He longed to make her his wife. He prayed to make her his duchess—though it was not possible to love her more were they wed in the eyes of God. She was the woman he wished to spend his life with, and whatever Cassandra had feared would happen during her week of misery had not sufficiently horrified him to change his mind on the matter.
Wade loved her.
Nothing could ever change that.
There were times when the depths of his feelings for her struck him like a punch to the gut—not pain, precisely, but a blow that rendered him dizzy and breathless. Not just struck, butawestruck.
He cut into his mackerel and brought it to his lips, barely tasting it. If dinner that first night at Caswell Hall had passed too quickly, tonight’s meal lingered far too long. Wade had dreaded losing her then. He’d feared never having the chance to communicate his affection for her, his respect. His deepest admiration.
Now, of course, Cassandra knew. She’d had a month to witness therealWadebridge, the good man behind the cursed reputation. He had opened his heart to her in more than a hundred ways. He’d given her command of his household andcarte blanchefrom his pocketbooks. Until the day he could give her his name—should she so bless him—Cassandra Staunton would be mistress of all he possessed.
“How was your fish, buttercup?” he asked, swallowing a last forkful.
She looked up from her own empty plate and smiled. “Delicious! I especially liked the gooseberry sauce.”
On cue, two footmen cleared the dishes from the table. Wade rarely took pudding, but he sipped his port while Cassandra enjoyed dessert. She must’ve arranged a little sweet for herself with Mrs. Cardy, or perhaps their cook.
No one had bothered to consult him, and—for once—he was glad. Ever since Cassandra had saved Morla, the pious maid who’d taken a tumble down the stairs, the household staff had embraced her, admiring Cassandra’s humanity as well as her gentility.
She finished her pudding and leaned back in her chair. She rested one hand on her stomach and sighed contentedly.
“I should not have eaten that by myself,” she said. “I shall be bursting my stays.”
Her figure was neat and trim, and nicely nipped at the waist. She was in no danger of expanding her corsets any time soon.
“I’ve learned, in my nearly twenty-seven years on this earth,” Wade replied, smiling, “that a spot of indulgence now and then is good for one’s spirit.”
Cassandra returned his smile. “You know, Wade, I think you’re right. I rather enjoyed my dessert, and ought not to feel guilty for it. Did you enjoy your port?”
He inclined his head. “I did.”
Her blue eyes outshone the pearls that draped her bosom as she asked, “And are you finished?”
“Quite finished.”
“Then I think it is time to give you your gift.” Cassandra rose from her seat. Apricot silk skirts fell into place with hardly any effort, and a footman rushed forward to take her chair.
Wade stood, offering her his arm. She placed her hand upon his sleeve, as soft and graceful as an angel’s wing. He felt the strangest, most wonderful sensation—as if he had experienced this moment somewhere before.
Except this was not a sunny afternoon, and these weren’t the guest corridors of Caswell Hall. Cassandra allowed him to lead her upstairs, and Wade once again felt the promise of hope, of happiness. Of love.
What worldly gift could be greater than that?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
He followed her into her bedchamber. She was as grinning and giddy as a schoolgirl, and he had to quicken his footsteps to keep pace with her. Cassandra crossed the carpet, circled her bed, and then bent to open the top drawer of her night table.
“This is no pearl necklace, mind you,” she said, fishing for her bundle. She retrieved something and hid it in the folds of her skirts. “Nothing so grand as that, I’m afraid, but…well, I do hope you like it.”
Cassandra breathlessly offered the present out to him. Was she as excited to givehergift as he had been to givehis?
Wade took the bundle from her outstretched hands. He found it—whatever it was—light and delicate. It weighed barely anything in his palms as he opened the soft linen wrapping.
The linen was not the wrapping. The square of fabric felt somehow familiar, and, as he glanced down at it, Wade realized the handkerchiefwasthe gift.
It had been embroidered with golden-yellow buttercups. Each posy, which seemed almost identical to the one he’d picked for her back in Longstone, was tied with a gracefully stitched maroon ribbon the exact shade of his household livery.
Cassandra had put a great deal of thought into this handkerchief. She’d put a great deal of time and care into the work she’d done, and had placed her heart in the very center of it, where she’d embroideredtheirmonogram—an intertwined W and C, created with silk thread as blue as the sea.
