Lady Thief

He taught her a particularly intricate, often perplexing, and sometimes downright Byzantine card game which he had learned from a colorful ship’s captain on a journey across the Mediterranean, and she astonished him by not only grasping the rules but soundly defeating him in only the third hand dealt.

Briskly shuffling the cards, Cassandra showed him a mock frown and laughing eyes. “You should know, my lord. It was you who taught me the game.”

“I learned it from a rascally pirate who called himself one,” the earl replied dryly. “And the bas—the ruffian emptied my pockets three nights running.”

“None that I ever heard. In fact, I rather doubt it existed before Captain Bower invented it in order to fleece those of his passengers raw enough to sit down with him.”

Ruefully he said, “Oh, I promise you I was. Hardly older than you are now, and not at all up to snuff. It was more than ten years ago.” He looked down at the cards he held, the light of amusement in his eyes dimming and his mouth hardening just a bit as his thoughts obviously turned painful or bitter.

Before Cassandra could respond to what he had said, Anatole came into the library where they were playing cards and asked the earl if luncheon at twelve-thirty would be satisfactory, and by the time he left the room, the earl’s abstraction had vanished and he was once more relaxed. What might have been a brief opening through which she could have learned more about his past was now firmly closed again.

The card game continued until lunchtime, with Cassandra winning once more and then playing the earl to a draw. Which meant, he said, that they were “evenly matched in terms of possessing labyrinthine minds.” Whether or not that was true, it was obvious that each enjoyed the other’s company far beyond what was merely polite.

After luncheon they played chess in the earl’s study, and it proved another game in which they had like minds and tendencies, both employing shrewd tactics and alert strategy. And so they whiled away the stormy afternoon, pausing from time to time in their conversation to listen to the wind reach a crescendo and then fade away only to shriek once again and send sleet rattling against the windowpanes.

“Now, how did you . . . Oh, I see. White must resign, my lord, for I can see you mean to pursue my king across the board.”

But the clock on the mantel chimed the hour just then, and Cassandra excused herself in order to go upstairs to change and freshen herself before supper. She had thoroughly enjoyed the day, and she returned to her room with a smile she didn’t think about hiding until Sarah greeted her with anxious eyes.

But Cassandra only laughed, certain that her maid’s fears were completely unfounded. Indeed, it seemed her own instincts were to be trusted, for the earl’s behavior during the next two days was so exemplary that even Sarah seemed reassured (or, at least, she stopped issuing dire warnings). He was an entertaining and appreciative companion, forthright without being in any way offensive, and though she did not want to admit it to herself, Cassandra knew she was drawn to him in a way she had never known before.

That moment when he had looked at her with naked intensity was something she remembered far too often for her peace of mind, but it was not repeated during those days. He made more than one flattering observation, but since his comments tended to be quite casual and matter-of-fact, she could be sure of nothing except that he considered her attractive—and for all she knew he would have been just as appreciative of any personable young woman appearing on his doorstep.

It did not occur to Cassandra that the severe isolation of the storm had created a kind of refuge for both of them, and that the return of good weather might change that. All she knew was that the glittering but restrictive world of London society seemed very far away.

The storm raged outside, with a fierce wind blowing the existing snow about even when no fresh precipitation fell, and those inside the house became so accustomed to the sounds of fury that their cessation in the early evening of Cassandra’s third full day at the Hall was something of a shock.

She came downstairs after dressing for supper and found that she was early; the earl was not waiting for her. Restless, she wandered into a small salon near the earl’s study, a room she had not so far explored except to note the presence of a pianoforte. There was a fire burning in the grate, though it had been allowed to die down a bit, and though the room was comfortable, it was not really warm. A candelabra set upon the pianoforte provided light that was only adequate, leaving the corners and much else of the room in shadows.

Cassandra sat down on the bench and sorted through several sheets of music until she found something familiar. She considered herself a fair musician without being in any way exceptional, and since she had had little opportunity to practice during recent weeks, her fingers felt a bit awkward on the keys. But it did not take many minutes for her to relax and find her touch, and the first tentative notes of a sonata soon became easier and more confident.

Nevertheless, due to her lack of patience, the piece required all her concentration, and she had no idea she was not alone in the room until the final notes faded into silence and he spoke.

Startled, she half turned on the bench to find the earl standing only a few feet away. He was turned so that the light of the candelabra flickered in his eyes, making them glitter with a strange intensity.

Trying to collect herself, struggling with a curiously compelling awareness of him, she said, “Thank you, my lord.” She wanted to go on, to make some innocuous comment about the excellent instrument or something equally as nonchalant, but she could not. Her throat seemed to close up, and she could feel her heart thudding.

Sheffield took a step toward her, then another, and quietly said, “It is cool in here, ma’am, and your shawl has slipped. Permit me.”

Cassandra did not move as he lifted the lacy edge of her shawl to cover her bare shoulders. The gesture was more than courtesy; his hands rested on her shoulders briefly, and she felt his fingers tighten just a little before they were removed. Then he offered his hand, silent, and she took it, turning toward him as she rose to her feet.

He didn’t release her hand as he should have done, or tuck it into the crook of his arm casually. He held it and looked down at her with an expression she could not quite read in the shadows of the salon.

Cassandra did not know what was different, but she knew something was. In him or in her, or perhaps both, there was a change. The intensity of the moment lay heavily in the very air of the room, and she had the odd notion that if she moved too suddenly or spoke too hastily, something terribly rare and valuable could be destroyed.

Then Sheffield drew a quick breath, and when he spoke his voice was low and husky in a way that seemed almost a caress. “I think . . . I cannot go on calling you ma’am. Would it displease you very much if I called you Cassie?”

She shook her head just a little, unable to look away from his intent gaze. “No. No, of course it would not.” Her own voice sounded so shaken she hardly recognized it.

His fingers tightened around hers, and he lifted her hand until his warm lips lightly brushed her knuckles. “Thank you, Cassie.”

It wasn’t the first time a man had kissed her hand, but it was the first time she had felt heat shimmer through her body in a shocking, exciting response. She knew he could feel her fingers trembling, and would not have been surprised if he could actually hear her heart beating like a drum. And the way he said her name, something in his voice, pulled at her.

His mouth curved in a slight smile. “My name is Stone, Cassie. A ridiculous name, I agree, but mine. If you could bring yourself to use it, I would be most pleased.”

He raised her hand to his lips again, the touch a lingering one this time as heavy lids veiled his eyes, and Cassandra felt another wave of heat when he whispered her name. Her name had never sounded like that before, tugging at all her senses and perhaps something even deeper and more basic inside her. And how odd it felt, the sensations he evoked. They seemed to spread all through her body, yet settled more heavily deep in her belly and in her breasts, until she ached.

She didn’t know what, if anything, she would have said, but they heard the soft chimes of a clock in one of the nearby rooms proclaiming the hour just then, and the earl carried her hand to his arm.

A bit dazed, she allowed herself to be guided toward the door, vaguely surprised that her unsteady legs could support her weight. And it was only then, as they reached the door, that she realized what was different, what had been different from the moment she had turned to find him in the room. It was a silence, a hush so absolute it seemed to have a physical presence.

He was holding her hand against his arm, and his fingers pressed hers. He looked down at her. “I know. I believe the storm is dying.”

It was such a casual and ordinary thing to say, Cassandra thought, a perfectly reasonable thing to say—why did it sound so very ominous? So very disturbing? Why did she want to cry out a protest, or insist fiercely that he was wrong? Why did she suddenly feel almost frantic with anxiety?

She did not comprehend the answer to all those questions until she looked across the dining table at Sheffield some minutes later and remembered that once the storm was gone, the roads would soon be clear enough for travel . . . and she would have to leave the Hall. Her good name was already at risk because she had stayed here with him unchaperoned; if word of that should spread, the storm would probably be an acceptable justification—for now, at least, and for all the most suspicious and cynical members of the ton. But nothing would protect her if she remained here once the weather cleared.

She would have to leave very soon. And perhaps it should have horrified her to realize that she was more than willing to risk her reputation by remaining here—but it did not. It did not even surprise her very much.

Their conversation during supper was quieter than usual, desultory; she thought they were both very conscious of how quiet it had become outside as the storm died away. Cassandra could not seem to keep herself from stealing glances at his face, her gaze falling away swiftly whenever he chanced to look at her. He seemed somehow changed, she thought, his features not so harsh, the expression in his dark eyes direct as ever but warmer now and . . . tender?

Her imagination, most likely. She wanted to be sensible, to keep her head and not indulge in such foolish . . . imaginings. That was dangerous. She knew the pain of romantic flights of fancy brought cruelly to earth, knew that she had in the past more than once failed to judge a man accurately until his true character was revealed by his own actions. She had more than once seen her worth to a man measured in the cold mathematical accounting of her fortune.

But Sheffield—Stone—did not know who she really was. Odd how she kept forgetting that. Or perhaps it was not so odd, after all; she could not recall anyone in the house addressing her by the name Sarah had offered since that first evening. No one ever called her Miss Wells. She was “miss” or “Miss Cassie,” with nothing else added. And “ma’am” to Stone, until now.

She had never discussed her background in anything but the vaguest terms, and he had not questioned her even to ask the name of the uncle she mentioned, so she had not been forced to choose between the truth and more lies. But the one great lie she had told was now weighing heavily on her.

It was when she was thinking of that during supper that Cassandra almost confessed the truth. She even opened her mouth to do so, but the words would not come. Not because she feared that Stone was a fortune hunter, but because she felt so guilty about lying.

When they left the table—earlier than usual—she had not managed to confess and was unhappily aware of her duplicity. She murmured an assent when the earl asked her to play the pianoforte, but it was not until they went into the salon serving the Hall as a music room that a flicker of amusement lightened her mood. The room that had been so dim and shadowed earlier was now much more inviting, with several sconces and candelabras alight and the fire burning briskly.

“He seems to know everything that goes on in this house,” Sheffield replied, then smiled as he leaned against the side of the pianoforte. “I believe I have you to thank for ending the feud between him and Mrs. Milton.”

“I merely made some suggestions.” Cassandra played a few notes idly, then began to pick out a soft tune from memory. “All she really needed was a sympathetic ear and someone to advise her to reclaim those areas in which she excels. After all, I doubt that Anatole wants to be responsible for the care of linen and the training of the housemaids—and so on.”

She watched her fingers tremble over the keys but managed not to strike a sour note. What was the magic of his voice saying her name? Keeping her own voice casual, she said, “My pleasure. I must admit, I am most curious about Anatole.”

“No, Greek.” His attention caught by a smoldering log that had fallen half out onto the hearth, the earl went over to the fireplace to nudge it back into place. He remained there, leaning a forearm on the mantel and looking down at the flames. “I encountered him on that ship I told you about, the one with the rascally captain. He was the first mate.”

Sheffield smiled oddly as he looked across the room at her. “Nothing so ordinary, I’m afraid. Shortly after we docked in Italy, he saved my life.”

“Yes. I was set upon by thieves, and there were too many for me to handle. If not for Anatole, I would have been knifed in the back and left to bleed to death. It was the first time he saved my life—but not the last.”

Obeying her instincts, Cassandra rose and went to him, halting so that they faced each other. “You must have been very young,” she ventured, remembering that Anatole had been with the earl for a number of years.

“I was twenty-one.” He gave her a twisted smile. “Wild and bitter and bent on getting myself killed because I was convinced life had nothing more to offer me. God knows why Anatole chose to follow me across half the world, but he did. He kept me alive until I’d the sense to look out for myself, and after that he made himself useful—in fact, indispensable.”

“Four years ago. It took the next two years and more to get this place in some kind of order. The house had been closed up since I left England, and had been allowed to virtually fall into ruins, so I had my work cut out for me.”

Which, she thought, was a fair explanation of why he had vanished so completely from the London social scene; he had been either out of England or else very much occupied here for the past ten years.

“Do you? I have not been what anyone of sense would call a suitable match for a young lady, Cassie.” Matter-of-factly, Sheffield added, “I had succeeded to the title when I was nineteen, and found myself the possessor of a vanished fortune, useless properties, and a name painted black going back five generations. Naturally, it did not take long for me to add to the sins of my ancestors. I left England very much under a cloud and not quick enough to avoid the scandal I’d caused.”

Cassandra had certainly been curious about his background and, in particular, the sin that had earned him the condemnation of society, but in that moment all she wanted to do was to ease the strain in his low voice.

He was obviously surprised, and not a little wary. “Good God, are they using the sins I committed more than ten years ago to frighten debutantes?”

She kept her voice solemn. “Oh, yes, and it’s quite effective. They never explain what, exactly, you were guilty of, but then it never seems to be necessary. All those horrified whispers and sad shakes of the head are enough to cause any girl to think twice if she is contemplating some reckless act.” Pondering the matter, she added thoughtfully, “I daresay you have saved any number of parents from the consequences of rash daughters. I shouldn’t doubt it if they were not actually eager to welcome you back to society.”

The earl smiled slightly, but his gaze was very intent on her. “I was not ostracized, you know. I can return if I choose to do so.”

“Yes. You see, so many of the young men were occupied with the war for so long that they simply had not the time or energy to get much tangled in scrapes and scandals.”

Sin. She wondered if he was fully conscious of his use of the word. “And you could hardly be blamed for that. After all, you were very young.”

Cassandra laughed but said, “In any case, you should probably return to London society at least long enough to show that you have become perfectly respectable.”

“For all you know, that might not be the case at all,” the earl warned her in a voice that was not quite humorous. “They say some things are in the blood, and mine is certainly wicked enough to give any rational young lady pause—even without tales of my dissolute past. Perhaps I am only biding my time for my own amusement.”

He looked into her big gray eyes and then shook his head a little in wonder. “You are not the least bit afraid of me, are you, Cassie?”

He reached up and touched her face very gently, the very tips of his fingers tracing the delicate arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, and the clean line of her jaw. “I would not harm you for the world.”

Cassandra wondered if she was breathing, but it did not seem important. She felt feverish, yearning, vulnerable, and yet enthralled. His touch was like something she had felt in a dream, and if it was a dream, she did not want to awaken. She heard her voice and was not surprised that it was husky. “Then I have nothing to fear.”

For a moment it seemed that he leaned toward her, but then his hand fell to his side and he smiled at her, only the intensity of his dark eyes hinting at something not nearly as calm as his voice when he said, “You promised to play for me.”

“So I did.” She turned and went back to the pianoforte, and when she began to play, she was not much surprised to realize that her fingers had selected a love song.

It was like a wonderland. Cassandra stood at the top of the front steps of Sheffield Hall and gazed around in utter delight. Snow had turned the bleak winter landscape into something so beautiful it made the heart ache. The brown grass had vanished beneath a blanket of pristine white, and the bare branches of trees seemed dressed now with their mantle of snow.

Already, the earl’s servant had been at work, for the steps were swept clean of snow, and Cassandra had no fear of her footing as she closed the door behind her and set out. She was warmly dressed—and very glad of it when a sudden gust of wind snatched at her cloak as she was making her way cautiously through the uneven drifts of snow along the carriage drive toward the stables. Though the storm was apparently over, this was still winter and winter’s name might have been caprice; the occasional wind was urgent in its warning that spring was far away.

Cassandra had awakened early and with the most amazing sense of energy. She had had her coffee in bed but had not yet breakfasted; Anatole had reported that the earl had gone down to the stables before his own meal, and she had instantly decided to go in search of him. She needed fresh air and the chance to get a bit of exercise, she told herself—and nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of this attempt to delude herself.

If Sheffield had vanished into the depths of a dungeon or sallied forth to drive over a cliff, it was more than likely that she would have followed him without hesitation.

She saw her breath mist before her eyes as she did laugh out loud, and shook her head at this odd, bewitched creature she had become. It should have been appalling, she thought, or at the very least shocking, but she could not seem to summon those negative emotions. She was too happy. She wanted to smile all over, to laugh again and throw a snowball at someone.

She heard his voice only moments later when she reached the stableyard and followed her ears to find him standing before a row of stables talking to a spare, middle-aged man who was no doubt the head groom or coachman.

The earl turned then and saw Cassandra approaching, and his smile was instant as he stepped forward to meet her. “Cassie, I would have waited for you if I had known you wished to come down here.”

She was only vaguely aware that the groom had gone away, all her attention focused on Sheffield. He was holding her hand, and she felt a flicker of annoyance that she was wearing gloves. “I had no notion where I would end up,” she confessed. “Is it not beautiful out here? Who has hurt his leg?”

With a chuckle, the earl said, “Yes, it is beautiful—even more so now. And my favorite hack made a spirited attempt to kick down the door of his stable earlier; he dislikes storms and being confined for any length of time, and wants to kick up his heels in his paddock.”

“If I was brusque, I beg your pardon.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “As for how I looked at you, I can only say I was charmed and delighted to find a smoke-eyed beauty quite unexpectedly in my house.”

Cassandra promised herself she was never going to wear gloves again, even if her fingers froze. She drew a breath and said rather uncertainly, “I—I see. Then I suppose I must forgive you.”

He kissed her hand again, and there was a gleam in his dark eyes that was something more than laughter. “Never. Are you warm enough? May I show you my horses before we go back to the house?”

He continued to hold her hand instead of tucking it into his arm, an arrangement Cassandra was delighted by. She did not even feel self-conscious when Sheffield introduced her to his head groom, Flint—but she was rather glad to be told that her coachman had borrowed a hack and ridden out first thing to check the condition of the roads just as he had said he would.

She was glad that John Potter was not confronted by the sight of her and the earl holding hands most improperly—but her coachman’s eagerness to check the roads was an unwelcome reminder of time ticking away. The roads were not passable today, she knew, but what of tomorrow or the next day?

With that in her mind Cassandra’s pleasure in being with the earl during the casual tour of his stables was even more precious to her than it would otherwise have been. She could not seem to get enough of hearing his deep voice or watching the changing expressions of his face (had she once thought it harsh?), and every time he said her name it was as if the sound of it touched something deep inside her.

Still, perhaps nothing irrevocable would have happened if Sheffield’s favorite hack had not betrayed his native impatience by trying to ascertain if Cassandra had a lump of sugar hidden somewhere on her person. The big bay gelding nudged her so hard with his Roman nose that she stumbled back away from the stable door and would have fallen had not the earl caught her.

They had spoken in the same moment, and she stared up at him as both their voices broke off. Had he said what she thought he had? He was holding her so close . . . even with his greatcoat and her cloak she could feel the hardness of his body, the warmth of him. Her hands had somehow landed on his chest, gloved fingers spread, touching him. Both his arms were around her, and then only one because he had lifted the other hand to push the hood of her cloak back and touch her face with his fingers the way he had last night in the music room.

It did not occur to her to push herself away, to make some attempt to stop this. It simply did not occur to her. Instead, she offered her lips in the most natural way imaginable, and when his mouth covered hers, she heard an unfamiliar little purr of pleasure in the back of her throat.

She had been kissed by boys—those eager young swains with whom she had shared country dances before her first Season—but never by a man, and the difference was shocking. His mouth was not awkward or wet and she felt absolutely no desire to burst out in giggles at the absurdity of lips pressed together; his mouth was skilled and sure, hard yet silken, and a shimmering heat ignited inside her at the first touch.

Cassandra thought she was melting. All the strength was flowing out of her legs, and the burning inside her intensified until it was a wild fever consuming her. She should have been shocked when the possessive invasion of his tongue turned the kiss into something more intimate than she had ever imagined was possible, but instead what she felt was pleasure and desire, and a dim wonder that he could make her feel this way. . . .

When Sheffield lifted his head at last, Cassandra opened her eyes dazedly, hardly aware that she had uttered a faint sound of disappointment. His eyes had a heavy, sensual look that made her pounding heart skip a beat, and she wished once again that her gloves were off so that she could touch his hard face.

He drew a slow breath, then said huskily, “I have wanted to do that since you walked toward me dressed in blue silk that first evening, so beautiful I could hardly bear it. Must I beg your pardon?”

She should have said yes, she knew, but propriety was beyond Cassandra. Far beyond her. She shook her head, unable to tear her gaze from him. “No.” It was almost inaudible, and she cleared her throat to try again. “No, of course not.”

His already black eyes seemed to darken even more, deepen somehow, until they were bottomless pools into which she knew she could lose herself. Into which she wanted to throw herself, body and soul. Then he bent his head again and rubbed his lips over hers in a brief, almost rough caress that was even more stirring to her senses than the prolonged kiss had been.

Cassandra had the dazed notion that he was teasing her, but she was also aware that he was hardly unaffected; there was a tension in his body she could feel, and there was no disguising the hunger of his taut expression.

Her lips trembling and tingling, she whispered, “I am shameless, I know . . . but please don’t beg my pardon, Stone.”

Her tremulous words and guileless pleasure seemed to affect him most oddly. He moved slightly as if to kiss her again, but then his mouth firmed and he put his hands on her shoulders to ease her back away from him. A muscle flexed in his jaw, and there was a note of disbelief in his voice when he spoke.

She blinked, the fingers clinging to his greatcoat beginning to slacken, but her sharp pang of hurt vanished when he continued grimly.

“A cold, drafty stable through which anyone might pass—and probably has—and I want nothing more than to find a pile of reasonably clean straw and make a bed for the two of us.”

Burning color rose in her cheeks, but Cassandra was not nearly so shocked by his blunt desire as she should have been. Instead, she felt a hollow ache deep in her loins, a wild urge to cast aside every vestige of breeding and every principle of ladylike behavior by pleading with him to make that bed and carry her to it, and that shocked her more than anything.

She caught her underlip between her teeth and felt the sensual tenderness left by his ardent kisses. “No—yes—I don’t know. I cannot think.”

His rather fierce expression softened, and his hands lifted to frame her hot face. “My poor darling—so bewildered.” His thumb caught her bottom lip and pressed gently until it was free of her small white teeth, and the pad of his thumb rubbed back and forth slowly. “And so damnably young. I ought to be shot for taking advantage of you this way.”

He did not move for an instant, just looked down at her as if her honest response had stolen his breath or stopped his heart. Then, very slowly, he took his hands off her face, lifted her hood carefully to cover her raven curls, and then took one of her hands and tucked it into his arm. He was frowning slightly as he did all this, but it seemed to her a frown of concentration rather than anger, as if it required all his resolution.

Stealing a glance up at his face as they walked, Cassandra wondered for the first time if being a lady might prove a definite stumbling block for a girl who wanted to become a woman.