But it was not a glass of wine he handed to her, but a large box, wrapped in a bright red velvet ribbon. For a moment, she stood tongue-tied, staring at him and at the box.
“Merry Christmas, Cassandra.”
She took the box from him and laid it atop an ivory inlaid table. She felt a tug of excitement, for she dearly loved presents. She carefully parted the layers of silver tissue paper and lifted out the most exquisite gown she had ever seen. It was dark blue silk, of such a texture that it seemed to ripple like gossamer through her fingers. The stomacher was woven with gold thread, as were the full sleeves that flared out from the elbows. The skirt was yard upon yard of billowing rich silk. She hugged the gown against her breast a moment, unable to meet the earl’s eyes.
“It is incredibly beautiful,” she said finally, shyly gazing up at him.
“It is Venetian silk. Mr. Donnetti brought it back on his last trip.”
“May I try it on, my lord, now?”
“Certainly. I will await you here.”
When she reappeared some thirty minutes later, he stared at her, his breath suspended. The dark blue matched the color of her eyes, the golden threads, her hair. She danced lightly toward him, paused, and performed a pirouette. As a final step, she curtsied deeply before him. The neckline plunged low, in the French style, and her white breasts blossomed above it in rounded splendor.
“It suits you,” he said.
“Do you really believe so?”
“Most assuredly I do, cara.”
He was taken aback when she suddenly stepped toward him, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
“I suppose it does feel more like Christmas now,” she said, and backed away from him quickly, in embarrassment. “Eliott was forever giving me the most unromantic and practical kind—new fishing poles, the most scientifically proven baiting hooks and the like.” The light momentarily left her face, and he knew her thoughts were upon her family, Edward Lyndhurst, and undoubtedly the giant fir tree set up in the drawing room of Hemphill Hall every Christmas. He felt a knot of frustration, but managed to force lightness into his voice. “Would you like to join me now for dinner? Caesare was unable to come, as he was already promised elsewhere.”
“I would be delighted to, Anthony, but not just yet.”
He looked at her, a black brow raised in inquiry. Tentatively, she pulled a small box from a pocket in her skirt and shyly thrust it forward. “Merry Christmas, my lord.”
He felt the pleasure of surprise as he carefully unwrapped the square box. He opened it slowly, and stared a long moment at a gold ring. Carved in black jade in a circular setting was a small chess piece, a king.
“I hope you like it,” she said uncertainly, as he was silent overlong.
“I shall treasure it, Cassandra,” he said quietly, and slipped it upon his third finger.
She laughed nervously. “Since you beat me so regularly in chess, I thought your skill should be recognized. I designed it, and Scargill commissioned a goldsmith in Genoa.”
“You are very talented, cara,” he said. She looked up at him, and did not stiffen when he gently pulled her into his arms and touched his mouth to hers.
As the earl walked alone in the gardens, he admitted to himself that he was starting to plan Cassandra’s return to his bed as carefully as he had planned her abduction from England. His body ached for her, and he could not help himself. He frowned, his thoughts momentarily at an impasse. He resisted the urge to simply inform Cassandra that enough time had passed, that she was now going to wed him and be done with it. She had come to trust him over the past months, and he knew that she needed the undemanding companionship he had offered her. But he knew too that their relationship could not continue in the gentle limbo he had created for her. During the past several weeks, he had found being in her company increasingly a trial to him, as his need for her grew harder to keep in bounds.