Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
CASSANDRA
Rowen and Cassandra made their way to the dining room without speaking, their steps steady as they crossed the marble of the great hall. Morgan came up alongside Rowen and confirmed that Alastair had been secured. Rowen only nodded and kept walking with her.
Soft laughter and discussion wafted toward them. Their guests were enjoying themselves in the dining room. Rowen put a hand on her lower back, and that instantly fortified her, steadying her.
“Rowen,” she said quietly, stopping by the great portrait of Rowen’s father in the centre of the hall. His hand did not leave her back.
“Alastair spoke of two bodies,” she whispered.
“After my father’s birthday party, your uncle stayed to inquire after you, and he must have seen more than he should have.” He leaned in closer to her. “After the Duke’s funeral, before dawn, Morgan and I took Francis from the woods and moved him. He rests now in the Oakley crypt.”
Her hand went to his chest. “With your father?”
“With my father. Where no one will ever look. Where no one will ever disturb him.”
Cassandra let out a slow, steady breath. “Then it is finished.”
Alastair and his poison would not spoil this day for them. Nothing would.
She put her arm through Rowen’s, and they proceeded to the dining room.
“There they are,” Aunt Isobel exclaimed.
The soft light of late morning illuminated the dining room.
Citrus cakes, a tower of colourful fresh fruits, and tall fluted glasses of syllabub brightened the table, the scent of lemon and nutmeg filling the air.
Servants cleared the last of the main dishes, and others refilled glasses with Madeira or sherry.
Smiling, Cassandra sat in her chair and immediately lifted her glass and enjoyed a long draught of wine. Georgina touched her arm. “All is well, I hope?”
“All is well, my dear.” Cassandra picked up her spoon. “How I have been looking forward to this syllabub…”
“It is perfection.” Georgina scooped up the last of her whipped cream.
“Smythe, another syllabub for Lady Georgina.” Cassandra directed a servant.
“You always spoil me.”
“I enjoy doing so.”
A syllabub was placed in front of Georgina, and she sighed. “All I want to eat is sweets these days. Their flavour has never been so compelling.” Georgina plunged her spoon into the creamy dessert.
“All our senses are heightened when we’re with child, are they not?”
“Each and every one,” she giggled as she drew closer to Cassandra. “I’m afraid I’m tiring out my husband.”
“Somehow, I doubt he’s put out by it, my love. Rowen certainly wasn’t.”
Georgina and Cassandra laughed as they savoured their lemony desserts.
Cassandra took a sip of Madeira. “My dear, once you are able, I would like you to paint our family portrait.”
Georgina’s eyes lit up. “Cassandra, it would be an honour.”
“Good, that’s settled then. Tell me, have you completely redecorated the nursery at Ironvine? Had a myriad of clothes made for the child?”
“Yes, to all, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.” As Georgina went on to describe her choices for her baby’s nursery, Cassandra glanced at her husband, seated at the other end of the long table.
An easy grin slowly widened on Rowen’s handsome face, and he burst into laughter at something Charles and Aunt Isobel said. The Duke of Oakley was at ease.
As was his Duchess.
After Charles and Georgina took their leave, Edmund, Aunt Isobel, and Uncle Winslow left to begin their long journey home to Northumberland.
Nathaniel had gone down for a nap earlier and was still fast asleep.
Nancy had helped her out of her formal gown and into a soft muslin dress more comfortable for the remainder of the day.
Sitting at her dressing table in the waning light of the late afternoon, Cassandra removed her diamond and ruby earrings, and the pearl and ruby bracelet.
Her fingers went to the clasp of the diamond necklace, but they were swept away by Rowen’s fingers at the nape of her neck.
In the looking glass, he stared at her as he unfastened it, the necklace coming loose in his hands, her pulse pounding beneath his warm touch.
The jewels fell slack against her collarbone, and she shivered as he drew the necklace away, setting it on the table.
His warm hands slid over her shoulders, and her breathing deepened as he kissed her throat, sucked and nipped at the sensitive skin. Her flesh prickled with heat as his warm hands claimed possession of her breasts.
Cassandra turned, and they took each other’s mouths.
She pushed off his frock coat, and it fell to the floor.
Rowen grabbed her and brought her to the edge of the bed.
They were a riot of unfastening, unbinding, grasping, clutching, pushing fabric out of the way.
Standing over her, he gripped her hips, her legs folding around his waist, and finally he thrust inside her.
She let out a sharp cry at the feel of all of him filling her.
The force of him, the fulness, made everything else fall away.
His hands planted on the bed on either side of her, Rowen drove inside her with a ruthlessness. She met his rhythm, her fingernails digging into his arms. There was a glint in his blue eyes, an urgency, a fierceness, in the way he took her swiftly and without restraint.
As if every touch was significant.
As if she would be taken away from him.
His body shuddered as he slammed inside her, inflaming her desire. The pleasure became sharp, unbearable, and she cried out again and again. Rowen’s hand fisted in her hair, clutching it tightly, and finally, he erupted inside her. His long groan echoed in the dark bedchamber.
His head hung, his breathing loud and uneven. His body began to ease, but he did not meet her gaze.
“Rowen?” she whispered, but there was no reply.
He only slid a hand between them, then slid his wet fingers in her mouth.
He groaned at the sight, at the sensation of her lips on him.
It was something he had done many times before.
Her mouth sucked on his salty fingers, wet with her, soothing herself and him, but he did not relax, nor did he lie down next to her and caress her like those times before.
Rowen released his hold on her and stood upright. Wiping her hair from her damp face, she sat up and brought her legs together as he fastened his trousers. He dug a hand in his hair. “I must find Morgan and…”
“Yes. Go.”
Cupping her chin, he brushed her lips with his and left the room, taking her breath with him. Cold air flew over her bare legs, and she pushed her dress down, covering them. Her fingers went to her swollen lips. Night had fallen, and the room was now dark, the house quiet.
Smoothing down her dress, Cassandra went to the washstand. She splashed water on her face, cooling her skin, and washed her hands. The child’s cry rang out from down the hallway. Dropping the towel, she made her way to the nursery.
His legs thrashed about as if he didn’t want his blanket binding him any longer. He cried out when he saw her, and his flare of recognition heated her heart. Cassandra took her son in her arms. “Shall we take a walk, my darling? Would you like that?”
She took him up and down the gallery, then carefully down the stairs.
Lit torches in the great hall below filled the staircase with a soft light.
Mother and son strolled about the great hall as she spoke to him about his godfather Charles and how very soon he would have a great friend in his godparents’ baby.
About his grandmother Isobel, as they stood before her portrait as a young girl dressed in soft pink, holding her mother’s hand, a small dog at her feet.
Nathaniel’s hand reached up and stroked Cassandra’s chin.
She kissed his tiny fingers. She brought him to the portrait paintings on the other side of the hall.
“Here’s your father, a strapping young man, is he not?
” She studied the face of the Duke. Night had fallen some time ago, and Rowen’s portrait was now softly illuminated by the silver moonlight entering from the large front windows.
Rowen could not have been older than eighteen in this portrait that was painted with the house in the distance behind him, the great oak tree on one side. He was perched on a tall black horse, looking like a young commander of all that lay before him.
“One day you’ll have a horse just as strong and elegant as your father’s, won’t you?
And you’ll look just as dashing.” She took in the lean sculpted lines of Rowen’s form, his long legs, the lift of his sculpted, patrician face, the searing confidence in his bright blue eyes.
A vibration of warmth surged through her veins.
“Your father is the most handsome man I’ve ever known. And the finest.”
Nathaniel’s sudden cry broke her attention from the painting. He wriggled in her arms. “Are you cold, my love? We should return you to your warm bed.”
A cold shadow slid down her back like a veiled cloak, and she shivered. Gripping the child tightly, she turned.
There in the shadows, visible in the glow of the torches, stood a tall figure.
Something cold and hard fisted inside her, twisting tightly. “Who are you?” she uttered into the darkness, the child’s fluttering heartbeat beating through her chest.
“Cassandra,” he said, his voice low and ragged.
Her breath cut. “It cannot be.”
“It is.” The figure stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight.
Her heart heaved. “Tristan.”