Chapter 2
Bang!
Through the smoke drifting from the pistol, Cassian smirked in satisfaction as he saw the neat hole burned into the target. Another perfect shot, as expected.
“You pompous arse!” Sebastian Hargrove, the Duke of Firaine, muttered as he loaded his own firearm. He took his place, raised his arm, and fired. The corner of his lips rose into the semblance of a mildly satisfied smile when his bullet punched a hole right beside Cassian’s.
“Not a bad shot, old chap,” Cassian grinned.
“Old chap, your arse.”
“And a rather fine arse, is it not?”
Sebastian shot him a look of disgust, and Benedict, the Duke of Frostmore, gave out a loud guffaw as he took his place before the target.
“I, for one, would much rather spend the rest of my life without having to dwell on Stonevale’s buttocks.” He shuddered. “Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
Cassian fought the urge to roll his eyes at his friend’s words. “It is rare enough that I can find you both for a round of shooting. Now, you have lost all sense of the bawdy and profane. Marriage has made you both dull and soft, gentlemen.”
“Dull and soft?” Sebastian scoffed. “Hardly.”
“Perhaps you should find yourself a lovely wife to stave off the loneliness and keep your fine self from missing us so much, Cassian,” Frostmore suggested with a chuckle.
“Heaven forbid I should ever be persuaded to such domestic bliss!” Cassian shuddered.
“I most certainly do not lack for company of the female kind, if that is what you are both so concerned about. I merely enjoy the simplicity of a life in which I arrive on the precise hour I so desire because my wife did not misplace my cravat, or stickpin, or boot, or whatever.”
Benedict shook his head with a wry smile. “I used to share that sentiment, my friend.”
Cassian raised an eyebrow at him. “And now?”
“And now, I know that rules are not to be followed to the letter.”
Cassian let out a dramatic sigh at that. His wife’s influence, perhaps. The Duchess of Frostmore had never encountered a rule she could not break.
“I, for one, do not grieve the passing of my old life,” Sebastian said with a shrug. “It lacked… a great many things.”
“Well, I would much rather enjoy the vast expanse of my bed, even if I were to marry, which I very much do not intend to do in the near future,” he added.
He caught the two men sharing a look before they burst into chuckles, looking at him with a sort of galling amusement that rankled more than he would care to admit.
“Why, are you terrified at the thought of sharing your bed with a woman, Cassian?” Sebastian grinned.
“Ye gods, of course not. Nothing like having a soft, willing woman by your side, but…” he let out a sigh. “You gentlemen know how it is. First, you let a woman linger overlong in your bed, and the next thing you know, you are escorting her grandmama on afternoon calls.”
There it was again. That look. It was as if Benedict and Sebastian had come to some understanding that Cassian could not grasp.
“One day, Cassian, a woman will come into your life and keep you in bed until you forget how to shoot a pistol,” Sebastian said with a smirk.
“Ridiculous!” he shook his head. “You are both completely and utterly ridiculous. Marriage has not only made you both dull and soft, but it appears to have addled your wits as well.” He sighed and motioned for one of the servants to take his pistol.
“Very well then, I shall leave you, gentlemen, to it.”
“Going so soon?” Sebastian mused.
Cassian nodded. “I have a prior engagement, I am afraid.”
“Could it be a young lady?” Benedict queried with a mischievous grin. “One with a grandmother who needs escorting on her afternoon calls, perhaps?”
“I can only hope to be spared the fate that has befallen you both,” he replied with a grin. “I fear I have neither the patience to linger in beds nor to escort ailing grandmothers. I shall leave those tasks to you both. Gentlemen, adieu.”
He tipped his hat toward his friends and walked away from the shooting range, ignoring the pain that seared up the length of his leg. Cassian cursed under his breath, never missing a step.
Very well, if he had to suffer, then no one else would be the wiser for it. Not his friends or anyone in the ton. Once more, he thanked whatever gods may be that he did not have a wife privy to his secrets.
Cassian climbed into the waiting carriage, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the door frame. This damned injury. Five years, and still it followed him like a ghost from the battlefield.
Thankfully, he had already reserved the entire afternoon at an exclusive bathhouse. The steaming hot waters would be just the cure for his thrice-cursed leg.
As soon as the carriage pulled up in the discreet entrance at the back, Cassian all but sprinted for the changing rooms, hastily disposing of his garments in favor of a silken robe that had been prepared for him beforehand.
The bathhouse had been a godsend in the early days of his injury, providing him with the much-needed relief from the ache that wracked him day and night. Even when the pain had faded to an occasional affliction, he made sure to schedule the weekly appointment in its healing waters.
Cassian let out a soft exhale as he stepped into the steaming hot waters of the bath.
The rest of the establishment had been emptied of all other guests, a privilege only an aristocrat of his fortune and standing could afford.
With no one else in the steam-filled enclave, he dropped the silken robe a short distance from the edge of the bath, within easy reach.
He had just begun to lower himself into the soothing waters when the unmistakable sound of footsteps pervaded the silence.
And then, as if his friends and the heavens were not done mocking him yet, the most damnable sight burst through the haze.
A woman.
How the hell did she get inside?
“How the hell did you get in here?”
Juliana froze at the sound—low, irate, shocked, with more than a touch of arrogance. It was the sound of a man used to issuing orders and expecting them to be obeyed without question. It slipped unbidden through the portal of her ears, skittering along nerves she had never thought existed.
“I… I—”
Saints above, there was a man in this hazy, heated enclosure. And not just any man. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight before her—tall and muscular with shoulders broad enough to hold up an entire house. His green gaze pierced through her as a lazy smile curled up on his lips.
“Do you like what you see?” he said with a smug smile, crossing his arms over his impossibly broad chest.
Impossibly insufferable, too, she realized as she felt the warmth creep up to her cheeks.
“You… you, sir, are a cad!” she hissed furiously at him. “Appearing before a lady in such a state of undress, what were you thinking?”
A dark eyebrow slowly rose, and her heart pounded even harder against her ribcage. Heaven help her, but she had never met a man who was the very picture of masculine beauty, and the worst part of it all?
He seemed very, very aware of that particular fact.
No, the worst part was that she was dressed in one of her dowdier gowns, one that had gone out of fashion two Seasons ago. It was a travesty of vast proportions. Embarrassingly so.
“I was thinking that it is far more unusual for a woman to suddenly burst into a gentleman’s bathhouse,” he drawled. “And an extremely exclusive and private one at that.”
Horrified, Juliana quickly whirled, turning away from the hazy vision before her. She could feel her heart thudding against the package held to her chest. A strange sensation unfurled low in her belly as her breath came out in a soft gasp.
It must be the heat. And the steam. Yes, those were the things that were clouding her wits and not the strange, perfect man standing just behind her.
“I… I thought this was a tea room,” she murmured, hating the way her voice came out in a plaintive squeak. “They called it the Turkish Rooms, for heaven’s sake!”
How was she to know that it was a room of an entirely different nature?
Juliana closed her eyes in mortification. She was going to murder Kit when she returned, sole heir to the House of Hawthorne or not!
“And what reason have you to visit the Turkish Rooms, then?”
“I was only ever supposed to deliver this parcel to a Mr. Anderson,” she muttered. “This errand has proven to be more trouble than it is worth.”
“Mr. Anderson?”
Juliana clutched the parcel to her chest, blinking back the tears of frustration that had begun to sting her eyes. “Do you know him?”
“The question is why a young woman such as yourself should have dealings with such a man,” he growled. “What is your name, madam?”
“Oh… I am not married. Yet,” she added quickly, embarrassment making her cheeks hot once more. After two failed Seasons, Juliana had thought that she was well past the usual discomfiture that came with that particular fact. “My name is Juliana Hawthorne.”
“Hawthorne.” Her name came out in a scoff. “You would not happen to be related to Christopher Hawthorne, would you?”
“Do you know Kit? I am his sister.”
“I should have known,” he growled from behind her. “You Hawthornes have a penchant for getting into all sorts of trouble.”
Indignation flooded Juliana. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “You do not know our family!”
She should hope not. The House of Hawthorne no longer held the same prestige as it did a generation or two prior. How else would the head of the household stoop to sending his sister out on these foolish and dangerous errands?
“Oh, I do know your precious family—more than you can imagine.”
Juliana heard a faint rustle behind her as she whirled angrily around once more.
To her disappointment, he had already donned the robe, but she could still see the triangle of golden skin on his chest peeking through.
His lips quirked into that amused, knowing smile that she had learned to despise, and that same feeling wound tighter in her lower belly.
Her chest, too, felt rather constricted even by her worn stays.
“Why, Miss Hawthorne,” he smirked at her. “I do believe that you are enjoying the view more than you would care to admit. If you desire it, you can join me. I have reserved the entire bathhouse for the rest of the afternoon. I assure you we will not be disturbed…”
His voice wound around her like a potent spell. A spoken snare that he employed with lethal precision on unsuspecting young women who stumbled upon his infernal baths.
She felt his fingers wrap around her wrist and noted the way his brows furrowed when he looked down at the worn gloves she had hastily pulled on before she left the townhouse. Of all the times she failed to care for her appearance, it had to be today.
“If you have a penchant for collecting ladies’ gloves, then go get your own as I have none to spare,” she snapped at him, drawing her hand—and her embarrassing glove—back.
Seizing the element of surprise, she whirled around on her feet and stormed out of the bathhouse, and that very disconcerting, very unsettling man, who claimed to know more about her family than she did.
The way he spoke of their family—well, there was clearly no love lost there. Juliana wondered briefly if Kit had crossed him, her brow furrowing as she tried to recall all the men her brother had angered. She soon capitulated and despaired, realizing there were simply too many of them.
What was even more infuriating was that when she arrived back at the townhouse, she found her brother reclining on the threadbare chaise longue in the parlor, his booted feet propped up against the edge.
Fortunately, he had managed a bath and a change of clothes, but it did little to pacify the resentment in her heart.
Without warning, she tossed the parcel at him with a force that would have Grandmama in tears, instantly knocking him awake.
“Juliana! What the hell is that about?” he demanded, flailing like a freshly landed halibut.
“I am never, ever delivering anything for you again!” she seethed. To her dismay, she realized that her voice was trembling not only because of rage, but also because of a lingering breathlessness from her recent encounter. “You can find your Mr. Anderson by yourself!”
She was done with him—done with his antics and the way he dragged the family deeper into debt.
Fury rose in her at how easily her composure crumbled when that man had looked at her, her skin drawn tight, her body buzzing from the ghost of his touch.
She was done with clandestine meetings in steamy baths, with strange men who stirred unwelcome sensations and left her weak and resentful, angry that she could no longer reclaim her own thoughts from the man who now seemed to own them.
From now on, Kit could very well run his errands on his own.