Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
SOMERTON MANOR, NEXT DAY
As her hired coach rolled into the wide, gravel forecourt of Somerton Manor, Saskia slipped the kid gloves off her hands and dug her fingernails into her palms in an attempt to distract her thudding heart and her racing mind with the sharp bite of pain.
It didn’t work.
Nothing had since the moment her bleary eyes had slitted open on this too-bright morning and memories of last night assailed her from every angle.
Liam Cassidy…Arabella…the kiss.
Whiskey lied.
In the brisk, unforgiving light of morning, she understood that.
Except she couldn’t quite blame the whiskey.
The whiskey had come after her fateful decision to become Arabella for the night.
She dug her nails in deeper and groaned—for the hundredth time today.
As she’d only managed to roll out of bed an hour ago, she’d surely reach a thousand groans before this day was done.
For here was the thing: she was arriving to interview Liam Cassidy as herself—as Lady Saskia Calthorp. She had no choice in the matter.
And the aching head she was arriving with…
She had no choice in that, either.
Too soon, the carriage stopped and a Somerton footman rushed to open the door and hand her down.
Her feet firmly on crushed granite, she took in the house before her.
Nay, not a house. The imposing Portland-stone structure before her wasn’t simply a house; it was a manor.
But that word was too small, too. This house was a palace with its wide Classical portico and grand Palladian facade of three stories of windows staring down at her.
A duke’s house, lest she forget.
Through the front door stepped the butler, his face arranged in the studied passivity of a servant of his rank. “How may we be of assistance to you?”
Saskia cleared her throat. She wasn’t one to become rattled by stiff servants. “I’m Lady Saskia Calthorp.” This butler would know his Debrett’s, and that Lady Saskia Calthorp was the sister of the Duke of Acaster. “I have an appointment to meet with Mr. Liam Cassidy.”
Ice wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
She was rather proud of herself, in truth.
If this butler felt the faintest hint of surprise, his face didn’t betray him. “Of course, my lady.”
Saskia followed the servant into the receiving hall that was no less grand than the house’s exterior with its gleaming black-and-white checkered marble floors and high domed ceiling.
A duke’s house, indeed.
“If you will wait here, my lady.” The butler offered a bow, pivoted on his heel, and disappeared down one of the five corridors extending from the receiving hall.
In truth, Saskia would have preferred to accompany him and remain in his dour company, for it was when she was alone that her mind felt free to wander and remember…
Last night.
Last night, she’d had her first kiss—and it wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
Which had her rattled.
The thing was, that kiss—what it had evolved into—was nothing like the kisses she wrote in her books.
Those kisses kept within proper, nice…restrained…
boundaries. But the kiss Liam Cassidy had delivered was none of those things.
It had involved tongues…and panting…and cockstands…
and feelings tracing through her body that pooled low and deep within her hidden places…
feelings that had her inviting him into her room… into her bed.
That kiss had been the very opposite of proper, nice, and restrained.
She’d only just had her first conversation with the man, then after a single hour, she’d kissed him and invited him into her bed.
And he’d said no.
Well, he hadn’t said it.
He’d shut the door in her face.
Oh, the humiliations just kept layering on, didn’t they?
Her eyes squeezed shut on a mortified groan.
“And you are?”
Her eyes popped open to find a tall, dark-haired man clothed in riding attire at the far end of the receiving hall.
The Duke of Rakesley.
Her groan must’ve caught his ear as he was passing through.
But wasn’t he an unflinching, commanding sort of man? One could tell from a glance that he was accustomed to having his way and his questions answered.
Right.
“I’m Lady Saskia Calthorp.”
His near-black eyes narrowed. “One of Acaster’s younger sisters?”
“Aye.”
“We’re a little way from London.” His head cocked. “What’s your business at Somerton?”
Here was the direct approach Rakesley was known for. She appreciated it. “I’m here to begin writing your brother by law’s memoirs.”
Straight black eyebrows lifted toward the skylight. “Memoirs? My brother by—” His brow furrowed. “Do you mean Bran?”
“Your other brother by law.”
“Liam?”
She nodded. “Liam Cassidy, yes.”
“First I’m hearing of it.”
Saskia held her tongue. It wouldn’t do to tell this arrogant, commanding duke that his brother by law hardly needed his permission to write his memoirs.
Her face might’ve said it anyway, for Rakesley started walking. “Best you follow me, then,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Saskia’s feet scrambled into motion, one corridor opening onto another, then yet another, until she found herself exiting the house into all-encompassing sunlight.
She held a hand to her forehead and squinted against the onslaught.
Late-night whiskey and morning sunshine didn’t make for happy company.
Rakesley’s pace, however, didn’t slow for stragglers as the Somerton stables came into view.
They were rumored to be England’s finest stables.
Glorious, they’d been described, and Saskia saw why as they passed through a wide iron gate, imposing stone pillars to either side, and entered the stable yard.
Built of the same Portland stone as the house, no expense had been spared in the construction of these stables that rivaled the manor house itself for palatial.
When the duke stopped to speak with a man who was certainly Somerton’s head groom, Saskia took in the hive of industry all around her.
Horse stables were busy places all hours of the day, but especially in the morning—lads and grooms hustling to and fro, walking horses…
scrubbing cobbles…mucking stalls…hauling water and hay…
The keeping and tending of horses was no small enterprise, especially when done at the superior level of Somerton, the duke’s capable hand evident all around.
So, too, she couldn’t help noticing how all deferred to Rakesley.
Not out of fear, but rather respect. The duke was a fair, if exacting, employer.
The head groom set off to attend another task, and Rakesley returned his attention to Saskia. “Liam is on the practice track. This way,” he said, already on the move.
As Saskia followed, she remembered something.
Namely, why she was here.
To collect information.
Further, she didn’t have to follow Rakesley like a subordinate.
She could walk beside him—and converse.
“So,” she began, once she’d drawn abreast with him and earned an irritated glance for her efforts, “you’re married to Cassidy’s sister?”
“Aye.”
“His twin sister, correct?”
The duke’s purposeful stride covered yards of ground at a rate that communicated his wish to be rid of her. “Aye.”
Saskia had known those two facts, for she, like all society, knew of Rakesley’s scandalous marriage to Liam Cassidy’s twin sister, Gemma, who had once been the duke’s jockey.
But she’d asked not to inquire about Rakesley’s duchess, but rather to lay the ground for her next question.
“Where do the Cassidy siblings hail from, anyway?”
Without slowing his step, Rakesley shot her another questioning glance. “Why do you need to know about my wife’s upbringing?”
Saskia felt her brow lift. Rakesley’s defensiveness intrigued… “It’s Cassidy’s upbringing, too, isn’t it?” Into the silence that met her question, she ventured further, “And as it’s a memoir we’re writing, readers will have a reasonable curiosity regarding the subject.”
The duke’s jaw tensed. “You’ll need to ask Liam. It’s his and Gemma’s story, not mine.”
Saskia’s brow creased.
How odd.
Before she could follow that line of questioning, however, Rakesley said, “You’ll be staying at Somerton, I suppose.” He sounded none too happy about the prospect.
“I have a room at the Drunken Piebald.”
The duke gave a curt nod, and that was the subject closed. He wasn’t a man known for his sparkling conversation, and she now saw why.
Ahead, the practice track came into view.
Saskia always forgot how massive racecourses were, and though this one was for training, its circuit could’ve been no less than a mile, its verdant, close-cropped turf immaculate…
the white railing pure as snow. When racehorses closed their eyes and dreamed of heaven, it was Somerton’s practice track they dreamed of.
A few horses and riders were spread across the track, none of them at a full gallop, but taking exercise.
Rakesley’s attention was again pulled by his head groom, leaving Saskia at liberty to look about.
Quickly, her gaze found itself fixed upon a large, muscular black colt all the way on the opposite end of the track.
She knew little about horses or racing, but her sister by law, Celia, owned quite the renowned racing stable herself, as did her brother by law, Julian, and she’d attended enough horse races over the years to know a fine piece of horseflesh when she saw it.
And the rider on the colt’s back…
Her heart drummed a hard thump in her chest.
Liam Cassidy.
Her cells had known it before her mind.
Dressed in a crisp white linen shirt and buff trousers, rather than colorful race-day silks, he was so light in the saddle, as if he floated just above the horse’s back as he rode, bent over slightly.
His mouth moved, as if he were engaged in conversation with the horse.
The colt clearly liked the attention, for his body held a loose, relaxed quality.
While Cassidy held a command over his mount, he didn’t command the horse.
Rather, he rode as if he and the horse had an understanding.
How talented and capable was Liam Cassidy.
If she were prone to hyperbole, she might characterize him as a god of the turf.
And, last night, she’d kissed him.
Except she hadn’t kissed him.
Arabella had kissed him.
Arabella had invited him into her room.
Utter recklessness, that.
Utter madness, too.
And he’d said no.
Really, he’d saved her from herself, and she should be grateful and relieved.
She was neither.
As rapidly as those thoughts had whirred through her brain, Cassidy reached their side of the track, jumped from his mount, and handed the horse off to a waiting lad with a list of instructions.
This was a different Liam Cassidy from the one she’d observed in society and the one she’d encountered last night.
This Liam Cassidy was all business when it came to the care of his horseflesh.
Saskia made herself small against the railing and retrieved journal and pencil from her reticule.
As she jotted down a few notes, Cassidy’s easy smile graced all with its presence as he greeted Rakesley and the head groom, a man he called Wilson.
She wrote the name down. Not that Wilson was likely to make an appearance in the memoir, but anything to keep busy.
For she was a bundle of nerves.
Any moment now…
Cassidy tossed an idle glance in her direction—and as quickly away.
In that split of a second, no light of recognition entered his eyes.
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or insulted.
She was considering the possibility that she might’ve got away with it—were spectacles truly that disguising?—when he went still.
Really, really still.
Stone still.
Too still.
Her heart thudded hard against her ribs—pounded—indicating it might just succeed in breaking free of her chest.
His gaze shifted…landed on her…and narrowed.
She registered the instant recognition flickered to life within his eyes.
Rakesley glanced between them. “Do I need to make introductions?” He sounded utterly unconcerned. “Or have you met in society?”
Cassidy’s brow crinkled.
Saskia’s mouth refused to move.
Rakesley exhaled an impatient sigh. “In case you don’t know, Liam, this is Lady—”
“Arabella, correct?” asked Cassidy.
“—Saskia Calthorp,” finished Rakesley.
As clear as the cloudless sky above, two choices appeared before her.
She was always finding herself faced with choices when it came to Liam Cassidy.
She could acknowledge a previous acquaintance and let Rakesley believe they had met in society.
Except between her and Cassidy, such an acknowledgement would be acknowledging last night.
Which would be acknowledging Arabella.
And she didn’t want to acknowledge Arabella.
Because if she acknowledged Arabella, she would be acknowledging all that had transpired as Arabella.
Namely, their kiss—and his no.
Blessedly, a second option lay available to her—deny, deny, deny.
She was under no obligation to acknowledge last night or anything that had transpired.
Here, beneath the bright morning sky of a new day dawned, she and Cassidy could start over.
Denial offered them a blank slate—a tabula rasa.
All she had to do was deny, deny, deny.
All she had to do was lie.
She stuck out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She ignored the uncharacteristic scowl her words had provoked on Cassidy’s charming, handsome face. “I’m Lady Saskia Calthorp.”
Never had a lie felt so good.
Or necessary.