A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(37)

Yes, she understood Soren might think he was doing it for her because Lord Drucker was a bore and a fool.

But her father had warned her—and she was wary of conniving men.

She came to her feet, reacting to the sudden churning of emotions she could not explain. Why, she almost preferred everyone snicker at her than fixate on her with melting eyes because they wanted to believe Soren’s fibs.

Her intent was to leave the room with her dignity intact. Cassandra never lied, and she was stunned at how easily he did.

His arm came around her waist and held her in place as if he had anticipated her actions.

“Kiss her,” someone, possibly Camberly since he was well within his cups, called. The words were picked up by others.

“Keep smiling,” Soren warned under his breath.

She turned to him. “I don’t—” she started, ready to tell him that she didn’t smile on command—but he kissed her before she could finish. Her lips had pursed on the word “don’t” and he’d pounced on them.

By the roar of approval, the kiss must have looked loverly but it wasn’t.

She was spitting furious with him. He’d just made up nonsense about them in front of everyone with complete disregard of the truth. Her father had always chided her to be honest. It was a virtue he favored.

Cassandra tried to pull away. Soren’s arm around her wouldn’t let her escape without a scene. She tried to protest; he took full advantage with his mouth.

Really, the man was insufferable. It was just as it had been on the dueling field. He kissed; she found herself kissed.

And then, they were kissing.

It became hard to reason, let alone to hold an angry thought. He had a hand on her back now, right between her shoulder blades. He bent over her, his lips following hers, and she found herself pressing up, not wishing to break contact.

Did they have an audience? She could no longer tell because all the awareness of her being was centered on this kiss—and then his arm around her waist moved down the backs of her thighs and she felt herself being lifted into the air with an ease she would not have thought possible.

The kiss broke with her surprise. She was in Soren’s arms. He was holding her. Men didn’t hold her. She was too tall, and yet here she was.

“That is enough,” he announced to the gathered company. “My bride and I wish to be alone.” With those words, he swept her out of the room ignoring the randy shouts calling them back or giving advice.

He carried her. He did so easily, as if her weight was of no consequence to him.

But this was unsettling to her. She wanted to be on her own feet. “You can put me down now.”

“Not yet. They are watching.”

And they were. Heads popped out from the dining room doorway. Camberly even came out into the hall as Soren brought her to the front stairs.

“I am too heavy,” Cassandra whispered, embarrassed.

“Are you afraid I’ll drop you?” he said.

“Of course I am. This is silly,” she said.

“Really?” He started up the stairs but pretended to move his arms as if he would let her go. Instinctively, Cassandra threw her arms around his neck. Now, he had a better hold.

“That’s better,” he cooed.

The general company was now at the foot of the stairs. Soren turned on the landing with her. “Wave.”

“No.”

“Spitfire,” he chided before kissing the angry pout on her lips, and continued his climb. At the top of the stairs, she thought he would put her down. When he didn’t, she glared at him, ready to tell him let go of her, but he spoke first.

“Don’t say it. Not one word.” He looked pointedly at a few maids and valets who were waiting for their masters and had come out of the rooms to see what was going on.

She kept quiet. Servants were the worst tattlers, and though she had some very direct words for Soren, she did not want them repeated.

Soren walked to a room at the end of the hall. A valet, noting that his arms were full, said with a knowing grin, “Allow me, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Soren said, while Cassandra wished she had a scarf to put over her head and hide her embarrassment. The crude comments from downstairs reminded her that everyone anticipated what they would be doing in this room, including the valet who had just opened the door.

The door closed behind him. This was the “special” room but it wasn’t much larger than the other bedrooms at Mayfield. Granted, the appointments were nicer. The bed itself was an ornately carved canopied bed of dark wood. The bed curtains and drapes were in a soft gold and there was a carpet on the floor. A well-worn one.

Soren moved to the bed. He opened his arms and let Cassandra drop.

Free at last, and without an audience, she hit the mattress and reached for a pillow. She rolled onto her knees, raised it in the air, and walloped him.

“Hey,” Soren complained.

“It was all rot. Everything you said downstairs. Every bit of it.” She hit him with the pillow again. He didn’t have a place to run.

“It got you upstairs, didn’t it? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

She held the pillow, her arm poised to throw it at him. “Wanted?”

“They were into their cups,” Soren said, combing the hair her pillow had mussed from his forehead. “I wanted to shut them up and take you out of there. And look,” he announced like a magician who had something to show, “here we are, away from them. Isn’t that what you desired?”