“I like and respect you. I am immensely attracted to you—now you know how I feel. I shan’t insult you by repeating myself.”
She sighed. “It is not an insult, Wadebridge.”
“But my affections distress you, and I never wish to cause you grief.” Ifthiswas courtship, he was the worst gallant in history. “I should go.”
Wade left her standing by the sink basin and fled the kitchen. In the sitting room beyond, Miss Honoria sat with her nose in a book, no doubt listening to every word passed between them.
He gathered his hat and gloves. He hauled his umbrella from the stand by the door. Rain had not relented, and he would be soaked through by the time he reached the White Lion inn.
A wise man would leave Cassandra Staunton to her fate. There were hundreds of women tripping over themselves to be his duchess. Many of them were beautiful. Some were rich. All of them made themselves agreeable. He could find a biddable,beddablelady to perform her duties and forget all about this short-tempered, contrary, anything-but-frigid bumpkin.
“Wadebridge, wait!”
He turned at the threshold to find Cassandra racing after him. Her sleeves were rolled up, wet hands gripping her apron, holding her skirts up to catch him before he walked out of her life forever.
“It’s not an insult,” she said, breathlessly. Had such a short sprint tired her out? “I am sorry that I am hot and cold, but this is all so very new to me.”
He felt raindrops pelt his sack coat. He really ought to go before he grew soaked. “I thought you’d been offered marriage by a dozen men. Which is it, Miss Staunton?”
She should get her story straight.
Cassandra blushed. “Actually, I lost count at ten. The truth is, I felt no attraction to any of them. They were all forgettable.” She dried her hands on her apron, and then held her fingertips out to him. She, too, would grow soaked. “I cannot accept a proposal—even from you—but I would very much like to accept your friendship. Call tomorrow, if you wish. I will be at home all day.”
Wade took her hand and bowed stiffly over her knuckles. Damnable woman, she had given him a great deal to think about.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“He won’t come,” Honoria said the following afternoon.
The youngest Staunton sister watched through the sitting room window to the lane beyond. Neighbors passed their cottage, a rumbling wagon of workmen, followed by some tourists lost on their way to the railway station.
The village was bustling on this dreary afternoon, and it seemed everyone had put in an appearance—except the duke.
Cassandra sat in the armchair by the mantel, working her way through a basket of mending. She enjoyed the busy tedium that sewing and embroidery brought to what would surely be an interminable day.
Truthfully, she was trying not to get her hopes up. After the way she’d treated him, Cassandra would not have been surprised if the Duke of Wadebridge had departed on the first train up to London.
She poked her needle through a snagged petticoat. “If one quarrel is all it takes to send him running, then he was no true friend.”
Of all the gentlemen who’d expressed interest in her hand, Wadebridge was the only one who saw therealCassandra Staunton—stubborn, argumentative, lonely. Afraid. She’d always put on her most agreeable mask for those fellows. She had always endeavored to let them down easily.
She’d all but driven Wadebridge away.
“A pity,” Honoria said, refusing to abandon her watch of the lane, the village green, and the flickering lamps of the White Lion beyond. “I liked him.”
“You did not know him.”
Her young sister turned from the window. “After my unfair assessment of Lord Althorne, I owed it to His Grace to form my own opinion rather than believing the gossip surrounding him. He was kind to you, Cassandra. I believe his intentions were honest, even if you did run him off.”
“Think what you will, Honoria, but once he looked past my pretty face, he did not like what he saw.”
Cassandra drew the needle and thread through the petticoat, drawing the linen together in a delicate kiss. She held the garment up, examining her work.
“There! That will launder nicely,” she said. “We must add it to the pile.”
The Stauntons did their washing on Tuesdays, but with no break of the weather in sight, they did not expect Octavia to walk from Caswell Hall to help in the burdensome chore.
Cassandra had set aside a manageable bundle of necessary items for tomorrow’s task. She and Honoria would have to set up in the kitchen and hang what they could to dry over the stove. It was just as well that Wadebridge would no longer come calling, for they had work to do.
