A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(10)

She turned and considered him. “Easily?” She shook her head to deny his words. “There can be nothing easy between a Holwell and a York.”



There, Cassandra had let Soren know exactly where he stood, and it felt good.

And how dare he appear to woo her on one hand and then mock her on the other as not being suitable—or attractive?

The last was a loaded word. Especially from him.

Oh, there was so much she wanted to say, including how hard it had been to hold her tongue ever since the marquis’s ball when he’d started asking her to dance and pretending that they had a friendly acquaintance.

The sight of the food on her plate made her ill. There was no way she could eat. There was no room for simple nourishment. Not when she was filled with so much bile.

The difficulty was that Cassandra prided herself on her composure. She’d spent years going through the humiliating exercise of being trotted out for men to ogle and judge with dismissive or snidely clever comments. She had managed to keep control over her emotions, to appear serene.

But right now, she discovered she didn’t have the will to continue to be silent. In this moment, she couldn’t sit next to Soren York and pretend.

Not when everyone in the room, save for her father and stepmother, was apparently thinking that a match between them would be a good thing. After all, Soren wasn’t first quality. He came from a line of gamblers who’d left him with empty pockets. They wouldn’t want their daughters to marry him.

But it would be perfectly fine for her to be his wife . . . because they didn’t consider her first quality, either. Her father was boorish and his manner crude. Yes, Cassandra knew what they whispered. Her father did as well. He took great pride in pushing himself upon them.

Whereas she sometimes wished she could disappear . . .

“Excuse me,” she said to the table. She tore her napkin from her lap and tossed it beside her plate. Before anyone could comment, she pushed back her chair and walked away from the table.

Did the conversation miss a beat as she left? She thought not. She didn’t even hear a pause.

A footman opened the door to the hall. She walked through it and then stopped. Where could she go?

She wanted to go home to London, to stop pretending that she could fit in—

“It is down the hall, my lady,” the footman whispered. “The third door on the right.”

“Down the hall—? Oh, yes, thank you.” He had assumed she was interested in the necessary room set aside for the ladies. There was another one for the gentlemen. It was a quick, convenient place as any to escape. At least it gave her an excuse for having abruptly risen from the table and taken her leave.

She moved down the hall and opened the appropriate door. She was pleased to find she was alone. The maid who had been in there earlier had obviously been pulled to the kitchen to help with the serving of so many guests.

And at last, Cassandra felt free to think.

The tension in her shoulders eased. She was away from him. She raised a relieved hand to her forehead.

Confound it all, she’d been completely content with her life knowing that Soren York was on the other side of the world. Why had he returned to England?

More important, why was he hounding her? Why was he placing himself in her path?

Oh, she knew he wanted her money, but she would never marry him. Not ever.

For one thing, he was too honest. Brutally so. She knew he was right, Camberly was not interested in her. Willa would make a better duchess. She wasn’t as rich in her own right as Cassandra but she had money enough. Yes, there was the height difference—and Cassandra still believed as a couple, it would make them look silly—however, her friend was beautiful.

Even Willa’s father had been given a position of honor at the table, whereas her father and stepmother were located at the foot of the table. She also realized that the only thing that had saved her from ignobly being seated with them was Soren, the duke’s good friend. Indeed, he was probably the reason the Holwells had even been invited to this party.

And that annoyed her most of all.

Everyone in that room believed she should marry the penniless Lord Dewsberry and consider herself fortunate. Even grateful.

How little they knew him. Or her.

She wasn’t some dull bookworm. She’d make a brilliant duchess. With Camberly by her side, she’d host a literary salon that would rule London. She’d thought it all out. It was her favorite dream. Everyone of importance would desire an invitation, but she would be very choosy. Only those with ideas of merit or who had great talent would be invited. Lord Rawlins and Lady Haddingdon were definitely off the guest list.

At her salon, the conversation would sparkle with wit and great ideas would be discussed. Minds would be changed. And she’d feel she had something meaningful in her life.

Oh, she’d attempted to hold a salon on her own merit. Her father had humored her and allowed her to host two. They had not been well attended. Her friends Willa and Leonie had been the only guests to show to both of them. Cassandra had tried to convince some scholars to come but they had politely declined. In the end, the program had been several readings by poets more interested in the food that was served than in presenting their work.

The salon was her big dream . . . however, Cassandra had smaller, secret dreams as well. She called them secret because she rarely voiced them. They were too simple for a woman of her intelligence, but truth be known, she did want her own home and a husband she admired.