A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(24)

By the time that dawn was approaching, an overwrought Cassandra had herself convinced that her father was right. Her life had been ruined, and Dewsberry was completely to blame.

In a few hours, her family would leave Mayfield. She’d be trundled off to the country, where she would live the role of a relation who had embarrassed her family. She would die alone, an eccentric who would serve as a warning to new debutantes of the danger of being caught in gentlemen’s rooms. She would be the odd setting at a table, the one that family members would shake their heads over, wondering what to do with her.

She would also not know the marriage bed.

For years, she’d read poetic allusions to it. It was a rite of passage that would not be hers, even though all the scandalmongers would believe she’d already reveled in it.

As for Lord Dewsberry—well, he’d probably find an heiress to marry. He was handsome, and very well built. She had seen that with her own eyes. The image of his naked buttocks had been burned into her memory. She’d never thought overmuch about male bums. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about them.

He would go on with his life to the acclaim of all, while her dreams, her hopes were ended. She would not inherit her mother’s fortune. She’d lost it all through her own gullibility. In fact, she had no doubt that once her father put her in the family coach bound for Cornwall, Society would rarely see her again.

Soren deserved to know what his ill-thought actions, including his supposedly honorable proposal of marriage, had done to her. In her frantic state of mind, she found herself believing that he had known her father would never let her marry him. He’d been saving his own face when he’d made the offer.

She threw back the covers. It was almost dawn. Good. Hopefully those tiptoeing around the hallways had finally settled down to whatever bed they chose. With the sense of indignation born from having her life turned inside out and very little sleep, she threw on her robe and slipped her feet into the kid slippers, just as she had the night before. Soren’s room was only a few doors from hers. She could have her say and be back in bed before anyone was the wiser.

Cassandra placed her hand on the door handle and then stopped, hearing male voices in the hallway. She cracked the door.

The Duke of Camberly and Soren stood in front of his room. Both were dressed for the day. The duke handed Soren a sword. Soren removed it from its scabbard and tested the weight. He made a few experimental parries. Cassandra remembered he had seen military service in Canada. Watching the ease with which he used the weapon, she certainly believed the stories true.

“Good, eh?” Camberly said.

“Excellent.” Soren held the blade up to the light. “A dueling blade is different than what I am used to but this is nice.” He balanced the sword between two fingers as if testing its weight and then threw it up to catch it by the hilt. He thrust forward and smiled.

“It will cut though silk. My valet spent an hour sharpening both of the swords. I gave the other to Bainhurst’s second so he could test it.”

“Your man did a fine job,” Soren answered. He slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “Are we ready?”

“I should also tell you, Bainhurst again wishes you to accept his apology. He believes there is no reason to duel.”

Duel? The word alarmed Cassandra.

“Miss Holwell’s reputation is reason enough. You turned him down?”

“Of course.”

Soren’s response was a chilling smile of satisfaction. This was not the acquaintance of her childhood but a man unafraid to kill. “Let us go.”

Cassandra took action. She threw open the door and planted herself in their path.

“You will not duel on my account,” she declared.

The duke was startled but Soren behaved as if he’d expected her to jump out and make a statement. Level gray eyes met hers. His gaze dropped to take in her forest green robe. Her hair must certainly be a mess. The once meticulous braid was loose from a night of tossing, turning, and running through the halls.

“Good morning, Miss Holwell.”

He sounded calm.

As for herself? She had a disquieting mental image of his naked back. She quashed it from her mind. “Good morning,” she returned, barely civil because of the errant direction of her thoughts. “What are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing. You just told me not to do it.”

Such reasonableness was annoying.

“And I meant those words. I will not allow a duel to be fought on my behalf. Dueling is barbaric.”

“Cass, return to your bed.” He started forward.

“I’m not some child you can order about. And my name is Cassandra. Cass-an-dra.”

Soren gave a small salute acknowledging his error, and then he and the duke walked right around her, one on either side, and continued down the hall. She took a step after them, and then realized she couldn’t go anywhere in her current state of undress. They turned the corner and went out of sight.

Her temper exploded. A rage the likes of which she’d never known gripped her. How dare he patronize her? Did her desires, her wishes account for anything? If there was any “defending” to be done, she would defend herself. Modern men—rational, intelligent men—did not resolve differences by carving pieces off each other, especially in her name.

Meanwhile, she was being shuttled off to the country to be a nobody. And Soren believed he was doing her favor?