take hers deeper, and they fit together, their lips and their bodies, as if they were meant to be that way.
Cassandra had never imagined anyone could kiss like that, or that a mere kiss could make her want so much. Need so much. Ian was so very good at that.
It made her wonder what else he was good at. Lost in the blurry haze of passion, her hand slid down his shoulders to tug at his cravat. She wanted to touch him, see him.
But his fingers suddenly closed over hers, hard and unyielding as he stilled her frantic movements. Cassandra heard herself make a frustrated sound, and Ian’s head fell back, his lips torn from hers.
“Cassie, no,” he said hoarsely. “What am I doing?”
It was as if the cold rain poured over her head, drowning out the heat of lust. Cassandra went very still, staring at her hand caught in his, her fingers still tangled in his cravat. She had been trying to undress Ian, her husband’s friend. Her friend. She had never been more shocked at herself.
And yet she couldn’t be sorry. She had wanted Ian so very much. When he touched her, she felt alive again at long last. Alive and happy and free. If acting like a wanton gave her that, she couldn’t be sorry. And it was Ian—gorgeous, sexy, kind-hearted Ian—who gave that to her. No, she couldn’t be sorry, even though she knew she really should.
But Ian looked very sorry indeed. His eyes were so black in his suddenly pale, strained face, his usually laughing, sensual mouth drawn into a taut line. His hair was tousled over his brow from the touch of her fingers. Instinctively, she reached up to smooth it, but he stepped back from her.
Her hands fell to her sides, and she felt achingly hollow inside. The cold dampness of the rain she hadn’t sensed before at all crept over her, and she wrapped her arms around her waist.
“I’m so sorry, Cassie,” he said, and she hardly recognized his voice it was so rough. “I don’t know what came over me. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
But she wanted it to happen again! She almost cried the words aloud, but her voice strangled in her throat when she saw his face. It had gone as hard and still as one of the marble statues in the garden, his eyes a cold blank as if he had retreated behind them somewhere she couldn’t follow.
And in that moment she was finally sorry for what had happened, because it seemed to have cost her Ian.
Cassandra took a deep sip of her punch as she shook away the heavy memory of that rainy day and studied the noisy ballroom around her. She hadn’t seen Ian since that day. He had sent her a letter from Bath, where he said he had gone to visit his sister, and she had come to London to try to distract herself. It hadn’t really worked, though. She still thought of Ian far too often. Especially now that Christmas was near, the family warmth of the holiday preparations reminding her that she was alone.
“Won’t you, Cassie?” Melisande said, the words breaking through Cassandra’s memories.
“I beg your pardon, Mel?” Cassandra said. She left her empty glass on a footman’s tray and claimed a full one.
“I was merely saying you will be at my house party for Christmas, won’t you? It should be quite a merry time.”
A loud, wild party? Cassandra wasn’t entirely sure she could face one of Melisande’s famously raucous gatherings just yet. “I’m not sure …”
“My dear, I won’t let you say no! London will be an utter wasteland after this week, and I refuse to let you stay here alone for Christmas. You need some fun.” Melisande gave her a sly smile over the edge of her fan. “Besides, Lord Phillips will be there. He’s been asking me about you, and you did say you liked him.”
“Lord Phillips?” Cassandra felt a tiny spark of interest. She had danced with him once or twice since she came to Town, played cards with him at an assembly, sat next to him at Melisande’s last dinner party. He was an amusing conversationalist, and a handsome man with dark auburn hair and a horseman’s lean body. He had made her laugh, and was a good dancer besides.
But, a tiny voice whispered inside of her, he isn’t Ian.
Cassandra pushed away that voice. Lord Phillips was an attractive man who seemed interested in her, while it was all too clear that Ian was not interested at all. She needed to move forward with her life.
“Yes,” Melisande said. “He was most eager to accept my invitation when I promised you would be there. You can’t let me down now, Cassie.”
“Then I will be there,” Cassandra answered. “I always did love a country Christmas.”
“Wonderful! Now, my dear, you will leave off the widow’s weeds for the party, won’t you? Bring some pretty clothes?”
Cassandra opened her mouth to answer that widow’s weeds were the only clothes she had, when the ballroom doors opened and a latecomer appeared.
The gilded double doors were at the top of a short set of marble steps, giving Cassandra a good view of any arrivals over everyone’s heads. She almost choked when she saw who stood there now.
Ian. Looking even more handsome than the last time she saw him, with his black hair brushed back from his face and his body draped in perfectly cut evening clothes. His stark white cravat made his smooth olive skin appear even darker, with the amber lamplight gilding him to a burnished gold like some ancient, pagan god.
His expression was solemn as his gaze swept the ballroom. Cassandra fought the temptation to shrink back into the shadows and hide from him. She forced her shoulders to straighten and her face to stay still and impassive.
His gaze slid over her, then came back. His eyes widened for an instant, and then he was back to that cool lack of expression that she hated. He gave her a polite nod, and turned away to speak to the lady who stood beside him.
Cassandra felt a flash of something she had never felt before—jealousy. She knew he was a rogue, that he had many lady friends, but still the feeling was there. But then she saw that the woman was his sister, Mrs. Leonard, whom he had gone to visit in Bath. For a moment their two dark heads bent together in conversation, and then they vanished into the crowd.
Cassandra relaxed just a bit. Now all she had to do was avoid him for the rest of the evening….
She was there. Cassandra.
Sir Ian Chandler managed to greet his friends, talking and laughing as he drank a glass of wine and studied the dancers, but the only thing in his mind, in his senses, was Cassie. She had disappeared into the swirling crowd, but he knew she was there. He forced down the raw urge to push through all the knots of people between them and grab her in his arms.
He hadn’t seen her since that day they got caught in the rain and he gave in to the wild urge to kiss her. That need had plagued him for so long, driven hotter by the smell of her lilac perfume, her smiles, the touch of her hand on his. Every time he saw her that need grew, made him more insane.
Cassie was his friend, his oldest friend’s widow. She relied on him, and he relied on those days when they were together, walking in the gardens, reading together, playing duets at the pianoforte. She was a wonderful, serene oasis in his rakish life, a place of light and sweetness he had come to crave. He had plenty of women eager to come
