Cassandra could’ve strangled Wadebridge with his own cravat, but all was forgiven when the train departed this latest station. The new passengers respectfully gave them some privacy.
They settled in for the next long leg of their journey.
“Want your sewing kit?” he asked, reaching for the polished wooden box on the seat beside him. “I thought, perhaps, you might work on your dahlias to pass the time.”
She was done with the dahlias, and had turned her ambitions toward another project. But she could not work on her latest embroidery endeavor where he might see. Cassandra had a surprise up her sleeve, and must sew in secret to avoid spoiling it.
“No, thank you. I brought a book.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew a cloth-bound copy ofRookwoodby William Harrison Ainsworth. The old tome had been passed ‘round the Staunton cottage so many times that it was nearly in tatters. “It is about an estate called Rookwood Place owned by a family called Rookwood and the curse that surrounds them all. It’s quite complex, really, but I think the true curse is the people, for they are almost all despicable—”
“I’ve read it.”
She blinked up at him, stunned. The Duke of Wadebridge had never struck her as a particularly well-read individual, though he’d been given the very best public school education.
“Forgive me, but I did not think you fond of gothic novels—oranynovels, for that matter.” His Grace had the good sense to laugh rather than be insulted, as she’d meant no offense. Cassandra simply could not picture him tucking into a book for pure enjoyment. “How did you like it?”
“It had Dick Turpin in it. His ride to York was enough to hold my interest,” Wadebridge said. “I found a copy on the shelf at the White Lion. Doubtless, Mr. and Mrs. Harris think me a bookish, disappointing sort of fellow, up all night flipping pages by candlelight.”
He had been keeping watch, as promised.
He’d beenreading.
Her heart melted at the thought.
“You mean you finished it recently?”
He nodded. “Last night, in fact. Now that I am no longer wasting my nights in dissolution, I’ve turned to more engaging pursuits. I find a glass of brandy and a few chapters ofRookwoodto be a comfortable distraction.”
She felt an unfamiliar lump rise up in her throat. “Oh, Wade…”
He was striving to be good for her—to be better, though he was hardly the scoundrel he believed himself to be. Rather than relax in the taproom, Wadebridge had sought out a book, and kept vigilant watch over her cottage.
Only a true gentleman would safeguard two impoverished, unmarried ladies. And he’d done it from a discreet distance, so that his protection did not intrude on their independence.
“Since you know my reading preferences,” he said, “perhaps you might recommend something I would enjoy. I daresay we have similar tastes—Rookwood,andUncle Silas, and whatnot.”
Growing up, Cassandra had devoured any book she got her hands on. Although she was not nearly as studious as Octavia, she enjoyed more than the occasional popular novel that Honoria raved about.
She was a well-educated, contemporary woman. She could find a book for Wadebridge.
Cassandra touched his sleeve. “My mind is already spinning thinking of our next read. Tell me, have you heard ofClara Vaughan?”When he shook his dark head, she smiled. “I shall find a copy. I think you’ll like that one.”
There were endless pastimes for them to share. Cassandra was looking forward to spending her life learning more about this man she’d grown to love. Peeling back the layers to appreciate the singular—oftentimes, surprising—individual hiding behind a dangerous reputation.
***
They changed trains at Plymouth. While Wade and Martin had milled about the platforms, Cassandra retired to the ladies’ sitting room, where she could wait in comfort and privacy, as it was improper for women to loiter amongst male travelers. When the stationmaster called for passengers to board, she returned looking refreshed and ready to continue their journey.
While apart from him, she’d positioned her veil below her chin in order to obscure her face. Wade hated that she felt the need to hide those rare blessings God had given her, though he understood folk treated her as more of a curiosity than a person.
But when she raised her veil, her blue eyes shone only for him. Cassandra felt safe with him, and knew he would protect her, and cherish the individual behind the beauty.
“Well, well, buttercup! I see you haven’t suffered for the stop-over.” He searched over her shoulder at the entrance of the ladies’ sitting room. He’d always imagined such retiring rooms to be rather mysterious. “Whatdoyou ladies do in there?”
“Sit, read, rest. It’s quite comfortable, actually, and not at all sooty.”
Wade smiled as he escorted her across the boards. “Here I was minding the bags, all the while, you had your feet up.”
“True.” Cassandra grinned wickedly. “I’d hardly call it a hardship.”
