Chapter Eight

Cassandra stood in front of her wardrobe assessing the dresses that hung in front of her. What was wrong with her clothes?

She sighed. Likely everything. The frocks were old, worn, and had never been in fashion. She’d married young and John had hardly had funds for new clothes. Not that she’d cared. She was happy in her gowns, but it seemed to upset him that he couldn’t provide better for her.

Raithe had attempted to give them money at various points, but John always refused. His pride had demanded that he not borrow money from his friend. Raithe swore the funds were a gift, but his assertion only seemed to upset John the more. He didn’t need charity, he’d railed.

Cassandra drew in a deep breath. Moments like those, he’d look at her with such resentment. As though he wouldn’t need charity if he didn’t have her.

She hung her head, allowing her fingers to trail over the only silk gown she owned. What would John think now to see her living on their friend’s largesse?

He’d turn over in his grave.

And the duke’s offer?

Would he hate her or the duke? Likely both.

Fortunately, her parents were not alive to see how far she’d fallen. Her mother had died before her marriage, her father shortly after. Though, if either of them were alive, she might not have considered his offer at all.

Her hands trembled as she pulled a serviceable wool gown from the four from which she had to choose. The dress would be a reminder to her later tonight that she’d said no and that she intended to keep her word.

It was a simple, somber gown more suited to a vicar’s daughter than a duke’s mistress. She’d need the reminder because he was the one man who’d really made her feel alive.

She rubbed her brow. She supposed John had wanted her. At the start. But more often than not, those interludes would end in frustration for both of them and always for her.

She sighed again as she began to dress. Raithe had assigned a maid to her, but Cassandra couldn’t bring herself to use the woman’s services. She wasn’t accustomed to it and her wardrobe wasn’t fit for such an extravagance. Nor was her personality.

The clock gave a single chime alerting her that it was si

x thirty. She finished dressing her hair, a simple twist at the nape and then started out of her room. Maybe tonight, she’d be waiting for him instead of the other way around. She needed some measure of control to make it through this evening.

Making her way downstairs, she settled next to the fire in the sitting room across from the dining room. She twisted her hands in her lap as her eyes fluttered closed. What she should be thinking about was one of her father’s sermons. A stark reminder of how she should behave.

Instead, Damian filled her thoughts. The way he’d touched her, kissed her, made her feel. Her breath caught as her hand touched the knot of hair she’d twisted into place.

“Miss me?” Damian’s deep voice rumbled from the doorway.

She didn’t open her eyes as she considered her answer. She settled for avoidance, answering his question with one of her own. “How was your day?”

He chuckled, striding into the room. Or she imagined him striding by the long deliberate footfalls in the thick carpet. “My day was very fruitful.”

That made her eyes pop open as she turned to him. Her lips parted in an unasked question.

His grey eyes met hers, darkening as he assessed her. “And yours?”

She shook her head, unable to look away or lie. “Less so.” She’d spent most of the day pacing as she’d attempted to school herself for this evening.

That would have been fine except any lectures she’d given herself had flown out of her head the moment he’d arrived and filled the room with his dark, brooding, and arresting presence. She ran her hands down the wool of her dress as a quick reminder to stand her ground.

Tonight, she needed to remember she was a vicar’s daughter.

“Shame,” he replied, sitting across from her once again. “Would you care to hear about my day?”

She hesitated; surely this was part of his plan to coerce her. “Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice,” he replied, pulling a carefully folded stack of papers from inside his coat pocket. “I never asked, but who are you engaged to currently?”

Her breath caught. She hadn’t said because she wasn’t actually engaged. “I don’t…”

Tags: Tammy Andresen Romancing the Rake Historical
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