She looked up and smiled. “I am.”
Cassandra placed the darned stocking into a pile ready for laundering. She’d have a busy day tomorrow, weather permitting.
She pulled a frock from the basket and returned to her task. “I also like to embroider. I find it a relaxing and creatively rewarding enterprise. Would you like to see one of my pieces?”
“I’d be honored.”
Cassandra gestured to a sewing box on a nearby window ledge. He went to it. A half-finished hoop lay atop the kit. Dahlias burst to life in red, pink, and cream colored thread. She had an eye for color, for detail. When finished, it would be lovely indeed.
“Is this from a pattern?” he asked, tracing a finger along the petals.
“No, Your Grace.”
He turned to her. “From your own mind, then?”
She nodded.
Wade was impressed. He had no creative leanings, though he appreciated the skill in others. “Would you stitch something for me someday?”
Cassandra smiled. “If you’d like.”
“I would. Very much.” He returned to his seat on the sofa. The teapot sat upon the tray, and he longed for another cup, but daren’t drag her from her work. She would not mind if he helped himself. “Care for another cup of tea?”
“If you would be so kind, Wadebridge.”
He poured a liberal amount into both their cups, and returned hers to the table at her side. Her pretty face was lowered to the frock in her hand. She was busy making some minor adjustment.
“Thank you,” she said, never looking up from her task—but she was smiling.
God help him, she was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. She was beautiful and clever. Opinionated and industrious. Wifely and domesticated. Without a shred of snobbery.
Cassandra might not be able to give him children, but he did not believe she was fated for chastity. Passion, curiosity, and bold desire burned beneath that reserved, ladylike façade.
Wade prayed that he could be the one show her the rich, full life she was destined for.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Duke of Wadebridge fell asleep on her sofa. She did not know how it happened, but sometime after their second cup of tea, he had propped up his head with his hand to watch her mend a frock and grown quiet.
His Grace was likely exhausted. He’d confessed to spending a sleepless night fretting about her. He’d gone walking in search of buttercups that very morning. Doubtless, he had missed breakfast and luncheon, and his poor valet had given him up for dead.
Wadebridge had earned his rest.
She liked having this sleepy, stocking-footed fellow near. His presence warmed the room and made her feel less lonely.
In some small way, he reminded her of her father. Papa used to laze on the sofa with a book over his eyes. He would tease his girls, saying he was ‘reading’, but they knew he was sneaking a few winks between Latin lessons.
Those had been happy, carefree times. Cassandra was glad to revisit them, even in this small way.
The duke rested his head against an embroidered pillow. He slumped—most ungracefully—against the arm of the sofa and stretched his legs over the cushions. She guessed he’d forgotten where he was. Or that he was so far gone to slumber that he simply did not care. Either way, His Grace made himself comfortable.
Cassandra had not wanted to like him. She hadn’t asked to care for him, yet he had somehow found his way into her heart.
It was easy to look at Wadebridge and imagine what it must feel like to kiss him, to hold him. To love him. He would be caring and gentle, and perhaps adventurous. He would be loyal. He might even be difficult at times, but the struggle would be worth it.
The Duke of Wadebridge was a good man—though sadly, many years ago, someone had convinced him otherwise.
An hour passed while Cassandra worked her way through her mending basket. She did not have a great deal to repair, but took her time instead. There was no rush. As long as she sat quietly, His Grace would remain. He might even sleep until tea.
