Quentin set down his cards and shrugged elaborately. “So our fun comes to an end, alas. But it has been pleasant.” He stood, bent over to lift her hand, and kissed her fingertips. “Most pleasant. I believe you have the makings of a true gamester. Cousin.”
His words were flattering, but her skin didn’t tingle or her heart pound when he kissed her—not as they did when Braden touched her in even the most impersonal way. She liked Quentin without reservation, but he felt very much like the brother she longed to have—the brother she’d lost long ago.
Quentin sighed and released her hand. “I’ll be off to the lion’s den,” he said, “and you should rest, Cassidy. The maid will help you with the dress.” He shuddered. “Rowena may take pleasure in being laced into a gown that fits like armor and weighs about as much, but I’m relieved that I’m only a gentleman. With any luck, you won’t have to endure another day of shopping for at least a month.”
Cassidy laughed, grateful for his attempts to put her at ease. Secretly, she thoroughly disliked the corset and binding skirts—she couldn’t imagine walking a mile in the desert wearing them, let alone swinging a rope in pursuit of a balky calf—but she wasn’t about to complain out loud. She owed Braden too much, and was even beholden to Rowena for her advice and guidance, however reluctantly given.
“Thank you,” she said. “This was fun.”
“And there’s more to come, I assure you.” He shared a sly wink with her, squared his shoulders, clicked his heels in a mockery of military precision, and marched toward the door.
Through the walls that delineated his solitary haven, down the echoing hall that had been empty of voices for so long, Braden heard them laughing.
He listened in spite of himself, wondering, not for the first time, if humans held the advantage with their duller senses. They weren’t so likely to overhear what could all too easily bring them only vexation, sadness, and pain.
It wasn’t pain he felt. Even vexation was too strong a word. He pushed annoyance to the back of his mind with an impatient shake of his head. He’d wanted Quentin to win Cassidy’s liking and trust; Quentin was clearly succeeding, even more quickly than Braden hoped. Charm came easily to Quentin if he chose to use it. The whole fashionable world adored the laughing, gallant Quentin Forster.
Cassidy Holt would learn to adore him as well. It was the essential first step for what must follow. Quentin’s small betrayal had done little enough harm to Braden, and she had neither shown undue pity nor questioned his leadership afterward.
That was fortunate indeed. If he couldn’t convince a child of his competence, he’d have no hope with the delegates at the Convocation.
And he must. He was leader of the Cause. Its survival—the survival of the race itself—depended on him.
But not through the begetting of heirs of his body. That part of him was dead and beyond recovery.
A soft knock came on the door, and Quentin walked into the library. His steps lagged just enough to tell Braden that he was uneasy. As well he might be.
“I hear,” Braden said, “that you and Cassidy have been enjoying yourselves.”
“Immensely. She’s a very amusing girl.” He ambled to the sideboard, picked up the glass Braden had filled earlier, and took a small sip. “Perhaps the task you’ve set me won’t be so laborious after all.”
A slow, unwonted wave of hostility rolled through Braden’s body. “And does that task include teaching her a gamester’s tricks?”
“Ah, I see that Aynsley—or is it Telford?—has been making reports already.” He took another, longer drink. “There’s no harm in a bit of innocent fun, elder brother. She is an American, after all. Not as sheltered as our Englishwomen. Certainly nothing like Rowena.” Glass rang on wood as Quentin set down his snifter. “Oh, but you’re angry with me. You didn’t really think you’d deceive her forever? Hardly sporting of you. And in any case”—he poured another measure from the decanter—”your embarrassment was only temporary. Little more than a mild irritation considering your undisputed power.”