Lady Whittaker Wages War

Chapter 4: Cassius

"Have you heard that there is a thief?!" Daphne announced as she sauntered into his study, Cassius looked up and hoped his raised eyebrow gave her the impression he was surprised by her arrival. In truth, he had seen her exit her house in her pretty emerald gown and a parasol. She'd had her carriage brought out to the front but had not gotten on it, instead she'd marched right over across the street.

"A thief? In Mayfair?" He asked as he stood up in greeting, as a gentleman does in the presence of a lady. She gave him a disapproving perusal and scowled at him irritably.

"This is the third house that's been hit in the last two months! All while the families were away to the country on either business or for a house party. Why aren't you dressed?"

"Dressed? I am dressed."

"For going out!" She gave him a faintly censorious look. "As we planned two days ago?"

I am going to rescue you, Pembroke.

Quite frankly he was not yet convinced that the instance she was talking about wasn't a hallucination borne of his feverish wish to get rid of Cecily Sherrill and her constant attempts at undermining him in front of Honoria.

How else could he explain how he had ended up playing consecutive games of chess long into the night with the infuriating temptation in front of him? That she had somehow coaxed him into abandoning his waistcoat and loosening his cravat? The sensation of her nimble fingers undoing the knot torturously slowly, touching the skin of his neck and the top of his chest as she eased his collar open. He'd been a little drunk by then, but not enough to pretend he hadn't been willing.

Ever since he had expressed his betrayal and frustration at their first kiss, she had always been cautious about never taking his consent for granted. She had batted her eyelashes at him and just suggested that he would be a little more comfortable without the starch around his neck. That he was at home and surely there could be no objection to him taking his ease. She was a widow and had seen much more of the male physique than a measly neck.

With the drink and lust combating for dominance in his brain, he had fumbled with the knot, unable to concentrate on undoing it, so when she offered him help he allowed her to do it. She made a torture out of it, that was true, letting her fingers tarry, caressing his skin, painstakingly undoing the knot. He had been hard to the point of discomfort, and she had seen the evidence of it straining against the seams of his breeches. For a moment, he could have sworn her gaze had darkened in appreciation. She withdrew then, back into her seat as innocent as you please, as if she hadn't left him aching. Hadn't left him scorched everywhere her touch had lingered.

Is that how she did it?

She was a Venus; sex and divine beauty condensed into one woman. Was it any mystery a mortal like him was so weak when faced with her?

They said she left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. That many coveted her, many had offered her fortunes and devotion and marriage, yet she refused each one. Perhaps she did not wish to pledge her loyalty to one man alone when she had the many freedoms of a widow at her disposal.

And her choice of lovers.

He had to remember that.

It was at times like these that he understood his father so very clearly. To want a woman so much that you would bargain your dignity, your pride, your self-respect for her. To want the feel of her bare skin against your palms, the sound of her labored breathing in your ear.

Many had come before him, he harbored no illusions that she was exceedingly coveted. Men had fought duels over her. She was considered respectable by the very barest of margins because of the immense power of her husband's family and her more formidable fortune.