his room with sunlight, stabbing his eyes with the sun’s heated lances, damn nearly liquefying his brain.
The need to use the necessary had him shucking the sheets, dragging on his robe, and padding to the washroom. Finished, he washed his hands, then splashed his face with another pail of cold water.
Bracing his hand on the edge of the ceramic bowl, he hunched over. “When did I get so weak that a mouthful of rum has taken my legs out from under me?”
In the past, he had drunk himself into oblivion more times than he could count, yet he’d always woken up with only a simple stomachache.
Cassian was not proud to add that some of those escapades had been paired with a wicked bacchanalian.
Returning to his room, he slipped on drawers and loose trousers, just as a knock came at his door.
“Enter!” he called out.
Andrews pushed the door in, but a large, shaggy canine mass with a massive square-jawed head and long limbs darted between his legs and raced to Cassian.
His mood brightened instantly at the sight of one of his faithful hounds. “Hullo, Cerberus.”
“I assumed you would need this, Your Grace,” Andrews handed him a glass that Cassian already knew held his butler’s infamous family cure for drunkenness.
Taking the cup, Cassian drank the sludge in three large gulps and grimaced at the aftertaste. “What in God's name do you put in that thing?” He swallowed thickly. “It seems to taste worse every time you make it.”
“Yet it works,” his butler smiled faintly with pride.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he rubbed his dog's face, “Do you want some exercise, boy?”
“Should I start your bath, Your Grace?” Andrews asked.
“Not now,” Cassian replied, as he felt the pounding in his head start to lessen. He had to reluctantly agree that, as horrible as Andrew’s cure for overindulgence was, it worked and quickly, too. “I do not see the sense of washing before I sweat through my clothes.
“Please prepare some coffee for me,” he said instead.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Andrews replied.
“Before you go, have you formed an opinion of my new wife?” Cassian asked. “And yes, you can speak freely.”
“I believe she is smart, quick-witted, spirited, and solidly an academic,” Andrews answered openly.
Snorting, Cassian replied, “That is a very delicate way of saying a bluestocking and a hoyden. But thank you for your honesty.”
While he left, Cassian donned a loose lawn shirt and unbuttoned the collar to release his throat and allow his chest to breathe. Donning boots, he accepted the coffee Andrews sent up, then headed out to the backyard and the outbuilding.
He stomped over the tall grass and went to the door. Pulling it in, he stepped into the dim interior. The large front room had scattered furniture, some chairs were broken, and he skirted the sagging roof.
Ducking under a crumbling doorway, he spied the other smaller rooms; one would be suitable for a billiards and a card table, while the room beyond that could become a washing room.
The last room was fit enough to be a living quarters, where he could fit a bed, a chest of drawers for clothes, and even a small table and chair.
“I can turn this around,” he murmured to himself.
His eyes landed on the faded blue wallpaper around him. He walked to the banked fireplace and rested a hand on the paper. He knew what was behind it.
Stepping out, he found Cerberus sniffing at bushes, and when a rabbit leaped out, he took off after it. Laughing, he watched the hound hunt the poor animal until he called the dog to his side and shooed the rabbit away.
Crouching, he rubbed the dogs’ ears and said, “Remind me to take you hunting the next time I’m invited to a hunting party.”
He headed to a shed across the lawn, then pulled a wheelbarrow, a ladder, and a sledgehammer from the storage place.
Taking both of them to the outbuilding, he set the ladder on the side of the house closest to where the sagging roof was. Climbing up, he braced a foot on the edge of the roof, lifted the hammer, and swung.
A flicker of something in the left of her eye drew Cecilia’s attention, and she dropped her book to look closer. Her heart leaped into her throat and lodged there as she watched Cassian swinging a hammer into the sagging roof of the outbuilding.
“Is he mad?!” she gasped.
He was teetering on the edge, inches away from losing his balance and falling to his death. Frightened and angered, she dropped her book and dashed out, deciding to confront him.
The thick grass hampered her steps, and burrs caught on her petticoats, but Cecilia was determined to get to Cassian.
Almost twenty feet away, she stopped, shielded her eyes from the sun, and shouted, “What in god’s name are you doing?!”
Cassian straightened and let the handle of the sledgehammer slip so it dangled by his side. Craning his head over his shoulder, he called down, “Go back inside! This does not concern you.”
“If you are planning on making me a one-day widow, yes, it does concern me!” she bristled. “Do you know how close you are to the edge of this… this shack?”
His lids were lowered over his eyes. “I have excellent balance, but thank you for your concern.”
“You were drunk this morning,” she remarked. “And now you are doing construction? You are truly a candidate for bedlam!”