Page 35 of Intolerable
“It’s not that. I don’t know him.”
“You know he’s a pugilist, and given what I learned about you this evening, I’m not sure he’s a wise choice.” He’d likely come home bloodied at some point, and how would she react?
“Perhaps he’ll give it up for me. Come, let’s go find him.”
Ruark offered her his arm, and during the walk back to the club, his feet felt as if they were encased in stone. Men didn’t give up their passions or change their behavior for women. He knew that from personal experience. Love hadn’t moved him to change his plans, and he doubted it would persuade Glastonbury to give up something he enjoyed as much as boxing. But he wouldn’t tell her that. He had to stop thinking they were close friends, that she would care what he thought. He was supposed to be distancing himself from her, dammit.
They entered the ballroom where they’d come out, and right away he caught sight of the viscount on the opposite side.Spectacular.He stood with both of Cassandra’s brothers, who would wonder where in the hell she’d been.
“He’s over there.” Cassandra inclined her head to where Ruark was already looking.
“I see him. Do you want me to escort you?”
She took her hand from his arm. “It’s best if you don’t.” Looking up at him, there was some emotion buried deep in her gaze, some glimmer of expectation. Perhaps. “Thank you again for your care and your…friendship. You’re a good man, Wexford. For an Irishman.”
She winked at him before leaving, and he nearly pulled her back. Instead, he took a glass from a tray carried by a passing footman without any notion of what it was. Taking a sip, he vaguely registered it was a fortified wine, marsala perhaps.
His attention was entirely directed at Cassandra as she met up with her companion and Lady Overton. A moment later, her brothers and Glastonbury arrived at her side. They conversed gaily, all six of them smiling or laughing, even the perennially serious Miss Lancaster.
Then Glastonbury offered Cassandra his arm, and they left the group. Ruark downed the rest of his wine in one long gulp.
“Enjoying your evening, Wexford?” The question came from Evie, who’d stolen up to him without him even noticing.
Startled, he turned toward her. “Yes, and you?”
“Always. The club never fails to make me feel warm and welcome, but then that was Lucien’s intent. I hope it’s that way for all the members.”
Ruark felt warm, but it was from a mix of agitation and repressed desire. He deposited his empty glass as another footman passed with a tray and took another glass of wine.
“Ah, here comes Lord Aldington and Lucien.”
Wishing to avoid an interrogation as to where he and Cassandra had been, Ruark bowed to Evie. “If you’ll excuse me.” Then he turned and stalked back to the garden where he planned to use the secret door to cross over to the men’s garden and go upstairs to the members’ den. There he could relax and drink his whisky in peace.
And he wouldn’t have to see Cassandra with the man she would likely wed.
Chapter 9
Cassandra sipped her chocolate at the table in her sitting room where she nearly always broke her fast. The tulips from Wexford were starting to fade, but she refused to part with them yet.
Prudence was usually with her for breakfast, save Saturday mornings like today, which she took for herself. As with every Saturday, she’d gone about her business early, despite being at the assembly until two last night.
Cassandra had struggled to find sleep as the events in the garden with Wexford repeated in her mind in an endless loop. Each time she got to the part where they’d nearly kissed, heat suffused her, along with a yearning she’d never felt before. She refocused her thoughts on the charming Viscount Glastonbury but invariably ended up thinking of Wexford again.
Glastonbury, she thought firmly.
After a delightful promenade around the ballroom the previous evening, Cassandra had waltzed with the viscount. He was a wonderful dancer, and she wondered how someone who moved with such grace and beauty could also enjoy something as violent as boxing. But then Wexford was also an excellent dancer and a pugilist.
And that was what she’d done all night at the assembly—compare the two men.
At least Glastonbury had shared a little more about himself. In addition to his flower-pressing Great Aunt Flora, he had another great aunt, Minerva, who was a prolific watercolorist. She painted three things: her childhood spaniel named Apple, a body of water with an empty boat floating upon it, and fire. They varied in size, color, and composition, for example, sometimes the boat was on a pond, others a river, and occasionally even the ocean. The spaniel might appear on a chair or in the grass or standing on top of the stables. They hadn’t discussed how she painted fire, and Cassandra thought that was perhaps for the best.
Glastonbury spoke of her with fondness and humor. He appeared to care about his extended family even if he did seem beleaguered by them. She’d then wondered about Wexford’s family because her brain apparently couldn’t allow Glastonbury to be the only presence. It could, however, wholly fixate on Wexford, such as why he’d decided not to kiss her last night when it had clearly been imminent.
Because he was behaving as a gentleman should.
It was for the best, for when she recalled how she’d fainted at his mention of blood, she couldn’t help but cringe. Honestly, she wasn’t surprised that he wished to distance himself from her, especially after she told him about her mother. He must think her a silly child.
Only he hadn’t given that impression. He’d been kind, considerate, and genuinely concerned for her welfare.
