The time had come to let him down as easily as she had all the others who’d proposed. “You are sweet, George, but I am afraid my delicate health makes marriage quite impossible.” She urged him to his feet. “Even if I could marry you, the truth is that I don’t love you in the way that you want to be loved. It would be a bad match.”
Poor young Mr. Fulton. His uniform was soaked through. He stood on her doorstep looking like a drowned puppy.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I shall wait for you. When the duke has quit the village and you’ve come back to your senses, Miss Cassandra,Iwill still be here.”
That really was unfair! “You seem so certain His Grace will wound me, yet I know the man well, and he has shown no inclination to do so. He is my friend—as areyou—and I hold my friends to a high standard.”
She turned the knob to let herself in, praying Wadebridge was not lurking on the other side.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wade heard the door close softly. The latch caught, and Cassandra sighed.
He’d heard a great deal more than that, of course. He had dozed peacefully for—he checked the wooden clock upon the mantel to note the time—over an hour. Her quiet industriousness had lulled him to sleep, and Wade felt a deep sense of contentment stretched out upon her sofa.
He had been miserable for most of his life, lonely and virtually friendless. Only Simon remained his steadfast ally, and now, Cassandra Staunton.
She had stood up forhimto that lovesick village youth! That this virtuous country bumpkin had defended the black reputation of the Duke of Wadebridge was almost laughable!
Wade never imagined that he could love her more, but her sweet support made his heart swell. He was immensely glad she had refused the fellow on her doorstep.
“He’s right about me, you know,” Wade said, softly. “You ought to marry him.”
“Haven’t you been listening? I cannot marry anyone.” She came around the sofa to look down upon him.
He remained as he was, head propped upon a pillow, legs spanning the length of the cushions. He was simply too comfortable to rise.
Cassandra sat on the edge, fitting nicely into the warm, vacant space at his hip. “Besides, I do not love him.”
The proposal had stressed her. Perhaps it had even hurt her. How dreadful to deny one’s self what so many women dreamed of. Surely, she wanted a mate, a family, and a place of her own.
He found her hand beneath her mountain of skirts and squeezed it. “Do you truly receive offers of marriage daily? That makes two this week, if you count my bungled attempts.”
“It happens frequently enough, even from strangers. Once, a tourist missed his train following me home. He begged for my hand, but Papa chased him away. The poor man had to spend the night at the railway station, to my great mortification.”
“These proposals embarrass you?”
She smiled and shrugged. Her little hand was warm in his.
“That fellow, George, made some rather romantic declarations. I ought to have taken notes—perhaps the next woman I propose to will look upon the prospect with a bit more favor.”
Her smile dimmed. “I did not like the way he spoke of you. He does not know you, yet he passed judgment easily, and spread his poor opinion ‘round the village.” Cassandra gripped his hand with surprising strength. “He believes you’ll hurt me, but he does not know you likeIknow you.”
The woman had faith in him.
Had anyone ever trusted him not to let them down?
He wanted desperately to do right by her.
“Have supper with me,” Wade begged. “Tomorrow night at the White Lion, where everyone can see us together. It will be a proper outing, and when I leave, you may tell anyone who’ll listen howyouturnedmedown.”
He could never leave Longstone believing her reputation suffered. He’d rather the world know the truth—that the brilliant Miss Cassandra Staunton had refused to become his duchess.
“I’d love to have supper with you, Wadebridge. Not because of how it will look or what folk will say, but simply because I enjoy your company.”
Sweet, sweet Cassandra. She was so much more than a pretty face. She had a mind and a heart that rivaled her beauty, and he prayed those village lads recognized that. Surely, being wanted only for one’s looks felt as wretched as being valued for one’s title.
He brought her fingertips to his lips and kissed them. “Darling buttercup!”
