Page 21 of Intolerable
Releasing her waist and pulling his arm from her grip, he took a step back. “Forget my suggestion. It was neither reasonable nor real—it was meant as a jest.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly as skepticism darkened her arresting gaze. Then, just as quickly, she buried whatever she was feeling behind a veneer of placidity. “Good. Now, about this potential rumor. Will you see what you can find out and let me know at your earliest convenience?”
He had no convenience when it came to her. She was the very definition ofinconvenience. “I can’t help you.”
Her gaze turned wary. “At all? I was hoping you might continue to ask me to dance from time to time. Or that I could persuade you to call on me again in another week or so. Unless a suitor who isn’t afraid of my father miraculously falls from the sky.”
Ruark hated to disappoint her, particularly when he wanted nothing more than to gather her close, kiss her, and assure her that all would be well. He couldn’t let this happen again. Not with her. He had to end their association before they became too entangled.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
She pursed her lips and averted her gaze. “My father deterred you. I’m so sorry for the things he said to you. I can’t blame you for not wanting to prick his ire.”
Actually, that was the last thing from his mind. Her father could go to the devil as far as he was concerned. And yet, it was probably easier—and better—that she think that. He didn’t want to tell her that he had to stay away from her completely before he started doing something stupid like kissing her more or sending her poetry or falling in love with her.
They’d made an agreement to forget about theincident, and though they both seemed to be failing rather spectacularly, it didn’t mean they should go back on their word.
“Forgive me, Cassandra.” His mind yelled,Lady Cassandra, dammit!“I know I offered my help if you ever needed it, but I should not help you any further in this matter. Perhaps Lucien can provide assistance?” Ruark hadn’t spoken to him since running into him outside his father’s house the other day. Presumably, he’d talked to his sister about how to encourage more suitors as he’d said he would.
She made a sound of disgust. “He hasn’t yet. I think he’s too busy helping others.”
Ruark had a sudden urge to knock his best friend on his arse. “I’ll make sure he’s there for you.” He offered her his arm again, hating that he was abandoning her.
Hesitating a moment, she lightly placed her hand on his arm. It wasn’t the same as before—she barely touched him. “Let’s go back to the house.”
After returning her to Miss Lancaster, Ruark departed the rout as quickly as possible. He went directly to the Phoenix Club—both in search of Cassandra’s brother and to find solace in his favorite Irish whisky among friends.
As soon as he walked into the foyer, he exhaled as a familiar comfort swept over him. He glanced up at the huge painting of a bacchanalia featuring Pan. What no one realized was that when Lucien had commissioned the painting, he’d instructed the artist—an exceptionally talented Flemish woman—to include likenesses of himself and some of his friends. Ruark’s eye never failed to stray to the revelers in the left corner of the scene. There, one would find not only the club’s owner but his three closest friends, who were not only founding members of the club but served on its secret membership committee.
Ruark made his way up to the member’s den. He’d barely set foot inside when a footman presented him a glass of his favorite whisky, for which Ruark thanked him profusely. Taking a sip, Ruark closed his eyes briefly to savor the light, fruity sweetness that complemented the oak and barley. It was incredibly superior to the Scotch version, something he argued regularly with one of the other men in the painting.
Opening his eyes, he scanned the room for his Scottish friend, Dougal MacNair, but didn’t see him. Instead, his gaze connected with Mort. Ruark made his way to where the man sat near the hearth and took the chair opposite his.
“Evening, Mort.”
The burly man squinted at Ruark. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight. Is that your first whisky?”
Ruark swallowed another sip. “It is. Why?”
“I’ll wait until after you’ve had another.” He took a long pull on his ale.
“When my tongue is looser perhaps?” Ruark chuckled. “What do you want to know.”
“Her name.” Mort stared at him in open curiosity, daring Ruark to reveal himself.
Instead, Ruark snorted. “There isn’t anyone.”
“Bollocks. I’ll keep asking until you tell me.”
“When did you become a mother hen? Stop asking because she isn’t an issue.”
“Meaning she was?”
“I’m not discussing her.” That meant thinking about her, and he was going to do his damnedest not to. After he found her brother and made herhisproblem. “What Iamdiscussing is the prizefight Fred is planning. I understand Glastonbury is fighting. Why wasn’t I asked?”
Shrugging, Mort took another drink. “You’d have to ask my cousin.”
“I will.”
