Page 28 of An Unwitting Alliance
Cassandra surrendered it. “She agonized over the decision, but in the end, she wants to support our parents.”
Megan studied the words. “She challenges you to embrace the opportunity she never had.”
“But how can I?” Cassandra said, struggling to accept what seemed so wrong. “I want something I have chosen for myself. Mr. Harwood might be decent at apologizing, but that does not mean I want to marry him. I know him far less than I did Mr. Gibbons, and look how that turned out.” She scooped up Tiger and rubbed his face against her cheek, desperate for comfort. Her only plan had been thwarted. “Tiger and I could have managed very well at Aunt Evans’s until we found someone who suited me better. Dare I write her again?”
“You cannot think she will change her mind. Besides, Mr. Harwood is far handsomer than anyone in Airewell, is titled, and is decidedly rich, as his clothes and stallion can attest. And he brought you kittens. You should give him a chance.”
“Megan, he is a tease and never serious. I cannot like someone I cannot trust.” Cassandra held Tiger level to her eyes. His bluish-gray fur was beautiful. At least one good thing had come out of this arrangement. Her shed would have a mouser. “Here, take Tiger. I will check on Mama.” She wasn’t ready to cry or give up, so she had better stay busy.
Mama was not in her bedchamber. Cassandra heard something from her own room and, oddly enough, discovered Mama inside sifting through a pile of books.
What was she up to this time? “Does Papa know you have borrowed so many books? Is that why you are leaving them in here—so you will not get caught?”
Mama laughed and began stacking the books on Cassandra’s nightstand. “Papa is cautious with his books because he values the caretaking of them, not because he does not want to share them. And his rules only apply to his children, not to me. However, I borrowed these for you, dear. They are study materials to review in your spare time.”
“Whatever for?” For her lessons with the boys? She reached over and stole the last book on her bed before her mother could take it. It was a collection of poems by Lord Byron. Several pages were marked by torn pieces of paper. Cassandra opened to the first one and skimmed it. She flipped to the second and did the same. “Mama, these are all poems about love.”
One of Mama’s shoulders lifted in a small, innocent shrug while avoiding Cassandra’s eyes. “It is perfectly acceptable reading when one is engaged.”
“This is not necessary.” Cassandra shook her head and handed the book back to her mother. “Not the reading nor the engagement.”
“Don’t work yourself up. I merely thought it would help set the tone for the coming weeks.” She set the poems on top of the stack of books and retreated before Cassandra could complain again.
Set the tone? Rubbish. Cassandra planned to do the exact opposite. She had to behave for Patricia Pollard, but she did not feel the same obligation toward Mr. Harwood. He was not exactly a gentleman, even if he did have excellent taste in kittens. In fact, ought he not to tutor himself on the subject of romance? Then he could find himself a love match, and their engagement would have no reason to exist.
She piled the books in her hands, the load tipping precariously, and carried the heavy stack to Mr. Harwood’s room. With a quick glance behind her, she let herself in. His smell, a musky amber, greeted her senses, and she faltered just inside the room. When she could not resist leaning forward to inhale deeply, a book fell to the ground. The commotion disrupted her distracting thoughts, bringing her back to the task at hand. She strategically spread the books across Mr. Harwood’s bed in a colorful array. He could not miss them.
A smirk played on her lips. “May you find yourself a love match who is far more suited to you than I.”
Poor Mr. Harwood. He might have a magnificent smell, but he had a great deal of homework, for he had yet to prove he possessed any aptitude on the subject of love.
Chapter 12
Rain drizzled down the windows,and a rumble of thunder filled the drawing room at Fairview the day after Tom’s trip to the workhouse. The lack of sunlight at midmorning brought heavier shadows inside, casting a dreary pallor over the old house. He was not sure what to do with himself. Everyone was busy, including Cassandra, who was hiding from him in the schoolroom. Oh, he knew she was devoted to her family, but he had overheard her father excuse her from her duties so she could properly entertain theirguest, and Mrs. Vail had come up with a list of activities for them, but Cassandra had insisted otherwise. His betrothed was incredibly stubborn. How could he convince her to break their engagement if she would not have a conversation with him?
His eyes followed the paths of several raindrops down the windowpane until he was tempted to visit the kittens in the stable for lack of anything better to do. He blew his breath out slowly, making his bottom lip vibrate. He could always read. He certainly had ample material in his bedchamber.
Someone had marked all the best romantic passages composed in the last two-hundred years. An arduous task, no doubt. But after selecting the book nearest him,Hero and Leander, opening it, and reading the line “Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?,” he had been so alarmed that he’d dropped the book on his foot. Who named a poem that anyway? If ever he were to marry, studying romance might be a solid idea. But he had not slept well because of it.
The books could not have been a gift from his betrothed. He was inclined to believe this was the kind of effort only a Matchmaking Mama could produce. What sort of desperation plagued a loving matron enough to resort to the poor idea of matchmaking anyway? Mrs. Vail did not seem to be an elitist in search of a title for her daughter. On the contrary, she was humble and sweet. Quite similar to her daughter.
Almost.
His thoughts inevitably strayed to Cassandra. Had the kittens softened her at all? If only he knew her better, he could make a proper guess. He did not even know what sort of a teacher she made. Autocratic, probably.
A slow grin teased his mouth as an idea formed—a way to make Cassandra’s head fall back and laugh. He did enjoy watching her laugh. And this idea was terrible enough that there would be no romantic obligations tied to it. In fact, it would only encourage the opposite. Yes, there was only one thing to be done on a gloomy, humdrum day. He must cause some trouble and liven up the place. It was practically his duty. Even the old papered walls and saggy sofas were nearly bent over in a begging position. Yes, the house needed to witness some excitement today. And Tom was all too happy to provide it.
First things first, he must find himself a maid or a cook or even Mrs. Buttars, the helpful housekeeper. Remembering his tour with Cassandra, he made his way back to the vestibule and to a servants’ door. He skipped down the stairs and arrived in a very warm kitchen. The appetizing smell of freshly baked bread tickled his senses. He choked down the desire to eat, remembering all too well what kind of fare this particular cook was capable of.
Mr. and Mrs. Buttars entered the kitchen, and his excitement for his bit of sport waned. Mr. Buttars might see through his request. He needed to beseech a woman only. Now what excuse would he give for being in the kitchen? Would he be forced to eat something? The idea was worse than enduring a long, boring, rain-filled day.
“Mr. Harwood, what can we do for you?” Mr. Buttars asked.
Tom thought quickly, but no ready excuse came to mind. He must be losing his touch. He was generally quite good at making up excuses.
“He must be hungry,” Mrs. Buttars said.
No—anything but that. He forced a semblance of a smile but was quite sure his grimace would be discernible.
