Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“You must ignore them.”
Cassandra knew it was the case, of course, but that did not make it any easier to ignore the fact that Sylvia and the Dowager clearly hated her. She did not quite know what it was that she had seemingly done, but they did not want her around, and there would be no changing it.
Fortunately, Philippa was proving to be good to her about it. If she was to be the only Sherton that was pleased to have her around, then she could almost accept it.
Even so, that did not mean she wanted to be the Duke’s bride.
“It is rather difficult to ignore them,” she sighed as she sat with Philippa in the garden that morning. “Each time we have an activity, your grandmother seems set on Lady Sylvia being the one that His Grace is paired with. You cannot tell me that it is not deliberate.”
“I know, and I will not. The truth is that– well, I imagine that my brother has already told you.”
“Yes, that your grandmother has expectations for the future Duchess of Sherton, and I do not meet them?”
“Did he say that?” she asked in surprise.
“Not in so many words, but I knew what he meant.”
“Well, it is not quite like that. You see, my father had a friendship with Sylvia’s father, and though it remained both unspoken and unwritten, there was always the expectation that George would choose her when finding his bride. We have always thought that that was what would happen.”
“And then I came along.”
“And then you came along,” Philippa echoed, laughing softly. “But if it helps you at all, you should know that I am pleased that you are here. I have never liked Sylvia very much.”
“Then at least you are pleased enough with the arrangement, I suppose.”
“Are you not?”
“It is not that I am displeased, rather that I never saw myself as a wife. I was perfectly content to be a spinster, and then I agreed to marry without falling in love, the one thing I swore to never do, and now… Now I shall have to live as a perfect lady at all times, under constant scrutiny as I attempt in vain to reach a standard that is impossible.”
They were both quiet for a moment.
Suddenly, it was broken by Lady Sylvia’s bright laugh echoing across the grounds.
Both ladies looked over to see her on the Duke’s arm, as they stood in a small group.
They were close enough that Cassandra could hear them, and though she did not want to hear any of it, there was a part of her that was relieved to, for once, know precisely what was being discussed.
“His Grace has always had exceptional aim,” Sylvia said warmly. “Even as a boy. There was never a skill he did not master.”
Cassandra felt it immediately; the tightening in her chest, the familiar irritation she had hoped she was done indulging.
Of course she would praise him, of course it would be the sort of thing gentlemen wanted to hear about themselves.
She kept her expression neutral, though her fingers tightened on her skirts.
Philippa noticed.
“You do not like her either, then,” Philippa said quietly.
Cassandra glanced at her, surprised.
“Is it so obvious?”
Philippa smiled.
“She speaks as though she knows him better than anyone,” Cassandra muttered.
“She speaks as though she has anything to say, you mean,” Philippa replied.
“It is dreadful, but my grandmother seems to approve of it. If you ask me, I think my brother sees through her act. That was not a compliment, she is simply envious that you were the lady that he assisted with the archery activity rather than her.”
Before Cassandra could respond, a shadow fell across them.
“Am I being discussed?” His Grace asked mildly.
Cassandra looked up.
“That depends. Are you listening?”
“I am now.”
“We were discussing the weather,” Philippa said lightly. “Nothing more.”
“That is a lie,” he said calmly.
Cassandra arched a brow.
“You are very perceptive.”
He glanced toward Sylvia, then back at Cassandra.
“She was praising my talents.”
“Yes,” Cassandra said. “We heard.”
“I see.”
Philippa looked between them for a moment, then cleared her throat.
“I shall see if Grandmother needs anything.”
Cassandra went to protest, but her friend was already on her feet, rushing away. She looked back at the Duke, who was looking at her with a slight smile.
“I shall assume that you are not at all envious.”
“That would be good, for I am anything but.”
“Are you quite certain of that? It would certainly seem that way.”
“Would you prefer for me to be?”
“I would not be opposed to it, I suppose. One would not be particularly pleased for his betrothed to be content for a lady to flirt with them.”
She considered that for a moment, and then nodded slightly.
“If I was at all envious of her,” she began, “which I am not, it would be because she is exactly what your grandmother wants for you, and I cannot compare. In that respect, I suppose it is only right that I would want to be like her, even a little. But that is not the case.”
He laughed, and the sound startled her. It was unguarded, genuine, but not unkind.
“No, of course you are not,” he agreed. “But if you were, I would say that you have nothing to worry about. If I wanted to marry her to please my family, I would have done so years ago. I did not, and that should tell you everything that you need to know.”
She went to thank him, but the Dowager Duchess chose that moment to approach. It was evident what she was doing, but Cassandra was in no position to say it aloud. That was for her grandson to do, and he was decidedly silent.
“George,” she began, eyes flicking to Cassandra. “You are neglecting your guests.”
“They can manage without me for a moment, surely?”
“A moment, yes, but you have not been away for a mere moment.”
He straightened immediately.
“Of course,” he accepted, bowing to Cassandra. “Enjoy the afternoon.”
Then he turned and returned to the shooting line without another word.
Cassandra watched him go, aware of the Dowager’s scrutiny, of Sylvia’s distant glare, of the quiet satisfaction blooming where irritation had been. She had made him laugh, and for a moment, that felt like a small victory worth keeping.
“He is a good man,” the Dowager said firmly.
“Indeed.”
“And a good man deserves the very best wife, does he not?”
“I– yes, Your Grace.”
“Good. At least you know your place in that respect. Do try to act accordingly, Lady Cassandra. I would hate to see such a good man make such a terrible mistake, would you not?”
But she did not wait for a response. Her opinion was made known, and Cassandra knew there was no changing it. She was not good enough, and she never would be.
The activity for that day was a trip across the river, and the boats were being filled one by one.
“Lady Cassandra,” George said with a smile, “would you join me in our boat?”
She nodded and started toward him, but the Dowager stepped in.
“Oh dear,” she said, glancing toward another group, “could you help me ask Philippa to join us for a moment?”
“A servant could do that,” George began, but Cassandra inclined her head and went.
By the time she returned, the first boat had pushed off. Cassandra’s heart sank as she saw Sylvia seated beside George, chatting comfortably as if nothing had changed.
“Lady Cassandra,” the Dowager said briskly, “you may take the next boat.”
Cassandra did not protest; protesting never helped. She took her seat opposite Anthea, her husband, and their child, who immediately began trailing her fingers through the water with glee.
Cassandra had to look away from George’s boat.
“You are unhappy about this,” Anthea said lightly.
“I am not.”
“If you would like, I could lean a little too far to one side.”
“What do you mean?”
“The boats are narrow,” Anthea said. “A well-timed shift might send His Grace into the lake, along with the lady that cannot seem to leave him be.”
On another day, Cassandra might have laughed, encouraged it even, but not that day.
She knew completely and utterly that the Shertons did not particularly want her around, with the exception of Philippa.
The Dowager’s opinions weighed heavily, and George could do little but adhere to propriety.
She did not want the match herself, and there was a perfectly good lady who did. Cassandra exhaled.
“What is the point of this?”
“Of the boating?” Anthea asked.
“Of any of it,” Cassandra replied. “The party, my sabotage, Lady Sylvia’s attempts to steal him. It all amounts to nothing.”
“I would not say that.”
“Even if I succeed in my efforts,” Cassandra continued, lowering her voice, “what happens afterward? I ruin my own engagement, my own reputation, and then what? I am exactly what they already believe me to be. Who would ever take me seriously again?”
The child across from her yawned and leaned against his father. Anthea’s husband shifted instinctively, one arm going around her shoulders. It was unconscious, natural. Cassandra watched them, her hands trembling.
“If I am to marry,” she said quietly, “I want what you have.”
Anthea reached across the narrow space and took her hand.
“You are allowed to want that. You always were.”
Cassandra nodded, though she did not feel steady. She glanced back toward the other boat despite herself. The Duke stood at the stern, one hand resting on the side, listening to Sylvia speak. He looked composed as always.
Then, briefly, he looked up. Their eyes met, and neither of them looked away at once.
The boats drifted on.
Cassandra turned back to Anthea, heart uncomfortably heavy. For the first time, the question was no longer how to escape the future being arranged for her. It was whether she was brave enough to want something different from the plan she had so carefully made.
Anthea leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Gregory,” she said, turning slightly, “would you take us back to shore?”
“Already? We are yet to even arrive.”
“Our daughter wishes to sleep,” Anthea continued calmly. “And I believe she left her snacks behind.”
Gregory glanced at the child, who was now sleeping, but of course that was not why Anthea wished to return. It was for Cassandra’s sake, and though she was grateful for that she wished that it were not necessary.
“Ah. Of course.”
He rose carefully, reaching for the oars. He began to row, but as he pulled them out of the water some splashed on Cassandra, and for reasons she could not explain, she was startled by it. She leaped to her feet without thinking, and suddenly the boat shifted.
Cassandra felt it at once. The tilt was small, almost imperceptible, but it pulled her weight in the wrong direction. She grasped for the side, fingers scraping against the boat.
There was no graceful way to fall into a lake.
The cold struck her first– sharp, shocking, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her skirts dragged her down, heavy and uncooperative, water pressing in from all sides. For a moment, there was only noise and panic, then hands closed around her arm.
Strong hands.
She broke the surface with a gasp, coughing, hair plastered to her face. Someone was speaking her name, urgently, unmistakably.
It was him. He was already in the water, coat abandoned, boots sinking into the mud beneath them. He hauled her closer without hesitation, one arm firm around her waist, the other gripping her sleeve.
“Steady,” he said, voice low but commanding. “I have you.”
She clung to him without thinking, fingers digging into his shoulder as the shock began to wear off. She was acutely aware of him in a way she had never been before. The heat of him through soaked fabric. The certainty of his hold. The way he did not ask permission, did not hesitate.
He lifted her from the water as though she weighed nothing. Her feet found the shore, unsteady, skirts clinging, water streaming down her sleeves. She swayed once, and his hand tightened reflexively at her back.
“Go to your room,” he instructed firmly. “Change your clothes. Now.”
It was not unkind, nor cruel, but it was absolute. She nodded at once, mortified, shaken, obedient without meaning to be.
“Yes,” she said.
Only then did she realize how quiet it had become. She looked up to see that every eye was on her.
The boats had stilled. Guests stood frozen along the shore.
Servants hovered uncertainly. The Dowager Duchess stared as though Cassandra had personally insulted her.
Sylvia stood near George’s abandoned boat, her expression carefully arranged into concern, but there was no denying the light smirk on her lips.
Cassandra felt the heat rush to her face. Water dripped steadily from her skirts, pooling at her feet, and her hair hung loose and damp, her gloves ruined, her bodice clinging in a way that was entirely improper.
She did not look at George again. She could not bear to see his expression now, whatever it might be. Instead, she gathered her skirts with trembling hands and walked away as quickly as she could manage without running.
By the time she reached the house, her chest ached with the effort of holding herself together. Only once she reached the privacy of her room did she allow herself to stop. She pressed her back against the door, breathing hard.
Her hands were still shaking, not from the cold but from the memory of his voice, and the way he had acted without thinking, without pause, as though pulling her from the water had been the most natural thing in the world. She closed her eyes.
This was not part of the plan, and for the first time, she was no longer certain she wanted it to be.