her wrists, pinning them to the bed above her. He was lying completely atop her, bearing her down into the mattress. Cassandra could not help but be aware of the intruder’s power, of his very maleness. The position frightened her, yet at the same time she was confusedly aware of the heat that sizzled through her veins and lay pooled and heavy in her abdomen.
She wished that she could think better. Why was her head so heavy and groggy? And what was a man of the wealth and position of Sir Philip Neville doing assaulting a woman in her bedroom at a house party in the country?
He was breathing heavily, and Cassandra saw that sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat, just above the undone button of his shirt. Cassandra pulled both her eyes and her mind away from that tanned hollow of flesh that was visibly pulsing with each beat of his heart.
“Don’t scream!” he whispered, leaning down close to her face. “I promise you I mean you no harm. I will let you go, if you will promise not to scream.”
She gazed at him, wide-eyed, and nodded her head. He looked at her for a long, doubtful moment, then eased his hand from her mouth, moving in tiny increments, always ready to clamp it back down if she showed signs of screaming. Cassandra said nothing, merely watched him steadily.
He relaxed a little. “I swear to you that I mean you no harm. I will leave this room. I won’t harm you. Do you understand?”
“Of course I understand!” Cassandra hissed back in the same undertone. “I’m not an idiot.”
He moved off her with a groan. “Bloody hell! What a tangle.” He looked at her, frowning. “You’re the wrong one.”
“I should certainly hope so,” Cassandra retorted acidly, sitting up. “Oh, my head! I feel as if a thousand hammers were banging away inside it.” Why was she so groggy? And why did she feel strangely hot and tingly inside?
She looked at the man sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her. She supposed she ought to be frightened, but, once that initial spurt of terror was past, once she recognized the stranger for Sir Philip Neville, she had not been scared, only stunned and confused.
The lingering emotions from her dream unsettled her, and she took refuge in sarcasm. “What young lady’s room were you trying to break into, may I ask?”
“I wasn’t breaking in,” he responded, stung. “I was accepting an invitation.”
“Of course. I should have known.” Cassandra’s voice was dry, and she arched an eyebrow. “I am sure that Sir Philip Neville has ample invitations to enter women’s bedrooms.”
Neville gazed at her for a long moment. “You are a most unusual female.”
“So I’ve been told.” Cassandra did not deceive herself that his words were a compliment.
“I would think a young lady would be...rather more distraught in this situation than you are.”
“Would you rather that I were?” Cassandra retorted. “I fail to see how it would help matters any if I were to fall into hysterics.”
“I didn’t say it would help. It just seems more...natural.”
“I must be an unnatural female, then. It is what my aunt and cousin tell me. They say it is why I never caught a husband. But I think that had more to do with the sad state of our finances than with my attitude, for I have seen odder women than myself marry well, as long as they had a wealthy father. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I daresay you are correct.” Sir Philip gazed at her in a sort of dazed fascination. He had never before met a woman who spoke in the candid, no-nonsense way this woman did. Indeed, it was something of an oddity to speak to a woman who did not immediately set to flirting with him. He had found that an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year acted as a powerful aphrodisiac.
“To return to the subject at hand,” Cassandra continued crisply, “exactly why are you in my room rather than that of the female who issued the invitation?”
Neville grimaced. “I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.” He turned to light the candle he had set down on the bedside table earlier. Taking out a note from his pocket, he unfolded it and reread it. “Though I don’t see how. It’s quite clear—the fifth door on the right from the stairs. Isn’t this the fifth door?”
Cassandra thought for a moment. “Yes.” Curious, she rose onto her knees and looked over his shoulder at the note. She gasped as she recognized the blotted, sloppy handwriting and the distinctive looping initials at the bottom of the paper. “My God, that’s Joanna’s script!”
Neville turned to glare at her, crumpling the note in his fist. “I beg your pardon, madam. This is a private correspondence.”
“Mmm. I think it’s hardly a private matter, considering that you are sitting in my bed reading it.”
“It would be the death of her reputation if this were known,” he countered grimly.
“I think that my reputation is of more concern at the moment, since you are in my bedroom.”
“I would trust, madam, that you would have enough sense not to bandy it about that you were entertaining a man in your room, and since I have no intention of revealing it, I think it is clear that your reputation is safe.”
“Of course I have enough sense to keep quiet,” Cassandra retorted, nettled by what she considered a rather excessive concern on his part over Joanna’s reputation. “The one you ought to be concerned with is Joanna, since she is obviously so hare-witted that she directed you to the wrong room.”
She reached over and plucked the ball of paper from his hand and smoothed it out, bending close to read it in the dim light of the candle. “Ah, yes, I see. She didn’t say fifth door, she wrote fourth. You see? It’s just her abominable handwriting, and she left out the u. She never was much good at spelling, I’m afraid. I can see how you made the mistake—especially with, ah, your undoubted eagerness clouding your thinking. I have had a bit more experience with reading her notes.”
“Then it is too bad that I did not consult with you first,” Neville snarled, “but, you see, I was not aware that I needed an interpreter.”
“There is no need to be testy,” Cassandra stated. “And you needn’t worry for your, uh, for the lady’s reputation. I’m not likely to besmirch my family by telling anyone that Joanna makes assignations with men in her bedchamber. She is my cousin, you see.”
“Your cousin?” Neville studied her face in the candlelight. “That’s odd. I don’t recall seeing you with her.”
“That is often the case.” Cassandra kept her voice light. She was used, after all, to being overshadowed by her beautiful, flirtatious cousin. Joanna’s guinea-gold hair and large blue eyes generally captured all male attention when she was around.
Cassandra, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, knew that she was on the shelf and, indeed, had never been popular with men. She had not “taken” one during her season, and her father had not been able to afford more than one. Cassandra knew, anyway, that any number of social seasons would not have seen her married. For one thing, she had no knack for flirtation and even less interest in it. For another, while she was not precisely plain, her features lacked the even perfection of a true beauty. Her cheekbones were too high, her jaw too firm, and her
