Lady Thief (33 page)

Now she realized she was rising and nodding mechanically to the butler. “Very well, then. I will—I will see him.”

“In the front parlor, miss.”

She paused to check her appearance in the mirror beside the door of her sitting room and was surprised to find that the dusting of pink across her cheekbones had returned. She had believed that she had left it at Sheffield Hall, that evidence of awakened sensuality, but now the delicate color bloomed, making her eyes sparkle and diminishing the wan look she had worn for so many days. She smoothed her hands down the bodice of her simple morning dress of dove gray, aware that she had lost a few pounds she could ill-afford to lose since returning to London.

Not that her visitor would notice, of course, because it would not be him. It was never him.

She went downstairs, her pace deliberate, and paused before the parlor door for an instant to gather herself. Then she opened the door and went in. “Good after—” Her voice broke off, and suddenly it seemed almost impossible to breathe.

He turned from the window, where he had been gazing out into the street, and something flared in the depths of his black eyes when he saw her. Immediately he came toward her, an unnervingly powerful man who seemed to fill the room with his presence. When he reached her, he held out a hand imperatively, and without a thought she put hers into it.

He bent slightly to brush his lips against her knuckles in a gesture far too intimate for a social greeting, but his voice was calm when he said, “Hello, Cassie.”

Since it didn’t seem he was going to release her hand, Cassandra pulled it gently away. She did not want to, and she felt bereft when the contact was broken, but she could not think when he touched her, and she needed to think. She eased past him and walked to a chair near the fireplace; she did not sit down, but rested her hands on the back as she looked at him. “I—am surprised to see you here, my lord,” she said formally.

Sheffield closed the door she had left half open, then leaned back against it and met her gaze. Those dark, direct eyes were fixed on her face. “Are you? I came to deliver the baggage you left behind at the Hall,” he said.

“Oh.” She saw him smile at her deflated syllable, and fought a sudden wild urge to throw something for the first time in her life. Apparently, her mother’s half-French temperament was alive in her—and had needed only this utterly maddening man to bring it to the fore.

“And for a few answers,” he added, pushing himself away from the door and coming to stand at the fireplace. He eyed the chair she had placed between them like a shield, and his mouth quirked again in the smile of amusement.

Cassandra lifted her chin. “Answers?”

“Well, I have a number of questions,” he said casually.

“Oh?” She tried to make her voice haughty.

“Certainly. For instance, I would like to know why you had to carry off your maid just when Anatole was fixing his interest with her.”

Cassandra blinked. “You knew?”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. That is—”

Sheffield shook his head. “Well, never mind. Now that I plan to be settled here in town for a while, I depend upon you to allow Sarah to see Anatole. He was a confirmed bachelor, you see, and fell very hard for her. I believe that is usually so whenever one has . . . given up all hope for love.”

Her throat seemed to close up, and Cassandra hardly knew what to say. “I—I would never stand in their way if—”

He bowed slightly. “Thank you, on behalf of Anatole.”

She nodded. “Um . . . you said you had questions?”

“You left the Hall so abruptly we had no opportunity to talk,” he reminded her. “In fact, you slipped away at dawn, without a word.”

“My note—”

“Yes, your note—shall I tell you what it said? I have it memorized, you know.” He leaned his powerful shoulders back against the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest, gazing at her unreadably. “It said: ‘My Lord, thank you very much for your hospitality and your kindness in providing shelter from the storm. I am most grateful. I regret being unable to say goodbye to you in person, but I feel sure you agree that it is best I return to London immediately. ’ And it was signed: Cassandra Eden.”

He
had
memorized it. Cassandra cleared her throat. “Well, then? What questions could you possibly—”

“I think we can begin with your name. Why did you give me a false one?”

That was a question she had expected, and she answered it honestly. “Sarah gave it, because Anatole frightened her when he first opened the door and because she knew your reputation. I kept up the lie because . . . oh, at first because I was weary of—”

“Fortune hunters?”

She nodded. “The longer I kept up the lie, the more impossible it seemed to tell the truth, so I just put it out of my head.”

It was impossible to tell if he believed or disbelieved her, or even if he felt anything at all about the matter; he merely nodded and said matter-of-factly, “Did you believe I was a fortune hunter?”

Cassandra hesitated. “No, not really—not after I got a good look at the Hall. It seemed to me you had no need to dangle after an heiress.”

He nodded again. “I see. That seems reasonable enough. Now for the next question. Why, Cassie?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why?” His voice was infinitely patient. “Why did you feel it necessary to bolt for London at dawn?”

This was an answer that was more complicated. “The storm was past, the roads clear. I—I had told you I meant to go. There was—there was no reason for me to remain any longer.”

“Was there not?”

Cassandra struggled silently for a moment, then blurted, “You did not discourage me when I said I meant to go! In fact, you said—”

“I know what I said,” he interrupted. “And what you obviously do
not
know is why I said it. It is a pity we were interrupted before I could explain myself.”

Back in control, she said stiffly, “I believe the reason is clear, sir, and required no further explanation. You as good as said that the—the attraction we felt for each other was due to the circumstances of our being thrown together by the storm.”

“And did you believe that was true?” he asked politely.

Staring into his eyes, she saw a flicker of something she dared not try to define. But it roused a tiny spurt of hope in her, and it forced her to say hesitantly, “I—I thought you believed it.”

In a very deliberate tone he said, “What I believed was that you should leave as soon as possible for three reasons. Because you were unchaperoned. Because the storm
had
isolated us and quite possibly led you to believe you felt more for me than you actually did. And because I no longer trusted myself not to accept what you offered me so passionately with every look, every touch, and most especially every kiss.”

She blinked at that last candid statement, knowing without a doubt that she was blushing furiously. But before she could either deny his words or somehow defend herself, she found herself caught by his intent gaze. The flicker in his night-black eyes had become the heated look that was achingly familiar to her, like the sensual curve of his lips and the faint rasp in his low voice. She felt her heart skip a beat and then begin to pound unevenly, and heat was rushing through her body even before he came to her and pulled her into his arms.

All the long days without him had only sharpened the need he had created in her, and Cassandra molded herself to him instantly, her mouth wild and eager under his, her arms slipping up around his neck in total surrender. He crushed her against his powerful length, his arms fierce and his mouth ruthless as it plundered hers. And when he jerked his head up at last, his eyes were brilliant with fire and ferocity.

“Do you understand now?” he demanded roughly. One of his hands slid down her back to her hips, and he pressed her lower body hard against his. “Do you?”

Cassandra caught her breath, dizzy from his kisses and the shockingly intimate awareness of his blatant arousal. Her body was trembling and she thought all her bones had melted. She could only stare up at him, mute, electrified, and enthralled.

His embrace gentled, his hands stroking up and down her back slowly, and his lips feathered over her flushed, heated face. “I wanted you so badly I knew it was only a matter of time before I lost my head,” he muttered.

When he drew back just a bit to look down at her again, she touched his cheek with wondering fingers, and a tremulous smile curved her kiss-reddened lips. “That was why you were so—so distant that last day? Why you said I should go?”

“Yes.” He turned his head to kiss her palm lingeringly. “Cassie, you were under my protection. I may spring from a long line of rakes, but only a monster would take advantage of a girl under such circumstances. And—”

“And?” she prompted.

He hesitated, then said, “At twenty-one I fancied myself in love, but what I discovered was that to one so young, powerful emotions are often something entirely different from what one supposes. I wanted to make certain you had the time to consider what you felt, Cassie, before anything irrevocable happened between us.”

She frowned a little. “Is that why you waited all these days, leaving me to wonder if I would ever see you again?”

He bent his head and kissed her in apology, leisurely this time but with unmistakable hunger. When he raised his head, she was trembling again, and his voice was hoarse. “Can you forgive me for that? I promise you, it was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life to stay away from you.”

Cassandra drew a shaky breath. “I—I suppose I shall have to forgive you.”

He chuckled, then gently drew her arms down and stepped back, holding her hands in his. Reluctance was clear in his eyes. “If I do not leave you now, I will not be able to.”

“I suppose you . . . could not stay,” she ventured.

Bluntly Sheffield said, “However willing your uncle is to allow you to manage your own life, my darling, I doubt very much that he would be sympathetic if he found me making love to you under his roof.”

She found herself both smiling and blushing, pleased by his frank talk of his desire for her even as she was a little embarrassed—or thought she should be.

He smiled at her. “Do you attend the St. Valentine’s Day Ball tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Save all the dances for me.”

She nodded without hesitation, but couldn’t help saying, “I won’t see you before then?”

Sheffield smiled but shook his head. “There are things I must attend to. Remember, it has been quite a few years since I’ve been in town during the Season.”

Cassandra nodded reluctantly in understanding, and she managed not to throw herself back into his arms when he kissed each of her hands and then released them. She didn’t object when he said goodbye, but when he reached the door, she said, “Stone?”

One hand on the knob, he turned to look at her.

Burning her bridges, Cassandra said steadily, “I am very sure of how I feel—I want you to know that. I fell in love with you that first night.”

She had no idea what was in her eyes when she said it, what expression she wore, but whatever the earl saw caused him to release the doorknob and take a jerky step back toward her—and his face was taut with hunger.

He stopped, struggled visibly with his baser instincts, then muttered, “My God, Cassie—you’d tempt a saint,” before jerking open the door and striding from the room.

 

 

Sir Basil, who had received the news of Cassandra’s stormbound stay at Sheffield Hall philosophically, reacted to the news of the earl’s return to London with characteristic perception. When Cassandra very casually mentioned after supper that evening that Sheffield had called upon her in the afternoon (since the earl had not stated his intentions in so many words, she was hesitant to inform her uncle that she was being courted), Sir Basil looked very hard across the dining table at his niece.

“I somehow doubt Sheffield’s come to London to be measured for a new pair of boots, not when he’s avoided the place for the better part of ten years. Should I expect a visit from him, Cassie?”

She hesitated, then replied, “I don’t know.”

His brows flew up. “You don’t know if he means to offer for you?”

Candidly she said, “I don’t know if he would ask your permission to offer for me.”

Lady Weston, who sat opposite her husband, said, “Dear me,” quite placidly and looked at Cassandra with interest. “You never seemed to wish to discuss it, dearest, but we gathered you had formed an attachment for the earl. You were so careful to barely mention him, you know, and that is always a dead giveaway. And then, naturally, we’ve noticed your low spirits since you came back to town.”

Sir Basil, dryly, said, “Quite different from tonight, in fact. A blind man could see how you feel about the man, so I hope you don’t intend to try keeping it a secret.”

Cassandra smiled on them both, immensely grateful for their love and trust in her judgment. “People will probably talk,” she said ruefully. “Even if there is no gossip about my stay at the Hall, I have a notion that Stone has no intention of being . . . circumspect in his attentions. And since he has been away from society for so long—”

“He will definitely be under observation,” Sir Basil finished. “Some will call him a fortune hunter, you know; even a man with adequate funds risks that when he pays his addresses to an heiress.”

“They may just as easily reproach me and say I wished only to be a countess,” she commented in a dry tone.

“Very true, I suppose. But more likely to go the other way. Will that disturb you, Cassie?”

Cassandra smiled faintly. “No, why should it? I know he is indifferent to my fortune.”

Sir Basil eyed her thoughtfully. “You do, do you?”

“Oh, yes.” There was something of her aunt’s utter placidity in that response, and her uncle looked satisfied; when Eden women had at last made up their minds and were certain of something—of anything—they were invariably right.