Chapter 17

Seventeen

Nothing had gone according to plan at Duke's, and though Grant had at first laid all the blame at Cassie's feet, it didn't take him long to realize he had been the larger problem. Not her.

The moment he'd seen her walking through the roiling crowds at the boxing club, he'd been both incensed and vindicated—he'd known she would come. He'd been looking for her as soon as he'd stepped inside the warehouse. Telling her to stay away, that it was no place for a lady, might have worked for any other typical woman of quality, but for Cassandra Sinclair, it had been woefully inadequate. It been all but an invitation.

As Sir had searched the crowd for the high roller he regularly saw at boxing matches, Grant's mind had been on Cassie and whether she would come alone or with another—and who that other might be. Hugh had sensed his distraction and attempted to recapture it by knocking his elbow into his ribs.

"Are you listening? Youngdale is here." Hugh discreetly looked toward a grouping of men on another section of staging around the raised ring. Sir began to describe which one he was, but it wasn't necessary. The healing gashes along one man's cheek were all the proof Grant needed.

"We'll follow him after the match," Grant said, and he'd had every intention to do just that.

But then, a vision in dark rose pink had stolen his entire focus. Across the ring, Cassie had approached the staging opposite his with her younger brother and the nettlesome Mr. Forsythe.

She didn't see Grant right away as she took her seat, conversing mainly with Forsythe while Tobias stole sips from his pocket flask. That she would arrange to attend the boxing match with another man, one who was truly pressing his suit, pushed a thorn right into his side. It continued to grow and twist as the match began, his temper stoking only higher when Cassie at last saw him. He'd remained standing so that she would. The pleasure he'd taken in seeing her rattled, in watching her squirm, had been alarming, even to him. It had been disturbingly arousing to see the effect on her. And when Youngdale had taken notice of Cassie after the strike in the ring sent blood spattering onto her face, Grant hadn't been able to stay in his seat another moment.

He hadn't been there in the alley to protect her when she'd been attacked, and with Youngdale's eyes on Cassie again, Grant's sole desire had been to shield her. He'd been no better than a caveman dragging her away from Forsythe and Tobias, and the fight she'd put up had been just enough for him nearly lose his wits.

"I'll pour you another if you insist but trust me—it won't help erase whatever is eating at you," Hugh said from where he stood at his desk.

Grant had gone to Hugh's Berkeley Square home after leaving Cassie with Tobias in Limehouse. The viscount and Sir had shown up shortly afterward, though their expressions had said everything: they had not succeeded in following Youngdale.

"The blighter vanished like smoke," Sir had said.

All was not lost.

The previous day, while Grant had been cleaning up Tris's battered face, the driver had shared more about Isabel's aunt. He had a name and address, thanks to Isabel placing her trust in him, and Tris shared it in the hope that the aunt might know something. Grant and Hugh would visit the aunt, and perhaps she would know where to find Youngdale. Failing that, they would visit Youngdale's brother, the baronet. His residence had been listed in Debrett's, and if they could come up with a believable story, the baronet might reveal where his brother resided.

Hugh poured the third finger of whisky despite his warning and handed it to Grant. The two of them were alone, Sir having gone off to his room.

"Something tells me you're not pacing my study near to midnight because you are concerned for this missing woman."

"Of course I am concerned." He wasn't cruel or unfeeling.

However, his friend was correct. Isabel's unknown whereabouts wasn't why he'd downed his first and second fingers of whisky so quickly. With every next sip, he hoped the spirits would douse the coals in his gut.

Why couldn't he stop thinking about the reckless woman? He hadn't been this out of sorts for years. Not since the last time Cassie had twisted him up with a distorted tangle of irritation, amusement, and longing. That had been in Dover, when Audrey had been accused of murder, and Grant had followed Hugh to the seaside town to help in any way he possibly could. That Cassie had been detained alongside Audrey had, of course, been a concern too.

He lowered his glass of whisky.

Reflecting on that case, Grant allowed that he'd thought of Cassie more than a few times as he'd taken the Dover Road from London on horseback in freezing temperatures. He'd arrived no better than a block of ice. And Cassie's icy reception of him had put him in an irritable fit of pique. From then on, he'd been certain to cut with sarcasm and wound with acerbic wit. It had kept her loathing him. It had kept her at a good distance. Far enough away so that he couldn't begin to so much as like her.

Any proximity would be dangerous. She was dangerous, as was the way his body responded to her. No other woman—more experienced, worldly, or confident—did this to him. Made him feel mixed-up and in such disarray.

"All right, you're concerned," Hugh assented. "But you have another concern, and she consumed your entire focus tonight."

Grant swirled the whisky in his glass. His friend was correct. She had consumed his focus. He'd nearly lost control.

"Our conversation earlier in the park was cut short. What do you know about Renfry?" Hugh asked after another moment had passed. "Everything?"

"Everything." He put the glass to his lips, but then lowered it. "Including about Sweden."

Mentioning a baby explicitly would be too free. There was always the chance a footman or maid could be listening at the door.

The viscount's inspection narrowed. "She trusts you."

Grant heard another question underneath the statement: Why? He didn't have the answer to that. Cassie shouldn't have trusted him, not after the stunt he'd pulled with the false courtship. And yet, she'd willingly told him about Renfry and the baby. Albeit, the way she'd been acting since, she regretted doing so.

"Speak plainly, Marsden," Grant said irritably. "Say what you want to say."

"If you are aware of what happened with Renfry, then you will understand our concern for her."

"That I will misuse her the way he did?" Grant set down his whisky, no longer inclined to linger.

Hugh shook his head, but he still looked conflicted. "No, I know you will not. But you've made it clear in the past that marriage is not something you will revisit. Why are you spending time with her if you don't intend for anything serious, and what does it have to do with the marquess's demand that you marry?"

Grant had considered telling Hugh about his father's threat to cut him off. As he knew about the clinic, he would understand why Grant needed that money, and he would have most likely offered to fund it himself. But he could not have accepted his friend's charity. Grant's pride was too damn fierce for it. Applying to a benefactress like Madame Archambeau, with whom he did not have any ties, was much more palatable.

The knocker on the front door slammed down three times, saving him from answering Hugh's question. In the quiet of the house, it was as loud as a pistol shot. Hugh went to the entrance hall, to see who could be calling at such an hour. Grant followed, and they arrived in time to see Basil, Hugh's valet, approaching the door.

"Where is that lazy footman?" Basil asked, exasperated. "I am a valet; I am not supposed to be opening doors."

He wore his nightrobe and a cap, and if Grant had to wager, he'd been on his way to the kitchens for a midnight sweet.

"The viscount is more than capable of opening said door if the valet thinks it is too beneath him," Hugh grumbled.

"If it is beneath me—and it is—then it is miles beneath yourself. A viscount should never open his own front door." Basil rushed to beat Hugh to it, muttering under his breath. He and his longtime valet often traded barbs. In fact, it seemed to be their preferred method of communication. However, Hugh would never have dismissed Basil; the valet's fussy loftiness could not mask his true affection for the viscount, and as Basil was with him long before he became a peer, Hugh trusted him implicitly.

Basil whisked the door open, and standing on the front step, wearing a dark velvet cloak, was a woman. The hood was pulled up around her so thoroughly, it nearly engulfed her face.

"May I help you, my lady?" Basil intoned, his request drenched with annoyance.

She pushed back her hood, and Grant swore under his breath.

"Cassie?" Hugh crossed the entrance hall as Basil stepped aside, allowing her to enter. As soon as she did, she set eyes on Grant and came to a halt.

"I didn't know you would be here," she said.

He hardened himself to her obvious disappointment and said nothing.

"What are you doing out at this hour?" Hugh asked. "Has something happened?"

She hesitated as she looked at Grant, but then commenced removing her cloak. Basil collected it and her gloves, and then with a raised brow—likely of censure—moved off. Cassie started for Hugh's study with all the familiarity of a frequent guest. "I was followed home from Duke's."

Grant went rigid. "Followed by whom?"

Hugh shut them into the study after asking Basil to summon the viscountess.

Cassie went directly toward the fire. She was still wearing the dress from the boxing match, but her face had been cleaned of any blood, and her hair had been loosened and plaited into a single thick braid. It rested over her shoulder. "I have no proof, but I believe it was Mr. Youngdale."

Grant stalked to the window and peered outside into the square but saw no conveyances outside the viscount's home. Not even Cassie's.

"Tell me you did not walk here," he said, letting the curtain drop. Her home was less than a five-minute stroll from Hugh's, the two squares adjacent to one another. But it was late, and if she'd been followed, whoever it had been might still have been hanging about.

"If it would make you less upset, then no, I didn't walk." She paused. "But you should know that is a lie."

Grant flexed his hands into fists. What had she been thinking, going out alone?

"Why would he follow you?" Hugh asked before Grant could react. The viscount's ability to remain focused on the immediate problem only highlighted Grant's own much narrower focus. It converged entirely on the woman holding her hands to the flames.

"That is my question too," she replied. "If Mr. Youngdale has Isabel, why would he care to follow me?"

"You've likely left his face scarred," Grant reminded her. "He could be interested in revenge."

"Whatever the reason, he now knows where you live," Hugh said with a heavy sigh. He tossed back the rest of his drink.

Cassie wrapped her arms around herself with an appropriate amount of apprehension. "That is why I came here. I instructed my footmen to lock the doors and windows and not allow anyone inside for the time being, but I didn't want to stay there tonight."

"Fournier will hear of it soon," Grant said.

Cassie grimaced. "I am aware of that, thank you."

"If you'd simply stayed away from Duke's, like I asked, this wouldn't have happened." The moment he said the words, he regretted them.

Her fingers tightened where they clutched her arms. "You have already made yourself perfectly clear on that point, Lord Thornton. Would you please stop harping before I am driven to slit my wrists?"

"I'll stop when I believe a modicum of good sense has leaked its way into your reckless mind."

Her eyes flashed. "Do not boss me about! You have no right."

"Even if it is for your own good? Your own safety?"

"I will decide what is and isn't safe, for myself!"

"You've done a hell of a job of that so far!"

Their shouts ebbed, and at a soft clearing of a throat, Grant belatedly remembered they weren't alone. At the study doors. Audrey stood with Hugh, and they looked on with interest.

Cassie turned away and attempted to compose herself.

"Cassie will be staying with us tonight," Hugh murmured to Audrey, who looked intrigued but refrained from questions.

"Of course. I will tell Mrs. Carrigan to prepare your guest room," the viscountess said, then, with a hand to her husband's arm, added, "There is a matter I'd like to discuss, if you have a moment?"

Hugh showed reluctance to leave the study, but with a sharp look from his wife, conceded. It was evident Audrey only wanted to draw him away to give Grant and Cassie a moment alone.

Once they were, and the flames crackling in the hearth were the only sounds in the room, his storming temper calmed. He'd probably looked and sounded deranged just now. Running a hand through his hair, he blew out a gust of air.

"I'm sorry," he said, breaking the silence. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."

She eyed him warily, as though questioning if the apology was genuine. Grant went to Hugh's desk and poured her a finger of whisky. The other night at Thornton House, she'd seemed more settled when she held something in her hands.

He brought it to her, and she accepted, her fingers closing around the cut crystal. He'd never truly observed her hands before. They were small, her fingers slim and dainty. For a heartbeat, he recalled the press of them against his chest in Lady Dutton's closet. He dashed the image away.

"I don't usually raise my voice," he said. It was true. He found a silver-tongued remark, or some well-timed sarcasm could be just as effective. More so, even. But with Cassie… his temper had never fluctuated so rapidly or easily.

"Neither do I," she said, absentmindedly sliding a fingertip over the rim of the glass. "Well, that's not necessarily true, I do shout. Though usually just at Michael."

Grant wasn't entirely certain he liked being lumped in with her brother.

But at least for the moment they'd found a tenuous peace.

"Youngdale attacked you in that alley, and now he may have followed you home." When Cassie began to rise to her own defense again, he held up a hand. "I don't want any harm to come to you, that is why I get angry. When I think of any man hurting you, causing you any pain, I want to crush him in my bare hands." At the awed parting of her lips, he caught himself. "Forgive me for being a boorish male."

She deflated, the argument she'd been about to commence fizzling. Instead, she took a deep sip of her whisky and shrugged.

"If you can apologize, I suppose I can make the effort as well." She gathered a breath. "I wasn't needed at Duke's. My presence there made no difference and likely made things worse. I'm sorry." She spoke hurriedly, and then took another sip of her drink. To chase away the discomfort of the apology, he imagined. Grant tried to suppress a smile, but she still saw it.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Not at all, but did that apology draw blood? It looked painful."

Cassie affected insult but let out a light laugh. Some of the tension left his shoulders.

"I like the sound of that."

She continued to smile. "Of what?"

"Your laughter. I haven't heard it in a while."

He remembered one time in particular when he'd raced her to the top of the Grand Shaft in Dover; she'd tripped on a step, and when he'd caught her, she'd giggled. It had been utterly girlish and so unlike her that he'd worn a wide grin the rest of the way to the top. They'd arrived gasping for air and in between gasps, argued over who had won. It seemed ages ago now. Another lifetime.

And yet, even then, she'd been keeping her secret about Renfry and the baby. Cassie was a mother. One who had been forced to make a heartbreaking sacrifice. Her pain had to be fathomless. He wished he could fix it. Take it away or make it better somehow.

Grant realized she was no longer smiling. Neither was he. They stood in close conference in front of the fire, the flames lighting half of her in a golden dance.

"There aren't many reasons to laugh lately," Cassie said.

He was suddenly desperate to make her smile again. To make her laugh. The corners of her eyes bowed upward whenever she did, and the bridge of her nose crinkled adorably.

"I want to change that," he said, before he could think.

She cocked her head. "Why?"

His immediate answer was simple: Because he wanted her to be happy. But there was much more to it. Why did he care about her happiness? Why did the things she thought and felt seem to rule him as of late?

And why did his attention keep diverting to her mouth?

On impulse, he reached for her. His hand brushed tentatively against the deep rose silk. To touch her was the only thought firing into his brain. Once his fingertips made contact, Cassie's lips, which he'd been so studiously watching, parted. Grant filled his palm with silk as he pressed his hand against her hip, the same way he had at the clinic. Her top teeth bit the soft mound of her bottom lip, and her whisky glass, loose in her grip, tipped. He caught the glass, supporting her fingers around it.

"Grant," she whispered.

He gently prized the glass from her and placed it on the mantel, his full attention never leaving her eyes. Her breaths shortened, and her pulse visibly beat against the curve of her throat. He placed his fingertips against her warm skin there and felt the quickened throb.

"Cassie." He heard his voice, but it was trancelike. Far away and muffled. He hardly recognized it.

She didn't respond, but kept her face lifted to his. As her eyes dipped toward his mouth, he read the unmistakable invitation. Stronger and surer than the one in her eyes the other night in his study. He'd resisted then. He should now, too, but as the tip of his nose came against hers, and her warm breaths gusted against his mouth, the last scrap of Grant's resistance foundered. His lips grazed hers.

He'd intended for a gentle, appraising kiss, to give her the chance to pull back or push him away. But at the first caress of her velvet lips, all gentlemanly intentions dissolved. He fused his mouth to hers, and the fingers gathering the silk at her hip dug in and hitched her closer. Grant reveled in the feel of her body pressed against his, and in her soft, decadent whimper when he impatiently nudged her lips apart. In a strike of victory, Cassie's indecision evaporated. Her tongue met his, and the world around them fragmented and fell away. There was only Cassie and her mouth and her sumptuous figure, sealing itself to him. The smoked spice of whisky on her tongue curled through him as he consumed her kisses, one after another, each rising in fevered need. He filled his palms with as much of her body as he could, spending an ungodly amount of attention to the lush swells of her backside.

Breathless and mindless, he barely stopped himself from sweeping her feet from the floor and cradling her into his arms. This wasn't his house. He couldn't toss her over his shoulder and climb to his room where he'd lay her down on his bed, peel the silk from her body and sink into her. He groaned at the sinful image. Cassie, feeling the vibration of it, gasped into his mouth. Her palms, braced against his shoulders, slid down his chest. Then lower, against his stomach. Any more of this and he wouldn't be able to stop.

With more fortitude than he'd ever shown in his life, Grant clamped his hands down over hers and broke away from her mouth. Her swollen, pink lips competed with the invading reality that this was Hugh's study, and that he or Audrey or one of their nosy servants could come barging in at any moment. She breathed heavily, her eyes two smoldering coals as she came down from the same frenzy.

"Cassie," he said again, his own breaths ragged.

He wasn't given a chance to say anything more. Sprightly footfalls in the entrance hall beyond the closed study doors drove them to release each other. Grant raked a hand through his hair and scrubbed at his mouth as Cassie whirled toward the fireplace to straighten her gown and hair. He was smoothing the lapel of his jacket when Hugh entered, followed closely by his housekeeper, Mrs. Carrigan.

"Cassie, your room is ready. Thornton, Norris can drive you back to your home?—"

"I will walk," Grant interrupted him, desperate for the cold air to douse the fire consuming his good sense.

"You're sure?" Hugh asked.

"It's less than a mile, I'll be fine," he said, far too abruptly to be anything other than suspicious. He turned his back on Hugh's narrowing stare and met Cassie's red-cheeked and red-lipped face. Hugh would certainly recognize the complexion of a recently plundered mouth. Christ. Grant bowed. "Good night, Lady Cassandra."

"Lord Thornton," she said, still rather breathless.

He left without a glance toward his friend, though he felt Hugh's eyes on him. As he collected his coat and hat, and then emerged into the brisk December night air, he could still taste Cassie on his tongue. Could still feel her warm body against his. Bloody hell. Grant walked faster, the notion that everything was about to go to shit snapping at his heels.