“I suspect he wanted to save me from Wadebridge. He came ‘round firstly to tell me what a cad His Grace was, and went to his knee only after I refused to listen to gossip. Did you know half the men in this village have sided with the Raineses? George Fulton, Job Benning, and their ilk are too enamored of wealth and beauty to see what a truly awful person Miss Raines is.”
“Folk will forgive a pretty face anything.”
Cassandra ignored that comment. She didn’t appreciated being lumped in with the likes of Eugenie Raines, even if the woman was attractive, fashionable, and worldly in a way that any Longstone girl—herself included—could only dream of.
She counted out the buttercups and offered half to Honoria, but her sister turned them away. “It’d be a shame to divide them when we both know the lot was meant foryou.”
Cassandra returned the flowers to their vase. They were such a lovely golden yellow, and would brighten her bedside table nicely. She moved to take them upstairs.
“I’m dining with Wadebridge tomorrow.”
Honoria followed. Their footsteps creaked as they ascended. “At the inn?”
She nodded.
“That will be grand. I saw Mrs. Harris selecting mutton at the butcher shop this afternoon—fine, fat haunches. Order that, if it is on the menu.”
“You won’t feel left out, will you?”
“On the contrary, Cass. I am happy for you! You and the duke are well-matched.”
She smiled. “We have struck up something of a friendship. What do you think I should wear?”
“You’ve that lovely violet silk…”
The violet silk was serviceable, and could be livened up with a bit of lace pinned at the collar.
“Yes, I think I shall wear that.” She paused at her bedroom door to bid her sister ‘good-night.’
Growing up, the Staunton cottage had seemed crowded, cluttered, and full of noisy activity. Now—with only the two sisters in residence—it was sadly quiet. Frighteningly quiet, in fact.
Cassandra placed her buttercups on the table beside her bed. She lit a candle to banish the shadows, and then went to the window to draw the curtains.
There was no one milling about the lane. Across the village green, a few men braved the pavements, destined for the White Lion, for not even wet weather could keep them from their ale and tobacco, and their masculine conversation.
Wadebridge would be there in the thick of it. She imagined him in the taproom, well into his cups. His black features would look sinister cast in shuddering lamplight. He’d be intimidating, even threatening to the cobblers, shopkeepers, and laborers of Longstone.
A bachelor duke in their midst.
A wolf circling the flock.
The very Devil on their doorstep.
Cassandra sighed and turned her eyes skyward. Above the swinging sign of the White Lion, a solitary lamp burned in a top-floor, corner window. He had lit his candle for her.
“I am only one flickering flame away.”
She placed her hand on the glass and traced the circle of light on her own foggy pane. Perhaps Wadebridge was not in the taproom, after all. Perhaps he was keeping watch to ensure no unwanted visitors troubled the two maiden sisters.
The thought soothed her. His presence made her feel secure.
No one imagined the infamous Duke of Wadebridge posted up at a country inn, losing sleep over the one woman that would not—could not—have him, but his candle was living proof.
He was hardly the devil that some vicious rumors claimed.
He had picked flowers. He’d kissed her hand. He had smiled and called her ‘darling buttercup’ because he knew yet another proposal had chipped away at a piece of her heart, and he wished to cheer her.
No, he was no devil. Wadebridge was but a mere flesh and blood mortal—and quickly becoming the man of her dreams.
