Page 49 of The Raven’s Lady

She gasped. She couldn’t help it. The old taunt hit her like a blow. Instantly, he looked appalled at what he’d said, but it was too late. She wrenched herself out of his grasp.

“Cassie!” His voice was an anguished cry. “I didn’t mean—”

“You know what your problem is,” she told him. She was shouting now over the rain, and over the plea in his voice, which she refused to hear. “You don’t want to apologize to Hugh. You know he’s undeserving of your apology. Being Amabel’s brother does not make him less of a coward or a bully.”

“What can I say to her?”

“You could tell her the truth. You could say, Dearest, loveliest Amabel, your brother Hugh is an offensive worm, but I’m willing to overlook his vile behavior for your sake.”

He exhaled a sharp, bitter laugh. “You are outrageous.”

“Am I?” She was beyond caring what he thought. She had been mistaken to regard him as different from any of them who had mocked her.

Rain ran in shining rivulets down his face. His coal-dark eyes turned bleak, teasing lights extinguished. “You know I can’t say that.”

“Will you grovel then? Pretend you don’t know what he is. Tell Hugh that you acted hastily, that you didn’t stop to see things his way, that you hope you and he can start again? Will you admire his horses, his latest curricle, his best guns? I promise you, you won’t like yourself if you do.”

“You’re full of helpful ideas. And Amabel? How am I to make her understand?”

Cassie felt her anger dissolve in the rain. He stood impossibly close, in torment, his pain-filled gaze fixed on her. She knew that sort of pain, but his could end. Amabel might be angry, but she would forgive him if he let her.

She lifted his coat from her shoulders and handed it to him. He took the dripping wool.

“Tell her your plans for the July ball. Tell her that you just learned that you met her brother. You can tell her what happened, at least, a version of what happened, leaving out Hugh’s nastiness. Tell her you would have behaved quite differently had you understood who Hugh was. Ask for her help to start over with Hugh. If she loves you, she will forgive you.”

She turned to go. He reached out a hand, but she shook her head. He let his hand drop. With a few steps she moved beyond his gaze, letting the rain cut her off from him.

Chapter Seventeen

Cassie moved blindly through the rain. Her sole object was to distance herself from Raven. The path ahead became a narrow tunnel of green gloom. Rain shut out the world except for the few feet in front of her. It beat against her with the ceaseless insistence of her angry thoughts. Raven accused her of deceit, but she was the one who had been duped. In their first meeting, his kindness and his willingness to defend Dick Crockett against Hugh had marked Raven as a man of principle. Now, she understood him better. His defense of Dick had been out of character. His value for rank and position drove him.

At last, she saw the glimmer of lights from the dower house kitchen. She cut across the rabbit field, indifferent to the uneven ground, her skirts collecting mud and grass as she moved. Outside the kitchen door, she paused to catch her breath. With luck, Cook would help her shed her wet cloak and bonnet and get up to her room alone. A bath and something warm to drink would prepare her to face Honoria and Grandmama. She must appear as if nothing had happened to overset her. A laugh, a single dry spasm of amusement, burst from her aching throat, to think that an hour earlier she had imagined drinking a cup of happiness.

She opened the door, and met the stare of five pairs of eyes. Grandmama, in one of her deep blue riding habits, sat at the head of the kitchen’s scarred old work table. Honoria sat on one side, and the boys on the other, wrapped in blankets and huddled over steaming mugs. Instead of the usual mixing bowls and spoons and sieves and mallets, the table was strewn with a wet array of jackets, toy swords, and one of Honoria’s notebooks. A clothesline had been strung between the brick fireplace and the cabinets, hung with three shirts and three pairs of trousers.

“Lady C,” cried Joe. “Ye’ve been in Noah’s flood like us!”

Joe received a quelling glance from Grandmama.

Cassie tried for a smile, but was not sure she managed it. She stepped into the kitchen, set her basket down on the slates, and closed the door. The heat of the room hit her and the smell of marmalade on warm bread.

“Did Sir Adrian find you, love?” asked Honoria, twisting the ends of her shawl as always. Cassie recognized the warning in the question.

“He did.” Cassie removed her sodden bonnet. Her bad foot suddenly made its complaint known, and she grabbed the tall back of the closest chair for balance. With a little cry, Cook hurried to Cassie’s side.

“Get that cloak off and get near the fire, child,” Grandmama snapped.

Cassie reached for the strings of her cloak with stiff, cold hands, trying to understand Honoria’s warning. It seemed as if the boys’ playacting Honoria’s story had not only been discovered by Raven, but also by her grandmother. Cook took Cassie by the shoulders and turned her to remove the sopping garment, keeping up a low murmur of concern, handing Hannah, her scullery maid, the dripping cloak. In a minute Cassie sat with her back to the fire and a cup of hot tea before her. She steadied her shaking hands and lifted the cup to her mouth under Grandmama’s watchful gaze. The boys kept their heads down. Honoria huddled in her chair. Outside, the rain drummed on the flagstones of the kitchen courtyard. Inside, spits turned and pots boiled. A reckoning was coming, and Cassie would have to face it before she could think about Raven’s cruel words.

She looked up and met her grandmother’s stern gaze.

“What is this novel-writing nonsense you and Honoria have been carrying on behind my back?”

Cassie winced at the behind my back phrase. It was too close to Raven’s accusation that she had deliberately kept the truth about Hugh from him. She pushed the thought away, and looked to Honoria, who cast her a pleading glance. “It’s not nonsense, Grandmama. Aunt Honoria is a born storyteller. It is sad that she remains anonymous when she could have recognition in her own right.”

“What sort of recognition is it for a lady to be known as a scribbler? And where has her storytelling gotten her? She has seriously offended Sir Adrian if this lot is to be believed.” Grandmama’s gaze swept the boys. “And to persist and offend Ramsbury and his absurd son is out of the question.”

“Is Sir Adrian very angry?” Honoria asked.