Miss Weston's Masquerade Read online

  The novelty of her new dresses and her restricted surroundings soon wore off as the afternoon dragged on. The few dreary tomes by French philosophers which the bookcase held were of no interest to her. Outside there was sunlight and movement and voices carrying over the high wall from the city streets beyond.

  Somewhere out there was Nicholas, visiting friends, enjoying himself, flirting, no doubt, with an army of desirable, elegantly dressed women. Women with figures. She crossed to the glass again, uncertain now that the dress was as flattering as she’d first thought. When she compared its modest, pale lemon fabric with the heavy luxury of the silk peignoir, she felt positively dowdy.

  By supper time there was still no sign of Nicholas. Eventually she ate alone in her room, bored almost to tears with her own company after being used to Nicholas’s for the past few days. She wanted to show him her new gown, hear about his day, the gossip of Paris, this wonderful city she’d only glimpsed. And she wanted to hear when her lessons could start and how soon she could go about with Madame Robert.

  Chapter Six

  It was almost midnight, and Cassandra was half asleep, when she heard the noise of carriage wheels on the cobbled courtyard beneath her window. She leapt out of bed and ran barefoot to the long casement. Below her, Nicholas was getting out of the carriage, but he was not alone. Another coach pulled up behind and men and women in evening dress alighted from both.

  Cassandra could not see them properly from above, but she could hear their laughter as they passed between the flickering torchéres into the house.

  So he had forgotten that he had promised to meet her at supper and instead he’d been out carousing with these people. In fact he had probably forgotten she existed while she had spent all day by herself waiting for him to come home.

  Angrily she wrenched open the door, careless of the fact she was wearing only the silk peignoir. Gaston was ushering the party into one of the drawing rooms as she peered over the banister. They must have come on from the theatre or the opera and the three women in the group were bejewelled, gems flashing on the milky expanses of décolletage.

  ‘Make yourselves at home, mes amis,’ Nicholas called over his shoulder. ‘I will be with you in a moment.’ He began to run up the staircase, his opera cloak flung over one shoulder. He’d get rid of the cloak, freshen up…

  He stood in front of the mirror adjusting the emerald stick pin in his neck cloth. Something moved in the reflection, someone by the half-open doorway had shifted, changing the fall of the light.

  He turned and, for a long moment, did not recognise the figure in the doorway. The brighter light from the landing cast a halo around tumbled dark curls and gleamed on the rich sapphire silk which pooled around the pale bare feet which peeped provocatively from the folds. One white shoulder showed where the fabric had slipped with the woman’s agitated breathing.

  Instinctively he stepped forward, drawn by the sensuality of the still, silent figure. Then he saw who it was.

  ‘Cassandra.’ He stopped, scandalised as much by his own arousal as her appearance. With an effort he got his reactions under control. ‘What are you doing out of your room dressed like that?’

  ‘How else should I be dressed?’ she demanded. ‘It is bedtime, after all.’ Her chin came up defiantly. Those expressive blue eyes sparked with anger, of all things. ‘You promised you’d be home for supper.’

  She looked… beautiful. Cassie, the girl, Cass, the valet… this desirable woman. Arousal flared through him along with guilt for even feeling it. ‘You stupid girl! Get back to bed this instant. If anyone were to see you…’

  She shrugged dismissively, sending the gown slithering down the other white shoulder as she took a step forward. ‘They’d only wonder who that brat was, the one who should have been in bed hours ago.’

  In bed? That was where she should be, where he wanted her. ‘Not dressed like that, they won’t.’ Before he realised what he was doing Nicholas took the one stride forward that closed the gap between them, seized her by the shoulders and brought his mouth down on hers.

  Nicholas held her crushed hard against him as he deepened the kiss. Fireworks exploded behind his closed lids, her bare skin where the gown had slipped from her shoulders seemed to burn through the fabric of his shirt as his hands on her back insistently moulded her body to his.

  Cassandra made no resistance. Her fingers sought the curls at his nape, twining and inciting as a little moan of wanting began in her throat.

  What am I doing? Nicholas freed her as sharply as he had taken her and she staggered, her eyes on his face, as if trying to understand this new Nicholas, trying to fathom why he had broken the embrace so brutally. Or why he had begun it in the first place. Fifteen, he told himself, guilt lashing at him. Legally Quite old enough to marry – but this was Cassie, and he was responsible for her.

  ‘Nicholas?’ she whispered.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ He was not certain whether the harsh words were for her or for him. ‘You must learn that if you provoke gentlemen, they will respond to what you have offered.’

  ‘I was not offering…’ Her eyes were huge in her white face, the hurt in them shaming him even more than he was already, even as his rebellious body hardened and ached.

  ‘What do you call that?’ He reached put and pulled up the silken ruffles to cover her bare shoulders, fighting the urge to push them back, send the robe to the floor, leave her naked in front of him. ‘If you come into a man’s room dressed like a whore, you must expect to be treated like one. I taught you a lesson for your own good. Now go to bed.’

  He strode past her and out of the room, ran down the stairs, forced a smile on his face and made his voice light and careless. ‘Have you drinks, mes amis? Dice or cards?’

  Cassandra threw herself across her bed and pummelled the pillows until her clenched fists ached and the memory of Nicholas’s contemptuous face blurred.

  How could he treat her like that? Gradually her fury subsided, leaving her feeling sick with humiliation at the way Nicholas had spoken to her, the way she had responded to him. She hadn’t intended to provoke him, she told herself, then felt her cheeks burn at the way she’d responded to that kiss and the strength of his arms as he’d crushed her body to his.

  Cassandra had had no experience of men, but she knew now that this was exactly what she had been wanting him to do ever since she’d walked into his bedchamber in Grosvenor Square. She lifted her hot face from the pillows and sat up. Well, however attracted she felt to Nicholas, his contemptuous dismissal proved he felt nothing for her. As far as he was concerned, she was an embarrassing girl and tonight’s incident would only make him more determined to leave her safely chaperoned in Paris while he continued his Grand Tour unencumbered.

  The sound of laughter from the salon below sent her to the open casement. Light streamed from the long windows across the paved courtyard painting the shadows of the miniature orange trees against the walls of the hôtel.

  It isn’t fair, Cassandra fumed to her reflection in the panes. All along Nicholas had misunderstood her, had treated her like a boy even when she didn’t have to act the part, then when all she’d wanted was to be noticed, talked to, treated like a young woman, he’d called her a… She couldn’t say it.

  She was just another possession as far as he was concerned, like his servants and his house and his carriages, something he didn’t notice until it discommoded him. Well, it was about time the Earl of Lydford did notice her.

  Cassandra looked at herself again, but this time with more calculation. The shock had left her pinched and white about the face, her hair damp and flattened on her head. The soft femininity of the afternoon had gone and the boy Cass stared back at her through resentful eyes.

  Ten minutes later Cassandra peered silently through the balusters as a footman deposited a tray of glasses on a side table in the hall. Before he could return, she ran lightly down the stairs and picked up the salver. Her heart was thudding against her ribs, b
ut no-one looked up as she slipped through the door into the salon.

  Four men lounged around a card table throwing dice. Beside them, flushed with excitement and wine, four women were egging them on with sharp little cries of encouragement. The light from the mass of candles glinted off jewels and bullion lace, cut crystal and silverware.

  Cassandra’s hands shook, setting the wine glasses tinkling, and she put the tray down hastily just as the footman brought in the decanters. His eyes widened at the sight of her, but she took them from him and shut the door in his startled face.

  The gamesters still paid her no attention. The women were laughing, teasing one of the men whose luck seemed to be out.

  ‘Throw a double six, my dear Comte, and I will give you the rose from my cleavage,’ the redhead said throatily, leaning towards him to show off the prize nestling between her scarcely-covered breasts.

  The Count, a dark, sardonic man with a beak of a nose, smiled lazily at her. ‘I shall want more than the rose if I score high, my dear Juliette.’

  His voice, as warm as honey, did nothing to disguise his meaning, even from Cassandra. Her small gasp of outrage was audible. Several heads turned towards the dark-suited figure but Nicholas, without looking up, ordered, ‘Pour the wine and go. We will serve ourselves after that.’

  Cassandra lifted the heavy decanter with both hands and began to pour the red wine gingerly, one eye on Nicholas’s dark head. This wasn’t what she’d planned when she’d scrambled into the valet’s clothes. She had wanted to give him the shock of his life by appearing as a boy, pay him back by forcing him to playact in front of his sophisticated friends.

  She’d only meant to appear for a minute, give him a fright. Now she was trapped, and he hadn’t even looked up from the dice, or noticed it was her.

  The woman perching like a bird of paradise on the arm of Nicholas’s chair was running her fingernails absently through the crisp curls at his nape. Cassandra met her eyes and registered with shock that she must be a good ten years older than Nicholas, although her beautifully painted complexion belied it.

  ‘Nicholas, my darling, she drawled, ‘where did you find such a delicious boy? I declare, he is positively edible. And so young. Oh look, we shock him.’ Her fingers were still on Nicholas’s neck.

  Cassandra could feel the blush flood up from her neckcloth as the woman sauntered over and touched one cheek with a long finger. ‘Regardez, mesdames, his cheek is smooth like a peach.’

  Nicholas turned, his expression of mild irritation freezing into a mask of disbelief at the sight of Cassandra dressed in the dark suit he’d given her in London.

  Juliette, the redhead, laughed. ‘Oh, Mariette. Even for you, he is a little young, don’t you think? And so innocent… how could you think of bespoiling such an angel?’

  The tip of Mariette’s tongue touched her upper lip fleetingly. ‘Just watch me.’

  ‘Leave the lad alone.’ Nicholas spoke quietly but with an underlying edge of menace. ‘It is his first time out of England and I don’t want his head turning, or he’ll never be any use to me.’

  Mariette turned from Cassandra with a flounce of bad temper. ‘You are so high minded, milord. All this concern over a lackey.’ She snapped her fingers, ‘Wine, boy.’

  Cassandra moved round the table proffering the salver, her head giddy with relief at her close escape. It had never occurred to her that anyone would take her seriously as a boy. Not in that way.

  Nicholas leaned over to take his glass without looking at her. She sensed he was too angry to risk a meeting of eyes. She came to the Count last. He lounged back in his chair, a malicious smile playing on his lips at Mariette’s discomfiture. As Cassandra served him, he gave her a conspiratorial wink. Grateful, she smiled warmly at him and his eyes narrowed with sudden speculation.

  ‘That will be all, Cass,’ Nicholas ordered. ‘Get to your bed.’

  Thankfully, Cassandra put down the tray, bowed and left as quickly as she could. The cool of the deserted marble hall was delicious after the overheated atmosphere of the salon. She sank wearily onto the bottom stair, pushed her sticky hair off her temples and drew a long, shuddering breath.

  Lord, that had been a narrow escape. At the thought pf the rapacious Mariette Cassandra shuddered and dropped her hot forehead into her hands. Goodness knew what Nicholas would do in the morning. Throw her out onto the streets of Paris, probably. And who could blame him?

  ‘Oh, no, this is the end, Cassandra moaned. How could she have provoked Nicholas like that?

  ‘Come, come, ma petite, things cannot be so bad.’

  Cassandra started to her feet at the sound of the warm, sympathetic voice, then realised, as she found herself staring into the deep brown eyes of the Count, that he had addressed her in the feminine form.

  ‘What… Sir..?’ she stammered. ‘I think you must be mistaken. I am…’

  ‘A young woman and a very pretty one at that.’ His gaze travelled slowly from the top of her cropped head to her small feet in the buckled shoes. His eyes were knowing, yet somehow compassionate. ‘We have a little mystère here, I think. I love a mystery. Life is too predictable.’

  Cassandra’s gaze flew to the door, expecting at any moment someone to come in search of him.

  ‘Do not fear.’ He seemed to understand her apprehension. ‘They know I dislike the dice, they are not easy to manipulate, unlike cards and women. Some women,’ he amended. The laughter lines creased at the corners of his eyes and Cassandra found herself smiling back. The Count seemed to be something of a rogue, but a likeable one for all that. ‘They will think I have gone into the library. We can talk there.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk.’ Cassandra found herself being propelled firmly into the book-lined room. The doors were closed behind her.

  ‘But I think you need to talk to someone, ma petite.’

  Cassandra’s mind raced. She did need someone to talk to but could she trust this man, about whom she knew nothing, not even his name? No, she dare not tell him anything.

  Warm hands cupped her chin and gently tipped it up, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We will have a glass of Madeira, my little one, you are shivering. Then you will tell me what is troubling you, and why a well-bred young lady is involved in some masquerade that necessitates these garments.’

  Cassandra found herself sitting meekly, watching his long, beringed fingers flicking dismissively at her plain coat. ‘But I know nothing of you, not even your name.’ Despite herself, she felt her guard slipping in the face of his charm.

  ‘That is easily remedied. I am Guy de Montpensier, Comte de Courcelles, at your service, Mademoiselle.’ He swept her an elaborate bow before subsiding elegantly into the chair opposite. He raised an interrogative brow then sipped his wine, apparently entirely happy to wait until she was ready to confide in him.

  Cassandra knew she should not be in this position, alone in a room at night with a strange man. She watched him from beneath her lashes as he lounged in the wing chair. He was not as tall as Nicholas, nor as muscled. No, the Count was altogether more languid and almost a dandy in his dress.

  The big nose dominated his face. He should have been ugly, but for the charm of his wry smile and the warmth in his brown eyes. All of a sudden the urge to tell someone everything was overwhelming.

  ‘It began when my father announced he was marrying again,’ she said, and soon the whole sorry tale was tumbling out. The Count sat sipping his wine, nodding occasionally when she faltered. ‘…and then he said I looked like a… like a…’ Words failed her at last.

  ‘And so you decided to pay him back? Very understandable. And that is how we find ourselves having this talk, n’est pas?’

  Cassandra took a gulp of Madeira, feeling it warming its way down her throat. She shouldn’t have told him, but she was glad she had.

  The silence stretched on. The Count had finished his wine and sat, apparently deep in thought, his fingers steepled.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte…’
>
  ‘Guy.’

  ‘Guy, what am I to do?’

  ‘Malheureusement, little one, I can offer no better solution than the one you have already before you. Wait here until your marraine returns from Vienna.’

  ‘But Nicholas will be so angry, he will throw me onto the streets,’ Cassandra said miserably.

  Guy leaned forward and took both her hands in a warm clasp. ‘Nonsense, he is too much the English gentleman. He will be very angry, sans doubte.’ He shrugged. ‘But you will feel braver in the morning. Still, if you are frightened – ’

  The door opened.

  ‘Cass, what are you doing in here?’ Nicholas sounded more mildly irritated than the anger she expected.

  Cassandra shot out of the chair, knowing her face must be a picture of guilt. ‘Nicholas, I was just going to my room.’

  ‘Indeed, you are,’ he said levelly. His eyes, as his gaze rested on the Count, were cold. ‘Really, Guy, one never knows where you will turn up next.’

  The Frenchman swept him an ironic bow, but his expression was wary. ‘Miss Weston and I were merely discussing her impressions of France.’

  ‘Miss Weston? So, Cassandra, you have been confiding in my friend here? A pity, he is known as one of the worst gossips in Paris.’

  ‘You do me an injustice, mon brave, surely you mean the best?’ His insouciance did not quite disguise the edge of tension in the room.

  ‘A warning, monsieur. Miss Weston’s predicament is not a subject for one of your witty stories.’

  ‘But Nicholas, mon ami, it is so piquant, so irresistible.’ Guy spread his hands, ‘With the names changed, of course.’

  ‘Indeed. And how irresistible will you find it if I send my seconds to wait on you?’ Nicholas enquired amiably.

  There was a long silence. Cassandra looked from man to man, unable to read how serious Nicholas was.

  ‘Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Please stop talking about duels, you are frightening me.’