Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

Not long ago, Tom would have responded with a mocking gibe of his own. Instead, he found himself replying with a raw humility he rarely permitted himself to show anyone. “Christ, Winterborne . . . I don’t know what I believe anymore. I have feelings coming at me I don’t even know the names for.”

Winterborne’s dark eyes twinkled warmly. “You’ll sort it all out.” He took an object from his coat pocket and handed it to Tom. “Here. A Welsh custom.” It was the champagne cork, with a silver sixpence partially inserted into a slit at the top. “A memento of the day,” he explained, “and a reminder that a good wife is a man’s true wealth.”

Tom smiled, reaching out to shake his hand firmly. “Thank you, Winterborne. If I believed in luck, I’d say I was damned lucky to have you as a friend.”

Another belt of lightning whipped across the dark sky, setting loose a heavy mantling of rain.

“How is Cassandra going to reach the chapel without being drenched?” Tom asked with a groan. “I’m going to tell Trenear and Ravenel to—”

“Let them take care of her for now,” Winterborne counseled. “Soon enough she’ll belong to you.” He paused before adding slyly, “And then you’ll be lighting your fire on a new hearth.”

Tom gave him a quizzical glance. “She’ll be moving into my house.”

Winterborne grinned and shook his head. “I meant your wedding night, you spoony half-wit.”

After Cassandra reached the vestibule of the chapel, there was a flurry of activity involving umbrellas, toweling, and what seemed to be a canvas tarp. Tom could see little from his vantage point at the front of the chapel, but West, after folding the tarp, caught his eye and gave him a short nod. Taking it to mean they’d somehow managed to spirit Cassandra to the chapel in good condition, Tom relaxed slightly.

Within two minutes, Winterborne came to the front of the chapel to stand next to Tom, and the music began. A quartet of local musicians had been recruited to play the wedding march using small gold handbells, with exquisite results. Having only heard Wagner’s Bridal Chorus on the organ, Tom had always thought it a heavy-handed piece, but the bells gave it a delicate, almost playful lilt that was perfect for the occasion.

Pandora, as the matron of honor, proceeded demurely up the aisle, and sent Tom a quick grin before taking her place.

Then Cassandra came into view, walking toward him on Devon’s arm. She wore a dress of white satin, elegant and unusual in its simplicity, with no fussy ruffles and frills to distract from the lovely shape of her figure. Instead of wearing the traditional veil, she had drawn the sides of her hair up to the crown of her head and let the rest cascade down her back in long golden coils. Her only ornamentation was a tiara of graduated diamond stars, which Tom had sent upstairs that morning as a Christmas present. The wealth of rose-cut gems glittered madly in the candlelight, but they couldn’t eclipse her sparkling eyes and radiant face. She looked like a snow queen walking through a winter forest, too beautiful to be entirely human.

And there he stood, with his heart in his fist.

What was the name of this feeling? It was as if he’d fallen through the surface of his life into some strange new territory, a place that had always existed even though he hadn’t been aware of it. All he knew was that the careful distance he’d put between himself and other people had finally been crossed by someone . . . and nothing would ever be the same.

After a lengthy Christmas feast, the family went downstairs for the annual dance in the servants’ hall, a tradition by which everyone in the household mingled freely, danced together, and drank wine and hot rum punch. Cassandra, who’d been careful to drink only a few sips of wine at dinner, indulged in a cup of the hot punch during the dance, and felt it go straight to her knees. She was happy but weary, drained from all the conversation and cheerful banter, her cheeks sore from smiling, Ironically, although it was their wedding day, she and Tom had spent practically no time together. She glanced around the servants’ hall and saw him dancing with Mrs. Bixby, the cook. The stout older woman was pink-cheeked and giggling like a girl. Tom seemed as vigorous as he had been hours earlier, with a full supply of untiring energy. Ruefully Cassandra reflected that she would have a difficult time keeping up with him.

Tom saw her from across the room. Although he was smiling, there was an assessing quality in his gaze. Cassandra straightened her posture automatically, but he’d already seen the signs of her fatigue.

In a few minutes, he’d made his way over to her. “You look like a little sunbeam, standing here,” he murmured, reaching out to lightly finger a long golden curl. “What do you say to the idea of leaving a bit sooner than we’d planned?”

She nodded immediately. “Yes, I would like that.”

“Good. I’ll whisk you out of here in short order. There’s no need for drawn-out good-byes, since we’ll only be gone for a week. By now, the train is stocked and ready to depart.”

They were scheduled to leave for Weymouth in Tom’s private railway carriage. Despite his assurances they would be comfortable, Cassandra wasn’t looking forward to spending her wedding night on a train. No matter how one presented its merits, it was, after all, a moving vehicle. However, she hadn’t objected to the plan, since they would be lodged in a nice hotel the next night. The honeymoon itself was a gift from Winterborne and Helen, who had arranged for them to travel by private yacht from Weymouth to Jersey Island, the southernmost of the Channel Islands.

“According to Winterborne,” Tom had reported, “the climate is mild, and the views of St. Aubin’s Bay from the hotel are very fine. As for the hotel itself—I know nothing about it. But we’ll have to trust Winterborne.”

“Because he’s a good friend?” Cassandra had asked.

“No, because he knows I’d kill him immediately upon our return if the hotel is shabby.”

Now, as Cassandra stood with Tom in the servants’ hall, she said wistfully, “I wish we were already on the island.” The thought of all they had yet to endure . . . a train ride and at least six hours on a ship . . . it made her shoulders droop.

Tom’s gaze was caressing. “You’ll be able to rest soon.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “Your luggage was taken to the railway halt earlier, and your lady’s maid laid out your traveling clothes upstairs. She’s ready to help you change whenever you wish.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me when I danced with her a few minutes ago.”

Cassandra smiled up at him. The boundless energy that had seemed so daunting before now seemed rather safe and comforting, something to be wrapped around her.

“Of course,” Tom said softly, “you could leave in your wedding dress, and go with me straight to the railway carriage . . . where I could help you remove it.”

A quicksilver shiver chased through her. “Would you prefer that?”

His palm smoothed over the satin of her upper sleeve, and then he rubbed an edge of the fabric gently between his thumb and forefinger. “As a man who likes to unwrap his own presents . . . yes.”

Chapter 22

As Cassandra might have expected, the private luxury carriage went far beyond anything she could have imagined. It was two carriages, technically, connected by an accordion-shaped rubber hood that created enclosed walkways between the vehicles. An experimental design, Tom explained, that had the added benefit of making the ride smoother and quieter. One carriage contained a full-sized kitchen, with a pantry and chilled larder, and accommodations for the staff.