Page 5 of Intolerable
“I shall hope there is more you like about him than that,” Fiona said.
What could she say? Their conversations had been shallow thus far. She hardly knew him. Still, he did possess the bravery others did not. For that, she would give him many extra points. “I am still getting to know him. So far, he’s quite pleasant.”
“Well, that’s a start.” Fiona lowered her voice and leaned slightly toward Cassandra. “Does he spark a…magnetism?”
Cassandra had used that word to describe sexual attraction to Fiona after she’d arrived in London. Fiona had been horribly unaware of such matters, not that Cassandra was an expert. “Not as yet. But he is very handsome.”
The word magnetism made her think of one man and one man only: Wexford. Ever since theincident, she felt a pull toward him. But given what had happened, that was only normal. It didn’t mean she felt anything for him or wanted to repeat their encounter.
“Well, that’s a promising start,” Fiona said. “We’ll sort this all out and by the end of the Season, I project you’ll be quite happily wed like me.”
That sear of envy returned, burning across Cassandra’s chest. She wanted that but doubted it would come to pass.
Chapter 2
Ruark Hannigan, Earl of Wexford, whistled as he strode into Grosvenor Square. The day was overcast, but it didn’t smell like rain. Not yet anyway.
Inhaling, he tried to determine the scent of the tulips he carried but decided they didn’t have a particularly floral fragrance. Ah well, they were available and pretty, and the yellow ones reminded him of the gown Cassandra had worn at the ball the other night.
LadyCassandra is how he ought to think of her. But that was rather impossible given the incident that had occurred between them several weeks ago now. The incident he wassupposedto forget but couldn’t manage to—not entirely anyway.
And hehadtried. There were a handful of courtesans who could attest to that fact. Frowning, he suddenly realized they had been, to a one, blond and pale, as unlike Cassandra as one could get with her lush, dark hair and sultry, sherry-colored eyes. Had he done that on purpose?
Probably. She wasn’t the first woman Ruark had needed to work to forget.
The Duke of Evesham’s residence came into view. The house was one of the largest in the square, a model of opulence and wealth. It was a far cry from Ruark’s rambling medieval pile in Gloucestershire, where his mother, stepfather, and half sisters lived, and much larger than his house over on George Street. And there was simply no comparing it to his estate in Ireland, an old, ramshackle farm that would horrify every single member of the ton.
The butler answered the door, and Ruark presented his card. Smiling, he raised the flowers to chest height. “I’m here to call on Lady Cassandra.”
“Very well, come in.” The butler was perhaps twice Ruark’s twenty-seven years. Thick around the middle with a head of wiry, gray hair, he possessed a thoroughly stoic air. Very London butleresque.
“Thank you,” Ruark said cheerily as he stepped into the gleaming marble entry hall.
“The footman will show you to the drawing room. His Grace will meet you shortly.”
“Lady Cassandra too, I hope.” Ruark gave the man a wink before turning his attention to the footman who’d come forward.
Immaculately garbed in sharp livery of dark gray, the footman led Ruark into the wood-paneled stair hall and up the stairs at a maddeningly sedate pace. At this rate, he might arrive by tomorrow. He supposed the snaillike progress was designed to allow the duke and Lady Cassandra time to join him.Ifhe made it to the drawing room.
On the journey—for it felt as long as the time required to travel from London across Wales and over the Irish Sea to his home on the west coast of Ireland—Ruark studied the portraits lining the wall above the staircase. He recognized one of his friend, Lucien, and his older brother, Constantine. They were young boys, perhaps five and seven, and even then, one could see that Constantine possessed the more serious nature, while Lucien was clearly full of mischief.
At last, they reached the top of the stairs, and the footman slightly increased his pace. When they reached the drawing room, Ruark felt as if he’d accomplished something monumental. “I think I may need to sit,” he joked.
The footman, a blank-faced man who was probably the same age as Ruark, merely stared at him. Apparently, the duke’s household was as humorless as he was. Not that Ruark knew him terribly well. He’d met him several times, of course, as Lucien’s friend. But this would be an entirely different social encounter.
“A maid will arrive shortly to take the flowers,” he said crisply.
“I hope not until Lady Cassandra has a chance to see them.” Did any of these people know how calls worked? But then Cassandra hadn’t received many callers. That, in itself, was a crime, as was the demeanor of the footman and butler. Ruark dared to hope the maid might crack a small smile.
He was to be disappointed.
As soon as the footman departed, the maid arrived. Approximately ten years older than Ruark, she regarded him with a hawklike intensity that reminded him of his nursemaid. “May I take the flowers and put them in water for her ladyship?”
“I’d prefer to wait until she can see them first. If they aren’t here when she comes in, I fear the effect of my bringing them will be ruined.” He gave her what was typically his most disarming smile, but she didn’t even blink.
Fortunately, they were interrupted by the arrival of another party. Unfortunately, it was the duke, not Cassandra.
Ruark bowed, flourishing the flowers as he presented his leg. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
