A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(6)

“Miss Reverly, how good to see you again,” he said.

Willa bobbed another curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. It is a pleasure to see you as well.”

And then he gave his attention to Cassandra.

She could feel the warmth of it. Worse, the dowager, the duke, and seemingly everyone in the room watched them. Cassandra had no choice but to acknowledge Soren.

“Miss Holwell, I’m happy to see you as well.”

She borrowed Willa’s manners. “Thank you, my lord,” she chirped, dignifying him with the barest of curtseys. Her father would be scrutinizing her every movement.

The dowager pursed her lips in a sound of satisfaction. “Why, I say, what a good couple you make. I’d not realized it before.” She emphasized her words by pretending to push Cassandra closer to Soren. “So tall and equally fair. I wonder, can you both trace your ancestry back to the same Viking raid? Would that not be something?” she declared to the room.

Heads nodded agreement until Cassandra said, “I do not claim Viking blood.” The words came out snippier than she would ever have intended.

Eyebrows were raised, especially the dowager’s.

There was an awkward moment.

Soren stepped into the breach. “We Cornish, Your Grace, are not particularly proud of our raider history. Especially those of us who actually do have names that could be traced back to those days.”

“Ah, yes, York.” She smiled munificently at Soren, letting him and everyone else in the room know she found him a favorite—and then her watery gaze slid to Cassandra. “I’m certain Holwell is not a Nordic name. It doesn’t even have a particularly melodious sound.”

As if York did?

Cassandra wisely kept her thoughts to herself, and a vapid smile across her closed lips.

Thankfully, the Camberly butler stepped into the room. “Dinner is served.”

“Thank you, Marshall,” the dowager answered. She looked to the duke. “Your Grace, you will escort me in.”

“Of course, Grandmother.”

“Ah, and Bainhurst, you have come for your wife,” the dowager said to a hard-looking man in his forties. His hair was close-cropped with a good amount of iron gray among the black. He was of average height, with frowning lines around deep-set eyes. At one time he’d probably been quite handsome. That time had passed, to Cassandra’s way of thinking. He was too full of himself now, too prideful. She could feel it about him immediately. This was a man one should never cross.

And he was especially pleased to have a young and beautiful wife. He staked his claim to her by placing a heavy hand on her shoulder.

For her part, his lady didn’t flinch. Cassandra realized that the very pleasant Lady Bainhurst she’d been enjoying conversation with might also be a cold creature who could well take care of herself. There was no basis for the thought, just a strong awareness of an undercurrent of something Cassandra did not understand.

The dowager busily paired Willa to the overly plump and gossipy Mr. Bullock, who tiptoed when he walked. He was vastly annoying. Willa’s father smiled his satisfaction because Mr. Bullock was a confirmed bachelor. Mr. Reverly probably thought, as Cassandra did, that this pairing was saving her for Camberly’s attention.

And then the dowager announced what Cassandra had feared she would say. “Lord Dewsberry, will you please escort Miss Holwell in to dinner?”

“It would be an honor,” Soren responded.

Cassandra had been aware of him moving into position behind her. He’d known.

She dared not look at her father. He would not kick up a fuss right here with everyone’s eyes upon them, but she knew she’d be hearing his opinion later.

He had no need to fear. Cassandra had let down her guard around Soren once and he had wounded her in the cruelest way possible. A wise woman would gird her loins against him. And if Cassandra was anything, she was wise. Without looking at Soren, she placed her hand so lightly on his arm, she barely touched his sleeve.

The dowager finished her assignments. They would all process in. They might be in the country; however, London rules would be observed, albeit an hour earlier for dining. She led the way to the dining room with the duke, followed by Lord Bainhurst and his lady, with all the pomp due a formal event.

Others fell in line. Soren moved and Cassandra went with him, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. She’d stepped wrong and would have fallen except for her hand quickly gripping his arm.

It was a humbling moment. Soren knew what had happened, and he knew that he had saved her.

She had yet to look at him, although from the corner of her eye she could see the hard line of his jaw . . . and a hint of a smile as if he was pleased with himself.

The thought struck her that he truly did need a haircut. What was wrong with him, or his valet, that he wasn’t a bit tidier?

Then she chastised herself for even noticing.

At that moment, as the line entering the room slowed to a stop so that people could be properly seated, he turned and looked right at her with his all-too-knowing eyes.

She refused to give him the satisfaction of so much as a glance. She could feel the heat of his stare. Instead she focused on the bald patch on Lord Rawlins’s head in front of her.

“You are welcome,” he said quietly, a hint of laughter in his voice.

He’s nothing to me, she began repeating to herself. Nothing at all.