“Yes, exactly.”
He held up a hand. “Let me first say, you and my mother are worlds apart.”
“Or we may be more alike than you think.”
“Don’t even wish that in jest,” he answered, and he was serious. “We don’t stand on ceremony in Pentreath. Perhaps that is what Mother misses. Perhaps if she felt she was more important—?” He broke off with a shake of his head. “Who knows.”
“You aren’t painting an endearing portrait of her,” Cassandra observed.
“I can’t. She has spent her life waiting for a golden coach pulled by four snowy white horses to come driving up. Life has not been what she wished.”
There was a warning in there for Cassandra. She sensed it.
And then he said, “My father had a mistress.”
His statement caught her attention.
“Had you known?” he asked. When she shook her head, he said, “Then I had best tell you because everyone pretends it is a secret, even though it is common knowledge around Pentreath and beyond. Deborah Fowey is still in the area. She is married to the wainwright. However, before that, she and Father had three children. My half brother is in the military and my two half sisters are happily married.”
“When you say common knowledge, does that mean your mother knows?”
“If she doesn’t she is a fool, and Arabella York is no fool.”
Of course, Cassandra knew that men kept mistresses. But this was the first time she’d ever thought in terms of herself. What if Soren took a mistress?
“I’ll not tolerate any of that,” she informed him. “I won’t.”
“I’m not my father, Cassandra.” He reached for her hand on the seat. “I also don’t want you to become my mother.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll let you form your own opinions.”
The post chaise turned down the hardened dirt drive to Pentreath Castle. After a half mile or so, a portion of the stone castle wall loomed over the road. The gaping hole that had once been the entry gate was wide enough for a host of elephants to pass through. Their vehicle easily made its way.
Soren’s whole manner had changed once they had turned on the drive. He sat forward as if urging the horses faster. He smiled at her, the expression quick and expectant.
“You are ready to see your son?” she hazarded.
“Absolutely. I’m past ready.”
A jolt of panic gripped her. “Soren? Do you think Logan will like me?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you always so certain of things? What if I am not a good stepmother?” What if she felt nothing for the child? Or worse, considered him a rival for Soren’s affections, the way she’d always believed Helen considered her?
He leaned back in the seat and took her hand. “All I ask is that you are kind to him. The rest will all evolve naturally. Besides, you learned how not to be a stepmother from the one you had.”
He was right. His blunt assessment startled a laugh out of her and eased some of the worry. It would all be fine, she told herself, trying to adopt some of her husband’s confidence. She donned her bonnet, preparing.
And now, as they drove under the stone arch, she saw the house—and she was pleased.
Pentreath was every bit as fine as Mayfield, the duke’s estate. Perhaps even finer. Surrounded by woods, it was pure grace itself, with even lines and simple but stylish cornices. Made of Portland stone, like all elegant houses in the area, Pentreath boasted no fewer than twelve chimneys. Cassandra couldn’t even imagine how many bedrooms that meant.
Her family home of Lantern Fields was a mere farmhouse in comparison.
Dogs barked to herald their arrival. A pack of white and brown hounds came running from the back of the house. The bravest came out to greet their vehicle. The others hung back and sounded a warning that visitors approached.
