She pushed back from the table and hurried to see to his comfort. The tea cup was filled and, before he could protest, a slice of cake appeared on his plate.
It seemed important to her to please him, for he was her guest. A woman like Miss Staunton would never let him leave hungry.
She cut smaller slices for herself and her sister. They replenished their tea and sipped while they chatted. He listened as the two ladies discussed the sermon, how big a neighbor’s new baby had grown, and the abominable weather.
Wade sat between them, ignorant of their topics, but never alienated. He gave his opinion of the weather and of the accommodations at the White Lion. He reminisced with them about Simon’s garden party, which he suspected was a high point in their lives.
All the while, rain beat a steady rhythm on the cottage roof. The day was miserable and dreary, but in this cozy kitchen, the atmosphere was easy and cheerful.
The Misses Staunton were generous with their food and their tea, their laughter and conversation. It had been many years since Wade felt at peace, yet he leaned back in his chair and simply basked in their warmth.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He was not the man she believed him to be.
The Duke of Wadebridge was a quiet and observant man. Although he had maneuvered his way into their company, he did not try to talk over them or turn the conversation to topics designed to flatter himself. He listened. He inquired.
His Grace seemed genuinely interested in their tedious, narrow lives.
Cassandra had not imagined Wadebridge would be such a pleasant visitor, but he was content to pass the luncheon hour in the comfort of their modest cottage. The duke must live a luxurious life, yet he said nothing about the simplicity of the meal or the shabbiness of the surroundings. Indeed, he seemed…happy here.
He sat back in his chair, legs stretched, booted feet crossed beneath the table. Scant sunlight filtered through the windows to dance upon his face, softening his usually dark countenance. It was impossible for the man be grim now, Cassandra thought as she admired him. Indeed, a drowsy smile played at his lips as he listened to Honoria’s exploits and Cassandra’s own girlhood adventures.
“And there we were,” her younger sister explained, “caught half-way up the tree with no way down except to call to the very young men we’d been spying on. Poor George Fulton had to climb in his underdrawers to rescue Cass from her perch!”
Wadebridge looked to her with wide eyes. “Surely not, madam!”
Cassandra flushed hot and red. Did the duke not believe ladies were curious of the masculine sex? Was he horrified to discover that she wasn’t completely and utterly innocent?
Thankfully, there was a twinkle of laughter in those shadowy depths.
“I am afraid it’s true, sir,” she answered. “That was the first and only time we dared spy on the village lads bathing in the river.”
Honoria added, “But you left out the part where they carried us one-by-one down from the tree. We feared we’d never hear the end of it!”
Cassandra had gotten an eye full of those young men in their shocking states of undress—most wearing nothing at all. A decade later, she blushed whenever she passed one of them in the lane. Their lean, masculine physiques were imprinted upon her brain. Even now, a warm flush crept up her throat at the memory.
A wantonly pleasant memory.
For a breath of a second, Cassandra wondered what His Grace might look like without his expensive trappings. Stripped bare, would he still be as dark and dangerously handsome?
She looked up to find the duke watching her. Lazy. Half-smiling. His gaze traveled up her flushed throat to her high, hot cheeks. When he reached her eyes, he read every lustful thought racing through her mind.
“Don’t worry, Miss Staunton,” he said, softly. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Oblivious, Honoria laughed. “Oh, it’s hardly a secret, Your Grace. Half the village learned of our folly that very afternoon—but, thankfully, not our parents.”
“No, indeed,” she said. “Our sore pride was punishment enough. I should’ve hated to face Papa whilst he believed us all to be his blameless angels.”
The duke held her gaze. “The illusion would have been shattered.”
“Yes.” Women had thoughts, dreams, and desires. They had as much right towantas any man. Papa had been a progressive gentleman who believed ladies should be educated, but he would’ve been horrified to learn his young daughters had been climbing trees to catch sight of naked youths.
Cassandra had learned a valuable lesson during that humiliating girlhood misadventure: women could want, dream, and be curious, but they must do it in private.
She stood abruptly. For a woman destined for spinsterhood, desire was a dangerous path. She turned her mind toward work, as she did whenever cold reality threatened to rear its head. Busy hands never failed to clear her mind.
Cassandra covered the pie and placed it in the larder. She emptied the last of the tea into Wadebridge’s cup, and then cleared the empty plates, cups, and saucers. She dumped everything into the sink basin for a good hot soak.
