Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“My shoulder. There’s my collarbone, and there’s my neck.”

“I thought it was a bird smashing into a building.” He smiled at her pretend frown and retrieved the mechanical pencil. “Your shoulder isn’t nearly so angular,” he said, drawing a smooth curve. “The muscle at the top gives it a beautiful slope . . . like this. And the line of your collarbone is long and straight . . . tipping upward here . . . like the edge of a butterfly’s wing.”

Cassandra admired the drawing. With just a few expressive strokes, he had captured an accurate likeness of her shoulder and throat, and the soft line of her neck leading up to her jaw. “Are you an artist, on top of everything else?” she asked.

“No.” His smiling eyes met hers. “But I’ve dreamed of you in that blue dress every night since we danced in the winter garden.”

Moved, Cassandra leaned close to kiss him.

The pencil dropped to the table, rolled, and fell to the carpet.

Time ceased its spinning, the draft of minutes broken, the world itself forgotten. Tom pulled her into his lap, and she curled her arms around his neck the way she wanted to wrap her body around him. To her delight, he let her take the lead, leaning back as she experimented with kisses, dragging her lips across his, then fastening tight and ravening slowly. She loved the silky-wet warmth of his mouth . . . the way his body flexed and tightened beneath her . . . the quiet pleasure sounds he couldn’t quite hold back. He took his hands from her and gripped the arms of the chair so tightly, it was a wonder the wood didn’t crack.

“Cassandra,” he muttered, panting. “I can’t . . . do this anymore.”

She lowered her forehead to his, her fingers sliding through the thick black layers of his hair. “One more kiss?”

Tom’s face was flushed, his eyes dilated. “Not even one.”

“ Ahem .” The sound of someone clearing his throat at the doorway caused them both to start. West stood at the threshold, one shoulder braced against the doorjamb. His expression wasn’t disapproving, only bemused and a bit wry. “I came to ask how the negotiations were going.”

Tom gave a savage groan and turned his face against Cassandra’s throat.

Although Cassandra was pink with embarrassment, she sent West a glance of suppressed mischief. “We’re making progress,” she told him.

West’s brows lifted slightly. “Although I seem to have caught the two of you in a compromising position, my moral pedestal is, alas, too short to give me a clear view of who’s doing what to whom. Therefore, I’ll spare you the sanctimonious finger wagging.”

“Thank you,” Tom said in a muffled voice, uncomfortably adjusting Cassandra on his lap.

“Phoebe and I are departing for Essex within the hour,” West continued. “I’ll bid you farewell on her behalf as well as mine. And Tom—” He waited until Tom turned his head with a glance of baleful inquiry. “I apologize,” West continued simply. “It occurs to me I’ve been hypocritical: My past is far more tarnished than yours. God knows you never disgraced yourself in public as I did on a regular basis. You’re a good friend, and you came here with an honorable proposition. I’m damned if I have the right to judge your fitness as a potential husband. If Cassandra decides she wants you, you’ll both have my full support.”

“Thank you,” Tom said again, this time sounding as if he meant it.

“One more thing,” West continued. “Ransom just sent word that Lord Lambert was found and detained in Northumberland.”

Cassandra felt a new tension in Tom’s body. He sat up straighter, his gaze focusing on West. “Is he still there?”

“I don’t think so. Ransom went up to have a talk with him. In his usual cryptic fashion, Ransom writes that Lambert is now ‘out of the country.’”

“What the devil does that mean?” Tom asked curtly.

“Who knows? It’s Ransom. It could mean Lambert’s fled to France, or he’s been shanghaied, or . . . I’m afraid to speculate. I’ll try to get more information out of Ransom, but that’s like pulling teeth from a crocodile. The point is, Lambert won’t be bothering anyone for a long while.” West pushed away from the door frame. “I’ll leave the two of you to your negotiating. If that’s what we’re calling it.”

3:00 P.M.

“But you’ll have to spend time with the children,” Cassandra insisted. “They’ll need your influence.”

“My influence is the last thing they’ll need, unless you’re planning to raise a pack of immoral little devils.”

She took the pencil and began a subsection. “At the very least, you’ll have to participate in family time in the parlor every night after dinner, outings on Sundays, and then there are birthdays, holiday festivities—”

“I don’t mind older children, who can be threatened with Scottish boarding schools,” Tom said. “It’s the younger ones, who cry and scream and totter from one catastrophe to another. They’re nerve-wracking and tedious at the same time.”

“It’s different when it’s your own children.”

“So I’ve heard.” Tom settled back in his chair, looking vaguely surly. “I’ll go along with whatever you think is appropriate, but don’t call on me to discipline them. I’m not going to whip or thrash them, even if it’s for their own good.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Cassandra said hastily. “There are other ways to teach right from wrong.”

“Good. Life doles out enough inevitable pain for each of us—my children won’t need extra helpings from me.”

She smiled at him. “I think you’ll make a fine father.”

His mouth twisted. “The only part I’m looking forward to is their conception.”

4:00 P.M.

“Why the devil do we have to put Bazzle in the contract?”

“I’ve worried about him ever since the day I met him at the clinic,” Cassandra said. “I want to find him and take him out of the dangerous situation he’s living in.”

“You won’t have to look far,” Tom said sardonically, “since he’s at my house.”

“ What?” she asked, both incredulous and relieved. “You took him in after all?”

“I sent him back that day,” Tom admitted, “and as you predicted, there was a repeat infestation soon thereafter. I realized having him become part of the household was cheaper and more convenient than hauling him back to Dr. Gibson’s clinic every week.”

“How is he?” Cassandra asked eagerly. “What kind of schedule have you arranged for him? Have you found a tutor or school for him? I’m sure there hasn’t been time to decorate his room yet, but I—”

“No. You misunderstand. I didn’t take him in as a ward, he’s one of the household staff.”

Cassandra quieted, some of her excitement fading. “Who looks after him?”

“No one needs to look after him. As I understand it, the housekeeper won’t let him come to the dinner table unless he’s clean, so he’ll soon learn to overcome his scruples about bathing. With decent food and regular sleep, I expect he’ll be much healthier.” Tom smiled briefly. “Problem solved. Now, on to the next issue.”

“Are there other children for him to play with?”

“No, I don’t usually hire children—I made an exception for Bazzle.”

“What does he do all day?”

“So far, he’s come to the office with me in the mornings to sweep and do odd jobs, and then I send him home in a cab.”

“By himself?”

Tom looked at her sardonically. “He’s navigated some of the most dangerous areas of London by himself for years.”

Cassandra frowned. “What does he do for the rest of the day?”

“He’s a hall boy. He does . . . hall boy things.” Tom shrugged irritably. “I believe polishing shoes are among his tasks. He’s better off than he was before. Don’t make too much of this.”