Chapter Fourteen #2
The force of his declaration took her aback, as did the ugly snarl accompanying his words.
She’d seen Harbury bewildered. She’d seen him hurt. She’d seen him delighted. And she’d seen him in the very depths of passion. But she’d never seen him like this.
His pupils had expanded so much, his brown eyes appeared to be black. Her mouth dried as she focused on a vein bulging menacingly in his neck. Instinctively, she threw up her arm, turning away to shield her face.
“My God! Cassandra!”
She cringed, knowing she had responded as she would have, not to Harbury, but to her father.
“Do you know me so little?” he whispered.
She pressed the back of her wrist against her eyes. “I don’t know you at all.”
To her shame, a great, ugly sob racked her body. To prevent another, she gritted her teeth. Hard. So hard the second sound that tore from the deepest part of her ache was not a sob, but a battle cry. Then, she closed her eyes, shutting out not only him, but the world.
She gave herself over to the sorrow and wept.
“You know me,” he said softly, gently.
She thrust out the arm she’d been holding aloft—not to hit him, but to stop him from coming any closer. Already, he was too close. She couldn’t bear any greater proximity.
“You know me,” he repeated, entreaty in his voice.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, willing her ears to deafen his words.
But he would not be silenced. He just kept repeating the phrase.
The words clanged through the carriage, unstoppable as the wheels on a runaway cart. It was as if he thought repetition would force her to listen. But reiteration had precisely the opposite effect.
His murmurings blended one into another, saturating and hissing in her mind until his individual words held no meaning. The sounds burrowed beneath her skin, forcing her to twist toward the corner, curl her neck inward, and hunch her body.
She didn’t even notice when he took her into his arms, nor did she realize the rocking she did feel was no longer due to the carriage, but only to the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
He cradled her cheek against his shoulder, his large, chilled fingers cooling her face.
By degrees, she lost the will to physically fight, even as her inner walls stood firm.
“You know me.” He spoke against her ear. “You know me better than she ever did.”
His final phrase splintered into her mind, driving holes in the places where she was most vulnerable. Holes not big enough to break down her resistance, but big enough to let in light.
The pounding in her ears lessened, gradually replaced by the steady beat of his heart.
The carriage had stopped.
How long ago, she didn’t know. Gradually, she became aware of birdsong. Of a light breeze through the copse of trees adjacent to the Hall.
She rubbed her prickly nose and then wiped beneath her eyes.
Beyond the ruffle of his collar, she could just make out the grayish stone of Harbury Hall.
Her gasping slowed as he continued to stroke her hair. At some point, she’d lost her bonnet, but what did she care if she looked a fright?
She was in love with a man who’d just devastated her. And somehow, she was going to have to pull herself together.
How could she do this?
How could she walk back into her home, knowing that woman’s ghost haunted every room?
She closed her eyes, allowing herself one last sob.
At least, from the crumpled fabric beneath her cheek, she knew she’d ruined Harbury’s stupid, starched collar. She concentrated on the pressure of his hand against her head, willing herself to remember his words. You know me better than she ever did.
If he wasn’t truly sorry for hurting her, would he be holding her this close?
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did know him.
She knew he stirred his tea three times before taking a sip. She knew he had a special, silly voice he used only for penitent puppies. She knew he was gentle with a hairbrush and precise about slicing his morning sausage. She knew the birthmark just below his belly button.
She knew how he sighed when she stroked his hair. She knew—
Someone rapped against the door, interrupting her thoughts.
“Leave us,” Harbury growled.
His tone very nearly brought a smile to her lips. He must care. Perhaps not as much as he’d cared for—
“I’m sorry, Edward—”
The cut-glass feminine vowels spoken from just outside the open carriage door sent a chill through Cassie’s blood.
“—I can’t leave.”
Though Harbury continued to hold Cassie close, she felt him turn toward the window. A jolt surged through his body.
She knew who had spoken even before he said her name.
“Viv!” she heard him exclaim. “What the devil are you doing here?”
*
Harbury would have kept on clinging to his wife had she not wrenched herself from his arms while he was still reeling from the shock of seeing Vivianne.
Now, short of yanking her back by the crumpled red ribbons dangling from the bonnet she’d just refixed to her head, he could think of no way to keep her by his side.
Circumstance had not reduced him to the level of a primal brute. Not yet.
Emphasis on yet.
She reached for the carriage door.
“Cassandra,” he called sharply.
She glanced back over her shoulder at him but kept hold of the door handle. Her eyes held a warning clear as day—do not give me an order.
He didn’t need to be cautioned. Still, he could not allow his wife’s honor to suffer another blow by his—or anyone else’s—hand.
Especially Vivianne’s.
“Give us a moment, please?” he asked Viv.
Cassandra snorted.
“Certainly.” Viv folded her arms. “Settle your little row. Take all the time you require. After all, my father has only gone missing.”
He swore. Under his breath, this time. And then turned toward his wife with a contrite expression. Behind him, Vivianne spoke again.
“Edward—”
His name coming from Lady Pennington’s mouth acted like a fingernail grinding down slate. He shivered. Literally shivered. Cassandra must have misinterpreted his reaction as one of longing because she slowly shook her head in disbelief.
“—this is a crisis. I need you, now.”
“She needs you,” Cassandra echoed, her voice sickly sweet.
His wife opened the door, then called out for the coachman. The man appeared at once to position the stepping stool and offer his hand. She took it. Holding her head high, she stepped down.
“Lady Pennington,” Harbury said, “I don’t know what’s happened—”
“Didn’t you get my letters?” she interrupted.
He jerked back. “You wrote the anonymous letters?”
He’d known he recognized the handwriting. But he’d burned the ones she’d sent him in a fit of pique.
“What letters?” Cassandra demanded.
“Well, I couldn’t sign them, of course…”
Cassandra’s brows rose, then she gave a little snort before shaking her head and turning away again. He thrust his hand into his hair.
He didn’t understand any of this. Why would Vivianne write letters impugning her own father? He wanted to demand answers, but first he had to stop his wife from making a rash decision.
“Viv,” he said, “I realize you are distressed—”
“I should hope you’d be able to tell.”
Cassandra huffed as she continued her march toward the door.
“For heaven’s sake!” he said to Lady Pennington. “This is not a good time.”
“So I can see. But my father hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning. Mrs. Grant is frantic with worry.”
“How did you get here so quickly?”
“At Mrs. Grant’s request, I’ve been staying at Rose Cottage for the past few weeks.”
Ever farther behind them, Cassandra made another sound of disgust.
“Why would such a short disappearance cause such alarm? Mightn’t he have gone, as he sometimes did, to one of the more remote villages on the estate? Mightn’t he simply take himself off for a solitary ramble?”
“I’m afraid he is not well.”
Cassandra’s footfalls ceased.
Harbury inhaled through his teeth. “I will be back to discuss the matter. But not before I’ve had a brief—and private—talk with my wife.”
“Darling,” Vivianne smiled sweetly, “I don’t think a talk—brief or not—will help.”
He studied her face, surprised by her sarcastic tone, by the malice underlying it. She was worried for her father, yes, but she was also relishing his distress.
Cassandra’s distress.
He’d fallen in love with this woman so long ago his understanding of her had become deeply entwined with his sense of himself. So entwined, he wondered if he’d ever truly known her at all.
Had the qualities he’d loved ever been real?
Or were they simply things he’d wanted to see?
“You may wait here,” he replied, curt. “You are not permitted in the house.”
“Pratt, the old hag, wouldn’t let me in, either.” She shrugged. “Not that I have any interest in this rotting pile of stone anymore, anyway. Another few decades and the Hall will be as picturesque as the Priory.”
She’d spoken loudly enough for Cassandra to hear.
“Damn you, Viv,” he said in a low voice.
He ignored her snort, launched himself from the carriage, and bounded after his wife. He caught up to her at the Hall’s front steps. He hardly recognized her. The Cassandra he knew had disappeared again behind a smile even more frightful than the one she’d worn at the Wexfords.
“Shall I prepare us tea?” she asked brightly. “But of course not. Vivianne needs you.” She turned out her palms and widened her eyes. “What choice do you have but to go?”
He growled as he grasped her elbow and hustled them both into the Hall.
“Leave us,” he barked at the porter.
The porter and every servant present immediately heeded his command, and the commotion in the courtyard had drawn quite a few to the front-facing windows.
“So”—Cassandra blinked innocently—“you also failed to mention receiving letters from Lady Pennington?”
“Lord, Cassie,” he whispered harshly. “I didn’t know who was sending the letters.”
“Did you think you had another admirer?”
“They weren’t those kinds of letters.”
Her brows went up. “What kind of letters were they?”
“They suggested Anderson was not to be trusted. They warned me if I did not hire a new steward, unrest would come to the estate.”
“So, let me see…” She tapped the sole of her half boot against the marble floor. “An unsigned letter warned you your steward was not to be trusted and yet you became angry with me this morning when I suggested the same?”
“I wasn’t angry with you. I was uncomfortable because you were getting too close to the truth, and I hadn’t yet decided how to tell you.
I hoped the letters were a prank. Anyone could have sent them.
Also, my father held Anderson in the highest esteem.
I didn’t want to put the wealth of historical knowledge he possesses at risk. Besides, I owed Anderson…”
She lifted her brow.
“No matter what has happened since, in my youthful folly, I nearly ruined his daughter.”
“I’m so very glad you grew out of your youthful folly,” she quipped, “before you could, say, nearly ruin another lady’s reputation. Why, you might even have ended up miserably wed.”
“Cassie,” he grasped her upper arms, “marrying you was the best choice I ever made.”
She closed her eyes, absenting herself in spirit even as he held tight to her person.
I love you. The words clogged his throat, stealing his breath.
But if he said them now, she wouldn’t be able to feel them. She might not even be able to hear them. He let go of her arms and, instead, cradled her cheeks. As he lifted her face, her bonnet once again fell away. Her lids fluttered, leaving him to gaze down at her dampened lashes.
At least her tears indicated she was not as immune to his entreaties as she would have him believe. He touched a lingering kiss against her forehead, silently willing her to understand, to forgive.
“I am sorry, love,” he apologized again. “But I need to find out why Anderson’s mysterious departure would cause Vivienne and Mrs. Grant such distress. I must find out what has been going on…not for her sake, or even for his, but for my own and for the estate.”
“I know.” She exhaled, sounding weary. “Go, Harbury. Go and do whatever you must.”
“Promise me you will be here when I return.”
She lifted her lids. Blankly—mutely—she gazed into his eyes. Every second of her silence thrust another lance deep inside his heart.
Finally, she spoke.
“I will be here when you return.” Her voice was spiritless, carefully even. “You may release me now.”
“Yes.” He dropped his hands. “Yes, of course.”
She turned away.
As he watched her climb the stairs, part of his spirit snapped. He was being torn asunder. His yearning for her had taken such deep root, releasing her had felt like giving up a part of his very body. A bone. A rib.
Didn’t Genesis describe how Eve was created from Adam’s rib?
He grieved like Adam, now.
Something necessary, vitally necessary, to his being, to the physical structure of his body, had been torn from him wholly against his will, leaving tender, visceral organs unprotected.
Then, the missing part had been fashioned into something entirely different, something he didn’t understand.
Something…someone who would ultimately be his downfall.
Or, Lord willing, his salvation.