There was only one way to find out. She had to speak to him, now, before he found a way to dismiss her again.
She was considering how to shift the direction of their circling so that they would move toward the drawing room door when another stranger stepped into their path. Immediately, before she could think it through, Cassidy understood that the source of all the tension, all the ill will in the room, was here.
Here, in this man, who smiled beautifully but without any of the Spaniard’s sincerity. His hair was long and pale and flowed about his shoulders like an angel’s. His skin, too, was pale, his face held unearthly charm, and his eyes glittered silver in the lamplight.
He looked unmistakably like the portrait of Milena.
“So this is the mysterious Miss Holt, of whom I’ve heard so much,” he said. “And you keep her from us. Lord Greyburn. You must share such a treasure with your guests, or we may believe you are lacking in hospitality.”
Braden’s hand was crushing Cassidy’s. “My hospitality is limitless… for my guests. Miss Holt was just on her way back to her room.”
“But she hardly looks in need of a rest. Indeed, she appears quite… ripe for the pleasures of our assembly.” He looked Cassidy up and down in a way very different from Del Fiero’s courteous appreciation. “Since your guardian seems unwilling to introduce us, I shall take the liberty myself. I am Stefan, Count Boroskov, of Russia.”
Abruptly the piano fell mute. The two other couples trailed to a halt. Cassidy saw every face in the room turn toward Braden and Stefan. Rowena stood up from the bench, hands braced above the keyboard. Quentin took a step forward and stopped again.
“So quiet, Miss Holt?” Boroskov said. “That is not what I’ve heard of you. I appreciate the refreshing candor of the Americans. It makes them so… unrestrained.” His silver eyes skimmed over her again, and she knew that somehow he was imagining her without her clothes, naked and vulnerable.
What would have been wonderful with Braden was somehow shameful and dirty with Boroskov. She met the Russians stare. “I only talk when I have something to say.”
Boroskov laughed. “A bit of spirit, as well. Excellent. She might be even more interesting to bed than I’d hoped, eh, Greyburn?”
“Silence,” Braden snarled. “Keep your damned mouth—”
“But aren’t we all here for that very purpose?” Boroskov said, a sneer in his voice. “To mate and perpetuate the species?” He snatched Cassidy’s free hand. “Getting Miss Holt with child would be a most pleasurable experiment. Give her to one of us. I assure you that we know how to satisfy our females.”
Braden pulled Cassidy’s hand from Boroskov’s grip and thrust her behind him. She landed in Quentin’s arms. Braden spun to confront the Russian, teeth bared.
Cassidy struggled in Quentin’s grip. The men had been locking horns over her, but she knew she was only an excuse—an excuse for the battle both obviously wanted.
“Rowena, please escort the ladies outside,” Braden said.
His sister hesitated, then stepped away from the piano. “Ladies, if you will be so good as to accompany me to the garden.”
The three women guests glanced at one another, at Cassidy, and at Rowena. The smallest one, with mouse brown hair, joined Rowena at the piano, followed by a tall, blond woman of middle age. The third woman, younger and dark, stood firm.
“We have a right to witness,” she said in a heavy accent.
“You will be kept informed,” Braden said. “Now, go.”
The woman cast him a narrow-eyed look, but obeyed. Rowena took Cassidy’s arm. “We must go outside,” she said.
Cassidy held her ground. “Why?”
“Do not make things worse than they already are,” Rowena whispered. “There is still a chance…” She broke off and, with surprising strength, tugged Cassidy toward the garden doors. The other ladies followed.
“Miss Holt,” Boroskov called after them, “I am certain we shall get to know each other better very soon. Much, much better.”
Only Rowena’s grip kept Cassidy moving. The tension among the women was every bit as acute as it had been within the drawing room.