Her friend must have sensed her bitter disappointment. Willa gave her hand a commiserating squeeze, a beat before shooting a dazzling smile up at the duke. And she did have to look up because she was so petite and he so tall; they would always appear the oddest of couples.
Yes, Cassandra was that jealous, and it was unflattering. Still, she couldn’t control it... because she and Camberly would have made a far more handsome couple. They were both tall. He’d spend his life bending down to kiss Willa.
Lady Bainhurst added insult to injury by sidling closer to Cassandra. “You know Dewsberry is in the market for a wife? The two of you are both Cornish, are you not?”
“We are.”
Cassandra could also add,I’d rather be staked to a seven-foot-high stone pillar and let birds peck my eyes blind than wed Soren York. But that would have sounded churlish.
She’d save those words for Soren.
He now escorted the dowager around the room so she could personally welcome her guests, but Cassandra knew they would end up here. She could admit that, as Lady Bainhurst had pointed out, Soren was not unattractive. Nor was Her Ladyship the first woman to say this about him.
It was true he lacked the duke’s flair, but Soren bore himself well. He’d been a military officer, which, considering how adventuresome he’d been as a lad, seemed a proper career for him.
He had blue-gray eyes that often saw more than they should, and yet revealed nothing about himself. His hair had been white blond in their youth. Time had toned it down to a light brown, and someplace throughout his adventures, someone had broken his nose. It was obvious when he was in profile.
Cassandra could also concede that his shoulders were as broad as Camberly’s... perhaps even broader—still, he was not the man for her. They had nothing in common save for both being from Cornwall, a place she hoped never to see again.
Her father was watching Soren, as well. Was he surprised a York escorted their hostess? These had been doors her father had knocked on and knocked on for years without admittance. His feelings were clear when, upon seeing the duchess and Soren close at hand, he moved so that he would not have to show respect to a York.
If the duchess noticed, she gave no sign. Instead, she tapped Soren’s arm to direct him toward the settee. “And here we have three lovely English roses,” she announced as she approached.
Cassandra, Willa, and Lady Bainhurst offered proper curtseys. Cassandra refused to make eye contact with Soren. It was the one thing she could do without being impolite, and she knew he would know he was being ignored. He was no fool.
However, Willa and Lady Bainhurst were under no such strictures. “How wonderful that you are here with us this weekend, Lord Dewsberry,” Lady Bainhurst said, offering her gloved hand.
Soren gallantly bent over it. “It is my pleasure as well.”
He had a deep voice with a distinctive sound. It was a bit gravelly, a bit husky, definitely masculine, and unforgettable.
Cassandra wished she wasn’t going to have to listen to it for the next few days.
“Miss Reverly, how good to see you again,” he said.
Willa bobbed another curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. It is a pleasure to see you as well.”
And then he gave his attention to Cassandra.
She could feel the warmth of it. Worse, the dowager, the duke, and seemingly everyone in the room watched them. Cassandra had no choice but to acknowledge Soren.
“Miss Holwell, I’m happy to see you as well.”
She borrowed Willa’s manners. “Thank you, my lord,” she chirped, dignifying him with the barest of curtseys. Her father would be scrutinizing her every movement.
The dowager pursed her lips in a sound of satisfaction. “Why, I say, what a good couple you make. I’d not realized it before.” She emphasized her words by pretending to push Cassandra closer to Soren. “So tall and equally fair. I wonder, can you both trace your ancestry back to the same Viking raid? Would that not be something?” she declared to the room.
Heads nodded agreement until Cassandra said, “I do not claim Viking blood.” The words came out snippier than she would ever have intended.
Eyebrows were raised, especially the dowager’s.
There was an awkward moment.
Soren stepped into the breach. “We Cornish, Your Grace, are not particularly proud of our raider history. Especially those of us who actually do have names that could be traced back to those days.”
“Ah, yes, York.” She smiled munificently at Soren, letting him and everyone else in the room know she found him a favorite—and then her watery gaze slid to Cassandra. “I’m certain Holwell is not a Nordic name. It doesn’t even have a particularly melodious sound.”
As if York did?
