Cassandra spent arather fretful night, at once willing herself to sleep and getting up and lighting a candle. She would gaze out the window at nothing but the flickering of a nearby streetlamp valiantly doing battle with the darkness. Seeing nothing, she would blow out the candle and attempt sleep again.
After Lady Blakeley had claimed Lord Hampton heartsick and Lord Burke told her of the rumors of his affections, it had been impossible not to think of it. She’d spent the remainder of the dinner with her thoughts in two places at once—both attending to the people around her and considering Lord Hampton.
Alone in her bedchamber, she had no need to attend to anybody and was left to herself. Lord Hampton remained still two gentlemen before her, the one who had nearly ruined her and the handsome and educated man that had existed so pleasantly in her imagination.
Cassandra knew she ought to cease examining her confused feelings, as it would only lead to more confusion. She ought to dismiss him forevermore. Were there not a hundred pleasant gentlemen in town? Might she not meet and marry one who had never caused her harm?
Of course she must. Not this season, but perhaps the next. At the end of this season she would return to Surrey and fire off her guns at her leisure and she would not care who said what about it. She would demand of herself that she stop brooding and wondering. She would compel herself to be happy again. She would take herself back to the time before she’d come to town. Life had been simple and enjoyable before she’d ever heard of the dukes’ pact.
At breakfast, Cassandra had felt it her duty to inform the dowager that her grandson had briefly made an appearance at the Blakeley’s dinner. She said it, including all she had said to the lord, as quickly as possible and then waited uncomfortably to see how the dowager would react to it. The lady had been so kind to her, but Cassandra’s disdain of her grandson must wear thin.
Much to her surprise, the dowager had laughed. “I could have told Lady Blakeley it was too soon,” she said.
Amidst Cassandra’s consternation over the idea that time alone was to patch it all up, she said, “I must be honest, and I hope I do not offend, but I do not think time will heal this particular wound. In deference to you, I wish I could claim otherwise.”
“Time? No, I would not think so,” the dowager said. “Rather, it is penance. I cannot claim to know what would be enough to appease your well-earned anger but did not think the prince’s footmen gambit would quite suffice. Though, it was most amusing to see. As for my grandson ambushing you in Lady Blakeley’s drawing room, that was doomed to fail.”
Cassandra did not answer, as she did not have a satisfactory answer. She could not imagine what penance the lord might do that she would deem sufficient. What could he possibly say or do that would wipe clean the anger and hurt that still roiled inside her?
“You are not to worry over it, my dear,” the dowager said. “My grandson has dug himself a deep hole and we will just see if he can crawl out of it. You should only think of enjoying yourself while he attempts to scramble up the sides of this ridiculous pit of his own making.”
Cassandra could not say that her feelings were any more clear than they had been through a sleepless night, but she could at least be soothed by the dowager’s views. The lady was stalwart in her defense of Miss Knightsbridge, though it must cost her dearly to throw down her own blood in such a manner.
After breakfast, they had made their way to the drawing room and settled down to Racine’s considerate rounds of service. They were never to be without cakes or biscuits. George was delighted, May was hopeful, and the two dogs divided their time between lurking round the tea tray, lounging on the far sofa, and racing to the windows at the slightest provocation. Should they hear the front doors being opened, they rushed headlong to the drawing room door to greet the unwary arrival.
Sybil was the first of those visitors to arrive, though she was not quite as unwary as anybody else. She had spent so much time in the house that she was quite good friends with George and May and happily allowed them to escort her into the room.
As she entered, Cassandra noted she carried a bouquet of flowers.
After curtsying to the dowager, Sybil said, “These were left on your doorstep, Lady Marksworth. They are addressed to Cassandra.”
“Heavens,” Lady Marksworth said. “Now we are to be pummeled by posies. I would not be surprised if it contains yet another invitation.”
Cassandra colored. She had grown tired of being celebrated and wished thetonwould turn their faces to another subject. Worse, the flowers were red roses. There really was no need for such strong feelings—she had been lied about, now the truth was known. That was all and that must be sufficient.
“I suppose,” Lady Marksworth said, “that as a responsible guardian I ought to read the card. Though, no girl should be more trusted to manage such a thing than Cassandra.”
Sybil handed Lady Marksworth the card and crossed the room to sit by Cassandra.
Cassandra pretended indifference while her aunt unfolded the note. She could not, however, maintain her indifference in the face of Lady Marksworth’s expression upon reading it.
“I see,” she said softly, handing the note to the dowager.
The dowager glanced at it and smiled. “It is from my grandson, and not overly worded. It only says: ‘I am sorry.’ As he should be, mightily.”
Cassandra shrugged, as if she could not care one way or the other. She was in some part relieved that nobody mentioned the color of the roses. Did he really mean to press his suit? Why could not he go away, at least for a while, and allow her feelings to settle?
“Will you walk with me to the window?” Sybil asked her.
Everybody in the room, including Cassandra, knew the request for what it was. A simple escape so that the two young friends might have a private talk together. Lady Marksworth and the dowager pretended ignorance and Cassandra’s aunt helpfully began asking the dowager about various investments she had heard spoken of.
Cassandra rose and locked arms with Sybil as they casually made their way to the windows. Only George and May appeared to be the slightest interested in their progress.
Once they had put a distance between themselves and Lady Marksworth and the dowager, Sybil said softly, “I would have you look across the road.”
Cassandra pulled back the curtain and peered out.
Aside from the usual comings and goings on the street, there was one remarkable sight—Lord Hampton sat on Lord Dalton’s stoop like any street boy might have done when needing a rest.
