Page 41 of Intolerable
Wexford grinned brilliantly at Cassandra before executing a marvelous bow. “May I wish you a very happy birthday, Lady Cassandra?”
“Thank you, my lord.” How she wished he’d taken her hand while also understanding the many reasons he hadn’t.
“Let’s settle this then,” the duke said, startling Cassandra from her yearning. “Cassandra tells me you have no interest in courting her. I take it I successfully warned you off?”
Cassandra sucked in a breath and stared at her father.
Chuckling, Wexford shook his head. “Not at all. Rest assured, Your Grace, if I wanted to court Cassandra, I would. However, we have decided—together—that we do not suit. Your daughter is an intelligent and wise young woman. You should give her the credit she deserves when it comes to selecting suitors, let alone a husband.”
Lucien made a sound and angled his head away. His mouth was turned up as he clearly tried not to laugh.
Constantine inclined his head toward Wexford. “I could not have said that better.”
It wasn’t enough for Cassandra. And since it was her birthday, she felt emboldened to ask for what she wanted. “I think you owe Lord Wexford an apology for when he called on me, Papa.”
The duke’s dark eyes glittered, and everyone fell silent. Sabrina clutched her husband’s arm, and Cassandra felt sorry for making her nervous. She suffered from anxiety in certain situations, and her father-in-law did nothing to ease her apprehension. In fact, he often increased it.
“I don’t think Wexford requires an apology.” Her father’s gaze was locked with Wexford. “He understands the way of things.” He turned to Cassandra with a faint smile. A smile? “Now, if you’ll excuse me dear, I think your party will be livelier if I take myself off. Best to leave you younger people to enjoy yourselves.” He looked toward Constantine and Sabrina, an odd, almost fond look in his eyes as he finished his sherry. Constantine took his empty glass.
Before Cassandra could think of what to say, he bent to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday, dear.” He looked to Constantine. “You’ll send her and Miss Lancaster home in your coach?”
“I can drop them off,” Lucien offered, a look of bemusement flitting across his features.
“Very good.” Then he turned and left.
Cassandra immediately turned to Wexford. “Please accept my apology in place of his.”
“It isn’t necessary.” His vivid blue eyes stared into hers, stirring her already ever-present desire for him. But there was more—they shared something. It wasn’t just the connection of the incident. There was a familiarity. She knew how he looked when he made various expressions, how he smelled, and the sounds he made when he was amused or interested or…aroused.
“Will you excuse us for a moment?” Constantine asked, handing his father’s sherry glass to Sabrina.
She nodded. “Of course.”
Constantine looked to Lucien who gently touched Cassandra’s arm. “Join us in Con’s study.”
Surprised, Cassandra went along with them to the next room, where Con closed the door behind them. “Ignore Father,” Con said, walking around her toward his desk where he picked up a box with a ribbon and handed it to Cassandra.
Lucien moved to face her. “That’s from the both of us.”
“Oh. How…lovely.” And unexpected. She wasn’t sure they’d given her a birthday gift since her, what, twelfth birthday?
She untied the ribbon and set it on Constantine’s desk then opened the box. Nestled in velvet was a miniature of her and their mother. Tears sprang to Cassandra’s eyes, and she had to blink because she couldn’t see through the wet blur.
When her vision cleared, she gingerly picked up the portrait from the box and studied the painting. In it, she sat in profile with her mother who looked at her adoringly. What was remarkable was that Cassandra looked as she did now—a grown woman. And her mother looked the same but different. “Is this what she would look like now, you think?” Her voice was small and uncertain, the voice of a child who’d lost her mother.
Constantine coughed. “That was the intent, yes.”
There were a few paintings of Cassandra with her mother—just the two of them. But there were more than twice that of her with her sons. And they both had miniatures of them with her when they’d turned ten. Cassandra didn’t have that because by the time she’d reached that age, her mother had been gone.
Lucien stepped closer. “It doesn’t bring her back, but we thought you might like to have something of her and of you. We all lost her, but Con and I had her for much longer.”
“I don’t know what to say.” She looked up at both of them. “How did you do this?”
“The woman who created the massive paintings in the foyers of the Phoenix Club is a singularly gifted artist,” Lucien said. “She has a series of paintings of her own mother, whom she lost in childhood, depicting her aging. Every year she paints a new portrait of how she imagines her mother would look. That gave me the idea.”
Cassandra couldn’t stop staring at the miniature. “It’s astonishing. Thank you both. So much.” A tear fell from her eye onto the painting, and she gasped.
Constantine rushed to her side. “It’s fine. You won’t ruin it.”
