“I do, though it has never been a passion of mine. I ought to purchase more, but my tastes run counter to what’s selling.”
“You mean undiscovered artists?” she asked. “Those whose works are not valued?”
Wadebridge laughed. “I like creators who have something to say. I beg your pardon, but I am not interested in portraits of panniered ladies promenading by brooks.”
“No, indeed! I am sure you much prefer your ladies barely dressed and draped seductively across a velvet divan.” He smiled and she added, “there is such art, you know—it’s both titillatingandvaluable. Titian’s reclining nudes come to mind, and there isn’t a collector alive who doubtshisworth.”
Their clash of opinion amused him. His dark gaze danced beneath the brim of his hat, and she feared he was laughing at her.
Cassandra blushed. “You’re not really interested in discussing art. You’re humoring me.”
Wadebridge shook his head, saying, “Truth be told, there is not much I care about in this world, but I’m interested in hearing your opinion on a topic that is important toyou.”
She was no expert, though her parents had ensured a proper education for their daughters. “Everything I know has come from books and stories. I’d never seen any famous works until today, until I came here. Caswell Hall is a far cry from our humble cottage.”
“Yet you seem as if you belong.”
“Yes, well, three gently-bred ladies don’t exactly fit in among the village folk either.” She glanced up at the tall, gabled manor house and admitted her deepest fear, “I am not sure where I belong.”
“You can have both sides of the coin. Longstone will always be your home, though it may not be your future. A woman like you could end up in any number of places.”
She folded her hands in her lap and resisted the urge to dip her head. He was being kind. Flattering her. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you are a delight to look at and a challenge to talk to. Men love a challenge. Do you realize we haven’t once discussed the weather? I’ve had to think about art!” He pulled a mock-horrified face. They both laughed, and it was his turn to make a confession, “You keep me on my toes, madam.”
Footsteps crunched upon the gravel path. She craned her neck over the roses to spy Octavia approaching. Lord Althorne walked at her sister’s side, and when he found Cassandra and Wadebridge seated together in the clearing, he lifted his hand to wave.
Theirtête-à-têtehad reached an end.
Cassandra did not know whether to feel relief or disappointment. Her roguish companion was different from anyone she’d ever met or would likely encounter again. He was dangerously opinionated, and—even more dangerous—he enjoyed listening to whatshehad to say.
“Speaking of futures…” Wadebridge added before their host stepped within earshot, “your sister has landed in the perfect place. Her talents are useful and respected here.” He turned on the bench to meet Cassandra’s eyes. “I wonder where you’ll end up?”
CHAPTER FOUR
She might end up in his arms. She belonged in his drawing room and his bedroom, and draped across a sofa somewhere in his London townhouse. Cassandra Staunton was a beautiful woman, and he desired her in a way he’d never desired any woman before—he didn’t just want to bed her, he wanted to…
He wanted to know her better.
Wade had never spent time in the company of a country miss. He never conversed with ladies of sweet dispositions; those who led gentle, blameless lives. Miss Staunton was a novelty, and Wade loved to amuse himself.
That was it, surely.
This party was meant to be a holiday. He’d traveled from town to join Simon, little Leah, and a few of their friends for two days of sunshine and Derbyshire air. Why not enjoy a harmless flirtation with a fascinating woman while he was here?
He could have hugged Simon for suggesting croquet—though Wade suspected the game was an excuse for his friend to spend the afternoon with his pretty governess. They invited Miss Honoria and Simon’s six-year-old niece Leah to join them.
A course of hoops and pegs had been set up on the terrace lawn. Using a wooden mallet, the object of the game was to move one’s ball through a series of six arches and back again, but the true purpose of croquet was to flirt.
Men and women competed equally, often without chaperones. Under the guise of fair sport, ladies pinned their skirts up so trailing hems did not interfere with their swings. Fashionable girls ordered patterned petticoats to display to their opponents, but Wade suspected the Misses Staunton wore clean, white, perhaps lace-edged layers beneath their skirts.
He considered himself a skilled player. He and Simon had taught Leah to play last summer, and the three of them enjoyed knocking each other’s balls into disadvantaged positions. The child could be merciless—more than once, she’d caught Wade off guard—yet she never suspected the grown-ups had let her win.
She brandished her miniature mallet with glee. Colored balls scattered in every direction, earning the disapproval of her governess.
“Leah, do be careful with that mallet!” Octavia Staunton warned.
He disliked seeing the child scolded. “You’ve nothing to worry about, madam. She’s a cracker.”
