Chapter Nineteen

Malcom was also enjoying himself. After a night of fitful sleep, replaying in his mind the thrill that had passed through him at the touch of Cassandra's fingers at the piano the night before, he acknowledged to himself it had shaken him. But he decided he wanted more of it.

He was increasingly drawn to Cassandra in a way that could no longer be denied. Despite his fears, there was no doubt in his mind that they were growing closer, and it was the music that was responsible for melting the ice between them. He fancied it was his mother's spirit moving in mysterious ways to bring them together.

He had awoken with the idea of joining Cassandra on her ride and staging a small surprise for her. Partly, he wanted to make up for his withdrawal the previous night, and partly he just wanted to see her smile again. He halted them in a meadow studded with poppies and cornflowers and helped her dismount. He lifted her down from the saddle. She was as light as a feather, and the feel of the small span of her waist beneath his hands sent tingles up his arms.

"Why are we stopping here?" she asked, letting Brownie loose to graze on the fresh green grass nearby.

"I have a surprise for you," he told her, rummaging in his saddle bag and producing a blanket, a stoppered bottle and two cups, and a large packet of waxed paper.

"Oh?" She regarded him with curiosity.

"A breakfast picnic." He spread the blanket on the grass and invited Cassandra to sit.

"A picnic?" she said with a smile, her cheeks glowing. She sat down gracefully, curling her legs beneath her. "How exciting. I have picnicked in the past but never for breakfast. This is a new experience," she joked.

"I am glad to hear it," he told her, pleased that they seemed to have re-established their fellowship. "Let us see what Cook had packed for us. But first, some wine." He opened the bottle and poured them a cup each, passing one to Cassandra.

"Wine for breakfast. I cannot help feeling that is very decadent." She sipped it. "Mmm, but I think I could get used to it! "

Malcom laughed, finding her happy mood infectious. He unwrapped the parcel. "Oh, we have sausages, some rolls with bacon, some slices of pork pie, and some buttered fruit buns. Quite a spread," Malcom said appreciatively, laying out the food on the waxed paper, along with some napkins that had been thoughtfully added to the package.

"A feast for a king. And a queen," she said as he laid out the picnic on the blanket before her and sat down opposite.

Before long, they were picnicking leisurely and were soon back on their favourite topic—music. Over sausages and bacon rolls, a lively debate developed over which soaring compositions elicited the greatest emotional swells.

"You have a highly developed musical sensibility, Cassandra," Malcom told her eventually, meaning every word.

"Thank you. That is very kind. I must say, I feel it fits rather well, with your expertise in all things classical, my weakest area," she admitted before popping the last of a fruity bun in her mouth and visibly relishing it.

Malcom watched her, admiring her fresh-faced beauty that was almost luminous in the sunshine. Tendrils of blonde hair that had escaped from her bun blew across her face as she drank her wine, and her extraordinary hazel eyes sparkled. He could not help it; she drew him like a magnet.

"Such expertise, as you call it, is all very well, but it is nothing on its own. I think you bring a fresh spirit that enlivens my own rather stale knowledge," he told her truthfully, finding himself inching closer to her. On impulse, he reached over and brushed the back of his fingers across her wind-burnished cheek, mesmerized by her lips, with their finely drawn cupid's bow.

Though she appeared startled by the sudden caress, she did not move but gazed into his eyes, a half-smile on her temptingly rosy lips. There was a rushing sound in Malcom's ears that had nothing to do with the breeze, and he could hear his own heart pounding in his chest.

The distance between their faces shrank as they leaned almost imperceptibly towards each other. He yearned to kiss her, and he was about to, when suddenly, the familiar panic seized him. What right do you have to such happiness? None!

Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled back. The tender moment was lost, and the disappointment he saw in Cassandra's eyes was like a knife in his thudding heart.

Malcom was angry with himself, and things were understandably a little awkward between them after that. And although Cassandra made efforts to lighten the tense atmosphere and return to their former carefree mood, he felt himself retreating once more. The underlying tension between them crackled with things unsaid. He felt defeated when she quickly agreed to his suggestion that they pack up their picnic and rode back to the manor, to go their separate ways.

***

Following their return to the manor after the picnic, Cassandra went to her chambers and sat in a chair by the window. She propped her chin on her hand, staring out sightlessly at the grounds beyond the glass, turning over in her mind what had occurred at the picnic.

She was deeply confused by Malcom's strange behavior yet again. The picnic had been so wonderful. To think he cared enough for her to arrange such a lovely surprise had set her pulse racing with excitement. Their bond had been steadily growing, she could feel it in her bones.

When he had seemed about to kiss her for the first time, her heart had fluttered in her chest, almost robbing her of breath. She had been ready, desperately awaiting the feel of his lips on hers . . . but it had not come. At the last moment, he had drawn back, leaving her feeling rejected and disappointed. Why?

Her husband was a puzzle she could not seem to solve, and she had absolutely no experience of either men or romance to fall back on. Her soul cried out for someone to talk to about it all, but there was no one. All she could do was write to Diana. So, with a sigh, she got up and sat at her writing desk, pouring out the story of the picnic, the almost-kiss, and laying out all her confusion. It was unfortunate that she would have to wait several days to get a reply.

In the afternoon, needing some fresh air and distraction, she dressed for walking. As she left the house by the main entrance—there was no sign of Malcom—she left her letter to Diana on the console table for mailing. Then, she set off to find the children, hoping their company would provide a balm for her troubled mind, even if only temporarily.

***

Malcom spent the afternoon taking a long walk, raging at himself for what he regarded as his weakness. Once again, he felt a failure, a man hardly in control of himself. Having to face Cassandra after the fiasco of the missed kiss left him feeling anxious. He worried that he may have done permanent damage to their growing connection. Would she skip out on dinner that evening to avoid him? Would they pay their usual visit to the music room together? How long would her patience last?

He was sunk in his gloomy thoughts when he happened to pass by a copse on the extreme northern edge of the estate. To his amazement, he suddenly heard among the trees the unmistakeable sound of his wife's laughter, mingled with the giggling of children.

Mystified, he took off his hat and crept into the trees, keeping himself out of sight. Through the branches, he spied a clearing in front of him and saw Cassandra. She appeared to be dancing. She was rosy cheeked and out of breath, yet at the same time, she was singing, and smiling, and laughing. She also seemed to be giving instruction or encouragement to someone he could not see. Filled with curiosity, Malcom hunkered down behind a bramble bush, set his hat down beside him, and positioned himself to get a better view of what his wife was up to.

Once he crouched down, he could clearly see she was accompanied by three children, a girl of around twelve and two smaller ones, a girl and a boy. He recognized them at once as belonging to the vicar of St. Giles. The church came within his demesne, and he himself had given their father, the Reverend Titus Clarke, the living five years earlier.

He also knew them because he had sent them packing from the estate grounds, where they had no business playing, on more than one occasion. Usually, he would have chased them off, cursing Dawkins his gamekeeper for failing to keep them out. But now, he was so entranced by the scene in front of him, he could think of nothing but how delightful it was and how utterly charming his wife looked as she demonstrated the steps of a French cotillion with the bigger girl, while the twins did their clumsy best to follow their lead.

"That's it, Lou, you are doing very well. Remember, just count, one, two, three, four and you will have it," Cassandra was saying breathlessly to the small ones, in between singing a musical accompaniment and dancing with the bigger girl. "And Lynn, you have got the arms just right, well done. Just make your steps a little bigger and go forward . . . very good!"

All this was punctuated by bursts of giggling from the children and peals of laughter from Cassandra and her young dance partner as they watched the twins massacre the stately old dance figure.

Finally, they took a pause, all of them panting and laughing. "You are really a wonderful dancer, Mary," Cassandra told the bigger girl, whom Malcom had concluded must be the twins' elder sister, for they all looked so alike.

"Thank you, Cassie, I do so love to dance, but if I am good as you say, then it is only because you are such a good teacher," Mary replied, hugging Cassandra's waist and leaning her head against her with obvious affection. Malcom's heart clenched. He was dumbfounded. Cassie?

"Nonsense, my dear, you are fit to grace the most splendid ballrooms in the land, I assure you," Cassandra told the child, stroking her hair tenderly before they parted.

"Even Lady Aston's?" Mary asked with a mischievous look.

"Most certainly Lady Aston's," Cassandra replied. They gave an exaggeratedly grand curtsey to each other and giggled.

Malcom watched on, for some bizarre reason, with a lump forming in his throat. When the twins ran to Cassandra and, one by one, she picked them up and whirled them around, eliciting shrieks of laughter, he felt pressure at the back of his eyes as if tears were ready to burst forth at any moment. He watched until he saw the dancers were preparing to disband and say their farewells.

While they were doing that, Malcom retrieved his hat and stealthily crept away, feeling a little bad for spying on her. He continued his walk slowly, his head full of new thoughts about his wife. But the overriding one was what a wonderful mother she would make.

So, bearing in mind his bungling of the kiss that morning, and now the heart-warming sight of Cassandra with the children, it was with some trepidation that Malcom went down to dinner that evening. He did not know what to expect from her. Fearing she might make a scene, he dismissed all the servants from the room, saying they would serve themselves.

But he need not have worried as it turned out, for as soon Cassandra joined him in the dining room, she smiled warmly at him. The tension in his body immediately lessened, and he found himself smiling back at her. She looked around.

"No servants this evening?"

"I thought we could see to ourselves. It seems an awful lot of fuss just for the two of us. I hope you don't mind." he told her.

"Of course not. I completely agree. It is a silly waste of everyone's time. I have always thought that if one is not capable of pouring oneself a glass of wine or putting a potato on one's plate then it is a sad state of affairs," she observed drily.

"If we both feel that way, then let us not bother with them in future," he suggested.

"Indeed, let us not. We need not be so grand."

That was music to Malcom's ears. "You are looking extremely well," he told her as he pulled out her chair for her to sit down. "You have colour in your cheeks. It suits you. As does that lovely gown you are wearing." She was looking striking in a red dress, with rubies at her ears and wrists, her fair hair worn in a sophisticated twist. Her ethereal beauty seemed to grow more entrancing daily.

She looked pleased at his words yet also looked at him a little warily. "You are very complimentary this evening, Malcom. Thank you. As to my cheeks, it must be the fresh air. I went out walking this afternoon." She looked up at him as he tucked her chair and then went to sit down himself. "You look very well yourself," she added, shaking out her napkin. "I think you have caught the sun a little."

"Yes, I have been walking too," he said, beginning to carve the joint of roast pork in front of him. "Did you go anywhere nice? Meet anyone to talk to? Some of the villagers perhaps?" He watched her carefully as she answered .

There was flicker of discomfort in her eyes as she said, "Oh, no, no one. I am not acquainted with anyone around here." Clearly, the lie sat uneasily with her. So why lie at all? Malcom served the meat, thinking he knew the answer. It seemed likely that the children knew her only as Cassie, not the Duchess of Lindenhall. Therefore, they had likely told her all about the horrible Beast of Lindenhall and how he had chased them from his land. She was lying to protect the children. In his eyes, that was admirable.

"How about you? Where did you walk? Did you speak to anyone on the way? One of your tenants perhaps?" she asked, serving up their vegetables, while Malcom filled their glasses with wine. He had been enjoying himself far more without the servants watching their every move, but her question put him on the spot.

"Um, no, I was quite alone. I went to the east fields and walked around the paths over there," he fibbed, feeling the prickle of guilt himself. She must never know he had been spying on her!

"Malcom, I was thinking of going to the church in the village for Sunday service," Cassandra suddenly said. "I think it is called St. Giles."

"Yes, it is. I appointed the Reverend there some years ago," he replied, wondering where she was going with her mark. "But it is really not necessary to attend. We have the chapel here." He himself seldom ventured to the village except on estate business, and never to the church, preferring to keep to himself wherever possible. In his experience, people usually wanted something from him which he was not prepared to give.

"Yes, and I have used it. But it is not the same without a vicar and a congregation, I find. I also thought I should introduce myself to the Reverend and his family—I am assuming he is a family man," she hastily added.

"Oh. Any particular reason why?"

Well, yes. I feel I am part of this community now, and I should like to get to know people. I thought that would be a good place to start." She paused for a moment, before adding, "And you are usually so busy during the days with the estate and your magistrate's duties, if I can make some acquaintances hereabouts, it will be company for me."

"Would you consider accompanying me to church one Sunday? I think it would be better to go together than alone. When I went into the village to post a letter recently, people looked at me strangely. But I am a stranger after all, so I suppose that is not surprising. But I did not like it. If they knew who I am, they might be less . . . reserved."

She looked at him so appealing, he almost gave in then and there. But his ingrained habit of solitude held him back.

"I shall think about it," he said eventually, to be rewarded with a small smile.

"Thank you. And Malcom?"

"Yes?" What now?

"I wanted to thank you for accompanying me on my ride this morning. It was far more interesting with you there to show me around. And the picnic was a lovely surprise." She dipped her lashes shyly. Malcom's heart squeezed.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he managed to answer, feeling his cheeks heating up. Pray to God she does not mention the almost-kiss! "We must ride out together again soon."

She beamed at him. "That would be lovely." His heart melted a little more.

After dinner, they repaired cheerfully to the music room. However, despite their enjoyment at making beautiful music together, Malcom was supremely conscious that something fundamental had changed between them. It was growing increasingly more difficult to sit next to her at the piano, to be thrilled by her voice, to try not to touch hands with her, without wanting to take her in his arms and kiss her.

The trouble was that the stronger the attraction grew, the more the little voice inside him told him he was unworthy of the happiness that caring for Cassandra promised, that he did not deserve it or her. Despite his increasing feelings for her, he realized his demons were still very much alive, and they were not going to give up without a fight.

But by the same token, he decided he would not either and that though he might still be struggling with the vengeful devils of his past, in the meantime, he could still find ways to make her happy. If she wanted company, then he would give her company.