She lowered her head and did not look up even as she felt him lifting her fingers, one by one, sponging off the blood with warm water.
“Don’t move, Cassandra. I must fetch some bandages, several fingers must be bound.”
She kept her head bowed as he wrapped slender strips of white linen about her fingers.
He looked up from his task when she said in a low, tightly controlled voice, “The first time I remember seeing you was when I was a small child. You were very kind to me I recall, even brought me a pastry from a fair stall in Colchester.”
“I remember.”
“But then you left and it was some years before I saw you again. Miss Petersham said you were a great nobleman both in England and in Italy and that you did not spend all your time in England. I also remember now that I had nearly forgotten you when you suddenly returned when I was fourteen. You gave me an ivory chess set for my birthday. I asked Miss Petersham if you had a daughter of my age and whether that was why you were so attentive to me.”
The earl gently cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. “You are the image of your mother and it was her face that was in my mind until yours replaced it.”
“My mother?” she asked, knitting her brows.
“Yes. You see, I loved Constance, even though I was hardly more than a boy at the time, but unfortunately she had already wed your father. That she was my senior by six or so years was unimportant to me. The last time I saw her, her belly was stretched full with child—with you.”
“Then you should hate me, for I killed her.”
“Perhaps I did, for a time, just as I hated your father for planting his seed in her womb. I left England and did not return for some five years. When I came back, I met you, her daughter, and you were the image of her. You were such a lively child, full of wonder, your eyes bright with intelligence. It was in my mind to take an interest in Constance’s daughter, to watch her grow up, to be a part of her life in some way. When I saw you at fourteen, it was only Constance’s face that I beheld, not her character or personality. I was drawn to you as a young girl, Cassandra, and when you turned seventeen, I realized that I wanted you, loved you for yourself.”
“You lie to yourself, my lord. It is my mother you love.”
“You are quite wrong,” he said.
“You do not really know me. You cannot love someone you do not know.”
“But I know you quite well, Cassandra, believe me.”
In her bewilderment, she tried to close her hands, and winced from the pain in her fingers. She felt his long fingers close about her wrists, and she knew it was to keep her from hurting herself. The small token of his caring made her sick with despair.
She raised bleak eyes to his face. “How can you want someone who does not love you?”
“There are few things in life that are unchangeable.”
She reared back. “Damn you, I don’t want your glib words, my lord. I shall never change.”
“You are but eighteen years old, Cassandra,” he said gently, and abruptly released her wrists. He sat back in his chair and regarded her silently. She saw tenderness in his dark eyes, and drew back instinctively. She hated herself, but could not prevent her pleading words. “Please, just take me home. I swear I shall tell no one about what you did. Just take me home, I beg you.”
He said with cold finality, “No. And never again abase yourself, Cassandra, it ill befits your character.”
“How dare you speak so arrogantly about my character? You can have no real notion whatsoever about me. If I choose to plead or abase myself, even to a knave like you, it is because it is in my character to do so.”
Her torrent of words, spoken with such perverse defiance, made him smile. “I suppose that next you will tell me that a woman’s tears come easily to you, that a woman’s guile are also part of your character.”