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“I do not care if you bed every woman in England, France, and China.”
“Cassandra, I swear I never—”
“Good night, Mr. DeWitt. Mr. Das.”
She swept up the stairs and out of sight.
“You hear that, Das?” Joshua stared at the empty stairs, wondering that they weren’t covered in frost. “She does not care. Not a whit, or a jot, or one iota.”
“Ah…I’m going home now,” Das said.
Joshua was still staring at the stairs and hardly heard him leave.
* * *
Alone in her bedchamber,Cassandra turned and turned on the rug, her nightcap a twisted, rumpled mess in her hands. She had prepared for bed and sent away her maid, because she hadn’t known what else to do. But it was too early to sleep, and her hands shook too much to sew, and her brain was too addled to read.
If only she were at Sunne Park now. In these hours after dinner, they’d all be in the drawing room. She and Lucy and Emily might act out one of Emily’s plays, perhaps the one where Romeo and Ophelia eloped to the Forest of Arden. Or they would play games, like Musical Magic or Ribbons, and Lucy would insist upon the most dreadful forfeits. Or perhaps they would sing, try out the harmonies on a new song, and Mama would join in, and Mr. Twit would leap onto the pianoforte and stomp on the keys until he got a cuddle.
She didn’t care. She did not care.
The bed loomed in the corner of her eye. Joshua had lain there, and talked about his childhood. He’d laughed at her sleepwear and teased her mercilessly and cradled her face, and the whole time, he’d known that—
The fiend!
Cassandra flung aside the nightcap. She tore out of her room and down the stairs, and burst into his study.
The fiend sat by the fire, unusually still, so she made sure to slam the door. And what did he do but turn his head, raise his brows insolently, and lounge back in his chair.
A gentleman does not stay seated when a lady is standing, she could tell him, but why bother? A gentleman did not leave his coat and cravat lying around on the furniture. A gentleman did not curse in front of ladies. A gentleman did not bed the woman who had eloped with his wife’s former betrothed.
The rising of her blood threatened to unlock her tongue. No: She was not one for dramatics or theatrics, tantrums or tirades. Her sisters were the lively, passionate ones. Cassandra was calm, sensible, practical.
She would be calm and sensible tonight.
“You will explain,” she said, uttering each syllable with exaggerated clarity.
“You said you don’t care.”
“I would not care if you bedded half the women in the world, while the other half watched.” Her voice rose. She took a shaking breath. Calm. Sensible. “But why her? Whyher?”
He stretched out his long legs in front of him and crossed his ankles, the fire reflected in the gloss of his boots. How dare he be so leisurely? How dare he lie with that woman?
Harry, my sweet…Your husband’s excesses…We must not speak of Mr. DeWitt…
“Why so bothered, madam?” he said. “Because of your precious reputation? Or because you’re still in love with Bolderwood?”
“Because she stole my life! I was going to have a real husband. Children. But she got that, and I gotyou!”
In a single movement, he stood. Loomed. Good: That would make it easier for her to kick him in the—the—the bollocks, and then he’d think twice before getting them out again.
“Has it occurred to you,” he started, but she could not listen.
She advanced on strangely trembling limbs, her tormented mind filled with images of him kissingPhyllis, pressing his beautiful lips toPhyllis’spoisonous mouth, and the rushing in her veins surged into her head and took control of her tongue.
“I had to stand there last night, and smile politely, while she made snide comments about how I only married you for your money—”
“She what?”
