Seducing an Angel

He had, once upon a time, she remembered, been Stephen's official guardian.

He said only one thing of a personal nature, and it somehow sent shivers along Cassandra's spine.

"You must come to di

She smiled back at him.

"You must not concern yourself about that, your grace," she said, noticing his very blue eyes, the one distinguishing feature between him and the dark-eyed Mr. Huxtable. "My hopes and dreams for the Earl of Merton must be very similar to your own."

He inclined his head and moved off to dance the next figure with another lady.

After that set, Cassandra really wanted nothing else than to beg Wesley to take her home. It could not be done, however. She could not so publicly abandon the man whose marriage offer she had supposedly accepted just this evening.

But that thought gave her another, better idea. The duke had returned her to Wesley's side, but her brother was busy conversing with a group of friends and did no more than flash a smile in her direction. She opened her fan and looked about the room. It was easy to spot Stephen – he was striding toward her, a warm smile lighting his face.

Oh, how he must resent her!

And how she resented him. There /must/ have been another way to deal with that crisis. Heaven alone knew what it was, though.

"The final set is about to begin," he said, "and it is mine, I believe."

"Stephen," she said, "take me home."

His eyes searched hers, his smile arrested. He nodded.

"A good idea," he said. "We will avoid the crush after the set is ended.

You came with your brother?"

She nodded.

"I will tell him I am going home with you instead," she said. "He is just here."

Wesley turned away from his group even as she spoke.

"Wesley," she said, "Stephen is going to take me home in his carriage.

Do you mind?"

"No," he said. He held out a hand to Stephen. "I will expect you to treat her kindly, Merton. You will have me to answer to if you do not."

Oh, men! They were such ridiculous, possessive creatures. Sometimes it seemed they believed women could not breathe without their assistance.

But there was some comfort in knowing that Wesley was now a man. /You will have me to answer to if you do not/. There had been no one to say those words to Nigel before she married him, except her father, who had been too genial and too trusting for his own good.

She kissed his cheek.

"I do not expect, Young," Stephen said, "ever to have the need to answer to you. Your sister will be in good hands."

They found the Compton-Haigs and asked to be excused from participating in the last dance. Lady Compton-Haig appeared charmed more than offended, and she and her husband accompanied them downstairs and waved them on their way after Stephen's carriage had been brought up to the door.

Cassandra set her head back against the soft upholstery of the carriage seat as the vehicle rocked into motion and closed her eyes.

Stephen's hand found hers in the darkness, and his fingers curled about it. She was too weary to withdraw it.

"Cassandra, my dear," he said, "I am so very sorry. I ought to have wooed you more privately and far less recklessly. I certainly ought to have made you a marriage proposal before a

"I know that," she said. "I was furious with you for only a very short while. We were incredibly indiscreet – /both/ of us. I do not blame you, and I do assure you that I was not involved in any deliberate seduction.

It was just – indiscreet. Unfortunately, your response will make tomorrow and the days following it uncomfortable for you as people look for the official a

"Cass." He squeezed her hand. "There /will be/ an a

People will want to know either way. They will shower us both with questions."

Ah. She might have guessed that he would take gallantry to the extreme.

"But Stephen," she said without opening her eyes or turning her head,

"you did not make me an offer, did you? And I did not accept. And /would not/ accept even if you were to make one now. Not tonight, not ever. Not you or anyone else. One thing I will never do again in this life is marry."

She heard him draw breath to reply, but he said nothing.

They rode the rest of the way to her door in silence.

He vaulted out of the carriage as soon as it had rocked to a halt, set down the steps, and assisted her to alight. Then he put the steps back up, closed the door, and looked up to instruct the coachman to drive home.

"Stephen," she said sharply, "you are not coming inside with me. You are not invited."

The carriage rumbled off down the street.

"I am coming anyway," he said.

And she realized, as she had done last week after she had chosen him, that there was a thread of steel in Stephen Huxtable, Earl of Merton, and that in certain matters he could be quite inflexible. This was one of those matters. She might remain out here arguing for an hour, but he was coming inside at the end of it. She might as well let him in now. A few spots of rain were falling, and there was not a star in sight overhead. There was probably going to be a downpour in a short while.

"Oh, very well," she said irritably, and bent to find the house key beneath the flowerpot beside the steps.

He took it from her hand, unlocked the door, allowed her to step inside before him, and closed and locked the door behind him.

Alice, Mary, and Belinda would have gone to bed hours ago. They would be no help whatsoever. Not that they would even if they were present. A glance at Stephen's face in the dim light of the hall candle confirmed her in her suspicion that he was angry and mulish and was going to be very difficult to deal with.

He strode into the sitting room, came back with a long candle, lit it from the hall candle, extinguished the latter, and led the way back into the sitting room.

Just as if he owned the house.

Of course, he /was/ paying the rent on it.

/18/

IT was a devilishly ticklish situation.

She /had/ to marry him. Surely she could see that. Her tenure with the /ton/ was precarious, to say the least. If she withdrew from this betrothal now, she would never recover her position.

"Cass," he said as he fixed the candle in its holder on the mantel, "I love you, you know."

He felt a little weak at the knees, saying the words aloud. He wondered if he meant them. He had told Nessie this afternoon that he /liked/ her as opposed to simply liking her without the emphasis, but did that mean he loved her with a forever-after kind of love?

He thought it might mean that. But everything had happened too quickly.

He had not had sufficient time to /fall/ in love.

None of which mattered now.

Good Lord, he had /never/ before kissed a woman in public – or even /nearly/ in public. It was unpardonable of him to have done so tonight.

Especially with Cassandra.

"No, you do not," she said, seating herself in her usual chair, crossing her legs, and swinging her foot, her dancing slipper dangling from her toes. She stretched her arms along the arms of the chair and looked perfectly relaxed – and rather contemptuous. The old mask. "I believe you like me well enough, Stephen, and for reasons of your own you have decided to befriend me and bring me into fashion – and support me financially until I can stand on my own feet. There is doubtless some lust mingled in with the liking because you have been in my bed twice and enjoyed both experiences sufficiently to think you would not mind trying it again. You do not /love/ me."