Lost Lords: No Longer A Gentleman Part 21

"I intend to." He watched her leave, wondering what room Ca.s.sie was in. He could have asked his mother, but it seemed a rather indelicate question.

He considered. As Grey's fiancee, she would have been put in one of the best guest rooms. Probably the Rose Room, which was discreetly distant from Grey's suite.

He set off for the Rose Room, desperate to find his thorn among the roses.

Chapter 34.

The hour was very late, after midnight, so Grey saw no one as he climbed the stairs in search of Ca.s.sie. There was light visible under his father's door, and the soft murmur of his mother's voice. He pa.s.sed by and headed down the corridor. Summerhill was shaped like a shallow U, with wings coming off each end of the main block. He turned right into the short pa.s.sage at the east end.

Yes, a faint line of light under the Rose Room's door. Probably a low-burning night lamp. He turned the k.n.o.b, glad the room wasn't locked, and stepped silently inside. The dim lamplight revealed Ca.s.sie's sleeping form. She lay on her side, a thick braid of hair falling over her shoulder in a rope of dark molten copper.

She was so beautiful his heart hurt. He quietly closed the door behind him.

Before he could announce himself, Ca.s.sie woke and hurled herself off the far side of the mattress with amazing speed. A knife appeared in her hand as she took cover behind the ma.s.sive four-poster bed and evaluated the threat.

He held absolutely still. "Sorry. I should have known better than to startle you." After she relaxed and the knife disappeared, he said, "From your reaction, I'm guessing that Summerhill feels dangerous to you."

"Apparently so," she said ruefully as she circled the bed. The nightgown she wore was thick and warm, but it couldn't conceal the lithe grace of her movements. "I was feeling rather ... alone and vulnerable."

He winced. "I'm sorry, I should have stayed with you rather than leave you to carry the full weight of my excited relatives."

She shook her head. "It would have been nice to face their curiosity together, but you needed to talk to your father while he's still breathing."

Reminded of the miracle, Grey exclaimed, "He woke up! He spoke to me quite coherently. I think he'll be all right. My mother is with him now."

"That's wonderful news!" She caught his hands in delight. "And not only because it means you don't succeed to Costain for a while."

"I'm hoping my father is good for at least another twenty years," he said fervently as he wrapped his arms around Ca.s.sie.

She melted into him with a welcoming sigh. "I'm so glad you came. I'll sleep better for seeing you and getting a good hug."

"I need a good deal more than a hug." Hungrily he bent to her mouth, wanting to draw her essence into himself. "Ca.s.sie, Ca.s.sie ..." He peeled off her nightgown, then walked her back to the bed.

"Should we be doing this under your mother's roof?" she asked uncertainly, but her hands were pulling at his coat.

"It's my roof, too." He swept her onto the bed, then tore at his garments with no thought for Kirkland's expensive tailor. "I need you far more than I need propriety."

Ca.s.sie lay on her side watching him strip, a cream and copper G.o.ddess in the dim light, her haunted blue eyes as hungry as his own. When he was down to skin and too many bones, she pulled him onto the bed, saying huskily, "You're as powerful a drug as opium, my lord." Then they spoke no more.

His demands were met by her strength, but also a vulnerability he'd never felt in her before. He poured everything he had into her, wanting to return the priceless gifts she'd given him. And together, they found fulfillment.

After the shattering culmination, they lay limp in each other's arms. Her braid had come undone and her hair lay in a s.h.i.+mmering veil over his chest. "Catherine," he murmured, as he twined a strand around his fingers. "You have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen. Coloring it might have been essential for your work, but it's a crime to deprive the world of such splendor."

"No carroty little girl would ever believe that. And for a full-grown woman, the color is considered vulgar. s.l.u.ttish, even." Her voice turned wry. "Not that that doesn't fit me, since I am a slu-"

"Don't!" he said sharply. "Don't ever say anything like that about yourself! You are the finest woman I've ever known, true and generous and strong. Don't look at yourself as narrow minds would."

"It's hard not to, especially here," she pointed out. "Your mother and sister are good women in every sense of the word. I ... am not."

"Have they been rude to you?" he demanded. "I will not allow that!"

"You're fitting back into your lordly role very quickly," she said with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Your sister was charming and happy to meet me because she a.s.sumes we'll be neighbors and she wants to be friends. Your mother ..." Ca.s.sie hesitated. "She wasn't rude, but she is naturally concerned for you and wanted to a.s.sure herself that you hadn't fallen into the talons of a fortune-hunting harpy."

"How dare she!" he said angrily. "I shall speak with her."

"No," Ca.s.sie said firmly. "Your mother's concerns are legitimate. I'm no one's idea of an innocent virgin bride."

"Why the devil would I want one of those?" he retorted. "Sounds deucedly dull."

"Many men wors.h.i.+p the purity of innocence. I'm glad you're not one of them," Ca.s.sie said with a laugh. "But any mother would worry when her long-lost son shows up with a strange woman."

"You're not strange." He cupped her breast with one hand. "You're magnificent."

Ca.s.sie gave him an intimate, teasing smile. "Your return has gone better than expected, hasn't it? With your father recovering, you can take your time rather than being forced into major responsibility before you're ready." She brushed her lips on his cheek in a feather kiss. "I'm not needed here, so I can return to London right away."

Her words were like a drench of ice water. "No! You can't leave, you just got here." He drew a deep breath as he struggled with his panicky reaction. "Of course you want to return to your real life, but no urgent mission awaits you. Stay a week or two. Relax, ride good horses, let yourself be cosseted and treated like a fragile flower. You deserve that."

He held his breath as he waited for her response. He knew she would leave, but please G.o.d, not immediately!

"Very well," she said. "I'll stay a week." Her hand began to wander down his body. "I shall certainly miss this."

She cupped him and pure fire shot straight through his veins. "So will I," he said raggedly. As he bent to the rich nourishment of her mouth, he wondered if he could survive without this sweetness and fire.

Despite her fatigue, Ca.s.sie lay awake for a long time after Grey fell asleep in her arms. She wanted to cherish every remaining moment with him. She'd been too weak to refuse to stay longer, but a week must be the limit. Lady Elizabeth had been so friendly and welcoming that Ca.s.sie was ashamed of being at Summerhill under false pretenses.

There was also the stark fact that the longer she stayed with Grey, the harder it would be to leave. She'd never felt such closeness with another man. He was willing to open himself to her as no one else had.

As she thought back to the night's intense lovemaking, she realized that there had been a s.h.i.+ft in the balance between them. At the beginning, he'd needed a woman, any woman, and she had accepted that in return for the simple delights of pa.s.sion.

That had changed as they'd grown to know each other better. She'd become special to him, and he'd become special-incredibly so-to her. In the past, she'd given him healing intimacy in return for pleasure. Tonight, he'd returned healing and wholeness to her. It was time to leave. While she still could.

Much as Grey would have liked to sleep until noon with Ca.s.sie, he'd regained enough gentlemanly discretion that when he woke and saw the first faint light of dawn, he groaned and swung himself out of the bed. "Time to leave."

He leaned over and kissed Ca.s.sie's bare shoulder. He noted with amus.e.m.e.nt that she was now so relaxed that she only made a sleepy sound of acknowledgment rather than leaping from the bed with a knife in her hand.

He pulled the covers over her bare shoulder, then dragged on enough clothing to be decent. Carrying his shoes in one hand, he slipped out into the corridor. It was still very dark inside the house, but it wouldn't be long before busy maids were stirring.

Now that he was back at Summerhill, his profound reluctance to return had almost vanished. Before, facing the demands and commotion that would be aroused by his return from the dead had seemed an insurmountable barrier.

He'd been right about the commotion. His return would have been easier if his mother had opened Kirkland's message and been prepared for him. But now that was over, and he was feeling ... like himself.

That self wasn't the callow Lord Wyndham who had flitted off to Paris for amus.e.m.e.nt, but an older, knocked-about, and hopefully wiser man. A man who belonged here at Summerhill. This house, this land, these people were his. He felt like a flower that had been jerked from its native soil and withered away in the rubbish for years. Now he'd finally been replanted where he belonged.

He felt strong enough that for the first time, he dared wonder if there was any chance of persuading Ca.s.sie to stay. He'd wait a few days until she'd had time to experience the beauty and peace of Summerhill.

And then, they'd talk. He was no longer willing to let her go without at least trying to change her mind.

Chapter 35.

Grey's rooms were at the opposite end of the sprawling house, but he was able to reach them unseen. Feeling happy over his decision about Ca.s.sie, he opened his door, then halted at the sight of his brother sitting in front of the fire.

Fully dressed except for his coat, which he'd replaced with a casual banyan, Peter was sprawled in a wing chair and holding a drink as he stared into the flames. He looked like the careless, drunken Grey of a dozen years before.

"Peter?" Grey asked, surprised. As he glanced about, he saw that some of the furnis.h.i.+ngs and decorations had been changed.

"Ah, the young lord and master has arrived to claim his property!" Peter rose and made an exaggerated bow, slos.h.i.+ng his drink and almost falling over. "I'm surprised you didn't throw me out of here earlier, but I suppose you were too busy rogering your doxy."

Fury blazed through Grey. "Don't you dare talk about Ca.s.sie that way!"

"Why not?" Peter opened a cabinet that contained gla.s.ses and bottles. "d.a.m.ned bad form to bring your mistress to your family home, but you never did care for anyone but yourself." He pulled out a brandy bottle and tilted it back to drink directly. "How much does she charge? She looks expensive, but during my years as heir apparent, my allowance was substantial. I should be able to afford a night or two."

Grey launched himself at Peter, so enraged he was barely aware of how he punched and threw his brother, then pinned him to the ground. Nothing mattered but destroying the man who'd said such vile words.

He was dragged back to awareness by a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "Grey! Grey, in the name of G.o.d, stop!"

Yanked from his killing rage, Grey realized that he had pinned Peter to the floor and was choking him. His brother's face was darkening and he could barely gasp out his plea.

Grey wrenched himself away and buried his face in his hands as he gulped for breath. He thought he'd mastered his furies. Instead he'd almost murdered his brother. An unspeakable crime that he'd rather die himself than commit.

A few feet away, Peter lay on the floor retching out his guts on the priceless Chinese carpet. The effects of too much brandy and being strangled, no doubt.

As Peter pulled himself to a sitting position and leaned against a wing chair, Grey rose and dipped a towel in the water pitcher, then handed it to his brother. Wordlessly Peter wiped his mouth and face, then drank the gla.s.s of water Grey had poured.

"Dear G.o.d, Peter, I'm so sorry," Grey said, sickened by himself. "You shouldn't have spoken so about Ca.s.sie, but nothing can justify almost killing you."

"I shouldn't have said such vile things about your guest," Peter replied, sounding more sober. He folded the wet towel and pressed it against a rapidly developing black eye. "Where the devil did you learn to fight like that?"

"The Westerfield Academy." Still shaken, Grey poured himself two fingers of brandy, then sank down on the carpet a yard from his brother and leaned back against the sofa. "Ashton is half Hindu, and he taught his cla.s.smates a fighting technique he'd learned in India. It's become a school tradition."

"I should have gone there instead of b.l.o.o.d.y Eton," Peter muttered.

"You were less worrisome so it wasn't considered necessary." Grey exhaled roughly. "Say anything you like about me, but I won't hear a word against Ca.s.sie. She's the finest woman I've ever met."

"Then it's a pity she looks like the very best grade of Bond Street ware." Seeing Grey's thunderous expression, Peter said hastily, "I believe you that she's no wh.o.r.e, but she is ... not what one would expect of your bride. Why did you bring her to Summerhill when Father is dying and you're returning from the dead? Not exactly ideal circ.u.mstances for introducing a new member of the family."

Grey said, "The good news is that Father isn't dying. He woke up and spoke to me. Mother is with him now."

Peter's face brightened. "Wonderful!"

Grey took a sip of his brandy. It was tempting to get drunk, but he and Peter wouldn't have fought if his brother hadn't been drunk enough to ruin his judgment. Or perhaps his temper. Peter was obviously not happy about losing his expectations.

"Ca.s.sie is here to keep me sane." Grey's laughter was bitter. "I thought I was making progress on that front, but apparently not. If she'd been here, I wouldn't have come so close to fratricide."

"She can stop you when you run mad like that?" Peter asked skeptically.

Grey smiled fondly. "She certainly can."

"You seem sane enough now," Peter said hesitantly.

Grey realized he needed to explain more. "Ca.s.sie went alone into the castle where I was imprisoned and freed me and the priest in the next cell, who had become my only tie to reality. She got us to sanctuary and guided me out of the country, lending me her strength and sanity when I had none. Believe me, I am much improved. I owe her more than I can ever possibly repay."

Peter frowned. "She sounds admirable, but is it reason enough to marry her?"

Choosing his words carefully, Grey said, "I want to marry Ca.s.sie, but she hasn't said yes yet. She wants to wait and see how things develop." He drew an uneven breath. "She'll leave soon. I may never see her again." Saying that aloud was agonizing.

Hearing the pain in his brother's voice, Peter said awkwardly, "I'm sorry. Can you ... manage without her?"

"I'll have to, won't I?" Grey said brusquely. "What about you, Peter? I thought you were happy I'm alive, but when I came in, you acted as if I was your worst enemy."

"I am happy you're back. Truly. And I rather like Ca.s.sie, from what I've seen of her. But"-his brother ran stiff fingers through his tangled blond hair-"I looked up to you so much. When you disappeared, it was ... it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I spent years waiting and hoping. We all did."

Grey winced. "If only I'd had the sense to return to England when I was warned to do so!"

"That would have made all our lives easier, but you couldn't know the consequences. If you'd been interned, we'd have learned of it and could have settled down and waited for you to come home. As it was ..." Peter shrugged. "Of course we a.s.sumed the worst."

"From what Ca.s.sie tells me, being interned isn't bad. Boring, but living a fairly normal life." And not being driven mad by isolation. "Of course, if I'd been interned, I'd still be in France, waiting and wondering if this b.l.o.o.d.y war would ever end."

"But we would have known you were alive." Peter sighed roughly. "Instead, without anyone quite admitting you must be dead, people started treating me as the heir. Seven years after your presumed death, the earl said it was time I styled myself as Lord Wyndham. Mother moved my things in here when I was at university. I began to think of myself as the next Earl of Costain. I learned how to run the estate, started paying attention to Parliament. And now"-he spread his hand in a hopeless gesture-"you come back and it's all s.n.a.t.c.hed away. All that effort and planning for nothing."

Grey glanced around the sitting room, which was easily ten times the size of his cell in France. And the suite had a bedroom and dressing area as well. "You can have these rooms. I don't need them and it hardly seems fair to drive you out. But I can't let you have the t.i.tle and the entailed property. The law doesn't work that way. As long as I'm alive, I'm the heir."

"I know." Peter struggled to his feet and poured more water before sinking wearily back onto the carpet. "I've spent the night drinking and wondering what to do with my life. I've no taste for becoming an idle wastrel."

"The traditional occupations for a younger son are the church, politics, or the military. None of them interest you?" When Peter made a face, Grey asked, "Is there something less traditional you'd really like to do?"

Peter hesitated, his expression torn. "The theater. I want to be an actor."

"An actor?" Grey asked incredulously.

His brother's expression closed. "You see why I don't talk about it. Not that I ever thought the theater was possible. Until you returned, Summerhill was my fate."

Grey studied Peter's handsome, youthful face. His first reaction on meeting his grown brother the day before had been how much they resembled each other. It was true that they had similar height, build, and coloring, and anyone seeing them together would immediately know they were related.