of her hair brushed his cheek. She was tense, and he could feel her breathe. Her warm, floral, womanly fragrance slid under his skin and into his blood.
He ignored it all and murmured in her ear. He explained clearly, descriptively, succinctly, what he wanted her to do to him, as reward and inducement for good behavior.
She responded exactly as he had intended: She gasped and stumbled away from him, hands pressed over her mouth, eyes wide.
“I will never do such a disgusting, depraved thing!” she cried. “That you would even think of it!”
Bull’s-eye! He grinned, ignoring the void beside him where she had been.
“If you refuse to comply, I refuse to behave,” he said.
“Oh, you…” Her lovely full mouth moved, helplessly seeking words to voice her outrage, then she gave up and stormed out, finally, mercifully leaving him alone, with his thoughts in disarray.
Chapter 7
Cassandra’s infuriating, vexing, depraved husband neither shaved nor removed the infernal earring, and he met Cassandra’s pointed look with raised eyebrows, which reminded her of his suggestion and her natural mortification. She carefully ignored him all the way to the rout at her aunt and uncle’s house, where, fortunately, he went his own way, and she was able to enjoy herself, though she could not forget what he had said.
Routs were silly, really: a crowd speeding through a house, conversing in frantic, frivolous bursts, reveling in the crush even as they complained. But she loved talking to people and thinking up amusing conversation points and admiring other ladies’ gowns.
She spied Arabella on the upper level and climbed the stairs to join her. Arabella made a haughty, cool island of stillness amid the social whirl, but her gentle smile suggested Lord Hardbury was nearby.
“Arabella, I must ask you something.” Cassandra’s hands were clammy in her gloves; she could not believe she was about to ask something so brazen, but she simply had to know. She started to speak but with this racket, she would have to nearly yell to be heard. “I need to whisper. Please stoop.”
“How intriguing,” Arabella said and complied.
“Do you ever…” Cassandra glanced around. No one could hear. “Kiss…your husband’s…organ?”
A strange sound burst out of Arabella and she hastily covered her mouth with her fist. “Did you say what I think you said?”
Cassandra’s cheeks burned. “Mr. DeWitt suggested that I…But I…Oh, stop laughing.”
But Arabella only straightened, her shoulders shaking with the effort to repress her mirth. The astonishing sight of Lady Hardbury laughing drew unwanted attention. It also drew Lord Hardbury, bemusement replacing his usual scowl.
“Whatever are you two up to?” he asked. “Mrs. DeWitt, you look overheated. Do you need some air?”
Too embarrassed to look at him, Cassandra seized her first opportunity to escape. “Oh, there’s Leo with Sir Gordon,” she said brightly, and hurried away from her unhelpful friend.
If her color was still high when she reached the Duke of Dammerton and Sir Gordon Bell, they were too polite to comment. After some pleasant chatter, the heat mercifully subsided, and by the time Sir Gordon bowed and moved away, she felt like herself again.
“I see you brought that dreadful husband of yours,” the duke said. “You remember what he looks like, then?”
She smiled at his good-natured teasing. “He is not really so dreadful, is he?”
“Good heart, bad manners. Better than the alternative, I always say,” he said. “I never expected to see him here at Lord and Lady Morecambe’s party, though.”
“Lord Morecambe is my uncle.”
“I know but…Lord Treyford is here, and DeWitt and his father do not get along.”
“But he won’t make a scene here.”
His Grace’s smile faltered. He started to speak, stopped, and then excused himself to talk to someone else.
Oh dear. Cassandra decided she had better go in search of her husband, although heaven knew what she was supposed to do when she found him. She nudged her way toward the balcony overlooking the main gallery, but before she could search for him, she came face to face with—
“Harry!”
“Cassandra!”
Harry Willoughby, Lord Bolderwood, looked as fair and handsome as the day they got engaged, three years ago now. His purse may be suffering, but his face, at least, betrayed no ill effects of his marriage to—
“Do introduce us, Harry, my sweet.”
“My wife, Phyllis, Lady Bolderwood.”
The tips of Harry’s ears turned pink and he didn’t meet Cassandra’s eye. The two ladies subtly inspected each other. Lady Bolderwood’s blue silk gown was elaborate and expensive, but her only adornment was a ribbon around her throat. Cassandra caught herself fingering the rubies at her