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She said, her tone strangely unreadable, “You mean that you have, that is to say, there have been many other ladies?”
He stretched onto his back and pulled her languid body against his side. Her directness and candor amused him. Surely, even in her innocence, she must realize that he had not spent his adult years as a celibate. He grinned at her, pushing back a cloud of hair from her face. “It is not at all important,” he said, and surprisingly, she sighed and nestled her cheek against his shoulder.
He felt her fingers lightly stroke his chest and down his belly. Her lips touched his shoulder and her tongue gently caressed his skin. He felt himself respond to her, delighted that she wanted him and was not embarrassed to show him.
“You are an enchantress, Cassandra,” he said. He entered her slowly, easily, for she was moist and ready for him. He pressed his hand against her hips, pushing himself more deeply into her. He watched her eyes slowly grow dark and smoky, and controlled himself, until finally she moaned into his mouth and pounded his back with her fists.
They lay quietly together, so close that each could feel the other’s heartbeat. He gently kissed her closed eyelids.
“I love you, cara,” he said softly, “and I want you and need you. I know that it is difficult for you to trust me and give yourself over to me. Believe me, I did not want to hurt you, but I could not let you wed another man. I had to take you away, give you the chance to come to care for me as I do you. I would that you cease thinking of me as a cruel, ruthless villain. I want your happiness, cara, and I w
ant you to be my wife, my partner, my lover.”
His gentle words, spoken without arrogance or demanding, touched her deeply. She sensed for the first time his vulnerability. For a brief instant, she wanted to respond to him. She struggled to understand herself. Was her passion so powerful a force that she was willing to forgive him all that he had done to her? Slowly, regretfully, she shook her head against his cheek.
“If you truly want my happiness, my lord, then you must grant me a very simple request.”
His dark eyes narrowed on her face, but his voice remained soft. “Yes, my love?”
“Allow me to write to Eliott and to Becky.”
“And to Edward Lyndhurst?”
She felt his pain through the sudden harshness in his voice.
“Yes.”
“The answer is no, Cassandra.”
She pulled away from him. “I do not understand. Why, my lord? Are you afraid that Edward will come here and take me away from you?”
“I must admit that it would be awkward for him to arrive unannounced in Genoa,” he said calmly, his voice now devoid of gentleness.
“At least let me tell them that I am alive. If you insist upon it, my whereabouts will remain unknown.”
He sighed deeply. “The answer is still no. You will write your letter only after you are safely wedded to me and are the Countess of Clare. I will not have Edward Lyndhurst searching Europe for his lost love when she will never be his. It would be needlessly cruel.”
“Cruel? You think it less cruel that he believes me dead?”
“Yes, for he must forget you. When he finally hears that you have wed me, the result will be the same. You will no longer be a part of his life.”
Cassie sat up, pulling the covers over her breasts. “How can you profess caring for me when you will allow me no freedom? If you want me to be happy, then give me choices. Let me go. I cannot and I will not surrender to you.” She shook her fist at him. “You think it your God-given right to possess me, to add me to your worldly possessions as you would a house or a carriage! I will tell you, my lord, I belong to myself and never, do you hear, never will I let myself become a chattel.”
“I said nothing of chattel, Cassandra,” the earl said, growing anger breaking the calm impassiveness of his voice.
“Then let me go. To the world, I am naught but your current mistress, worthy only to be slighted. Your precious half-brother doubtless believes me the loosest of women, a harlot, a slut. Perhaps Italian ladies cower at your masculine arrogance and are seduced when you coat your words with honey. But I am not.”
“You are tangling yourself in an argument that makes no sense. I do not want to own you. I want to cherish you, to love you.”
“Ha.”
“You are being unreasonable, Cassandra.”
She sucked in her breath, so furious that she wanted to strike him. But she held in her anger and said in a cold, taunting voice, “You have told me, my lord, that I do not have a harlot’s instincts. Therefore I must assume that your only claim to me is your talent in the bedroom. If I have wish to please myself with your body, I shall so inform you.”
“Ah,” he said, his voice so smooth that she was momentarily taken off her guard, “I believe that I shall have to write a letter to Edward Lyndhurst, congratulating him on his good fortune. To have leg-shackled himself to a shrew like you would likely have sent him back into the army, that is if you would have allowed him the breeches to wear to make good his escape.”
“You are despicable.”
