Chasing Cassandra

Tom gave him an oblique glance, but didn’t deny it.

“I see,” Cassandra said sickly, thinking of her quiet, cozy life in the country, with dogs and gardens and relaxed afternoon walks.

“You won’t be burdened by my business affairs,” Tom told her, his brows lowering. “All of that will be kept separate from my home life.”

“The question is,” Devon said quietly, “how much home life will there be? You’re only one man, Tom, doing the work of at least ten—and the demands on you will only grow worse over time.”

“That’s for me to worry about.”

West spoke then, making no effort to hide his concern. “I’d say it’s for your future wife to worry about.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever my wife needs or desires of me,” he said with cool arrogance, “she’ll have it. I can arrange my schedule in any way I wish. I do as little or as much work as I want, go wherever I please, and stay or leave as it suits me. No one owns me or my time. That’s the point of being me.”

Ordinarily, Devon or West would have said something mocking in reply, but they were both silent. Something in Tom’s face communicated that he’d been pushed far enough. For the first time, Cassandra had an inkling of how he must appear to other people: someone to be respected and even feared. A man who possessed vast power and authority, and was entirely comfortable wielding it. This was a side he rarely, if ever, revealed to the Ravenels. He’d always been willing to tolerate a few jabs and teasing from his friends with good grace … but he didn’t have to.

In fact, there was very little Tom Severin had to tolerate.

He would be nearly impossible to manage, Cassandra thought apprehensively. One might as well try to harness a storm. But he’d brought himself to confess he needed her, which had been extraordinarily difficult for him. That wasn’t a guarantee of anything … but it wasn’t a bad start.

AT THE CONCLUSION of breakfast, Kathleen walked with Cassandra and Tom to the library, where a jug of water and glasses had been set out on the long table, along with a neat stack of parchment, pens, and an inkwell.

“Ring for the servants if there’s something you require,” Kathleen said. “I’m going to leave the door ajar, and I suspect someone might come to check on you now and then. But that someone won’t be me.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra replied, smiling affectionately after the woman who’d been such a steady and loving presence in her life.

When they were alone, she turned to Tom. Before she could say a word, he reached around her, pulled her up against him, and kissed her. She responded helplessly, lifting her arms around his neck, pressing tightly against his solid form. He made a hungering sound and altered the angle of the kiss to make it deeper, more intimate.

All too soon, Tom broke the kiss, his eyes cinder-bright, the set of his mouth brooding. “You won’t be getting half a husband,” he said brusquely. “Just the opposite. You’ll probably have more of me than you want.”

“My family—” she began apologetically.

“Yes. I know why they’re concerned.” His hand smoothed over her back, up and down the length of her spine. “My work is important to me,” he said. “I need the challenge, or I’d go mad from boredom. But it’s not all-consuming. As soon as I’d achieved what I’d set out to do, there was nothing left to prove. It all started to seem like more of the same. Nothing has been exciting or satisfying for years. With you, though, everything is new. All I want is to be with you.”

“Even so,” Cassandra said, “there will always be many voices clamoring for your attention.”

He drew back enough to look at her. “Yours is the one I’ll heed first. Always.”

She smiled slightly. “Perhaps we should put that in the contract.”

Taking the remark seriously, Tom reached inside his coat and extracted a pencil. He bent to the table, writing something on the sheet of parchment in front of them and finishing with a decisive period.

As he turned back to her, Cassandra stood on her toes to kiss him. He claimed his reward immediately, fitting his mouth to hers and taking a long, ardent taste. Her head swam, and she welcomed the exploration of his tongue. He savored and consumed her, with a kiss more aggressive than any he’d given her before. It made her knees weak and turned her bones fluid. Her body listed toward his and was instantly gathered into the hard urgency of his embrace. Desire curled through her in hot tendrils that insinuated themselves in deep, private places. Her throat caught on a whimper of protest as his mouth lifted from hers.

“We’d better start negotiating,” he said raggedly. “The first issue is how much time you’ll want to spend with me.”

“All of it,” Cassandra said, and sought his lips again.

Tom chuckled. “I would. I … oh, you’re so sweet … no, I’m … God. It’s time to stop. Really.” He crushed his mouth against her hair to avoid her kisses. “You’re about to be deflowered in the library.”

“Didn’t that already happen?” she asked, and felt the shape of his smile.

“No,” he whispered, “you’re still a virgin. Albeit slightly more experienced than two days ago.” He brought his mouth closer to her ear. “Did you like what I did?”

She nodded, her face turning so hot that she could feel her cheeks throb. “I wanted more.”

“I’d like to give you more. As soon as possible.” Tom released her with a roughcast sigh. He seated her, and instead of taking the chair on the opposite side of the table, he occupied the one beside her. Picking up the metal propelling pencil, he used his thumb to push down the top, which clicked as it let out some of the graphite lead inside. “I’ll record the points of agreement as we go along, if you’ll write the final draft in ink.”

Cassandra watched as he made a few notes on the page in small, neatly formed print. “What interesting penmanship.”

“Drafting font,” he said. “Engineers and draftsmen are taught to write like this, to make technical drawings and specifications easy to read.”

“Who sent you to engineering classes?”

“My employer at the tramway company, Mr. Chambers Paxton.”

“That was kind of him.”

“His motives weren’t selfless,” Tom said dryly. “My skills were put to use designing and building engines for him. But he was a good man.” He paused, his gaze turning distant. “He changed my life.”

“When did you meet him?”

“I was twelve, working as a train boy. Every week, Mr. Paxton rode the eight twenty-five express from London to Manchester and back again. He hired me, and took me in to live with him and his family. Five daughters, no boys.”

Cassandra listened carefully, sensing the wealth of important details tucked between the simple statements. “How long did you live with the family?”

“Seven years.”

“Mr. Paxton must have seemed like a father to you.”

Tom nodded, examining the mechanism of the metal pencil. Click. He pushed some of the lead back in.

“Will you invite him to the wedding?” Cassandra asked.