The men laughed, but Simon met his eyes. It seemed his old friend felt equally protective of the sisters—especially Octavia. “I happen to like my ‘country governess’ and would really rather not lose her.”
“If, by some miracle, you do keep her,” Wade said, “be sure to invite me whenever her pretty sister comes to visit.”
Heads swiveled in his direction. He couldn’t blame drink onthatslip of the tongue, as he was sadly without a glass in his hands.
Lady Crewe looked up from her magazine. “Which pretty sister is that, Your Grace?”
Wade felt his cheeks flame. As a boy, he had not liked being teased. As a duke, he tolerated it from only his closest friends. But he was fond of the countess, and let the joke slide. “Thepretty one.”
“I thought them both charming.”
“Yes, but you know the one to which I am referring.” Perspiration bloomed beneath his starched collar. He did not appreciate being laughed at.
Lady Crewe arched a brow, feigning ignorance, prolonging his misery. “Do I?”
By now, the others had caught on to the game. Even Tom Swygert joined in on the fun. “Don’t you know her name?”
“Of course, I know her name. It is…Cassiopeia, or Catherine, or something.”
Simon grinned at him from across the carpets. They’d been at school together. They’d fought and teased one another mercilessly, and both knew that the moment a fellow showed his weakness, he was as good as marked—in the schoolyard as well as the drawing room.
Cassandra Staunton was Wade’s weakness. If he confessed to liking her too much, to remembering her name as if it had been stamped onto his heart, their little flirtation would be fair game. He could not allow her reputation to become party fodder, even in jest.
Wade had been taunted. He’d made himself an easy target. Tonight, he took his lumps for Cassandra’s sake, biding his time until the ladies arrived and put him out of his misery.
Thankfully, he did not suffer long.
Laughter echoed in the corridor. Evening slippers clicked upon the floorboards and silk skirts whispered in their wake. The scent of rosewater and powder was replaced by the fragrance of soap, sunshine, and lavender sachets.
The Staunton sisters had arrived at last.
Simon rose to his feet, followed by Lord Crewe and Tom Swygert. Lady Crewe offered the sisters a beaming smile of welcome—one that could not be feigned even if good manners decreed it.
Wade was the last to stand. To onlookers, his reluctance might’ve been mistaken for insolence or disrespect, but the truth of the matter was that Wade couldn’t guarantee he would not crumple to heap on the carpets. He didn’t trust his feet to hold him steady.
As Simon stepped forward to greet Octavia, Wade hung back, catching his breath, schooling his drumming heart. The Cassandra Staunton who swept through the open doorway was a rare vision, indeed.
She wore an evening gown of pale apricot silk. The low bodice skimmed the tops of her breasts, exposing a slightly flushed expanse of bosom—pink, as if still warmed from her bath; freckled, as if kissed by the sun, though he doubtedthatflesh had ever known daylight.
Her slender arms were encased in white gloves. Dark hair had been styled high upon the crown of her head, while fat, curling tendrils fell about her shoulders in a fashionable way.
Cassandra would never look at home among the residents of Marlborough House, though her beauty put even the Princess of Wales to shame. This country miss from Longstone occupied a class of her own.
Wade must’ve gasped aloud, for Lady Crewe placed a hand upon his jacket sleeve. For all her teasing, the countessknew. She discretely urged him forward, directly into the path of the pretty Miss Staunton.
A footman offered a tray of drinks, but Cassandra refused champagne. Only Miss Honoria took a glass and joined Lady Crewe on the sofa. Tom Swygert and the earl crowded the ladies, wisely leaving Simon to converse with the governess.
The gentlemen knew better than to come within striking distance of Wade andhischosen sister.
“You look…” he cleared his throat, “magnificent.”
Cassandra ignored his compliment. Her mouth remained a flat, grim line. “Where are the Raineses?”
“No doubt waiting until the last minute to make their entrance. Eugenie is determined to show you up—as if she could.”
“I had been warned she was hunting for a husband.” She glanced at Simon and Octavia, who remained deep in conversation. “Lord Althorne seems safely beyond her snares, but what of you, Your Grace? Are you in danger of being caught?”
He laughed without a hint of humor. “Hardly! I despise the Raineses. They are vain, unfeeling snobs. Althorne was a fool to ever invite them.”
