Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NEXT MORNING
Saskia’s eyes managed to slit open a paltry sliver, only to find a shaft of sunlight shining directly on her face.
Against all probabilities, somehow, she’d slept.
Soundly.
So soundly that this shaft of sunlight wasn’t a soft golden ray of dawn, but one of cooler mid-morning.
Further, she was alone.
Liam Cassidy was gone.
Gone back to London or Somerton or wherever it was he went when he wasn’t racing, training, or reveling.
Which, of course, was for the best.
Last night…
She could groan.
She did groan.
She’d watched him undress down to his trousers.
Midnight candlelight had made a glory of lean, hard muscles of back, chest, and arms, casting each individually in mellow shadow and light.
Then he’d begun rubbing salve into those muscles, and from her pallet on the floor, she’d watched, transfixed, her mouth gone dry as parched desert sand.
She shouldn’t have noticed it, but she did—the bruise.
She should’ve kept her mouth shut and left it.
But it hadn’t been possible.
Further, she’d rubbed salve into that bruise…touching him…feeling him—his heat, his strength.
Again, she groaned.
Oh, how was she to get through this summer?
She gave herself a firm mental shake.
There was only one way she would get through it—routine.
Her routine upon waking was to write, so write she would for a couple of hours before taking herself back to London.
She pushed to her feet and reached for her clothes. A few minutes later, she was dressed, teeth scrubbed, and seated at the room’s only table, her journals stacked before her, pencil poised in hand.
Already, she felt better.
She should start with the memoir, for she had yesterday’s race and Cassidy’s list of superstitions to record.
Instead, she reached for the journal containing her novel-in-progress.
Certain details of the hero demanded to be written—his masculine scent of salt and citrus…
the hot, alive feel of his skin…the hardness of muscles below…
the tremble of those muscles beneath her touch…
The room grew unbearably hot, and she had to slip the two topmost buttons of her dress free to cool herself.
She’d sunk herself deep into a description of the green of the hero’s eyes—not quite emerald…
not quite moss—when the door burst open, startling a surprised yelp from her.
Into the doorway stepped Liam Cassidy, as if her thoughts had the power to conjure him.
But, of course, they didn’t, for if they did, he certainly wouldn’t have been wearing a shirt.
“Milady,” he said, then stood aside for the retinue of servants who followed, each bearing a tray—this one with teapot, cream, and sugar…that one with plates and silverware…yet another with all manner of breads and pastry…and still another with meats and cheeses… Then there was the sweets tray.
She shook her head, bemused and charmed, despite herself. “You’ve brought a feast.”
“I’m always absolutely ravenous the day after a race.”
He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb as the servants set up a makeshift buffet on the dresser. Meanwhile, Saskia sat stunned in place while they finished up and vacated the room. Cassidy shut the door behind them.
She was alone with him.
Again.
He grabbed the teapot and two cups before lowering into the seat opposite her. “Lady Saskia,” he said brightly, “how have you been occupying yourself this fine morning?”
“As I do every morning.”
“And how is that?”
“I’ve been writing.”
His gaze fell to the journal open before her and the pencil yet clutched in her hand. “Ah, the Memoirs of Liam Cassidy, is it?”
“Erm…”
But before she could gather either her bearings or his intentions, with one swift movement he reached out and snatched the journal away.
No, no, no…no!
Under no circumstances could he be allowed to read what she’d written.
She jumped to her feet and extended her hand. “Those pages aren’t for your eyes.”
He settled back in his chair—and held onto the journal. “But they’re supposedly my words, so why wouldn’t they be for my eyes?”
“Cassidy—”
“Liam.”
“Liam,” she began—and further words refused to issue forth.
The fact was she couldn’t tell him why he couldn’t read those pages without giving something of herself away.
She drew herself up to her fullest height and leveled her fiercest glare at him. “Any gentleman would have already returned my property to me.”
Something opaque and unknowable flickered behind his eyes. It was gone the next instant, leaving in its place his good humor and determination. “Let’s have a look at what I have been writing about myself, shall we?”
Saskia could sink through the floor…fly out the window…sprint through the door…anything to get away from what was surely coming.
Oh, the humiliation of her own thoughts, musings, and words repeated back to her.
Words, thoughts, and musings about him.
She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
He cleared his throat, his eyes searching the pages for a starting place.
But he didn’t begin reading aloud.
He was reading to himself.
And that was worse.
Much worse.
His eyebrows gathered.
His eyebrows released.
His head cocked.
It was as if he couldn’t believe what he was reading.
A groan escaped her. She reached for the chair-back for support before her legs gave out from beneath her. Surely, the thunderous race of her heart couldn’t be favorable for her health.
At last, his gaze lifted. “What am I reading?”
She cleared her throat. “It’s, well”—the throat-clearing hadn’t taken—“it’s the beginnings of a novel.”
There went his brow creasing again. “About me?”
“No!” she exclaimed too quickly and altogether too loudly. “I write novels.” For some reason, she couldn’t stop talking… “About other men.”
That last part was too slow, for Cassidy—Liam—looked more confused than ever.
Still, he extended the journal, which she snatched out of his hand and held tightly to her chest. Yet relief was slow in coming, for a question lingered in his eyes.
A slew of questions.
“You write novels,” he said, deliberately. “About men…other men.”
She sighed and slumped into her chair, her journal still clutched tight. “I write novels about men and women.”
He nodded, slowly. “So, you write novels about people.”
She laughed. She had to. Otherwise, she would cry. “Yes, I write novels about people.”
A smile tipped about his mouth. “About their scents…and the feel of their skin.”
She groaned. “That won’t make it into the novel.”
“Is this your first novel?”
“It isn’t.”
“No?”
Now, the inevitable point of this conversation had arrived, and she had no choice but to say… “I write under a pen name.”
His brow lifted, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Which is?”
“Harriet LaPlume.”
His eyes went wide. “You are Harriet LaPlume?”
“Have you heard of her?” That wasn’t quite right… “Me?” That wasn’t right, either… “Her?”
And here was her heart threatening to break free from her ribcage again.
He nodded. “I purchased your latest book for my sister last Christmas.”
“You did?” Sudden heat flushed through her. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
She believed him.
For some reason—well, lots of reasons, likely related to his handsomeness and his warm eyes and her longstanding, private admiration—she trusted him.
And while she understood her reasons for trusting him weren’t at all rooted in experience, she simply couldn’t prevent herself from wanting to trust him.
Which had gotten many a woman into many a tangle with many a man.
But there was no help for it.
“Now,” he said, coming to his feet, “let’s eat.”
As he served himself from the makeshift buffet, she followed, only now realizing she, too, was ravenously hungry.
When once again seated across from him, though, she felt a slight imbalance.
He knew her greatest secret.
Yet he’d revealed nothing of his.
An imbalance that couldn’t stand.
She took a slow sip of tea and watched him load his fork with beans, sausage, egg, and ham. He could really tuck into a meal, couldn’t he? She cleared her throat. Questioning gold-flecked green eyes met hers. “Turnabout is fair play, you know,” she said.
“Turnabout?” he spoke around the bite.
She nodded, feeling more sure of herself by the moment. “You know a secret of mine. Now you must tell me a secret of yours.”
Must.
A word that instructed and commanded.
A word he had every right to ignore, if he so chose.
A seriousness entered his eyes. He was weighing the imbalance between them and whether it was in his interests to correct it. Likely, it wasn’t. But he was a sportsman, and the rule of fair play would appeal to his better self.
She hoped.
At last, he said, “What I tell you can’t go into the memoir.”
Anticipation lit through her veins. She nodded.
He held her gaze. “I’m a bastard.”
She blinked. “In the general sense or…”
He caught her humor and chuckled dryly. “I’m the illegitimate son of an—” A beat. “Aristocrat.”
“Oh.” That would explain his refusal to discuss his upbringing. It might also explain the hiding. Still, she had to ask… “And you won’t tell me who that aristocrat is?”
He shook his head. “I won’t.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t matter, anyway.”
She doubted that very much, but let it pass. It would’ve been an additional secret revealed, which would’ve left her owing him a secret.
And she wouldn’t be giving up any more of those today.
So, each keeping to their side of the table, they ate on, a surprising agreeability in the air.
And it was in this space that Saskia realized a truth.
She liked Liam Cassidy.
Not for his handsomeness or good humor or fame.
She liked him for himself.
Once his plate was all but licked clean and hers as empty as it was going to get, he asked, “Do you require an escort back to London?”
She shook her head. “I’ve my sister’s coach waiting for me.”
A question yet lingered in his eyes. “I’ll see you at the Derby next month?”
“Perhaps.”
Though she’d never spoken a flirtatious word in her life—her night as Arabella not withstanding—that perhaps hit the still morning air with an inflection that could only be characterized as coquettish. Later, surely, her boldness would inspire after-the-fact mortification.
But not now.
Not with him catching that hint of flirtation and responding with a glint of wickedness in his eyes as he came to his feet. “Until the Derby,” he said with a bow. “Perhaps.”
He grabbed a sticky bun on his way out the door, then was gone, leaving Saskia alone with her thoughts.
Oh, so many thoughts to be left alone with.
She and Liam Cassidy were coming to know one another, weren’t they?
It could be likened to the analogy of an onion peeling back its layers, but onions stank and made her cry.
She preferred to liken the experience to an early-summer rosebud releasing its petals, one by one, until it reached full bloom.
With every interaction, she and Cassidy—Liam, he’d insisted—peeled back another petal…
another slender layer of distance removed between them.
If they kept on like this, soon, nothing would remain between them.
And where would that leave them?