Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels 6)

His opaque gaze angled up to hers. “He passed away two years ago. Disease of the kidneys, so I heard.”

“You heard …” Cassandra repeated, perplexed.

Click. Click. “We fell out of communication,” Tom said casually. “I’d worn out my welcome with the Paxton family.”

“Tell me what happened,” she invited gently.

“Not now. Later.”

Something in his pleasant manner made Cassandra feel shut out. Pushed away. As he neatened the stack of writing paper, he looked so solitary that she instinctively reached out to rest her hand on his shoulder.

Tom stiffened at the unexpected touch. Cassandra began to draw her hand back, but he caught it swiftly. He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

She realized he was doing his best to share his past with her, yielding his privacy and his secrets … but it would take time. He wasn’t accustomed to making himself vulnerable to anyone, for any reason.

Not long ago, she’d seen a comedy at Drury Lane, featuring a character who had fitted the door of his house with a ridiculous variety of locks, latches, and bolts that went all the way from the top to the bottom. Any time someone new entered the scene, it necessitated a laborious process of searching through keys and painstakingly unfastening the entire row. The resulting frustrations of all the characters had put the audience in stitches.

What if Tom’s heart wasn’t frozen after all? What if it were merely guarded … so guarded that it had become a prison?

If so, it would take time and patience to help him find his way out. And love.

Yes. She would let herself love him … not as a martyr, but as an optimist.

Chapter 20

Negotiations

10:00 A.M.

“SO FAR, THIS HAS been much easier than I expected,” Cassandra said, straightening an accumulating stack of pages with headings, sections, and subsections. “I’m beginning to think you weren’t nearly as intolerable at the bargaining table as Cousin Devon said you were.”

“No, I was,” Tom said ruefully. “If I had it to do over, I would handle the situation far differently.”

“You would? Why?”

Tom looked down at the page before him, using the pencil to scrawl absently in the margins. Cassandra had already noticed his habit of drawing shapes and scribbles while mulling something over: gears, wheels, arrows, railway tracks, tiny diagrams of mechanical objects with no discernible purpose. “I’ve always been competitive,” he admitted. “Too focused on winning to care about collateral damage. It didn’t occur to me that while I was treating it as a game, Trenear was fighting for his tenant families.”

“No harm was done,” Cassandra said prosaically. “You didn’t succeed in taking the mineral rights.”

“Not for lack of trying.” The mechanical pencil connected a pair of curving parallel lines with little cross marks, turning them into railroad tracks. “I’m grateful Trenear chose not to hold it against me. He made me aware there are more important things than winning—which is a lesson I needed to learn.”

Resting her chin on her hand, Cassandra reached out to touch one of the little drawings in the margin. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

Tom followed her gaze down to the page. His abashed grin was uncharacteristically boyish, and it gave her a pang of delight. “Sorry. It helps me to think.”

“Don’t apologize. I like your quirks.”

“You won’t like all of them,” he warned. “Trust me on that.”

11:00 A.M.

“I CAN’T ABIDE CLUTTER,” TOM said. “That includes long dusty curtains, and china figurines, and those little tablemats with holes in them—”

“Doilies?”

“Yes, those. And fringe trimming. I hate fringe.”

Cassandra blinked as she saw him write, 7D: No doilies or fringe.

“Wait,” she said. “No fringe at all? Not even on lampshades? Or pillows?”

“Especially not pillows.”

Cassandra rested her crossed arms on the table and gave him a mildly exasperated glance. “Was there an accident involving fringe? Why do you hate it?”

“It’s ugly and waggly. It dangles like caterpillar legs.”

Her brows lowered. “I reserve the right to wear fringe trim on my hats or clothing. It happens to be fashionable this year.”

“Can we exclude it from nightwear and robes? I’d rather not have it touching me.” Faced with her baffled annoyance, Tom looked down at the paper somewhat sheepishly. “Some quirks can’t be overcome.”

11:30 A.M.

“BUT EVERYONE LIKES DOGS,” Cassandra protested.

“I don’t dislike dogs. I just don’t want one in my house.”

“Our house.” She braced her elbows on the table and massaged her temples. “I’ve always had dogs. Pandora and I couldn’t have survived our childhood without Napoleon and Josephine. If cleanliness is what worries you, I’ll make certain the dog is bathed often, and accidents will be disposed of right away.”

That drew a grimace from him. “I don’t want there to be accidents in the first place. Besides, you’ll have more than enough to keep you busy—you won’t have time for a pet.”

“I need a dog.”

Tom held the propelling pencil between his first and second fingers, and flipped it back and forth to make the ends tap on the table. “Let’s look at this logically—you don’t really need a dog. You’re not a shepherd or a rat catcher. Household dogs serve no useful purpose.”

“They fetch things,” Cassandra pointed out.

“You’ll have an entire staff of servants to fetch anything you want.”

“I want a companion who’ll go on walks with me, and sit on my lap while I pet him.”

“You’ll have me for that.”

Cassandra pointed to the contract. “Dog,” she insisted. “I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”

Tom’s hand closed around the pencil. Click. Click. “What about fish?” he suggested. “They’re soothing. They don’t ruin carpets.”

“One can’t pet a fish.”

A long silence passed. Tom scowled as he read the determination on her face. “This is a major concession on my part, Cassandra. If I give in on this point, I’ll want a proportionately large something-or-other in return.”

“I gave in on fringe,” she protested.

“The dog will be your companion, not mine. I don’t want to be bothered by it.”

“You’ll hardly know it’s there.”

Tom snorted in disbelief and adjusted the lead in the mechanical pencil. He touched the pencil to the paper and paused. “Damn it,” he muttered.

Cassandra pretended not to hear.

“Wife will acquire no more than one domestic canine companion,” Tom said grimly as he wrote. “A: Not to exceed twelve inches in height at the withers, chosen from a list of acceptable breeds to be determined later. B: Canine companion will sleep in designated areas at night, and C:”—his voice turned stern—“Will under no circumstances be allowed on beds or upholstered furniture.”