Daizell blinked. ‘You—?’
‘My name, my first name. I hate it. It doesn’t suit me at all, and I think it’s hideous, actually.’
‘Ah. Right.’ He controlled himself for about three seconds, then gave up. ‘No, sorry, I have to ask.’
‘Vernon.’
Daizell sat up a little, the better to contemplate him. ‘Vernon. Ver-non.Vernon?Good God, no. What were your parents thinking?’
‘It’s as though they barely knew me at the time,’ Cassian agreed with a lurking grin. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if I were a six-foot Corinthian with huge shoulders.’
‘It sounds more to me like a dastard who attempts to seduce the heroine, but is undone by seducing the housemaid.’
‘Not me, either way. Whereas Cassian is—’
‘Oh, delightful. It has a certain, what shall I say. A fairytale quality.’
‘You’re thinking of Ossian. The Scottish bard.’
‘I probably am, but it still suits you. Charming the birds out of the trees, or rather the horses out of their panic, by the sound of your voice. Of course you’re a bard.’
Cassian actually blushed at that, a delightful dusky pink, accompanied by a smile of startled pleasure. ‘I can’t play the harp,’ he protested. ‘Or the bagpipes.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’ Daizell would have liked to expound more on Cassian’s voice, see how much darker he might blush. He restrained himself. ‘So your friends call you Cassian?’
‘It – uh, it’s what I’d prefer to be called. I’d be very glad if you would.’
‘Then that’s what I’ll call you. Is it ever abbreviated, or always used in full?’
‘Well, um, I’d be happy with Cass.’ He sounded quite shy. It was absurdly endearing.
‘Cass. Very well. And at least your name didn’t openyou up to the wrath of uncles, unless of course you have a rampaging Uncle Vernon who’s offended you don’t use it.’
‘Oh, itisan uncle name, isn’t it? A terribly strict one who has control of the heroine’s money and intends to marry her to his wayward son.’
‘I see you are a connoisseur of elevating literature,’ Daizell said. ‘Have you read the latest Mrs Swann?’
Cassian had not, but he had a deal to say about the Waverley author, whose work Daizell also enjoyed, and they talked and argued and laughed as the cart jogged along in the evening sunshine.
Chapter Five
Daizell.
The Duke didn’t intend to read too much into the move to first names. He’d learned his lesson with attractive men; he would do well to solve the problem his wayward desires had already caused him before following them into more trouble – and Daizell Charnage was trouble. Very pleasant trouble, trouble with shining hair, but trouble nonetheless. His name alone said that, and his erratic history, and now the Duke had seen it for himself.
Not that he blamed Daizell for punching that drunken fool. The Duke would have rather liked to do the same, if only he had been either built or bred to punch people in the face. It was more that Daizell clearly had reason to think it was a bad idea. The Duke didn’t share his alarm at possible retribution from a local magistrate, but since Daizell did, he should have thought twice. The Duke tried hard to think twice, since one of his uncle’s oft-repeated lessons was that a man in a position such as his own should never act on impulse. A duke must assess his behaviour, consider his course, ponder its rightness, because the consequences of his errors would be large.
His uncle wasn’t wrong. The Duke hadn’t thought through all the possibilities and implications when he agreed to a night with John Martin, and look where he was now: in the middle of nowhere, jogging in a haycart on the friendliestterms with George Charnage’s son. Lord Hugo would have an apoplexy.
Lord Hugo was excessively careful, the Duke decided. Daizell might be erratic, but he was immensely likeable, he’d behaved with notable courage and decency, and anyway, the terms of the bet obliged the Duke to take a holiday from ducal behaviour. There was nothing more to it, and he would call his companion Daizell without further thought.
Or even Daize. ‘Daizell’ was a magical sort of name that matched his dazzling head of metallic hair, all copper and gilt like coins spilled on a counter, but ‘Daize’ felt like a friend intimate enough to be casual with, a man with whom one shared a bottle, perhaps slept on his settle after a long night’s play. He’d like to have a friend he called Daize. He’d like to have a friend who called him Cass. He’d never asked anyone to do so before now, because nobody in the world was on first-name terms with him.
The Duke had been Harmsford since his birth. He had become Severn at the age of six and that was his name now, when he wasn’t Your Grace. A very few people called him Sev, and while he’d be perfectly happy if more did, one couldn’t demand that people called one by an intimate nickname. For that, they had to feel intimacy, and neither his position nor his reserved character invited that.
But Daizell had asked if his name was abbreviated, and the Duke’s heart had thumped with a sensation he couldn’t name as he’d said – lied – that it was, and all but invited him to it.Call me Cass.
He knew this wasn’t quite fair. He’d tried not to tell more outright lies than he could help, but everything he said to Daizell was at least a lie of omission. Surely it did no harm, though. This way they could be on friendly terms, chattingeasily, exchanging jokes. The Duke didn’t have that with many people, and for an obviously gregarious, outgoing man, Daizell didn’t seem to have much of it either. He looked genuinely happy to have company, and the Duke would take that away from him if he told the truth.
