Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CASSANDRA
The restless dark sea churned and pitched around the island.
Gulls cried overhead as iron-grey swells heaved in the silver light.
High on cliffs, cannons stood at the ready facing France.
Signal flags rose along the headlands. Watchtowers dotted the jagged coastline where violent white surf smashed on rock.
Cassandra’s body jolted in the jostling carriage, making its way from the harbour after the long journey.
“Jersey,” Cassandra murmured peering out the window. She had remembered it as peaceful. Leisurely.
It was neither now.
The harbour stank of tar and seaweed. An armed crew unloaded barrels from a battered brig. Bells tolled, rigging clanked and clattered. Sailors shouted out in different languages. Fishermen hauled wet rope.
The nearer they drew to town, the thicker the movement and sounds became.
Soldiers stood on watch, the thunder of drums practicing hung in the air, the fish market teemed with people, and French and English voices tangled.
Children darted between carts and carriages.
Women crossed the road with full baskets hooked over their arms or carrying infants on their hips; others dragged small children past shops.
Cassandra’s fingers pressed into her gloved palm until the seam bit into her skin. The last time she’d come to Jersey, she had noticed only the light and the sea, the brisk salty air.
Finally, they left town and were on the road which would bring them to Lady Rosamund’s cottage.
The carriage swayed on the narrow coastal lane.
Daisies shuddered in the grasses, and sycamore and hazel trees rose toward the pale sky.
The unmistakable scent of gorse from the shrubs along the low stone walls laced the air with sweet spice.
“Is it not beautiful, Ma’am?” Nancy drank in the terraced gardens.
Cassandra leaned back in the cushioned seat. “Yes. Beautiful.”
Upon their return to Tidesfar from the north, Cassandra had immediately sought out Nancy, the young woman her uncles used to summon to the house, and asked her to be her lady’s maid.
Nancy had stared at her then. Said she had no experience of service, and why would a Duchess employ a village whore?
Because I trust you, Cassandra said simply.
Nancy had stilled, searching her face for a long moment. Then, without a word, she had come to Tidesfar, and from that day forward, remained with Cassandra wherever she went.
Their carriage came to a halt before a pale granite cottage with a large, lush garden. Nancy directed the footman in his handling of their trunks, and a manservant announced their arrival to his mistress, Lady Rosamund.
“At last you are here, my love!” Rosamund exclaimed as she poured tea for the two of them on her charming veranda overlooking her garden. The sea was out of view, but the salt and dampness in the air and the seagulls floating overhead were a reminder that they were on an island.
Nancy arranged her mistress’s wrap and, bowing her head, silently slipped away. Cassandra stretched her legs as she sighed. She had changed into a lighter, more comfortable dress. “I am thrilled to be here with you, my friend. Your letter came at the most opportune time.”
“Did it? I’m so glad.”
“With the royal wedding, London has been very, very busy indeed. We hosted a number of events prior and attended three times as many.”
“You must tell me everything about the event of the century.”
“There is much to tell.” Cassandra shared all the colourful details of the wedding, and the two friends delighted in reviewing the spectacle and the many characters who participated. “After all that, I simply had to escape, and a holiday here with you was the perfect antidote.”
“Was Oakley put out that you’ve come or was he too damn busy to notice?” Rosamund winked at her.
“He understood.” Cassandra poured more tea.
Rosamund gave a knowing laugh. “Marriage has its uses when properly arranged.”
Cassandra touched her friend’s arm. “And you, dear Rosamund? How do you fare now that Selbourne is gone?”
Once Rosamund had provided her husband with an heir and two spares, he allowed her certain freedoms. She would join him at the private gatherings that he and Rowen would organise in Naples.
Rosamund chose an iced biscuit from the platter. “I’ve always liked Jersey. I have so many friends here, and my days and evenings are filled with social events and gatherings of all kinds.”
“You are not planning on returning to England then?”
“I’m not sure. Of course, I return to our house in London to see my sons when they are home from school, but I find I rather enjoy being away. It’s utterly glorious to do as I please when I please, and as a widow, there has been so much more to life than ever before.” Both ladies laughed.
“Are there parties such as the reckless ones we enjoyed in Naples?” Cassandra asked.
“That was a golden age. Now, people are a touch more careful. Not as brazen as we once were.”
“I doubt very much that you are no longer brazen, dear Rosamund.”
“Too right, darling. I have two lovers now, not one.”
“Ah. Do they know of each other or—”
“They’re brothers, recent émigrés from France, and they are each delicious—and even more delicious together.”
“Bravo, ma chère.”
“You must join us. Or have one whilst you’re here.”
“There must be many a French nobleman to choose from in Jersey these days, eh?”
Rosamund’s eyes lit up. “So very many.” Rosamund put her tea cup down, her expression softening. “Darling, I heard about Hugh. Dreadful business. Murdered. Was it ever discovered who killed him?”
“A spurned lover.” Cassandra took a sip of her tea.
Rosamund’s eyes widened. “A woman?”
“So I was told.”
“How shocking.”
“The murder was a shock. The lover was not.”
Rosamund leaned back in her chair on a small sigh. “Naughty, arrogant boys get themselves into trouble so easily.”
“They do indeed.” Cassandra took a bite of her biscuit.
“Oh, do you remember that poet you and Oakley got on with? That dashing Irish creature with those piercing green eyes?”
“Stephan?”
“That’s the one,” said Rosamund. “He’s here and giving readings of his new work.”
“Is he? Wonderful.”
“I thought you’d enjoy seeing him again. There’s a salon in a week’s time that I’ve been organizing, and he’ll be there. You are expected.”
“I look forward to it. I do so enjoy the new poetry.”
That evening, the two ladies strolled about the town and enjoyed dinner at a friend of Rosamund’s. They were joined by people Cassandra had known in Naples and acquaintances from Rowen and Charles’ spirits importing business, which was based in Jersey.
In the evening, a carriage arrived with two well-dressed Frenchmen to take them home. They both bowed to Cassandra and spoke in French to Rosamund in hushed tones. In the shadows of the carriage, their stares were heavy.
“Darling, you are much admired,” whispered Rosamund. “Will you not join us this evening?”
“Merci, ma chère, but I shall decline your generous invitation. Enjoy yourselves, and do be as loud as you wish. That I shall surely enjoy.”
At the house, holding smoking tapers, Rosamund and her lovers vanished in the dark of the hallway to her bedchamber. Nancy’s eyes narrowed as she closed the door of Cassandra’s chamber and helped her mistress undress. “Ma’am, tonight you must lock your door.”
“Indeed, I shall.”
Through the night, the creaking of a bed was insistent, grunts and groans incessant, and Rosamund’s cries and exclamations, her muffled words of direction echoed in the small house.
Cassandra’s body lit on fire in a way that it had not for quite some time. Her fingers slid between her legs, where she was wet, her other stroked a breast. Her body so easily remembered pleasure, just as much as her heart remembered pain.
A low moan escaped her lips, and her back arched as she touched herself in the rhythm of Rosamund’s jagged, breathless music, of the brothers’ harsh grunts. She felt hands gripping her flesh, rough, foul whispers in her ear, urging her on, but it wasn’t the Frenchmen. Wasn’t Hugh.
It was Rowen.
Breathless, her nightgown damp, Cassandra darted from the bed as if it were on fire. Wiping back her hair from her face and neck, she went in search of a drink. In the parlour, she found Port. Perfect.
For a moment, she simply held the bottle the way one might hold something fragile and precious.
Port had been her and Rowen’s favourite for late, lazy evenings at Greywick and then at Tidesfar.
She could still hear his stirring, deep voice, his dark laughter, the gentle touch of his warm fingers brushing back the hair from her face.
Clutching the bottle, she poured the dark wine into a glass and drank, and drank, the liquor spilling from the sides of her mouth.
Her heartbeat rushed to meet the rich wine filling her veins with that distinct heat.
She laughed to herself. What would Aunt Isobel say if she could see me guzzling like a thirsty pirate?
Movement stirred behind her, and she swiveled around on her bare feet, bottle in hand. Towering over her was one of Rosamund’s Frenchmen. Naked.
Wind scraped over the shutters as a brutal grin curled his lips.
Taking the glass from her, he drained it and placed it on the table behind her.
His warm musky scent invaded her nostrils.
Perspiration, swiving, tobacco, the faded fragrance of a syrupy jasmine—an echo of the Mediterranean that surged hotly through her.
His warm hand slid down her arm and took the bottle from her grasp, placing it on the silver tray behind her with a distinct thud.
“Quelle femme magnifique…” he murmured as his fingers wiped at the wine at the side of her mouth, down her wet throat, and to her gown that was damp with the wine, the fabric clinging to a breast. Bending close to her, his tongue lashed out and licked at the wine at the side of her mouth, his hand cupped her breast and stroked.
Cassandra remained still, her breath burning in her throat. Eyeing her, he slanted his head. He’d expected an immediate response–any kind of response–were it shock or desire.
She gave him none.
Did he think he was the first man to try this with her? Did he think she was only another vulnerable woman astonished at such carnality? Awed at his virility?
He pulled back from her, an eyebrow lifting on his handsome face.
His shaft stiffened against her belly, demanding her attention.
Her gaze flicked to his cock, and he grunted in conceit.
Yes, he was a fine specimen of male perfection.
She responded to his smirk with one of her own, and he reached for her.
She shoved him out of her way, and he stumbled back, grumbling French curses.
Grabbing the bottle of Port, Cassandra charged out of the salon.
A shiver raced through her that he might follow her, but the house seemed to swallow him.
Bolting the door of her chamber once more, she splashed fresh water on her face and neck and threw open the curtains and the sash on the window.
Cold yet heavy sea air licked over her flesh, and she inhaled deeply.
She took another drink from the bottle, the wine’s heat spreading through her, as vivid as the memory of Rowen’s savage kiss that last night in London. Sliding beneath the covers, she let that warmth settle in her limbs as she gazed out at the dark, star-filled sky.
Old diversions had certainly lost their flavour. And the ache for her husband remained.