Chapter 17
His friend’s frank words slapped Cassian harder than the punch he had delivered to Whitmore.
“In love? Ben—are you mad? I haven’t fallen in love with her. What happened in that room was me defending a woman who could not defend herself, not the way I can.” He rubbed his face, “That night, Cecilia was…”
“Drunk?”
“Disheartened,” Cassian corrected. “With a hint of desperation. Can you imagine doing everything right, everything society told you to do, and still coming up short? I feel partially guilty for standing on the side while Whitmore played with her life.
“The moment she hit spinster age, he would shove her to the side and find a younger model, like he did—only this time, he didn’t have to find a dastardly way to tell her he was not going to marry her.
” Cassian slumped in his seat while he examined his bruised knuckles. “Kissing me did that for him.”
Rubbing his face too, Ben said, “You know Whitmore will milk this to Judgement Day.”
“What other brush is there to paint me with?” Cassian shrugged. “They have me as every degenerate in the book. I hardly think a fistfight will worsen their opinion.”
“I can understand you trying to protect her reputation, but with you out of the spotlight, you might have given Whitmore the bigger stage to bellow out his Cheltenham Tragedy.”
Rubbing his knuckles, Cassian muttered, “I told him I had every reason to destroy him, and I will. When he is on his knees, he will be singing a new tune.”
Brows lowering, Ben asked, “What do you have in mind?”
“Whitmore has some loans to businesses that he does not know I own,” Cassian pressed. “I will be calling them in, post haste.”
“I have never seen you so dedicated,” Ben gawked. “In your life. Back in there—” he jerked his head to the left, “—you looked like you wanted to take Whitmore’s head off with your bare hands.”
“And I will fulfill my promise to ruin him, just not with my fists,” Cassian promised darkly while he peeked out the window. “Where are we going?”
“My home,” Ben said. “I cannot, in good conscience, leave you to your devices so you can double back to the club and finish mauling Whitmore.”
Cassian snorted, “I am insulted that you think so little of me…” he paused. “But you are not wrong.”
“I’ll send you home tomorrow when you are not seething enough to cause a second London fire,” Ben sighed. “Meanwhile, I am going to prepare every defense in the book to stop Whitmore when he brings that claim against you.”
Wordlessly, Cassian rubbed his sore knuckles, “Are there any apothecaries open this late? I may need some cream.”
“I have balm at home,” Ben replied. “And bandages.”
Cocking a brow, Cassian wordlessly asked why. To that, Ben laughed, “You are not the only man here with a membership to Gentleman Jacks.”
“Cassian—” Cecilia walked into his bedroom, wondering why he was not at breakfast, only to find his room empty. Her lips pursed, “I hope you are not somewhere over a barrow drunk.”
She heard the door scrape open and turned to find one of Cassian’s hounds nosing at the door. The dog was the mottled brown one, his dark eyes hardly as vicious as she once thought. It came to her and nosed at her hand.
Hesitatingly, she rubbed its ears and watched as he lumbered on to make circles on the rug before lying down near the slumbering fire.
“What does it feel like to be a Duke…” She circled Cassian’s desk, sat in his chair, felt the studded leather and faint whiff of his lingering spicy musk giving her a pleasant shiver.
She scanned the surface of the desk, which included a tray of writing implements and an ornate wax jack. Andrews had left a large stack of the day’s correspondence, and while she looked around, she spied a half-open drawer.
Curious, she pulled it out and spotted a worn book. That was odd. Did Cassian do remedial reading when he was not working?
As she dug out the book, a letter slid from the stack, the flowy, feminine handwriting catching her eye. After a moment, she set down the book and picked up the note.
The paper was creamy and thick but had yellow around the edge. The letter was addressed simply to Cassian Fitzroy, with a return address in Verona, Italy.
Turning it over, she read its contents.
Tesoro mio
I write not to reproach, though Heaven knows my heart is heavy with the weight of all you once vowed and have since forsaken. I write because silence has become unbearable, and I must speak — if only to the paper I write on — lest I be consumed by the ache of what might have been.
Do you remember, sir, the morning in my sister’s rose garden? The morning had just broken over the hills, and you took my hand with such solemnity. You spoke then of constancy, of honor, of a future in which I should be yours and yours only.
I believed you. Fool that I was, I believed every word, and gave you not only my trust, but the tenderest part of myself — that which no woman yields lightly.
Tell me, Cassian, was it all a jest? A passing fancy to be discarded when more advantageous prospects appeared? Or did you once mean what you said, and simply lack the courage to honor it?
I ask not for restitution, nor do I seek to disturb your new felicity. I ask only that you remember me — not as a foolish girl, but as a woman who loved you with sincerity and who suffers still for having done so.
Ever yours,
Isabella Alessandra Farnese
She stared at the letter while a sinking feeling settled in her stomach.
Her eyes turned away; the strange feeling crawled up her throat.
She felt nauseated as she closed the letter and slid it back into the book.
She saw there were at least three more, but she did not have the heart—or the courage—to spy on any more of them.
Is this why Cassian is hell-bent on going back to the continent? To see the woman he loves?
She pushed away, still uneasy. As old as the letters were, no man was that sentimental to hold onto them if they, and the person behind them, did not mean anything to them.
Is this why he banned me from asking about his past? Because that woman in his past will become his future?
Her feet felt wooden as she made her way back to the breakfast room and called for another cup of tea.
While mulling over the sudden turn in events, the doors opened, and Cassian walked in, wearing what she assumed were the same clothes as yesterday—but it was the bruise spreading over the left side of his face that made her heart stutter.
“Cassian! What in heaven’s happened?” She launched from her seat and reached for him, almost touching his face until he swatted her hand away. It stung, but she dropped her hand. In a calmer voice, she asked, “What happened?”
He brushed past her to go to the table, and traipsing behind him was Andrews with a tray of coffee and a simple breakfast. The butler set the tray before him and bowed to the two. “Please call if you need anything, Your Grace.”
While Cassian poured a cup, Cecilia felt her heart flutter at the sight of the bruise and the blackening eye. “Will you please tell me what happened, or are you going to force me to read about it in the papers?”
“I tried to negotiate with Whitmore about all the lies he is spreading about you,” Cassian told her. “I thought I was making gains when he made the dangerous risk of slandering your name in the worst way—” he took a sip, “—and I reacted.”
Cecilia did not know if she should feel honored or frightened that Cassian would get into fisticuffs for her sake. She opened her mouth—but clamped it shut.
Hadn’t Cassian told her that she wouldn’t have some white knight to battle for her hand? Had he not realized he had done that very thing?
“Who swung first?” she asked quietly.
“It depends on what you mean,” he replied, his smoky gaze flickering up at her before falling back to the plate. “Verbally, he did, as he weaponized a vile term about you that I will not repeat. Physically, I landed the first facer.”
She sagged in her seat, “I’m wondering if you’ve made things better or worse.”
“Oh, I’m sure I have made it worse to many. I won’t be surprised if the next headline is going to be, Tales of the Hoyden and the Hellborn Babe.”
The properness inside Cecilia wanted to scowl and bemoan the fact that he had pushed them back into the spotlight when she was so adamant about keeping out of it—but then, she giggled.
“That sounds like an interesting novel.”
His brow ticked up, “You are taking this lightly—” his head twisted over his shoulder to look at the window, “—is the apocalypse dawning on us?”
Cecilia shook her head, “How is Gabriel?”
“A fright, I’m sure,” Cassian replied as he finished his meal, wiped his mouth, and stood. “I’ll be in my room, resting.”
As Cassian went off, Cecilia considered her options. She left to find Andrews, who, upon hearing her request, returned with some materials. Armed, she returned to Cassian’s bedchamber and opened the door with her hip.
Cassian was on his right side, his back to her, and she sat on the edge of the bed. He turned to her, eyes slitted just so. “What are you doing here?”
She lifted the cloth filled with ice and gently rested it on his brow, and a soft moan left his throat. “Cecilia, you don’t have to—”
“Be quiet,” she hushed him. “It is the least I can do.”
He settled, and his open eye fluttered closed; as she went on to tend to his bruise, Cassian leaned into her touch. Gently, she nursed the wound until the swelling went down, and Cassian seemed to have slipped off into sleep.
He looks like such a boy when he’s asleep, doesn’t he?
“A handsome, mischievous boy,” she whispered to herself.
Shifting away, she dropped the cloth in the bowl and made to stand—only for a firm arm to wrap around her middle and pull her back.
“What—” Cassian had her back on the bed in seconds. “—I thought you were asleep.”
“I have a strange ability to linger between sleep and awake,” Cassian replied, his eyes lowering to half-mast. “It is remarkable, actually. But that is not what I want.”