How many people were watching the two of them? Cassandra smiled.
'How do you fit into Lord Merton's family, Mr. Huxtable?' she asked him.
'He has not told you?' he said. 'I am the ultimate bad, dangerous cousin, Lady Paget, the one who is bound to hate all the others with a passion and be ever ready to do them harm. My father was the Earl of Merton, and I was his eldest son. Unfortunately for me, my mother fled to Greece when she knew she was expecting me, and by the time her father – my grandfather – hauled her back to England, breathing fire and brimstone every step of the way, and demanded that my father do right by her or take the consequences, I had run out of patience and decided to put in an appearance two days before the happy couple wed. I was therefore quite indisputably illegitimate. Unfortunately for my father, a whole string of my younger brothers and sisters died either at birth or soon after, the only survivor being the youngest, who was also – in the words of my father himself – a blithering idiot. Jonathan became earl after my father's death, but he died on the night of his sixteenth birthday, and the title passed to Stephen.'
Cassandra read a whole world of pain and bitterness in the brief, rather flippantly related story, but it had not been told in order to arouse her sympathy, and she allowed herself to feel none.
'I am surprised, then,' she said, 'that you really do not hate him. He has what ought to have been yours. He has your title, your home, your fortune.'
Other couples were beginning to drift onto the floor.
'Yes,' he said, 'it /is/ surprising.'
'Why do you /not/ hate him?' she asked.
'For one very simple reason,' he said. 'I know someone who would have loved him, and I love that someone.'
He did not explain, though she waited.
'Are you hoping that Stephen will marry you?' he asked.
She laughed softly.
'You may rest easy on that score,' she said. 'I have no designs upon Lord Merton's freedom. I have known the kind of servitude marriage brings to a woman, and once was quite enough.'
They were very soon going to be within earshot of couples in every direction. The musicians had fallen silent and were ready to strike up the tune of the first country dance in the set.
'Shall we talk about the weather?' she suggested.
He chuckled deep in his throat.
'Thunderstorms and earthquakes and hurricanes?' he said. 'They sound safe.'
/17/
STEPHEN could not make up his mind whether Cassandra's gown was pure red or a bright burnt orange. It was somewhere between the two, he supposed.
It shimmered in the light of the candles and was really quite magnificent. It dipped low in front to accentuate her bosom. Its soft folds, falling from a high waist, hugged her curves and outlined her long, shapely legs. Her bright hair was swept high on her head while wispy ringlets curled along her neck.
She always carried herself proudly. But tonight she looked almost happy.
How very different she looked from the mysterious lady with the scandalous reputation who had boldly forced her way into Meg and Sherry's ball last week and then looked about her as if she held everyone else gathered there in contempt.
She danced every set before the waltz – which was also the supper dance.
She even danced once with Con and smiled at him and conversed with him whenever the figures of the dance brought them together.
Stephen danced every set before the waltz too. He danced with young ladies who were making their come- out this year and had been signaling their interest in him from the start. It was not a fact that made him in any way conceited. He was, after all, one of England's most eligible bachelors. He conversed easily with them all and smiled at each partner in turn and focused his attention upon each.
But he was always aware of Cassandra.
He was beginning to wonder if his life would ever return to normal – whatever that was.
He looked forward to the supper dance and thought the time would never come.
He must be careful, though. He must not do anything impulsive that he might regret for the rest of his life.
He was not ready for matrimony. He was only twenty-five. He had told himself that he would not even give marriage serious thought until he was thirty. And even then he would take his time, choosing someone who could look beyond his title and wealth to like /him/. Perhaps even to love him. And someone he could genuinely like and admire and love.
The supper dance came at last, and he approached Cassandra to claim it.
She was standing with her brother and a group of guests with whom Stephen did not have a close acquaintance. She turned to watch him approach.
'Lady Paget, ma'am,' he said, bowing, 'this is my set, I believe.'
'And so it is, Lord Merton,' she agreed, using her velvet voice. And she reached out her hand to set on his sleeve.
Such formality. The picnic seemed like a dream. Strange that he should remember the picnic far more than he did the two nights he had spent in her bed.
'The supper dance is also the waltz,' he said as he led her away. 'May I dance the last set of the evening with you too?'
'You may,' she said.
They faced each other on the floor as other couples assembled about them.
'Is there anything new to report in Miss Haytor's budding romance?' he asked, grinning at her.
'Oh, yes, indeed,' she said, and told him about this afternoon's outing and the upcoming birthday party in the country.
'With Golding's /family/?' he said. 'Can a marriage offer be far behind?'
'I think it very likely there will be one soon,' she said. 'Perhaps even while they are still in Kent. And I believe she will be happy. She must have given up all hope of marrying years ago, must she not? Concern for me kept her incarcerated in the country all those years.'
'Don't blame yourself,' he told her, not for the first time.
'You are quite right.' She laughed. 'You will not let me feel guilty for all the world's woes, will you?'
'Absolutely not,' he said.
He noticed the necklace she wore. It was the first time he had seen her wearing jewelry.
'Pretty,' he said, his eyes focused on it. The point at the bottom of the jeweled heart reached almost to her dГ©colletage.
'It was my mother's,' she said, fingering it with her gloved hand. 'My father gave it to her when they married, and it was the one thing of value in our household that was never sold. Wesley gave it to me this evening.'
Her eyes became suspiciously bright.
'You are fully reconciled with your brother, then?' he asked.
'I think,' she said, 'the memory of that incident in the park when he drove past pretending not to see me or know me must have gnawed at his conscience. Perhaps it disturbed his dreams. He came to see me yesterday.'
'And you do not bear a grudge?' he asked.
'Why would I?' she said. 'He is my brother and I love him. He was sincerely sorry for being a coward and trying to ignore my existence. If I had refused to forgive him, who would suffer the more? And perhaps there is no simple answer to that question. Perhaps we would have suffered equally. And for what? To satisfy wounded pride or outraged righteousness? The thing is that he /did/ feel remorse and he /did/ come to set matters right with me.
