The Pursuit Of Marriage (2 page)

“Well, you do have a certain air about you.”

“Yet here I am with a relatively spotless reputation—”

Leo raised a brow.

“I said relatively, but even you must admit, aside from a tendency to say exactly what I think—”

Leo opened his mouth to speak.

Cassie waved off his unspoken comment. “Which I have no intention of changing, by the way, my behavior has always been quite within the bounds of respectable behavior.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps your chances of marriage would be enhanced if you were to at least give the appearance of being somewhat more biddable—”

“I will not change who I am to lure a match, nor do I particularly want a man who would prefer such a woman in the first place.”

“Even so, there are any number of possibilities.” Leo nodded in Lord Warren’s direction. “What of Warren? I have it on very good authority that he is quite taken with you.”

“My dear brother, Lord Warren is exactly what I don’t want in a husband. He is the kind of man who would have a mistress installed before our vows were barely out of our mouths. No, if nothing else, I expect fidelity from a spouse, and men like Warren don’t have a faithful bone in their bodies.”

“Come now, Cass, you could give the man the benefit of the doubt. Why, I myself have a certain reputation, yet I fully intend on being entirely faithful to my wife when the time comes.” He grinned. “If the time ever comes.”

She ignored him. “Effington men always have been a bit different in that respect. I suspect it’s because love usually plays a role. Perhaps when I find a man I can not only trust but also love—”

“Perhaps you should lower your standards.”

“You said that, Leo, and you needn’t say it again. I have no desire—” She pulled up short and studied her brother carefully. “You haven’t answered my question. Why are you so concerned about my prospects?”

“I told you I—”

“Leo?”

His brows pulled together. “Blast it all, Cass, it’s this, this, this pastime of yours. You should be married. Having children, that sort of thing. Not, well, employed.”

“I see. I should have known.” She bit back a grin. “First of all, dear brother, I’m not employed. I employ myself. It provides me with a sense of independence and competence and I quite enjoy it. And secondly, it’s not a pastime, it’s a business.”

“A business.” Leo groaned. “That’s even worse.”

“Actually, it’s quite wonderful.” Cassie leaned toward him confidentially. “And I am making a substantial amount of money.”

Leo’s brow shot up in surprise. “Refurbishing houses? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it. I have a very exclusive, and very wealthy, clientele who employ me to decide on paint and paper and furnishings and whatever else I deem appropriate for their very opulent homes.”

“And they pay you for this?” He stared at her as if he couldn’t comprehend why anyone would pay good money for such a thing. It was such a very male look that it was all she could do not to laugh aloud.

“Indeed they do. In truth, my fees are exorbitant, and I am well worth it. I have excellent taste and a natural gift for decoration and design.” Cassie had discovered said gift last year when she’d helped Delia refurbish the house she’d inherited from her first husband, and she’d honed it further when she’d done the same thing for the house Delia now shared with St. Stephens. “Most of my clients thus far have been women, and quite frankly, one of the reasons they are so eager to acquire my services is because I am an Effington. They adore having the advice of an Effington and are willing to pay outrageously for the privilege. Indeed,” she cast him a satisfied smile, “they do not so much hire me as I select them.”

“Still and all, you’re, well, in business.”

“You needn’t sound so stuffy. My services may be overpriced but there’s nothing at all disgraceful about this. I daresay there are far worse things I could be doing.”

“You could be doing needlework,” he muttered.

She shot him a scathing glance.

He glared in return. “Regardless, Cassandra, do not forget you are an Effington—”

“And you would do well to remember we are but a few generations removed from cutthroats and pirates who made their fortunes in ways much more unsavory than selecting carpets and directing paperhangers.”

He stared for a moment, then sighed in surrender. “You’re right, of course.” Still, the man was not about to give up. “But can’t you just do what you do for, well, fun?” His expression brightened. “That’s it, Cass, do it for fun, refuse to accept so much as one more penny, and I shan’t say another word about it.”

“Are you daft? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” She scoffed. “I have no intention of wasting my time redoing the homes of people for nothing. People who wager and lose more money in an evening than hardworking folk earn in a lifetime. The ton may well look down its collective nose at the legitimate earning of money, but it also measures worth very much in terms of monetary value. If I were to give away my services, they would lose their worth. Part of the appeal of having a room designed by Miss Cassandra Effington is that very few can truly afford it. I, dear brother, am a luxury.”

“But you have no need of money.”

“One can always use more money,” she said loftily. Cassie was not about to admit to her older brother that she fully intended to donate the money she’d made to a worthy cause. She simply hadn’t decided what, but was confident the cause would present itself when the time was right. “Besides, it fills my days in a useful manner and—”

“Regardless, I don’t approve.” He pressed his lips together firmly. “And I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to, because I do.” She favored him with her sweetest smile and was gratified to see his resolve soften, if only just a bit. “Now then, Leo, shall we talk about your life? Your own prospects for marriage? The business nature of your own endeavors?”

“I shouldn’t call it business exactly,” he said uneasily. “It’s really more of a—”

A shout sounded and all eyes turned toward the bend in the road and the sudden appearance of the riders: Christian on his favorite bay, Berkley on a sorrel-colored steed, both fine-looking animals. The rhythmic thud of well-shod hooves beating the ground and the growing cheers of the crowd swelled with their approach. The contestants were neck and neck, the men flattened so hard against their mounts that it was difficult to discern man from beast. The men looked as well matched as the horses. Christian was on the far side of the road, and even from here, Cassie could see the intensity of his effort in the line of his body and furrow of his brow.

“Good Lord, he’s going to lose.” A sense of awe rang in Leo’s voice. Not at all surprising. To the best of Cassie’s recollection, Christian had never lost at anything.

“Why do you say that? They appear even to me.”

Leo narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “There is still a hundred yards or so remaining, and Christian is spent. I can see it from here. Whereas Berkley—”

“Berkley does look more at ease, doesn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She studied the other man carefully. The difference between Berkley and Christian was apparent only under close scrutiny, but indeed his lordship did look a touch less strained, a tad more relaxed, as if the level of his endurance had yet to be reached whereas Christian’s had already been breached. Even as she watched, Berkley inched ahead.

The men thundered across the finish line, Berkley a good half horse length in front of Christian. The crowd erupted in cheers and good-natured groans. Half the gathering surged down the rise to greet the victor and console the vanquished, and the other half wandered toward the linen-covered tables and the late-morning feast that had been laid out unnoticed.

Cassie and Leo started toward the riders. Christian slipped off his horse, his expression a mix of chagrin, annoyance, and genial acceptance. For a man used to winning, he seemed to innately know how to lose with grace. Cassie pushed aside a touch of guilt at wagering against her brother and turned her attention toward the gentleman who had just helped increase her savings. Berkley still sat upon the sorrel amidst an air of confidence and congeniality. Someone handed him a tankard, and he downed its contents in one long drink, then laughed with the exhilaration of victory. And perhaps of life itself. It was a surprisingly contagious laugh, and she found herself smiling in response.

“Berkley is unmarried,” Leo said idly. “And I understand he is not averse to marriage.”

“From what I have heard of Berkley, he is no better than Lord Warren or you.” She shook her head firmly. “I have no desire to reform a rake, Leo.”

There was no doubt in her mind that the man was indeed a rake. Not merely because of rumor and gossip, but more because of the way in which he carried himself, the assured manner in which he sat his horse, the very look in his eye.

Berkley scanned the crowd, probably looking for one lady or another. He was handsome enough, and it was apparent from his bearing that he well knew it. He was obviously tall, with walnut-colored hair, charmingly disheveled, still too far away to discern the color of his eyes. His gaze skimmed past her, then returned and caught hers. His smile broadened, then deepened, in a disturbingly intimate manner, as if they shared something as yet unrecognized but quite personal nonetheless. It was at once rather intriguing and most disquieting and completely improper. She pointedly shifted her gaze. She had no intention of encouraging a man like Berkley.

Of course, she wasn’t entirely certain what kind of man she should like to encourage. She knew she wanted someone respectable but not dull. Exciting but not dangerous. Strong but not overbearing. Loyal and trustworthy but not a lapdog. And this mythical paragon would love her without reservation for the rest of his days. In short, the man of her dreams would be very nearly perfect and probably did not exist. Leo said something she didn’t quite catch, but she smiled and nodded nonetheless. Perhaps he was right about lowering her standards if she did indeed wish to marry. She wanted marriage, but marriage alone was not enough. And if she was true to no one else, she should be true to herself. If that meant never marrying at all, so be it. It was not a pleasant prospect. She did not relish the idea of one day being the aging, eccentric aunt to Delia’s children. Perhaps the cause to which she planned on giving her earnings should be her own future? At least if her fate was to become the peculiar, maiden aunt in the family, it would be nice not to have to depend entirely on Effington financial support. She could say what she wanted to her brother and her sister and anyone else within hearing about her independence, earning her own way, and doing precisely as she wished, but deep down inside she knew she didn’t really believe any of it. Or, at least, not all of it. Cassie would give just about anything to be in her sister’s place. To be happy and well wed and in love. But she would rather be alone than trapped for the rest of her days with the wrong man. Cassie Effington absolutely would not lower her standards. No matter how great the price.

Viscount Berkley, Reginald Berkley—Reggie to those who knew him best—slid off his horse and ignored the pain that shot through his ankle when his foot hit the ground at an odd angle. Not especially difficult to do. His blood surged with the elation of victory, and Reggie suspected he would not feel much of anything save triumph at this moment.

Except, of course, compelling curiosity.

At once he was besieged by jubilant acquaintances and well-wishers, their exuberance in direct proportion to their winnings. At last the crowd thinned, dispersing toward the offered repast or, more likely, to collect wagers owed.

“Well done, old man.” Marcus Holcroft, the Earl of Pennington, clapped his closest friend on the back and grinned. “I wasn’t entirely certain you could pull it off.”

“Did you wager against me then?” Reggie asked absently, scanning the crowd for another glimpse of the intriguing young woman whose direct gaze had briefly met his. Marcus gasped in mock dismay. “I would never do such a thing.” His grin returned. “However, it was rather tempting. Effington is well known for his prowess in the saddle and a reputation for success. Still, you are not without a certain—”

“Who is that?” Reggie spotted the lady and nodded in her direction. Marcus followed his friend’s gaze and chuckled ruefully. “That, my dear Reginald, is the sister of the man you just defeated.”

“I thought as much.”

Certainly Reggie had seen the twin daughters of Lord William, the brother of the Duke of Roxborough, before. At a ball or a park or an outing or something somewhere. They were of an age where they’d been out in society for probably a half dozen seasons. Indeed, he counted their cousin Thomas, the Marquess of Helmsley, among his closest friends. He might even have been introduced to one or another at some point in years past, although he couldn’t for the life of him recall it. And surely he would have remembered. Not simply because this female pretending to pay him no notice was lovely—there were any number of others he could name that were far more lovely—but there had been something quite distinct about her when her gaze had met his. Something intense and compelling. Something that had quite taken his breath away.

“But which one is she?”

Pennington glanced at the lady, then indicated a couple some distance away. “Given Lord St. Stephens over there is escorting a woman who looks precisely like the lady in question, and in a most possessive manner, I suspect that to be his wife and the sister who has attracted your attention to be Miss Effington. I believe her name is Cassandra.”