Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘One of my mother’s numerous godchildren, I believe,’ he said in tones of utter boredom. ‘A scrubby child given to masquerades when I last saw her. The Dowager has always been more generous than wise in her patronage. Catherine, my child, if you have finished that Rhenish cream, I suggest you retire.’ He turned to Mrs Bulstrode. ‘She is not yet out, you know,’ he remarked, by way of explanation for such an early dismissal.

Cassandra was glad to escape the overheated atmosphere and the ugly curiosity of the Bulstrodes. In her room she thanked Colette, who promised to attend her in the morning, but once the Frenchwoman had gone, she felt too agitated to undress and get into bed. Instead she curled up in the window seat and rested her hot face against the cool green glass. In the moonlight, the dark Rhône slid silently past, its smooth surface giving no hint of the murderous currents beneath.

Those odious women. The thought of vulgar persons like that gossiping, bandying her name about, was revolting. It had never occurred to her for one moment that news of her flight would reach more than her immediate and restricted circle. She had believed no-one would care, no-one would find her of any interest.

Cassandra had known she should feel guilty for embroiling Nicholas in her escape, but she had not, for overriding all other emotions was the thought that she would still be with him, for days, weeks to come. He was arrogant and dangerously disturbing, but he also laughed with her, shared with her and looked after her. For the first time in her life, she had a friend, a companion.

Her life before she had run away had been desperately lonely. No doubt, when she reached Vienna, Godmama would introduce her to girls of her own age who would become friends, but for the moment there was only Nicholas to fill that gap.

But now what was she going to do? If the story of her flight was all over London he would be cast as an abductor after her dowry, or a wicked seducer or something equally horrible. And what would Godmama say when she heard? The thought made her go hot and cold all over. The thought of waiting until the morning to talk to Nicholas was insupportable. She must see him now, find out if he would still take her with him in the face of this scandal.

When she reached his room, it was empty so she perched uneasily on the end of the bed until she heard his footsteps on the polished boards of the passage.

Almost as soon as he closed the door behind him, she flung herself into his arms, held on to as much of him as she could wrap her arms around and gasped out her misery and her fears and an incoherent apology. The candle Nicholas was holding guttered and snuffed with the draught she created, leaving them clinging together in the darkness.

‘Cassandra.’ He began trying to free himself from the arms that encircled him, but then the extent of her unhappiness and humiliation must have reached him and he said no more, but held her close until she ran out of words.

His arms around her felt strong and sure, his body a rock of certainty to cling to. Gently he stroked her hair from her crown to the nape and instinctively Cassandra snuggled closer.

‘You shouldn’t be here, you know,’ he said, but his voice was gentle.

‘Those horrible people, Nicholas. Talking about me. Everyone knows. What am I going to do? What are we going to do if anyone discovers I am with you?’

‘Pay them no heed and they’ll find another scandal next week,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Frankly, you aren’t known, so there is really nothing to hold Society’s interest and no-one likes Offley.’

Cassandra tipped her head back to look at him. In the moonlight his face was a white mask, but it seemed to her his breathing was not as regular as it had been.

‘Cassie… you must go now. And stop worrying.’

‘Not yet, we must talk about what to do, Nicholas,’ Cassandra insisted.

‘Not now and not here.’ Nicholas freed himself from her embrace and gave her a little shake. ‘Cassie, this isn’t proper and

it isn’t wise.’

‘Oh, I know what you said, but I trust you, Nicholas…’

He looked down at her. ‘Stop it, Cassie. I am not made of stone. Be a good girl and go to your room.’

‘Stop treating me like a child when you know I am not,’ she said vehemently. ‘You’ve seen I’m not fifteen. Why won’t you discuss this with me? You just keep saying Cassie, do this, Cassie, do that, don’t worry, it’ll be all right. But it won’t be all right, will it?’

‘If you don’t get out now and go to your room it will never be all right,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘What if someone finds you here? Do you want to be ruined?’

‘But I am ruined in the eyes of Society, anyway. I’ve been travelling with you day and night for more than two weeks. What has changed? I need to talk to you, Nicholas…’ She reached out her hands to him again, but he caught her wrists, holding her away from him.

‘I tried to warn you in Paris you were playing with fire. There is a lot of difference between being ruined in name and in fact. You are not such an innocent, you understand what I am saying to you. Get out of this room now.’

He freed her wrists and turned from her, one hand clenched on the carved bedpost. In the sudden stillness of the room his breathing was ragged.

Cassandra could not pretend she did not understand him, not any more. He had obviously been attracted to her in Paris, and in Lyons, but had fought against it because he believed her so young. Now he had seen with his own eyes that she was a woman. Cassandra burned with the memory of his eyes on her body, an uneasy sensation of embarrassment mixed with a tingling pleasure. Desire.

And with it came realisation. Nicholas was a passionate. experienced man, used to the company of women as experienced and willing as Lady Broome.

With her trustfulness and in their enforced intimacy, she was putting an intolerable strain on him. And suddenly, staring at his wide shoulders, the crisp curl of dark hair at his nape, the strong hand gripping the bedpost, she realised she didn’t care, she wanted him to feel like that about her.

Five minutes ago she had been in his arms, held close to him, and she yearned to be there again. With a shiver, she remembered the heat of his mouth on hers in Paris, the strength of his arms as he held her on the river bank.

‘Nicholas,’ she began, then broke off, uncertain of what she meant to say.