A Sinful Regency Christmas. Ann Lethbridge
stepped back from her.
Her hands fell to her sides, and she felt achingly hollow inside. The cold dampness of the rain she hadn’t sensed before at all crept over her, and she wrapped her arms around her waist.
“I’m so sorry, Cassie,” he said, and she hardly recognized his voice it was so rough. “I don’t know what came over me. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
But she wanted it to happen again! She almost cried the words aloud, but her voice strangled in her throat when she saw his face. It had gone as hard and still as one of the marble statues in the garden, his eyes a cold blank as if he had retreated behind them somewhere she couldn’t follow.
And in that moment she was finally sorry for what had happened, because it seemed to have cost her Ian.
Cassandra took a deep sip of her punch as she shook away the heavy memory of that rainy day and studied the noisy ballroom around her. She hadn’t seen Ian since that day. He had sent her a letter from Bath, where he said he had gone to visit his sister, and she had come to London to try to distract herself. It hadn’t really worked, though. She still thought of Ian far too often. Especially now that Christmas was near, the family warmth of the holiday preparations reminding her that she was alone.
“Won’t you, Cassie?” Melisande said, the words breaking through Cassandra’s memories.
“I beg your pardon, Mel?” Cassandra said. She left her empty glass on a footman’s tray and claimed a full one.
“I was merely saying you will be at my house party for Christmas, won’t you? It should be quite a merry time.”
A loud, wild party? Cassandra wasn’t entirely sure she could face one of Melisande’s famously raucous gatherings just yet. “I’m not sure …”
“My dear, I won’t let you say no! London will be an utter wasteland after this week, and I refuse to let you stay here alone for Christmas. You need some fun.” Melisande gave her a sly smile over the edge of her fan. “Besides, Lord Phillips will be there. He’s been asking me about you, and you did say you liked him.”
“Lord Phillips?” Cassandra felt a tiny spark of interest. She had danced with him once or twice since she came to Town, played cards with him at an assembly, sat next to him at Melisande’s last dinner party. He was an amusing conversationalist, and a handsome man with dark auburn hair and a horseman’s lean body. He had made her laugh, and was a good dancer besides.
But, a tiny voice whispered inside of her, he isn’t Ian.
Cassandra pushed away that voice. Lord Phillips was an attractive man who seemed interested in her, while it was all too clear that Ian was not interested at all. She needed to move forward with her life.
“Yes,” Melisande said. “He was most eager to accept my invitation when I promised you would be there. You can’t let me down now, Cassie.”
“Then I will be there,” Cassandra answered. “I always did love a country Christmas.”
“Wonderful! Now, my dear, you will leave off the widow’s weeds for the party, won’t you? Bring some pretty clothes?”
Cassandra opened her mouth to answer that widow’s weeds were the only clothes she had, when the ballroom doors opened and a latecomer appeared.
The gilded double doors were at the top of a short set of marble steps, giving Cassandra a good view of any arrivals over everyone’s heads. She almost choked when she saw who stood there now.
Ian. Looking even more handsome than the last time she saw him, with his black hair brushed back from his face and his body draped in perfectly cut evening clothes. His stark white cravat made his smooth olive skin appear even darker, with the amber lamplight gilding him to a burnished gold like some ancient, pagan god.
His expression was solemn as his gaze swept the ballroom. Cassandra fought the temptation to shrink back into the shadows and hide from him. She forced her shoulders to straighten and her face to stay still and impassive.
His gaze slid over her, then came back. His eyes widened for an instant, and then he was back to that cool lack of expression that she hated. He gave her a polite nod, and turned away to speak to the lady who stood beside him.
Cassandra felt a flash of something she had never felt before—jealousy. She knew he was a rogue, that he had many lady friends, but still the feeling was there. But then she saw that the woman was his sister, Mrs. Leonard, whom he had gone to visit in Bath. For a moment their two dark heads bent together in conversation, and then they vanished into the crowd.
Cassandra relaxed just a bit. Now all she had to do was avoid him for the rest of the evening….
She was there. Cassandra.
Sir Ian Chandler managed to greet his friends, talking and laughing as he drank a glass of wine and studied the dancers, but the only thing in his mind, in his senses, was Cassie. She had disappeared into the swirling crowd, but he knew she was there. He forced down the raw urge to push through all the knots of people between them and grab her in his arms.
He hadn’t seen her since that day they got caught in the rain and he gave in to the wild urge to kiss her. That need had plagued him for so long, driven hotter by the smell of her lilac perfume, her smiles, the touch of her hand on his. Every time he saw her that need grew, made him more insane.
Cassie was his friend, his oldest friend’s widow. She relied on him, and he relied on those days when they were together, walking in the gardens, reading together, playing duets at the pianoforte. She was a wonderful, serene oasis in his rakish life, a place of light and sweetness he had come to crave. He had plenty of women eager to come to his bed; Cassie was different, apart from all of that. He shouldn’t want her that way.
But he did want her. So very much. Especially after that taste of her.
Afraid he had disgusted her, frightened her, he decided the best thing to do was to leave her alone for a time. So he took himself off to Bath, putting up with his sister’s matchmaking efforts, dancing at the assembly rooms, playing cards, drinking the foul water, trying to forget Cassandra. Yet she was still there—especially in his erotic dreams at night, when his sweet, dear friend was not so sweet at all.
“Hello, Ian,” he heard her say softly behind him.
For an instant he thought her voice was just another dream, but then her hand touched his sleeve. Even through the superfine fabric and the kid of her glove he could feel the warmth of her skin.
Don’t be such a fool, he thought harshly. This is just Cassandra—your friend. Charlie’s widow.
And the woman he wanted to be so much more than that.
He turned and made himself smile at her, gently, affably. He couldn’t frighten her with the lustful turmoil that twisted inside of him. “Cassandra. You look lovely tonight.” And she did. Even in her subdued purple gown, with her dark hair drawn back in a simple knot, she outshone everyone else in the ballroom.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she said with a tentative smile. “How have you been?”
“Very well. Bath is very—wholesome.”
Her smile widened. “That must have been a nightmare for you, then. You’re probably glad to be back in London.”
He was glad, since it meant he could see her again. He studied her carefully, the slight blush in her pale cheeks, the wary light in her gray eyes. Did she remember that kiss? Did she hate him for it?
His heart ached to think she could hate him. Yet she still smiled at him, and she didn’t move away from him.
“I won’t be in London for long, I fear,” he said.
“Oh? Are you spending Christmas with your sister’s family?” she asked.
A hand traced over Ian’s, quick, insistent.