He raised one eyebrow.
"Before /what/ is all over?" he asked. "The ball? One hopes it is not something else to which you refer, Lady Paget. My young cousin is cheerful by nature, but I do not believe I have seen him this happy before now."
"And you believe," she said, "that I can make him happy?"
"It would seem rather obvious that you can," he said.
"I am forgiven, then," she asked him, "for colliding with him at Margaret's ball?"
"I will forgive you," he said, "on your wedding day. /After/ the wedding."
"I shall look forward with renewed eagerness, then," she said, laughing again, "to my wedding, Mr. Huxtable."
"You may also call me Con," he said, "after your wedding."
He was a man difficult to decipher. Did he like her or did he not? Did he like Stephen, or did he not?
She danced the supper dance with Bruce. He asked her and she could hardly say no. But it was hard not to feel bitter over all the dreadful things he had said to her before banishing her from Carmel, over the terror she had felt while traveling here with her small entourage of refugees with no idea how she was going to care for them or herself, over the ghastly rumors he had done nothing to quell and perhaps much to spread, over the way he had come here this evening, heedless of who might hear his righteous tirade. It was pure good fortune that he had arrived when he had and not an hour later.
The one satisfaction for her was his reddened, slightly swollen nose.
How splendid Stephen had looked…
But she ought not to find satisfaction in any form of violence. She /had/, though, and she still did. For once in her life someone had actually fought /for/ her rather than against her. She knew just what a fist to the nose felt like.
"You must know, Cassandra," Bruce said stiffly as he led her onto the floor, "that I have never liked you. You were an opportunist fortune hunter when you married my father. You had not a feather to fly with after growing up with that worthless father of yours. You thought to live in the lap of luxury for the rest of your life, and you almost did.
The jewels my father bought you are worth a fortune, as I am sure you know. But you paid for your scheming ways. You got what you deserved. I doubt you will with Merton. He is altogether a weakling and a milksop.
You have chosen more wisely this time. However, if William is to be believed – and I daresay he is – you did not /kill/ my father, and so I am doing my utmost tonight to dispel the rumors that followed you here apparently with a vengeance. I will be happy to dispel them. I will be happy to see you marry Merton. I will be happy to have you off my back, to be able to forget about you, and perhaps – if I am very fortunate – never to see you again."
He smiled warmly at her all the time he spoke.
The dance was about to begin.
"You are not considering marriage on your own account, Bruce?" she asked him, smiling back.
"I am not," he said.
"I am very glad," she told him. "Very glad, that is, for the lady who might have been your wife."
"I will see my lawyer tomorrow morning," he said. "I will take him to see /your/ lawyer. You may wish to meet us there at noon, Cassandra. You will get everything to which you are entitled provided you are prepared to swear /in writing/ that you will make no further claim on my estate.
Ever."
He smiled. She smiled back.
"I will be there with Wesley," she said. "My lawyer will advise me on what I ought to agree to, in writing or otherwise."
They danced in silence, smiling at the air to the side of each other's face. And they were watched, Cassandra guessed, by guests curious to interpret what Lord Paget's appearance here tonight meant. But it could surely mean only one thing to them. Would he have come if he truly believed she had murdered his father? Would he have come if he did not wish her well, if he did not wish to convey the blessing of his family on this second marriage of hers?
Cassandra could almost hear what was being thought, even said – and what would be said in the coming days.
Perhaps they had all been wrong about her, they would surely say. The rumors had been rather extreme, after all. What woman was capable of hefting an axe high enough and firmly enough to cleave a man's skull in two? Not that they had really /believed/ those stories, of course, but even so… And she had denied nothing, had she? And one could believe a woman with hair /that/ color capable of anything. They /must/ have been wrong about her, though. Not only was Lord Paget here, he was also dancing with her, conversing with her, smiling with her. They were clearly on the best of terms with each other.
Paget had behaved well, Stephen thought as the evening neared its end and he could, at last, claim Cassandra again for one more set.
He could not say he was happy Paget had come or happy that he had felt obliged to invite the man to the ball instead of pounding him to a bloody pulp, which would have been far more satisfying.
But, all things considered, matters had perhaps worked out for the best.
Although there would always be people who would think the worst of Cassandra – that was human nature, after all – nevertheless most people would now conclude that they must have been duped by gossip. And most would convince themselves that they never listened seriously to gossip anyway and had not believed this particular item for a moment.
Cassandra's reputation would be restored.
And after coming here and smiling his way through the evening and even dancing with Cassandra, Paget could hardly now claim that she had no right to her personal property or to the monetary provisions made for her in her husband's will and the marriage contract.
Stephen did not know how wealthy she would be, but he guessed that she would at worst be very comfortably well off. She would be independent.
She would be able to do with her life whatever she chose to do.
It was not a realization that depressed him. Quite the contrary. She would have fought him to the bitter end, he knew, if it had seemed that she /needed/ to marry him. And he would have hated to feel obliged to persuade her into matrimony only because she had no real alternative. He would have spent the rest of his life wondering whether she had really /wanted/ to marry him. And wondering if pity had somehow warped his judgment.
Now he could fight for her without any qualms at all. She /would/ say yes. But she would say it because she /wanted/ to, because she had the freedom to decide whichever way she wanted. And he would fight because he wanted her. There would be no other reason.
He smiled at her as he took her in his arms. He had been smiling all evening, of course, but this time he saw only her, and he felt only the love that almost overwhelmed him. He could still scarcely believe it had happened to him – long before he had started to look for it, and in a totally different direction than he would have turned if he had been deliberately looking.
"I suppose," he said, "you are still determined to break off our engagement once the summer comes?"
"Of course," she said. "And only I can honorably do it. I will not fail you, Stephen, or trap you. This is all very temporary."
Did she feel anything for him? It was impossible to know. He was as certain as he could be that she felt a fondness for him. He knew she was physically attracted to him. But did she feel anything approximating to love? To romantic love? And to that deeper love that would endure through a lifetime?
She was free now to love.
Or not to.
But she was not free to tell him that she loved him, was she? She had promised to break off their engagement when the Season was over. /I will not fail you, Stephen, or trap you/.
This was going to be a difficult courtship. They were trapped in an engagement that she was honor-bound to break and he was honor-bound to convert into marriage.
Love seemed a minor consideration.