Impetuous

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“Your cousin’s scheme. Your aunt’s. She wrote me that note asking me to come to her room tonight at midnight. She gave every indication of welcoming quite dishonorable attentions. And her mother was primed to come barging in after I was in the room, rousing everyone on the floor with her loud comments.”

Cassandra stared. “You mean, she lured you up to her room so that her mother could catch you in a compromising position with her? But why? Why would she want to destroy her reputation like that?”

A faint smile flickered across Neville’s face. Her lack of comprehension of her relatives’ scheme spoke volumes about her own honest character. “My dear girl, I doubt very much that she cared about her reputation being shredded, as long as it brought her wealth and an old name. Her reputation would not have been ruined, in any case, since she and I would immediately have become engaged.”

Cassandra gasped. “You mean—they wanted to force you into marrying Joanna? I can’t believe it!” But she could; it took only a moment’s reflection to bring her around. Why else would her aunt have been pounding on Joanna’s door so loudly and virtually shouting, except to bring out several interested observers? Why else would her aunt, usually early to bed, still have been up at midnight—and still wearing her corset, her hair done up? She was expecting everyone to look at her, and she had been unable to bring herself to be in true deshabille.

“That’s why I was so groggy...” Cassandra murmured. “Aunt Ardis must have put some of her laudanum in my drink tonight. I should have known she was up to something when she came in here with that warm milk to help me sleep. She knows how lightly I sleep and the difficulty I often have going to bed. She wanted me deep in slumber so I wouldn’t investigate any noise I heard—like you slipping into Joanna’s room.”

“No doubt you’re right. It is merely my good luck that Miss Moulton’s handwriting is so illegible, or you would have found yourself forced into cousinship with me.”

“Oh.” Cassandra raised her hands to her burning cheeks. She wasn’t sure whether she was more humiliated or furious. How could her aunt and cousin have acted in such a despicable way? Somehow the thought of Joanna trying to tie this man to her for life made Cassandra long to slap her cousin. “I am so ashamed. Sir Philip, I apologize for my family. I cannot imagine what made them do such a thing.”

“I have found that the lure of money often causes people to act in a bizarre fashion.”

“That is no excuse for—for such a lack of principles. I am sorry, so dreadfully sorry.” Her eyes shone with angry, embarrassed tears. “You must think we are awful.”

He smiled and took her hand, gallantly bowing over it and brushing the back of her hand with his lips. “My dear lady, I do not think you are awful at all. Indeed, you almost restore my faith in humanity.”

The touch of his lips on her skin sent an unaccustomed thrill through Cassandra, reminding her of the fevered, pulse-racing condition in which she had awakened. That odd melting-wax sensation deep in her abdomen had still not completely gone away. Cassandra swallowed and turned away.

“I, ah, I shall see if everyone has gone back inside.” She opened the door a crack and looked out. When she saw no one, she stuck her head out the door and peered up and down the hall.

She turned back to Sir Philip. “There is no one out there now.”

He nodded. “Then I shall take my leave of you.” He smiled, sketching her another elegant bow. “Thank you for a most interesting evening, Miss Moulton.”

“Oh, I’m—” Cassandra stopped. Now was not the time to go into an explanation that her name was not Moulton. “I’m just sorry for what my cousin and aunt did.”

“And I apologize for...my most ungentlemanly behavior.”

Cassandra felt another blush beginning to rise in her cheeks. She turned away and made another check out the door, then stepped aside for Sir Philip to pass. She closed the door behind him and waited a few tense moments for the sounds of voices that would indicate that he had been caught. There was nothing. Again she ventured a peek out and saw that the hall was empty. Sir Philip had gone.

She closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a sigh. Oh, God! Why had this had to happen? Tonight, of all nights, and with Sir Philip Neville, of all people?

Cassandra made her way over to her bed and sat down heavily. She had schemed so hard to get her aunt to take her along on this visit when she had heard that Sir Philip was going to be here. It had taken numerous careful, subtle hints about the difficulty of chaperoning an active young girl like Joanna on the sort of outdoors amusements that one tended to go on at large house parties, painting a picture of liveliness that was guaranteed not to appeal to Aunt Ardis’s sluggish nature. Concealing any desire on her own part to attend such a function, she had worked her aunt around to realizing that the ideal solution would be to take Cassandra along to chaperon Joanna on the activities Aunt Ardis found too taxing. Reluctantly, Cassandra had let herself be persuaded.

It had been, she thought, a superb performance on her part, especially given the fact that her decisive, straightforward nature did not run naturally toward subterfuge. And now her effort was in all likelihood wasted. How could she even face Sir Philip again, knowing what Joanna had tried to do to him? And knowing, too, in what an intimate situation he had met Cassandra herself?

Heat flooded her just at the memory of the things she had dreamed—the deep, passionate kisses, the sensual caresses. Had those things really happened? Had her drugged mind just turned them into a dream? She groaned in despair, covering her face with her hands. She could never live it down if she had moaned and writhed in Sir Philip’s arms the way she had in her dream. He had told her that nothing had happened, but perhaps he was merely being gentlemanly.

She flopped back on her bed, unconsciously running her hand down her front as she remembered the hot, pulsing sensations that had assaulted her in her dreams...the intense explosion of pleasure that had propelled her out of her sleep finally. What had that been? That deep, hard jolt of pure sensation that had left her feeling weak and quietly throbbing? Nothing in her experience had ever even come close to that feeling.

Was she a wanton woman? The idea seemed absurd. She had had very few dealings with men, really. She did not seem to know how to talk to them. The straightforward way she had talked to her father had seemed to make young men quickly leave her side. Aunt Ardis had told her that young girls did not make conversation about such boring topics as history or politics, much less offer their strong—and often quite radical—opinions. Young ladies, Aunt Ardis had pointed out, were supposed to giggle and flirt, to flutter a fan coyly in front of their faces and let their eyes speak volumes above it. Cassandra had found the whole notion absurd, and she could scarcely believe that a gentleman could decide whether he loved a woman or could even stand to be married to her on the basis of giggles and inane conversation.

Of course, she had had no beaux, whereas the flirtatious Joanna, who had never uttered a sensible word to a man in her life, was flooded with them at every party. It proved, she supposed, the truth of Aunt Ardis’s advice. Cassandra had realized that she was not romantic enough or not interested enough in men to act the part of a ninny in order to snare one. If her aunt was correct, Cassandra thought, then most men were too foolish for her to want to spend the rest of her life with one. It was far better to remain a spinster and her own woman. With such an unromantic, practical nature, she found it difficult to believe that there was a streak of wantonness running through her. If there was, then her earlier dream had been the only manifestation of it she had ever noticed.

This was nonsense, she told herself, sitting up straight. Sir Philip had not been trying to protect her when he said nothing had happened. He had merely been telling the truth. It was absurd to think anything else. Of course he had done nothing except climb into her bed, thinking that she was Joanna. Then he had seen her face and realized that she was not. He would not have been kissing and caressing her for several minutes before he realized that he did not know her.

Cassandra let out a sigh of relief. She had been letting her imagination run away with her. The peculiar sensations she had experienced were doubtless part of the peculiarity of her dreams. She was sure that Aunt Ardis or Joanna must have dosed her with some of her aunt’s laudanum. The sleeping potion had obviously affected her dreams as well as made her sleep, and no doubt it was responsible for the odd sensations she had dreamed—things that had been entirely in her head, not really physical.

Sir Philip would not assume she was wanton. Indeed, he had told her that he appreciated her integrity. She told herself that she need not be embarrassed to face him. And the fact was, she had to talk to him. Her family’s whole future rested on getting him to agree to her plan. Her cousin’s behavior was irksome and embarrassing, of course, but Cassandra told herself that she would have to rise above it. She had to think of her brothers and their future. It was imperative to get their family inheritance, and only Sir Philip could help her do that. She could not let a few well-bred qualms deter her from her course. She had to talk to Sir Philip tomorrow.

Cassandra gave a short, decisive nod, as if she had been arguing with another person. Then she slid beneath her covers, reaching over to blow out the candle. She felt much more like herself now. And tomorrow she would proceed with her plan.

Chapter Two

SIR PHILIP NEVILLE strolled through the rose garden, scarcely noticing the sweet aroma or the heavy, colorful heads of flowers nodding in the morning sun. His mind was on the young woman he had met in such bizarre fashion the night before. He had been thinking of her for much of the morning—indeed, for much of the night before, too, after he had made his secretive way back to his bedroom. To think that she was related to the scheming Moultons!

He had trouble seeing any resemblance to Joanna in her open face. He supposed that others would say Joanna was lovelier; indeed, before last night, he might have said the same thing himself. Joanna’s sparkling blue eyes and pouting, rosebud lips were far more what was acknowledged as beauty than her cousin’s luminous, intelligent gray eyes or generous mouth. But as he thought of the woman’s creamy complexion and the firm lines of her cheek and jaw, the softer outlines of Joanna’s face blurred in his mind. And that glorious light gold curtain of hair—how could he possibly have failed to notice her yesterday?

That question had been plaguing him for hours. He could not believe that he had been so dazzled by Joanna’s beauty that he had noticed nothing else. Joanna was a pretty little minx, all right, and her bold looks and smiles had aroused his sexual interest, but he had not been rendered thoughtless by her. Even given her obvious invitation to share her favors, he had originally intended not to go to her room. He found her prattle boring, as he did most women’s, particularly the young ladies of quality who pursued him, hoping for marriage, and he had not been sure that the momentary pleasure of her body would be worth the effort of making the sort of sweet assurances she would expect, much less having to listen to her prate on about her hair or clothes or whatever inane thought entered her head.

Thank God he had gone, though, or he would not have met the other Miss Moulton. He found Joanna’s cousin a much more interesting prospect than the nubile Joanna. He thought back to the day before, when Lady Arrabeck had introduced him to Mrs. Moulton and her daughter. He vaguely remembered that there had been another woman in the room, standing at some distance from Joanna and her mother. He had received the hazy impression of an older woman, turned slightly away from him, looking out the window. Surely that had not been Joanna’s cousin.

He tried to remember why he had assumed she was not a young woman. Her clothes had been dark and plain, and he thought he recalled that a matronly sort of cap had sat on her head. Yes, that was it. Her tall, slender figure had been encased in dark clothes, unremarkable except for their lack of fashion or appeal, and that glorious fall of bright hair must have been caught up under a spinster’s cap. He wondered why she had hidden her best feature that way. His sister, he knew, would give anything to have that thick fall of light gold hair.

Sir Philip could almost feel the satin smoothness of her hair as it had trickled through his fingers, and his abdomen contracted with a swift stab of hunger. He remembered the way her mouth had tasted beneath his, the smooth glide of his fingers over her skin, the unconcealed pleasure she had experienced from his lovemaking. Philip smiled. This was one woman whose pleasure at his hands had not, he was sure, been artifice.

True, other women had smiled and moaned and writhed beneath his kisses and caresses, apparently in the throes of passion. But with his mistresses, he had never been sure whether their desire and delight were real or merely a show they put on to please him so that he would continue to keep them in high style.

Sir Philip had come into a great deal of money at an early age, inheriting from his mother’s father a sizable fortune. His father’s death some years later had only increased his wealth, adding the substantial Neville properties. While his title was only that of a baronet, the Neville family boasted one of the oldest and most blue-blooded lineages, with countless connections to dukes, earls and viscounts throughout its history. The combination of both great wealth and good name had made him from an early age a prize for predatory females—from aristocratic mamas searching for a husband for their daughters to common ladies of the night to elegant actresses or ballet dancers prepared to accept a carte blanche. He had learned to be cynical about their attraction to him before he reached his twenties.

On the whole, Sir Philip preferred the more straightforward business arrangements of a kept mistress to the coy flirtations of society maidens, all of whom, he was sure, would have smiled at him and fluttered their eyelashes and hung on his every word even if he had been a cross-eyed stuttering fool, as long as they might acquire the Neville name and fortune by doing so.

But even with the elegant, attractive women whom he had kept as his mistresses, he had always known that they earned their living by pleasing him, and he had never been able to trust their protestations of love or even the elementary sounds of their passions.

But last night, there had been no artifice, no deception. The young lady had responded unconsciously, instinctively, and her arousal at his touch had been immediate and unmistakable. Such honest desire intrigued him. Indeed, just thinking about it now, he could feel himself hardening once again.

He stopped and turned to look back toward the house, searching, he had to admit, for the sight of Miss Moulton. He had been doing so most of the morning. He wanted to talk to her again, to hear her warm, pleasant voice, free of the soft, babyish affectations toward which young women of his acquaintance were so often prone. He wanted to see her in the daylight, to assure himself that her creamy skin and luminous eyes were as he remembered them from last night. So far, however, the young lady had been disappointingly absent, though he had met several other young women who had been more than happy to stroll with him in the fragrant garden, annoying him with their chatter.

He wondered if she was simply a late riser or if he should perhaps seek her inside. It was possible, he supposed, that she was one of those delicate creatures who never ventured out into the sun.

As he stood searching the garden and the distant terrace, there was the crunch of a footstep behind him on the gravel, and a woman’s voice said, “Ah! Sir Philip. We meet again.”

It was her voice. He whirled to face her. She was tall and carried herself with pride, seemingly unaware or uncaring that she loomed over many men. She was slender, with high, enticing breasts, though her figure was concealed in a brown bombazine gown that Sir Philip would have expected to see on a governess rather than on Ardis Moulton’s niece. Her hair was hidden beneath a straw hat, and its wide brim shadowed her face, as well.

He stepped forward, unaware of the smile that touched his usually impassive face. He looked down into her face, seeing once again the firm, generous mouth, smiling unaffectedly at him, and the wide, intelligent gray eyes under curving dark brows. He knew that her facial bones were too strong for her to be considered a proper beauty, but their lines appealed to him. Hers was the sort of face one did not easily forget, and he knew that he had been guilty of not really looking at her the day before, for he would not have forgotten that face. He wished she was not wearing the bonnet, so that he could see her hair in the sunlight. His fingers itched to take it off her head.

“Miss Moulton, what a pleasant surprise. I fear my walk in the morning is usually a dull affair, but you, I am sure, will enliven it. If you will walk with me...?” His voice trailed off questioningly, and he offered his arm.

Cassandra took it, smiling. She hoped that the heightened color in her face would not betray her. She had spotted Sir Philip in the garden some minutes earlier, and she had been walking around, working up her courage to speak to him, ever since. When she had finally approached him, and he had turned to her and smiled, her heart had done the most unusual flip-flop in her chest, and her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. She had never before felt this way when she talked to a man, nor had she ever had the silly desire to grin at a man for no reason, as she feared she was doing now. It was, she told herself, some odd reaction caused by her trepidation at speaking to him.

She tried to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest as they strolled through a vine arbor and out into the less formally restrained yard at the rear of the gardens. “My name is not Moulton,” she began.

“I beg your pardon. I had thought, since your aunt’s name was Moulton—”