The flash of fear in her blue eyes was the closest he would get to an apology.
“Wrap your arms around my neck, and I shall haul you to your feet.
” The sooner he dealt with the problem, the sooner he could return to the comfort of his bed. “Fatigue makes a person feeble. I suspect you’ve spent hours lying in the cold. Your maid will draw you a hot bath and prepare a herbal decoction. Both will act as a restorative.”
“I suppose a rake who spends most nights carousing until dawn knows how to stave off a cold.”
The snide remark forced him to snatch his arm back. His head roared for him to leave. His heart clambered to her defence. For his sanity he could not tolerate her company a second longer.
Benedict swung around, but Cassandra grabbed his coattails and cried, “Forgive me. Please, Benedict, don’t leave without me. Foolish words fall from my mouth before my mind engages. Don’t abandon me. Not now.”
The irony of the situation almost made him laugh.
Had she forgotten how easily she’d cast him aside?
“Please, Benedict.” His given name fell softly from her lips. “Take me home. Timothy will marry me, and you need never see me again.”
Benedict closed his eyes for a few seconds and inhaled. In some perverse way, he would rather tolerate her abuse than suffer an estrangement.
Bloody fool!
Ride away and don’t look back.
“If you ever cared for me at all, please help me now.”
Ever cared for her? She may as well have gripped a blade and driven the cold steel through his heart. A rage like nothing he’d felt before crashed through him in violent waves. Painful words formed. Vicious words. They danced like the devil on his tongue, but he would never give her the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d suffered. He might be an illegitimate bastard, but today he would be the considerate gentleman.
Without another word, he turned on his heel, gritted his teeth and scooped her up into his arms.
She clung to him like a fragile child. Helpless. Insecure. Small fingers clutched at his shirt sleeves as if she feared she might fall.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he said, “No more. Not today.”
She nodded, and though they stood surrounded by the vast expanse of the park, the air proved suffocating.
Twice she tried to place her foot in the stirrup, but she lacked the strength to pull herself up.
Benedict stood rooted to the spot—contemplating what the hell to do—when the thunder of horses’ hooves pounding the ground captured his attention. Two men rode towards them. Two more cantered closely behind.
Panic brought a sharp pain to his throat when the riders came into view and he recognised them as Lord Forrester, Laird McCreath, Lord Purcell and Lord Drummond. Powerful men. Influential men. Drummond had ambitions in government with aims to be the next Lord Chancellor. Forrester’s wife was the most notorious gossip in the ton. The Scottish laird was a friend of Benedict’s father, and Purcell sought every opportunity to belittle his peers.
Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse set to bring certain destruction, they stopped but a few feet away. The shocked whispers and sly smirks confirmed they’d drawn the obvious conclusions. They’d named Benedict the rakish seducer, Cassandra the naive chit who had fallen for his charms.
“Could you not find somewhere warmer to conduct your liaison, Cavanagh?” Forrester, a man of sixty with ridiculous grey whiskers, chuckled.
Cassandra shivered. She clung to him and buried her face in the crook of his neck.
“No doubt it’s too late to hide your identity,” he whispered into her hair. “But don’t show them your face.” He raised his chin and scanned the four men. “What brings you to Hyde Park at this ungodly hour?” Deep down, he knew the reason for their dawn outing. Why else would four gentlemen veer from the Row and ride closer to the Serpentine?
“Would you believe we all received the same letter?” Drummond, a man of forty with cherub cheeks and an ever-growing paunch, drew the missive from his coat pocket and flapped it in the air. “It seems we were all invited to witness the scandal of the season.”
Had Benedict not been in such a dire predicament, he’d have told them all to go to hell. Ridiculed them for being gossiping fishwives. But he could do nothing other than listen to their mocking taunts.
Whoever orchestrated the event had picked the players wisely. Mrs Crandall knew many men’s secrets. Mrs Crandall had the power to blackmail those hypocritical lords in society and force them to perform wicked acts.
“You’re a brave man,” Purcell added with a smile of contempt. “Worthen will see you on the next ship to the Americas once he learns you’ve ruined his daughter.”
Damnation!