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“Of course. We shall do whatever you wish.”
She placed the damp washcloth atop the commode and walked slowly to the bed, not looking at him. He held the cover back and she slipped in, pulling it down over her and clutching it to her throat.
She lay on her back, her eyes fastened on the cabin ceiling.
He was on his side facing her, his head propped up on his hand. “You slept well?”
Her wayward breathing calmed, for he had made no move to touch her. She replied honestly, without thinking, “Yes, very well.”
“Excellent. I will not remind you of the reason.” The teasing went out of his voice as he continued easily, “Don’t be afraid of me, Cassandra. I will keep my word.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
“I know. Now you have only to be afraid of yourself.”
She choked, hating him for so easily guessing her thoughts. She compressed her lips into a tight line and turned her face away.
“I told you last night that you had betrayed no one. It is true, you know.”
“That is a lie.” She turned back to face him, surprised at the desolate calmness of her thoughts and voice. She drew a deep, steadying breath. “But it will not happen again. I will not allow myself to feel such things again.”
“One cannot control passion, Cassandra. It is a mighty force, one that cannot be denied. It simply happens between some people.”
But I felt passion for Edward. But even as she thought it, she could not be certain. She had felt curiosity, to be sure; she had never doubted that the strength of her love for him would allow them to share physical pleasure.
He saw her confusion, and her pain, and sought for soothing words to help her. He was taken aback when she said suddenly, her voice deadly calm, “My mother. Did you feel such passion for her?”
“I never made love to your mother. As I told you yesterday, I was but a lad at the time, though as you can imagine, I dwelt with a boys’s fervent imagination on what the experience would be like.”
“Did she desire you?”
Constance. It had been such a long time since he had thought of her in that way. So many years. If Cassandra did not so closely resemble her, her face would have become but a blurred image in his mind long ago.
“I cannot be certain. The years blunt the edges of every memory.” He paused a moment and gazed closely at Constance’s daughter. The physical similarities to his mind were all that they shared. He saw that she was waiting for him to reply, her eyes almost accusing on his face. He said deliberately, “Even though I was quite young at the time, I can remembe
r thinking that your mother feared anything that she did not understand. That is why, I believe, she married your father, a man who cared little for people, a man who was most content contemplating his possessions. She was but another possession, one to be prized and cherished, to be sure, but nonetheless a possession.”
She interrupted him, her teeth clenching. “You speak with such certainty about my family. Could you possibly know more of my father’s character than did I?”
“You regarded him through a child’s eyes, Cassandra. I know that you suffered because you sensed his indifference to you, but so did Eliott. At least he treated you no differently because you were a female.”
She was silent. What he said was true, but it pained her too much to admit it. “We were speaking of my mother and your love for her.”
“No,” he corrected gently, “you asked me if she felt passion for me. You are unearthing old memories. In all honesty, no, I do not believe that she did. She was always afraid, not of herself, but of society and what her friends would think if they believed her to be indulging in such a liaison.”
“If she had been your . . . lover, and if she had been afraid of herself, felt that she was betraying my father, had told you that she hated you, would you have released her?”
He smiled at her ruefully. “You are like an agile spider, weaving her web. I was younger than you at the time, Cassandra. For many years I believed that all women, all women with incredible beauty that is, were like Constance: vain, without character, save when it achieved their desires, and spineless. And, because she did as she was bid, and wed your father, she sealed her own fate. She used me, a boy who adored her, worshiped her, to bolster her image of herself as a desirable woman. Your father, she admitted to me once, was not a sensual man.” He stopped abruptly, sensing her bewilderment.
“I will always hate you.”
“And I, my dear, have enough love for the both of us.”
She turned on him, rising up on her elbows, unaware that the cover dropped below her breasts. “It is ridiculous, my lord. You cannot love me. If I have my mother’s face, I cannot help it. To love someone simply because she looks like someone else—it makes no sense.”
He kept his eyes resolutely upon her face. “I suppose that I cannot expect you to have given me your full attention our first afternoon together. I told you then and I will repeat it—the fact that you resemble your mother merely pleases me, for she was a beautiful woman. All else about you is unique. It is you I love, Cassandra, no one else. When I saw you at seventeen I was more sure about my feelings for you than anything in my life.” A sudden, rueful smile lit his eyes. “If you would know the truth, I had thought that I was beyond the age of romantic attachment, and it came as quite a shock to me, I assure you. I remember—it was not above a year ago—a dinner and ball at Belford House. At seventeen, it was your first excursion into society. You were so unlike the other girls of your age. Do you not remember dancing with me and in the most candid manner imaginable telling me that you were having a marvelous time but that your slippers were pinching your feet?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, and you offered to lift me in your arms so I would not have to walk.”
