Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CASSANDRA
Cassandra looked out from the tall-paned windows of the drawing room across the front park of Tidesfar. The verdant lawn rolled outward, wide and unbroken. Copses of beech, oak, and silver birch stood in the fresh, bright grasses.
Beyond the sweep of the lawn, the lake lay calm, its surface broken by the rise of two impressive stone fountains. Baroque water deities reared from the basin, all coiled muscle, faces fierce and unearthly as though they had surged from some ancient tide.
Everything at Tidesfar was majestic, lush, and vibrant. So very bright. Almost too bright.
Walking through the centre court of the hall with the grand staircase at its heart, she passed the large arrangement of early spring flowers, a lovely gesture from the servants in honour of their Duke and Duchess’s return.
They, too, were overwhelming in their beauty, colour, and scent, and in stark contrast to the numerous formal portraits of ancestral Oakleys on the walls.
Unlike Greywick, with its oppressive darkness and ever-present cold and wind, where everything was roughly hewn and heavy, Tidesfar was irrepressibly civilised and gently elegant. Grace and balance were present in every composition of the house.
Stepping into her sitting room, the touches of gold, and pale blue, and ivory had her stop in her tracks. Delicate, yet overwhelming to the senses.
As she took in the dramatic view through the large window of the endless south lawn and the rise of the hill where the temple stood at its summit, Cassandra’s fingertips absently brushed over the smooth, polished wood of the desk.
This would be where she would take care of her daily correspondence, accept invitations, make decisions about the household and their schedules.
The base of operations for the Duchess of Oakley.
Her teeth scraped her lip as her gaze fell on her pale green silk dress and the gold shoes on her feet. She felt more like another decoration in this room, not its owner. But she was, she reminded herself. A far, far different and better experience than she had known at Redthorne.
She let out a small sigh as she sat in the chair at the desk, taking in the French chairs upholstered in pale gold silk which dotted the room, the blue and gold damask pattern on the walls.
Every detail at Tidesfar was well thought out and organized, and, above all, refined.
Cassandra spent her days familiarizing herself with the running of the house. She and Rowen would often go riding in the mornings or go for long walks after breakfast. Tidesfar seemed to stretch for miles and miles, quite unlike her memories of Redthorne.
One week, she accompanied Rowen on a brief trip to London where they stayed at Oakley House in Mayfair.
When Rowen had finished with his meetings, they spent hours at the very best modiste and milliners, and ordered Cassandra a complete wardrobe of dresses for daytime, gowns for dinners and parties and balls, outfits for riding and walking, cloaks and headpieces and hats—all in the finest fabrics.
All sorts of colourful shoes, and boots, and buckles.
Rowen knew what to choose, asked her which colours and cuts she preferred, and their decisions were swiftly made.
He showed her the glittering treasures that were once his mother’s jewelry, which were kept in town.
Tiaras and necklaces dripping with diamonds and a variety of stones, heavy gold rings with rubies and emeralds and sapphires, many of them with oak leaves intricately carved in the gold.
So much of it had been handed down through the generations, but a great deal of it had been bought by Rowen’s mother herself. “It’s all yours now, my darling.”
Even so, he’d summoned his father’s jeweller to come to the house.
“I want you to wear something from me,” he’d said.
He’d chosen a medieval-style gold ring with a sapphire at its centre and sapphire earrings to match.
After the jeweller had left, she’d gone to the looking glass in the hall, her fingers brushing the gorgeous earrings.
Rowen had come up behind her, his gaze meeting hers in the glass. “Stunning.”
“I love them. Thank you.”
His arms slid around her waist, and he brought her close.
He pressed his warm smile against her bare shoulder.
She leaned back against his body as his lips laid a trail up the sensitive skin of her neck.
Her eyelids sank, and she let out a sigh.
His lips reached her cheek as his hands settled on her middle and pressed there, keeping her close against his firmness. She stiffened, her eyes blinking open.
She caught his gaze in the mirror. His brow had furrowed, lips pulled together. Rowen pulled back immediately and cleared his throat, his thumb swiping at the corner of his mouth. “I shall get dressed for dinner. The time has passed quickly this afternoon.”
“Yes,” was all she could muster.
That moment had passed as so many fragile silences and careful withdrawals did. Without discussion or explanation, yet both of them seemed to understand.
Life at Tidesfar moved forward with graceful precision. Meals appeared at their appointed hours. Letters were answered. Calls were paid. Yet beneath the harmony, something delicate and fragile had shifted out of place.
That feeling lingered, a faint, persistent unease. Cassandra began to tire more easily of company, of music, and of conversation that required brightness that she could not muster.
She began to approve every menu without choosing. Read without absorbing meaning. Walk without noticing the distance. Smile only when required.
This afternoon, Rowen trained with his fencing master in the main court, and Cassandra withdrew to the library.
The fire burned low in the vast, long room, and the warmth did not reach her in the recessed window alcove shaped in a shallow curve where she sat on a thick cushion meant for ladies to read comfortably.
She’d slipped off her shoes and sank back in the cushions with her book.
It was her favourite spot in this formal cathedral of dark wood lined with towering shelves.
The rich scents of leather and beeswax hung in the air.
In the centre of the library was a long table decorated with small ancient Roman and Greek figurines and laden with large leather-bound tomes filled with maps and geographical studies.
The sunset was always remarkably striking from the library windows, which faced west overlooking the gardens.
She had begun to look forward to this time of day.
The gold lettering on the books’ spines caught the final rays of the sun.
Rich amber light saturated the room, faded into rose then into a dim wine colour.
For a moment, the crimson curtains seemed to glow.
Her book lay open across her lap. She had not turned a page in some time, as her gaze had drifted to the window long ago.
Her breath became shallow as she took in the magic of the ever changing coloured light seeping through the room, of the trees outside suddenly dark against the deepening hues of the sky.
Around her, shadows grew deeper and longer.
“Zandra.”
She blinked. Rowen was crouched before her, a hand on her thigh. “Forgive me, were you sleeping?”
“No, I was…admiring the sunset. Lost in the…” The book slid from her lap to the floor.
He picked it up and placed it on the low table next to him. “It’s beautiful from here.” His hand went down her leg, slid under her dress, and curved around her calf, stroking her there.
She took in her husband. His handsome face was flushed, his hair damp around the edges. Vibrant and full of life. “Very beautiful,” she said softly.
His shirt was open at the throat and down his sculpted chest. Her fingers stretched out and dug into the edge of his rolled-up sleeve. “You look hale and hardy, Your Grace. Good session today?” She let out a light laugh.
“Excellent session.” His blue eyes glinted in the mellow light. “I believe I tired out poor Mr. Swindon today.” Rowen laughed in that low, dark way of his that always stirred her. With anticipation of a secret. With the promise of his warmth.
His hand continued its strokes up her thigh, and her legs fell open. She relaxed against the cushions. The fabric of her dress rustled as he pushed at the edge and brushed his lips over her bare knee.
“Rowen…” she breathed.
He moved between her legs. “I want to please you, Zandra. How I miss your taste on my tongue…” His voice burned through her hotly. “I will be gentle. I want…”
“Yes.”
She missed him too. They’d kept to separate bedrooms still. Rowen was ever polite and ever a gentleman. Although they had never directly discussed the matter, she knew he was waiting on her. That it would be her choice when they would come together again.
Last night she had woken from a dream and gone to his room, opened the bedcovers and wrapped her body around his. Without a word, he’d turned around, pressed her against his chest, kissed her temple, and in each other’s arms, they’d fallen asleep.
Now, with his eyes on her, he lazed his tongue above her knee in swirls, and her breath caught. Her heart beat hard as he kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, and her legs trembled as his tongue finally sank between her legs. A low moan escaped him as he kissed gently, savoured slowly.
“Oh, Rowen…” Her head fell back against the wall.
His hands gripped her hips as his mouth moved over her, his tongue wet.
Warm and insistent. Pleasure whipped through her, swift and intense.
Rowen lifted one of her legs and placed it on his shoulder.
Her fingers pressed into the cushions at her side as her back arched, her breath catching sharply.
His firm hold steadied her, anchoring her as she surrendered to that tempest of feeling and sensation, filling her, yet leaving her aching for more… more Rowen.