Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Grant ran the pad of his thumb over Lady Brookfield’s inner thigh and frowned.
The mole she had professed concern for while they’d been in the ballroom was nothing more than a small dot on her lily-white skin.
The widow barely suppressed a mewl of delight as he sat back in the chair, took in the view, and realized what she really wanted.
“There is nothing wrong with this mole, Lady Brookfield,” he said as she continued to stand before him, her foot propped on his knee. The hem of her ballgown was raised above her garter.
Though nearly ten years his senior, Lady Brookfield was beautiful and shapely, and if he was at all in the mood for a rendezvous, he might have been tempted.
But he was not. He didn’t want to be at this ball, let alone in this bedchamber’s sitting room.
The only reason he’d accepted Lady Dutton’s invitation was to get his father off his back.
The man had been insufferable as of late, and earlier that evening, he’d made things infinitely worse.
The command for Grant to find a woman to marry still echoed in his head.
That he’d already been married once did not signify to the marquess. Nor did Grant’s vow to never remarry.
The marquess wanted a grandson, who would keep the title in the immediate family. So far, none of Grant’s three older brothers had produced anything but girls, and his younger sister, though married three years now, had not been able to conceive.
Lady Brookfield rolled her ankle, tugging his trousers and yanking his mind away from his current troubles. “Are you quite sure you shouldn’t take a closer look?” she said, drawing the hem up another inch.
On some level, he’d known she’d only been trying to get him alone in a room, far away from the crush.
Newly out of mourning, the rumors at the clubs were that she was making up for lost time.
As Grant’s reputation savored strongly of loose morality, he was an obvious choice.
He didn’t always care to curb the assumptions people made regarding his character, as it both nettled his tyrant of a father and kept young debutantes and their mothers from looking his way during the Season.
Safer for everyone, all around. However, his libertine status often caused him more annoyance than it did pleasure.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I can see everything just fine as you are, my lady, and you are not the owner of a potentially cancerous mole.”
She pouted, the little moue an implicit invitation. He swallowed a sigh. Sometimes his reputation was more trouble than it was worth.
At the sound of the sitting room door opening, Lady Brookfield’s foot, awkwardly massaging his thigh, went still.
Grant looked to see who’d joined them. This was the very reason he did not ever dally with debutantes.
Getting caught in a dark room with one of them would lead to a date at the altar, whereas getting caught with a widow would only lead to a roll of the eyes and perhaps a scowl of distaste—both of which the intruder who now pressed her ear against the door, unaware she’d entered an occupied room, would certainly do when she saw him.
Grant cleared his throat. “This is me announcing myself, as I have been told a gentleman should.”
Lady Cassandra Sinclair’s back went rigid.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d chastised him for his failure to reveal himself inside the morning room at Hugh Marsden’s home.
Not that Grant had been given the chance to so much as part his lips before she’d rushed into the room and burst into wretched sobs.
He’d deliberated staying silent and letting her cry.
She might have left quickly after her tears dried up.
But he’d been too concerned with why she was crying to trick her.
Now, she turned slowly, eyes wide, and saw him in the chair with Lady Brookfield’s leg still on full display. Cassie’s lips parted in shock, then slammed together again as the scowl he’d predicted emerged.
The widow lowered her hem, and to Grant’s relief, withdrew her foot. She smoothed her skirt and fiddled with tendrils of curls framing her face as she cut a hasty path toward Cassie and the door.
“Wait.” Cassie held out her hands. She placed her ear against the door again, and after a moment, she stepped aside. Tucking her chin, she looked at Lady Brookfield with meaning. “You haven’t seen me, and I haven’t seen you. Yes?”
Lady Brookfield gave a small bow of her head. “Agreed, my lady.” She then whipped out of the room. Cassie closed the door and locked it behind her.
Grant stood from the chair. “What are you doing in here?”
She hushed him and held up a palm, still listening through the wood. When her shoulders dropped, she turned to scowl at him full on. “I could ask you the same question. But I won’t because it’s perfectly clear what you were doing in here.”
He crossed his arms and angled his head to stare down at her. She was a few inches shorter than him, and yet she persisted in acting as if she hovered high above him and everyone else.
“I was inspecting the lady for a worrisome mole, that is all,” he replied. “Who are you hiding from?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you in any trouble?” He considered that she might have been trying to escape an overly amorous man.
He took a few steps toward the door. But stopped.
What was he going to do, charge out there and confront someone who could then place him in a room, alone, with the unmarried young woman?
His blood went to ice at the thought. He’d worked too hard to avoid any situation like that.
“I’ll only be in trouble if I’m found in here with you,” she replied, echoing his own thoughts a little too well.
He gestured toward the locked door. “Then you should leave. Immediately.”
Cassie only lifted her chin and stalked toward the fireplace. A few logs had been burning when he and Lady Brookfield had come in, the room selected by some secret knowledge the lady had possessed. The thought occurred to him that she’d arranged for this room in advance. The lusty minx.
“I rather think you should leave, sir.” Cassie speared him with a glare over her shoulder. “Unless you are waiting to inspect another woman’s worrisome mole.”
“Why, do you have one you’d like me to take a look at?”
Suggestive and sarcastic remarks came naturally to him, and something about Cassandra Sinclair made delivering them so much more satisfying. Especially when she blushed and scowled at the same time.
“You are a disgrace. Lady Brookfield is a widow,” she hissed. “Have you no shame?”
“I am ashamed of many things.” He made his way toward the fireplace, enjoying the little steps she took to the side, to avoid him.
As if proximity would make any difference.
Should anyone come breaking through that locked door, it wouldn’t matter if he was on one side of the room, and she the other. She would still be compromised.
“Like how earlier, I had something in my teeth while I was speaking to Lady Dutton,” he said, tapping his front incisor. “Right here. Fleck of pepper, I think it was. Utterly embarrassing.”
Cassie stared flatly at him, unamused. Which only made him smile wider.
“Oh, come now, Lady Cassandra. I didn’t lure Lady Brookfield into this room to have my wicked way with her. She lured me.”
Cassie let out a high bark of laughter. “Oh, that is rich. You, sir, are a superficial rake.”
“Believe me or don’t, but I am telling the truth. Another truth is that you are hiding in here to escape some man’s attention.”
She hardened again, her arms crossing at her waist. A protective motion.
“A suitor?” he guessed.
She closed her eyes. “My brother would be ecstatic if I allowed it.”
Ah. The duke. “Fournier’s looking to fob you off then?“
Cassie opened her eyes. The sooty gray color of them suited her black look. “No one needs to fob me off. I am more than capable of seeing to my own independence, thank you.”
It was established knowledge that the duke’s sister had avowed herself to be forever unmarried, and for a little while, it had lit up the ton like a firecracker.
No one could quite understand why she was so averse to marriage, and no one had really believed she would stick to her commitment.
However, over the last few Seasons it had become increasingly evident that she was not moving from her position.
The talk had faded, but the disappointment had not abated.
To be young, gorgeous, wealthy, and devoted to a future of spinsterhood seemed unnatural to many.
While Grant knew why he would never take vows again, Cassie’s reasons mystified him. So much about her did. She was a harridan, to be sure, but not in any cold way. On the contrary, she was a flame. Erratic and opinionated, she had made it more than clear what her opinion was of him.
“Your own independence?” he repeated as he went to a table of cut crystal decanters. He poured himself a liberal amount of whisky. “You make it sound as if you don’t rely on the duke’s fortune.”
Every additional comment from his lips seemed to ignite more of her wrath. It was for the best. The sooner she left this room in a blaze of annoyance, the better. Locked doors only kept out those without keys.
“It is my fortune—”
“The income of which is allotted to you by the duke. I know how it works, Cassandra. I’ve an income of my own, meted out by the marquess.”
Who had just threatened to sever it should Grant not find a woman by the first of the year to marry. His stomach clenched in instinctive revulsion and not a small amount of fury.