Mr. Newell removed his spectacles, wiped them, then put them back on. “I fear Mr. DeWitt has ordered arrangements made for you to return home.”
“Cancel them. We can both stay here. For my part, I shall not even notice him.”
That sounded very sensible, and Cassandra would have been proud of herself, except that Mr. DeWitt chose that moment to enter, yawning, wiping a hand over his eyes, and generally making a mockery of her bold statement.
For she could not fail to notice him.
To notice, particularly, his state of undress.
He looked as though he had barely stumbled out of bed and down the stairs. His dark hair tumbled over his forehead, the stubble had grown into scruff, and a fresh purple bruise on one cheekbone suggested that his night had been rather more eventful than her own.
But worst of all: He had neglected to put on any clothes other than breeches and a loose-fitting wine-red banyan. That in itself might not have been horrific, except that the silk dressing gown whirled open around him, revealing an expanse of male chest. Very naked male chest.
“Oh dear, Mr. DeWitt,” she said, staring in helpless fascination. “You forgot to get dressed.”
Her husband stopped short, frowned those dark brows, and tilted his head as though trying to work out who she was. Then he rubbed both hands vigorously through his already disheveled hair. When he lifted his arms like that, the banyan fell back further and the muscles in his chest and abdomen shifted.
Good heavens.
He glared at her. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he muttered nonsensically. “Well, of course you bloody well would.”
“Please, Mr. DeWitt. Your language.”
“If you don’t like my language, don’t sit at my breakfast table looking all…” He waved his hand at her in disgust. “Fresh and friendly and innocent as if you are unaware that you have thrown out my entire schedule.”
“Your entire schedule involved you going to Liverpool, and even now you are not keeping to your own breakfast routine. In a house this size, we should be able to go days without seeing each other, with a little cooperation.”
“Stop being so bloody reasonable,” he grumbled. “Can’t stand it when people go around being reasonable before I’ve had my coffee.”
With another yawn, he tumbled into the chair across from her. She kept her eyes firmly on his face, but the memory of his naked chest danced in her mind. She thought it bore a smattering of dark hair. She thought it reminiscent of the gods and warriors in paintings.
She thought she had better not look again.
“Mr. DeWitt—”
He made a long rumbling sound. “Coffee before conversation.”
As the footman poured his coffee from a silver pot, Mr. DeWitt stared at the cup with such fierce intent one might think he were filling it himself through the power of his will. The moment the cup was full, the aroma pervading the room, he wrapped both hands around it, sipped, and sighed, his eyes closed, his expression stirringly ecstatic.
That coffee so dark and hot…It reminded her of something. Then his eyes snapped open. He looked right at her.
Oh yes. That was what the coffee reminded her of. His eyes.
“Go home,” he said. “If I’m running behind schedule today, it’s your fault for making me stay out late last night.”
“You amaze me, sir!” She spluttered with laughter despite herself. “It cannot possibly be my fault. By the look of you, perhaps the blame lies with drink.”
“Perhaps you drove me to drink.”
“Mr. DeWitt never drinks,” Mr. Newell chimed in, and Cassandra started, for she had quite forgotten he was there.
Mr. DeWitt whipped his head around and scowled at the secretary, then he returned his attention to his coffee and took a hefty swallow. “Newell, you’re fired.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Newell popped a forkful of ham into his mouth.
“Mr. Newell, you are not fired,” Cassandra said. “You can’t fire him. He’s my secretary.”
“I hired him as Secretary In Charge Of Matrimonial Affairs. That makes him mine.”
“And I am the Matrimonial Affair, which makes him mine.”
“That is specious logic. I refuse to entertain specious logic at the breakfast table.” He waved his arms again, the footman by the wall watching the trajectory of the coffee cup nervously. “His job is to deal with you and your affairs, so I don’t have to. He failed, because look, here we are.”
“Which is your fault for changing your schedule.”
“Which wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t disobeyed me.”
“Which I wouldn’t have done if you had been reasonable.”
“I am always reasonable.”
“You are…Oh! You will drive me to drink.” She caught herself waving her arms around too—heavens, even Lucy never inspired her to such transgressions!—and brought them under control. “This is why we need Mr. Newell,” she said. “We cannot possibly communicate with each other directly.”
It seemed that Mr. DeWitt took this as a challenge.
In an exaggerated gesture better suited to the theater, he carefully put his cup to one side. In another slow, deliberate movement, he placed first one hand, then the other, flat on the table in front of him.
Then he half-rose and leaned toward her, that broad, naked chest drawing near.
“Newell,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Tell my wife to go home.”
Cassandra mirrored his pose. “Mr. Newell. Tell my husband that I mean to stay until I have satisfactorily arranged my sister’s entry into society.”
He leaned in closer, so she could see the thick lashes framing his eyes. “Newell, tell my wife that her sister can have a fat dowry, and then pack some desperate gentlemen off to Warwickshire to fight over her.”
She leaned in further too. “Mr. Newell, tell my husband that not every problem can be solved with money and secretaries.”
“Newell, tell my wife that I will not tolerate this pigheadedness.”
“Mr. Newell, tell my husband that the only pigheaded one here is he.”
“And Newell—” Mr. DeWitt stopped, frowned, and turned his head, giving her his strong, scruffy profile. “Where the blazes has he got to?”
Cassandra turned too. “Oh,” she said, seeing the now-empty chair. “We frightened him off, the poor man.”
She turned her head back, at the same moment Mr. DeWitt did; their eyes met and she realized that they were almost close enough to bump noses. Hurriedly, she plonked herself back down, but she found it hard to take her eyes off him, as he lounged back in his chair, all lazy grace and naked chest, and reclaimed his coffee. The sleeve of his dressing gown slid back to reveal a strong forearm. Cassandra quickly busied herself with her teacup.
“Poor Mr. Newell doesn’t like arguments,” she said. “He often has to run for cover at Sunne Park.”
“Is your house such a battlefield?” He sounded amused now. “Pincushions flying through the air? Exploding bonnets? That sort of thing?”
“You’re not far wrong. With Lucy…” She sighed. “I suppose you do not wish to know about Lucy.”
“Not really. She’s the sister you’re trying to launch, I take it.”