Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Cassandra took the violin from the stand. The wood felt familiar, a silent ally in a room full of enemies. She didn’t look at the infuriating man with the intense eyes. She didn’t look at Sylvia. She looked at the music in her heart and drew the bow.
The first note was pure; a silver thread that cut through the cacophony of her cousins’ struggling duet. For a moment, a stunned silence washed over the immediate circle of guests.
But the ton did not value talent; they valued conformity.
“Good heavens,” a gentleman’s voice carried over the music, dripping with mockery. “First the red-headed poodles, now the spinster thinks herself a virtuoso.”
“How very… strenuous,” a lady whispered, loud enough for Cassandra to hear. “Look at her posture. It’s entirely masculine. Quite desperate, isn’t it?”
A wave of cruel laughter rippled through the ballroom. Cassandra tried to push through it, but the mocking heat was more stifling than the candles. It wasn’t just that they hated the music; they were laughing at her. They saw her as a joke.
Her cousins’ notes soured as they began to cry, and that was the breaking point. The tightness in Cassandra’s throat became a physical ache.
“Excuse me,” she said suddenly, leaving the ballroom and stepping out into the comfort of the library.
The books soothed her in an instant. It was some welcome respite from the night that she had had, and though she was aware that she would eventually have to return to the ballroom, she did not want to.
She was alone, away from all of the people that would delight in seeing her fail, and it was bliss.
As expected, it did not last.
George didn’t know why he was following her.
He told himself it was because she had made a spectacle of herself and, as a duke, it was his duty to ensure no further scandal occurred under his nose.
But the truth was simpler: the sight of her chin trembling as she fled the room had hit him harder than he had expected.
He reached the library just as a shadow moved in the darkness.
“Why did you walk away from me?” Lashton’s voice was a low crawl.
“Leave me be, my lord. I do not want what you are offering, and it is best that we are not seen here. Otherwise, we shall be compromised and have to marry and both be entirely miserable.”
“And who could be miserable waking up to you every morning?”
George didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the room, his boots thundering on the hardwood. He didn’t just intervene; he shoved. He placed himself between the rake and the lady, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp anger.
“Take your hands off her,” George commanded.
Lashton stumbled back, straightening his waistcoat with an oily, unfazed smirk. “Nothing to see here, Your Grace. Just a private conversation.”
“The private conversation ends now,” George snapped. “Leave. Now. Unless you wish to discuss your conduct with the committee at White’s tomorrow morning.”
Lashton’s smirk vanished at the mention of his club. He mumbled a hurried apology and vanished into the hall.
George turned to the woman. She was leaning against the books, her breath coming in jagged gasps. Up close, her “wildness” was even more captivating.
“Are you all right?” George asked.
“So you are a duke,” she said, her voice tight and defensive. She didn’t look impressed; if anything, she looked more annoyed. “I am perfectly fine, Your Grace. Thank you for intervening, but I need to leave now.”
“I would not recommend you go back inside immediately. You don’t look well.” George stepped further into the room, his shadow looming over her. He could see the pulse thrumming in her neck, a frantic rhythm that made his own pulse quicken. “Are you sure you feel all right? And what is your name?”
She snapped her head up, her eyes flashing in the gloom. “I am alone in the dark with a man I do not know, after being accosted by another. Do I seem all right to you?”
George went rigid. He had expected a soft word of gratitude, perhaps even a bit of awe, but this woman was lecturing him. “A strange way of thanking the man who just preserved what remains of your reputation.”
“Yes, thank you! And I am Lady Cassandra, the spinster, the awful violin player with the joke of a band,” she cried, throwing her hands up in a gesture of pure, unfiltered frustration.
“But if this—this spotlight—is what I must endure to find a husband, I would rather remain a spinster in a secluded cottage for the rest of my life. I want no part of any of you! Now, I need to forget about the violin disaster, and return to my family.”
“Violin disaster?” George repeated, the phrase catching him off guard. He thought of her on the dais—the brave, foolish way she had stood up to a room of vipers.
“Are you here to mock me too?” she asked, her voice hovering on the edge of a break.
That gave him pause. George looked at her steadily, allowing the “Duke” to fall away for a fleeting second.
He saw the sincerity in her, the raw honesty he so rarely encountered in London.
“I would not do that. Not when I could see that you were acting sincerely. Not only that, but you were not bad at all. You were actually rather good.”
“So you do wish to mock me,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping as she looked away. “I was terrible.”
George felt his own frustrations boil over. He thought of Buxton, the crushing debt, and the ruin he was fighting to keep from his own sister’s doorstep. He had no patience for the dramatic woes of a ballroom.
“You are magnifying your problems,” George said, his voice dropping into a cold, high-handed clip.
He put his “Duke” mask back on, harder and more rigid than before.
“If you believe a few unwanted words and a clumsy concert are the worst the world has to offer, then you know very little of it, my lady. There are families facing actual destruction while you weep over a violin performance.”
The silence that followed was brittle. Cassandra looked as if he had reached out and slapped her.
“How cold you are,” she whispered. “Is that what being a duke requires? The removal of one’s heart?”
“It requires a focus on what matters. And what matters is that you calm yourself, and return to your family before you are truly compromised.”
“I have no intention of staying a moment longer in your company,” she huffed. She turned to storm off, her chin high, but in her haste, her boots caught on the heavy rug. She stumbled, pitching toward the floor.
Despite himself, George felt a tug of endearment. Her clumsiness was so at odds with her sharp tongue. He reached out to help, but she swatted his hand away.
“I do not need your help!” she hissed, scrambling up and tangling her fingers in her skirts. She took two more furious steps, but her hem snagged on a stray book. She pitched forward, and this time, George didn’t ask.
He lunged, catching her by the waist and pulling her flush against him to keep her from falling.
The world went still. She was tall enough that her eyes were nearly level with his. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart through her bodice. For a moment, his gaze dropped to her lips.
“Well,” he murmured, “you are a danger to yourself.”
“I was perfectly fine until you—”
“I swear that I saw her!” Lady Sylvia’s voice echoed. “She left with Lord Lashton, and they came this way.”
The door flew open. Sylvia stood there, her face a mask of faux-horror, leading a small pack of gossips. George didn’t let go—he couldn’t. He was paralyzed by the sight of Lady Cassandra’s father pushing through the crowd.
The older man took in the scene: the dark room, his daughter in a duke’s arms, their faces inches apart.
“Your Grace,” Lord Hurton said, his voice trembling with fury. “You will restore my daughter’s reputation. You will marry her!”
.