Chapter 24
“Are you a betting man, Tressingham?” Henry Hartwick, Cecilia’s father, bellowed as they entered the private box at Tattersalls.
“Occasionally,” Cassian murmured as he shot a look at Cecilia.
Things had been strained of late; since that night when she had returned from Whitmore’s house, it felt like a wall made of iron and ice had slammed between them.
He had barely seen her in the past four days as he was out at the outhouse swinging the sledgehammer into the walls, working out his frustration. The sole time he had crossed her path in a corridor, they had skirted each other like wary cats.
“Cards, yes, horses, no,” he added. “Is it something you enjoy?”
“I can frankly say it is the only vice I embrace,” the older duke guffawed as they took their seats on the right side of their wives. “I cannot remember the inside of Whites these days.”
“You are not missing anything much,” Cassian replied, while stealing another look at Cecilia.
Her hair was pinned up in an elaborate coiffure, and her gown, a bold navy and emerald walking dress. She inclined her head to hear better what her mother was saying, before he forced his eyes away.
“The clubs are no longer the bastion of male camaraderie and useful acquaintance,” Cassian said. “They have become little more than parlors for idle gossip and incessant complaint.”
“And pugilism, I hear.”
Cassian held the man’s gaze, “At times, yes.”
“That’s disappointing to hear.” Henry shook his head. “How have things changed so quickly?”
What is her mother asking her?
Deep down, Cassian knew Cecilia would not cross him with Whitmore, that she would never touch him—but the thought that she had once loved the bastard taunted him. Was it that easy to unlove someone?
What about Isabella?
Swallowing, he forced that thought away. A vivid, infuriating, upsetting image of Whitmore’s filthy hands on Cecilia, clawed at his gut and made him feel sickened on top of the uneasy feeling seconds ago.
For the life of him, he could not let the image fade. The pain of it made his bones ache.
“How are you and my dearest Cecilia?” Henry asked suddenly.
Cassian stilled. “Why do you ask?” he chuckled softly.
“Because I don’t think the two of you have looked at each other once since we arrived,” Henry replied.
He stared at the track. “Then you weren’t watching closely enough. We are fine.”
“Are you?” Margaret chimed in, her tone stiff and rather poisonous. “There appears a blustering wall of current between the two of you, and I believe I know why.”
“Mother—”
“And why is that?” Cassian asked directly.
“Your eyes are straying,” Margaret said tartly. “It is inevitable in a man of your temperament.”
The crystal glass in Cecilia’s hand slipped, but she caught it. “Mother! You cannot say such a horrible thing! Why—why would you even think that much less say it?”
“Because it is true,” the duchess hummed before sipping her champagne.
“It is not true,” Cassian interjected. “It may mean nothing to you, but I promised Cecilia that I will not stray as long as we are married.”
“Key words, as long as you are married,” Margaret sniffed. She muttered something that Cassian did not catch, but he believed she had said, which will not be for much longer.
Grinding his teeth, Cassian trained his gaze on the track.
Henry awkwardly called for a footman to refresh their glasses while the jockeys lined up. Eventually, he waved to the track. “There is one of my stallions, and I guarantee he is going to win.”
“And how could you possibly guarantee that?”
“He was born and bred in the stud farm I own.”
“Is that not manipulating the deck?” Cassian arched a brow.
“In some ways,” Henry chuckled. “But it comes down to superior breeding, and believe me, Tressingham, he has the best breeding.”
“Unlike some others,” Margaret Hartwick muttered.
The pointed jab rolled off Cassian like water over a duck’s back. He had heard worse, so he ignored it. He had no impression the woman liked him, and he could bet his last shilling that she still felt Whitmore was better for her daughter, even with the wicked things he was doing to her.
My mother told me that the placement of my birth can force me to be the villain in many people’s eyes. I never cared before, and I’ll be damned if I do now.
“Mother, please,” Cecilia whispered desperately.
“No, Cecilia,” Cassian replied. “Let her have her say. I can take whatever criticism she has. I much prefer we get things out in the open so we know where we all stand.”
Henry’s gaze flitted between the two, “I do not think this is the appropriate time nor the place for this conversation.”
Bullheaded, Cassian overrode him, “No. Speak your mind, Your Grace.”
Margaret whipped her head at him. “You are a dangerous, immoral scoundrel. For years, you have terrorized the ladies in London without a care. You’re a scoundrel with a devil-may-care attitude, and you’ve ruined many a name and reputation, and I do not appreciate how trivial you see life,” she blustered, her nose tilted up condescendingly.
“Mother!” Cecilia was horrified.
Turning to her daughter, Margaret’s tone was scathing. “I know you want to see the best in him, Cecilia, but you cannot change him. God above, I knew my decision to let you read those fantasies would come back to haunt me.
“The reformation of rakes is the stuff of fiction, written only in the Miranda Press. A woman can no more change a man’s heart than a leopard can its own spots, especially when pertaining to a degenerate like him.”
Her father frowned and spoke up at last. “Margaret, dear, I know you are disappointed with the match, but such insults are rough on the palate.”
Not once through the duchess’ tirade did Cassian flinch, but Cecilia looked mutinous.
“Enough!” she snapped, standing.
“Cecilia!” Her mother gasped. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Going home,” she said firmly. “I will not allow you to disparage Cassian as if he were a reprobate. He is not vicious or mean like Gabriel, but you choose to do nothing about him, yet take Cassian to task. It is hypocritical, and I will not sit by and do nothing anymore.”
Her mother went pale, but an odd warmth bloomed in Cassian’s chest at her protective stance. “Cassian, please,” she said to him. “We are leaving.”
This time, her mother was on her feet too. “Cecilia, this insolence is beyond the pale!”
“Yet it’s not,” Cecilia snapped back smoothly.
“I’ve realized that I cannot bite my tongue when things I feel passionate about come along.
I understand that my marriage was not the most favorable, but enough is enough.
This is not at all Cassian’s culpability.
It is unfair of you to denigrate him while your own daughter was the one at fault. ”
Her mother’s face soured while flags of embarrassed red bloomed on Margaret’s cheeks.
“So, yes, I will not sit and allow this unfairness to continue,” Cecilia finished curtly. “So, please excuse us. I do hope you can realize your bias and address it, and I won’t accept an apology until then—respectfully, of course. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
Her mother stared at her as if she had never seen her before. Cassian stared as well, but a smile curled at his lips. Cecilia was getting bolder.
“I apologize on behalf of your mother,” Henry grumbled at last, his face tight while disapproval was rife in his eyes. “Your mother and I will be having a very pointed conversation after this.”
“Henry!” Her mother’s tone was chiding, but Henry was no boy. Cassian was sure the man would reel his wife in.
Standing, Cassian tugged his jacket down. He inclined his head, “Good evening to you.”
As he strode away from the box, he felt himself in an odd position. Being at odds with himself over something so juvenile and asinine was not a sensation he was familiar with.
As they entered the carriage, he shucked his jacket and stuck a finger into his cravat’s knot to loosen it. Cecilia was upset and gazed out the window, her jaw tight.
He let half the journey pass before he finally asked, “Was that the first time you have stood against your mother?”
“With something that truly matters, yes,” she murmured.
“How do you feel?”
She turned to him now and pressed a trembling hand on her chest. “Honestly… upset. I don’t feel at all right crossing my mother, but I could not stand the hypocrisy any longer.”
Cecilia slumped into her seat and sighed, “I suppose this is the best, or worst time, to tell you that she is demanding that you create an annulment agreement for me. She wants me free from this sham of a marriage, her words, not mine, as fast as possible.”
His brows dipped. “I already have. Why didn’t you tell her that?”
Her lips tightened, but she kept her head up. “Because I did not want to.”
Confused, Cassian asked, “Why?”
A muscle jumped in her jaw, but she did not answer. Cassian cursed under his breath. “Why did you not tell her, Cecilia?”
“I…”
He waited. “Tell me.”
“That’s because…” she swallowed.
“Devil and damn, Cecilia,” he growled. “Just tell me!”
“Because I don’t want to anymore!” she blurted at last. “I don’t want the annulment anymore, that’s why I didn’t tell her.”
It was around midnight, and Cassian still had no words to tell Cecilia when she’d confessed she did not want to break the marriage.
What do I want?
After arriving, he’d sent for a bath and a meal, then spent hours catching up on work with the dukedom.
He was setting everything up for a formal petition to the Crown as to the dissolution of the dukedom when he left for the continent—or, worst case, washing his hands of all it entailed; now, all he needed was for Ben to send over the paperwork.
The pitter-pat of claws on the floor had him shifting to feel Atticus nosing at his knee. He rubbed his faithful dog behind the ears. “Have you come to tell me to come to bed, boy?”
The soft whine from the hound told him his guess was right. “Let me go get a drink. I won’t be too long.”
He slipped away to get to the cupboard, only to find the bottle of brandy empty. Puffing out a breath, he left the room for the cellar downstairs, but just as he was passing the music room, notes coming from within arrested him in his tracks.
The tune was soft and mournful, and it took him a moment to place the melody. Bach, she was playing Bach. Edging to the partially opened door, he spotted Cecilia at the pianoforte.
She played with a master’s touch, her hair piled messily atop her head, with wayward curls drifting down to brush her temples. Her figure was slowly swaying with the tune, but her expression was not one he had expected to see with someone creating such beautiful music.
The melody wrapped itself around his senses, and while he ached to join her, he slowly backed away. After heading down to the cellar, he returned with a bottle of brandy and poured a hefty glass.
He took a generous mouthful and sank onto the bed. Atticus curled up by the side of his bed. Pressing the glass to his temple, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.
The days of their marriage were edging closer to the end date, and he had to find something to tell Cecilia.
“I cannot possibly leave her as my wife and damn her to a loveless life for the rest of her days,” he sighed. “But if she does not want this marriage to be dissolved, do I force her hand or leave it?”
He filled his glass again and, after finishing it, set the glass on the end table and sank to the pillows.
“What should I do for the next few days?” He asked in an agonized breath. “And when am I going to find the stones to admit to my fears about Whitmore?”
Two days later, Cassian found himself wandering the cobblestones of a Mayfair mansion’s garden. He was not usually one for garden parties.
In his past, he had, admittedly, slept through most of their scheduled times and failed to attend at all. He had no hopes of enjoying this one either, especially with the schism between him and Cecilia ever growing.
Silently, Cassian trailed a step behind Cecilia as she was locked arm-in-arm with her friend Emma.
Women who only months ago were mocking her, now gazed with glowing, jealous eyes as they remarked on how beautiful she appeared dressed in her silk gown and how prettily her jewels sparkled in the sun.
Last night, he had found himself at Ben’s house for a night of drinking and playing billiards with minimal conversation necessary. Ben had not asked, and Cassian had not divulged, because, in truth, he did not know what to divulge.
The week—or was it longer?—of almost silence between him and Cecilia had now left him with fewer than seven days in her company before he left for good.
Falling in love with his wife had not been in the original plan, and he felt that if he admitted the deep secret slithering through his head and heart, it would only make it more real.
He had drunk his whisky and avoided Ben’s eyes; he did not want to meet those intelligent orbs that held an all too knowing expression.
That night, before he’d dropped into bed, Ben had shaken his head and muttered, “I’d hoped it had not come to this.”
Cassian had not asked what he’d meant then and had no intention of knowing now, even though Ben was hovering across the garden by a white gazebo.
“Cassian?”
Blinking back to the present, he found Cecilia’s eyes on him and, from the divot in her brows, had the distinct impression that she had been calling his name for a while.
“My apologies,” he said. “Woolgathering.”
Her smile was barely there. “We were wondering if you would like to get some refreshments with us.”
As he made to answer, a flash of gaudy gold caught his attention. Whitmore was approaching, accompanied by Lady Ophelia. With his wheat-colored hair immaculately coiffed and clad in a florid gold jacket, the fop looked undeservedly pompous.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Emma whispered to Cecilia quietly as she, too, noticed.
“Five days ago,” Cecilia answered—another stake thrusting into Cassian’s heart—before she slid an eye to her friend. “Not here.”
Coming to stand by her, Cassian made sure Whitmore did a double-take when his eyes landed on him. He was not entirely sure he did not look as furious as he felt.
Whitmore’s gaze hooked behind them, and Cassian did not have to turn to see two women come to Cecilia’s side, Lady Catherine and Lady Jane, two women Whitmore had once courted.
He frowned. What is going on here?