footpath. He went with her.
They’d taken not ten steps when a servant hurried up to them. He carried the duke’s hat.
Ashmont thanked him, gave him a coin, and donned the hat.
“Feel better now,” he said. “A fellow feels naked without his hat.”
She felt naked. Exposed. Not merely to Lady Bartham, but to herself.
He was a rake and he’d used his rake’s wiles on her and she’d succumbed, easily and happily.
The shocking opening of Harriette Wilson’s Memoirs, etched indelibly on her memory, came to the front of her mind in bold, black letters:
I shall not say why and how I became, at the age of fifteen, the mistress of the Earl of Craven. Whether it was love, or the severity of my father, the depravity of my own heart, or the winning arts of the noble lord . . .
At this moment, the defiant words made perfect sense to Cassandra. Had Miss Wilson—or Mary Wollstonecraft, for that matter—been men, nobody would have fussed about their succumbing to their desires.
The trouble was, Cassandra wasn’t a man, and unlike the two famous women, she had Hyacinth to consider. Miss Wilson, certainly, had felt no responsibility to her family. But then, when Harriette Wilson set out on her career, she was only fifteen.
Your behavior reflects . . . on all of us.
“Drat you, Lucius.” Aunt Julia came storming down the footpath. “Can I not leave you alone with my niece, in a public place, for even a minute?”
“Have I done something?” the duke said, all blue-eyed innocence.
He reminded Cassandra forcibly of the Cockney boy Jonesy at this minute. Even now, when all those she cared about were threatened, she wanted to laugh.
“Do hold your tongue,” she said in an undertone. “My aunt is no dullwit.”
“But—”
“Don’t.”
“But I wasn’t—”
“Leave this to me,” she said.
Lord Frederick, she noticed, stayed where he was, looking on, his usual cool and unruffled self. A seasoned diplomatist like Aunt Julia, he knew when to step away from the fray.
She turned to her aunt, whose gaze traveled from Cassandra’s hat to her half boots. Aunt Julia closed her eyes then opened them again, in a manner very like Papa’s when words temporarily failed him.
“Umbrella fight,” the duke said.
Aunt Julia transferred her attention to Ashmont, which was when Cassandra noticed that his neckcloth’s perfect knot was unknotting, his coat had lost a button, and his trousers bore dirt streaks. She experienced an insane urge to put him to rights—as though that were humanly possible.
To her aunt she said, “I told you our club has been practicing methods of defense against villains, and I believed the duke might be able to advise us.”
“I played the villain,” he said. “Miss Pomfret is devilish good at nearly killing fellows with an umbrella.”
“You may ask any of the ladies, Aunt,” Cassandra said. “In fact, I recommend you do it, because—”
“We were caught,” Ashmont said. “In flagrante delicto.”
Cassandra stared at him. “What is wrong with you?”
“You said it meant crime,” he said. “We committed the ghastly crime of being improper. You see, Lady Charles—”
“Will you hold your tongue?” Cassandra said. “Aunt—”
“She was all”—Ashmont waved a hand—“in disorder. I was trying to help her with her—her things, you know. We were trying to be discreet. Behind a curtain. But—”
“Behind a curtain,” Aunt Julia said.
“Lady Bartham pulled it open,” Cassandra said.
Her aunt put one gloved hand to her temple.
“Yes, I know,” Cassandra said.
“Ashmont, go talk to your uncle,” her aunt said.
“I offered—”
“Go talk to Lord Frederick,” Aunt Julia said. “I must speak to my niece. Privately.”
Cassandra watched the duke walk away, so tall and easy in his big body, as confident as any god. She saw his uncle look him over in the same way Aunt Julia had examined Cassandra.
“What happened?” her aunt said. “Exactly and truthfully, if you want me to help you.”
Cassandra told her.
At the end of the painful but brief telling, Aunt Julia said, “He did not force himself upon you?”
“Did it sound as though he did?” Cassandra said. “And do you imagine he ever would, with any woman? He doesn’t need to. All he has to do is stand there and gaze deeply into our eyes, and our brains collapse.”
Aunt Julia’s lips twitched—with irritation, no doubt. She looked away—at Ashmont and Lord Frederick, at the surrounding landscape, at the heavens—as though seeking inspiration. Finally she said, “I believe you will have to accept his offer of marriage.”
Cassandra turned her gaze toward him, and found the duke and his uncle looking at her. Or maybe Aunt Julia.