She nodded. “Do you knowwhyhe thinks that?”
Cassandra shook her head, though she had some suspicions. She’d never once tried to poach Honoria’s chosen suitor, but she noticed how George looked atherwhen he thought no one else was watching.
Thankfully, the youngest Staunton waved the conversation away. There was no use discussing it, for Cassandra wouldn’t encourage George. She regretted encouraging Wadebridge, even though this afternoon was only meant to be a harmless flirtation.
Love was no game. Folks’ hearts were not meant to be trifled with.
The sight of His Grace standing in the shadows, heartache slashed across his handsome features, would haunt her for the rest of her days. The feeling of his touch, the warmth of his eyes admiring her alone would haunt her nights.
Honoria sensed the cloud of sadness that hung about the carriage. She leaned to place a hand upon Cassandra’s knee. “I am sorry, you know. You deserve a man who is honorably devoted to you. I saw how the duke tracked your every move. He couldn’t tear his eyes from you.”
She almost laughed. “You think the Duke of Wadebridge is honorable?”
“No, I don’t,” Honoria said, laughing. “But,for you, I think he could be. I must say, if George Fulton looked at me the way His Grace looked at you, I’d melt to a puddle right where I stood!”
There were many times tonight when Cassandra’s knees had gone weak, moments when she had longed for nothing more than to wrap Wadebridge’s arms around her waist and kiss his insolent mouth.
The memories—the secret dreams—would have to be enough, for their paths would never cross again.
She made room on the bench for her younger sister. They held hands as the carriage approached Longstone. Soon, the two ladies would be back in their own cottage, back to their old lives as if this adventure had never happened.
Tomorrow, Cassandra would return to her mending and baking. Honoria would take up her duties in the house and in the village. Wadebridge would be miles away.
“You know, Honoria,” she said as the horses slowed to navigate the lane, “if George does not look at you as though you are the most wonderful woman in the world—if he doesn’t look at you in the way you wish him to look at you—then perhaps he is not the right man.”
Honoria leaned her head upon Cassandra’s shoulder. “When did you become an expert all of a sudden?”
The carriage stopped in front of their cottage. Before she could think of a suitable answer, the coachman swung down and deployed the steps. The door of the black lacquered conveyance opened to reveal…home.
The youngest Staunton allowed the man to help her from the vehicle. Cassandra joined her by the garden gate, holding both of their carpetbags.
They looked up at their childhood cottage. Had they ever seen it so darkened and shuttered? Even after Mama and Papa’s deaths, it had remained the one place in all the world where the sisters felt safe, where they knew they belonged.
But now?
Honoria sighed. “Does it look smaller somehow?”
Cassandra refused to give credence to such treacherous thoughts. “Adjust your perspective, Hon. It looks just as it should.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A week in London had not cooled his ardor. Wade had not been able to drink, dance, or even flirt Cassandra Staunton’s memory from his mind. His usual haunts seemed dull. His feminine companions were shallow and vain—and mistakenly so, for no mortal woman held a candle to the country miss who’d stolen his heart.
It was an infatuation, of course.
But Wade had never been one for restraint or self-denial. Why should he not act on his attraction to the lady? What possible harm could come from renewing the acquaintance and following wherever it led?
He was looking forward to seeing her again.
The chugging train snaked the dales. It passed through leafy wooded canopies, past fields and pastures, over rattling bridges, and through a darkened tunnel to finally emerge in the sleepy outskirts of Longstone.
Wade had never known ‘home’, but the quiet, unremarkable village occupied a soft spot in his heart, for it wasSimon’s home.
He and the young viscount had spent many happy summers swimming in the river and romping through the hills surrounding Caswell Hall. The two boys had been as close as brothers. Indeed, there were times growing up when he—Wadebridge—had felt like part of the family, like he was wanted and accepted. Like hebelonged.
It came as no surprise that Wade had fallen for a Derbyshire girl. Was there a more perfect, more wholesome nugget of country in all England?
The grey, limestone station lay ahead. It had been built within the past few years, cheerfully welcoming travelers with winking windows and bright paint. A shaded, whitewashed porch was lined with benches and topped by a lamplit sign announcing: LONGSTONE.
