Free Lord Deverill's Secret by Amanda Grange Page A

sulkily.
    “No?” asked Lord Deverill with a smile that bordered on the dangerous. “Unfortunately, I don’t share your opinion. You will apologize to the lady.”
    Mr. Bradley looked up at Lord Deverill’s implacable face and his bravado left him.
    “I apologize,” he muttered.
    “Apology accepted,” said Cassandra.
    She put down the pot, returning it to its original position.
    “Now I suggest you go back to your father. And one last thing, Bradley. You’ve had enough wine for one day.”
    Mr. Bradley looked sulky, then slunk out of the room.
    “Are you all right?” asked Lord Deverill, going over to her.
    “Yes. Thankfully you came in just in time. I was prepared to hit him over the head with the pot”—she smiled suddenly—“but I’m glad I didn’t have to break one of Maria’s prized possessions!”
    He laughed.
    “With luck, it would have broken Bradley’s head first!”
    Cassandra laughed, too. Then her laughter died away and there was an awkward silence. He was standing very close to her, and it made her feel on edge. Whether it was the fear left over from Mr. Bradley’s behaviour or the energy left over from preparing to defend herself she did not know, but she somehow found that her pulse was racing and her breathing was shallow.
    “When you offered me your help the other day, I did not know I would need it so soon,” she said.
    “No. Neither did I. Bradley’s a fool with more money than sense, but he’s nothing worse than that. Take no notice of him.”
    “No, I think it is better not to.”
    She was aware of his gaze resting on her; indeed he seemed to be finding difficulty taking his eyes away from her. She tried to meet his gaze, but she was suddenly abashed. Dropping her eyes, she traced the pattern of the rug on the floor.
    “I hope it hasn’t spoilt your enjoyment of the evening?” he said at last.
    There was a rough edge to his voice, and she felt it sending a shiver down her spine.
    “No,” she said, and to her surprise, her voice came out with a quaver.
    “Good. There are some foolish young men in Brighton, but they are not worth noticing.”
    He was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat of him and she put her hand to her hair, instinctively playing with a strand that had fallen loose to calm her rapidly beating pulse. He raised his hand, too, and their fingers touched. She dropped her hand as though scalded, but his continued to rise and tangled itself in her golden tresses.
    For Cassandra, the world stopped. She could see him and only him, highlighted in her suddenly narrowed vision, and she could feel nothing but the soft touch of his fingers. She ought to tell him to stop; she ought to pull away; but she could not do it. She couldn’t even breathe, let alone move. She could only watch his face, mesmerized, as she took in the slight changes in his expression. She saw the curve of his mouth as it opened slightly, noticed the whiteness of his teeth and the fullness of his lips, and took in the slight shadow around his chin. She had never been so close to a man before. When dancing, she stood the required distance from her partner, and when talking she had always been separated by the space of a few feet of air. But here, there was so little distance between them that when he took a small step nearer she could feel the fabric of his coat brushing against the front of her dress. She felt the soft touch of his breath on her forehead as she tilted her face upwards, feeling it feather its way down to her cheeks and then to her lips. Instinctively they began to part. She felt his fingers stilling, and then to her painful disappointment she sensed, rather than saw, him stepping backwards. She felt empty, as though something vital had been taken from her just as it was about to be given.
    She made an effort to master herself and opened her eyes. He was still very close to her, so that she could see him with great clarity, and she noticed he was holding something.