CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do you think yourself unworthy, Wadebridge?”
Was he not? Had he not been shown so, from the age of six? Had he not been told—again and again—that he was no good for anything beyond his title, his riches? He did not deserve Cassandra Staunton, though he desperately wanted to win her love.
“You are a rare woman,” he told her, “and I am a base and common man. You make me want to do better.”
Her blue eyes clouded. A shadow passed across her pretty face. “Someone somewhere has wronged you, I am sure of it,” she said. “It makes no sense for a duke to hold such a low opinion of himself. You’re a prize for any woman.”
“Anyone who wanted me would have to overlook my rough and raucous ways. I drink too much. I enjoy low company. I’d be a black mark on her good name.”
“Then you contradict yourself, Your Grace. Did you not say that you intended to reform? That you would be monogamous? Wouldn’t you support your wife?”
He inclined his head. “I would.”
Cassandra placed her tea cup aside. She looked across the small sitting room at him. Her gaze was as direct as her words. “Then I believe you would be an exemplary husband for some lucky lady, providing she is woman enough to partner you.”
“Butyouare not that woman?”
She smiled, sadly. “No, Wadebridge.”
He downed the last of his tea. Wade was grateful for her hospitality, as he had been wet and cold when he arrived. He’d spent the morning marching up the dales in search of a wildflower meadow he only vaguely remembered.
In his memories there, he had been exuberant and wild. He, Simon, and Simon’s elder brother raced through the field of sunny blossoms. Wade had been laughing. The brothers had been teasing him. They romped, wrestled, and ran through the pristine valley—for the railroad had not yet come to this part of Derbyshire.
It had been a carefree time, one where he hadn’t been burdened by the dukedom. That summer holiday, he had merely been a boy allowed to roll down a hill littered with buttercups. It had been his happiest moment, and he had wanted to share it in some small way with the woman he loved.
He’d picked two handfuls of flowers before he realized that he could not call upon one sister without making himself agreeable to the other. Wade had carefully divided the posies on his walk back to Longstone.
Perhaps he was a sentimental fool. Cassandra would’ve preferred diamonds or bolts of costly silk, for she was a country maiden with flowers in her own back garden. His boyhood buttercup meadow meant nothing to her.
Yet she had placed the bouquet proudly in the center of the table. She could see the blooms from where she sat.
Wade noticed the basket beside her chair. His industrious lady would not have been resting idly. She had been doing something when he arrived.
“What are you working on?” He gestured to her bundle.
She blushed. “Oh, nothing but mending. Wash day is tomorrow.”
“I thought women laundered on Mondays.”
Did it surprise her that he knew that? Cassandra smiled. “Most do, but my father taught pupils every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and he did not like to be disturbed. After his death, my sisters and I simply could not bear to change our habits.”
Devotion to a parent—even in death—was a strong bond. The Stauntons were fortunate to have experienced such a blessing. Wade recalled how his mother’s children admired her. How hard Mother worked to please them.
He would’ve liked to share in a bit of that devotion, but he had not been his mother’s son in many years. Wadebridge belonged to the dukedom.
“Show me,” he said, softly.
Cassandra sifted through the basket. He caught a glimpse of ribbon-edged night rails, frilly petticoats, caps, and serviceable shifts. She would not wish to show himthose.
At last, she retrieved a pair of simple silk stockings. One leg was laddered through the heel. She arranged her tools on her lap, and then quickly, skillfully repaired the damage.
Did some washerwoman stitch up his own stockings when he put a hole through the toe? Likely, the offending pair was given to some less fortunate member of his household.
Unlike Cassandra Staunton, Wade had no need for frugality.
He leaned forward to assess her work. “You must be rather good at that.”
