The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2) Page 13

Imagine that. Vincent Sinclair, saying something courteous.

  He walked down the steps to his coach.

  “I am hoping for sunshine tomorrow!” she called out, just before he stepped inside.

  He stopped and turned, then, to her surprise, came leaping back up the stairs, taking two at a time to the top to reach her. “Would you like to come with me to see the properties?” he asked, slightly out of breath. “It will be a few hours by coach. I expect to be back at the palace by nightfall.”

  Cassandra could not mask her surprise. “You would not prefer to choose on your own?”

  “No. It will be your house. You should take part in the selection.”

  She could not deny that she would greatly enjoy choosing her new home. And yet...

  “I am not sure it would be wise.”

  “Why not? Are you afraid of being alone with me?”

  She shifted Molly in her arms. “No.”

  “Then what makes you hesitate?”

  “Well, I...” She couldn’t seem to come up with an answer.

  “For pity’s sake, Cassandra, just say the word yes and I will pick you up at eight.”

  She looked away toward the horizon. Molly squirmed and licked her chin.

  “All right,” Cassandra replied at last, admitting to herself with more than a little chagrin that she wanted very much to accompany Vincent, even if they spoke not one single word to each other all day. “I shall join you. I would like to see the properties you are considering, and it will do me good to get away.”

  “And me as well.” He ran back down the steps to his waiting coach, opened the door, but called out one last thing. “Do not fret if the puppy cries tonight. She will be lonely for her mother. You might want to keep her close to you. Will you do that for me?”

  “I shall.” Cassandra kissed the top of Molly’s soft head.

  “Then I will see you in the morning.” With that, he climbed into his coach and drove off.

  Cassandra looked down at Molly and scratched behind her soft fluffy ears. “Did you hear that? The gentleman is worried that you will be lonely tonight. He wants me to take good care of you.”

  As she turned to go inside, she remembered Charlotte’s tale about the fawn, and could not deny that her heart softened just a little.

  Chapter 12

  I pray that he will never touch me. I live in constant fear of what will happen if he does.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  June 5,1874

  The next day splashed onto the horizon like a wave upon rocks, splattering the morning sky with a dazzling pink sunrise. The thick cover of clouds that had hung heavy over England for weeks had moved on, clearing the way at last for the sun’s radiant heat and the brilliance of a bright blue sky. There was hope now for the disastrous flooded fields and the muddy palace roads.

  By the time Vincent arrived at the dower house to pick Cassandra up in the coach, she was ready and waiting at the door, wearing a blue and white striped traveling gown of light muslin. It belonged to Charlotte and was the perfect dress for springtime weather.

  Vincent complimented her on her appearance and assisted her into the comfortable vehicle, and together they drove off, crossing over the estate border, speaking very little to each other as they headed east in the direction of London.

  The journey was long, but for Cassandra it was not the least bit tedious. How could it be, when the sunshine outside the window was shining in on her lap, warming her legs and brightening her mood? She did not mind the rocking and jostling over the uneven, rutted roads either, for her mind was occupied by the glorious view of the English countryside beyond the glass, and her private thoughts of June.

  She imagined her new life with her daughter in a new home, surrounded by flowers and grass and birds chirping in the treetops. There would be much for a little girl to discover, with her puppy as a playmate. It would be a good life—a proper, respectable one, as long as she could keep her wits about her where her benefactor was concerned.

  Cassandra glanced across at Vincent and took in his overall appearance. He was immaculately dressed in black trousers and a three-quarter-length coat, a dark crimson brocade waistcoat and necktie, and a silk top hat.

  He met her gaze and nodded coolly, then looked out the window again. For the rest of the journey, his lack of attention and the silence between them helped free her of any doubts she had entertained about spending this long, intensive day alone with him. His ignoring her was a blessing. It kept the wall between them solidly in place, which was what she wanted.

  Eventually they turned off the main road to view a property near Newbury, which was available for purchase. They pulled to a stop in front of it.

  The minute Cassandra stepped out of the coach, however, and took one look at it—a thatched cottage close to the road and adjacent to a churchyard cemetery—she knew it was not at all to her liking.

  Vincent stood beside her in the sunshine just outside the coach, holding her gloved hand at shoulder height, staring at the front of the cottage. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  She let out a breath. “That’s a relief. Neither do I. But you have the key. Should we take a look inside just the same?”

  “I don’t see why we should waste our time, unless you think you might change your mind.”

  She considered the possibility for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, not when we have other places to see. Perhaps we will like them better.”

  “We shall hope.”

  With that he handed her back up into the coach and they set off again.

  “A place near a lake would be nice,” he commented as they rumbled past the small stone church.

  “Yes. I could teach June to swim.”

  “And I could teach her to fish.”

  Cassandra lifted an eyebrow. “Do you really believe that is a proper accomplishment for a young lady?”

  He gazed across at her with resolve. “It will be for my daughter.”

  Amused by his unusual paternal ideas, she chuckled to herself.

  They passed the church and drove for miles down a narrow, winding lane, across green hills dotted with white sheep, through sections of wooded farmland until they came to the next property.

  It was a large farmhouse built of gray stone, with small windows and a heavy slate roof that sank like a hammock under its own weight. The barn was snug to the house, and Cassandra was sure she would be able to smell the pigs from her bedroom window.

  “I don’t even think we need to get out,” Vincent said as he opened the door and looked at the craggy, weather-beaten house.

  “I quite agree. Would it be acceptable to move on?”

  He tapped the roof with his walking stick. “Next property please, Jenson.”

  The coach lurched forward again, and they were soon rolling along the open, English countryside.

  “How many other properties are there to consider today?” Cassandra asked, feeling somewhat discouraged as she folded her gloved hands on her lap.

  “I regret to say only one.”

  “And if it is not suitable?”

  His voice was reassuring. “Then we shall head home and try again another day. There is no need to rush into anything. There will be other properties.”

  Relieved, she settled back in the seat and retreated into her private thoughts again, thinking of Molly and June and how lovely the dower house was compared to the properties they had just seen. She did not want to be difficult to please, but perhaps they might need to consider a different price range.

  A short time later they came to a stone carriage house and wrought-iron gate, which required them to stop so the driver could step down and push the gate open.

  “This looks more promising,” Vincent said, leaning f
orward to admire the wooded acreage as they crossed onto the property.

  They traveled up a long, shady, tree-lined drive to an exquisite manor house built of brick and surrounded by overgrown rose gardens, not yet in bloom. A wide lawn stretched down to a private lake with a boathouse and dock—just as they had spoken about on the way there. The coach pulled to a halt in front of a flagstone walkway, which led up to the house.

  “This is Langley Hall,” Vincent informed her, as if sensing her interest in the origins of the house. “It was built in 1792 by a French military officer.”

  “You left it for last intentionally, didn’t you?”

  He smiled, and it filled her with excitement, which was very much in contrast to the proper, respectable rapport they had been maintaining all day.

  “I cannot tell a lie,” he answered.

  She was forced to wrestle with the disarming effect of his masculine appeal, while he assisted her out of the coach and up the steps to the front door, nestled under a high, arched portico. The door was open for them, and they entered without knocking.

  “There is no one here,” he told her. “The house has been empty for a year, and the solicitor in charge of it is at the pub down the road, awaiting our arrival.”

  “Is he that confident we will want to purchase it?”

  Vincent shrugged casually, and Cassandra looked away from his darkly handsome features, which were all the more striking now that they were on their feet, wandering together through an empty mansion, just the two of them.

  Their footsteps echoed off the high ceiling as they circled the main hall and looked up. “It’s very spacious,” Cassandra said. “Certainly bigger than I require.”

  “It is about the same size as the dower house.”

  “It has a similar charm.”

  They toured all the rooms—the cozy parlors, kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and servants’ quarters, concluding their tour in the library. Wainscoted in panels of oak, it boasted a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with volumes of books, which the previous owner had left behind.

  “What do you think?” Vincent asked, randomly choosing a book and pulling it out from the collection. He blew a cloud of dust from it before he let it fall open upon his hand and flipped through the pages.

  Cassandra took in a deep breath and let it out. “I think it is perfect, though it is more than I ever dreamed, and I shall feel very indebted to you.”

  Vincent’s dark eyes lifted, revealing an animal gaze of tempting sensuality. “We can’t have that, now, can we?”

  His deep voice seemed to touch Cassandra from clear across the room, causing a tingling sensation to settle in the pit of her stomach.

  “How far is it from London?” she asked, quickly turning away from him to prevent any further sparks of excitement, and to keep the conversation from heading into dangerous territory.

  “About two hours by coach.”

  “You would be agreeable to that?”

  “Undeniably so.” She could feel the heavy intensity of his gaze following her around the room. “I am already salivating over the idea of escaping to a quiet country setting on those days when I can no longer endure the dismal London fog and the mind-numbing society balls. Let us not even mention the monotony of my club.”

  “I always thought a gentleman’s club was his prized haven.”

  “Perhaps for some gentlemen it is, and perhaps it will be for me as well, once I am married.” He slammed the book shut with a poof of dust and slid it back into place on the shelf.

  “Do you really think your marriage will be that bad?”

  “I have no doubt.”

  She continued to stroll around the room, tilting her head to the side to read the titles of all the books. “Then why did you ever propose to her, Vincent?”

  “You’ve asked me that question before,” he replied, moving along the bookshelves, running his fingertip across the spines, “and my answer is the same. I had to marry someone to satisfy Father and keep my inheritance. Besides, she is the perfect woman for me. She is beautiful and does not fancy herself in love with me. What more can a heartless rake ask for?”

  Cassandra glanced at Vincent briefly with reproach, but felt a strange touch of understanding emerge between them—as if they were both accepting these roles they had fallen into and were now expected to play. She was the fallen lady determined to behave properly; he was the wicked rake who expected to be reprimanded for his shocking behavior.

  But then he began to elaborate…

  “I suppose, if you must know, there is something more to the story.”

  “There is?” she asked.

  “Yes—a reason why I must handle this betrothal with a certain degree of care.”

  “What is the reason?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he turned away from her and began to pace about the room. “I have already told you how my father has been behaving oddly lately—becoming aware of his mortality, throwing dangerous knickknacks at people... Well, that is because he is going mad and believes the palace is under a curse.”

  “A curse.”

  He nodded broodingly at her. “He believes Pembroke will be swept away by a flood if all four of his sons do not marry according to his plan.”

  Straightaway, Cassandra lost any lingering interest in the books. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

  “It is a family secret. Although Letitia has discovered some of it and understands that Father believes she is the cure to this putrid English weather—with the exception of today, of course.”

  “How?”

  “She has a birthmark on her left hand which he thinks looks like the sun, and she happens to hold an uncanny resemblance to the first Duchess of Pembroke.”

  “I see.”

  “The point is,” Vincent said, “the very day Letitia arrived, the rain stopped, and the sun came out, and it has been fine weather ever since. I never thought I would say it after the wettest spring this century, but I wish the skies would bloody well open up and pour buckets.”

  Cassandra took in a breath. “So that is why he has his heart set on Letitia, and why you do not feel you can disappoint him.”

  For the first time, Cassandra saw a trace of disquiet in Vincent’s eyes, as if he did care what his future held.

  “There have been moments when I have been tempted to pick up a loaded pistol and blow my bloody brains out.”

  “Oh, Vincent...” She took a step toward him.

  As quick as a flash, he held up a hand and gave her a firm look. Stay back, it warned. “If it weren’t for the fact that all three of my brothers are depending on me to do my part—and betraying a brother is not an option—I assure you I would be choosing my own future, with or without my inheritance.” His eyes turned cold. “I would not be getting married.”

  Cassandra watched him for a moment and understood his implicit message—that he did not want her to pry too deeply into his emotions. So, instead, she turned and feigned interest in the book titles again.

  “Do you think all marriages are hopeless?” she asked after a short time, speaking lightly in generalities.

  “Most of them among our set, yes,” he replied. “We do not marry for love. You know that. We marry for duty and position—or in my case, a loyalty to my brothers.”

  Cassandra faced him. “But weren’t you going to marry for love once yourself?”

  She had not intended to venture into intimate matters of the heart, but suddenly it was too late. The words were out.

  It was at that moment, however, she realized how desperately she wanted to hear him speak about it.

  His expression darkened. He moved to the desk and sat on top of it, leaning forward on the heels of his hands. “It appears that when Charlotte delivered the gowns to you last week, she delivered also a juicy account of my tragic past.”
<
br />   “Do not blame her,” Cassandra said. “I pried.”

  “Did you?” She could see that he found it difficult to swallow.

  “She told me about MaryAnn,” Cassandra explained, bringing the conversation back around to the original point. “I was sorry to hear of it.”

  “I appreciate your condolences.”

  “Is that why you wanted a written contract with me?” she asked. “Because you were betrayed once before? You did not believe you could trust me?”

  He lifted his strong chin and breathed in deeply through his nose. “I did not make that conscious connection, though I suppose I have learned to be careful in whom I trust, especially when the person in question is a woman.”

  Cassandra took a few steps closer. “I hope you know that I am not like other women, and that you can trust me. Contrary to what you must think of me after that night we spent together a year ago, I am not a careless or wanton woman.” She paused. “I am very loyal, and I feel things deeply. That woman who slept with you so casually in that hotel room...that was not really me.”

  He squinted at her, studying her eyes with interest.

  She struggled to explain herself better.

  “Just so you know,” she said, “I intend to live a respectable life with our daughter. There shall be nothing casual or careless about it. I shall never take a lover and I am deeply devoted to this new life you are giving to the both of us. I assure you that I will not run off at the first whiff of excitement. There will never be anything like that, I promise you.”

  “Yet you warned me not long ago,” he said, “that you might someday wish to marry. Believe me, I’ve known far too many women who start off with grand ideals, then get bored with their lot and take a lover behind their husband’s back. I know because I am usually playing the part of the lover.”

  Cassandra squeezed her reticule in front of her. “First of all, you are not my husband, so there is no issue of me being unfaithful to you. And second...” She spoke with passion. “Do not compare me to those women who betray their husbands. I told you I am not like that, and if I was your wife or even your fiancée, I would never even consider being unfaithful to you. I am one of those rare people who believes in the sanctity of marriage. And love.”