Not yet, at any rate.
Cassandra glanced at her feet. Mud puddled in the lane. Rain pelted the canvas umbrella, dripping down onto her wide, trailing skirts. “My hems, Your Grace.”
She looked up and almost caught a smile tugging at his lips.
A mouth like his was a dangerous weapon for a man bent on seduction.
Cassandra was a weak, weak woman. One smile, one kiss, and he might have her in the palm of his hand.
“Quite right, Miss Staunton,” he said, resuming their walk. “I’d be a poor suitor to keep you standing in the rain.”
They passed the village green. Her family cottage lay ahead; warm, and safe, and waiting for them. She had a pork pie in the larder. Their cupboard was stocked with tea, sugar, butter, and bread. There was enough cake for the three of them if they cut it into small slices.
Cassandra spoke before she could stop herself, “Are you expected at the White Lion?”
The duke turned his eyes to the inn across the green. Doubtless, Mr. Harris had seen to His Grace’s every comfort. There was ale in the taproom and masculine conversation. For a small fee, Mrs. Harris could stuff him full of Sunday roast until he had gravy pouring from his eyes.
“Is your cook as skilled as the landlord’s wife?” he asked.
Cassandra smiled, though she felt a hot red flush staining her cheeks. “No, Your Grace, but I’ve been told that my pork pie is edible.”
It was his turn to flush.“Youcook?”
She nodded. “If you’d care to join us, you can tell me how I measure up.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She cooked her own food.Of courseshe did, for Cassandra Staunton was as clever and capable as she was beautiful. He ought not to be surprised, yet she astounded him at every turn. The object of his heart’s desire was an impressive woman.
He sat on the sofa while the two sisters ran upstairs to change out of their wet frocks. He’d called at the cottage that morning, but they had been out. Only when he heard the bell did he realize they attended Sunday services. So he’d followed the congregation to the churchyard and waited by the gate.
It had been almost painful to see her walking in the rain. Mud spattered her hems. Her petticoats hung limp over her cage-crinoline. The stylish cap on her head had done little to shield her curling hair from the damp, and by the time Cassandra emerged from the church, hercoiffurehad been ruined.
A true gentleman might’ve offered her sole use of his umbrella, but he was not a gentleman. Wade had used those close confines to spend a private moment with her—and he had not been disappointed.
Cassandra Staunton had not sent him away. In fact, she invited him to luncheon.
He had never been to luncheon before. He was not the sort of fellow ladies asked.
Wade listened to their footsteps on the boards above. Soon, those feminine footfalls descended the stairs. Cassandra appeared in a clean checked muslin frock. She had brushed her dark hair and pinned it away from her face. The remaining curls fell about her shoulders.
How he longed to run his fingers through those dark locks!
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Your Grace,” she said, smoothing her skirts. She looped an apron around her corseted waist and knotted it behind her back. “Would you care for tea? I am afraid we’ve nothing stronger.”
He’d had his fill of whiskey last night at the inn. “Tea will do, thank you.”
She smiled and made her way to the kitchen. Wade shifted in his seat to watch her work. Cassandra moved effortlessly through the small kitchen. She filled the kettle, and then placed it upon the hob. While she waited for the water to boil, Cassandra spooned tea leaves from the tin, readied the teapot, and placed cups, saucers, sugar and milk upon the table.
He watched her pretty figure stretch and shift as she saw to her task. Muslin could be as seductive as silk on the right woman. The frock hugged her slender curves, flared out at her hips. When she raised on her tip-toes to place the tea canister on the top shelf of the cupboard, lifted hems hinted at stockinged calves and trim ankles.
Exquisite.
Wade rose from the sofa. He passed into the kitchen like a man possessed, drawn to her. He stood at the dining table. His hands gripped the laddered back of a chair. Fingertips caressed the soft, worn wood.
Many family meals had been shared here. Now, he would sit at this table. He would share a meal—with her—as if they were family.
Cassandra turned at the sound of his boot heels on the flagstones. Her eyes went wide, for he was almost close enough to touch her. “Oh, Your Grace…”
