Impetuous

“You can hardly expect me to tell you everything when you have not agreed to help me yet,” Cassandra said reasonably. “You haven’t even admitted that the journals are real. I can assure you that I will be entirely open and forthright with you once we have started our project. I have no taste for sly dealings.”

Sir Philip did not add unlike your aunt and cousin, but both of them were thinking it. He got up and began to pace, considering Cassandra’s madcap scheme. “So you are suggesting that if I agree, we will go to Haverly House, and there we will search the house for this book that you’re not exactly sure of in a location that you don’t know. And if by some miracle we should find it, then I am to help you find the treasure on my land and give it to you?”

“Half,” Cassandra corrected. “I thought it would be fair to split it.”

“My dear Miss Verrere, it would seem to me that the entire dowry should be mine,” he said, his golden eyes alight with amusement. “It is my land, after all, my house where you hope to find both the instructions and the treasure—which, I might point out, belonged to the Nevilles anyway.”

“Nonsense.” Cassandra bounced to her feet, hands clenched at her sides and color flying high in her cheeks. “Sir Edric never won the rights to the dowry, and you know it. There was no marriage. The treasure belonged to Chesilworth by rights.” She noticed then the laughter in his eyes and realized that Sir Philip was teasing her. She went on with an air of unconcern, “Besides, as I said, the instructions or map or whatever it is at your home is not enough. And I am the one who possesses the other half.”

He stiffened and stared at her in amazement. “Are you serious? You found one of these letters your ancestor wrote?”

“Well...not yet.”

The surprise dropped from his face and he grimaced. “I see.”

“But I will get it,” Cassandra insisted. “I would have waited to tell you until I had found the letter, but this opportunity to meet you dropped into my lap, and I had to take advantage of it. I didn’t know if I would ever have such a chance to talk to you again. I hardly move in Society, you see. But I am already working on the problem. I have been searching the Chesilworth attics for some weeks now. They are chock-full of old trunks with clothes and papers and, oh, all sorts of things. We are back to the time of the Prince Regent now, and there is plenty of attic left. I am sure we will be able to find it.”

“Indeed? And who are ‘we’? Is there some third party involved in this harebrained scheme?”

“My brothers and sister and I. They are helping me look. It is for them that I really want to find the dowry. Even half of the fortune would be worth a great deal today—imagine those large, uncut gems and the old coins, the golden leopard! I am sure it would be enough money to put Chesilworth back into shape, and then we would be able to stop living on the charity of my aunt. Crispin would inherit a house that is at least worth something. Maybe there would even be enough to help Hart start some sort of career when he is grown, and to give Olivia a proper season.”

“You have great plans, I see, for this fortune you have not found yet.”

Cassandra looked at him a little defiantly. “You, no doubt disapprove. Verrere dreams again.”

“You have an odd picture of me, Miss Verrere, one that I think I have done little to deserve. I have nothing against dreams. I am simply afraid that you will be sadly disappointed when yours do not come true.”

“Should that happen, I will have to deal with my disappointment. But, you see, I don’t believe that I am going to be disappointed. I am sure I will find the letters.”

Neville sighed, looking down at her. He found himself, quite badly, wanting to help her—but the whole idea was too absurd. “Miss Verrere, doesn’t this whole thing seem a trifle melodramatic? I mean, star-crossed lovers, feuding families, buried treasure, long-hidden maps...”

“Yes, it does.” Cassandra did not seem disturbed by the fact. Her eyes shone as she talked. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

He paused, nonplussed. “What I mean is, it seems too dramatic to be real, too much like a story. It sounds as if someone made it up.”

“But we know that most of it is true,” Cassandra protested. “Margaret did elope with another man on the eve of her wedding. She did have a fabulous dowry, which disappeared at that time and which no one has ever found. The two families have disliked each other ever since. The only things that have been added are the journals and the possibility of finding the treasure.”

“It is precisely that which strains credulity. Miss Verrere, I know you think I am a frightfully dull sort, but I have found that the simplest answers are usually the correct ones. Margaret Verrere did not hide the dowry and leave clues lying about for others to find it. She didn’t write journals that coincidentally wound up in Verrere hands two hundred years later. The answer is that she took the dowry and used it to start a new life in the colonies. All these recent developments are merely a scheme to sell a few books at a greatly inflated price to a man who was well-known to be obsessed on the subject.” He stopped, realizing that once again he had let his tongue run away with him and had stated the facts too baldly.

“Then you refuse to help me.” Cassandra’s face fell, and she stepped back. She had pinned all her hopes on this man, and he had turned her down. She was flooded with disappointment. “I am sorry that I wasted your time,” she said stiffly and started to turn away from him.

Sir Philip reached out and grasped her arm, holding her back. “No, wait. Don’t go yet.”

Cassandra turned, fighting back the tears that threatened. She refused to let Sir Philip see how his refusal had hurt her. She lifted her eyebrows in silent inquiry, striving to look cool and disinterested.

“Miss Verrere, ’tis only the authenticity of these journals that I question. The coincidence of them falling into your hands after all these years is simply too much for me to accept.”

“I explained that to you. It isn’t coincidence—it is a logical progression.” She felt a tiny spurt of hope rise up in her again at his attempt to explain. “Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t,” he said softly. “I see a very lovely young woman whom a scoundrel has probably taken advantage of. A woman still sorrowing over her father’s death, hopeful that his dream might become a reality.”

“Oh!” Cassandra’s gray eyes flashed. “I am not some silly little girl who can’t spot a deception that’s right in front of her. My father was not a fool, and neither am I! Those journals are real, but you are simply too prosaic to see it.” She tried in vain to jerk her arm away. “I should have known that a Neville would find the whole thing too quixotic. Too romantic.”

“Miss Verrere, I assure you that I do not think you are a silly little girl. Indeed, I think you are a very intelligent, as well as beautiful, woman. I admire you greatly.” He paused, smiling faintly. “Nor am I unromantic.” He leaned closer, looking down intently into her eyes. “Indeed, I am having thoughts of quite a romantic nature at this very moment.”

Cassandra swallowed, unable to look away from his piercing golden-brown gaze. Her throat was dry, and it seemed suddenly difficult to breathe. She tried to speak, but found she could not.

Philip slid his hand up her arm and around her back, pulling her gently and completely against him. “Your story is the only thing I do not find appealing about you.”

“S-sir Philip...” Cassandra managed to stammer, washed with a weakness and confusion that were foreign to her.

He bent and brushed his lips against hers lightly, then more forcefully. Cassandra could feel the pulse suddenly pounding in her head, and her breath caught in her throat. The memories of her lascivious dream of the night before came flooding back, turning her knees weak and melting her loins. She sagged against him. His arms went more tightly around her, pressing her up into his hard body, and his lips sank into hers.

For one long moment she gave herself up to the pleasure, not thinking of her disappointment, her plans or anything, just feeling the liquid fire that sizzled through her veins.

“Cassandra...” he murmured, releasing her mouth long enough to trace her jawline with kisses.

Somehow the sound of his voice saying her name brought Cassandra back to reality. Through the haze of delightful physical sensation, she recalled where they were and how improper their conduct was—not to mention the fact that he had just dismissed her search for the Spanish dowry as a fraud and characterized her as a naive woman grasping for straws to relieve her sorrow over her father’s death.

Cassandra jerked back and slapped his face. Neville’s jaw tightened, and for a moment anger flared in his eyes, but then the usual cool, polite mask descended, hiding both the anger and the passion.

“I beg your pardon,” he began stiffly.

But Cassandra cut in on him, in no mood for polite apologies. “I should have known! It is so typical that it is almost laughable. You have no interest in anything I said. All you care about is trying to steal a kiss while we are secluded in the maze. No wonder you were so willing to listen to what I had to say. You knew that it would give you an excuse to get me alone and try to seduce me. I should have known that any man who spends his nights sneaking into young women’s bedchambers would only be interested in taking advantage of a woman. I suppose I am naive, as you said—not because I believe Margaret Verrere’s journals are genuine, but because I did not realize that the only thing you were interested in is lust! Oh, I knew that a Neville would be difficult to persuade, but I did not realize that an even worse problem would be having to deal with a libertine!”

“I did not try to lure you out here,” Neville protested, his own brows drawing together furiously. It occurred to him that Cassandra Verrere could be quite as annoying as she was attractive. “It was you who asked to speak to me, if you will remember, and it was also you who suggested that we talk privately in the maze.”

“Oh! So you are going to use that against me! I merely wanted to be able to speak in private. I did not mean it as an invitation to kiss me!”

“No,” he responded bitingly, “’twas your lips that provided that.”

Cassandra gasped. “You are insulting.”

“Only truthful. If you will think back on it, you returned my kiss quite willingly, at least until you remembered that you were supposed to react with maidenly outrage.” Neville found it supremely annoying that even while he was irritated with Cassandra, his wayward body was still thrumming with desire for her. Damn it! She had a most peculiar effect on him.

Cassandra ground her teeth, letting out a low and most unlady-like growl of frustration. “Blast you!” she snapped, her mild father’s favorite oath, and wished she knew something worse to say. “I was a fool to think that a Neville would help me. I wish I had never talked to you. I wish I had never even seen you!”

With those bitter words, she whirled and ran away from him.

“Wait! No, Miss Verrere...”

Neville started after her, but Cassandra had a good head start, and she knew the map of the maze, so she quite easily made her way out ahead of him. Once or twice she heard him calling her name behind her, but she paid no attention. She burst out onto the smooth expanse of the lawn and stopped. Her aunt and cousin were walking along the path leading from the garden to the wide lawn. They looked at her in surprise, her aunt’s eyebrows rising in disdain. Cassandra smoothed down her skirts and walked toward them at her usual brisk pace, hoping that her face would not give away her inner turmoil.

“Really, Cassandra, must you hurry about so?” Aunt Ardis complained as she drew near them. “You always are in such a rush. It is most ungenteel.”

“I am sorry, Aunt,” Cassandra responded automatically. “Good morning to you both.”

She started to pass them, heading back toward the house, but at that moment, Sir Philip burst from the maze entrance, saying, “Damn it, Miss Verrere!”