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Her more pressing concern was how she’d keep the duke happy long enough to collect all the benefits he offered. Because, somehow, the longer their arrangement lasted, the more likely it was she’d disappoint him.
She shook her head. That didn’t matter. This time around, she’d make a decision that benefited her, not someone else. John certainly hadn’t appreciated her sacrifices during his sickness, particularly on the days he felt the worst.
She started to undress, determined to take an afternoon repose and compose herself for dinner. She’d need her wits in order to make the proper choice for her future.
But her thoughts still swirled even as she lay in bed. Did she actually give up on the idea of getting married forever? Somehow the thought made her stomach churn despite her worries that she’d fail once again at the endeavor.
Unable to rest, she finally rose again and prepared for dinner, choosing a green gown that highlighted the color of her eyes and cinched at the natural waist to show off her curves. After her maid completed fixing her hair into an elegant coiffure that pulled back from her face in loose waves, Cassandra made her way downstairs early, wanting to compose herself before the duke’s arrival, but she found him already waiting in the sitting room when she arrived.
Her heart began to beat wildly the moment she saw him. She stopped short in the doorway, resisting the urge to turn and flee. Honestly, she just might have done it, but his eyes caught hers and he stood, never breaking contact. “Mrs. Winterset.”
“Your Grace.” She gave a stiff curtsy and then took a single step into the room. She hated the sound of her married name on his lips. It was a reminder of John, of her failures, of the situation in which she found herself.
His eyes narrowed as he moved closer, then took her elbow and led her to a high-backed chair.
The light stroke of his fingertips sent tingling sensations curling through her arm and down her body. They both stopped in front of the seat, the light pressure on her elbow increasing the slightest bit. “Have you come to any decisions?”
She gave her head a shake, frowning. What was his hurry? “Opting for a life as a mistress is difficult.”
“Why?” he asked, leaning down as though to better hear her answer.
She turned away, looking out into the darkening sky. “I suppose it changes who I am. Or at least who I thought I was.” Her hands fisted into her skirts.
He stepped away then, crossing the room and pouring not one but two glasses of wine. “How so?”
“Well.” She drew in a deep breath, slowly exhaled before speaking. “When I married my first husband I had grand illusions that—”
“Don’t tell me,” he interrupted, turning back to her with two glasses in hand. “You thought you were in love.”
“No.” She sipped her wine to stall and to gather her courage. “I thought I was a good person.”
He stopped, bringing his own glass to his lips and cocked his head to the side. Funny, when he considered things, he presented his scar rather than hiding it. “Explain.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already told you so much about myself. I know almost nothing about you.”
He leaned closer, clinking his glass against hers, before raising it in the air. “To getting to know one another better.” Then, he finally brought the glass to his own lips and took a drink.
She took another sip, too, not sure if she actually wished that or not. She tried his trick, turning her head to the side and assessing him. It actually worked. She found that he wasn’t all that scary, scar and all, but something in the way she reacted to him was frightening. The way she seemed unable to form a thought in his company. The way her pulse beat wildly and her limbs barely worked.
“What is it you wish to know? How I got the scar?” She saw him straighten, harden and she knew the question irritated him. Not that she’d asked.
“No actually, it wasn’t.” She smoothed her skirt. “But I was wondering, whenever you’r
e assessing me, you turn your head, presenting your scar. Why?”
His eyebrows shot up and a small smile played at the corners of his lips. “No one has ever thought to ask me that before.”
She took another sip of her wine. “Is that good or bad?”
“Good.” He moved closer and her eyes dropped away from his and back down to the floor. Whenever he was close, she couldn’t concentrate. “The truth is the scar disconcerts people. I get more honest answers when I present the mangled skin.”
She drew in a small breath. It was brilliant and rather intimidating. To know that his scar repulsed people and to use their revulsion as a tool to get what he wanted. It took a strong constitution to weather people’s disgust. “I’m not certain I could ever be that brave.”
He took another swallow of his wine. “It’s not bravery. It’s cunning. And I don’t give a damn what other men think of my face.”
She noted he said men. “And women? Do they find it dashing?”
She caught the flicker of a grimace before his face returned to a blank mask. “At the moment, Mrs. Winterset, I only care if you find it dashing or grotesque.”
