Chapter 16
Dawn found Cecilia on the back porch as the dark clouds began to fade. Outside, she inhaled deeply; the invigorating, greenery-scented country air was still a marvel to her.
As she thought of what happened yesterday, she felt a curious sensation in her chest.
All this time, I’ve been everything but myself. How have I been so blind this long?
What on earth was I going to do when I did marry Gabriel? Keep up the act of the perfect wife and never let my true self come to the fore?
The fog was lifting from the ground as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and looped it over her hair. Heading out into the pastoral lawns, she walked.
What do I think about Cassian’s offer of taking his lessons? If there is one thing I do know about him, he does know intimacy. It could profit me to learn how to please a man.
It did not matter where her feet took her; she just needed to move, not minding a whit how her aproned skirts whispered over the trampled grass.
“Do I trust that he will stick to his word and not break his vow to me?” she thought to herself.
She passed by a bush that rattled unnervingly because there was little to no wind. Stepping back, she peered at the bush and, as it rustled again, retreated even further.
“Are you scared of bushes, sweetheart?” Cassian’s sudden voice from behind her had her jumping.
Spinning on her heel, she gripped the shawl tighter, “What—why did you do that?”
“To see your reaction,” he shrugged. “I am surprised to see you out here at this hour. I was under the impression good ladies slept past nine.”
“Some. Not I,” Cecilia said while wrapping the shawl tighter. “I came out here to clear my head.”
“Of what, pray tell?” Cassian asked.
His dark hair was tousled. In fact, all of him was tousled, as if he had just rolled out of bed and thrown some clothes on.
As much of a mess he was, he still rather took her breath away.
Her gaze was drawn to the dusky hue of his skin, sun-bronzed despite the fashion of the day for a paler complexion.
It was a testament, she supposed, to his longstanding exile to more exotic locales.
His clothing, despite his untidy appearance, was excellently tailored and fitted his frame to a tee.
The sides of his lawn shirt emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the wide expanse of his chest as it tapered down to a lean waist and hips.
His muscular thighs strained the fabric of his faded, old breeches.
“Alexander the Great’s conquest of the East,” she said flatly.
His brow ticked up. “Ancient kings keep you up at night? How ironic, the present king keeps me up at night as well.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, Cassian. I am thinking about how I wish I could have attended Oxford or Cambridge so I’d have something more to occupy my time than to think about my limited options.”
Cassian scoffed and flicked his hair from his eyes. “Trust me, Cecilia, it is nothing to rave about. Those long lectures steal pieces of your soul.”
“At least I’d have an academic achievement that means something.”
“It is not your fault,” he replied. “Somewhere along the way, our society decided the studies of the female scribes in Persia were too hard or that war should not be for the warrior women of the Steppe.
“God forbid they know of Artunis, a Lieutenant Commander of the army under Cyrus the Great. They decided girls should be taught sewing, crocheting and embroidery, dancing and music, and horse riding if they were lucky.”
“Don’t forget mastering French,” she said flatly.
“Ah, French, the language of romance, because English is too gauche,” Cassian chuckled softly, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck.
The memory of his hand on hers, the heat between them, a connection she did not understand, rushed through her mind, and she watched him.
Something fluttered in her chest.
Is this what people felt when they were attracted to someone? Was that it, the beginnings of love, or lust?
Cecilia pulled her pelisse tighter around her. The bush rustled again, and she turned just as a small furball began crawling out from under the bush. When it came to her boot and gazed up at her with large green eyes, Cecilia felt her heart melt.
Kneeling, she reached out for the kitten and lifted the small thing; as she turned, Cassian’s head snapped back. “What is that?”
“It’s a kitten,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You know, the offspring of a cat, a feline.”
His eyes narrowed. “You cannot be thinking of taking that thing into the house.”
“I am,” she said while the kitten could comfortably sit in the palm of her hand. “The poor thing is starving and cold. Why, Cassian, are you scared of cats?”
“I have dogs,” he reminded.
“And now we have a kitten,” she smiled.
Cassian’s eyes lifted to her again. “You are not going to distract me from the subject at hand. Be honest, what I said last night unnerved you.”
“It did,” Cecilia nodded. “And I am trying to find the answers to the questions you posed, but the answers have not untangled in my mind yet. If I don’t know what I want to do with my life yet, that tells me that I need to find what I prize in life.
“A lady’s place in the ton is to be pretty to attract a husband and then become an ornament in her husband's home,” she declared as she headed back to the house.
“I have read of women scientists, botanists, mathematicians, astronomers. Women are authors, artists, creators, and mentors. I need something to fulfill my time rather than arguing with characters and justifying arguments in my head.”
“There are times I do appreciate the arguments you’ve created,” Cassian replied, his tone lightly jesting.
She gave him an eye, and he snorted. “You are intelligent, Cecilia. You’ll find your way soon enough.” He then eyed the kitten. “What are you going to do with that thing?”
The kitten was half asleep on her hand, “I am thinking of giving it a bath and putting it to sleep in your bed.”
His head snapped to her, “You do not dare.”
“Why not?” Cecilia waltzed off, then threw over her shoulder, “I thought you loved wild cats in your bed.”
Struck silent by her parting words, all Cassian could do was to watch her walk away, the subtle sway of her hips as mesmerizing as her expressive eyes had been just moments ago.
The girl was coming into her own, not quite yet, but she was getting there. He wanted to make sure she bloomed into the brave woman she desired to be and stood on her feet. He did not want her to crumble into herself because someone gave her a single bad eye.
He had a deep-set feeling to protect her, even for the small time they would be married. He had nothing to lose with anyone in London, and if it came to a point where he had to destroy someone’s life to save hers, he was certain he would not hesitate.
Cecilia vanished around a corner without a look back, and Cassian found himself shaking his head wryly. “Touché, Cecilia.”
Heading to his rooms, Cassian called for a bath. It was one thing to go and have a run with his horse while his dogs galloped behind him with no human company. It was another thing entirely to go to breakfast smelling of horseflesh, grass stains, and dogs.
With his hair still damp around his collar, Cassian headed to the dining room, dressed in another pair of fresh faded breeches and a loose shirt. Cecilia was not there yet, so he took the time to indulge in a cup of coffee and shook the morning paper out.
“Let’s see what other buffoonery the Prince Regent is committing today.”
Thankfully, there was no news of any botched trade deals or raised taxes. There was still war in the Peninsula, and Cassian felt sickened to his stomach at the senseless loss of life.
Turning the page to the social reports, his eyes landed on a long paragraph from the Tattler.
It is with no small measure of reluctance that we must report the latest descent of a once-celebrated beauty from the heights of society to the gutters of disgrace.
Miss C—, formerly the toast of Almack’s and the object of many a gentleman’s admiration, has now become the subject of whispered reproach and open ridicule.
Duke Rutherford, the lady’s prior fiancé, is ready to speak on the lady in question.
“She was no innocent,” the gentleman declared.
“Indeed, she pursued me with a zeal that would shame a libertine. I was but a spectator to her own undoing as she had cast off all modesty and conducted herself in a manner more befitting a Covent Garden actress than a daughter of good breeding.”
“Though some may plead that she is but a victim of circumstance, others contend that her fall was not the work of seduction but of design.
“She knew what she was about,” said one matron of the ton. “And now she must reap what she has so wantonly sown.”
Let this serve as a caution to all young ladies who would mistake boldness for charm and liberty for license. The ton may forgive a gentleman’s indiscretions, but a lady’s virtue, once lost, is seldom recovered.
With each passing despicable sentence, his pulse pounded more violently. At the end of the page, blistering fury overtook his precious calm emotion. Goddamn Whitmore. The bastard still wasn't satisfied with the pound of flesh he’d already demanded.
Cecilia did not deserve this, and a protective surge rose within him. Dropping the paper, he called Andrews into the room, and before the butler could get a word out, Cassian asked, “Are there any other copies of the paper here?”
“I believe we have three.”
“Burn them all, and if Cecilia asks, make up something. I don’t care what it is, but I will not have her reading this filth—” He waved the folded paper.
“Summon my carriage in ten minutes,” Cassian added as he shoved away from the table and stalked back to his room to redress. He took the paper with him, knowing he needed it for leverage.
“Your Grace,” Lord Weber greeted him with a pompous smirk. “I am surprised to see you here. Is it not that once a man is leg-shackled, the lady rules the roost?”