Page 3 of The Lady's Last Mistake
Drat! Cassie dumped the remainder of her champagne, along with the empty glass, into the potted palm. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said to the two women and then darted away, behind a few throngs of guests, toward the ballroom exit.
“Coward,” she heard Jane say as she went. Perhaps she was. But she’d rather drown herself in a bowl of punch than endure a bland and meaningless conversation with one of Michael’s potential suitors. Eventually, Mr. Hunt would take the hint and give up, just as all the others had done. There was no need to draw things out.
Cassie reached the ballroom doors and entered Lady Dutton’s entrance hall. It wasn’t the first time she’d been to the dowager’s home, but she’d never been beyond the ground floor and main ballroom. A few ladies were coming down the stairs, no doubt returning from the withdrawing room.There, they could have their maids refresh their hair or mend a torn stocking or use thebourdalouebehind a privacy screen. A glance over her shoulder showed Mr. Hunt craning his neck above the sea of guests. His eyes found her. With a jolt, she raced for the stairs.
Cassie reached the first level just as Mr. Hunt exited the ballroom. She turned left, down a darkened hall rather than the well-lit one to the right. This hall, she hoped, would lead to a servant’s staircase that would take her back down to the ground floor and ultimately, to the ballroom. Once there, she could say her goodbyes to Marianna and Jane and then have a footman call for her carriage.
However, she reached the end of the darkened hall and let out a groan. No stairwell. No withdrawing room. Just several closed doors. She’d have to go back the way she came.
She turned—and went still. Mr. Hunt had reached the top of the stairs. He glanced left, then right, and hesitated on which direction to take. Panicked, Cassie grabbed the glass knob on the door closest to her and twisted. She hurried into a room and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, her heart thrashing. She exhaled, though her anger began to simmer. How dare he follow her upstairs? Surely, he knew how improper it was. Unless…he wished to corner her. Entrap her and force a wedding. She did, after all, possess a substantial dowry. The income from it would be enough for any gentleman of the peerage to live quite well on.
She pressed her ear to the door and listened. No footsteps came. Only the clearing of a throat behind her.
“This is me announcing myself, as I have been told a gentleman should.”
The deep voice raked over her back, setting her scalp totingling. Cassie turned, and her stomach dropped at the sight of Lord Thornton, seated in a chair. A woman stood in front of him, her foot propped on his thigh, the hem of her gown lifted to her knee.
Lord Thornton smirked. “Aren’t ladies taught to knock first before barging in?”
Chapter
Two
Grant ran the pad of his thumb over Lady Brookfield’s inner thigh and frowned. The mole she had professed concern for while they’d been in the ballroom was nothing more than a small dot on her lily-white skin. The widow barely suppressed a mewl of delight as he sat back in the chair, took in the view, and realized what she really wanted.
“There is nothing wrong with this mole, Lady Brookfield,” he said as she continued to stand before him, her foot propped on his knee. The hem of her ballgown was raised above her garter.
Though nearly ten years his senior, Lady Brookfield was beautiful and shapely, and if he was at all in the mood for a rendezvous, he might have been tempted. But he was not. He didn’t want to be at this ball, let alone in this bedchamber’s sitting room. The only reason he’d accepted Lady Dutton’s invitation was to get his father off his back. The man had been insufferable as of late, and earlier that evening, he’d made things infinitely worse. The command for Grant tofind a woman to marry still echoed in his head. That he’d already been married once did not signify to the marquess. Nor did Grant’s vow to never remarry.
The marquess wanted a grandson, who would keep the title in the immediate family. So far, none of Grant’s three older brothers had produced anything but girls, and his younger sister, though married three years now, had not been able to conceive.
Lady Brookfield rolled her ankle, tugging his trousers and yanking his mind away from his current troubles. “Are you quite sure you shouldn’t take a closer look?” she said, drawing the hem up another inch.
On some level, he’d known she’d only been trying to get him alone in a room, far away from the crush. Newly out of mourning, the rumors at the clubs were that she was making up for lost time. As Grant’s reputation savored strongly of loose morality, he was an obvious choice. He didn’t always care to curb the assumptions people made regarding his character, as it both nettled his tyrant of a fatherandkept young debutantes and their mothers from looking his way during the Season. Safer for everyone, all around. However, his libertine status often caused him more annoyance than it did pleasure.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I can see everything just fine as you are, my lady, and you are not the owner of a potentially cancerous mole.”
She pouted, the little moue an implicit invitation. He swallowed a sigh. Sometimes his reputation was more trouble than it was worth.
At the sound of the sitting room door opening, Lady Brookfield’s foot, awkwardly massaging his thigh, went still.Grant looked to see who’d joined them. This was the very reason he did noteverdally with debutantes. Getting caught in a dark room with one of them would lead to a date at the altar, whereas getting caught with a widow would only lead to a roll of the eyes and perhaps a scowl of distaste—both of which the intruder who now pressed her ear against the door, unaware she’d entered an occupied room, would certainly do when she saw him.
Grant cleared his throat. “This is me announcing myself, as I have been told a gentleman should.”
Lady Cassandra Sinclair’s back went rigid. The last time he’d seen her, she’d chastised him for his failure to reveal himself inside the morning room at Hugh Marsden’s home. Not that Grant had been given the chance to so much as part his lips before she’d rushed into the room and burst into wretched sobs. He’d deliberated staying silent and letting her cry. She might have left quickly after her tears dried up. But he’d been too concerned with why she was crying to trick her.
Now, she turned slowly, eyes wide, and saw him in the chair with Lady Brookfield’s leg still on full display. Cassie’s lips parted in shock, then slammed together again as the scowl he’d predicted emerged.
The widow lowered her hem, and to Grant’s relief, withdrew her foot. She smoothed her skirt and fiddled with tendrils of curls framing her face as she cut a hasty path toward Cassie and the door.
“Wait.” Cassie held out her hands. She placed her ear against the door again, and after a moment, she stepped aside. Tucking her chin, she looked at Lady Brookfield with meaning. “You haven’t seen me, and I haven’t seen you. Yes?”
Lady Brookfield gave a small bow of her head. “Agreed,my lady.” She then whipped out of the room. Cassie closed the door and locked it behind her.
Grant stood from the chair. “What are you doing in here?”
She hushed him and held up a palm, still listening through the wood. When her shoulders dropped, she turned to scowl at him full on. “I could ask you the same question. But I won’t because it’s perfectly clear what you were doing in here.”
He crossed his arms and angled his head to stare down at her. She was a few inches shorter than him, and yet she persisted in acting as if she hovered high above him and everyone else.
