A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(15)

For years, she’d proudly nursed her grudge against Soren. It was what had made her a Holwell, she’d told herself. Yorks were not to be trusted, even though at one time Soren had been her ambassador. Because he’d befriended her, everyone else had included her as well, until the day he’d left without saying good-bye. He’d just disappeared.

Now she knew he’d been as surprised to be sent away as she’d been to lose him.

Seeking solace in the bedroom assigned to her, Cassandra sat on the bedside chair and tackled her own culpability in the incident in the schoolroom. She had jumped to some conclusions. Silly ones, she realized . . . and yet, at the time, it had been as if he’d broken her heart.

During that same period, she’d acted out quite a bit herself. Her father had recently married Helen. Cassandra had found herself with two stepsisters who treated her as if she was of no consequence.

When she’d first met them, she’d thought them perfect. They were of average height and had average-sized hands and average-sized feet, something they often pointed out to her as if hers were gigantic. They rarely discussed ideas because they were more interested in what Helen referred to as “feminine” pursuits—handwork, gossiping, primping. They studied art and music and practiced dance steps.

In contrast, Cassandra could not even stitch a button on a piece of clothing. The whole process, as simple as it was, annoyed her. And she had a terrible voice. Music lessons had been wasted on her. Helen had said as much repeatedly. Cassandra was also not particularly concerned with household matters. Helen had accused her of being too willing to rely on a housekeeper, which sounded like a perfectly good idea to Cassandra.

Running her fingers absently over the perfect pearls around her neck, she thought of her mother’s legacy. After all, once she married, she would be wealthy enough to afford whatever she wished. She’d be free of others’ opinions and she could hire the best housekeeper in the world and let her sing while she sewed on buttons.

Nonetheless, it had not been easy to have stepsisters who laughed at her—that is, on all matters save Soren. They thought he was the most handsome, most daring lad in Cornwall and had ceased purposefully irritating her. Other girls started to include her. She hadn’t been considered an odd goose, and that had felt good.

Then there was the slate incident, followed by Soren seemingly disappearing from her life, and she’d been forced to soldier on alone. She had been miserable. The best thing that had happened to her was her father moving them all to London. In the city, she met Willa and Leonie and began to thrive.

Cassandra sat for a long time mulling over the past but with a different lens. Perhaps she shouldn’t have blamed him for everything—

A knock on the door sounded before it opened. Her father and stepmother entered the room.

“Here you are,” her father said with his usual blustery good humor he wore for appearances’ sake. It was a sign that he was happy with her. “We have been looking for you everywhere.”

“Is dinner over?” Cassandra asked, rising. She’d been so preoccupied with her thoughts, she had lost track of time.

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “In fact, most are already to their beds.”

“Has Maggie been here yet?” Helen wondered. Maggie was Helen’s lady’s maid, whom she and Cassandra shared when they traveled.

“No, she has not,” Cassandra answered.

“When I’m done with her, I’ll send her to you. I’m exhausted. Traveling today and then enduring that endless feast downstairs has taken its toll. Do you mind if I go off to bed, Thomas?”

“Not at all, my love. And this will give me a chance to speak to my daughter alone.”

“That is what I thought you wanted. A private moment. Good night, Cassandra.” There was no kiss on the cheek between them. Theirs was not that sort of relationship.

“Good night, Helen,” Cassandra dutifully answered.

Once they were alone, her father placed his thumb on her chin to pull her head down for her to look at him. “What did Dewsberry do to you? Did he say something?”

Yes, Papa, he said he wants to marry me.

Those words never left her mouth. She held up a dismissive hand. “He barely spoke to me for the short time I was at dinner. And even if he had, I would not have paid him any attention.”

“I saw him trying to talk to you.” He released her chin. “I know he’s interested. He’d take any woman who had money. He’s done up, broken. He barely has two shillings to his name.” He laughed his pleasure. “You missed what happened after dinner. The Marchioness of Haddingdon followed him around all evening. Made a complete cake of herself.”

“She’s at least thirty years older than he is,” Cassandra protested.

“What is age when money is involved? She’s rich. That is all a scoundrel like Dewsberry is interested in. I should tip off her son. He’d horsewhip Dewsberry if he knew.”

The suggestion horrified her. “You sound happy that one of our Cornish neighbors is in trouble.”

Her father laughed. “I am, because I don’t want him for a neighbor. He’s finished, Cassandra. All those York pikers who have looked down their arrogant noses at the Holwells can kiss my arse. I might buy Pentreath myself—”

“Buy Pentreath?”

“Aye, the rumor is that it will be on the chopping block soon. I have my lawyer studying the matter. But enough of this. What of the duke?”