Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“No harm was done,” Cassandra said prosaically. “You didn’t succeed in taking the mineral rights.”

“Not for lack of trying.” The mechanical pencil connected a pair of curving parallel lines with little cross marks, turning them into railroad tracks. “I’m grateful Trenear chose not to hold it against me. He made me aware there are more important things than winning—which is a lesson I needed to learn.”

Resting her chin on her hand, Cassandra reached out to touch one of the little drawings in the margin. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

Tom followed her gaze down to the page. His abashed grin was uncharacteristically boyish, and it gave her a pang of delight. “Sorry. It helps me to think.”

“Don’t apologize. I like your quirks.”

“You won’t like all of them,” he warned. “Trust me on that.”

11:00 A.M.

“I can’t abide clutter,” Tom said. “That includes long dusty curtains, and china figurines, and those little tablemats with holes in them—”

“Doilies?”

“Yes, those. And fringe trimming. I hate fringe.”

Cassandra blinked as she saw him write, 7D: No doilies or fringe.

“Wait,” she said. “No fringe at all ? Not even on lampshades? Or pillows?”

“Especially not pillows.”

Cassandra rested her crossed arms on the table and gave him a mildly exasperated glance. “Was there an accident involving fringe? Why do you hate it?”

“It’s ugly and waggly. It dangles like caterpillar legs.”

Her brows lowered. “I reserve the right to wear fringe trim on my hats or clothing. It happens to be fashionable this year.”

“Can we exclude it from nightwear and robes? I’d rather not have it touching me.” Faced with her baffled annoyance, Tom looked down at the paper somewhat sheepishly. “Some quirks can’t be overcome.”

11:30 A.M.

“But everyone likes dogs,” Cassandra protested.

“I don’t dis like dogs. I just don’t want one in my house.”

“Our house.” She braced her elbows on the table and massaged her temples. “I’ve always had dogs. Pandora and I couldn’t have survived our childhood without Napoleon and Josephine. If cleanliness is what worries you, I’ll make certain the dog is bathed often, and accidents will be disposed of right away.”

That drew a grimace from him. “I don’t want there to be accidents in the first place. Besides, you’ll have more than enough to keep you busy—you won’t have time for a pet.”

“I need a dog.”

Tom held the propelling pencil between his first and second fingers, and flipped it back and forth to make the ends tap on the table. “Let’s look at this logically—you don’t really need a dog. You’re not a shepherd or a rat catcher. Household dogs serve no useful purpose.”

“They fetch things,” Cassandra pointed out.

“You’ll have an entire staff of servants to fetch anything you want.”

“I want a companion who’ll go on walks with me, and sit on my lap while I pet him.”

“You’ll have me for that.”

Cassandra pointed to the contract. “Dog,” she insisted. “I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”

Tom’s hand closed around the pencil. Click. Click. “What about fish?” he suggested. “They’re soothing. They don’t ruin carpets.”

“One can’t pet a fish.”

A long silence passed. Tom scowled as he read the determination on her face. “This is a major concession on my part, Cassandra. If I give in on this point, I’ll want a proportionately large something-or-other in return.”

“I gave in on fringe,” she protested.

“The dog will be your companion, not mine. I don’t want to be bothered by it.”

“You’ll hardly know it’s there.”

Tom snorted in disbelief and adjusted the lead in the mechanical pencil. He touched the pencil to the paper and paused. “Damn it,” he muttered.

Cassandra pretended not to hear.

“Wife will acquire no more than one domestic canine companion,” Tom said grimly as he wrote. “A: Not to exceed twelve inches in height at the withers, chosen from a list of acceptable breeds to be determined later. B: Canine companion will sleep in designated areas at night, and C:”—his voice turned stern—“Will under no circumstances be allowed on beds or upholstered furniture.”

“What about ottomans?”

The tip of the graphite pencil lead snapped and flew off the table with a ping .

Cassandra interpreted that as a no.

12:00 P.M.

“. . . You’ll have to wake up early if you want to breakfast with me,” Tom said. “Most of your kind stay awake half the night at balls and parties, and never arise before noon.”

“My kind?” Cassandra repeated, her brows lifting.

“I arrive at the office no later than half past eight. Working London keeps different hours than aristocratic London.”

“I’ll awaken as early as necessary,” Cassandra said.

“You may not find it worth the effort.”

“Why? Are you grumpy in the morning?”

“No, but I wake up on the go. I don’t like to linger over breakfast.”

“You must not be doing it right. Lingering is lovely . I do it all the time.” She stretched her arms and shoulders, and arched her sore upper back, her breasts lifting with the motion.

Tom stared at her, mesmerized. “I might stay just to watch you linger.”

1:00 P.M.

“What about sleeping arrangements?”

Cassandra felt her stomach flip, not unpleasantly, and her face began to warm. “Perhaps we should have our own rooms, and you could visit?”

“Certainly.” Tom fiddled with the pencil. “I’ll want to visit fairly often.”

She glanced at the empty doorway before turning her attention back to him. “How often?”

Tom set down the pencil and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “In the past, I’ve gone for long periods of time without . . . hang it, what’s the polite word for it?”

“I don’t think there is a polite one.”

“During a drought, so to speak, I’ve always focused my energy on work. But when it’s available . . . that is . . . when I’ve found the right woman . . . I tend to be . . .” Tom paused, mentally riffling through various words. “. . . demanding. Do you understand?”

“No.”

That provoked a wry grin. Tom lowered his head briefly, then slanted a look up at her. A flicker of firelight caught in his green eye and made it gleam like a cat’s. “What I’m trying to say is, I expect I’ll be keeping you busy every night, for a while.”

Cassandra nodded, coloring deeply. “It’s the husband’s right, after all.”

“No,” he said immediately. “As I said before, your body is your own. You’ve no obligation to lie with me, if you don’t want. Not ever. That’s why I agreed with the idea of separate rooms. But I would ask something of you . . .” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

A succession of emotions crossed his features . . . self-mockery . . . chagrin . . . uncertainty. “That whenever you’re angry or annoyed with me . . . you won’t use silence as a weapon. I can’t abide it. I’d choose any other punishment.”

“I would never do that,” Cassandra said gravely.

“I didn’t think so. But I’d like to put it in the contract, if I may.”

Cassandra studied him for a moment. The hint of vulnerability she saw just now . . . this was something new. She liked it very much.

Silently she extended her hand for the propelling pencil, and Tom gave it to her. She wrote, Wife will never give husband the cold shoulder , and impulsively drew a little picture beside it.

Tom’s thick lashes lowered as he looked at the page. “What’s that?” he asked.