Roland watched Miss Bell leave the ballroom, her footsteps echoing in the quiet she left behind. There had been such panic in her eyes when he’d taken the bow from her. He wished he could have said more to reassure her, but with his mother present, he could not manage more than a few whispered words.
“Roland.”
He faced his mother, who scrutinized him with very real worry.
“What were you thinking, being alone with that girl?” she asked. “Anyone might have happened upon you, and then what?”
He ignored her insinuation, though his stomach flipped at the thought. Couples had been forced to marry for far less. Yet he could not quite convince himself that would be so terrible a thing. With Miss Bell, at least.
“You mustn’t blame Miss Bell,” he said instead. “I take full responsibility. And besides, I thought you would be glad to find me spending time with our guests.”
Mother huffed. “Yes, perhaps I would have been a week ago.”
“And what has changed? Did you not invite her for this very reason?”
She paced to the nearby window and looked out over the dreary, rain-soaked landscape. “I did, but now I am doubting my own judgment in regards to Miss Bell’s suitability.”
“Because of the incident with the painting?”
Mother turned sharply. “No. Well, not entirely. That, of course, did not endear her to me, but since then everything I have seen has only given me more qualms. She has acted more like her unruly sister than the proper miss I knew her to be in London, and I cannot account for it.”
“Have you not thought to consider that is why I like her now?” he said. “I met her in London as well, if you’ll remember.”
Mother eyed him, as if fully understanding how careful she must be. They were at odds; they both knew that.
“I believe you think you like her,” she said. “And I admit she is not the worst sort of girl you could marry. She is pretty enough, and from a good family. But she is not accomplished or poised or any of the things you need in a wife.” She paused. “She is not the woman your father imagined for you.”
Roland stepped back, jaw tight. Of course she would bring Father into this. “Not the woman Father imagined, or not who you imagined? Because if I remember correctly, he did not make me promise to marry a woman you approved of. He only wanted me to marry.”
“Yes, but he hadn’t any idea who you would set your sights on.”
Roland shook his head. “You do not know the first thing about Miss Bell.”
“And you know her so well?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I do. And since we’ve a week left to this party, I plan to use it as you intended: to see if Miss Bell is the woman I could spend the rest of my days with.”
He strode past her and escaped to his study, where he could be assured of a few moments of peace before dinner. He paced before the window, the raindrops leaving wistful trails as they tumbled down the glass.
Why was Mother so against Miss Bell? Yes, the young lady had slighted her painting, but she had done everything in her power to win back his mother’s approval. She had searched for the blasted cat, performed a song when she clearly had not wanted to, and been all that was kind and helpful. But Mother had seen none of that—only Miss Bell’s apparent mistakes.
Roland wouldn’t stand for it anymore. Not when he knew Miss Bell’s—Vivian’s—true nature. That she was thoughtful and interesting and intelligent, and that she only wanted to please.
And she was beautiful. He could not deny it. He leaned his shoulder on the windowsill, lost for a moment in the memory of those alluring blue eyes, her golden curls tumbling about her neck as she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He’d always thought Miss Bell pretty. But having come to know her better in the last week . . . Her character had become her beauty, more so than any dress, jewels, or rouge ever could.
He’d begun this house party so reluctantly that he could not believe he had reached this point.
That he could almost admit to having fallen in love.
* * *
Once Cassie made it to her room, she dropped onto her bed, her body overcome. The entire afternoon with Roland flashed through her mind—their conversation and teasing, his tempting nearness, and how little control she had over herself whenever she was around him. She hugged a pillow to her chest, trying to keep the heat there at bay, certain it would start a fire if she let it escape. What Roland made her feel, and the person she became when she was with him—she wasn’t Cassie or Vivian. She was someone else, someone new. And she liked that someone.
Almost as much as she liked Roland.
Cassie groaned and buried her face in the pillow. The truth she’d been attempting to hide for days now stared down at her, like the hot sun in mid-July. What she felt toward Roland was not brotherly affection or friendly camaraderie. If she knew any better, if she’d had any experience whatsoever, she would even come close to calling it . . . well, love.
But she couldn’t love Roland. It was impossible. Vivian was in love with Roland Hastings, and Cassie was just a poor substitute. She was not at all what such a man needed in a wife. He needed someone to help him further his connections, move upwards in society. Vivian would do that a thousand times better than Cassie ever could.
But that was beside the point. No matter what Cassie had imagined between her and Roland, it could never come to pass. She would never betray her sister, not when Vivian deserved every happiness, especially this one she’d long set her heart after.
And Roland . . . If the intensity in his eyes when he looked at Cassie was any indicator, then he felt something for her in return.
But the person he thought her to be did not exist.
Cassie managed her breathing, her head formulating a plan even as her heart struggled in vain to stop it. Vivian would be well in a day or two. Until then, Cassie would play a new part. The path she had been walking had proven too perilous. Now she would be careful. She could not avoid him completely, but neither would she seek him out or send him notes or exchange secret smiles with him.
That was for Vivian to do.
Cassie set her jaw. This was the right decision, for her, for Vivian, for Roland. She knew that. But the ache in her chest refused to dissipate, and she closed her eyes against the hot tears that fought to be free.