Chapter 8

Eight

The kitchen at the Church Street clinic was starting to look lived in. Grant had come by to check in on Isabel and Tris each day for the last two days, the first time in late morning, the second day, in the late afternoon. Each time, Cassie had not been there. Instead, he'd found Tris and Isabel in the kitchen together, attempting to cook.

"She can hardly boil water." The driver's good-natured complaint elicited a mock gasp of insult from the young woman.

"How am I to know? I've never needed to learn!" she'd said with a laugh.

That one exchange had left Grant in no doubt—Isabel was quality. Which meant the man she was running from was quality too. Thankfully, she appeared less fearful with Tris. The two were getting on well.

It was improper for a young lady of her class to be living in a house, alone with a man. A man of a servant's status at that. However, whatever qualms Grant had about the arrangement were alleviated by the incontestable fact that the young lady was with child, unmarried, and thus, already thoroughly ruined.

"Miss Banks has already been by, along with Miss Khan," Tris told him on the third day. Grant had gone to the clinic under the pretenses of restocking a supply shelf, when in truth, he'd hoped to find Cassie there. It had been two full days since she'd pitched a glass of brandy at his head. Two days since he'd abandoned all honor and given her a wretched choice: agree to his plan or suffer the consequences.

Telling Fournier about Hope House would cement Cassie's hatred for Grant, and he didn't want that. What he wanted was a temporary reprieve from the godawful matchmaking his father had commenced.

The dinner Grant had forced himself to attend after leaving Cassie's home had been tortuous. Two simpering young ladies of modest means, and even more modest appearances, along with their overeager mothers and disinterested fathers had been placed near him at the marquess's dinner table. Thankfully, the ladies had barely said a word to Grant, preferring instead to flay each other with resentful glares. The two mothers played at the competition as well, lauding their daughters with increasingly ludicrous claims of beauty and talent. All the while, Grant sipped copious amounts of wine—and thought of Cassie in her study.

Her arm had trembled when pouring herself the brandy that would eventually come sailing at his head. Had it been pure anger that made her shake? Her sharpened pupils and quick breaths had resembled panic more than fury. Until, of course, he'd made his ultimatum. Then it had been open and unquenchable rage. With her temper pinking her cheeks, her berry red lips parted with the urge to scream, Grant had felt the virago's desire to do him bodily harm. To come at him, fists flailing, legs kicking, teeth snapping. And strangely enough, he'd wanted her to try.

Seated at the marquess's dinner table, pointedly ignoring the company, he'd felt the stirring of his blood. The thickening of breath in his lungs. Had she launched herself at him, rather than the glass of brandy, he was quite sure he'd have enjoyed the resulting tussle.

It was that imaginary wrangling that had kept his blood high, and his mind locked on Cassie Sinclair, the last two days as he went from Church Street to Hope House and back again, failing to cross paths with her at any point.

Thinking she might be hiding from him inside her little office, he'd sneaked to it after leaving Dorie. He'd peeked behind her desk to be sure she wasn't crouching—something he could picture her doing—and had seen a ledger, open on the desk. He had no excuse other than bald curiosity for picking it up and running through the columns. Cassie, it appeared, oversaw Hope House's financials, and what he'd seen wasn't good. They were operating on next to nothing. He'd put the ledger back as he'd found it and mused over what more he might be able to offer her in exchange for agreeing to a false courtship. But she had too much damn pride to take his money, even if she was in desperate need of it.

The stubborn woman would come to her senses. The courtship would be merely a temporary ruse to alleviate the pressure from the marquess, but also from the duke. Yes, she had a point—Fournier might not favor the suit of a man with a reputation like Grant's. But he was also in no position to disallow the match, not with Cassie having surpassed her majority. She was still young, barely twenty-three. Hell, when he'd been her age, he had not yet even met Sarah. In comparison, at thirty-two, he felt like an old man. As if he'd been run through the mill a time or two, emerging calloused and weary.

Or perhaps that was just due to the last two nights of miserable sleep.

He left Church Street after making sure Tris and Isabel had enough food to sustain them, and to warn them that come Saturday morning, the free clinic would be open for business. During that time, it would be best if they remained in the upstairs rooms. The fever Dorie had started to recover from was still running through the East End and there was sure to be some patients coming in with symptoms.

When his carriage was about to turn toward St. James's Square, Grant's impatience with Cassie's silence abruptly ended. Her residence wasn't very far from his own. He slammed a fist against the wall.

"Grosvenor Square, Merryton," he called to his driver. "Number twelve."

Calling on Cassie in the early evening and in full view of passersby on one of London's most fashionable squares would set tongues wagging—and in the direction Grant wanted.

He descended from the carriage, and to his luck, Lord and Lady Stanwick were strolling toward him on the pavements. He bowed and greeted them before approaching the front door to number twelve. Glimpsing over his shoulder, he saw the lady facing forward again. He grinned, knowing she'd seen his intended destination.

The front door opened, revealing a footman.

"Lord Grant Thornton to see Lady Cassandra," he said.

"Her ladyship is out, my lord. Would you care to leave your card?"

Out?

"Out where?"

At the impertinent question, the footman pressed down a brow in disapproval. Grant flashed what he hoped looked like a reticent smile. "I only ask because I have an important message for her, from the Viscountess Neatham. It is urgent," he added. "Very urgent. I've been tasked with finding Lady Cassandra. Right now."

With every ridiculous additional plea, the skepticism drifted from the footman's pressed brow. He clearly knew the viscountess and Cassie were close. Hugh and Audrey, however, had been in Surrey as of late, and Grant hadn't heard a peep from them in weeks.

"Her ladyship has recently left for the King's Theatre, my lord."

Grant thanked him and returned to his carriage, his mind cranking through possibilities. Cassie may have used the opera as an excuse and was instead on her way to Crispin Street. Or she might actually be attending the performance tonight. The Duenna, if he wasn't mistaken. The marquess kept a box there, and at dinner the other evening, had attempted to draw Grant into inviting one of the debs to attend with him. Ballocks to that. However, now the theatre practically glowed like a beacon.

"Home, Merryton," he said to his driver before jumping into the carriage.

If he was attending the opera, he needed to make himself presentable.

He arriveda half hour into the first act, but to his credit, he wasn't the only one. Operagoers were mingling in the foyer and in the corridors outside the house floor as Grant found his way to his father's rented box. For many, the performance was a backdrop for the true entertainment of the night—social gossip. The lighting in the house was not even fully dimmed when the orchestra in the pit began to play and the actors took to the stage. How then would the attendees be able to see who was with whom? The whispered hum of voices underneath the music always grated on Grant's nerves. People would continue to talk, uncaring of the performance unfolding on the stage. It was one of the reasons he didn't often utilize his father's box. The other reason greeted him the moment he opened the arched door and stepped inside.

The Marquess of Lindstrom twisted to see who had just joined him, a grimace fixed to the hard lines of his face.

"I see you came alone," he said, relaxing into his seat again. There were six in total in the box, which was raised three tiers above the house.

Grant removed his hat. "I thought we could have some quality father-son time."

The marquess grunted, refusing to respond to the obvious sarcasm. "Miss Green's two older sisters have born six males between them," he said. "If you are wise, you will press your suit."

"Which one was Miss Green? The one with the overly large teeth or the one whose right shoulder was higher than the left?"

Grant took the cushioned seat next to his father. He couldn't help himself; provoking him was as natural as breathing. After spending most of his youth trying, and failing, to earn even just a sliver of the marquess's regard, Grant had given up. And then he'd discovered the one thing he could never fail at with his father: needling him.

"You aren't taking my directive seriously," the marquess said. "The lady's appearance does not signify. The Lindstrom title has been in our direct lineage for five generations, and I will not see it diverted, even when I am in the grave."

Grant exhaled, having grown accustomed to this little speech. He also knew how to cut it off at its knees.

"Which one is your tart?" he asked his father, gesturing loosely toward the stage. Lindstrom was about as fond of the theatre as Grant. The only reason for him to be here, alone, would be to take in the performance of his current mistress. Actresses were his preference, though at times, he strayed to widows and even the occasional courtesan. Twenty years the marchioness had been dead, taken by influenza, but the marquess had never remarried. He hadn't needed to, what with four sons. With spare heirs aplenty, the title had been secure. Until now.

"Do not be crass," the marquess grumbled. "Why are you here?"

"I love shrill voices."

Grant leaned forward and swept a look toward the Duke of Fournier's usual rented box along the fourth tier. Four people occupied it, but only one captured his full attention. Cassie's hair had been braided into a golden crown winking with diamond pins. Her silver gown glittered with crystals too. She stared straight ahead, toward the stage, her gloved hand resting on the railing. She looked to be utterly entranced by the performance—and completely oblivious to the man seated beside her, utterly entranced by her.

Who the bloody hell was she with?

Behind them sat the duke and duchess, and the choice of seating could not have been any more transparent. Cassie and the mysterious gentleman were on full view for all to see and report upon.

"Christ in hell," Grant muttered. He sat back and pulled at the tall stock and cravat his valet, Clayton, had fashioned in the only way Grant allowed: irresponsibly loose.

"Did you hear me, boy?" The marquess was a gnat in his ear. He'd been saying something about Miss Green's several nephews while Grant had stared at the man seated with Cassie.

"Who is that man in Fournier's box?" Grant asked.

His father had an eye for beautiful women and found Cassie easily enough.

"Alaric Forsythe. Heir of the Baron Forsythe. Why?" Lindstrom huffed a mocking laugh. "Have you diddled with his intended?"

A hot blaze ran up Grant's back, under his tailored coat. The muscles in his legs tightened, ready to spring him to his feet. "Intended?"

"I heard it at Brooks's. He plans to make an offer. The duke is more than amenable. A good thing too. I'm told the chit needs to be taken in hand."

Heat continued to build under Grant's jacket as he stared across the house. She damn well did need to be taken in hand. Not one mention of this Forsythe fellow had crossed her lips. Had he been the one she'd been running from the other week at Lady Dutton's ball? If so, why would she agree to attend the opera with him now?

Grant held his glare on Cassie. He willed her to feel the burn of his attention, to break her concentration from the stage and seek out the source of the eyes searing holes into the side of her devious face. He'd stood in her study a few nights ago and proposed a courtship. A fake one, yes, but the little pest could have at least done him the honor of mentioning that she was already courting someone.

He did not relent, even when his father snapped at him to stop staring like a madman. Finally, awareness distracted her gaze from the stage. Cassie turned her head to search the crowds seated below. She held still, then at last lifted her eyes. As if pulled by some magnetic force, they collided with his. Surprise rippled over her countenance, and her lips parted. She retracted her hand from the railing, as if Grant had reached across the void between them and touched it.

Forsythe, ignorant to her astonishment, said something, and she used the excuse to nip her eyes away from Grant. She tried to ignore him for another full minute but gave in and sneaked a peek in his direction. He had not so much as blinked.

She bridled, her lips forming a tight seam. Pleasure at vexing her sealed him to his seat, and he settled in for the remainder of the first act. He didn't pay an ounce of attention to the operatic performance, and he noticed Cassie's fixed concentration faltered too. The few times she peered toward the Lindstrom box, it was to find Grant still watching her, which only made her narrow her eyes on him further. Then there was the baron's son, Mr. Forsythe, and the bothersome way he kept leaning toward her ear. He was smitten with her, no doubt. The fool.

The curtain closed on the first act, and Grant shot to his feet, determined to hunt Cassie down in the corridors.

"Miss Green," the marquess said.

Grant stopped and stared at his father. "What?"

"You will call on Miss Green." He showed the bottom row of his teeth, the way he did whenever he had reached the limitations of his temper.

There was nothing to do but smile tightly, so Grant did and, without agreeing, left the box. Arguing with his father wasn't more important than tracking down Cassie and pressing her for answers. The crowds were thick in the narrow, carpeted halls circling the house, and it was slow going as he slipped between men and women, making apologies when he brushed against them. Cassie would not stay in Fournier's box for the intermission. Forsythe, the lovesick idiot, would want to fetch her punch or the like, and she would not wish to remain where Grant would know where to find her.

So, he made for the base of the stairs that came down from the fourth-tier boxes. He arrived just in time to see her emerge into the crowd, her swanlike neck craning in search of him. As soon as her eyes clapped onto him, she spun and disappeared into another throng of black evening suits.

The hunt had never interested him. Yapping hounds and boasting men, salivating to run down a fox or buck, had always struck Grant as base and bloodthirsty. And yet, Cassie's attempt to flee ignited a bloodlust he'd not felt before. He followed her as a hound did the scent of its prey. Upon catching her, he would need to show some civilized behavior, but civility was all but absent within him as his eyes locked on the back of her golden crown of hair. It pulled him through the crowd, into the refreshments room, where she was at last cornered.

She knew it, too. As Forsythe predictably left her side for the teeming punch table, she folded her hands in front of her and met Grant with an icy stare.

"I'm relieved you don't yet have a glass in that hand of yours," he said once she was within earshot.

"What do you want?" she rejoined, her chin high as she pretended to observe the crowd.

"An answer," he replied. "I've given you three days to think over my proposal?—"

"It isn't a proposal, it is coercion."

"And I would like to know what I will be doing tomorrow," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Will I be penning a note to the duke, or will I be paying you a call and inviting you for a drive on Rotten Row?"

Cassie stifled her fury, though poorly; a passing lady took a long, concerned look in her direction before whispering to the man at her side.

"You, my lord, have had these last three days to see the sense in your obscene proposition and every opportunity to retract it."

"I'm not retracting anything." He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing server's tray. "And I rather think you don't want me to."

Curiosity tempered her glare. "How do you mean?"

Grant raised his eyes toward the refreshments table and the baron's son waiting patiently to edge his way in. "What are you doing here with that oaf?"

"He isn't an oaf," she said in swift defense. "He is a historian and an archaeologist. Mr. Forsythe is extremely interesting."

"Yes, which is why you haven't paid him a moment's attention all evening." She'd been too occupied looking at Grant. Something he found himself surprisingly triumphant about.

"Only because you've been watching me like…like that."

He laughed. "Like what?"

"Like you wanted to leap into my theatre box and…" She stopped herself.

Grant turned toward her, intrigued now. Especially when her cheeks began to turn pink. "And?"

Cassie faltered, and he presumed she would back down. He should have known better.

She turned to face him as he had her, to meet his challenge, her blue irises stormy. "And sink your teeth into me."

The hum of the room's noise muffled. The pulse in his throat slowed. It then gave a throb to catch up, and unintentionally, he let out a chuff of air. Well. He hadn't expected that. The image her words brought forth made his tongue thick, his brain, fuzzy. He was unprepared for the heat coiling through his groin too.

A light of victory began to cut through Cassie's turbulent eyes. He shook off the stupor and smirked. "I'm saving that for Rotten Row tomorrow afternoon."

She stepped closer. Or perhaps he'd been the one to do so. Her scent of sun-drenched apricots filled his nose. "Tomorrow is Saturday. You would abandon your precious clinic to engage in this farce of yours?"

"Not at all. I have help at the clinic and am perfectly able to leave early to escort you, darling."

She fumed. "I will refuse you on the spot."

"Don't mistake my pleasant countenance for bluffing, Lady Cassandra. I will go to your brother."

"Are you such a villain that you would expose a charity home serving women in need?"

"No, my lady. I am only villain enough to expose you."

It was unctuous and repellant. And yet her simmering response to his overblown threats brought him a terrible pleasure. It was sinfully wrong of him, he knew. He wasn't a villain. At least, he didn't think of himself as one. If push came to shove, he would be hard pressed to follow through with telling the duke. However, for the moment, it was far too entertaining, too wickedly enjoyable, watching Cassie squirm.

"Ah, Lord Thornton, if I am correct?"

Cassie severed her scalding glare and whipped around to greet the newly returned Mr. Forsythe. Grant flashed his teeth. It made him think of Cassie's comment about sinking them into her. Hellfire.

"Mr. Forsythe. A pleasure."

The man seemed pleased by Grant's familiarity, yet he wasn't sure how the baron's son had known him. Perhaps his reputation truly did precede him.

He handed Cassie an overly full glass of punch. She took it, careful not to spill it and stain her gloves. Grant smothered a laugh.

"Are you enjoying the performance?" Mr. Forsythe asked.

Up close, Grant could see he wasn't unpleasant to look at. He would be considered handsome among the female set, in a boyish, open, and amiable way. But Cassie could not possibly be serious about this man. The duke had to have set this evening up.

With his gaze still latched onto the lady, Grant sipped his champagne and replied, "Immensely."

After an awkward moment of quiet between the three of them, a man came toward Forsythe, drawing his attention. Grant leaned toward Cassie, and his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "I will call on you tomorrow at three o'clock."

He lingered an extra heartbeat near her ear, inhaling the scent of warm fruit, before stepping away. His head did not clear as quickly as he'd hoped. That was when he knew this would be a dangerous game.