“Don’t!” he said sharply. “Don’t ever say anything like that about yourself! You are the finest woman I’ve ever known, true and generous and strong. Don’t look at yourself as narrow minds would.”

“It’s hard not to, especially here,” she pointed out. “Your mother and sister are good women in every sense of the word. I … am not.”

“Have they been rude to you?” he demanded. “I will not allow that!”

“You’re fitting back into your lordly role very quickly,” she said with amusement. “Your sister was charming and happy to meet me because she assumes we’ll be neighbors and she wants to be friends. Your mother …” Cassie hesitated. “She wasn’t rude, but she is naturally concerned for you and wanted to assure herself that you hadn’t fallen into the talons of a fortune-hunting harpy.”

“How dare she!” he said angrily. “I shall speak with her.”

“No,” Cassie said firmly. “Your mother’s concerns are legitimate. I’m no one’s idea of an innocent virgin bride.”

“Why the devil would I want one of those?” he retorted. “Sounds deucedly dull.”

“Many men worship the purity of innocence. I’m glad you’re not one of them,” Cassie said with a laugh. “But any mother would worry when her long-lost son shows up with a strange woman.”

“You’re not strange.” He cupped her breast with one hand. “You’re magnificent.”

Cassie gave him an intimate, teasing smile. “Your return has gone better than expected, hasn’t it? With your father recovering, you can take your time rather than being forced into major responsibility before you’re ready.” She brushed her lips on his cheek in a feather kiss. “I’m not needed here, so I can return to London right away.”

Her words were like a drench of ice water. “No! You can’t leave, you just got here.” He drew a deep breath as he struggled with his panicky reaction. “Of course you want to return to your real life, but no urgent mission awaits you. Stay a week or two. Relax, ride good horses, let yourself be cosseted and treated like a fragile flower. You deserve that.”

He held his breath as he waited for her response. He knew she would leave, but please God, not immediately!

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll stay a week.” Her hand began to wander down his body. “I shall certainly miss this.”

She cupped him and pure fire shot straight through his veins. “So will I,” he said raggedly. As he bent to the rich nourishment of her mouth, he wondered if he could survive without this sweetness and fire.

Despite her fatigue, Cassie lay awake for a long time after Grey fell asleep in her arms. She wanted to cherish every remaining moment with him. She’d been too weak to refuse to stay longer, but a week must be the limit. Lady Elizabeth had been so friendly and welcoming that Cassie was ashamed of being at Summerhill under false pretenses.

There was also the stark fact that the longer she stayed with Grey, the harder it would be to leave. She’d never felt such closeness with another man. He was willing to open himself to her as no one else had.

As she thought back to the night’s intense lovemaking, she realized that there had been a shift in the balance between them. At the beginning, he’d needed a woman, any woman, and she had accepted that in return for the simple delights of passion.

That had changed as they’d grown to know each other better. She’d become special to him, and he’d become special—incredibly so—to her. In the past, she’d given him healing intimacy in return for pleasure. Tonight, he’d returned healing and wholeness to her. It was time to leave. While she still could.

Much as Grey would have liked to sleep until noon with Cassie, he’d regained enough gentlemanly discretion that when he woke and saw the first faint light of dawn, he groaned and swung himself out of the bed. “Time to leave.”

He leaned over and kissed Cassie’s bare shoulder. He noted with amusement that she was now so relaxed that she only made a sleepy sound of acknowledgment rather than leaping from the bed with a knife in her hand.

He pulled the covers over her bare shoulder, then dragged on enough clothing to be decent. Carrying his shoes in one hand, he slipped out into the corridor. It was still very dark inside the house, but it wouldn’t be long before busy maids were stirring.

Now that he was back at Summerhill, his profound reluctance to return had almost vanished. Before, facing the demands and commotion that would be aroused by his return from the dead had seemed an insurmountable barrier.

He’d been right about the commotion. His return would have been easier if his mother had opened Kirkland’s message and been prepared for him. But now that was over, and he was feeling … like himself.

That self wasn’t the callow Lord Wyndham who had flitted off to Paris for amusement, but an older, knocked-about, and hopefully wiser man. A man who belonged here at Summerhill. This house, this land, these people were his. He felt like a flower that had been jerked from its native soil and withered away in the rubbish for years. Now he’d finally been replanted where he belonged.

He felt strong enough that for the first time, he dared wonder if there was any chance of persuading Cassie to stay. He’d wait a few days until she’d had time to experience the beauty and peace of Summerhill.

And then, they’d talk. He was no longer willing to let her go without at least trying to change her mind.


Chapter 35

Grey’s rooms were at the opposite end of the sprawling house, but he was able to reach them unseen. Feeling happy over his decision about Cassie, he opened his door, then halted at the sight of his brother sitting in front of the fire.

Fully dressed except for his coat, which he’d replaced with a casual banyan, Peter was sprawled in a wing chair and holding a drink as he stared into the flames. He looked like the careless, drunken Grey of a dozen years before.

“Peter?” Grey asked, surprised. As he glanced about, he saw that some of the furnishings and decorations had been changed.

“Ah, the young lord and master has arrived to claim his property!” Peter rose and made an exaggerated bow, sloshing his drink and almost falling over. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw me out of here earlier, but I suppose you were too busy rogering your doxy.”

Fury blazed through Grey. “Don’t you dare talk about Cassie that way!”

“Why not?” Peter opened a cabinet that contained glasses and bottles. “Damned bad form to bring your mistress to your family home, but you never did care for anyone but yourself.” He pulled out a brandy bottle and tilted it back to drink directly. “How much does she charge? She looks expensive, but during my years as heir apparent, my allowance was substantial. I should be able to afford a night or two.”

Grey launched himself at Peter, so enraged he was barely aware of how he punched and threw his brother, then pinned him to the ground. Nothing mattered but destroying the man who’d said such vile words.

He was dragged back to awareness by a hoarse whisper, “Grey! Grey, in the name of God, stop!”

Yanked from his killing rage, Grey realized that he had pinned Peter to the floor and was choking him. His brother’s face was darkening and he could barely gasp out his plea.

Grey wrenched himself away and buried his face in his hands as he gulped for breath. He thought he’d mastered his furies. Instead he’d almost murdered his brother. An unspeakable crime that he’d rather die himself than commit.

A few feet away, Peter lay on the floor retching out his guts on the priceless Chinese carpet. The effects of too much brandy and being strangled, no doubt.

As Peter pulled himself to a sitting position and leaned against a wing chair, Grey rose and dipped a towel in the water pitcher, then handed it to his brother. Wordlessly Peter wiped his mouth and face, then drank the glass of water Grey had poured.

“Dear God, Peter, I’m so sorry,” Grey said, sickened by himself. “You shouldn’t have spoken so about Cassie, but nothing can justify almost killing you.”

“I shouldn’t have said such vile things about your guest,” Peter replied, sounding more sober. He folded the wet towel and pressed it against a rapidly developing black eye. “Where the devil did you learn to fight like that?”

“The Westerfield Academy.” Still shaken, Grey poured himself two fingers of brandy, then sank down on the carpet a yard from his brother and leaned back against the sofa. “Ashton is half Hindu, and he taught his classmates a fighting technique he’d learned in India. It’s become a school tradition.”

“I should have gone there instead of bloody Eton,” Peter muttered.

“You were less worrisome so it wasn’t considered necessary.” Grey exhaled roughly. “Say anything you like about me, but I won’t hear a word against Cassie. She’s the finest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Then it’s a pity she looks like the very best grade of Bond Street ware.” Seeing Grey’s thunderous expression, Peter said hastily, “I believe you that she’s no whore, but she is … not what one would expect of your bride. Why did you bring her to Summerhill when Father is dying and you’re returning from the dead? Not exactly ideal circumstances for introducing a new member of the family.”

Grey said, “The good news is that Father isn’t dying. He woke up and spoke to me. Mother is with him now.”

Peter’s face brightened. “Wonderful!”

Grey took a sip of his brandy. It was tempting to get drunk, but he and Peter wouldn’t have fought if his brother hadn’t been drunk enough to ruin his judgment. Or perhaps his temper. Peter was obviously not happy about losing his expectations.

“Cassie is here to keep me sane.” Grey’s laughter was bitter. “I thought I was making progress on that front, but apparently not. If she’d been here, I wouldn’t have come so close to fratricide.”