Chapter 150

Across the ballroom, Draven noticed her drawing closer. Truthfully, he was aware of her presence from the moment she stepped into the ballroom.

He was listening to Winthrop, a fellow reformer, discuss some tedious matter concerning a proposed alteration to shipping duties, though very little of the man’s argument held his attention. More than once, his thoughts wandered to Cassandra, and he found himself wondering how long it would be before he could escape the conversation.

He saw her long before she noticed him.

The sight of her in the crowded ballroom produced the same full-bodied response it always did. She looked beautiful tonight, a vision in emerald green, though he expected nothing less. The rich color made her skin appear even more luminous beneath the candlelight, while the delicate jewels at her throat caught the light whenever she moved.

More importantly, she now had her sights on him and was coming toward him.

He excused himself from the conversation and began moving in her direction.

At least, that was what he intended.

Before he could get to her, an older woman stepped directly into Cassandra’s path.

Draven came to an abrupt halt.

The older woman took Cassandra’s hands with the familiarity of someone who knew her well. Cassandra’s answering smile might have been polite, but it was strained and lacked all the luster her real smiles possessed.

Draven knew her real smile. This one was a cheap imitation of it.

He watched the older woman say a few things to her, but he was too far away to make out the words. Cassandra nodded once or twice, her expression remaining pleasant despite the faint tension around her eyes.

A second later, Cassandra glanced over her shoulder.

Their eyes met across the room.

Draven could read the resignation in her face.

He thought of intervening, but before he could do anything, the older woman was already pulling Cassandra toward the opposite side of the ballroom. Just before Cassandra disappeared into the throng of guests, she waved him off, gesturing for him to return to the cluster of gentlemen he was conversing with.

So he returned reluctantly to them.

The evening was already going rather differently from what he originally imagined.

When Cassandra first suggested they attend the ball together, Draven felt an unreasonable amount of satisfaction over the prospect. He knew perfectly well that a ballroom was hardly an ideal setting for privacy, yet he allowed himself to believe that they might find opportunities to slip away from the crowd.

Perhaps he could persuade her onto a terrace. Perhaps they could walk through the gardens. Perhaps, if fortune favored him, he might secure an hour in which Cassandra belonged to no one but him.

He was growing rather tired of sharing her.

It was an irrational complaint, and he knew it. Cassandra was surrounded by people because she was Cassandra—stunning, intelligent, and utterly lovable—and because of her engagement to the Duke, everyone now wanted some of her time. He could hardly blame anyone for wanting her attention.

It did not mean he had to like any of it.

Even his own sisters had begun competing with him for Cassandra’s attention, and more often than not, they won.

For the past week, every time he went to the palace hoping to see Cassandra and spend some time with her, something seemed to get in the way. Either he would arrive to find her already entertaining a guest, or one of his sisters would pester him until he finally relented and allowed her to accompany him.

And somehow, without fail, whichever sister came along would end up claiming Cassandra’s attention entirely. Before long, the two women would be deep in conversation, laughing over some shared amusement while he stood nearby with little opportunity to contribute.

It was becoming ridiculous.

And the worst part was that Cassandra never seemed to notice how thoroughly they were stealing her away from him.

Once again, he was left on the sidelines.

His hopes took another blow when he returned home one day, only for his mother to casually ask what he planned to do on Friday.

He told her about the ball.

Eugenia, who was also present, immediately announced that she would be attending. Unbeknownst to him, a messenger sent by Lady Waverly brought an invitation days prior.

Eugenia naturally did not intend to attend alone. She tried persuading Lorelei to join them, but Lorelei declined. Merissa, who was already staying with the family, proved a willing substitute.

Thus, the evening Draven imagined became an uncomfortable affair involving his wife, his sister and his cousin, in addition to everyone else in Caldor who seemed determined to speak to one of them.

He did not even know where Eugenia and Merissa were now.

Somewhere in the ballroom, presumably.

He stopped looking.

There were more pressing matters on his mind, such as wondering if he was ever going to get his wife back that night. The older woman did not seem remotely keen on releasing her anytime soon.

The wedding. Only one week remained.

Draven reminded himself of that frequently.

He would have preferred to marry Cassandra much sooner. When they first began making preparations, he confidently believed three weeks would provide more than enough time.

He underestimated the sheer number of details involved in preparing a wedding of their scale. Invitations, fittings, flowers, music, the cathedral, the reception, guests, family arrangements and a dozen other matters he never previously considered somehow consumed days at a time.

His three-week plan failed spectacularly.

The wedding had to be pushed back.

Now one week remained, and Draven could endure one week.

He told himself this whenever another interruption arose.

One week, and Cassandra would be his wife.

He could have all the private time with her he wanted then.

He could wake beside her. He could ask her to accompany him wherever he pleased without having to negotiate around an endless queue of people vying for her attention. Being her husband meant he would move to the very front of the queue.

He could steal her away from rooms full of people without wondering whether someone would notice or care. He could simply take her hand and leave, and no one would have any right to object.

One week.

Surely he could endure one week.

Across the ballroom, Cassandra was still trapped.

Draven returned his attention to the man beside him, though his gaze kept drifting toward her every so often.

Lord Winthrop was still discussing the shipping bill.

Draven forced himself to listen.

"I believe the proposed alteration would place an unnecessary burden upon merchants," Winthrop was saying.

"Only upon merchants who have grown accustomed to the existing arrangement," another gentleman replied.

Draven offered his own opinion when someone asked for it, and the conversation shifted toward tariffs, overseas trade and the Crown’s authority over commercial regulations. He participated because he was expected to, weighing in when necessary and responding when someone directed a question toward him, but his attention remained divided.

He could see Cassandra whenever he peered over the shoulders of the men surrounding him.

The older woman was still talking and gesticulating. Minutes later, another woman joined them.

The entire universe had truly conspired against him.