Page 49 of The Lady's Last Mistake
A quiver of apprehension went through her. “Do I require protection from you?”
The question sounded far more suggestive than she’d intended. Grant didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took the time to sip his drink again. The corner of his mouth twitched, and the dimple in his cheek showed itself.
“Maybe,” he said, but his grin assured her he wasn’t serious. “Sit, Cassie. Tell me why you’ve come.”
She broke free from his penetrating gaze and went to the leather Chesterfield, adjacent to the hearth. A fire leaped in the grate, lighting the cut crystal glass in her hand as her fingers traced the chiseled edges. “Elyse and I went to the clinic and spoke to Isabel.” She perched on the sofa. “The man’s name is Mr. Youngdale, not Young. She told us what happened and… Grant, it’s just awful.”
Cassie described what had been revealed about her aunt Lydia and Mr. Youngdale and also about the suspicious death of his first wife.
“She doesn’t believe it was an accident,” she explained. “He’s threatened her, and she’s frightened that he means to keep the baby once its born but dispose of her.”
Grant scowled into the fire. “Youngdale,” he murmured. Then, he set his glass on the hearth mantel and went to his desk. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a thick text.
“What is that?” Cassie asked.
“My copy of Debrett’s. It should have something on the Youngdale baronetcy.”
He brought the guide to the Chesterfield and took thecushion beside hers. As he opened the book and began to flip through, she considered that this was not at all the image of Grant entertaining a woman on said sofa that she’d had just moments ago. Some of the tension left her back. Cassie couldn’t account for it. She shouldn’t be at ease, not while she sat here, alone in his home with him at so late an hour. But his concern for Isabel was evident as he turned pages. He would help the young woman. So many others would never have lifted a finger to give aid, but he would. Even if he was upset with Cassie for being there.
“Why do you keep a guide to the peerage in your desk drawer?” she asked.
“I like to know a little about my patients before I attend them,” he replied while turning pages. “Plus, I’m incurably nosey. Ah. Here we are.” He stopped flipping and put a finger to the page. “Mister Gregory Youngdale. Third son of Sir David Youngdale, deceased and succeeded by his eldest son. Child number three, Gregory, is nearly forty years of age, according to the birth date listed for him. This is the 1818 edition, so a few years old now, but it looks like the wife, Mrs. Alicia Youngdale was still alive when this guide was published. Married in 1815.” He closed the book and tossed it aside. “There’s nothing more than that. Officially, Youngdale is not a peer, so he wouldn’t be part of any upper-class society, at least none that I know of.”
“The demimonde then?” Cassie suggested.
Grant leaned against the Chesterfield’s back cushion, his arms folding over his chest. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, or a cravat. Just his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, the latter of which he’d likely only kept on because he knew to expect her.Otherwise, by this time of night he’d have been in a state of dishabille. The image that flared in her mind wasn’t ladylike. It was slightly alarming, in fact, especially when her attention drifted toward his unbuttoned collar, open to reveal the smooth skin of his throat. Thankfully, Grant didn’t see her perusal. He was staring straight ahead, brows pressed low.
“Perhaps. I’ll ask a few friends if they’ve heard anything about him.” He shifted his gaze to her. “A part of me is relieved he’s not as connected as a peer, but that also means his actions can go overlooked more easily than someone of more significance.”
It was a good point. Anything could happen behind a closed door when no one cared enough to look.
“We must help her,” Cassie said.
Grant sighed heavily. “I’m not sure what more we can do. Isabel can’t be forced to marry him, but once the baby is born, if heisthe father, he’ll have a right to his child.”
A surge of sudden, unchecked anger made her ill. “Why should he? After what he’s done, he shouldn’t have any right at all. He is violent. He killed his first wife!”
Grant held up a hand. “We don’t know that for certain, and there is likely no proof.”
“Isabel doesn’t need proof to be afraid, or to know what kind of man he is. She has the right to protect herself and her child!” Cassie couldn’t sit another moment. She got to her feet, the motion splashing the drink, still untouched in her glass, over the rim.
“I agree,” Grant said calmly, his eyes following her as she set the glass on the flat arm of the sofa. Her wrist trembled. “However, there is little the law can do for her, and manywould say she’d be better off married than unmarried when the baby is born.”
“She should not be made to marry him!” Cassie said, her anger unspooling. “It isn’t her fault that she doesn’t have the sort of family who loved her or cared for her enough to keep her away from him, to understand that she didn’t deserve to be punished with an unwanted marriage.” She clasped her hands together, her fingers twisting as once again, she saw his face—Renfry’sface—looking down at her at Archambeau Manor, all but leering as his mind took him back to the few times he’d successfully lured her into his bed. Howstupidshe’d been. How naive and desperate and silly. Her eyes stung as she stared into the fire.
“It isn’t her fault her aunt didn’t love her enough to send her away for her confinement before anyone could notice her increasing. To formulate an excuse that the whole family upheld to protect her. And then to bring her home afterward and continue to pretend…”
Her voice caught, and she couldn’t go on. She shouldn’t have said so much. Her whole body flushed as she realized what she’d done—and that it might not have been a mistake. The smallest part of her, a part she’d avoided listening to, had wanted to confess. Wanted to know how Grant would react. If he chastised her, despised her, she could hate him again.
The flames in the hearth entranced her as she waited with her back to him. Grant didn’t speak as she heard him rise from the sofa. He continued to stay silent as he approached. Without looking, she knew he stood behind her. The warmth of his body pressed against her back. His hands touched down on her arms, bracing them, and her nerves lit with a galvanizing stir.
“Look at me, Cassie,” he whispered. “Please.”
She sniffled and blinked back the stinging tears. “I don’t want to.”
His palms tightened around her arms, and he closed more space between them. He angled his head toward her ear. “Why don’t you want to look at me?”
Because she knew she wasn’t going to see disdain or disappointment. She wasn’t going to see censure or repulsion. And then she wasn’t going to be able to hate him.
