Honoria moved to the coatrack, where her cloak and cap hung. “If you’re certain he is not coming, there is no need for me to wait. I’ve errands to run, and your misery is insufferable.” She hauled the heavy garment down, and then tied it around her shoulders.
Cassandra flinched as the door slammed. With Honoria gone, there was naught to keep her company but the rhythmictap tap tapof the rain and the relentlesstick tock tickof the German clock upon the mantel.
She searched the basket for something else to mend. On long summer nights, Cassandra loved to sit by the window and toy with her embroidery. Even now, her sewing box sat open by the ledge where she’d been working on a challenging bouquet of dahlias before the weather turned poorly.
Perhaps, once she finished patching up petticoats and darning stockings, Cassandra could spend a few hours relaxing over her embroidery hoop.
A knock sounded upon the door. Honoria had not been gone five minutes and already she was back, having no doubt forgotten her umbrella. With a sigh, Cassandra set aside the stockings she’d been repairing, and then shuffled through the sitting room.
At this rate, her dahlias would remain eternally unfinished.
“What is it now?” she huffed, opening the door.
Wadebridge stood on the other side. His Grace wore a sack coat and breeches. Mud spattered his dirty boots, and—curiously—flecks of grass stained his legs all the way up to his knees. He looked as if he’d been tramping through the dales.
She curtseyed. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I thought you were my sister.”
He inclined his head in her direction. “Squabbling with Miss Honoria, are you?”
“We have…disagreed.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” From behind his back, Wadebridge produced two posies of yellow buttercups. He handed the first bouquet to her. “For you.”
So hehadbeen tramping through the dales, for the flowers were freshly picked.
The duke offered the second posy. “These are for her.”
“She will be pleased.” Cassandra brought the twin bundles inside and placed them on the hall table. “Truthfully, she’ll be sorry she missed you. She only just left.”
“I am not here for her.” Wadebridge darkened the threshold, though he dared not step inside without an invitation.
“No, indeed.” Cassandra waved him in. It was improper to entertain a gentleman unaccompanied, but when one was pursued by the infamous Duke of Wadebridge, one’s reputation was tarnished by mere association. “Do come in, Your Grace.”
She took his hat and gloves, and then closed the door behind him. They were alone in the cottage. Quite alone. Suddenly, the sound of the rain and the clock was deafening.
Cassandra turned her attention to the buttercups. The posies were a thoughtful gesture. “How lovely these are! Where on earth did you find them?”
“On the road to Caswell. Althorne would not begrudge me the use of his meadow.”
She smiled. “Only a madman would go flower-picking in a monsoon.”
“I am nothing if not devoted.”
His black eyes held hers, and she felt the smile dim from her lips. He’d gone in search of flowers to please her. To prove that he was undaunted despite her misbehavior.
The Duke of Wadebridge was a steadfast suitor.
She had not chased him away after all.
“Please, sit. I shall make us some tea.”
Cassandra disappeared to the kitchen. She placed the buttercups in a vase before heating the kettle on the hob. The golden flowers cheered her heart from their place at the center of the dining table. She would be able to see them even from the sitting room.
She fetched a towel from the linen cupboard, and then returned to her guest. He was damp, muddy, and most likely chilled. She handed him the towel to dry what he could.
“Your valet will be cross with you. Those boots are unfit to be seen.”
Wadebridge looked down at his feet, which were dirtying her carpet. “I’ve tracked half of the countryside into your cottage, Miss Staunton. You will forgive me. I know how tidy you like to keep things.”
