Chapter 10

Ten

Ahand clapped down onto Grant's shoulder and shoved him. He'd been taking a sip of wine, and now, a splash crested the rim of the glass and wet his upper lip. It nearly dribbled down his chin, onto his snowy cravat.

"Christ," he hissed when he saw the man who'd come to his side.

"Having a difficult time drinking, Thornton? Perhaps you should've remained in the nursery." Hugh Marsden, the Viscount Neatham, chuckled as Grant brought out a kerchief to wipe his mouth.

"What in hell are you doing here?" he asked, cursing his friend's wretched timing.

He shot a look out into the crowd, just as he'd been doing since he arrived a half hour ago. Lady Tennenbright's gala was packed to the crown moulding with members of the ton, but so far, the person for whom he had attended had yet to arrive.

"Your tender greeting warms my heart," Hugh replied.

"You're supposed to be at Cranleigh."

Not here, in London, where he would bear witness to the arrangement Grant had all but strongarmed Cassie into.

Hugh looked out into the crowd with a pinch of distaste. He wasn't fond of such events. Raised as the illegitimate ward of the late Viscount Neatham, Hugh had lived most of his life on the fringes of society, cast out as a good-for-nothing blackguard. He'd been an officer at Bow Street when he'd met Audrey Sinclair, then the Duchess of Fournier, who at the time had been married to the previous duke. Right from the start, Grant had seen his friend's interest in the duchess, even though it had taken Hugh some more time before he'd admitted it to himself. But though Audrey and the duke had married out of friendship, and the duke's romantic interest lay with men, she'd still been the wife of a peer—and thoroughly off-limits. The duke's untimely death had given Hugh and Audrey the opportunity to be together, and now, they were living in happily wedded bliss with their young daughter, Catherine.

"Audrey and I have returned to Town for Christmas, and her sister, Lady Montague, wished for her to attend tonight," he explained. Then, he glanced toward Grant suspiciously. "But what of you? Did you take a wrong turn somewhere and arrive at a society ball by mistake?"

Grant sipped his wine again. Hugh knew his habits and his preference for events hosted by demimonde rather than ton.

"I thought a change to the routine would be beneficial," he answered.

"Beneficial for whom?"

Grant lowered his glass. Being vague with a former Bow Street officer as sharp as Hugh Marsden was destined to fail. His friend was going to learn of it anyhow. Best be out with it.

He parted his lips but faltered on the first syllable. And then, he ceased speaking all together. Across the room, a throng of guests parted, and Cassie appeared.

Her chin was high, her eyes searching the ballroom floor. For him, he imagined. Hours after Cassie had left the Church Street clinic, his palm had continued to feel the soft, firm curve of her hip that he'd gripped through her gown. He'd lost his bloody mind, touching her like that. And yet, he'd been a man possessed. Had Tris not come clomping down the stairs to interrupt the heated moment, Grant would have taken Cassie's lips in a kiss. He might have done worse. And from the little moan she'd emitted when he'd pulled his thumb across her perfectly lush bottom lip, she would have allowed worse. The sound still echoed in his ears.

She hadn't come to the ball alone. Fournier and the duchess stood nearby, as did Cassie's other brother, Tobias. The midnight blue, satin gown she wore accentuated her figure with precision, drawing Grant's attention to her modest, yet delectable bosom.

No. No, no, no, he had to get his head on straight.

He'd tried the last two nights to do just that. After leaving the clinic, he'd gone to the Fallen Arch in search of Miss Martha Devereaux, whom he had an off and on again, no-feelings-attached arrangement. She was a bit scandalous and tended to fall for married men. However, she also had a weakness for widowers. She'd not been at the club the first night, and though there had been plenty of other women there to take his mind from Cassie, the first such woman to sit in his lap had laughed too shrilly for him to endure her attentions for more than one minute. He'd left, cured of the painful attraction that had nearly blinded him at the clinic when he'd been so close to Cassie.

The second night, he'd forgone the club altogether and sent a note to Martha directly. However, after she arrived, something happened that had never happened before—her usual charms failed to entice.

"I'm not feeling myself, I'm afraid," he'd told her. She'd peered at him with concern, even offering to nurse him back to health—sans clothing. But in the end, he'd made his excuses, and she'd left after a drink.

What in hell was wrong with him?

"Are you going to answer me?" Hugh asked.

Grant couldn't even recall the question. He passed his empty wine glass to Hugh. "Excuse me," he said, and started across the ballroom floor.

Cassie spotted him several strides in, the flare of her eyes doing something unwholesome to him. She appeared nervous as he came through the crowds, directly toward her. He shouldn't have liked the influence he had over her, the upper hand he'd secured in this game. But he needed to maintain it. And that meant not giving in to the physical desire he felt for her.

Grant came to a stop in front of her and bowed his head. "Lady Cassandra."

Fournier came forward. "Ah, Thornton. Good evening."

He greeted the duke with another bow. "Your Grace." In any other circumstances, such formality wouldn't be necessary; he and Fournier were well acquainted already. But considering what he was about to do, the show of respect was vital.

Grant turned back to Cassie. "May I have the next dance, Lady Cassandra?"

Pink seared the apples of her cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he witnessed the duchess, Genie, lifting a gloved palm to her chest, as if in surprise. Fournier cleared his throat, and Tobias's forehead crinkled in surprise. None of them spoke. Not even Cassie.

Grant waited, holding her ever widening gaze. He had no plan for what he'd do should she not respond. To give him the cut so publicly would surely be satisfying for her, especially if she'd gone home Saturday in a high dudgeon. She'd had plenty of time to stew about his taking liberties, as she'd clearly stated were off the table. Was this her revenge?

Just when he thought he might have to employ some sarcastic quip to salvage his pride, Cassie murmured, "Yes."

His breath went out at the single word, which was fortuitously punctuated by the first strains of a waltz. Grant held out his hand, and Cassie fed her fingers into it. They joined a few other couples already in the center of the dancefloor, his palm settling on her upper back. His other hand gripped hers as they extended their arms.

"You enjoyed making me sweat back there," he murmured as they commenced.

She moved skillfully, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Her eyes would not meet his. "I wager no woman has ever made you sweat, Lord Thornton. You always get exactly what you want, don't you?"

All right then. She was angry. Rightfully so, he supposed.

"No one gets everything they want, my lady," he replied as their legs moved in time, taking them in an expanding twirl around the ballroom. "For instance, I did not want Hugh and Audrey to return to London just now. Low and behold, they are here."

She flicked a devilish look up at him. "Worried the viscount will think you a scoundrel?"

"He already knows I am. That's not what worries me."

"Then what does?"

"He knows me better than anyone. He'll figure out what we're doing, fast."

"Do not imply that I am your willing cohort." She skewered him with a glare. Then quickly softened it, likely recalling they were supposed to be taking their first dance together as a newly smitten couple.

Grant's eyes scraped the periphery of the ballroom floor and landed on Hugh Marsden. His friend stood with his viscountess at his side, the pair of them watching Grant and Cassie with matching concern.

"I cannot lie well to Hugh," he admitted through gritted teeth, wanting to keep his lips from forming words. Here, lip-reading was as much a skill as embroidery or playing the pianoforte.

"So long as you can successfully deceive the marquess, that is all that matters, isn't it?" she replied.

The word deceive struck him low in the gut. However, he would allow it to stand. Yes, he would deceive his father and without an ounce of remorse.

"You keep pretending this won't be beneficial for you as well," he replied. "Two more waltzes tonight, and Fournier may well dance a jig all the way home."

Under his hand upon her back, he felt the spasm of a laugh, quickly swallowed. The twinge of victory at having made her laugh was short lived.

"You do not know my brother," she said. "As I've already said, he thinks you are a degenerate. He won't approve of any courtship, especially one that lasts for more than two weeks. Your plan is faulty, sir."

They spun, and the close hold required for the waltz brought the front of Cassie's body into contact with his. He moved his palm inward on her back. Hell, he wished he wore no gloves so his fingertips could touch her bare, soft skin. Cassie's fingers tensed on his shoulder.

"Yesterday…at my office," he began, intending to apologize.

"Please, don't speak of it."

He peered down at her, but she was staring at his cravat. "Why not?"

"It was a mistake."

It was the same thing he had told himself time and again since it happened. And yet now his response was: "It didn't feel like a mistake."

Her attention lifted from the neckcloth knot, and he had a mere second to appear confident in his assertion rather than panicked. Why had he said that?

"It was, I assure you. And no, this isn't beneficial for me. Whispers will begin that we are attached?—"

"That is the plan," he said, spinning her toward a less populated portion of the dancefloor.

"No, that is your plan, and you've twisted my arm into helping you. Hope House is my purpose, it's my life, and I won't allow you and your loose tongue to ruin it."

"Cassie, you're losing your temper," he warned, catching a glimpse of the duke's hard stare from the other side of the dance floor. Grant peeled her a few inches away from his chest.

"What do you care, so long as you get your courtship? Yes, I am going along with it, but I know exactly what sort of man you are."

He slowed them now that they'd reached the outer edge of dancing couples. "What sort is that, exactly? And softly, if you please, I've no wish to read our conversation in All the Chatter tomorrow."

Nonetheless, the popular gossip rag would surely feature their intense waltz. They continued to hold each other in the waltz pose, taking languid turns around a small section of ballroom floor. "The kind of man who is ruled by whim and desire and privilege," she answered.

He came to a stop and led her from the floor, toward a potted palm and two wallflowers sipping punch alone in their chairs. They had but a moment before someone descended upon them. "What is this all about? You're furious with me right now, and not just because of this scheme."

"Of course it is."

"Then where was this fury of yours yesterday in my office when you wanted me to kiss you?"

She sucked in a breath. "I did not."

"Do not lie. You wanted it as much as I did."

Cassie's teeth bit her bottom lip, directing his attention there. And then, they were no longer alone.

"Lady Cassandra." A male voice pierced the hot bubble that had formed around them. Grant dragged in a breath and turned to see Mr. Forsythe. God save him, Grant wanted to knock out the grinning fool's front teeth.

Cassie, too, inhaled sharply, and pasted on a bright smile for the baron's heir. "Good evening, Mr. Forsythe. What a pleasure that you're here."

The warm and enthusiastic greeting was a blade between Grant's ribs.

"May I have the next dance, my lady?" Forsythe asked with an overindulgent bow in which his forehead practically bounced off the floor.

Cassie twisted the blade between Grant's ribs as she held her hand out. "That would be lovely."

Without a word, Grant jerked his head in a terse bow as she left, admitting defeat. For the moment. The woman knew how to get under his skin and work him to a simmer. But he was not deterred. He would have his next two dances and secure the wagging of tongues across London by morning, even if he had to murder Forsythe and then stuff his body in the cloakroom to get him out of the way.

"What is it you think you are doing?"

Grant didn't flinch this time as Hugh joined him. The viscount's voice was low and serious.

"I merely asked the lady to dance," Grant answered as he watched Cassie and Mr. Forsythe join the next set, which was, to Grant's pleasure, a quadrille. Something she'd confessed to hating.

"You cannot dally with Cassandra, you idiot," Hugh bit off.

Audrey kept a troubled eye on their conversation from where she and her sister, Lady Montague, stood with their hostess, Lady Tennenbright.

"I have no plans to." He couldn't dupe Cassie when she was informed of everything.

Hugh signaled a passing server and took a glass of wine. "I've been in Surrey too long. What is going on between the two of you?"

"I can't share all my sordid secrets with you," Grant said blithely, though it would not pass muster. Not with Hugh. He was entirely aware that he was on a collision course with his friend's true anger.

"You are my closest friend, Thornton," Hugh began. "But if you hurt Cassie, I will knock your teeth out."

Grant split his attention from Cassie's vexed expression as she spun in and out of line for the quadrille, changing partners here and there. He met Hugh's unyielding stare. He was as serious as anything.

"You're awfully protective."

"Audrey adores her. She's a sister to her." Hugh took a breath, then a sip of wine. "And she's been hurt before."

Grant came alert, interest zinging along the back of his neck, up his scalp. "When? By whom?"

Hugh's humorless expression changed to one of smug mischief. "I can't share all my sordid secrets with you."

He wasn't amused. "What happened?"

"Not for me to say. Just mind yourself." He started away, toward his wife. Then stopped and added, "If you aren't serious about her, do not cross the line. I don't want to have to be your second when Fournier calls you out."