She sighed, settling back into her chair. She shouldn’t dwell so, she was far luckier than many. She’d grown up in the shadow of the house she now lived. She, John, and Raithe having been fast friends since childhood. They’d done everything together as children. Raithe had eventually inherited the title of Baron of Balstead and when John had died, he’d taken her in as his best friend’s widow. He’d even offered to marry her himself. A generous offer to be certain and one she likely should have accepted. Except…she’d married a childhood friend once and it had nearly broken her. She simply couldn’t do it again. Raithe was like her brother, it didn’t feel right.
So he’d offered to help her in another way.
He’d collected a group of lords, all excellent prospects for marriage, to arrive at this very house. They thought they were coming for a party. Instead, they were prospective grooms.
Raithe assured her he’d picked men who operated on the fringe of society. Rakes, gamblers, drinkers, they were not the most upstanding gentleman, and, therefore, they’d be more inclined for the unconventional match she presented. Yet each was wealthy and stable in his own way making him a suitable enough husband.
She wasn’t looking for love or even desire. She wasn’t even really interested in another union, but it was a necessary evil.
If she were going to enter into another marriage, her husband may as well provide for her financially, even if his wealth didn’t make her happy or fulfilled or… She closed her eyes. She was casting judgment before she’d even met any of the men.
She curled into the chair, clearly a man’s seat, oversized and overstuffed but perfect for drawing up one’s knees and sulking. At least this match would be about her future comfort and care. Her insides twisted into knots. Was it wrong that the very idea of another marriage filled her with dread rather than excitement?
“Mrs. Winterset,” the butler called from the door. “The first of Lord Balstead’s guests has arrived.”
She unfurled from the chair, standing and turning toward the butler. Raithe had extended invitations to six men, five of whom had accepted. They each thought they were arriving for a week of debauchery.
But the party was supposed to have started days ago and none of them had arrived. In complete frustration, Raithe had left to find them, sure something had happened en route to delay their arrival. Raithe had assured her there was no possible way they’d learned of the deception. He must have been right because one guest had finally come. “Who is it?”
“The Duke of Danesbury,” the man said with a frown.
She covered her midriff with her hands. Had he met Raithe on the journey here? Did he know the other guests were delayed? He surely didn’t understand that there were no other women, no gambling, no drinking…. Just Cassandra.
“Show him in,” she murmured, her stomach turning over once again. She wished Raithe were here now.
He nodded and pivoted back out the door, disappearing down the hall. She turned back to the fire, leaning against the mantle and once again watched the flames. Her hands began to tremble and she drew in a long slow breath to steady her nerves. Then, she schooled her features into a blank mask, placing a hand at her stomach to keep the butterflies at bay. Would this Duke of Danesbury be angry to discover the party that should be in full swing wasn’t happening, was never even a real possibility?
She drew in a long breath, wishing again Raithe were here now. This was his idea. Lying had never been her strong suit. Perhaps if it had been, John would have been happier with his choice to marry his childhood friend.
A rustle at the door told her the butler had returned and she pushed off the mantle, closing her eyes for just a moment before she swiveled to greet her guest.
“May I present the Duke of Danesbury,” the butler announced.
She dipped into a deep curtsy, before she straightened, meeting the gaze of the man who Raithe had tricked into attending this gathering. “Your Grace.” But her voice caught on the end of the second word. Before her stood the most frighteningly intriguing man she’d ever seen. Tall, well over six feet, broad and muscular, his dark hair and penetrating grey eyes stabbed into her. His nose was a bit crooked, his jaw hard. She barely held in a gasp as he turned his head slightly to the left, revealing a large jagged scar slicing from his eye to his mouth, dividing his cheek into two mangled sections of flesh.
He frowned, rubbing the scar. “I expected more people to be in attendance.”
Well, that was direct. She pressed her lips together, drawing in a deep breath. How did she explain? “So was I, Your Grace.”
His brows drew up as his gaze travelled down her frame. “I’ll take a whiskey. Neat.”
Her eyes widened for just a moment before she pressed her lips together straightening her shoulders. “Mr. Harris, would you please tell the kitchen to prepare a tray for our guest? He must be hungry after his journey.” Then she crossed the roo
m to prepare the drink.
“I didn’t say I was hungry.” Danesbury crossed to the fire, holding out his hands to the flame.
She poured the whisky, her hand trembling a bit as she attempted to hold the crystal decanter steady. “I won’t force feed you, then.” She returned to the fire, drink in hand while the other one coiled into a fist.
He notched his chin to the side as he assessed her, his scar on full display as he raised a brow. “I think I might like to see you try,” he said with a bit of a grin, as he watched her moving toward the fireplace.
That made her relax, her shoulders lowering and her breath coming out in a long, slow exhale. They were jesting. Good. “I would never dare.”
He laughed then, a little chuckle that sounded far more melodious than his speaking voice. She unfurled her fingers from the fist at her side, glad this meeting had taken on a light mood.
She’d reached the fire and she held out the drink to him, her fingers steadier as they reached toward his very large outstretched hand. But he didn’t take the whisky. Instead, he reached for her wrist, his long, tapered fingers wrapping about the bare skin exposed between her sleeve and her glove.
His hand was hot, firm, commanding, making her breath catch as he slowly drew her closer. “I’m glad we understand each other already,” he said in a voice that was deceptively soft. Despite its low tone, it still carried a command that she felt powerless to disobey as he drew her closer. “I think you’ll do fine.”