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But none of that was thepoint.
Another voice outside the door: Filby. Good: The butler would not let Joshua be disturbed when he was thinking. Samuel used to sneak in, though; he’d snuggle up beside him, his dark little head pillowed on Joshua’s arm. Sometimes he could still feel the pressure of that head, as though even his muscles remembered the boy.
But it seemed that even Filby could not withstand Cassandra’s amiable invasion.
The door opened. A moment later, it clicked shut. Without looking, Joshua knew he was no longer alone.
He slitted his eyes open, took one look at the invader—as fresh as one of her roses in a pink-striped gown—and closed them again.
“Mr. DeWitt, we must talk.”
“Go away. I’m busy.”
“You are lying on the settee doing nothing.”
“I never do nothing. I don’t know how to do nothing. I’m a man on whom the art of doing nothing is entirely lost.”
He kept his eyes closed, but he felt her presence, stirring the air.
“And why must you persist in this state of undress?” she said.
“Undress? I’m wearing a shirt, aren’t I?”
He checked with one hand. Yes. He was wearing a shirt under his banyan. He opened his eyes, caught Cassandra watching his hand on his chest. Then she saw him watching her watching him, and hurriedly began rearranging the bunch of flowers, although they seemed adequately arranged to him. A faint blush rose in her cheeks, cheeks likely as soft as those petals she was fondling.
“But your cravat,” she said, with a sideways glance.
“Don’t like it. It restricts my movement.”
“Your coat.”
“Too tight. It restricts my movement.”
She threw up her hands, which did interesting things to her bosom. “Heaven knows why you’re so preoccupied with movement. You’re not moving!”
In a single bound, he was on his feet. He arranged his banyan over his shoulders then glanced at her slyly, and yes, aha, caught her looking at him again. She was an unwelcome interruption, but at least she was an entertaining one.
He sauntered to her side, reached past her to fish some candied lemon from a bowl, and leaned one hip on the desk. As he chewed, she pulled a white flower out a few inches, turned it a few degrees, then pushed it back in one inch.
“What is the point of all these flowers anyway?” he said.
Her hands continued to move over the flowers, brisk, confident, competent. Whatever she was doing, the arrangement somehow became more harmonious. Clever, that. Pointless, but clever.
“Fresh flowers are pleasant.”
“They’re inefficient.” He paced away from those devilishly competent hands. “You cut them, put them in a vase, and then they die.”
“Everything dies. We cannot avoid loss, but we can compensate with pleasure and joy.”
“Pleasure and joy?” He swung around. “Did you come here to philosophize at me? If I wanted philosophy, I would consult the works of someone more…” He sought the right word. “Dead.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“How long do you mean to plague me anyway? Newell says your efforts with the duchess failed.”
“She merely feels neglected by her family. She’ll change her mind.”
“If the bloody woman doesn’t want you, sod her. You have friends,” he rushed on, before she could chide him for his language. “You’re out at all hours and I can’t take two steps without someone telling me how charming Mrs. DeWitt is, how agreeable, how amiable, how we must attend this tedious dinner or that ridiculous ball. Get some friend to dispose of Lucy for you.” He paced over to the fireplace and back, the room smaller than usual today. “How about the woman you were with the other day—the tall, terrifying one?”
