By Way Of A Wager Read online

  He bowed. “It was a pleasure, my dear!”

  She dimpled mischievously. “I think maybe you are, after all, what you say!”

  He looked at her, and his expression was hooded. “A rake? Perhaps. I trust, though, that I am not so much at my last prayer that I need dangle after innocent maidens!”

  She colored deeply and dropped her eyes.

  “On second thought ...” He placed his arm about her waist, and she caught the faint hint of musk and something infinitely, undefinably masculine. Before she could protest, she found him surveying her lips with a quirkish expression that made her knees tremble and her lips go suddenly dry.

  “On second thought, I might just take what is my due.”

  “Your due, sir?” Cassandra’s tone was deceptively submissive.

  He smiled. “Yes, my due. The right of a rake! Do you read Herrick?”

  “Herrick?” Cassandra looked puzzled, until enlightenment dawned, and she fussed with the basket in confusion. “Oh! You mean ...”

  “Yes! Your gorgeous lips, innocent one! Cherry ripe, cherry ripe they cry!” He was very close to her, his tone caressing. His hand brushed against her lightly. “Full and fair ones they are indeed!”

  “You insult me again, sir!”

  “No, I think I will just teach you the folly of wandering so disarmingly about without benefit of a maid!” His tone was teasing. He bent and kissed her, his lips as firm and generous as in her wildest moments she’d suspected they would be. Cassandra felt a number of unfamiliar sensations beset her before she struggled free and delivered a most resounding slap to the stranger’s face.

  He released her in amused surprise. A bright red mark formed at the side of his left cheek, but he managed an aghast chuckle at the lady’s resolve.

  Cassandra seemed more shocked at her actions than himself. “Have I hurt you, sir?”

  His eyes were tender. “No, baggage! My pride perhaps! I’ll have you know I am not in the habit of having my suit rejected!”

  She folded her arms and giggled. “I warrant not, sir!”

  She paused and a cheeky glint entered the corners of her deep, indigo eyes. “It is Thomas Campion I recalled! Do you know it?”

  “Know it?”

  “Yes! ‘There cherries grow that none may buy until cherry ripe themselves do cry.’ ”

  The gentleman doffed his cap in recognition of the apt verse. His eyes gleamed at her quick wit in coining the rejoinder.

  “I stand corrected, then!”

  She curtsied and steadied the impatient colt.

  He opened his fingers and pressed the grubby coin into the palm of her hand. “Perhaps it will bring good luck! Keep it as a talisman until we can further our delightful acquaintance upon more legitimate terms!” He shook his head in distraction. “I look forward to your presentation, ma’am. Perhaps I shall leave a card. Mayhap, after all, I shall make your lips resoundingly cry cherry ripe.”

  His eyes burned into hers, and she felt the sensual tremblings of longing she had experienced earlier when waiting for Natty. Only this time, they were so unexpectedly intense that for an instant her eyes closed. When she opened them, he’d swung around and was gone.

  Cassandra gazed with unseeing eyes as she recalled the incident, still vivid in her memory after such a very long time. She sighed and turned from the diamond-latticed windows that looked out onto the cornfields. Far beyond that, the river streamed prettily past the Surrey estate and edged precariously on those of the absent Earl of Greensides. So much had happened since that chance encounter with the unknown stranger. She hadn’t even asked his name! Perhaps if she had been presented in the fall of that year, things might have been otherwise.

  As it was, she found herself on the verge of tears, her world a tumult of conflicting feelings and bitter emotions. Who would have thought that she would come to such a pass? Her grandfather dead in a hunting accident and her brother lost in one of the bloodiest battles across the seas. Even now, the odious Harringtons were settling their vulgar belongings into her family home.

  With a sigh, she kicked the tassels of her Aubusson carpet. It was useless to speculate, yet again, on how the earldom was to pass to her minor relations. She did not think she’d met the Harringtons above twice in her lifetime, but now it seemed they were to invade every private corner of her life.

  The thought was bitter. Doubly so, for while Surrey land had been entailed to the earldom, the accompanying fortune had not. The Harringtons had shrieked in ill-bred fury when they’d discovered this eccentric codicil of the fifth earl. Since her brother Frances was missing, presumed dead, the fortune defaulted not to the earldom, but to her.

  It seemed inevitable that Cassandra should be hounded night and day to rectify this fault. Through marriage, she had it in her power to unite fortune with title once more. She bit her lip. Nothing, nothing, was going to induce her to wed Sir Robert Harrington. The very thought of him repelled her. With a shiver of distaste, Cassandra jumped down from the window seat with sudden decision and tidied her skirts. She was in the devil of a coil. Unless she took steps to help herself, she would be undone. Much as she detested airing her dirty linen in public, she would have to. Tonight at the ball she would enlist the advice of some of the earl’s staunchest friends. She sighed and placed the penny back in the furthest recess of her ribbon drawer. A talisman, her handsome stranger had said. If ever she needed its luck, she needed it now.

  TWO

  The Honorable Miss Elise Harrington clicked the jewel box shut with a little moue of distaste. Her cheeks were alarmingly flushed and held all the signs of an impending rage. Her unfortunate lady’s maid, taking note, excused herself with a curtsy and fled the chamber.

  The lady seethed with ill-concealed outrage and turned on her dresser. “However I came by such a nip-farthing, penny-pinching great skinflint as my brother I shall never know!” She tossed the offending trinket box to one side and preened herself. “Why, I have it on the best authority that he gave Miss Amazonia Brown a bracelet of rubies but a fortnight ago!” Her lips were petulant as she uttered this indignant, if far from genteel, observation.

  Symmonds took up the silver-handled brush and vouchsafed not a word. Instead, she began the merciless strokes she deemed necessary for any young lady venturing out to her first ball. Miss Harrington did not look suitably gratified. Quite the contrary. She threw the retainer a venomous glance before continuing with her tirade. “Oh, don’t, I beg you, look so odiously disapproving! I am not some milk and water miss that I do not know very well the kind of flirts he’s taken up with.”

  Amelia Symmonds opened her mouth to remonstrate, then snapped it tightly shut. She knew her mistress better than to offer worldly advice, no matter how well warranted. Let her burn her bridges if she chose. It was no concern of hers.

  “Stop hurting so!” The reproof came just as the maid was putting the finishing touches to a particularly recalcitrant lock of sadly lackluster hair. Symmonds said nothing, but set down the brush with her lips firmly pursed. She’d become accustomed enough to her mistress’s outbursts to take no more notice than to mutter disapprovingly and push a filigree pin firmly in place.

  “If you press so hard you will pierce me!” The Honorable Elise glared at her, then turned back to the glass. Her thoughts flitted, not for the first time, to the coveted Surrey diamonds she knew to be stowed safely in the library below stairs. Perhaps if she broached the subject with her mama ... but no! That lady was still out of temper with her for needing the seamstress in again.

  She failed to see that it could matter that her new jonquil muslin was a tad tight. After all, she still had the whitest skin and the softest hands of all her acquaintances in Harrow. Mr. Thomas Pultney had told her so only the other day, and heavens, he was a one to know! Besides, her consequence had vastly improved since Robert had come into his expectations.

  Somewhat mollified by this reflection, she paused to select from the tray an invitingly rich strawberry confection tha
t was glazed with sugar and filled with a delectable quantity of whipped cream. She bit into it thoughtfully, conveniently ignoring Symmonds’s admonishing sniff.

  “Amethysts indeed! I suppose he’ll save all the really good stuff for his countess! Well, I won’t have it! And if Mama thinks she can contrive to make him marry that odious Cassandra just because she has forty thousand pounds coming to her, well let her think again! I’ll not have her decked out in the Surrey gems! What is more, I reckon it is a guinea to a groat that Robert will run shy of the notion, too!”

  Her eyes drooped slyly as she patted down the folds of her voluminous ball gown. Its startling shade was perhaps an unfortunate choice for one of her coloring and years, but if she found the gilded trim and lacy embellishments excessive, she showed no sign. She pouted over her choice of the formal hot house roses or the nosegay of early spring dewdrops and carelessly chose the former.

  “On second thought, Symmonds, I’ll take the trinket back myself. I think it is high time Robert and I had a little talk.” Her expression appeared suddenly smug as she grasped for the offending box. “My nonsensical brother’s been a bit high in the instep lately, and I know just how to take him down a peg or two! You see if I don’t return with the sapphire drops at the very least!”

  Her step was brisk as she strode down the long gallery that led to the atrium on the west wing. As she passed the portraits of the first Earl Surrey and his progeny, she reflected that it would not be long before her mother bestirred herself to have them removed to the basement.

  No doubt the action would cause them all be treated to yet another impudent display from the lower staff, but no matter. If their sullens continued they’d be given their marching papers. Of course, their loyalties still lay with the late Earl Surrey, but they’d change their tune soon enough when the papers came through.

  For the thousandth time that day she bewailed the fact that communication was still so bad across the channel. The process of confirming the death of Lord Frances Beaumaris was both tedious and irritating. She was heartily sick of looking in on the fringes of the beau monde and dancing attendance on the likes of Eleanor Peabody-Frampton.

  It was especially galling to have to look to Miss Cassandra Beaumaris for entrée to the soirees and balls she should have be invited to by right. That the boot would soon be on the other foot was her only conceivable consolation.

  This salve to her rapidly mounting temper was offset by the sudden rip she noted in her hem. It must have been caught on the landing stairs and would no doubt take her maid an age to mend. Scowling crossly, she realized there would be little time to interview her brother before the coach arrived for the evening’s entertainment. She turned on her heel and made for her chamber.

  “Oh, double hell and damnation!”

  Mr. James Everett gave a small start as he completed his inscription. Though softly uttered, the expletive was sufficiently audible to alert him to the fact of his employer’s return.

  He could, perhaps, be forgiven for not hearing His Grace’s advent sooner. That gentleman had chosen to enter from the terrace rather than the long gallery, a circumstance that the more formal Mr. Everett still found strangely bewildering. With painstaking care, he blotted the excess from his missive before rising from behind the neatly piled stacks before him.

  “What is it, Your Grace?”

  The frown that marred the eighth duke of Wyndham’s really indecently handsome features was disturbing to one used more to a friendly nod than to unexpected outbursts of temperament. He need not have worried. The inquiry was met with a distinct lightening of the brow and an airy gesture that belied any real cause for concern.

  “Be seated, James! I cannot conceive how many times I’ve told you not to stand on ceremony with me!”

  The indubitable Mr. Everett found himself waved inexorably into a chair. The severity of His Grace’s words was belied by the distinct twinkle lurking at the corners of unusually enigmatic dark eyes.

  Relieved, His Grace’s secretary took the small Queen Anne closest to the window. He settled himself attentively into the deep velvet and reflected, not for the first time, how refreshing it was that Duke Wyndham set comfort and a quite impeccable taste above current fashionable modes.

  It could not be denied that the duke’s own person offered a pleasing prospect as he eased his hands out of an exquisitely edged pair of Sevres gloves. That he thrust them down with such uncommon force upon the table before him was proof positive of his natural vexation.

  Eyeing the negligent gesture, Mr. Everett thought with fleeting pity of His Grace’s valet, who’d no doubt spent many a morning searching for just such a pair.

  No matter! His attention turned to the probable cause of the duke’s displeasure. “Not the Greensides’ lease I take it? I spoke to his lordship’s man of business myself, but I misliked his manner. Like as not he’ll renege and sell to Lord Abbington given half a chance... .” He trailed off uncertainly.

  The duke looked speculative. “Will he, do you think?” His voice had acquired a low, silken edge that boded no good for the agent. He clicked open his drawer and reached for an elegant but slender snuffbox of the finest rose gold. Extending his hand carelessly, he offered his secretary a pinch before helping himself to the exotic, Mediterranean blend.

  “I think I’ll need to have a word with—what was his name? Ah, Abney if I do recall. A vulgar little man! I hear tell that he is overreaching himself with my tenants at Roscow. He’ll have to have a care.” There was menace in the duke’s tone, and Mr. Everett shivered slightly.

  “If it is indeed the Greensides’ lease that worries you ...”

  The duke interrupted him. “Not, I’m sorry to say, anything so mundane as the Greensides’ lease!” Suddenly, unexpectedly, his mind reverted to an image of a young maiden with tip-tilted nose, speaking blue eyes, and bright tumbling hair.

  He had not thought of her since their encounter amid the berry bushes, and he fleetingly wondered whyever not. He shook his head and returned to the present, his tone assuming an unexpectedly teasing quality.

  “The Greensides’ lease, I’m aware, I could fob off on you with the most unconscionable of ease!” The words were accompanied by the wide smile so typical of the man who had become known to the monde as “the inimitable.”

  Despite his customarily serious manner, Mr. Everett was drawn to conclude that His Grace the Eighth Duke Wyndham, Earl Roscow, and Baron of the Isles was quite the most charming peer of his acquaintance. This was not to say, of course, that His Grace was incapable of offering a crushing set down when the occasion arose. Mr. Everett could cast his mind back to several occasions where the duke’s notoriously wry consequence had been invoked. He did not gladly suffer fools or sycophants.

  The duke now cast his eyes heavenward in picturesque exasperation. “I’m rather afraid it is nothing that need concern you, my dear James! This is a personal affair entirely.”

  At this, Mr. Everett coughed apologetically and uncrossed his legs. The duke’s personal affairs were notorious among his set, but that, James knew, was none of his business. In spite of himself, his mind conjured up a long-remembered image of his employer in nothing but a hip-hugging pair of buckskins buttoned carelessly and without benefit of a shirt.

  Not that he’d needed one. The shadows of the long pines had offered more than sufficient succor as his long fingers had rested lingeringly on the invitingly soft lips of his bonny cher d’amour. James could well remember the crimson laces of her tight-fitting bodice as she bestowed a slow, sensuous smile on the young heir to Wyndham.

  Too late, he’d reined in his stallion. Before he could make good his escape, however, he’d been confronted by the impishly mocking gaze of Miles St. John, then the Marquis of Wade. His Grace had been impossibly young at the time, but the vision remained etched in his memory. Flushing with embarrassment, Mr. Everett now found himself plucking an imaginary hair from his morning coat and making to withdraw.

  His employer,
correctly divining the direction of his thoughts, looked mildly amused. “Oh, don’t be so stuffy, James! No need to get up on my account! When I said personal I did not—on this occasion at least—mean improper!” His eyes sparkled as the aging Mr. Everett declaimed. The duke was convinced that if the man could blush, he would have. Instead, he shuffled his white-tipped Hessians and muttered something vaguely intelligible. “If it is personal ...”

  “No, nothing of such great moment after all.” His Grace looked rueful. “It is just that my great aunt, Elthea—the dowager marchioness of Langford, you know—has become relentless in her quest to get me leg-shackled this season. As if she hasn’t already done enough—presenting me to every new chit out from the schoolroom!”

  “But I thought you liked the young Miss Yarborough?”

  “Liked her? No, my dear Mr. Everett, I pitied her! With an encroaching mama like that what else could I do? It is fortunate, indeed, that young Battingham came up to scratch before I was obliged to sadly depress the pretension!”

  Mr. Everett, though somewhat disapproving of the duke’s dismissive tone, nevertheless found himself repressing a smile at the display of righteous indignation.

  His Grace expanded on his theme. “Anyone would imagine that fiasco would have been enough to dampen Aunt Elthea’s all too transparent zeal, but no! I am now to escort her to her country manor in Shropshire, there to be introduced to some mysterious young protégée she has apparently conjured from abroad.”

  Mr. Everett looked nonplussed. “You cannot think of obliging, Your Grace? The London season has scarcely started, and I know you are anxious to put in a bid for the Arlington stallions. Tattersall’s simply cannot be given the go by this time of year! Besides, your man of business sent in his card only the other day. You’ll want to be consulting him of course... .”