Promise of Pleasure by Cheryl Holt Page A

that.”
    She whirled away and left, and he snuggled under the blankets, suddenly overcome by visions of Cassandra losing her clothes to him in a fixed card game where he’d cheat at every hand.
    At the prospect, he was thrilled to note that his erection hadn’t waned after all. He couldn’t wait till she would be the one to tend it for him—and if he had his way, the event would occur very, very soon.
     
    “Do you think I made a mistake?”
    “At what?”
    “By moving home—after my husband died.”
    Mary frowned at Cassandra.
    “Absolutely not. Why would you even ask such a ridiculous question?”
    Cassandra shrugged. “It’s merely something someone said to me. It had me wondering.”
    Mary straightened and dropped her scissors into her basket. They were in the rose garden, cutting flowers for the supper table.
    The gardener usually saw to it, but he was elderly, and with the recent rainy weather, his arthritis was painful. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to complete his chores, and Mary was terrified that he would neglect an important task and Victoria would fire him.
    It didn’t matter that he’d worked on the estate for seven decades, that his father had been head gardener before him. Victoria had no loyalty to those who served the Barnes family, and her attitude was troubling to Mary.
    She couldn’t bear to imagine the dear old fellow losing his job and being tossed out of his cottage, so she assisted him whenever she could.
    “Who suggested,” she asked, “that you shouldn’t have moved home?”
    “Mr. Adair.”
    Mary rolled her eyes. “You listened to him?”
    “Not really. I just ... felt he might have had a point.”
    “Why on earth would you heed his opinion on any topic? He’s an ass.”
    “Mary!”
    “Well, he is.”
    “Such language!” Cassandra sarcastically scolded. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you!”
    They both chuckled, and Cassandra slipped a hand into Mary’s arm as Mary grabbed her filled basket and they started toward the manor.
    “You were destitute and alone,” Mary said. “What else should you have done?”
    “That’s what I told him, but anymore, I’m so ... so ...” Her voice trailed off, and she gazed to the horizon, as if seeing a road through her past. “Don’t mind me. I have no idea why I’m being so maudlin.”
    “It was hard for you to return,” Mary empathized. “Of course you’d occasionally have doubts. It’s only natural.”
    “Yes, it is,” Cassandra concurred, “but I didn’t bother to explain as much to Mr. Adair. If I’d stayed in Town, what would have happened to me?”
    “I suppose you could have found employment as a tavern wench.”
    “Or a doxy.”
    “You could have trolled for customers in the shadows at Vauxhall Gardens.”
    “Mary!” Cassandra gasped. “Stop it! You’re making me blush.”
    “You need to remember that Mr. Adair is an idiot. He doesn’t know anything about you, yet he has the gall to lecture you over your choices.”
    “He certainly does.”
    “You were in a horrendous situation, and you arrived at the only decision you could.”
    Mary didn’t add that, in many ways, Cassandra’s matrimonial debacle had been good for her, had rendered constructive changes.
    While growing up, Cassandra had never been cruel like Felicity, but she’d definitely been conceited and spoiled, and positive she was exceptional.
    Now, she was wiser, shrewder, more willing to question her mother. The vain edges had been softened. She was self-deprecating, not afraid to scoff at her foibles and accept her failings.
    Most of all, she was kind to Mary, and in a life where Mary had had few kindnesses bestowed, it was a marvelous development.
    “I still wish,” Cassandra said, “that I hadn’t had to come back, though. I just hate that Adair noticed.”
    Mary laughed. “Maybe someday, when we’re digging in the flower beds, we’ll stumble on a buried treasure and you’ll have the funds to leave