Except that it was everything.
They waltzed in silence. And they waltzed in a space that seemed to contain only the two of them. He could smell the flowers she had helped choose, and the scent of her hair and of /her/. He could feel her body heat and hear her breath. And he could see the proud arch of her neck, the beauty of her face, the bright glory of her hair, the sunshine of her gown.
And it seemed to him that the darkness that had been in her had gone, to be replaced by light. Had he had some small hand in that? If he had, and if she was lost to him at the end of the Season, then perhaps there would be some consolation in the lonely years he would face before he could begin to forget her.
Not that he /would/ lose her.
And not that there would be any consolation.
Most things in life had come easily to him. Even when he was a boy he had known that Meg had carefully saved enough of the portion their mother had brought to her marriage so that he might go to Oxford and receive enough of an education that he could find steady, gainful employment for the rest of his life. Since he had inherited his title and all that went with it, life had been very easy indeed for him. And very happy too. He had never had to fight hard for what he wanted.
He would fight now.
He wanted Cass.
"You look almost fierce," she said.
"Fiercely determined," he said.
"To do what?" she asked him. "Stay off my toes for the last few minutes of the waltz?"
"That too," he said. "But not just that. Determined to enjoy what remains of the Season. Determined to see to it that you enjoy it too."
"How could I /not/ enjoy a little piece of eternity in company with an angel?" she said.
But she laughed as she said it, her eyes dancing with merriment, and he did not know if it was a flippant, essentially meaningless answer or something that came so deeply from the heart that it had come out sounding unbearably sentimental.
The waltz was at an end, and so was the evening.
Within twenty minutes everyone had left except for a few stragglers, mostly family, and Wesley Young's hired carriage had pulled up outside Merton House and Young was waiting to hand his sister in. Miss Haytor and Golding were already inside the carriage.
Stephen stood on the pavement at the bottom of the steps, both Cassandra's hands in his own. He raised them one at a time to his lips.
"Good night, Stephen," she said.
"Good night, my love."
And she was. His love, that was.
How could he convince her of that without burdening her with the truth?
Courtship was not an easy business at all.
Perhaps it was as well. There was that saying about anything worth having being worth fighting for.
Old sayings had a tendency to be filled with truth and wisdom. She raised a hand from inside the carriage a few moments later, and then she was gone.
The next month went by for Cassandra too slowly and far too quickly.
She wanted it over with so that she could begin the rest of her life.
Everything had been settled with great ease between her and Bruce with the aid of their lawyers and Wesley. Not only was she to be granted what she was owed by the marriage contract, but also she was to be paid the pension to which she was entitled by Nigel's will, including all the back payments. Her jewelry had already been sent from Carmel.
She was a comparatively wealthy woman. She could live more than comfortably for the rest of her life, especially when she intended to live that life somewhere in the country with only the expenses of a small cottage and a few servants to consider.
Mary was going with William, of course. He was already in the process of purchasing land in Dorsetshire and the small manor that stood upon it.
They hoped to move there in the autumn. In the meanwhile they stayed with Cassandra, and Mary insisted upon continuing as housekeeper, maid, and cook.
Belinda was excited at the prospect of moving to a big house far away with her mama and papa.
Alice was going to marry Mr. Golding, and she was going to do it within the month. Cassandra had shamelessly promised that she was going to marry Stephen, and Alice had believed her and decided to follow her heart. She was bubbling over with happiness, and Cassandra felt not the smallest pang of guilt for her lie. She was just going to have to convince Alice when the time came that she had had a sudden change of heart and could not marry Stephen after all.
It would be too late for Alice to confront her with the deception by then.
Cassandra /needed/ for Alice to be happy. Only so could she forgive herself for her selfishness in keeping Alice with her all these years.
But time moved too slowly even though there was much to make Cassandra contented, even happy. And there was much to look forward to. The agent who had helped William find his land and manor was now looking for a suitable cottage for her.
Time moved slowly because every day brought her closer to Stephen and deepened her regard for him. She saw him every day, sometimes more than once. She might go riding with him in the morning, perhaps, and join a party to Vauxhall with him in the evening.
She /liked/ him. Oh, she did indeed. It was almost worse than the love.
She could be /friends/ with this man in a friendship that would last a lifetime. She was sure it must be so. Apart from Alice, who had been her governess and surrogate mother for many years, she had never had friends. No one, anyway, with whom she could relax and talk – and laugh – on any subject on earth without having to make an effort to keep the conversation going. And no one with whom she could be comfortably silent for minutes at a time without her mind racing for some subject – any subject – with which to fill the silence.
She loved him too, of course. She yearned for him physically, a desire made even worse by the fact that she had had him twice and knew how close to her grasp a physical heaven was. But it was more than just physical. She /cared/ for him in a way that was far too deep and complex for any words. Or if there /were/ words, she certainly did not know them. The word /love/, she thought, was like a tiny doorway into a vast mansion that filled the universe and beyond.
Sometimes she wondered why she could not simply marry him and be happy for the rest of her life. He had said he loved her, after all – /once/.
And he always seemed happy when they were together.
But how could he /not/ appear thus when he was a man of honor?
And how could she possibly force him into marriage?
Whenever she began to wonder why not, she forced herself to list the reasons. She had deliberately singled him out for se diction. She had trapped him into becoming her protector. She had taken money from him – /which she had since repaid in full/. She had not stopped him from kissing her out on that balcony at Lady Compton-Haig's ball. She had allowed him to announce their betrothal immediately afterward. She had not put a firm stop to the farce the day after. She had… Well, she usually stopped there. Why go further? The list was shudderingly long as it was. /Of course/ she could never marry him.
Sometimes the list kept growing longer in her head even when she tried to stop thinking. She was three years older than he and had been married before. Her father had been a gambler, her husband a drinker. Such a woman was not a suitable bride for the young and charismatic Earl of Merton.
But, though the last month of the Season crawled along far too slowly, it also galloped along at an alarming pace. For once it was over, Stephen would be returning alone to Warren Hall for the summer and she would be going to an as yet unknown destination – her new home.
And they would never see each other again.
Ever.
It was July. People had already started to trickle out of London to return to their estates or to seek out cooler, fresher air close to the sea or at one of the spas. The parliamentary session was almost at an end. The frantic pace of social activities was beginning to wind down for another year.