The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters
‘I believe in myself more now.’
‘I am glad for it.’
‘I believe that atonement goes a certain way in alleviating past mistakes, and that what was, is not always the same as what will be.’
‘Wise of you.’
‘I have made errors, Nathaniel, big ones that I wish every single day I had not, but in the end one cannot wish life away. One has to confront it with courage and go on.’
‘And you have.’
She nodded. ‘For Jamie’s sake, I had to.’
The strength of her washed across him. She sat there and told him that in adversity she had found a version of herself that she liked. He wanted to reach over and bring her ruined hand to his lips and kiss each finger one by one. She was no empty-headed maiden trying to fit in with others’ perceptions of her and whereas Acacia had been hardened by the problems in her life, Cassandra had been freed by them.
He wished he had skipped the course of soup and gone instead for more simple fare because the hours were running away with the task of eating and there was still dessert. He was glad the removes of soup had been taken away and hoped the offering of lobster, ham and venison might disappear just as quickly. He could not remember a meal taking quite as long as he helped himself perfunctorily to one of the many plates of vegetables.
* * *
Cassandra felt hot and uneasy. The food was beautifully cooked and expensive and yet she could barely eat it. A clock in the house kept striking out the minutes of every hour and time seemed to be racing towards the real reason as to why she was here.
She wanted to sleep with Nathaniel Lindsay, she did. She wanted to feel him inside her moving with the passion only he could engender and she longed for the quiet repose of skin against skin, their bodies speaking in a way words never did.
But the scars of Lebansart were a reminder of all that had gone wrong between them and she dreaded him seeing them and asking about what had happened. She breathed out heavily and knew that he watched her with his beautiful pale-grey eyes, the dimple in his right cheek seen under the bright candelabras.
She would not survive again if he turned her away. For all her bravado and independence she understood that. The lobster felt dry in her mouth as she tried to swallow it, helping herself to a generous sip of white wine with the taste of summer in its bouquet. She seldom drank anything stronger than tea, save for in his company, where fortitude was as necessary as breath.
Cassie wished the meal would end and that the servants might disappear. She wanted him to lead her to his chamber with the minimum of chatter and undress her with the maximum of speed. She wanted to look into his eyes when he saw the scars and see acceptance or indifference, it did not matter which. It was the bewildering bloom of distaste that she hoped so fervently to avoid.
He suddenly stood. ‘Perhaps we might leave the rest for later, Cassandra.’ Those attending to the table stepped back and waited while he helped her from her seat.
As they reached the hall leading to the stairwell he petitioned her to tarry for a moment whilst he returned to give his instructions to the staff. She could hear his voice asking them to clean up and then retire for he would not be requiring their services further this evening. The resulting silence was full of question and speculation, but even that did not worry Cassie.
Then he was back again, taking her hand and escorting her up the wide marble staircase into the second floor of the house. His room lay at the end of a corridor, a set of French doors with an ornate gold handle and a substantial lock. As she walked through she heard him turn the key. Privacy. She was thankful for it.
His chamber was decorated in all shades of pale, a restful luxurious interior that threw her off balance. The heavy brocades of paisley and floral at the Northrup town house looked tacky and overdone in comparison. This room was one of bleached furniture and patinas harking back to the age of a faded beauty. She wondered if he had had a hand in choosing the decor.
A whole line of leatherbound books sat on the table beside the bed. When he saw where she looked he commented, ‘I read a lot.’
She remembered he had told her of that once and she had wondered. No amount of guessing could have placed him as a cultured English lord, however, with the lineage of an old family on his shoulders and a library of books at his disposal.
‘You keep surprising me,’ she managed to say.
At that he laughed, loudly, the first truly free emotion of the evening. A frisson of need made her stiffen. ‘I could say the same, Cassandra. Few people manage to keep me as intrigued as you do and so effortlessly.’
He had come closer now. If she stepped forward she could have rested her head against his heart. With all her willpower she stopped herself doing just that.
Not yet, a voice inside her called. He needs to understand exactly who you are.
Her fingers came up to loosen the ties at her bodice. They were shaking in their pursuit of truth as fire began to build behind the slate of his eyes. The yellow silk had been chosen carefully. With just a few twitches of fabric it fell from her shoulders, the thin bodice of lawn the only thing now that kept his glance from her shame.
Then that was gone, too, three slices of raised red skin at the top of her right breast on show.
‘I did not give the names as easily as you had imagined, Nathaniel. I paid for their lives in my own blood, too. I knew that I was pregnant, you see, and if I did not give him something he might...’
‘God.’ One finger reached out to trace the injuries, horror and anger on his face.
But not at her. It was Lebansart his wrath was directed at.
‘The bastard did this to you?’
She nodded because suddenly she could not speak, the back of her throat closing in an aching heaviness.
‘He could have killed you. Both of you.’
‘I th-think he thought he had.’
‘Ah, sweetheart.’ His voice broke as he simply leant down and kissed the scars, one by one. Healing their ugliness, she was to think later, and dissipating their power over her. Forgiveness was a quiet and gentle emotion, the light and earnest feel of his tongue and the smooth sweep of his lips, but it held all the weight of a new beginning.
Her hand came through his hair, shorter now than it had been in France, the dark sheen of it almost blue.
‘Love me, Nathaniel, and make me forget.’
In response he lifted her to him and brought her to his bed, the wide velvet counterpane beneath her as he peeled the dress and bodice away. Her stockings were next and the small slippers bought only a few days before. Then he loosened her hair from its tie and draped the length of it down beside her.
Caught in the light and in his gaze she stayed very still. ‘You are even more beautiful than I remember.’ His voice held reverence and awe.
He was fully dressed as he stroked one breast, smiling when the nipple puckered at his ministrations. Then his fingers fell lower, across her stomach and down into the place between her thighs, pushing into the wet warmth with a gentle insistence. And all the time his eyes never left her own, the fire within them banking and a look that said she was his. Need made her loins rise from the bed to meet him, her legs opening wider to allow him in, and she looked away because she knew that the roiling waves of release were about to come and she did not want to see his reaction to such a surrender.
Her muscles caught around his fingers, stilling the plunder and keeping him there inside her tight, and when she began to shake he pushed in farther still, eliciting a groan that held a primal relief.
She was no longer cautious or circumspect. All she could think of was the aching craving urgency in her body and the balm and ease of tension.
They belonged together, Nathaniel and she, and it had nothing to do with marriage