“You have spent two years telling me you hate her.”
“I was wrong. Hate is a strong word.”
“Cassian.”
“Yes.”
“Are you well?”
“I have not slept. I am otherwise quite well. I am hosting a small dinner this evening to celebrate the betrothal, and I would be most obliged if you attend, both of you. You may bring whomever you like.”
Cassian briefly looked at Matthew, only to find the man watching him.
Matthew was always watching him. Since the year Cassian had inherited, he had been watching him as if he were waiting for him to be a person again. This morning, Cassian was not certain whether Matthew thought the moment had arrived.
“My boy,” Matthew said.
“Yes?”
“This is sudden.”
“It is.”
“And the lady?”
“The lady is—” Cassian paused.
With his sister in the carriage, he had given an honest answer. With her, he had been able to say the thing aloud. But at Threadgill’s, with Richard’s fist still raised in front of his face and his father figure looking at him from the bench, he could not say it again.
“I thought you had no interest in such things,” Richard said, more gently.
“I thought the same.”
“But…?”
“She is different.”
“Different how?”
“Richard.”
“Different how, Cassian? I will come over for dinner this evening. I should like to know what to expect.”
Cassian let his guard down at last.
“Different in that,” he said carefully, “it is not a love match. She knows as well as I do that it is a good one. You will see for yourself this evening. Eight o’clock. Langton House. Bring an appetite. Joanna has spent the entire morning instructing the cook.”
“I shall come,” Richard said, “purely for the entertainment of watching you survive it.”
“That is acceptable.” Cassian then turned to the Viscount. “Matthew.”
“I shall come,” the older man assured. “I shall come gladly. I shall observe, and I shall report my findings.”
Cassian eyed him. “Your findings?”
“On any matter that interests me.”
“Matthew.”
