Seducing an Angel

Alice, having finished making her tea, banged the kettle down on the hob.

"He /is/ a handsome gent," Mary conceded. "He looks like an angel, don't he, my lady?"

"I think maybe he is one," Cassandra said. "An angel sent to save us all. Go to bed now, both of you, so that I can get ready for him. And don't look at me, Alice, as if I were preparing myself for my own execution. He is /gorgeous/. There, I have said it. He is gorgeous and he is my lover and I am happy about it. It is /not/ all about money. I like him and I am going to be happy with him. You will see. After a year of wearing black and being increasingly gloomy, I am going to be /happy/. With an /angel/. Be happy /for/ me."

He had called her /outrageous/ last evening, and, oh, dear, she was.

They were both sniveling when they went off to bed. /Not/, Cassandra guessed, with happiness.

And yet she had not completely lied, she realized in some surprise, even dismay. There /was/ a part of her that almost looked forward to the coming night. She had been lonely for a long, long time. She still was lonely. At least the night – and her bed – would not be empty. Not tonight, anyway, and not, if she was very fortunate, for most of the nights in the foreseeable future.

There had to be /some/ silver lining to the cloud that had hung so persistently over her for so long. Surely there must be.

Perhaps being bedded by the Earl of Merton would push back the loneliness just a little bit.

Perhaps he was the silver lining.

She was so /weary/ of the darkness. /Please, please, let there be some light/.

Stephen dined at Cavendish Square with Vanessa and Elliott and a few other guests. Inevitably the latter included one unmarried young lady, who had come with her father.

His sisters were not persistent matchmakers. Indeed, they were all quite vocal in their hope that he would not marry too early in life and that when he /did/ marry it would be for love. But they were not above drawing his attention to young ladies who were eligible and might just take his fancy. They knew his tastes too.

Miss Soames was to his taste. She was young and pretty and slender. She was sweet-natured and vivacious and had an infectious gurgle of a laugh.

She had ma

Stephen sat beside her at di

It was an evening typical of many others.

And also different from many others.

For there was scarcely a moment all evening when his mind was free of thoughts about Cassandra.

And despite himself he looked forward with some impatience to seeing her again later.

He ought not. He ought to cling to the world that included Miss Soames and Lady Christobel Foley and their like, the world of his male friends and activities, the world of his family, the world of his parliamentary duties and all the other responsibilities that went with his title and his landholdings.

The world with which he had grown familiar in the past eight years. It was a world he liked.

Cassandra, Lady Paget, was of another world, and there was darkness there. And something undeniably enticing too.

It was not just the promise of frequent sex.

Surely there was more than just that to attract him.

But it was an unwilling, uneasy attraction, whatever it was.

Sir Wesley Young was at the theater too. He was seated in a box with seven other people, one of them the lady with whom he had been driving in the park this afternoon. There was a great deal of merriment in their box during the course of the evening.

His presence did not help Stephen concentrate his attention upon Miss Soames and the other members of his brother-in-law's party. He tried to imagine one of his own sisters in Lady Paget's situation – Nessie, for example. Would he have been able to ignore her in the park this afternoon, hopeful that the /ton/ would not discover that she was his sister? Would he be able to make merry here tonight, knowing what he had done?

It was inconceivable! He would always stand by his sisters no matter the consequences to himself. Some forms of love /were/ unconditional and eternal, despite what Cassandra had said to the contrary.

While he ought to have been enjoying the play, one of his favorite activities, he entertained mental images of her five-year-old self hovering over her newborn brother, hugging and kissing him, crooning to him, talking to him, loving him because there was no one to love her except an often-absent father, and no one to love /him/ unless she did it.

And Stephen's mind kept reverting to that scene at her door this afternoon.

The very domestic scene.

There had been the young, thin, wide-eyed maid who looked more like a waif than the sort of battle-axe of a servant he would have expected if he had thought about it. And a shy, mop-haired child with rosy cheeks.

And an elderly dog who looked as if he had been through a war or two in his time but had lost none of his affection for his mistress.

Perhaps, he thought, Cassandra had had more than her own survival and well-being in mind when she had gone to Meg's ball in search of a protector.

Perhaps there was light in her life after all, even if it had been dimmed by circumstances.

This afternoon her house had looked rather…

Well, like a home.

As he left Merton House on foot after the theater party was at an end, Stephen's feelings were mixed. He wanted to see Cassandra again. He wanted to be inside her bedchamber again. He wanted to make love to her again, perhaps with a little more finesse this time and a little more attention to giving her full pleasure.

At the same time, he felt uneasy about conducting such business inside her home. Perhaps he ought to have rented a house in which to conduct their liaison. Perhaps he still ought.

He would think about it tomorrow.

/10/

CASSANDRA sat in the darkened drawing room as she waited. She had changed into a silk and lace nightgown that she very rarely wore. She wore a flowing robe over it. Both were white. She had brushed out her hair and tied it at the nape of her neck with a white ribbon.

Like a bride awaiting her bridegroom, she thought.

Some irony.

And it was not a comfortable outfit to wear in the chilly room.

He came late. But she had not been expecting that he would be early. She listened for the clopping of horses' hooves, the jingling of harness, the rumbling of wheels. But she was taken by surprise after all when the knocker rapped rather softly against the door.

He had come on foot.

He was wearing a long black opera cloak, she could see when she opened the door, and a tall silk hat, which he removed as soon as he saw her.

She saw him smile in the light of a street lamp, and the cloak swirled around him as he stepped closer.

He was all darkness and light and virility.

Her breath quickened, half with dread, half with…

Well.

"Cassandra," he said, "I hope I am not very much later than you expected."

He stepped into the hall and shut and bolted the door himself as the single candle in the wall sconce shivered from the outside air.

"It is only half past eleven," she said. "Did you have a pleasant evening?"

She turned to lead the way upstairs, extinguishing the candle as she passed it. Within a week or two, she supposed, this would all be very routine. Perhaps even tedious. There was much to be said for tedium.

Tonight she could feel her heart thumping, robbing her of breath. She was as nervous as a bride, even though they had done this just last night and tonight should be easier.