It was not as if the Raineses would be homeless. Doubtless, mother and daughter would return to wherever they lived when they weren’t summering at Stone House—Manchester, Derby, or London, perhaps.
“Have I embarrassed you?” he asked.
“Yes, but…thank you,” she replied in all seriousness. “That little show could not have been easy for you.”
“There are those who say I’ve no morals, but that is not true. Have you really heard the worst about me?”
“That you drink, carouse, and keep low company?”
He nodded. “I am no honorable squire, no fresh-faced young farmer. I may not even be a gentleman, but I’d never intentionally hurt you, Miss Staunton. Indeed, I took offense to what you said earlier.”
“Which part?” She’d tried her best to hurt him in any number of ways.
“That I was attempting to seduce you.”
Cassandra blinked up at him. “Weren’t you?”
In the garden, during their croquet lesson, he’d had his arms around her skirts, her thighs backed against his. She had felt his touch warming every part of her body. But the duke was right—‘seduction’ was too negative a description for what had passed between them.
Wadebridge smiled, as if he divined her thoughts. “I prefer to call it ‘courtship’.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wade watched the color drain from her face. Once again, in his quest to please her, he’d somehow said the wrong thing. He had meant to disarm her, to reassure her that he was not out to ruin her, despite whatever she’d heard about him.
He had intended to woo her—or at least lay the foundations for future wooing—but he bungled that, as well.
Wordlessly, they joined the others in the dining room. Cassandra Staunton had been rendered speechless, and, for once, Wade thought it wiser to keep his mouth shut, lest he do any more damage.
A footman pulled out a chair for Miss Staunton, and then glanced curiously at the duke as he took the seat beside her. He was at the wrong end of the table and threatened to upset the status quo.
The head of the long, candle-laden dining table seemed miles away. Wade could not even hear the conversation from his position near the foot. Surely, the sisters felt awkward being so far from the fun, yet they chatted merrily as the soup course was served.
Miss Honoria leaned across the table. She was a lively, bright-eyed young lady, and Wade liked her immensely. “Tell me something of your life in London, Your Grace.”
What was there to tell? He owned a large townhouse on Park Lane, but spent more time at his club than at home, as most gentlemen did. A bachelor duke’s cosmopolitan habits did not make for polite conversation.
“It is a modern metropolis, so there is always something to see or to do—especially during the Season. What interestsyouabout town, Miss Staunton?”
“Our mother was from London. Did Cassandra tell you that?”
“She did.”
Honoria smiled. “Mama used to entertain us with stories of promenading in the park and shopping on Bond Street.”
“She used to visit the galleries, as well, I recall.” Cassandra had told him so.
“Yes! To see the Gainsboroughs and Reynoldses. They were her favorites, though I never saw the appeal. I prefer paintings that are modern and alive. There was once a man who came through Longstone who’d make portraits right on the village green.Thatis the sort of art I like—immediate and unrehearsed.” She turned to her middle sister, asking, “Remember, Cass? He offered to sketch you free of charge.”
“Did you take the fellow up on his offer?” Wade asked, curious to know.
Cassandra shook her head. “No.”
A pity, though he understood not all sisters shared the same opinion on art. Honoria would appreciate the creative climate found in Paris and on the Continent, while Cassandra’s tastes favored a statelier, altogether English approach.
“Speaking of Gainsborough and Reynolds,” he told her, “I’ve permission from Althorne to show you his Reynolds. Perhaps, after supper, you’d like to see it.”
“We’ll be leaving after supper,” Cassandra replied, spooning soup into her mouth.
