Someone at the bar cursed, and a few coins exchanged hands. In the breath of that moment, bets were won and lost—for at the duke’s side stood Miss Cassandra Staunton, the undisputed beauty of Longstone.
Such a pairing was inevitable.
Cassandra’s heart sank, as it seemed everyone in the village was privy toherpersonal life. She had never courted gossip, yet Wadebridge seemed to welcome it at every turn.
He pressed a steadying hand to her elbow and whispered, “I’ve spent my life under the scrutiny of others. If one is lucky, one learns to ignore it. If one is clever, one uses it to one’s advantage.”
She had no time to ask what he meant.
Mr. Harris approached them with his arms outstretched. He was a kind man and a proud landlord. He and his wife had all but kept the Staunton sisters fed in the first days of their mourning. Cassandra was glad to see the inn having such success.
He bowed to the duke, and then wrappedherin a bear of a hug. “My dear Miss Cassandra! Have you come for supper? You’ve picked a fine night. Hardly a table empty. I reckon the break in the weather has drawn everyone from their rooms…”
Mr. Harris looked to his most illustrious guest, knowing the weather had little to do with the turnout. The Duke of Wadebridge drew a crowd wherever he went.
“Would Your Grace prefer the private dining room?”
“No,” he said, eying the lone empty corner table. “We shall dine in front of witnesses. Beneath as many eyes as possible.”
Cassandra sensed that Wadebridge wished to do things properly. When he left Longstone, he wouldn’t leave her reputation in tatters.
“Very good, Your Grace! Right this way.” Mr. Harris led them through the labyrinth of tables to the one that had recently been cleared. The floorboards squeaked beneath man’s heavy footsteps, made louder by the fact that every mouth was silent and each ear trained in their direction.
The kindly landlord pulled Cassandra’s seat out for her. She gathered her silk skirts, sat, and then smoothed them as best she could. The White Lion had not been built with hoops and petticoats in mind.
Mr. Harris gazed down on them with open pleasure. Doubtless, he expected her to be a duchess by summer’s end.
He clapped his hands, saying, “I’ll send my girl Liza to serve you, but before I go, I must say there’s an old bottle of very good wine languishing in my cellar. I’ve been saving it for something special, and would be honored to open it for you.”
“Oh, Mr. Harris—” He mustn’t waste it onher!
Wadebridge cut her off. He locked eyes with the landlord. “Yes, thank you.”
Cassandra felt certain she’d never seen Mr. Harris look happier than when he hurried off to fetch his best bottle of wine.
She frowned at her companion. “I was going to decline.”
“I know.” He’d long since removed his tall hat, yet his eyes were no less shadowy. They spoke of dark, mysterious depths of him that she would never know. Perhaps, no one would. “Do you take no wine at all, then? I seem to recall you drank at Althorne’s table.”
“I’ve no issue with the wine, merely it’s cost. It will have been very dear to Mr. Harris.”
Wadebridge leaned back in his chair. “The fellow is making money tonight, and may never have another opportunity to make use of that costly investment—good wineisan investment, and he is profiting wisely.” He softened and added, “It shan’t be wasted on us, Cassandra.”
Indeed, it was not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
She was a frugal lady, and kind to worry about her neighbors. Wade was completely and utterly selfish. For most of his life, he’d never concerned himself with the cost of anything or the sacrifices of others.
He employed others to tend to such matters. In fact, the dukedom had been finely tuned in his youth, and worked like a well-oiled machine with little input from him. Wade could not squander his fortune or bring the estate down upon his head even if he tried—and hehadtried.
For nearly twenty-seven years, he had cursed the titles, properties, and wealth as a millstone about his neck. He hated it. He hated the trustees who had ruled his young life, and cared little of preserving the Wadebridge legacy for future generations.
Wade had taken great pleasure in being the bane of those old, white-whiskered tyrants’ existence. In that last meeting on the day he’d come of age, he had put up two fingers and curtly dismissed the lot of them.
Now, he wondered if he had not done himself—and those around him—a disservice.
Mr. Harris, the landlord, fawned over Cassandra. The fellow cared for his orphaned neighbor, and Wade doubted the offer of wine had been financially motivated.
