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“What’s more,” she went on, breaking into her cake, “I have recovered from the shock of meeting my husband, and I am reconciled to the fact that he is dreadful. For better or for worse, after all.” She ate a chunk of cake and considered the vows she had naively made. “Those are cunning vows, really,” she added. “It sounds lovely if you don’t think about it too hard, but what they’re really saying is: Too late! No complaining now!”
Mr. Newell removed his spectacles, wiped them, then put them back on. “I fear Mr. DeWitt has ordered arrangements made for you to return home.”
“Cancel them. We can both stay here. For my part, I shall not even notice him.”
That sounded very sensible, and Cassandra would have been proud of herself, except that Mr. DeWitt chose that moment to enter, yawning, wiping a hand over his eyes, and generally making a mockery of her bold statement.
For she could not fail to notice him.
To notice, particularly, his state of undress.
He looked as though he had barely stumbled out of bed and down the stairs. His dark hair tumbled over his forehead, the stubble had grown into scruff, and a fresh purple bruise on one cheekbone suggested that his night had been rather more eventful than her own.
But worst of all: He had neglected to put on any clothes other than breeches and a loose-fitting wine-red banyan. That in itself might not have been horrific, except that the silk dressing gown whirled open around him, revealing an expanse of male chest. Very naked male chest.
“Oh dear, Mr. DeWitt,” she said, staring in helpless fascination. “You forgot to get dressed.”
Her husband stopped short, frowned those dark brows, and tilted his head as though trying to work out who she was. Then he rubbed both hands vigorously through his already disheveled hair. When he lifted his arms like that, the banyan fell back further and the muscles in his chest and abdomen shifted.
Good heavens.
He glared at her. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he muttered nonsensically. “Well, of course you bloody well would.”
“Please, Mr. DeWitt. Your language.”
“If you don’t like my language, don’t sit at my breakfast table looking all…” He waved his hand at her in disgust. “Fresh and friendly and innocent as if you are unaware that you have thrown out my entire schedule.”
“Yourentire scheduleinvolved you going to Liverpool, and even now you are not keeping to your own breakfast routine. In a house this size, we should be able to go days without seeing each other, with a little cooperation.”
“Stop being so bloody reasonable,” he grumbled. “Can’t stand it when people go around being reasonable before I’ve had my coffee.”
With another yawn, he tumbled into the chair across from her. She kept her eyes firmly on his face, but the memory of his naked chest danced in her mind. She thought it bore a smattering of dark hair. She thought it reminiscent of the gods and warriors in paintings.
She thought she had better not look again.
“Mr. DeWitt—”
He made a long rumbling sound. “Coffee before conversation.”
As the footman poured his coffee from a silver pot, Mr. DeWitt stared at the cup with such fierce intent one might think he were filling it himself through the power of his will. The moment the cup was full, the aroma pervading the room, he wrapped both hands around it, sipped, and sighed, his eyes closed, his expression stirringly ecstatic.
That coffee so dark and hot…It reminded her of something. Then his eyes snapped open. He looked right at her.
Oh yes. That was what the coffee reminded her of. His eyes.
“Go home,” he said. “If I’m running behind schedule today, it’s your fault for making me stay out late last night.”
“You amaze me, sir!” She spluttered with laughter despite herself. “It cannot possibly be my fault. By the look of you, perhaps the blame lies with drink.”
“Perhaps you drove me to drink.”
“Mr. DeWitt never drinks,” Mr. Newell chimed in, and Cassandra started, for she had quite forgotten he was there.
Mr. DeWitt whipped his head around and scowled at the secretary, then he returned his attention to his coffee and took a hefty swallow. “Newell, you’re fired.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Newell popped a forkful of ham into his mouth.
“Mr. Newell, you are not fired,” Cassandra said. “You can’t fire him. He’smysecretary.”
