six or seven dragons for her.
Ashmont had experienced the Gorgon stare. He’d caught hints of feeling now and again. But he hadn’t realized how much she hid until now, when she let go of whatever it was, and her smile seemed to fill the room with sunlight, and the light left him breathless.
The smile wasn’t aimed at him, which was provoking. More provoking still was the thought that she had just given Blackwood, the treacherous swine, a point.
Cassandra watched them go, her heart pounding, her face giving nothing away.
She couldn’t make sense of it, not now. It was too much. In a matter of minutes, Ashmont had thrown her world off balance. Again.
Sober, or something like it, he’d surprised her again and again.
The verbal sparring, which she’d not supposed him capable of, and which she’d enjoyed more than she ought.
The sense of intimacy he created in a great crowd. The awareness of the secret they shared, and his care in giving nothing away.
Then the abrupt change in his demeanor when somebody called her Scylla. He’d made her see the boy again, the one who’d joined her battle against Godfrey Wills so many years ago. The same heart-stopping smile—oh, but that was only glee in the prospect of destroying another male.
For show, she told herself. He only wanted to drive away the onlookers, in order to . . . flirt . . . with her.
As though she were not a monster.
But he was one, too. Small wonder it didn’t trouble him, if he even noticed.
And it was all part of the game, the prank. He couldn’t resist causing an uproar . . .
Diana the Huntress, driving her chariot.
Not Venus. Not Minerva.
Diana, the mythical deity her much younger self had imagined she’d become: the Huntress, chaste and free and powerful, with her bows and arrows and her company of nymphs.
As though he could look into her brain, her heart, with that armor-piercing blue gaze.
“Oh, my goodness,” Hyacinth said, drawing near her. “That was exciting. I’ve never seen him up close before.”
“Who?” Cassandra pulled herself out of the haze of memory and jumbled feelings. The band was playing. Had they played all along? Or had the world stopped for a time? People were moving through the great room, slowly, as they’d done before. Into the open space about their stall, gentlemen were beginning to drift, though cautiously, looking about them, in case Ashmont suddenly sprang from the crowd again.
“You know perfectly well,” Hyacinth said. “What did I tell you? Pining. He couldn’t keep away.”
You gave me a point.
Cassandra shook her head. “My fault. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She looked about her. A trio of elegantly dressed young gentlemen were making their way, in a determined manner, to Stall Number Nine. She smiled at Hyacinth. “More admirers, my dear. Have you anything left to sell them?”
“Not much. Mr. Morris bought nearly everything.”
“His mother will be furious.” Which meant she’d be sure to pass on every detail of Ashmont’s intrusion, emphasizing the amount of time he’d spent talking to Cassandra and offering the most lurid speculation about the conversation. No doubt she’d see and hear things she’d neither seen nor heard.
Still, Ashmont had harassed others, and Cassandra would think of something to tell her parents. What truly mattered was Hyacinth. She was happy. The elegant trio were examining the pitiful remnants of what Mama had assumed would be enough goods for the duration. Cassandra discreetly withdrew to the back of the stall, so as not to alarm the customers overmuch. As long as they behaved, she was happy to see them admire her sister.
Meanwhile, nearby in George Street
“Sorry to spoil your fun,” Blackwood said. “But I spotted Lady Bartham storming through the crowd, aimed your way. It occurred to me that Morris would probably rather his mother didn’t embarrass him in that mob, with half his acquaintance looking on.”
The mention of his mother roused Morris from his dazed state, but not by much. “Indeed, thank you,” he said. He held to his chest the parcel his adored one had made up for him. “Grateful, yes. Very good of you.”
“A week ago you said he was a blackguard,” Ashmont said in an undertone.
Blackwood paused in front of St. George’s Church. “Morris, be so good as to walk on. I must have a word with Ashmont. We’ll catch up.”
Still clutching the parcel as though it were a holy relic, still not quite free of the enchantment of Miss Flower, Morris walked on.
Blackwood looked up at the church. “I