A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(16)

It took a mental pivot for Cassandra to overcome her shock that Soren could lose his ancestral home, to her father’s interest in the duke. “I don’t think Camberly is interested.”

This was not the first time she’d had to give her father this news. He was ever hopeful and always encouraging. He obviously didn’t see her the same way gentlemen of his choosing did. Those who did offer for her rarely met his standards. He was very particular.

“I don’t know about that,” he countered. “Yes, I was confused when he paired you up with Dewsberry and sat the two of you halfway down the table out of his and my reach; however, I believe he was being clever. I wish you’d been in the reception room when the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner. You might have been in for a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

He tapped a finger against his nose. “Before dinner, His Grace set a straight course for you when he entered the room.”

That was true.

“I watched him during the meal.” Her father paced as he spoke, a parliamentarian presenting his case. “Willa Reverly may have been sitting beside him but he had his eye on you. He noticed you had not returned. He appeared worried.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes. He asked about you.”

“Really?” Cassandra felt her spirits lift.

“Aye.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. What could he say? You were not there. But he didn’t pay another moment’s attention to Miss Reverly. Perhaps he had been attempting to make you jealous?”

Camberly had asked about her. That was startling news. She had thought him lost to her.

She had a momentary thought of Soren, and dismissed it. Her father was right. The Yorks had mishandled the gifts of their birthright. Even though Soren seemed different from his grandfather and father, a wise woman would not turn over her fortune, or her life, to him.

“So, tomorrow!” Her father clapped his hands and beamed approval. “Dress your best, look your prettiest. You have a duke to catch!” On those words, he wished her a good night and left the room.

Minutes later, Maggie knocked and helped Cassandra undress, plaited her hair into one long thick braid, and set out her clothes for the morrow. To be honest, the ivory, white, and pale shades that were the wardrobe of an unmarried woman did not suit Cassandra. They washed out her features. She could well imagine herself dressing vividly like Lady Haddingdon. She’d look better. In the end, she chose an ivory cambric with a thin stripe of green, her favorite color. It was hung on a wall peg for the next day.

“Good night, Maggie.”

“Good night, Miss Cassandra.”

Alone, Cassandra took out her traveling valise. It had a false bottom. She lifted the panel to reveal a velvet-lined compartment. She placed the precious pearls and the diamond-tipped hairpins carefully beside a set of garnets the size of a robin’s eggs. At home in her dressing table was a necklace and bracelet of sapphires. These jewels and vague memories that time worked hard to rob from her were all she had that was personal of her mother. She guarded the jewels carefully.

When she traveled, which she rarely did, she protected her jewelry in this secret compartment. At home, she’d devised a special hideaway and told no one about it. She didn’t know what she’d do if her mother’s jewelry was ever stolen, especially the pearls. They were her favorites. Her father had told her that the king had once begged her grandfather Bingham for them and been refused.

Cassandra blew out the bedside candle, climbed beneath the covers, and waited for sleep. It did not come.

Her mind was too busy. Furthermore, Mayfield’s lumpy mattress must have been as old as the house. Nor did the sheets smell fresh. And the bed ropes needed to be tightened. They were stretched to the point that between them and the mattress, she could not be comfortable.

She struggled to sleep for a good hour and more. Outside her door, she listened to other guests find their rooms until there was silence.

Staring up at the ceiling, Cassandra knew there was no hope for her. Her usual nighttime ritual was to read a chapter or two. Reading settled her mind and body; however, in the excitement of arriving at Mayfield, she’d left her book in the coach.

There was supposed to be a small reading room at the end of the hall outside her door. When she’d first arrived, a maid had told her about it. There must be a book there.

Cassandra rose from the bed and donned her dressing robe over her nightgown. The robe was a sensible garment of soft wool in a green the color of the deepest forest, because no one cared what a debutante wore to bed. She should dress if she was going to leave her room, but that would call for far more effort than she wished to expend. Her hope was to find a book and return to her bed without anyone being the wiser. Picking up the candle in its holder, she slipped her bare feet into the kid slippers she had worn to dinner and left the room.

Several wall sconces lit the hallway. All was very quiet. She walked toward where she thought the reading room was.

In truth, Mayfield was a bit of a rabbit warren. Apparently, earlier dukes made their mark on the house by adding wings to create a maze of hallways. Her parents’ room was down another hall from hers.

As she hurried toward the reading room, she noticed how actually shabby the house was. Downstairs, there was a semblance of stately wealth, but here were discolored rectangles on the walls, signs that a portrait had once proudly hung there and was now gone. Cassandra didn’t understand why someone hadn’t applied a brush and paint to the problem. Or hadn’t seen to the tightening of bed ropes before important guests arrived.