Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

Cassandra went to him and touched his rigid back with a gentle hand. He wouldn’t turn to face her. “She blamed you for offering the bribe, but not him for taking it?” she asked.

“She knew I could have arranged for him to go back to her. She knew I could have supported both of them.”

“It wouldn’t have made her happy. She would have always known deep down that he was only there to take advantage of her, and of you.”

“She wanted him back regardless,” Tom said flatly. “I could have made that happen, but I chose not to.”

Cassandra slid her arms around his lean midriff and rested her head against his back. “You chose to protect her from someone who’d hurt her in the past, and would undoubtedly have hurt her again. I don’t call that a betrayal.” When he didn’t react, she said even more softly, “You mustn’t blame yourself for sending him away. Honoring one’s parents doesn’t mean you have to let them tear you apart over and over. You can honor them from a distance, by trying to be ‘a light unto the world.’”

“I haven’t done that either,” she heard him say bitterly.

“Now you’re being contrary,” she chided. “You’ve done much good for other people so far, and there’s more to do, and so you will.”

He put a hand over hers, pressing it to the center of his chest, where his heart thumped powerfully. She felt some of the ferocious tension leave his muscles.

“Are the negotiations almost finished?” he asked in a husky voice. “Are there any important questions left? I’ve already spent too many days of my life without you, Cassandra.”

“One last question.” She pressed her cheek against the smooth, satiny back of his waistcoat. “What is your position on a Christmas wedding?”

Tom went very still, then inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of relief. Keeping possession of her hand, he reached into the front welt pocket of his vest. Her eyes widened as she felt him slide something on the ring finger of her left hand, a smooth, cool weight.

Tugging her hand free of his, Cassandra looked down at an astonishing multicolored gem set in a platinum filigree of tiny diamonds. She stared at it in wonder, tilting her hand in the light. The breathtaking stone contained flashes of every imaginable color, almost as if tiny flowers had been embedded beneath the surface. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Is it an opal?”

“It’s a new variety, discovered in Australia last year. A black opal. If it’s too unconventional for your taste, we can easily exchange it.”

“No, I love it,” she exclaimed, beaming at him. “You may proceed with the question.”

“Should I kneel?” He looked chagrined. “Damn it, I’m doing this in the wrong order.”

“No, don’t kneel,” Cassandra said, feeling a bit light-headed as she realized it was really happening; her entire life was about to change. “There’s no wrong order. We make our own rules, remember?” The opal glowed with unearthly color as she lifted her hand to his jaw.

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, as if the gentle touch devastated him. “Please marry me, Cassandra,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know what will happen to me if you won’t.”

“I will.” A radiant smile spread across her face. “I will.”

His mouth came to hers, and for a long time after that, there were no more words.

Chapter 21

They married at Eversby Priory, in a private family ceremony. As it turned out, the Christmas Day wedding suited Tom’s tastes perfectly. Instead of masses of flowers thickening the air with heavy perfume, the house and chapel were decorated with fresh boughs of evergreen: balsam, holly, and Scotch pine. The entire household was in a cheerful mood, and there was an abundance of good food and drink. Outside, it was gray and damp, but the house was cozy and well lit, with fires crackling in every hearth.

Unfortunately, not long before the ten o’clock ceremony was to begin, a crack of thunder signaled an approaching storm. As the ancient chapel was detached from the house, the bridal party and family members would have to walk through the rain to reach it.

Winterborne, who’d agreed to act as Tom’s best man, went out to have a look at the chapel and returned to the library, where Tom waited with Ethan Ransom, St. Vincent, and Devon. The women had gone upstairs to keep Cassandra company as she readied herself for the ceremony.

“It’s about to rain forks and knives,” Winterborne reported, water drops glittering on his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He reached for a glass of champagne from a silver tray on the table, and raised it in Tom’s direction. “Good luck it is, for the wedding day.”

“Why is that, exactly?” Tom asked, disgruntled.

“A wet knot is harder to untie,” Winterborne said. “The marriage bond will be tight and long lasting.”

Ethan Ransom volunteered, “Mam always said rain on a wedding day washed away the sadness of the past.”

“Not only are superstitions irrational,” Tom said, “they’re inconvenient. If you believe in one, you have to believe them all, which necessitates a thousand pointless rituals.”

Not being allowed to see the bride before the ceremony, for example. He hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of Cassandra that morning, and he was chafing to find out how she was feeling, if she’d slept well, if there was something she needed.

West came into the room with his arms full of folded umbrellas. Justin, dressed in a little velveteen suit, was at his heels.

“Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs in the nursery with your little brother?” St. Vincent asked his five-year-old nephew.

“Dad needed my help,” Justin said self-importantly, bringing an umbrella to him.

“We’re about to have a soaker,” West said briskly. “We’ll have to take everyone out to the chapel as soon as possible, before the ground turns to mud. Don’t open one of these indoors: It’s bad luck.”

“I didn’t think you were superstitious,” Tom protested. “You believe in science.”

West grinned at him. “I’m a farmer, Severin. When it comes to superstitions, farmers lead the pack. Incidentally, the locals say rain on the wedding day means fertility.”

Devon commented dryly, “To a Hampshireman, nearly everything is a sign of fertility. It’s a preoccupation around here.”

“What’s fertility?” Justin asked.

In the sudden silence, all gazes went to West, who asked defensively, “Why is everyone looking at me?”

“As Justin’s new father,” St. Vincent replied, making no effort to hide his enjoyment, “that question is in your province.”

West looked down into Justin’s expectant face. “Let’s ask your mother later,” he suggested.

The child looked mildly concerned. “Don’t you know, Dad?”

Tom went to the nearby window, frowning as raindrops seemed to come down faster than the pull of gravity, as if they were being shot from rifles. Cassandra might be fretting about the storm. Her shoes and the hem of her wedding dress were going to be wet and muddy, which he didn’t give a damn about, but it might distress her. He’d wanted the day to be perfect for her. Blast it, why hadn’t the Ravenels built a covered walkway to the chapel?

Winterborne came to join him at the window. “’Tis throwing down, now,” he said, watching the rain.

“If this is good luck,” Tom said acidly, “I could do with a bit less.” He gave a short sigh. “I don’t believe in luck anyway.”

“Neither do you believe in love,” Winterborne reminded him with a touch of friendly mockery. “But here you stand with your heart in your fist.”

The phrase was one of those Welshisms that sounded like a misstatement, but upon reflection made sense. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve was displaying his emotions . . . but a man with his heart in his fist was about to offer it to someone.