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“I shall take that as a compliment, Mr. DeWitt. I am glad you are beginning to be reasonable and understand that it would be a waste of your precious time toscrape me off.”
Cassandra pushed back her chair and stood. He did not stand, of course, and it would be a waste of breath to point out that a gentleman never remained seated when a lady stood. Her husband was not a pure gentleman, but a strange, hybrid creature, one of the few who could cross between the opposing worlds of gentry and commerce, thanks to a rare combination of his breeding, business acumen, and, she suspected, sheer bloody-mindedness.
Those dark, intense eyes followed her as she rounded the table toward the door. She had to pass right by him and found herself pausing at his side. The bruise on his cheek caught her eye.
“It does look like it hurts,” she said. “Although I daresay you deserved it. You are exceedingly infuriating.”
Hardly aware of what she was doing, she lightly touched her thumb to the bruise. Her fingers brushed his cheek. The scruff was surprisingly soft, and she only barely resisted the urge to stroke it. She glanced down and there was his chest, still naked, still muscular, and yes, with a smattering of dark hair. She hastily withdrew her hand and tangled her fingers in her skirts.
There was something she had to say to him, but she couldn’t think what it was.
“Are you going to kiss it better?” he said.
His tone was light and teasing and she carefully didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she concentrated on the wound. An angry purple mark, that sharp cheekbone, that hot skin, that soft stubble. She could do it. She could press her lips against his face, right there. She often gave her sisters a kiss on the cheek, and her mother too. It was easy enough. Bend down, draw closer to his heat and his energy, and press her lips…
She looked away from his cheek and accidentally met his eyes. Hot liquid brown.
He wasn’t laughing now. He wasn’t teasing anymore. His sudden seriousness vibrated through her and hummed over her skin. Suddenly she realized just how much of him there was, and how close he was. His hand was barely inches from her thigh. She would not even have to straighten her elbow if she wanted to flatten her palm on his chest.
Then—then—he stood. That is, he unfolded upward with a sinuous languor at odds with his usual swiftness. She arched back, and her bottom pressed against the arm of the neighboring chair. He made no move to touch her, but he seemed to loom; he seemed so much taller when they stood this close, and his chest so much broader when it was right before her eyes. Her skirts murmured against her legs, caressed by his robe. She became aware that her lips were parted, all the better to help her breathe, so she closed them. He glanced at her mouth, back at her eyes.
That body had lain on top of her own, their bodies had been joined—briefly, uncomfortably, but joined all the same. It seemed impossible and yet…
“I never kissed you,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t forgiven me for our wedding night.”
“As you said.” Her voice came out husky so she cleared her throat. “It’s best that way.”
“Yes. It’s best that way.”
He glanced back at her mouth, swayed slightly, then looked up and straightened away from her.
“You are highly disruptive. Camilla.”
“Then we have that in common. Jeremiah.”
She edged away from him and out the door, on knees that ought not be so weak, feeling breathless and confused and more than a little disrupted.
Chapter 5
The British Museum was laughing at her, for it turned out to be full of bare-chested, muscular men.
Cassandra hurried through the exhibition rooms, seeking her grandmother, but finding only near-naked gods and warriors. They adorned the ceiling of the entrance hall, soaring two stories above her head. They crowded the galleries, too busy flexing their marble muscles to notice they’d forgotten their breeches. They hung on the walls, etched in intricate detail, down to the last fascinatingly male curve and ridge.
She was staring at one such sketch—a muscular Saint Sebastian, naked but for a loincloth and pierced with arrows—when a clerk approached to offer his help.
As the clerk had considerately kept his clothes on, Cassandra was able to tell him that she sought the Duchess of Sherbourne. Fortunately, the duchess did not pass anywhere unnoticed, and he escorted Cassandra up a broad staircase lined with ornate wrought-iron rails and through a series of galleries housing antiquities and natural curiosities, before leaving her in a room overlooking the gardens, brightly lit thanks to a row of huge, arched windows.
In the room were a dozen or so large wooden crates, each as high as her elbows, their tops pried off and packing straw spilling out onto the floor. Her grandmother stood by one wall, surveying the space.
“There you are, Cassandra, my dear.” The duchess waved her over. “Do come look at these.”
The duchess, the same height as Cassandra but slimmer, wore a stylish olive-green gown with a matching turban over her thick white curls, fastened with a large circular silver pin. Her green eyes were bright and her face, lined in only the most dignified of ways, was alert.
“You’re looking well, Grandmother,” Cassandra said with a bob.
“So are you, my dear.” Her grandmother favored Cassandra’s russet morning gown with an approving nod. “You have more of your father in you than I recalled. I’m glad you could meet me here. Sir Arthur is planning the layout of his exhibition and he particularly asked for my advice. Are you familiar with the work of Sir Arthur Kenyon? He is a leader in his field.” She stroked her chalcedony necklace, smiled, and stepped toward the nearest wooden crate. “Come. You will be astonished by this.”
Cassandra most certainly would be astonished. She would be whatever her grandmother wanted her to be, if it helped Lucy.
