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That wicked, teasing smile still affected her. She fought her own smile and curled her fingers around her fan so she would not throttle him, for his cravat was tied too exquisitely to mangle. He was freshly shaven, and oh, how she longed to rub her cheek against his and inhale his spicy scent. The earring was gone, and finally, finally, he had submitted to a haircut, fashionable and flattering.
“You clean up nicely,” she said.
“I aim to please.”
“You do nothing of the sort.”
Yet he did please her, looking so dynamic and handsome and strong.
Looking so…impeccable.
I trust that getting rid of me will be all the inducement you need to behave, she had said during their quarrel.
Getting rid of you is all I want. My behavior will be impeccable.
She swallowed her hurt—who knew victory could hurt?—while something like confusion crossed his face. She was grateful when the footman brought her evening cloak, as it gave her a reason to hide. But it was Joshua who settled the velvet cloak over her shoulders, his hands lingering. Joshua who fastened the clasp at her throat. His knuckles brushed her skin, and she held her breath and studied the full lips she was no longer allowed to kiss.
When he glanced up, everything stopped. She drowned in the hot coffee of his eyes, his mouth so close their breaths mingled, his chest barely inches from her own. The candlelight flickered and she fancied he looked puzzled, lost, seeking. Hope speared her reeling heart.
Then he whirled away, snatched up his gloves, and resumed flicking them against his thigh.
“Is this ball meant to be tonight?” he said. “Or will they move it to tomorrow so our Miss Lucy can get there in time?”
Cassandra smoothed out her cloak and her tangled thoughts. “She is waiting to make an entrance.” She sighed. “It would have been better had she dressed at Grandmother’s house, but the duchess has not quite forgiven me.”
Then skittering footsteps sounded above and Emily came racing down the stairs, her face bright with excitement.
“She’s coming, she’s coming!” she cried, and turned at the bottom of the stairs to look up. Staff members clustered around, and Mr. Newell and Isaac too, all watching the staircase. Everyone liked Lucy, for she was agreeable to everyone but Cassandra.
When Lucy appeared on the landing and paused for effect, basking in the hushed admiration from below, Cassandra forgot all of it. She forgot their fights, their resentment, their pain, their loss. She saw only her beloved little sister, radiant in her white ballgown, pearls in her glossy dark hair and a blissful smile curving her lips. Lucy, alive with spirit and wit, floating down the stairs, advancing relentlessly toward her new life without them.
Cassandra tried to etch every detail on her memory; she did not know when she would see Lucy again after tonight. She pressed her lips together against the tears and hoped, prayed, that tonight marked the start of Lucy finding happiness again.
“She’s so beautiful,” she whispered. She glanced at Joshua, but he was looking at her, not Lucy. She released a high, shaky laugh and did not know why. “Society will be astonished.”
“Society will never recover.”
He sidled closer, until his chest almost brushed her shoulder and his legs teased her skirts. His closeness slid under her skin, swirled through her body, heating her with need for his touch. His warmth, his scent, enveloped her, and her gown felt so tight it was a wonder she could breathe.
“You’rebeautiful,” he murmured. The caress of his breath sent shivers down her spine. She thought his hand brushed her hip but she could not be sure.
Nearby, the servants and Emily fussed about with Lucy, bringing her cloak and gloves and fan like she was a princess. Cassandra turned her head, caught a glimpse of Joshua over her shoulder, and fought a peculiar urge to weep. They were only words, uttered easily and too late. He was being kind—his kindness was one of the things she loved about him—but kindness was not what she wanted from him now.
“You’ve never complimented me before,” she managed to say.
“What?” He sounded indignant. Acting. Playing. Teasing her again. “Surely I’ve blathered some nonsense about your hair or your gown or your eyes.”
She half-turned, calmer now they stood on familiar ground. “You probably don’t even know what color my eyes are.”
“Of course I don’t,” he admitted cheerfully.
Yes, back on familiar ground, and no reason to be disappointed. Such a silly thing to care about. As if her eye color mattered at all!
“Your eyes are impossible,” he explained. “They can be greenish, or brownish, or greenish-brown, or brownish-green. In the sunlight, they even seem golden. When you weep, they turn green. When you are lustful, they turn brown. When you laugh, they get lighter. When you are angry, they get darker. So how in blazes am I supposed to know what color your eyes are when they keep changing all the time?”
Oh. Oh. The familiar ground disappeared again and there was nothing under her feet, and all she could think to say was, “You noticed.”
In the silence, his own eyes were heavy and shadowed. She could not guess what he was thinking and lacked the courage to ask.
