Page 70 of The Lady's Last Mistake
Twenty
The guest room at Lindstrom House was ten paces across, from door to window, and eight paces long, from fireplace to the head of the tester bed. An hour after Cassie had been installed in the room, she had measured the width and length several times over with her restless walking. A maid had helped her undress and had given her a shift and dressing gown, the second night in which she’d needed to borrow such items.
Outside, the winds had increased to a howl. Icy snow pelted the glass windows. A fire in the small hearth was giving out some heat, but Cassie was producing enough for herself as she moved from one corner of the room to the other. The encounter with Lord Lindstrom had left her twitchy and impatient, her nerves frayed. But if she was being honest, the dinner had become an irreparable mess the moment she’d raised her glass of whisky and announced their betrothal.
Her sole aim had been to lash out at Grant for his wretched behavior in the carriage, to force him to sweat alittle. His father wanted a wedding and moving from a mere courtship to a formal betrothal would certainly put the scare into him. She would cry off, of course, but the move had been shortsighted, made in the rush of anger. And perhaps also in the offense she’d felt at his coldness toward her. He’d hardly even looked at her on the way to dinner, his dismissiveness pointed and intentional.
How dare he treat her that way after such an inflamed encounter…one that would have been enough to ruin any unmarried woman. But she was already ruined, wasn’t she? Grant knew it, too. Perhaps that was what had made him think she would not mind his advances in Hugh’s study.
In the carriage, Cassie had nearly demanded that he take her back to Grosvenor Square. But if he could so swiftly turn on her, how much more swiftly would he follow through with his threat to tell Michael about Hope House? No, she could not trust him. So, she’d busied herself conjuring ways in which to convince Grant’s father of the veracity of their courtship, as Grant wanted—and to make the scoundrel suffer for it.
However, even though she would cry off before any gossip could spread, as she must, Michael would likely still hear of it. And then there would be hell to pay.
She’d been rash and reckless, and to make everything worse, the effect she’d wanted had not come to pass. Instead of fulminating anger, Grant had been oddly subdued. Once seated around the table, and Lord Lindstrom began to impart his coarse and revolting opinions about his fourth son, Cassie began to understand his quiet restraint.
She couldn’t comprehend the marquess’s treatment of his son. It wasn’t merely that he disliked that he was a physicianand worked for a living; he seemed to view Grant as a complete failure. An embarrassment. And worst of all, Grant had taken his verbal mauling on the chin, without so much as a complaint. He’d sat back and waited for it to be over. Not one of his brothers or his sister had tried to stand up for him either, which had only spurred Cassie on to do so.
The instinct to tell the marquess that he was wrong, that Grant wasn’t a selfish profligate, had filled her so swiftly that she’d been near to bursting with it. But…wasn’the exactly that? Running a charity clinic did not in and of itself make him a good man, especially when he would lower himself to coercion for his own benefit. And to kiss her the way he had…and then turn cold as iron, as though it had not affected him at all. Hadthatbeen his true character showing? Could Grant simply kiss women in such a fashion and then treat them as if it was nothing?
Cassie stopped at the fire, the tiled floor around the hearth warming her bare feet. She stared at the flames, shaking her head. If not for her conversation with Audrey earlier that morning, about people using anger and antagonism to protect themselves from true feelings, she might have believed Grant to be the emotionless and cold man he’d been in the carriage earlier. But Audrey’s observation had wiggled into Cassie’s mind all day. She didn’t believe Grant had been unaffected by their kiss. She couldn’t, not when she remembered so vividly the way he’d nearly lost control. It had not been just a kiss; it had been as though he was trying to possess her. As though he’d been trying to absorb her.
She put a flat hand to her stomach, to the spiraled tension that kept fluttering between her hips whenever she thought of it. It could have been the darkened corners of theroom, or the ripping snowstorm outside, or the fact that they were stranded away from Town for the night, but try as she did, Cassie could not put the image of bidding Grant a good night earlier from her mind.
They’d climbed the stairs together, behind a maid with a lantern. At the landing, Cassie turned right, following a maid toward the guest room. After a few steps, sensing Grant was no longer with her, she turned. He’d gone left at the landing and was standing at the open door to another room down the hall. For several protracted moments, he’d watched her. Then, he’d gone in and closed the door.
She now knew where his room was. Had that been his intention? Had he wanted her to see where to find him that night? The idea of going to his room made her dizzy and hot, and yet, so did just standing here thinking of him undressed. In bed. Knowing that he was sleeping just down the hall would make her own slumber impossible.
Was he thinking of her in the same way?
Cassie wanted to throttle herself. All this time, she’d accused Grant of being a libidinous ingrate, and yet, look at her now. She was nearly panting with thoughts of him in his shirtsleeves—or less.Get ahold of yourself, Cassie!No self-respecting woman should suffer breathlessness from merethoughts. However, as much as she chastised herself for it, she could not lie to herself any longer. Grant infuriated her. He was unscrupulous and impulsive and held some questionable principles.
Yet, she could not bring herself to care about those things now that she knew what it felt like to have his mouth against hers. His hands on her body. Now that she knew what the corded muscles of his abdomen felt like beneath her ownhands, her mind had come alive with progressively more unvirtuous imaginings.
Heaven help her, she wanted to feel it all again. All of it and more.
Cassie eyed the door to her room. An unrelenting whisper of a notion had plagued her since Grant had gone into his room. Had it been invitation in his eyes, or a warning to stay away? To go to him would be unconscionable. It would be reckless and hypocritical of her. This was a staged courtship, and one she had battled against. Now, it was a false betrothal that would end the next day. Soon, they would no longer see much of one another.
The drop of her stomach propelled her feet from the tiled hearth and toward the door. Commands to stop, turn back, be sensible, streamed through her mind as she peered into the hallway. It was dark, the candles having all been doused, but the leaded windows at the turn in the stairwell cast some bluish light on the landing. As softly as she could, Cassie latched her door and padded along the carpet toward it. If she were to be found right now, she could always whip up some excuse as to why she had left her room. But if she were found standing outside Grant’s door, or worse, knocking upon it, there could be no acceptable justification. That was why, as she came to the door he’d gone through earlier, Cassie forwent bringing her knuckles down on the wood. Instead, she put her hand to the knob and gave it a twist. Unlocked. Her heart strummed in the base of her throat as she pushed the door open a few inches, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.
Grant sat on the edge of his bed, his back to her. The fire in the hearth was the only source of light in the room.Without taking a breath, she stood immobile. For the briefest moment, in a surge of doubt, Cassie wondered if she could slip back out again without him noticing. But his back stiffened. He cocked an ear toward her, and his eyes swiftly followed. Grant sprang from the bed and faced her, unable to mask his astonishment.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked before coming around the large bed, toward her. “Are you insane?”
She stepped away from the door. “I might be.”
He’d undressed for bed, tossing off his jacket and waistcoat, and his cravat and stock. He was now in his shirtsleeves, untucked from his trousers. At his open collar, a triangle of his throat and chest drew her attention. He was barefoot, too, completing his look of dishabille.
Grant took in the sight of her in her dressing gown and his mouth tightened. So did his jaw. “Announcing our non-existent betrothal to my family was one thing, but this… Cassie, you need to go.”
She’d expected him to say as much. “I know it was rash, and I’m sorry, but I wanted to make you angry.”
“You never fail to succeed in that.” He huffed and shook of his head. “Why did you want to make me angry?” He hitched his hands on his hips, looking discomfited. “Because I kissed you?”
“No. Because of how you treated me afterward.”
His brow pinched, and he lowered his hands. “How I treated you?”
“On the way here, you were cold and dismissive.” She shrugged. “You acted as if…as if you wished you hadn’t.”
