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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

R olfe passed an hour alone, standing among the gay and frolicking crowd in the Palace of Whitehall’s glittering Banqueting House, watching and waiting for Cassia’s return.

He occupied the time by swilling down several glasses of wine which he’d whisked from the passing silver trays held by liveried servants.

When he’d tossed down the dregs from his fourth—or was it his fifth—goblet, he knew he’d had enough. Quite enough.

He’d had enough of thinking about what Cassia might be doing, enough of picturing her with the king, in the king’s bed.

He’d had enough trying to dispel the images of that from his head.

And he’d had enough of standing around, looking like a fool, waiting for Cassia to return from her obvious tryst with the king, his friend, the man he’d vowed to give his life for.

All of his adult life, since that fated day when he’d received the post telling of the deaths of his family at the hands of the Parliamentarians, Rolfe had been bound by duty to his country and to his sovereign. More recently, he’d been bound by duty to his name.

He’d been raised by his father to put duty and honor above all else, above personal wants, above monetary gain. Nothing was more sacred, nothing more just than a man’s honor.

And he thought he’d been doing the right and honorable thing by trying to help Cassia prove her innocence of her father’s murder.

Duty was one thing, Rolfe thought on a frown, but there was also a limit as to how far he was willing to go. Standing around waiting while Cassia took her place in the king’s bed was beyond that limit. Far beyond.

Rolfe set the goblet on a nearby table with enough force that those standing around him looked, seeming surprised that the glass did not shatter in his hand.

He turned, ready to leave the glittering ballroom, in fact ready to leave London and return to Ravenwood—duty be damned.

As he started through the crowd he thought to himself that the evening could not possibly get any worse.

He was wrong.

“Good evening, Rolfe.”

She was standing between him and the doorway, preventing his leaving and standing so near he could smell the poignant scent of her lavender perfume.

She always had favored lavender, he remembered fleetingly.

He could not possibly feign that he hadn’t heard her honeyed greeting for the moment the words had left her Spanish red-darkened lips, he’d immediately rooted himself to the floor. He hated the fact that the instinct to do so remained even after all the months that had passed.

Hers was the last voice Rolfe had expected to hear calling to him at the palace that night. It was not a voice he was particularly glad to hear. In fact, it was a voice he’d have preferred never to hear again.

Rolfe looked over to her, and put on an expression of mild disinterest. “Good evening, Lady Westcott.”

She was dressed as a medieval damsel, her conical hennin cap draped with a pale blue wisp of a veil.

A belt of small silver bells encircled her narrow waist, tinging softly as she drew forward toward him.

She had removed her mask, but even had her face been covered from chin to brow. he would have known it was her .

She was what most would consider the purest vision of an English beauty. She was petite, delicate, and her hair was a lovely shade of golden blond. Her cat-like eyes were the color of the periwinkle flowers that filled the fields in the countryside surrounding Ravenwood. Or so he’d once thought.

In the months since his hasty departure from London nearly a year before, Rolfe had come to hate those damned periwinkles.

And, now, here she stood before him, the woman, the one woman Rolfe had once believed he loved.

She was the same woman who had left him standing as a laughingstock before all of court, on bended knee, asking for her hand in marriage.

Daphne Hudson, née Smithfield, wife to the wealthy Earl of Westcott came slowly forward—alone.

“You certainly are the last person I would have expected to see here tonight,” she said, trying to break the awkward silence that had immediately descended between them. “I hadn’t heard you were back in London.”

He raked his gaze swiftly over her. “You look well.”

It was a lie. Truth be told, marriage had not been kind to Daphne, Rolfe thought, noting the hollow appearance of her face, the circles that shaded the white skin beneath her eyes.

Even those eyes, those damnable periwinkle eyes that he’d found himself lost in so many times before, now looked lackluster and dull.

From the silence that immediately followed his comment, Rolfe realized that Daphne was not flattered by his tepid compliment. It pleased him to know that.

“Thank you, Rolfe,” she finally said. “You are looking well, too. These months away from court have had their benefit for you. It would seem the Sussex air agrees with you.”

“Hard work and honest living do tend to bring out the best in a person, I’m told. Perhaps you should give the same a try, but then, as I remember, honesty wasn’t one of your stronger suits.”

Rolfe was surprised he felt no regret at the stricken look that came into her eyes. Months earlier, had he dared to say such a thing to her, he’d have dropped to his knees to beg her forgiveness, claiming a momentary lapse in sanity. Now, instead, he went on.

“I was rather hoping to offer your husband my congratulations on your marriage. I apologize if I was remiss in not formally extending my felicitations to you sooner, but I only just learned of it. I haven’t seen your husband yet tonight. Is he in attendance?”

Just then, as if answering his stage cue, Edwin Hudson came forward, stumbling slightly and nearly spilling his wine on Daphne’s pale blue damask skirts.

He slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, grabbing hold of the belt of silver bells to keep himself vertical, causing them to clang noisily.

The very visible mark of another woman’s lip paint was stamped on his neck just above his cravat.

“Now Ravenscroft, don’t you be forgetting Daphne’s my wife. Not yours . Hope there’s no hard feelings what with your losing her to me like you did.”

Even the starkness of Daphne’s face powder could not hide the embarrassed flush that spread across her cheeks at her husband’s ill-mannered comment. Had Edwin not been clutching at her skirts to keep himself from falling over, she’d no doubt have fled the conversation.

“Not at all, Westcott. Things have turned out well for me, and I can see now that Daphne finally got what she was looking for. I wish you both all the best and many years of wedded bliss.”

With that Rolfe took up a champagne glass from another of the numerous passing trays, lifted it in a mock toast, and tipped it to his lips.

It was at that precise moment that he spotted Cassia over the rim of the glass just now returning to the ballroom.

It could have been the influence of the wine he’d drunk earlier, but he would have sworn her gown looked ... mussed .

Without taking his eyes from her, he handed his empty glass to Daphne. “If you’ll excuse me, I just realized my attentions are required elsewhere.”

He did not wait for a response. Instead, he cut his way through the throng and headed straight for Cassia. When he had nearly reached her, she spotted him and smiled.

“Lord Ravenscroft, I was just?—”

Rolfe took her by the upper arm and propelled her toward the doorway. “Outside, if you please, madam.”

Cassia was so startled by the tone in Rolfe’s voice, she did not say a word. She merely walked along beside him, trying to ignore the way he held her arm in his grip.

Once they were outside, away from the ballroom and the crowd, and secluded in the shaded alcoves of the Privy Garden, Cassia had thought Rolfe would release her.

She was stunned when his hand snaked around the back of her neck and he pulled her forward, and covered her mouth with his.

It was more assault than kiss and Cassia wrenched away from him. Then she slapped him. Hard.

His eyes blazed down at her. “Did you enjoy your visit to the queen, my lady?”

Something in his angry gaze caused Cassia to retreat a step. She found herself backed against the ivy-covered wall, into the near darkness of the shadows.

“Yes, actually, I did.” Cassia eyed him. “I would ask that you take a step backward, Lord Ravenscroft.”

“Why, my lady? Is the distance between us too close for propriety’s sake? Perhaps we should ask your sentry, Winifred, to join us. We certainly wouldn’t want to cause tongues to wag, would we?”

Rolfe took another step. Cassia could retreat no further. He slowly placed each of his hands on her shoulders, his fingers slightly gripping her.

The way he held her, Cassia felt sure something had changed in the time she’d been away from the ballroom.

“You are acting peculiar, my lord. Is something wrong?”

Rolfe scoffed. “Wrong? What could be wrong? I am curious though, did you enjoy your visit to the king’s bedchamber as well?”

Cassia lifted her hands, placed them flat against his chest and pushed him with all her strength. She was more than a little surprised when she managed to send him back a couple steps. “I will ask you again to please step back, my lord.”

“Perhaps they should call you Lady Hypocrisy instead of Lady Winter. You stand here ordering me to step away just after you’ve returned from allowing the king that and much more.

Tell me, Lady Cassia, what was it that caused you to turn to stone when I dared to steal a kiss?

Am I not highly-born enough to be given the honor of taking such liberties?

Isn’t my social rank acceptable to you?”

What are you talking about?”

It must have been the wine talking then for suddenly, it wasn’t Cassia standing before him, confused and utterly lost at what he was accusing. Instead, it was Daphne, and she was staring down her pert nose at him as if he were no better than a wharf rat.