In the Garden of Seduction Page 7

  He reached down and took her hand and, before she could stop him, placed a light kiss on the inside of her wrist just above her glove and directly upon her agitated pulse. An intimate gesture, his warm, dusky eyes never left her face, and that odd fluttering in her throat began with renewed intensity.

  Cassandra might be twenty-four years old, and she may have had her share of male friends, but she was ill prepared to deal with a man of Lord Sutherfield’s experience. For every one of her verbal thrusts, he had a clever parry that left her feeling silly and unsophisticated.

  She was usually the one who controlled a romantic situation, the men of her acquaintance falling over themselves to please her. Lord Sutherfield, however, could not be so easily managed. That idea unsettled Cassandra as much as it piqued her interest.

  “My hand, sir,” she said coolly, for he still had not released her, and a tingling had begun an alarming journey up the length of her arm. “You really must stop this posturing, or I will be forced to consider your motives.”

  When the marquess released her, she grabbed at her horse’s reins, pulling the animal away from a leisurely meal of fragrant grass. Cassandra, aggravated with herself for having dismounted in the first place, was now in the awkward position of needing help getting back in the saddle. She scanned the area for a convenient rock she could use for a step. She spotted one a few yards away and stumbled toward it, her horse in tow.

  “Miss James?”

  Cassandra did not turn around. Instead, she trudged in the direction of the rock as though she meant to escape the devil himself. In fact, she had a hard time imagining being alone with anyone more unsafe than the marquess. A highwayman might imperil her physically, but Lord Sutherfield assaulted her emotions. Not her heart, of course. She knew instinctively that what he wanted had little to do with the finer feelings. He was appealing to her baser nature and she was disappointed with him—and herself—that he was having even a little success.

  The rock, though high enough, did not provide stable footing. Unfortunately, she didn’t realize this until she jumped up on the wobbly stone and found herself in danger of falling. She grabbed at the pommel of her saddle, hoping to avoid disaster, but it was too late. She plunged to the ground. To her mortification, a startled scream escaped her as she fell.

  Lord Sutherfield came running. “Miss James! Are you all right?” He loomed over Cassandra, concern marking his handsome features. He hunkered down next to her.

  “I think I’ve hurt my foot.” She moaned.

  “For God’s sake, woman, what made you do something so idiotic? Let me have a look.”

  Cassandra glared at him. “If you must know, it’s all your fault. Why do you always pounce on me like a cat on a mouse? The last thing you’re going to do is look at my foot.” She came into a sitting position, but the sudden movement caused her to cry out again as a twinge of pain shot up her leg.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You can blame me later if you insist. For now I’m going to see how badly you’re hurt.”

  And with that the marquess began removing her boot, first undoing the buttons then gently slipping it off.

  “Is it the foot or the ankle?” he asked, glancing up at her. He rolled the stockinged foot between his palms, his fingers lightly testing the injury.

  “My foot, I think—maybe my ankle, also. Oh, I don’t know,” she wailed at last. “Everything hurts, and there’s a pain that travels up my leg.

  “Damn, I can’t really tell what is wrong through this stocking. We’ll have to remove it.”

  Cassandra gasped aloud. “Don’t you dare!” She began to struggle away from him.

  “Stop it,” he snapped. “Do you honestly think I am going to take advantage of you now? Hold still.”

  Grasping the toe of the stocking, he forced a hole through the fine cotton with his thumbnail and, tearing the fabric apart, exposed her foot.

  He looked at her then, his expression ironic. “Not what you expected, was it?”

  Too embarrassed to speak, Cassandra merely shook her head. And though she regretted misjudging Lord Sutherfield’s motives, she couldn’t help blushing as she realized he was now inspecting her naked foot.

  “Looks bloody awful. It’s already turning purple. And it’s swelling badly.”

  “No need to be profane,” she scolded weakly.

  But it did look awful. Whether because she could finally see the extent of the damage, or because the pain was becoming unbearable, she suddenly felt lightheaded.

  “Dear me, I feel faint.”

  “Lay back,” the marquess said, his manner turning brusque. “Take some deep breaths and try to calm yourself. It will pass in a moment.”

  Cassandra lay on the ground without moving for several minutes as a wave of nausea washed over her. Then the unpleasant feeling gradually began to recede. Lord Sutherfield knelt next to her and patiently waited. She was aware of his nearness and was oddly comforted by it. At one point she felt the warmth of his hand when he placed it on her clammy forehead. She assumed he was testing for fever, however, she did not feel hot. Instead, she had started to shiver but not from cold, either. She suspected it was a reaction to her injury.

  “Do you think you can ride?” he asked at last. “I’m convinced a doctor should see that foot as soon as possible.”

  She nodded but did not open her eyes. Licking dry lips, she said, “Yes…I think so. Perhaps if you could help me to stand?”

  The next thing Cassandra knew a pair of powerful arms scooped her up. “Put me down, you’ll hurt yourself,” she protested feebly, then contradicted herself by lacing her fingers around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.

  “Light as air,” he assured her, proving his point by placing her effortlessly on his horse, her legs dangling on one side. He tethered Cassandra’s mare to the pommel of his saddle before he mounted behind her. Drawing her onto his lap so they could both fit in the saddle, he slipped his hands beneath her arms and around her waist, taking hold of the reins.

  “Steady, now. We’ll be there shortly,” he promised. She could feel the rumble of his words low in his chest where her back leaned against him, and a sudden desire to nestle more deeply into his embrace overcame her. She had not felt this secure in weeks.

  Cassandra rode with her eyes closed, almost dozing, conscious only of the man holding her and the gentle rocking of his horse. Her foot throbbed miserably along with an awful twinge that shot up her leg, yet the pleasure of the ride overshadowed the pain. If somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered at her passive acceptance, she chose to ignore it.

  She knew when they reached the stable yard. She could hear the bustling of human activity as Lord Sutherfield reined in the horses, but she kept her eyes closed, hating to admit the ride had ended. They had arrived rather quickly, she thought. Either she had lost track of time, or she was not nearly as far from home as she had imagined.

  “Ho, Simon, who have you there?” a voice vaguely familiar to Cassandra called out to the marquess. “I’ve been watching your approach from the library window for the last few minutes.”

  “It’s Miss James, Harry.” Lord Sutherfield answered. “She took a tumble and twisted her foot. We need to call the doctor.”

  Cassandra’s lids popped open. She stared in amazement as Harry Stiles came up to them, a look of inquiry on his homely face. Black spots danced before her eyes, and she blinked furiously, trying to clear her vision.

  “I don’t know, Simon. I have a feeling Lord Whittingham will not be pleased. Perhaps you should have taken her home.”

  “Good lord, man, she was faint, and here was the closest place. We’ll worry about her grandfather later when we know Miss James is all right. Come now, help me get her out of the saddle,” the marquess demanded. “She shouldn’t put any weight on that foot.”

  He dismounted and, with Harry’s aid, lifted Cassandra off the horse. Once more in Lord Sutherfield’s capable arms, she was taken swiftly to a guest bedchamber on the secon
d floor of the house while Mr. Stiles sent urgent messages to the local doctor and Lord Whittingham.

  A maid, hailed as they entered the house, scurried up the stairs behind Lord Sutherfield and Cassandra. When they entered the bedchamber, the marquess had the servant pull down the counterpane, and then he carefully set the invalid in the middle of the feather bed.

  “Are you in much pain?”

  Cassandra ignored his question. “Why did you bring me here? Mr. Stiles is right. Grandfather will be furious when he finds out I’m here.”

  “Miss James,” he said, in an impatient tone, “I knew how to get here quickly. The only time I’ve been to your Grandfather’s estate was last night in the dark in a closed carriage. I did what was easiest under the circumstances. If you were worried, you should have said something.”

  “I—I wasn’t paying attention,” she admitted unwillingly. She looked away from him and relaxed against the pillow, since there did not seem to be anything else she could do.

  All at once she felt drained and, closing her eyes again, she shut out the room and, more important, the marquess. She knew he remained with her, although for propriety’s sake it would have been better if he had withdrawn and left her in the capable hands of the maid. Cassandra didn’t care. As long as he didn’t talk and sat quietly, she was thankful for his presence.

  She must have nodded off, for she woke up at the sudden appearance of the doctor in the room. A cherubic little man with a jolly disposition swooped down on her, and within moments had convinced her there was no reason to worry. He placed her foot in a soothing bandage, elevating her leg, then dosed her with a spoon of laudanum and gave orders that the young lady must not be moved for at least a day. He would return tomorrow to see her again.

  The last thing Cassandra remembered was Mr. Stiles coming to the door. “Whittingham was not in, Simon,” he whispered in a voice that carried across the room. “Out on business, I think. But we have Roger Morley downstairs, and he’s kicking up a fuss. Says he wants to bring his cousin home immediately.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the marquess stated grimly. Cassandra noted the determination in his voice and, smiling, drifted off to sleep again.

  *****

  Simon, in an upstairs sitting room, eased back in the chair he’d been using for the last several hours and placed his feet on the stool in front of him. He ran his hand across his jaw, and the rasping sound reminded him that he’d not had a chance to use his soap and razor earlier that evening.

  He had wanted to read but instead had whiled away the hours after midnight convincing himself that he wasn’t responsible for Miss James’ current predicament. Admittedly, she was trying to get away from him at the time of her accident. She attracted him in a way that surprised him, and in her company his primal instincts took control of his judgment. Not a good excuse, he knew.

  Cassandra’s grandfather had made an appearance earlier in the evening shortly after an infuriated Roger Morley departed. The earl, outraged that his granddaughter was unchaperoned in a bachelors’ home, had raised the roof when told she was to remain for the night. He had singled out the marquess for a warning, making it clear there would be the devil to pay if Cassandra’s reputation were compromised.

  Simon, unused to such treatment, had bristled. Standing rigid as a soldier, he coolly informed the earl that Miss James’ reputation would be unblemished. Lord Whittingham had nodded contemptuously, his skepticism obvious. Then he had stormed away, promising to return for his granddaughter the next day. Cassandra’s maid arrived shortly thereafter.

  Yet now he wondered if Lord Whittingham might be closer to the truth than he knew. Simon wanted her, and that probably was not best for her.

  He liked the challenge of the chase. The lady was attracted to him—he knew the signs. That knowledge was very tempting. A skilled lover, Simon knew the limits society would tolerate. Reason told him he could not compromise the honor of a virtuous female, however, an unchivalrous part of him wanted to test Miss James’ mettle. Not a noble sentiment, he admitted, but an honest one.

  Standing, Simon gave into an inclination that had teased him for hours. He entered the hall, moving quietly, and stopped outside the bedchamber where Cassandra slept. He eased the door open.

  He stared into the dimness of the room, focusing on the woman lying silently in the mammoth bed. Her face was pale and drawn, and dark circles like tender bruises smudged her eyes above her cheekbones.

  She was beautiful.

  Her shiny auburn hair had come undone, and soft ringlets trailed along her slim neck and over her shoulders. She looked in sleep just as he’d imagined she would. Of course, his imagination had conjured a woman in the throes of passion, not unconscious from a strong drug.

  Even now as she lay injured, he wanted to cross the room and climb into the bed next to her. He could picture his face close to hers as he dusted those enticing curls from her forehead with his fingertips. Then he would cover her ravishing mouth with his own to wake her, and she’d respond by drawing him in with her magic. He clenched his hands, for he could almost feel her silky skin beneath his touch.

  The marquess sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly. He was a fool. He should not be here—the temptation was too great. Fortunately, her maid slumbered on a cot in the corner.

  He shut the door quietly, and his steps took him back to the sitting room and his lonely chair. He sat, leaning his head against the cushion, and closed his bleary eyes.

  Since he seldom worried about the feelings of others, his concern for Miss James unsettled him. Ordinarily, he played the game of love without consequences, moving on when boredom overtook him. The women of his acquaintance understood, as he did not seek out the debutantes. Young ladies of good moral character had expectations, and the marquess ruthlessly avoided such entanglements.

  An unbidden thought slipped into his consciousness, causing Simon to stir uneasily. Perhaps he had better stop worrying about Miss James and begin to worry about his own state of mind. On that disquieting observation, his breathing deepened and he slept.

  *****

  Cassandra awakened slowly. She felt stiff, uncomfortable. Her head was fuzzy and her thoughts disjointed. She shifted her position and her memory sharpened, while a dull ache in her foot reminded her of her recent accident. She moaned softly and her eyes fluttered open.

  Her surroundings were not immediately recognizable in the predawn gloom, and her gaze glided uncertainly over unfamiliar furnishings. Where was she? A rustling movement caught her attention, and her gaze shifted to the cot where her maid Annie was sleeping.

  She must still be in Mr. Stiles’ guest bedroom.

  Cassandra recalled being served a dose of tincture of opium by the doctor and drifting off to sleep as Lord Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles talked in an undertone in the doorway. The men were discussing Roger, that she remembered. What had happened to Roger? How had the earl been convinced to allow her to stay the night?

  She turned her attention to the clock on the mantle. Almost five. Good lord, the night had slipped away.

  Cassandra eased from the covers, relieved that she was wearing her clothes from yesterday. Gingerly, using the toes of her injured foot for balance, she hopped across the bedchamber on her other foot and entered the hall. Once there, she wondered what to do now. It occurred to her that she had made a mistake in leaving her bed because her ankle was already throbbing painfully.

  A light from a room at the end of the hall caught her attention, and she thumped toward it. Maybe Mr. Stiles was awake. She paused at the doorway and glanced in, her gaze coming to rest on a slumped figure snoring softly in a chair by the fireplace.

  The Marquess of Sutherfield.

  His head had fallen back, and the warm light from the fire flickered across his face, illuminating his handsome features. Arrested, she stared at his hollowed cheeks and the strong line of his jaw, now covered with a blue-black shadow. He looked unthreatening as he slept, not nearly so dangerous, she th
ought. It was only when he watched her through bold eyes, dark and predatory, that she sensed the peril.

  His linen shirt gaped open at the neck, exposing the strong line of his chest, and he had rolled his sleeves to the elbows. He lay with his hands laced across his flat stomach, his long legs stretched out on a footstool.

  Cassandra continued to study him, mesmerized by his sheer magnetism as he slumbered. She’d never before had the opportunity to study a man casually at rest, unaware and unconcerned with his surroundings.

  There must be something immoral, Cassandra thought uneasily, about a woman staring in a lustful manner at a sleeping man. Had she been less honest, she would never have admitted to such a base emotion, but at the moment she was overwhelmingly attracted to the marquess. She hoped it was the residual effects of that awful drug corrupting her thoughts. She dropped her gaze and turned to leave.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Startled, Cassandra met Lord Sutherfield’s tired eyes. His voice sounded thick with sleep and that more than anything emphasized the intimacy of the moment. He didn’t move but his look sharpened as the drowsiness fell away from him.

  “Better,” was all she felt capable of saying.

  “Glad to hear it.” He came to a sitting position and put his feet on the floor. “I’m not used to sleeping in a chair.” He grimaced. “I think I’ve developed a crick in my neck.”

  “Why are you here?” Cassandra could not help asking.

  “Couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d read.” He motioned to the book lying open on the carpet. “What are you doing up?”

  “I’m not certain…getting my bearings, I think.”

  “That can’t be good for your ankle.”

  “I’m not using it.” She hopped on her well foot to prove her point and then paused. “I’m rather surprised my grandfather allowed me to stay.”

  The marquess came to his feet. “He didn’t want to. Seems he doesn’t trust me where you’re concerned.”