Chapter 23
The morning was damp with a porridge-like fog settling across the land. The dour feeling started to seep into her heart as well. Cassian had not returned yet, and she hoped that he had done the smart thing and hunkered down in that rain.
“What am I going to do about this annulment…” Her words echoed in her ears as she went to her desk and found the massive mountain of letters waiting for her. “Should I have told her that Cassian had already assured me we would part ways?”
“Your Grace,” Andrews stepped into the room with a bow. “His Grace has just sent word that he will be home later and had to seek refuge in his London townhome during the storm.”
“That’s a relief,” Cecilia felt some of her worries evaporate, and the steel in her shoulders melted away. “Thank you, Andrews.”
As she waded through the mound of letters, she found one from Emma, one from her mother, and in the middle of the pile, one from Gabriel.
For a moment, she considered leaving it unread or just chucking it in the fire, but then she remembered, It must be a reply to my letter.
With heavy trepidation—what if Gabriel frankly refused to stop his malicious actions—she tore the envelope open to find a note.
Come to me, and we’ll talk. I know you cannot resist, Cecilia.
Her mouth dropped at the absolute arrogance bleeding through the words. Anger sizzled through her, and the strength of it stunned her. She could not believe this man was the same respectful, cordial man she had wanted to marry!
“The gall of this bounder!”
Dropping the note and pushing away from the table, she strode from the room and summoned Abigail. She was so angry, she almost tore the belt of her robe away. “We need to head to London—now.”
It was about midday when Cassian stepped into his home, feeling mucky from the long, wet trip. The only thing he wanted was to have a hot bath, share dinner with Cecilia, and have her in his bed again.
He handed his coat over to the waiting footman and immediately called for his tub to be filled. “Where is my wife this afternoon?”
“I believe Her Grace went out to London, Your Grace,” the footman answered.
“I… see,” Cassian shrugged. It is probably to visit her friends. Still, the pang of disappointment weighed heavily on his heart. Perhaps he would see her later in the afternoon. “See to it that the bath is filled quickly.
He took the stairs up two at a time to his suite of rooms and was greeted by two of his dogs, Atticus and Cerberus; lightning, thunder, and torrential rain were their mortal enemies. They always found their way to his chambers when storms rolled in.
After rubbing their ears, he disrobed the borrowed suit Ben had lent to him and donned a bathrobe. He went for a drink—and spotted a half-empty bottle of brandy on the side table.
A brow ticking up, he laughed, “I’ll get you your own set, my sweet girl.”
After pouring a glass, he went to the bedroom and saw the rumpled sheets and the stray blond hairs on his pillow. A long breath left him while he pressed the heavy glass to his temple.
“What am I going to do with you…” He grumbled.
Cecilia’s demure exterior hid a pure, generous, and fiercely loyal heart.
She was quick-witted, absolutely gorgeous, and deep down, she was a lonely soul.
He had sensed her loneliness from the start—the very moment they first clashed during her debut, and while he would never admit that that feeling resonated with him, he could not allow her to believe something that was not going to happen.
Lifting the inkpot blotter, he saw the scrawled date of his departure to Europe circled in red ink, and he reminded himself about the annulment agreement Ben still held at the ready.
But do you really want that?
The errant thought had been jumping into his head more often than not of late, and it was beginning to feel like a thorn in his side.
Things weren’t the same, and he hated knowing the truth— Cecilia had gotten under his skin. The same way an earthquake eroded the foundations of a building, breaking up the firm stones and rolling them away, his firm decision to roam Europe free to chase the stars was shifting.
Devil and damn man. Come to your senses; this marriage was set to break from the start.
He had a brief respite during his bath, but when he dressed and had a light meal, the worry returned. Unsettled, he finished and took a glass of wine with him and left for his rooms—only to find himself winding his way to the West wing and staring at the door to her chambers.
He didn’t even try to dismiss the temptation and crossed the room to enter her private domain. From there, he headed to her makeshift study at the corner by a window, and his eyes landed on a letter that had fallen to the floor near her desk.
He saw the heading of Whitmore’s family seal and his overly flourished writing. Come to me, and we’ll talk. I know you cannot resist, Cecilia.
Instantly, his heart felt hollowed out with dread, and chasing it, a hot spike of jealousy rammed right through him. Scarlet flashed across his vision as he slammed his palm down on the note.
He was not jealous by nature, and yet the thought that Cecilia would just run to Whitmore at his sudden beck and call infuriated him. His fists clenched.
Is that why she went to London? Why wouldn’t she have waited for me to return and talk this over?
His eyes landed on the note again, and a sickening feeling began to grow in his gut—against all her empathic declarations otherwise… did she still love Gabriel?
A vivid, unwanted image of Cecilia in Gabriel’s arms, her bodice slipping off her shoulder, his golden head tracing kisses down her skin, her head arching back in bliss—and the fractured snap of glass alerted him, as did the bite of glass shards in his hand.
He stepped back with a grimace at the spilled wine on the desk and floor, the glass shards, and the beads of blood dripping down his palm.
Deep down, he knew what it meant—and it was not good.
“Ah, my dear Cecilia,” Gabriel’s voice had her turning from the line of books in his study. “You’re here.”
The doors parted, and Gabriel strode in. Objectively, Cecilia could see why Gabriel was so desired by the ladies in the ton. His blue suit was molded to his athletic form, and his hair was styled perfectly—but now, she questioned what she had ever seen in him.
The smugness in his voice made shards of ice run down her spine as she turned to see him saunter into the room. She made a point to look over his shoulder to see if Ophelia was going to join them.
When the lady did not appear, she asked, “And where is your fiancée this afternoon?”
“She is out with family, I believe,” Gabriel’s eyes landed on Abigail. “Must you have your maid with us?”
“I’d have half of the Bow Street Runners here with me if I could,” Cecilia hissed. “Stop smearing my name, Gabriel. This is the last time I will ask.”
His chin lifted, “I have said nothing but the truth.”
“You’ve said nothing but lies,” Cecilia corrected him. She valiantly bit back how she knew his sordid little secret. If he did promise to stop the lies, she would call off Lady Catherine.
Gabriel walked to a cupboard behind a desk, took out a bottle of sherry and two glasses. “Would you like a drink?”
The bounder.
“No,” she muttered, forcing the burgeoning heat away from her face.
“I am not here for long. Tell me you will stop this madness. There is nothing for you to gain by maligning my name. If anything, it makes you look angry and bitter. Is that the image you want displayed while looking to marry your intended?”
His jaw flexed. “You said intended as if you smelled something foul.”
“This is all foul,” Cecilia snapped. “Now, did you drag me half across England for nothing?”
“Not necessarily,” Gabriel’s tone had dropped to something she could only describe as sultry. He rounded the desk and came to her. “I can still save you, Cecilia.”
Her back stiffened. “Save me from what?”
“That hellborn babe you married,” he murmured derisively. “Fitzroy is not going to love you, Cecilia, and I bet my last farthing he will soon be bringing women into his bed—”
She began to bristle.
“—and I bet he will not take care of you the way you would like. I can give you that,” he finished.
She read between the lines as easily as if he had written his meaning in block letters.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why in god’s name would I trust you to give me a glass of water, much less be your mistress. I may not have chosen this situation, but I will not embroil myself with you at all. Now, for the last time, will you stop the slander?”
He shrugged one shoulder and set the glass down. “I have no reason to do so.”
“So, you did waste my time,” she said. “I am warning you, Gabriel, if you do not stop this, you will be sorry. Very, very sorry.”
Scoffing, he then sneered, “I hardly think so.”
She breathed out her anger, “Goodbye, Gabriel. Come, Abigail.”
As she headed to the door, he grabbed her arm and spun her back to him, tugging her closely, his hand flashing up to grab her head. The intent to kiss her was so rife that her reaction was swift—and her palm cracked across his face with a stinging slap.
He stumbled away, and she swiftly grabbed the glass of sherry from the table and flung the alcohol into his eyes.
Gabriel shouted as he scrambled for purchase, grabbing at his table or anything to steady himself. “Cecilia! You b—”
“You’re a pig, Rutherford!” she scolded over him. “Do not ever touch me again, or you will regret it.”
She spun out the door, incensed. All that way for nothing. Well, not really, she had seen more of his despicable behavior—he had a fiancée for heaven’s sake—and had all the more reason to put Gabriel in his place in a week’s time.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Abigail whispered, terrified.
“No,” Cecilia replied as the footman helped her into the carriage. “But it will pass.”
All I know is that I am fully justified when future incidents unfold. He truly brought on his own destruction.
That evening, just after dusk, she stepped into the country-house, mentally and physically exhausted. She thanked Abigail and sent her to rest, but when asked if she could disrobe by herself, she said, “I’ll manage, thank you.”
She took the steps up to her rooms while considering what had happened earlier. She could bet a pretty penny that Gabriel would never tell Ophelia what had truly occurred and would find some way to spin the tale in his favor.
As she pushed the door to her room in, Cecilia paused while feeling… absolutely nothing. The hurt she had expected to feel was not there.
She was not paying attention and didn’t see the shadowed figure in a chair in the corner—until Cassian spoke, and she jumped a foot in the air.
“Why, Cecilia?” His tone was stiff and dark, much like the liquor he loved to drink.
For a moment, she was flummoxed. “Why, what?”
“Don’t play the fool,” he muttered. “It does not suit you. Why did you go to see Gabriel?”
Without me. She heard the unspoken words.
“Because I thought, foolishly so, that he would come to his senses and stop this rumor madness,” she sighed. “It was all for naught.”
He was silent for a moment before he rose fluidly and stalked to her, backing her up against the nearest wall. The incensed glitter and gleam in his eyes made her suck in a quick, ragged breath—and for once, she saw another side to him, yet she was not afraid.
Her heartbeat quickened to the point it was a steady beat in her ears, but still no fear. Cassian slammed a palm over her head on the wall and leaned in. “Why did you go to him alone?”
“I did not go alone,” she replied calmly. “I took Abigail.”
Cassian did not look comforted, but rather, his eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel you are leaving something out?”
“…Promise me you won’t try to kill him,” she whispered.
“That response tells me I have grounds to kill him,” Cassian swore. “What did he do?”
Heart pumping, she said, “He tried to persuade me into being his mistress as he said you cannot give me what I truly want. I dismissed him and made to leave, but he tried to kiss me—”
He spun toward the door, and she lurched to grab him and tried to turn him—but his body was a slab of stone. He did stop, however. Swallowing, she quickly added, “I slapped him and told him in no uncertain terms that I will never be anything to him anymore.”
Cassian’s head twisted over his shoulder, and his grey eyes were steel. “Do you still love him?”
Her eyes flew open, as did her mouth. “What? No! How—how could you think that? Why would you think that?”
“Because the moment he summons you, you run,” Cassian muttered coldly, and she flinched. “Was his pet there?”
“If you mean Lady Ophelia, no, she wasn’t there,” Cecilia replied. “Please don’t call her a pet. It is disrespectful.”
His jaw ticked, and something flared in his eyes again.
“Cassian—” she began softly, “—you are not jealous, are you?”
He pushed away, and then she noticed the strips of white cloth wrapped around his right hand, and her attention shifted. So many things were tugging at her attention, but she had to keep to one topic at a time.
Following him, she pressed, “Cassian, you cannot possibly be jealous of Gabriel.”
He had reached the doorway when he stopped. Not turning, he frankly said, “I am not.”
With that, he walked away. And while he did not slam the door, the soft close behind him made her heart hurt as much as it would have if he had slammed it in rage.
Slowly, she sank to the nearest seat, unable to fathom what had just happened. How had Cassian just shut her out like that, when she’d been completely honest and upfront the whole time?
He’d sworn he was not jealous—and while she had no history with a jealous man—she couldn’t shake the idea that was what it was.
Or it could be that Cassian does want to follow on his threat to bring Gabriel to Rotton Row for a shootout.
Sighing, she felt the beginnings of a headache spark at her temples. Mentally, she tracked the time to Lady Horatia’s garden party and rubbed at a prick of pain in her chest. “This is going to be the longest five days of my life.”